Ambiguous looks, that scorn and yet relent,
Denials mild, and firm unalter'd truth;
Reluctant pride, and amorous faint consent,
And meeting ardours, and exulting youth.

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Sleep, wayward God! hath sworn, while these remain,

With flattering dreams to dry his nightly tear, And cheerful Hope, so oft invoked in vain, With fairy songs shall soothe his pensive ear.

If, bound by vows to Friendship's gentle side, 25 And fond of soul, thou hopest an equal grace, If youth or maid thy joys and griefs divide,

O, much entreated, leave this fatal place!

Sweet Peace, who long hath shunn'd my plain-
tive day,
Consents at length to bring me short delight,
Thy careless steps may scare her doves away,
And Grief with raven note usurp the night.

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TO MISS AURELIA C--R,

ON HER WEEPING AT HER SISTER'S WEDDING.

CEASE, fair Aurelia, cease to mourn,
Lament not Hannah's happy state;
You may be happy in your turn,
And seize the treasure you regret.

With Love united Hymen stands,

And softly whispers to your charms,

"Meet but your lover in my bands, You'll find your sister in his arms."

SONNET.

WHEN Phoebe form'd a wanton smile,
My soul! it reach'd not here:

Strange, that thy peace, thou trembler, flies

Before a rising tear!

From 'midst the drops, my love is born,

That o'er those eyelids rove :

Thus issued from a teeming wave

The fabled queen of love.

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SONG.

THE SENTIMENTS BORROWED FROM SHAKESPEARE.

YOUNG Damon of the vale is dead,

Ye lowly hamlets, moan;

A dewy turf lies o'er his head,

And at his feet a stone.

His shroud, which Death's cold damps destroy, 5

Of snow white threads was made:

All mourn'd to see so sweet a boy

In earth for ever laid.

Pale pansies o'er his corpse were placed,

Which, pluck'd before their time, Bestrew'd the boy, like him to waste

And wither in their prime.

But will he ne'er return, whose tongue'

Could tune the rural lay?

Ah, no! his bell of peace is rung,

His lips are cold as clay.

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VARIATION.

Ver. 2. Ye lowland hamlets, moan;

They bore him out at twilight hour,
The youth who loved so well:

Ah, me! how many a true love shower
Of kind remembrance fell!

Each maid was woe-but Lucy chief,
Her grief o'er all was tried;

Within his grave she dropp'd in grief,
And o'er her loved one died.

ON OUR LATE TASTE IN MUSIC.

Quid vocis modulamen inane juvabat
Verborum sensusque vacans numerique loquacis ?

MILTON.

BRITONS! away with the degenerate pack!
Waft, western winds! the foreign spoilers back!
Enough has been in wild amusements spent,
Let British verse and harmony content!

No music once could charm you like your own,
Then tuneful Robinson, and Tofts were known;
Then Purcell touch'd the strings, while numbers

hung

Attentive to the sounds-and blest the song!
E'en gentle Weldon taught us manly notes,
Beyond the enervate thrills of Roman throats!
Notes, foreign luxury could ne'er inspire,
That animate the soul, and swell the lyre!
That mend, and not emasculate our hearts,
And teach the love of freedom and of arts.

a Now Countess-dowager of Peterborough.

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