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"Here's rubbish enough,till my homeward return,
For children to gather, old women to burn;
Not practis'd to labour, my sides are too sore,
Till another fit season, to shake you down more.
What future materials for pruning, and cropping,
And cleaning, and gleaning, and lopping, and
Yet mistake me not, rabble! this tree's a good
Does honour, dame Nature, to Britain and thee;
And the fruit on the top,-take its merits in brief,
Makes a noble dessert, where the dinner's roast-


YES; wedlock's sweet bands were too blest, in

her lover

If virtue her likeness could find,
What Plato has fabled, could Julia recover
Her lost other half, from mankind.
What joy to receive all the good you impart,
Thy cares on another recline,
Another's fond bosom, and feel that his heart
Beats all the same measures with thine!
The features, the virtues of both, in your race,
How sweet the confusion, enjoy!

Yet more of thyself in the daughter still trace,
And more of thy lord in the boy..

Such bliss rivals Heaven-yet what grief, what

Were riot's low follower thy lot,


Were he whose loud pleasures are wine and the
All love's silent pleasures forgot!
What misery to hear, without daring reply,
All folly, all insolence speaks;

Still calling the tear of reproach to thy eye,
The flush of disdain to thy cheeks!

Would soft macaronies have judgment to prize,
Whom arts and whom virtues adorn,

Who learnt every virtue and art to despise,
Where Catos and Scipios were born?

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O YOU who sail on India's wealthy wave,

Of gems and gold who spoil the radiant east;
What oceans, say, what isles of fragrance gave
This fairer treasure to the joyful west?
What banks of Ganges, and what balmy skies
Saw the first infant dawn of those unclouded eyes?
By easy arts while Europe's beauties reign,

Roll the blue languish of their humid eye;
Rule willing slaves, who court and kiss the chain,
Self-vanquish'd, helpless to resist or fly;

Would wealth's drowsy heir, without spark of Less yielding souls confess this eastern fair,

Heaven's fire,

Enshrin'd in his dulness completely,
Awake to the charmer, her voice and her lyre,
Ah! charm they though ever so sweetly?
But what with the gamester, ah! what were thy
What fortune's caprices thy share! [fate,
To sleep upon down under canopied state,
To wake on the straw of despair!
The timid free-thinker, that only defies
Those bolts which his Maker can throw ;
Would he, when blaspheming the Lord of the

Yet rev'rence his image below?

Would slaves to a court, or to faction's banditti,
Thy temperate spirits approve;
So proud in their chains of the court and the city,
Disdaining no chains, but of love?

'Plato's fable is, that man and woman originally were one being, divided afterwards by Jupiter for their punishment; that each part, in perpetual search of the other, never recovers happiness till their reunion.

And lightning melts the heart that milder fires
would spare.

Of gods, enamour'd with a mortal dame,
Let Grecian story tell-the gifts display
That deck'd Cassandra, and each honoured name
Lov'd by the god, who guides the golden day:
See! Asia triumphs in a brighter scene;
A nobler Phoebus woos her summer's smiling

Sublimer sense, and sprightlier wit to please,

That Phoebus gave; he gave the voice and lyre, That warble sweeter than the spicy breeze,

He gave what charms meridian suns inspire; What precious rays from light's pure fountain stream,

What warm the diamond's blaze and ruby's flam ing beam.



An envious robe! to frustrate Heaven's intent, Concealing beauty from the eye of day; Beauty to man by gracious Nature sent

To cheer the wand'rer on his lonesome way. One pow'r who wak'd Aurora's smiling light Gave skies their azure, and gave vales their green,

Form'd the quick sense for wonder and delight, Made eyes to see, and Laura to be seen. Curs'd be th' eclipse that plunges morn in night, And jealous clouds that shade the landscape's On envious robes severer curses light, [scene; That veil the beauties of my summer's queen! Ah Laura! cruel Laura! why constrain,

In art's fantastic drapery, Nature's ease? Why, form'd to empire, empire's arts disdain? Why, born for pleasure, still refuse to please?

Nor yet these folds on folds, this load of dress,
Shall bar approaches to poetic love;
No-where the graces sport in sweet recess,
'Tis fancy, bold intruder's joy to rove.
Fancy, pursuing where my Laura flies,

With wanton gales forbidden charms reveals, Betrays her slumbers, and with eager eyes

The panting breast, devouring, dreams it feels. Fancy indulgent to her votary's prayer,

Shows where, sequester'd from the sultry beam, The limpid wave but ill conceal'd the fair, With virgins sporting in her Ganges' stream.


AH Laura! while graces and songs,

While smiles, winning smiles you impart; Indulgence but nurses desire,

I sigh for that treasure, your heart.
Yes, take, too presumptuous, she cries,
All that virtue can wish to receive;
Yes, take all that virtue can grant,
A heart I had never to give.

The maid of the north, like the lake,
That sleeps by her peaceable cot,
Too languishing lives but for one,

Forgetting the world, and forgot.
But born where my Ganges expands,
To no partial channels confin'd,
Unfix'd to no object, I flow

With innocent smiles on mankind. Our Asia's bright dames, like their sun, Cheer all with benevolent reign, Coy moons, Europe's daughters, but light A single disconsolate swain.




AH! Dorimant, victim to love,
Too fatally caught in his wiles,
Can you in fair Laura approve

Those diffusive, those general smiles?
If inconstancy dwells with that fire
Which the Sun-beams of Asia impart
Can a daughter of Europe desire

To change with your Laura a heart?
No!-happier the tempʼrate mind,
Which, fix'd to one object alone,
To one tender passion confin'd,
Breathes no wishes, no sighs, but for one.-
Such bliss has the maid of the plain,

Tho' secluded she lives in a cot;
Yet, rich in the love of her swain,
She's contented, and blesses her lot.-

Ah! say, if deserving thy heart,

The too undistinguishing fair, Who to thousands can raptures impart, And the raptures of thousands can share? Ah! say, does she merit those lays? Those lays which true passion define ?— No-unworthy the fair of thy praise, Who can listen to any but thine.

REPLY TO MISS G SAPPHO, while your Muse of fire, Listening to the vocal spheres, Sits and tempers to her lyre

Airs divine for mortal ears: Viewing higher orbs that glow, Ever constant, ever true, Still she dreams to find below

Perfect forms, as Heaven and you, Blame not Asia's fair, who glances

Random smiles in heedless ease, Shifts at will her wayward fancies. Pleasing all, whom all can please; Blame her not-no envied treasure Is the tender, feeling heart, Bosoms quick to keener pleasure

Beat alas! as quick to smart. Who with eyes that ever languish,

Still to deserts sighs alone? Who consumes her youth in anguish -She who keeps an heart for one. Tender love repaid with treason, Fortune's frowns, parental power, Blast her in the vernal season, Bend her, unsupported flower. Happier she, with pliant nature Fleeting, fickle as the wind; She, who proving one a traitor, Turns to meet another kind. Blame her not-with Asian rovers What can Asia's fair pursue? What? but lessons taught by lovers, Like the traitor, treacherous too.


Why should faith, obsequious duty,

Sooth an eastern tyrant's scorn?
Who but rifles joyless beauty

Steals the honey, leaves the thorn.
Sadness sits by Ganges' fountains;
How can echo cheer the vale ?
What repeat from fragrant mountains!
What but grief and horrour's tale?
What but shrieks of wild despair?

What but shouts that murder sleep?
There the struggling, fainting fair;

There-but see my Sappho weep! Change the strain!-this mournful measure Melts, oppresses virtuous heartsSappho, wake thy lyre of pleasure! Sing of Europe's happier arts! Sing of all the mingled blessing Reason, tempering passion, knows ; All the transport of possessing Unpluck'd beauty's willing rose! Sing of that refin'd sensation

Mutual melting bosoms prove, Souls exchang'd, sweet emanation, Separate being lost in love! Rapture's tears, voluptuous stream! Languor stealing sorrow's sighs! Sing of love-thyself the theme! Sing of love-thyself the prize!


HANG my lyre upon the willow,
Sign to winds thy notes forlorn;
Or, along the foamy billow

Float the wrecking tempest's scorn.
Sprightly sounds no more it raises,
Such as Laura's smiles approve;
Laura scorns her poet's praises,

Calls his artless friendship love: Calls it love, that spurning duty, Spurning Nature's chastest ties, Mocks thy tears, dejected beauty, Sports with fallen virtue's sighs. Call it love, no more profaning

Truth with dark suspicion's wound; Or, my fair, the term retaining,

Change the sense, preserve the sound. Yes, 'tis love-that name is given, Angels, to your purest flames: Such a love as merits Heaven, Heaven's divinest image claims.



Soox be thy lyre to winds consign'd,
Or hurl'd beneath the raging deep,
For while such strains seduce my mind,
How shall my heart its purpose keep?
Thy artful lays, which artless seem,
With too much fondness I approve;
Ah! write no more on such a theme,

Or Laura's friendship-ends in love,


Au leave, you cry, the harp unstrung, For fortune shifts her fickle wind: Resume thy lyre, on willows hung,

To sing the fair, no longer kind.

No nearer view my alter'd state,
For fear too high, for hope too low;
Beneath the victor's joyful fate,

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Yet far above the captive's woe.
The charms of sense no more beguile;

On reason's lap I lay me down:
If claiming now no beauties' smile,
Appears it just to meet their frown?
Light insects they, of gaudy hues,

Admire the glare of youthful day,
Still bathe in morn's, not evening's dews,
From shades of autumn fleet away.
Behold their train of captains, beaux!
Disdain my breast, disdain to sigh!
To these the fair, the rivals those,
The son of Jove's be my reply:
"Ah why desert th' Olympic games?
Aspire to victory!" Philip cries:
"I come," young Ammon fierce exclaims,
"If kings my rivals, thrones the prize."
Yes, letter'd maid! my soul approve,

The seat no more of vain desires: Extinguish'd there the flame of love, Extinguish'd there ambition's fires! To save from vice, from folly save, What aid can beauty, power afford? Unworthy love to call thee slave,

Unworthy crowds to call thee lord! Pure reason, yes; pure truth—but why, Ah why rebellious heart declare, With flattering pulse and stifled sigh, That other tenants harbour there? Go-tranquil Hope, by turns to dwell, Expelling reason pleasure's court, Expelling passion wisdom's cell: Go-reason's, passion's mutual sport. Vain dreamer!-rather both revere, But neither's sole dominion own: When Heaven assign'd to each their sphere, It never meant excluding one: Excluding which?-objections wait

On vain pretensions either forms; Alike to life's salubrious state

Ye both are fatal-calms and storms.




THE doctor wakes early-half drest in his cassoc,
He steals from his consort to write;
She sleeps-and 'sweet Heaven is invok'd from
his hassoc,

To lengthen the trance of her night.

Now he writes to the fair, with what fervour he
Heaven's glory concern'd in her fame; [paints
How he raves upon grace, and the union of
Idolatry, raptures, and flame? [saints
Equivocal priest, lay solemnity by,
Deceiver thyself, or deceiv'd!
When you kneel to the idol of beauty, and sigh,
Are your ardours for Heaven believ'd ?
Will the heart that is kindled from passions
Ascend in pure spirit above?
Ah! analyse better, as blended they glow
The flames of religion and love.-

Quit the teacher, my fair one, and listen to me,
A doctor less grave and severe !
Who eternity's joys for the virtuous can see
Consistent with happiness here.

Still reverence, I preach, those endearing relations
Of daughter, of parent, of wife :

Yet I blame not your relish for slighter sensations
That sweeten the medicine of life.

Know, the virtue it cherishes Heaven will reward,
But attend to no blasphemous tales,
That the blaze of the Deity shines unimpair'd,
Though human infirmity fails.

Know your God as he is, wise, good, beyond
No tyrant in horrours array'd, [measure,
But a father, who smiles on the innocent pleasure

Of amiable creatures he made!—

Still please, and pursue his benevolent ends,
Still enrapture the heart and the ear!

I can swear for myself, and believe for my friends,
Our morals improve as we hear.

If the passions are waken'd by harmony's charm, Their breezes waft health to the mind,

What our reason but labours, vain toil! to disarm,
By virtue and song are refin'd.

Ah! listen to me, in whose natural school
Religion leads truth by the hand!---
Who regulates faith by a mystical rule,
But builds his foundation on sand!

By the winds of unreconcil'd principles driven,
Still fluctuates the methodist's plan;
Now he wishes you chaste for the glory of Heaven,
-Now frail-for the pleasure of man.



FROM moments so precious to life,
All politics, Laura, remove;
Ruby lips must not animate strife,

But breathe the sweet language of love. What is party?-a zeal without science, A bubble of popular fame, In nature and virtue's defiance, "Tis reason enslav'd to a name. 'Tis the language of madness, or fashion, Where knaves only guess what they mean; "Tis a cloak to conceal private passion,

To indulge, with applause, private spleen. Can 1, plac'd by my Laura, inquire, If poison or claret put out

Our Churchill's satyrical fire,

If Wilkes lives with ears or without?

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When you vary your charms with your patches,
To me 'tis a weightier affair,
Than who writes the northern dispatches,
Or sits in the president's chair.
When, by nature and art form'd to please,
You sing, and you talk, and you laugh,
Can I forfeit such raptures as these,

To dream of the chamberlain's staff?

Secure under Brunswick and Heaven,

I trust the state vessel shall ride:
To Bute let the rudder be given,
Or Pitt be permitted to guide.

At Almack's, when the turtle's well drest,
Must I know the cook's country, or starve ?
And when George gives us liberty's feast,
Not taste 'till Newcastle shall carve?
Yet think not that wildly I range,

With no sober system in view;
My notions are fix'd, though they change,
Applied to Great Britain and you.
There, I reverence our bright constitution,
Not heeding what caluinny raves,
Yet wish for a new revolution,

Should rulers treat subjects as slaves.
Here, the doctrine of boundless dominion,
Of boundless obedience is mine;
Ah! my fair, to cure schism in opinion,

Confess non-resistance is thine.

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SONG TO*** WHAT! bid me seek another fair In untry'd paths of female wiles? And posies weave of other hair,

And bask secure in other smiles? Thy friendly stars no longer prize, And light my course by other eyes? Ah no! my dying lips shall close,

Unalter'd love, as faith professing; Nor praising him who life bestows,

Forget who makes that gift a blessing, My last address to Heav'n is due; The last but one is all-to you.




HAD Soft Aspasia's sex been man,
What friendship's holy chains
Had link'd our beings, fortune's plan,
Our pleasures and our pains?
Alike our ruder, milder sports,

Lost every function, vanish'd every sense:
Is this thy lot, divine benevolence?


DELICACY, OF ENJOYING SOCIAL FRIEND Approach no more, such bitter anguish, near
So soft a bosom; flow alone the tear,
That dew of Heaven, O maid! to Heaven allied,
Thy great Redeemer shed for man and died.
Good angels mourn creation's glories lost,
And mourning please, resemble him the most;
Flow then thy tear, ordain'd by Heaven's decree,
For bliss to others, sweeter bliss to thee!
With pity's pangs her dear sensations feel;
The shaft that wounds thee, drops a balm to heal.
Thy soul expanding, like a vernal flower,
Shall glow the brighter in affliction's shower
For every tear to suff'ring virtue given,
Itself approving, and approv'd by Heaven.
Weep then, but weep another's fate alone;
Let smiles be still attendant on thy own.

Our studies too the same,
Companions both in shades and courts,
In paths of love or fame.

By bright collision, patriot beams
Had flush'd from soul to soul,

And war had seen, in union's streams,

Our tide of glory roll.

There fate, that strikes the noblest breast,

Had surely reverenc'd thine;

The thirsty lance I then had blest

For only wounding mine.

But ah! my sweeter downy hours,
Had I been chang'd, not you; «
What tranquil joys, if kinder powers
Had made me woman too!

Made each the other's softer care,
One table then had fed,

One chamber lodg'd the faithful pair,
Ah do not blush!-one bed.

Both sitting at one busy loom

In nature's vernal bow'r,

Had rivall'd nature's vernal bloom,
Creating both one flow'r.

Both screen'd from summer's sultry view,

In shades by haunted stream,
Had own'd the moral vision true
That youthful poets dream.

Sweet wisdom, couch'd in mystic rhyme,
Yet bending o'er the brook,
Hagathered morals more sublime
From great creation's book;

And felt our mixing souls refine
In purer wisdom's ray,

The being virtue's friend and thine

Had clear'd our mists away.
My morning incense, ev'ning pray'r,
With thine, had soar'd above,
With thine ascending sweeter there
On wings of song and love.

Vain dreams! for custom's laws, combin'd

With virtue's stern decree,

Divide the beings nature join'd,

Divide my fair from me.

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How blest is he whom nature's gentle hand
Has snatch'd from human life and human woes,
Ev'n in his childish days, ere yet he knew
Or sin, or pain, or youthful passion's force!
In earth's soft lap, beneath the flowery turf,
His peaceful ashes sleep; to Heaven ascends
Th' unspotted soul, declar'd by voice divine
A guest well pleasing―Then no longer mourn,
Thou drooping parent, nor bewail him lost-
In life's first bloom, when infant reason dawn'd,
And the young mind, unfolding every power,
Gave promise fair of manhood, transport fill'd
The mother's bosom, pondering every word
And action there. She now lamenting loud
Deplores him, from her vain einbraces torn
By unrelenting fate, and fierce disease;
Like eastern storms that blast the opening year.



LOVELY N-m! rise, and see
Modest morn resemble thee !
Ocean smiles with your repose,
Come to seas, where Venus rose !
Bathing, Dr. Pool observes,
Braces all the optic nerves.

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"Heavens," she cries, "what idle whim!
Youthful eyes are seldom dim;
Mine can mark the distant sail,
Or lowing herds in Sussex' vale;
Scarce a spire or cottage smoke,
Or cloud embracing mountain oak;
An object scarce of land or sea
Rises unperceiv'd by me.'
True-but eyes that distant roam,
Frequent fail for scenes at home.
Let example make ine clearer,
Place yourself at Shergold's mirror !
Every mild reflected grace,
That angel form, that angel face,
A world of wonders all can view,
Envy only blind and-you.

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