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Intent with curious eye, I pore
O'er many a philosophic scroll;
Search History's exhaustless store,
The deeds of elder time uuroll;
See serried legions crowd the field,
And free-born states to tyrants yield.

I turn the Chian-minstrel's page,
There, brutal Diomed appears;
There stern Pelides' quenchless rage,
There sad Andromache in tears:
I sigh o'er godlike Hector's fate,
And lofty Ilion's sinking state,

Oft, rapt by Ariosto's verse,

Or his who sang on Mulla's shore, I combat firm, with monsters fierce,

Rush to where swells the battle's roar; Or wondering stray through fairy bowers, Through trophied halls, and moss-clad towers,

Lo, Shakespeare waves his potent wand:
On wings of wind light spirits ride,
Embodied, at his high command,

Sons of past years before me glide:
Aw'd by the wild and solemn tones,
My soul his mighty magic owns.

With tender Petrarch, sad, I weep;

The realms of woe with Dante dare: On venturous wing, with Milton sweep Heaven's arch, and breathe inspiring air; Or, hurried to the Boreal clime,

I trace the mystic Runic-rhyme,

Thus charm'd, unmark'd each moment steals,
Till roused by midnight-bell unblest,
I seek my bed;-where soft Sleep seals
My weary eyes in balmy rest;

And, glowing with each favourite theme,
I of Love, Hope, and Sorrow dream.

Inglorious now, on silent wings,

Thus moves day after day along;
But soon my lov'd lyre's slumbering strings
Will I awake; soon shall the song

Sacred to Glory's awful charms,
In rapid numbers call to arms!

1797.

EPIGRAMS.

CHARLES, grave or merry, at no lie would stick,
And taught at length his mem'ry the same trick.
Believing thus, what he so oft repeats,
He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth!
That now himself, and no one else, he cheats,
Save when unluckily he tells the truth.

An evil spirit's on thee, friend! of late-
Ev'n from the hour thou cam'st to thy estate.
Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion,
Th' estate has prov'd to thee a most complete possession.
Shame, shame, old friend! would'st thou be truly blest,
Be thy wealth's lord, not slave! possessor, not possess'd.

ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

THE GREEN VEIL.

SENT TO A LADY WITH HAMMOND'S POEMS.

IF I, fair Maid, in plaintive strain,
Confess no anxious lover's pain;
Nor bid my sighing numbers flow,
In languid notes of mimic woe :
Think not mine eyes to beauty blind,
My heart unfeeling, or unkind,
Unfit for Love's sensations keen;
But thank your cloudy veil so green.

If, while the veil conceals your cheek,
I start not from your glance oblique ;
Nor tingling through my glowing veins,
The crimson tint my face distains:
Nor yet unconscious near your side,
With motion scarce perceiv'd I glide,
To talk by fits, and pause between ;
Then thank your cloudy veil so green.

If sighs of fondness half repress'd,
In secret breathe not from my breast;
Nor round my heart the languors wreath,
Which oft forbid the sigh to breathe,

Nor o'er my brow, of pallid hue,
Emerge the cold and shining dew;
⚫Blame not, fair Maid, your faultless mien,
But thank your cloudy veil so green.

And now, when unconcern'd and gay,
I pour the jocund sportive lay,
And bid my careless heart defy
The glance of that love-kindling eye,
Still as I muse on Hammond's pain,
Who felt the woes that others feign,
Like Hammond's fate mine might have been
I think, and bless your veil so green.

SONG.

FROM METASTASIO.

BELIEVE me, dear girl, when I swear,
Though a stranger you're yet to Love's pain,
There is something too soft in your air,
Too gentle for scorn and disdain:

Though the torments of Love you mayn't know,
Yet cruel you never can prove;

For Pity, though colder than snow,
Is still the forerunner of Love.

WINTER DEFEATED.

IMITATED FROM BURGER.

SEE, where stern WINTER's icy hand
Disrobes the poplar tree :-

The fields, their May-clothes lost, all naked stand; Their hues of red, white, blue, no more I see; Buried in snows they sleep-and live no more to me!

Yet, flow'rets sweet, shall I for you

The sorrowing strain indite,

When I my lovely, loving charmer view

In more than all your vernal beauties bright, With forehead white, red lip, and eyes of azure light?

Ye blackbirds whistling thro' the vale, Ye nightingales that charm the grove, In vain your melting notes my ear assail! For silver-voic'd is she-the girl I love, And sweet her breath as gales o'er hyacinth-beds that rove!

When of her lips I taste the bliss,

Full happiness I seem to meet :

More rich to me the honey-breathing kiss

Than mulberry fragrant, or than cherry sweet:

What more, then, can I wish ?-In her fair spring I

greet.

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