THE PERILS OF NATURE;

OR, A VOTE ENDANGEred. A DIALOGUE.

A CURATE (Mr. SMITH) and a BENCHER of the Temple (Mr. HARDINGE).

CURATE.

THE lines that here a Bencher greet
Throw a poor Orphan at his feet;
The Writer bears them in his hands,
A Mother still his love demands.
An Orphan, destitute and young,
Upon the Temple Church is flung;
Eight Sisters are in want of bread,
In me alone they lift their head.
For them-I court the Beggar's fate.

BENCHER.

Alas, good Sir! you come too late.
The Carrs, you've heard of them, at Ealing,
Pre-occupied the Bencher's feeling;
Would Linden his demands resign,

Your interest would then be mine;
With joy I'd then promote your views,
'Tis agony when I refuse:

I love your Mother and her pearls (For I am partial to the Girls).

CURATE.

I ask no more-'tis nobly done,
To honour thus an Orphan-son.

I have a letter-(could you know it) —
I have ft-but I dare not shew it;

Such honour to a feeling heart
No pen could ever yet impart ;
A model too of graceful style-

BENCHER.

You keep the letter all the while.

CURATE.

Oh, Sir!-'tis yours-'twas you that
A boon to him that's in his grave;
But gave it in so fine a manner,
That Chesterfield resign'd his banner.

I heard with transport-and I felt,
That Linden's claim began to melt.
Apollo sav'd me in the nick;

For Smith took up his hat and stick.

gave

TO A LAUGHING GIRL,

WHOM THE WRITER PRESENTED WITH

A SERIOUS AND PATHETIC NOVEL.

I ASK of you, the Comic Belle,

Though tears are not in fashion; From you that laugh, and laugh so well, The sorrows of Compassion.

'Tis no improvident request,

Nor you misunderstood;

The heart that's open to the jest,

Is merciful and good.

TO A ROSE, ON AMORET'S BREAST.

ENCHANTING Rose of early morn,

Whose opening leaves of dews are born;
Whose glowing plumes with scented air
To beds of Love the Zephyrs bear!

The hand that pluck'd thee from the earth
Gives thee a new and sacred birth;
Without a thorn, on Amoret's breast,
For ever blooming, sweet, and blest.
There when thy lustre is repos'd,
No more to winds or blight expos'd
Love shall in social wreaths combine,
Unfading hues, and breath divine,

STELLA AND FLAVIA.

These Lines were occasioned by the Marriage of Miss P-, who was Lady G- - C's first Cousin, which took place not long after the Death of the latter.

BUT, hark! what jocund bell is heard?
"Tis Hymen still, to joy preferr'd-
'Tis Flavia's wreath, her Beauty's pride;
Nor ever blush'd a lovelier Bride:
The air is by the Zephyrs fann'd;
The scene around is Fairy-land;
The torch is li't for Hymen's hour;
The Loves have dress'd the sacred bow'r.
Yet was I present, when the ray

Of Stella's Beauty won the day;

"Poor Flavia!" then was Love's complaint,

Thy cheek in vain the roses paint;

For they must wither in their bloom-
'Tis Love's complaint, but Fortune's doom."
Yet Flavia now is Fortune's pride!
And 'tis poor Stella that has died!
Alas, what fleeting hues are shed
On Flavia's transitory bed!

But Stella, waken'd from the tomb,
Is an Eternity-in bloom.

PEACE. FROM CASAREGI.

IN the centre of the rays,
Which returning Peace displays;
Cheer'd with her celestial birth,
Who can look upon the Earth?
Now 'tis cover'd by the night,
Where's the circle of its light?
Where, alas, have disappear'd
Charms that Nature's Beauty rear'd?
Vale and stream, the busy mart,
Lakes and sea-girt Isles, depart-
All Oblivion's wreck deplore,
Ev'n the Ocean is no more.
Such a little point and spot,
Only seen to be forgot-

Is the destin'd wreath of strife,
Barter'd for the risk of life.

Yet for this, will sword and spear,

Listed in the ranks appear;

And for this have legions trod,

On the Altar of their God!

TIME.

YE appetites of Youth, I thank you now!
That as your vassal I no more shall bow;
No more am rack'd upon your bed of Pain,
Or feel the insult of a Tyrant's chain.

A little space the wings of Time disclose,
To lay the tortur'd bosom in repose;
My life has been the dupe of gay deceit ;
Before the curtain falls, I'll spurn the cheat.

TIME. THE SAINT.

As the Catholics tell me their Saint they can chuse, I've determin'd on mine, and 'tis known to the Muse; 'Tis on him, that with soft admonition corrects, The afflicted consoles, and the helpless protects; 'Tis on him that in age has the vigour of youth, And, by Patience caress'd, is the Parent of Truth ; If the name is not shadow'd enough in the rhyme, Keep the secret,my heart!-in a whisper-"tisTIME."

ZEAL IN FRIENDSHIP.

'Tis a King's-a Hero's part;
It proclaims the noblest heart,
From calumniating Hate,
Innocence to vindicate.

Zeal that's prudent and correct,

Pity that by fear is check'd;

Though usurping Friendship's name
Chill her animating flame.