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To dark futurity, survive,
Thus say the sisterhood :--We come ;
First strike a curve, a graceful bow, Then slope it to a point below; Your outline easy, airy, light, Fill’d up becomes a paper kite. Let independence, sanguine, horrid, Blaze like a meteor in the forehead: Beneath (but lay aside your graces) Draw six-and-twenty rueful faces, Each with a staring, stedfast eye, Fix'd on his great and good ally. France flies the kite—'t is on the wingBritannia's lightning cuts the string. The wind that raised it, ere it ceases, Just rends it into thirteen pieces, Takes charge of every fluttering sheet, And lays them all at George's feet.
Iberia, trembling from afar, Renounces the confederate war ; Her efforts and her art o'ercome, France calls her shatter'd navies home; Repenting Holland learns to mourn The sacred treaties she has torn; Astonishment and awe profound Are stamp'd upon the nations round; Without one friend, above all foes, Britannia gives the world repose.
AUTHOR OF LETTERS ON LITERATURE. *
The genius of the Augustan age
His head among Rome's ruins rear'd,
When literary Heron appear’d.
Who set the Ephesian dome on fire,
Attain'd the mark of thy desire;
Shalt share his merited reward ;
That rots, and stinks, and is abhorr’d.
TO THE REV. WILLIAM BULL.
June 22, 1782.
Yielded him undeserved praise, * Nominally by Robert Heron, but written by John Pinkerton.
And he by no uncommon lot
Oh Nymph of Transatlantic fame,
And so may smiling peace once more
TO MISS STAPLETON, AFTERWARDS MRS. COURTENAY.
She came-she is gone—we have met
And meet perhaps never again ; The sun of that moment is set,
And seems to have risen in vain; Catharina has fled like a dream,
(So vanishes pleasure, alas !) But has left a regret and esteem
That will not so suddenly pass.
Catharina, Maria, and I,
By the nightingale warbling nigh.
And much she was charm’d with a tone Less sweet to Maria and me,
Who so lately had witness'd her own. My numbers that day she had sung,
And gave them a grace so divine, As only her musical tongue
Could infuse into numbers of mine.
The longer I heard, I esteem'd
The work of my fancy the more,
So tuneful a poet before.
In number the days of the year,
Would feel herself happier here; For the close-woven arches of limes
On the banks of our river, I know, Are sweeter to her many times
Than aught that the city can show. So it is, when the mind is imbued
With a well-judging taste from above, Then, whether embellish'd or rude,
'Tis nature alone that we love. The achievements of art may amuse,
May even our wonder excite,
A lasting, a sacred delight.
Catharina alone can rejoice, May it still be her lot to possess.
The scene of her sensible choice ! To inhabit a mansion remote
From the clatter of street-pacing steeds, And by Philomel's annual note
To measure the life that she leads. With her book, and her voice, and her lyre,
To wing all her moments at home,
As oft as it suits her to roam,
With little to hope or to fear,
Might we view her enjoying it here.