VERSES. THOU base repiner at another's joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find on meaner climes a fitter throne. Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night, Yet, but a little while, and nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses, Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Then will thy baseness stand confess'd, and all Will curse the ungenerous fate, that bade a Poet fall. YET, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: y? Who only boast what thou wouldst take away. See the lone Bard at midnight study sitting, O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; While o'er fond. Fancy's pale perspective flitting, Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp. Yet say, is bliss upon his brow impress'd? [live? Does jocund Health in Thought's still mansion Lo, the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh-their sad responses give. And canst thou rob a poet of his song; Snatch from the bard his trivial meed of praise? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long; Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives-for to his merits just, Though future ages join his fame to raise, Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust? LINES. YES, my stray steps have wander'd, wander'd far Of undeserved neglect, hath shrunk and died. Heart-soothing Poesy! Though thou hast ceased To hover o'er the many-voiced strings Of my long silent lyre, yet thou canst still Call the warm tear from its thrice hallow'd cell, Warm my The ear of spirit, from this mortal coil I gird myself, and climb the toilsome steep And minister strange music, which doth seem Surely such ministry, though rare, may soothe Where throned in light she sits, the Queen of Truth. THE PROSTITUTE. DACTYLICS. WOMAN of weeping eye, ah! for thy wretched lot, Putting on smiles to lure the lewd passenger, Smiling while anguish gnaws at thy heavy heart; Sad is thy chance, thou daughter of misery, Destined to pamper the vicious one's appetite; Spurned by the beings who lured thee from inno cence; Sinking unnoticed in sorrow and indigence; Thou hast no friends, for they with thy virtue fled; Thou art an outcast from house and from happi ness; Wandering alone on the wide world's unfeeling stage! Daughter of misery, sad is thy prospect here; Thou hast no friend to soothe down the bed of death; None after thee inquires with solicitude; |