Harmonious songstress, I no more
Will Cytherea's pow'r adore;
Since such dissolving numbers prove
That Sappho is the queen of love.
THE Lesbian lute no more can charm,
Nor when my once panting bosom warm;
No more I breathe the tender sigh:
Nor when my beauteous swain appears,
With down-cast look, and starting tears,
Confess the lustre of his eye.
With freedom blest, at early dawn,
I wander o'er the verdant lawn,
And hail the sweet returning spring;
The fragrant breeze, the feather'd choir,
To raise my vernal joys conspire,
While Peace and Health their treasures bring.
Come, lovely Health! divinest maid!
And lead me thro' the rural shade:
To thee the rural shades belong!
'Tis thine to bless the simple swain;
And, while he tries the tuneful strain,
To raise the raptur'd poet's song.
Behold the patient village hind!
No cares disturb his tranquil mind,
By thee and sweet Contentment blest;
All day he turns the stubborn plain,
And meets, at eve, his infant train,
While guiltless pleasure fills his breast.
Oh, ever good and bounteous! still,
By fountain fresh, or murm'ring rill,
Let me thy blissful presence find!
Thee, Goddess! thee, my steps pursue,
When careless of the morning dew,
I leave the less'ning vales behind.
Он, far remov'd from my retreat
Be Av'rice, and Ambition's feet!
Give me, unconscious of their pow'r,
To taste the peaceful, social hour.
Give me, beneath the branching vine,
The woodbine sweet, or eglantine,
While ev'ning sheds its balmy dews,
To court the chaste inspiring Muse!
Or, with the partner of my soul,
To mix the heart-expanding bowl.
Yes, dear Sabina! when with thee,
I hail the Goddess, Liberty;
When joyous thro' the leafy grove,
Or o'er the flow'ry mead, we rove;
While thy tender bosom shares
Thy faithful Delia's joys and cares;
Nor pomp, nor wealth, my wishes move,
Nor the more soft deceiver, Love.
ON THE DEATH OF DAVID HUME.
SILENCE, ye growling wolves and bears,
And hear the song of Russel *! Hark! how upon Parnassus' hill This bard kicks up a bustle!
He calls the Muses lying jades,
A pack of venal strumpets :
And reason good; for none of them
The death of David trumpets.
But say-shall Shakspeare's Muse bedew
This David's leaden urn?
Or at his tomb, O Milton! say,
Shall thy Urania mourn?
Shall gentle Spenser's injur'd shade
For him attune the lay?
No! none of these o'er his cold grave
Shall strew one sprig of bay.
Russell's Elegy on the death of D. Hume.
For him, the modern Midas, these
No grateful chaplets owe;
Yet, shall his friends, with proper bays,
Adorn his heavy brow.
For him shall Russel rant and rave
In hobbling rumbling lays;
And Smith †, in barb’rous dreary prose,
Shall grunt and croak his praise.
Copied from the Window of an obscure Lodging House.
WHAT tho' to deck this roof no arts combine
Such forms as rival ev'ry Fair but mine:
No nodding plumes our humble couch above
Proclaim each triumph of unbounded Love;
No silver lamps, with sculptur'd Cupids gay,
O'er yielding Beauty pour their midnight ray:
Yet FANNY'S charms could Time's slow flight beguile,
Sooth ev'ry care, and make this dungeon smile.
In her what Kings, what Saints, have wish'd is giv❜n:
Her Heart is Empire, and her Love is Heav'n.
* Vide Hume's character of Spenfer, &c. in his history.
+ Adam Smith, LL.D.
BY THE LATE W. COWPER, ESQ.
FORC'D from home and all its pleasures,
Afric's coast I left forlorn,
To increase a stranger's treasures,
O'er the raging billows borne.
Men from England bought and sold me,
Paid my price in pastry gold:
But though theirs they have enroll'd me,
Minds are never to be sold.
Still in thought as free as ever,
What are England's rights, I ask,
Me from my delights to sever,
Me to torture, me to task?
Fleecy locks and black complexion
Cannot forfeit Nature's claim;
Skins may differ, but affection
Dwells in white and black the same.
Why did all-creating Nature
Make the plant for which we toil? Sighs must fan it, tears must water, Sweat of ours must dress the soil
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