'Mongst a rude group of monuments, appears A marble-imag'd matron on her knees, Half wasted, like a Niobe in tears:

Low levell'd in the dust her darling 's laid! Death pitied not the pride of youthful bloom;

Nor could maternal piety dissuade,

Or soften the fell tyrant of the tomb.

The relics of a mitred saint may rest,

Where, mould'ring in the niche, his statue stands; Now nameless as the crowd that kiss'd his vest, And crav'd the benediction of his hands.

Near the brown arch, redoubling yonder gloom,
The bones of an illustrious chieftain lie;
As trac'd among the fragments of his tomb,
The trophies of a broken Fame imply.

Ah! what avails, that o'er the vassal plain,
His rights and rich demesnes extended wide!
That Honour and her knights compos'd his train,
And Chivalry stood marshal'd by his side!

Though to the clouds his castle seem'd to climb, And frown'd defiance on the desp'rate foe; Though deem'd invincible, the conqueror, Time, Levell'd the fabric, as the founder, low.

Where the light lyre gave many a soft'ning sound,
Ravens and rooks, the birds of discord, dwell;
And where Society sat sweetly crown'd,
Eternal Solitude has fix'd her cell.

The lizard, and the lazy lurking bat,

Inhabit now, perhaps, the painted room, Where the sage matron and her maidens sat, Sweet-singing at the silver-working loom.

The schoolman's page, or pride of Beauty's bloom? The crape-clad hermit, and the rich-rob'd king, Levell❜d, lie mix'd promiscuous in the tomb.

The Macedonian monarch, wise and good,
Bade, when the morning's rosy reign began,
Courtiers should call, as round his couch they stood,
"Philip! remember, thou 'rt no more than man.

"Though glory spread thy name from pole to pole:
Though thou art merciful, and brave, and just;
Philip, reflect, thou 'rt posting to the goal,
Where mortals mix in undistinguish'd dust!”

So Saladin, for arts and arms renown'd,
(Egypt and Syria's wide domains subdu'd)
Returning with imperial triumphs crown'd,
Sigh'd, when the perishable pomp he view'd:
And as he rode, high in his regal car
In all the purple pride of conquest drest;
Conspicuous, o'er the trophies gain'd in war,
Plac'd, pendent on a spear, his burial vest:

While thus the herald cry'd-" This son of Pow'r,
This Saladin, to whom the nations bow'd,
May, in the space of one revolving hour,

Boast of no other spoil but yonder shroud!" Search where Ambition rag'd, with rigour steel'd, Where Slaughter, like the rapid lightning, ran; And say, while Memory weeps the blood-stain'd field, [man? Where lies the chief, and where the common

Vain then are pyramids, and motto'd stones,
And monumental trophies rais'd on high !
For Time confounds them with the crumbling bones,
That mix'd in hasty graves unnotic'd lie,

He that Love hath never try'd,
Nor had Cupid for his guide,
Cannot hit the passage right
To the palace of delight.

What are honours, regal wealth,
Florid youth, and rosy health?
Without Love his tribute brings,
Impotent, unmeaning things!

Gentle shepherds, persevere,
Still be tender, still sincere ;
Love and Time, united, do
Wonders, if the heart be true.

SAPPHO'S HYMN TO VENUS

IMITATED.

HALL! (with eternal beauty blest!
O'er Heav'n and Earth ador'd!)
Hail, Venus! 'tis thy slave's request,
Her peace may be restor❜d:

Break the fond bonds, remove the rankling smart,
And bid thy tyrant son from Sappho's soul depart.

Once you descended, queen of love,
At Sappho's bold desire,
From the high roofs of sacred Jove,

Thy ever glorious sire!

I saw thy dusky pinion'd sparrows bear

Thy chariot, rolling light, through the rejoicing air.

No transient visit you design'd,

Your wanton birds depart;

And with a look, divinely kind,

That sooth'd my flutt'ring heart:

“Sappho,” say you, “what sorrow breaks thy rest? How can I give relief to thy conflicting breast?

"Is there a youth severely coy,

My fav'rite would subdue?

Or has she lost some wand'ring boy,

To plighted vows untrue?

Spread thy soft nets, the rambler shall return,

And with new lighted flames, more fond, more fiercely burn.

"Thy proffer'd gifts though he deride,

And scorn thy glowing charms,

Soon shall his every art be try'd

To win thee to his arms:

Though he be now as cold as virgin snow,

The victim, in his turn, shall like rous'd Etna glow."

ODE LVIII.

As I wove, with wanton care,
Fillets for a virgin's hair,
Culling for my fond design

What the fields had fresh and fine :
Cupid,-and I mark'd him well,
Hid him in a cowslip bell;
While he plum'd a pointed dart,
Fated to inflame the heart.

Glowing with malicious joy,
Sudden I secur'd the boy;
And, regardless of his cries,
Bore the little frighted prize
Where the mighty goblet stood,
Teeming with a rosy flood.

"Urchin," in my rage I cry'd, "What avails thy saucy pride? From thy busy vengeance free, Triumph now belongs to me! Thus I drown thee in my cup; Thus-in wine I drink thee up."

Fatal was the nectar'd draught That to murder Love I quaff'd, O'er my bosom's fond domains Now the cruel tyrant reigns: On my heart's most tender strings, Striking with his wanton wings, I'm for ever doom'd to prove All the insolence of love.

ODE IX.

THE DOVB.

"TELL me," said I, "my beauteous Dove
(If an ambassadress from Love)
Tell me, on what soft errand sent,
Thy gentle flight is this way bent?
"Ambrosial sweets thy pinions shed
As in the quivering breeze they spread !”
"A message," says the bird, "I bear
From fond Anacreon to the fair;
A virgin of celestial grace!
The Venus of the human race!

"Me, for an hymn, or amorous ode,
The Paphian Venus once bestow'd
To the sweet bard; for whom I'd fly
Unwearied to the furthest sky.

Through the soft air he bade me glide,
(See, to my wing his billet 's ty'd)
And told me, 'twas his kind decree,
When I return'd, to set me free.

When I've my master's leave to stand
Cooing upon his friendly hand;
When I can be profusely fed
With crumbs of his ambrosial bread,
And, welcom'd to his nectar bowl,
Sip the rich drops that fire the soul;
Till, in fantastic rounds I spread
My fluttering pinions o'er his head?

"Or if he strike the trembling wire,
I perch upon my fav'rite lyre;
Till, lull'd into luxuriant rest,
Sleep steals upon my raptur'd breast.

"Go, stranger-to your business-go, I've told you all you wish'd to know: Go, stranger, and I think you'll say, This prattling Dove 's an arrant Jay.”

Now I'm in my armour clasp'd, Now the mighty lance is grasp'd, But an Achileian spear Would be ineffectual here, While the poison'd arrows fly Hot, as lightning from the sky. Wounded, through the woods I run, Follow'd still by Beauty's son, Arrows in malignant showers Still the angry urchin pours; Till, exhausting all his store, (When the quiver yields no more) See the god-a living dart, Shoots himself into my heart.

Freedom I must, now, resign, Victory, oh Love, is thine! What can outward actions win When the battle burns within!

THE DANCE.

HARK! the speaking strings invite,
Music calls us to delight:
See the maids in measures move,
Winding like the maze of love.
As they mingle, madly gay,
Sporting Hebe leads the way.

On each glowing cheek is spread
Rosy Cupid's native red;
And from ev'ry sparkling eye
Pointed darts at random fly.
Love, and active Youth, advance
Foremost in the sprightly dance.

As the magic numbers rise, Through my veins the poison flies; Raptures, not to be exprest, Revel in my throbbing breast. Jocund as we beat the ground, Love and Harmony go round.

Every maid (to crown his bliss) Gives her youth a rosy kiss; Such a kiss as might inspire Thrilling raptures-soft desire Such Adonis might receive, Such the queen of beauty gave, When the conquer'd goddess strove (In the conscious myrtle grove) To inflame the boy with love.

Let not pride our sports restrain, Banish hence the prude, Disdain ! Think-ye virgins, if you 're coy, Think-ye rob yourselves of joy; Every moment you refuse, So much ecstasy you lose: Think-how fast these moments fly: If you should too long deny, Love and Beauty both will die.

ODE XIV.

WHY did I with Love engage! Why provoke his mighty rage! True it is, the wand'ring child Met me with an aspect mild, And besought me, like a friend, At his gentle shrine to bend. True, from my mistaken pride, Due devotion was deny'd,

Till (because I would not yield) Cupid dar'd me to the field.

FILL me that capacious cup,
Fill it, to the margin up;
From my veins the thirsty day
Quaff's the vital strength away.

Let a wreath my temples shield, Fresh from the enamell'd field; These declining roses bow, Blasted by my sultry brow.

Flow'rets, by their friendly aid,
From the sunbeams form a shade:
Let me from my heart require,
(Glowing with intense desire)
Is there, in the deepest grove,
Shelter from the BEAMS of Love?

ODE XXXIII.

TO THE SWALLOW.

Soon as summer glads the sky,
Hither, gentle bird, you fly;
And with golden sunshine blest,
Build your pretty plaster'd nest.

When the seasons cease to smile,
(Wing'd for Memphis or the Nile)
Charming bird, you disappear
Till the kind succeeding year.

Like the Swallow, Love, depart!
Respite for a while my heart.

No, he 'll never leave his nest,
Tyrant tenant of my breast!
There a thousand WISHES try
On their callow wings to fly;
There you may a thousand tell,
Pertly peeping through the shell:
In a state unfinish'd, rise
Thousands of a smaller size.

Till their noisy chirpings cease,
Never shall my heart have peace.
Feather'd ones the younglings feed,
Till mature they 're fit to breed;
Then, to swell the crowded store,
They produce their thousands more:
Nor can mighty numbers count
In my breast their vast amount.

THE PICTURE:

A TALE.

A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command,
Completed by a curious hand:
For dabblers in the nice terlû
His lordship set the piece to view,
Bidding their connoisseurships tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.
"Why"-says the loudest," on my word,
"Tis not a likeness, good my lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just."
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each to deliver what he thought.

"Worse than the first"-the critics bawl;
"O what a mouth! how monstrous small!
Look at the cheeks-how lank and thin!
See, what a most prepost'rous chin!"
After remonstrance made in vain,
"I'll," says the painter, "once again,
(If my good lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit:

If 'll to morrow deign to call,
you
We'll have a piece to please you all."
To morrow comes-a picture 's plac'd
Before those spurious sons of Taste—
In their opinions all agree,
This is the vilest of the three.
"Know-to confute your envious pride,
(His lordship from the canvass cry'd)
"Know-that it is my real face,
Where you could no resemblance trace:
I've try'd you by a lucky trick,
And prov'd your GENIUS to the quick.
Void of all judgment-justice-sense,
Out-ye pretending varlets-hence."
The connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despis'd-detected-and disgrac'd.

THE WITCH:

A TALE.

A WITCH, that from her ebon chair
Could hurl destruction through the air,
Or, at her all-commanding will,
Make the tumultuous ocean still:
Once, by an incantation fell,
(As the recording Druids tell)

Pluck'd the round Moon, whose radiant light
Silver'd the sober noon of night,
From the domain she held above,
Down to a dark, infernal grove.

"Give me," the goddess cry'd, "a cause,
Why you disturb my sacred laws?
Look at my train,-yon wand'ring host!
See how the trembling stars are lost!
Through the celestial regions wide,
Why do they range without a guide!
Chaos, from our confusion, may
Hope for his old detested sway."
"I'm," says the Witch, "severely crost,
Know that my fav'rite squirrel's lost :

Search for I'll have creation torn,
If he 's not found before the morn."
Soon as the impious charge was giv'n-
From the tremendous stores of Heaven,
Jove with a bolt-revengeful !———red !
Struck the detested monster dead.

If there are slaves to pity blind,
With power enough to plague mankind,
That for their own nefarious ends
Tread upon Freedom and her friends,
Let 'em beware the Witch's fate!
When their presumption 's at the height,
Jove will his angry powers assume,

And the curs'd miscreants meet their doom.

When wedded, away the wing'd gentleman hies,
From flow'ret to flow'ret he wantonly flies;
Nor did he revisit his bride, till the Sun
Had less than one-fourth of his journey to run.
The Rose thus reproach'd him—" Already so cold!
How feign'd, O you false one, the passion you told!
'Tis an age since you left me:" she meant a few
hours;

But such we'll suppose the fond language of flowers:
"I saw when you gave the base violet a kiss:
How-how could you stoop to a meanness like this?
Shall a low, little wretch, whom we Roses despise,
Find favour, O Love! in my Butterfly's eyes?
On a tulip, quite tawdry, I saw your fond rape,
Nor yet could the pitiful primrose escape:
Dull daffodils too were with ardour address'd,
And poppies, ill-scented, you kindly caress'd."
The coxcomb was piqu'd, and reply'd with a sneer,
"That you 're first to complain, I commend you,
my dear!

But know, from your conduct my maxims I drew,
And if I'm inconstant, I copy from you.
I saw the boy Zephirus rifle your charms,
I saw how you simper'd and smil'd in his arms;
The honey-bee kiss'd you, you cannot disown,
You favour'd besides-O dishonour!-a drone;
Yet worse-'tis a crime that you must not deny,
Your sweets were made common,false Rose, to a fly."

MORAL.

This law, long ago, did Love's providence make, That ev'ry coquet should be curs'd with a rake.

THE FOX and the Cat, as they travell❜d one day, With moral discourses cut shorter the way: ""Tis great," says the Fox, " to make justice our guide!"

"How godlike is mercy!" Grimalkin reply'd.

Whilst thus they proceeded,—a wolf from the Impatient of hunger, and thirsting for blood, [wood, Rush'd forth-as he saw the dull shepherd asleep, And seiz'd for his supper an innocent sheep. "In vain, wretched victim, for mercy you bleat, When mutton's at hand," says the wolf, "I must

eat."

Expression must despair to tell.

A painter call'd,Nicander cries, Descending from the radiant skies, "Draw me a bright, a beauteous boy, The herald of connubial joy! Draw him with all peculiar care, Make him beyond Adonis fair; Give to his cheeks a roseate hue, Let him have eyes of heav'nly blue, Lips soft'ning in nectarious dew; A lustre o'er his charms display, More glorious than the beams of day. Expect, sir, if you can succeed, A premium for a prince indeed."

His talents straight the painter try'd, And ere the nuptial knot was ty'd, A picture in the noblest taste Before the fond Nicander plac'd.

The lover thus arraign'd his skill, "Your execution 's monstrous ill! A different form my fancy made; You 're quite a bungler at the trade. Where is the robe's luxuriant flow? Where is the cheek's celestial glow? Where are the looks so fond and free? 'Tis not an Hymen, sir, for me."

The painter bow'd-with this reply, "My colours an't, your honour, dry; When time has mellow'd ev'ry tint, 'Twill please you-or the deuce is in 't: I'll watch the happy change, and then Attend you with my piece again."

In a few months the painter came With a performance-(still the same :)