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THECERTAINTY OF DEATH.
Mortals! around your destined heads
And lo! the savage spoiler spreads
In vain we trifle with our fate;
Try every art in vain;
And lengthen out our pain.
Fondly we think all danger fled,
For Death is ever nigh; Outstrips our unavailing speed,
Or meets us as we fly.
Thus the wrecked mariner may strive
Secure of life, if he survive
But there, to famine doomed a prey,
He but escaped the troubled sea,
Since then in vain we strive to guard
Our frailty from the foe,
To meet the fatal blow!
William was once a bashful youth;
His modesty was such,
He rather had too much.
Some said that it was want of sense,
And others want of spirit,
While others could not bear it.
But some a different notion had,
Howe'er, it happened, by degrees,
In company was more at ease,
Nay, now and then would look quite
As other people do;
; And sometimes said, or tried to say,
He eyed the women, and made free
So that there was, or seemed to be,
The women said, who thought him rough,
But now no longer foohsh,
At length, improved from head to heel,
Now that a miracle so strange
May not in vain be shown, Let the dear maid who wrought change
E'er claim him for her own.
THE SYMPTOMS OF LOVE.
Would my Delia know if I love, let her take
My last thought at night, and the first when I wake;
When my prayers and best wishes preferred for her sake.
Let her guess what I muse on, when, rambling alone,
Let her think what odd whimsies I have in my brain,
Let her say why so fixed and so steady my look,
Or why when with pleasure her praises I hear
And lastly, when summoned to drink to my flame,
FOR NOT SHOWING HER WHAT I HAD WROTE.
Did not my Muse (what can she less ?)
Curse her ill-timed, unpleasing lute,
/ the same place.
Delia, the unkindest girl on earth,
That favour of intrinsic worth,
Refused that instant to comply
With my absurd request, For reasons she could specify,
Some twenty score at least.
Trust me, my dear, however odd
It may appear to say,
Thy spoiler of his prey.
Yes! when its sister locks shall fade,
When all their beauties are decayed,
Ah then! if haply to my share
If I but gain one single hair,
When you behold it still as sleek,
As lovely to the view,
That Eden where it grew,—
Then shall my Delia's self declare
And have preserved my little share
UPON A VENERABLE RIVAL.
Full thirty frosts since thou wert young
Ye Sages! spite of your pretences To wisdom, you must own
Not that I deem it weak to love,
Or folly to admire;
Far other years require.
Unheeded on the youthful brow
But unsupported Age stoops low
For once, then, if untutored youth,
May chance to deviate into truth,
For once attempt not to despise
What I esteem a rule: Who early loves, though young,is wise,—
Who old, though grey, a fool.
ON READING MR. RICHARDSON'S HISTORY OF SIR CHARLES GRANDISON.
Sav, ye apostate and profane,
Allegiance to your God,
And lift you from the crowd?
Would you the race of glory run?
Are equal to the task:
Of human vigour ask,
To arm against repeated ill
The patient heart, too brave to feel
The tortures of despair; Nor safer yet high-crested Pride, When wealth flows in with every tide
To gain admittance there.
To rescue from the tyrant's sword
From lawless insult to defend
These, these distinguish from the crowd,
The guardians of mankind; Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, Oh, with what matchless speed they leave
The multitude behind!
Then ask ye, from what cause on earth Virtues like these derive their birth?
Derived from Heaven alone, Full on that favoured breast they shine, Where Faith and Resignation join
To call the blessing down.
Such is that heart;—but while the Muse Thy theme, O Richardson, pursues,
Her feebler spirits faint; She cannot reach, and would not wrong, That subject for an angel's song,
The hero, and the saint!
IN A LETTER TO C. P., ESQ.
ILL WITH THE RHEUMATISM.
Grant me the Muse, ye gods! whose humble flight
IN A LETTER TO THE SAME.
IN IMITATION OP SHAKESPBARB.
Trust me, the meed of praise, dealt thriftily
For with a frown we parted;
And sadly disconcerted.
Yet well as each performed their part,
And that we both intended
Are made but to be mended.
You knew, dissembler! all the while,
After this heavy pelt;
The care we never felt.
Happy! when we but seek to endure
By double joy requited;
When aptly reunited.
WRITTEN IN A QUARREL.
[THE DELIVERY OF IT PREVENTED BY A RECONCILIATION.;
Think, Delia, with what cruel haste
Nor heedless thus in sorrow waste
Be wise, my fair, and gently treat
Think, thus abused, what sad regret