TO MISS HOYLAND.

TELL me, God of soft desires, Little Cupid, wanton Boy, How thou kindlest up thy fires, Giving pleasing pain and joy?

Hoyland's beauty is thy bow, Striking glances are thy darts:

Making conquests never slow, Ever gaining conquer'd hearts.

Heaven is seated in her smile,
Juno's in her portly air;
Not Britannia's fav'rite Isle
Can produce a nymph so fair.

In a desert vast and drear,

Where disorder springs around,

If the lovely fair is there,

'Tis a pleasure-giving ground.

Oh my Hoyland! blest with thee, I'd the raging storm defy,

In thy smiles I live, am free;

When thou frownest, I must die.

TO MISS HOYLAND.

WITH A PRESENT.

ACCEPT, fair Nymph, this token of my love, Nor look disdainful on the prostrate Swain: By ev'ry sacred oath, I'll constant prove,

And act as worthy for to wear your chain.

Not with more constant ardour shall the sun Chase the faint shadows of the night away; Nor shall he on his course more constant run, And cheer the universe with coming day,

Than I in pleasing chains of conquest bound, Adore the charming author of my smart ; Forever will I thy sweet charms resound, And paint the fair possessor of my heart.

TO MISS HOYLAND.

COUNT all the flow'rs that deck the meadow's side,
When Flora flourishes in new-born pride;
Count all the sparkling orbits in the sky;
Count all the birds that thro' the ether fly;
Count all the foliage of the lofty trees,
That fly before the bleak autumnal breeze;
Count all the dewy blades of verdant grass;
Count all the drops of rain that softly pass
Thro' the blue ether, or tempestuous roar:
Count all the sands upon the breaking shore;
Count all the minutes since the world began;
Count all the troubles of the life of man;
Count all the torments of the d- -d in hell,-
More are the beauteous charms that make my
nymph excel.1

1 I am by no means satisfied that all these poems are the production of Chatterton. They were published with his name in the Miscellanies, and at this distance of time it is impossible to distinguish between them. If they are his, they do him but little credit.

TO MISS CLARKE.

To sing of Clarke my muse aspires,
A theme by charms made quite divine:
Ye tuneful Virgins sound your lyres,
Apollo aid the feeble line.

If truth and virtue, wit and charms,
May for a fix'd attention call,

The darts of Love and wounding arms
The beauteous Clarke shall hold o'er all.

'Tis not the tincture of the skin,
The rosy lip, the charming eye;

No, 'tis a greater power within,
That bids the passion never die.

These Clarke possesses, and much more-
All beauty in her glances sport;
She is the goddess all adore,

In country, city, and at court.

EPISTLE

TO THE REVEREND MR. CATCOTT.

December 6, 1769.

WHAT strange infatuations rule mankind!
How narrow are our prospects, how confined!
With universal vanity possest,

We fondly think our own ideas best;
Our tott'ring arguments are ever strong;
We're always self-sufficient in the wrong.

What philosophic sage of pride austere
Can lend conviction an attentive ear?
What pattern of humility and truth
Can bear the jeering ridicule of youth?
What blushing author ever rank'd his muse
With Fowler's Poet-Laureate of the Stews?
Dull Penny, nodding o'er his wooden lyre,
Conceits the vapours of Geneva fire.
All in the language of Apostles cry,
If angels contradict me, angels lie.
As all have intervals of ease and pain,
So all have intervals of being vain: