Since taste has now expunged licentious wit, No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you here, Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to meet your praise; In fond suspense this crisis of their fate. ON THE DEATH OF MR. FOX. THE FOLLOWING ILLIBERAL IMPROMPTU APPEARED IN A MORNING PAPER. "Our nation's foes lament on Fox's death, But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath: TO WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THESE PIECES SENT THE ОH factious viper! whose envenom'd tooth When Pitt expired in plenitude of power, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. THE TEAR. "O lachrymarum fons, tenero sacros Pectore te, pia Nympha, sensit."-Gray. WHEN Friendship or Love our sympathies move, Too oft is a smile but the hypocrite's wile, Give me the soft sigh, whilst the soul-telling eye Mild Charity's glow, to us mortals below, The man doom'd to sail with the blast of the gale, As he bends o'er the wave which may soon be his grave, The soldier braves death for a fanciful wreath But he raises the foe when in battle laid low, If with high-bounding pride he return to his bride, All his toils are repaid when, embracing the maid, Sweet scene of my youth! seat of Friendship and Truth,* Loath to leave thee, I mourn'd, for a last look I turn'd, Though my vows I can pour to my Mary no more, In the shade of her bower I remember the hour By another possess'd, may she live ever blest! With a sigh I resign what I once thought was mine, Ye friends of my heart, ere from you I depart, If again we shall meet in this rural retreat, When my soul wings her flight to the regions of night, .As ye pass by the tomb where my ashes consume, May no marble bestow the splendour of woe, No fiction of fame shall blazon my name; October 26th, 1806. REPLY TO SOME VERSES OF J. M. B. PIGOT, ESQ., ON THE CRUELTY OF HIS MISTRESS. WHY, Pigot, complain of this damsel's disdain, Why thus in despair do you fret? For months you may try, yet, believe me, a sigh Will never obtain a coquette. Would you teach her to love? for a time seem to rove; At first she may frown in a pet; But leave her awhile, she shortly will smile, And then you may kiss your coquette. • Harrow For such are the airs of these fanciful fairs, Dissemble your pain, and lengthen your chain, If again you shall sigh, she no more will deny If still, from false pride, your pangs she deride, Some other admire, who will melt with your fire, For me, I adore some twenty or more, No longer repine, adopt this design, And break through her slight-woven net; Away with despair, no longer forbear To fly from the captious coquette. Then quit her, my friend! your bosom defend, Ere quite with her snares you're beset: Lest your deep-wounded heart, when incensed by the smart, Should lead you to curse the coquette. October 27th, 1805. TO THE SIGHING STREPHON. YOUR pardon, my friend, if my rhymes did offend, From friendship, I strove your pangs to remove, Since your beautiful maid your flame has repaid, She's now most divine, and I bow at the shrine Yet still, I must own, I should never have known Since the balm-breathing kiss of this magical miss Since the "world you forget, when your lips once have met," You say, when "I rove, I know nothing of love;" If I rightly remember, I've loved a good number, I will not advance, by the rules of romance, To humour a whimsical fair; Though a smile may delight, yet a frown won't affright, While my blood is thus warm, I ne'er shall reform, To mix in the Platonists' school; Of this I am sure, was my passion so pure, And if I should shun every woman for one Now, Strephon, good bye; I cannot deny TO ELIZA. ELIZA, what fools are the Mussulman sect, Who to women deny the soul's future existence; Had their prophet possess'd half an atom of sense, With women alone he had peopled his heaven. Yet still, to increase your calamities more, Not content with depriving your bodies of spirit, He allots one poor husband to share amongst four !— With souls you'd dispense; but this last who could bear it? His religion to please neither party is made; On husbands 'tis hard, to the wives most uncivil; Still I can't contradict, what so oft has been said, "Though women aro angels, yet wedlock's the devil." LACHIN Y GAIR.* AWAY, ye gay landscapes, ye gardens of roses! Restore me the rocks, where the snow-flake reposes, • Lachin y Gair, or, as it is pronounced in the Erse, Loch na Garr, towers proudly pre-eminent in the Northern Highlands, near Invercauld. One of our modern tourists mentions it as the highest mountain, perhaps, in Great Britain. Be this as it may, it is certainly one of the most sublime and picturesque amongst our " Caledonian Alps." Its appearance is of a dusky hue, but the summit is the seat of eternal snows. Near Lachin y Gair I spent some of the early part of my life, the recollection of which has given birth to these atanzas. |