'I hear, my Celia, your alluring looks Kept the young Curate from his holy books: Parsons, we know, advise their flocks to pray; But 'tis their duty-not the better they; "Tis done for policy, for praise, for pay: Or let the very best be understood, They're men, you know, and men are flesh and blood.

Now, they do say-but let me not offendYou were too often with this pious friend, And spent your time--'

C. As people ought to spend. And, sir, if you of some divine would ask Aid in your doubts, it were a happy task; But you, alas! the while, are not perplex'd By the dark meaning of a threat'ning text; You rather censure her who spends her time In search of Truth, as if it were a crime! Could I your dread of vulgar scandal feel, To whom should I, in my distress, appeal? A time there may be, Charles, indeed there must,

When you will need a faithful Priest to trust, In conscience tender, but in counsel just. Charles, for my Fame I would in prudence

strive,

What one confesses should be heard by one. Your mind is gross, and you have dwelt so long

With such companions, that you will be wrong: We fill our minds from those with whom we live,

And as your fears are Nature's, I forgive; But learn your peace and my good name to prize,

And fears of fancy let us both despise.'

D. Enough, my friend! Now let the man advance

You are prepared, and nothing leave to chance: 'Tis not sufficient that we're pure and just; The wise to nothing but their wisdom trust. Will he himself appear, or will he send, Duteous as warm! and not alarm my friend?

SEE with what ease the child-like god

Assumes his reins, and shakes his rod;
He seems his triumphs to enjoy,
How gaily, like a smiling boy,
As if he were indeed a child!
And looks as innocently mild
But in that meekness who shall tell
What vengeance sleeps, what terrors dwell?

By him are tamed the fierce ;—the bold
And haughty are by him controll'd;
The hero of th' ensanguined field
Finds there is neither sword nor shield
Availing here. Amid his books
The student thinks how Laura looks;
The miser's self, with heart of lead,
With all the nobler feelings fled,
Has thrown his darling treasures by,
And sigh'd for something worth a sigh.

Love over gentle natures reigns
A gentle master; yet his pains
Are felt by them, are felt by all,
The bitter sweet, the honied gall,
Soft pleasing tears, heart-soothing sighs,
Sweet pain, and joys that agonise.

Against a power like this, what arts,
What virtues, can secure our hearts ?
In vain are both-The good, the wise,
Have tender thoughts and wandering eyes:
And then, to banish Virtue's fear,
Like Virtue's self will Love appear;
Bid every anxious feeling cease,
And all be confidence and peace.

He such insidious method takes,
He seems to heal the wound he makes,
Till, master of the human breast,
He shows himself the foe of rest,
Pours in his doubts, his dread, his pains,
And now a very tyrant reigns.

If, then, his power we cannot shun, And must endure-what can be done? To whom, thus bound, can we apply ?— To Prudence, as our best ally: For she, like Pallas, for the fight Can arm our eye with clearer sight; Can teach the happy art that gains A captive who will grace our chains; And, as we must the dart endure, To bear the wound we cannot cure.

LINES WRITTEN AT WARWICK 'You that in warlike stories take delight,' &c. HAIL! centre-county of our land, and known For matchless worth and valour all thine ownWarwick renown'd for him who best could

write,

Shakspeare the Bard, and him so fierce in fight, Guy, thy brave Earl, who made whole armies fly,

And giants fall-Who has not heard of Guy?
Him sent his Lady, matchless in her charms,
To gain immortal glory by his arms,
Felice the fair, who, as her bard maintain'd,
The prize of beauty over Venus gain'd;
For she, the goddess, had some trivial blot
That marr'd some beauty, which our nymph
had not:

But this apart, for in a fav'rite theme
Poets and lovers are allow'd to dream--
Still we believe the lady and her knight
Were matchless both: He in the glorious fight,
She in the bower by day, and festive hall by
night.

Urged by his love, th' adventurous Guy proceeds,

And Europe wonders at his warlike deeds;

Whatever prince his potent arm sustains, However weak, the certain conquest gains; On every side the routed legions fly, Numbers are nothing in the sight of Guy: To him the injured made their sufferings known,

And he relieved all sorrows, but his own: Ladies who owed their freedom to his might Were grieved to find his heart another's right:

The brood of giants, famous in those times, Fell by his arm, and perish'd for their crimes. Colbrand the strong, who by the Dane was brought,

When he the crown of good Athelstan sought, Fell by the prowess of our champion brave, And his huge body found an English grave.

But what to Guy were men, or great or small, Or one or many ?-he despatch'd them all; A huge dun Cow, the dread of all around, A master-spirit in our hero found: 'Twas desolation all about her denHer sport was murder, and her meals were men. At Dunmore Heath the monster he assail'd, And o'er the fiercest of his foes prevail'd.

Nor fear'd he lions more than lions fear Poor trembling shepherds, or the sheep they shear:

A fiery dragon, whether green or red
The story tells not, by his valour bled;
What more I know not, but by these 'tis plain
That Guy of Warwick never fought in vain.
When much of life in martial deeds was

spent,

His sovereign lady found her heart relent, And gave her hand. Then, all was joy around, And valiant Guy with love and glory crown'd; Then Warwick Castle wide its gate display'd, And peace and pleasure this their dwelling made.

Alas! not long-a hero knows not rest; A new sensation fill'd his anxious breast. His fancy brought before his eyes a train Of pensive shades, the ghosts of mortals slain; His dreams presented what his sword had done;

He saw the blood from wounded soldiers run, And dying men, with every ghastly wound, Breathed forth their souls upon the sanguine ground.

Alarm'd at this, he dared no longer stay, But left his bride, and as a pilgrim gray, With staff and beads, went forth to weep and fast and pray.

TO A LADY ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH

YES! I must go-it is a part

That cruel Fortune has assign'd me,Must go, and leave, with aching heart, What most that heart adores, behind me. Still I shall see thee on the sand

Till o'er the space the water rises, Still shall in thought behind thee stand, And watch the look affection prizes. But ah! what youth attends thy side, With eyes that speak his soul's devotionTo thee as constant as the tide

That gives the restless wave its motion ? Still in thy train must he appear,

For ever gazing, smiling, talking?
Ah! would that he were sighing here,
And I were there beside thee walking!
Wilt thou to him that arm resign,

Who is to that dear heart a stranger, And with those matchless looks of thine The peace of this poor youth endanger? Away this fear that fancy makes

When night and death's dull image hide thee: In sleep, to thee my mind awakes;

Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee. Who could in absence bear the pain Of all this fierce and jealous feeling, But for the hope to meet again,

And see those smiles all sorrow healing? Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart,

Lament that fate such friends should sever, And I shall say- We must not part; ' And thou wilt answer- Never, never!'

TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY

OF all the subjects poetry commands,

Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow; 'Tis like the streams in Afric's burning sands, Exhausted now, and now they overflow. As heaping fuel on a kindling fire,

So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise; For when he would the cheerful warmth inspire,

He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise. How shall I, then, the happy medium hit,

And give the just proportion to my song? How speak of beauty, elegance, and wit,

Yet fear at once t' offend thee and to wrong?