These, the poets all declare, In poet's song, and fairy ground. Lloyd's Evening Post THE MOUNTAIN VIOLET. SWEET fragile flow'r, that bloom'st unsought, Expanding wild, thy rich perfume Now brighten'd by the morning ray, Sweet emblem of the soul-fraught mind, Yet, like thee, tenderly refin'd, And shrinking from ungenial air. The ray which gilds with lucid gleam, Like thee, too, from the vulgar eye, Dear flow'r, be thou my fav'rite sweet, Yet if perchance, in evil hour, Some lawless hand invade thy shrine; Or nightly blast, with cruel pow'r, Sap the short life which might be thine: Ah! then with sad regret I'll kneel, When, vain if all my hopes I feel, Nottingham Journal. TO A FRIEND Who pressed the author to marry for the sake of a great fortune. IN vain with riches would you try My stedfast heart to move; For no less price than love. Riches, indeed, may give me pow'r, But should the itch of pow'r or state, I'd cringe at court, at senate prate, Since, then, not wealth's deceitful shew Try next, what gen'rous love can do; All other bribes are vain. Duke of Dorset. SONG. SWAINS, I hate the boist'rous fair, Still, the girl that's made for me. Let her not boast, like man to dare With gentler sports delighted be Nor pert coquet, nor formal prude, From airs, from flights, from vapours free; She is the girl that's made for me. Her well-chose dress, in ev'ry part, Loose flow her locks without constraint, Ibid. INSCRIPTION For a sequestered retreat, called the "Bower of Oberon," in a beautiful pleasure-ground. ROUND these fair scenes direct your eyes, The various wonders that ye see (Be grateful mortals) spring from me; With charms each bending branch is bound, And many a magic spell is round. Tremble, thou wretch, whose sordid breast By selfish passions is possess❜d! Whose soul is mean and insincere ; Tremble, nor dare to enter here! |