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Seated on the verdant yrass ;
Wanton eyes each ruddy lass.
Murd'rer may thy malice fail!
Widow'd birds around us wail.
Leaves autumnal strew the ground,
While the mill runs briskly round.
Crown the hunter's dear delight;
Bleak the day, and drear the night.
Join, my friends, our Christmas cheer; Come a catch !-and kiss the lasses
Christmas comes but once a year.
SONNET TO MRS. G.
Ah! why will memory, with officious care,
The long-lost visions of my days renew;
When life’s gay dawn was opening to iny view.
Ah! wherefore bring those moments of delight,
When with my Anna, on the southern shore; I thought the future as the present bright:
Ye, dear delusions !-ye return no inore !
Alas! how different does the truth appear,
From the warm picture youth’s rash hand pourtrays! How fades the scene as we approach it near,
And pain and sorrow strike; how many ways.
Yet of that tender heart, ah! still retain
. General Evening Post.
... IMPROMPTU. On a tax being laid upon spirits in order to make up a small
deficiency in the million per annum, appropriated to the
payment of the national debt. “AMOR PATRIÆ,", to Pitt is a passion innate,
(The virtues of Chatham he surely inherits) If a million per annum he saves to the state;
No wonder, good people, he raises your spirits !
EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.
HERE lies poor Johnson. Reader have a care,
THEE, Johnson, both dead and alive we may nete,
In the fam'd biographical line ;
Now many a Savage writes thine.
Say, lonely maid, with down-cast eye.com
O Delia say, with cheek so pale, What gives thy heart the lengthen'd sigh,
That tells the world a mournful tale?
That tears, that thus each other chase,
Bespeak a bosom swell’d with woe; Thy sighs, a storm that wrecks thy peace, Which souls like thine should never know..
O tell me, doth some favour'd youth,
With virtue tir'd, thy beauty slight; And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip, and bosom of delight?
Perhaps to nymphs of other shades,
He feigns the soft impassion'd tear; With songs their easy faith invades,
That treach rous won thy witless 'ear..
Let not those maids thy envy move,
For whom his heart may seem to pine That heart can ne'er be bless'd by love, Whose guilt could force a pang from thine. 3
MARIA'S EVENING SERVICE
TO THE VIRGIN.
O shower your choicest blessings down
General Evening Post.
SONNET TO MRS. SMITH,
On reading her Sonnets.
Not the sweet bird, who thro’ the nights of May,
Pours the sad story of her hapless love;
Or with such plaintive eloquence can move!
Base were those groveling minds, those breasts of stone,
Who taught thee grief, nor time nor hope can heal: Hours may they know unpitied and alone;
When their own woes shall make the wretches feel.
Oh! cou'd or fame, or friendship, aught impart
To cure the wounds thy injur'd peace has known; For other’s sorrows still thy tender heart
Should softly melt, but never for thine own.
Till pitying all--and ev’n thy foes forgiv’n,
General Evening Post.