A train, attendant on their queen, (Her rosy chorus) fly; The jocund loves in Hymen's band, And generous friendship, hand in hand The gentler virtues too are join'd The arts come smiling in the close, And lend celestial fire; The marble breathes, the canvas glows, The muses sweep the lyre. "Still may my melting bosom cleave Where'er is heard a groan. "So pity shall take virtue's part, Her natural ally, And fashioning my soften'd heart, Prepare it for the sky." This artless vow may Heaven receive, So may the rosy-finger'd hours And every joy, which now is yours, And suns to come, as round they wheel, Your golden moments bless With all a tender heart can feel, 1762. FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MR. NEWTON, LATE RECTOR OF ST. MARY WOOLNOTH, SAYS the pipe to the snuff-box, I can't understand Do but see what a pretty contemplative air I give to the company-pray do but note 'emYou would think that the wise men of Greece were all there, [of Gotham. Or at least would suppose them the wise men My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, While you are a nuisance where'er you appear; There is nothing but snivelling and, blowing of [hear. noses, Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to Then, lifting his lid in a delicate way, [gaging, And opening his mouth with a smile quite enThe box in reply was heard plainly to say, What a silly dispute is this we are waging! If you have a little of merit to claim, [weed, You may thank the sweet-smelling Virginian And I, if I seem to deserve any blame, The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, [in us. But of anything else they may choose to put THE FLATTING MILL. AN ILLUSTRATION. WHEN a bar of pure silver or ingot of gold Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears This process achiev'd, it is doom'd to sustain Alas for the poet! who dares undertake If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight, Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow, Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight, And catch in its progress a sensible glow. After all he must beat it as thin and as fine EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME REDBREAST, A FAVORITE OF MISS SALLY HURDIS. THESE are not dewdrops, these are tears, For absent Robin, who she fears, One morn he came not to her hand Alarm'd, she call'd him, and perplex'd She therefore raised him here a tomb, Had half a score of coxcombs died Poor Sally's tears had soon been dried, Or haply never shed. But Bob was neither rudely bold Nor spiritlessly tame; Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, March, 1792. SONNET, ADDRESSED TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. HAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown For threescore winters make a wintry breast, Not more to admire the bard than love the man. June 2, 1792. AN EPITAPH. HERE lies one who never drew Gave the gun its aim, and figure Armed men have gladly made Would advance, present, and fire- |