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He left it-but he should have ta'en
That beak, whence issued many a strain

Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wote,
For filencing so sweet a throat,

Fast fet within his own.

Maria weeps—the Muses mourn—
So, when by Bacchanalians torn,

On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell;
His head alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.


The rose had been wash'd, juft wash'd in a shower, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture incumber'd the flower, And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The eup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret, On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I haftily seiz'd it, unfit as it was,
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,

And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitilefs part Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart Already to forrow refign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile,

And the tear that is wip'd with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.



MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee with'd many a time, Both fad, and in a cheerful mood,

But never yet in rhymo.

To with thee fairer is no need,

More prudent, or more sprightly, Or more ingenious, or more freed

From temper-flaws unhghtly.

What favour, then, not yet poflefsd,

Can I for thee require,
In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's defire ?

None here is happy but in part;

Full bliss is bliss divine;
There dwells some with in ev'ry heart,

And, doubtless, one in thine.

That wilh, on some fair future day,

Which fate shall brightly gild, ('Tis blameless, be it what it may)

I wish it all fulfill'd.



PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning, Indite much metre with much pains,

And little or no meaning.

Ah why, fince oceans, rivers, streams,

That water all the nations,
Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,

In conttant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink, Apollo, haft thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air,

It floats a vapour now, Impellid through regions dense and rare,

By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd, perhaps, ere summer flies,

Combin'd with millions more, To form an iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then

Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass’d my pen,

So soon to be forgot!

Phobus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,
Give wit, that what is left may shine

With equal grace below.

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