and should my weakness in the warrior fail, the soft-beseeching woman should prevail; for thee, I'll soothe each proud insulting foe, and melt him with petitionary wo; with thee, in every hardy hazard join, in dangers save thy life, to make it mine. By night, compose thy harass'd soul to rest, and hush it on the pillow of my breast; with patient eyes eternal vigils keep, and court good angels to protect thy sleep. Alas! in vain I urge my frustrate will, I find myself a feeble woman still; the feeble woman to my breast returns, for Henry's gone, and Rosamonda mourns! O! see my eyes their streaming anguish pour, O! hear my sighs increase the swelling shower; what can I more than shed my tears and sighs? poor woman's strength alone in weakness lies?

But whether is ungovern'd fancy flown? thoughts of impossibilities begone!

guilt claims no miracles, nor heav'n conspires to aid my crimes, and fan my lawless fires. Life irksome grows; detested is the light, and my soul dreads the visions of the night. Swift let me to some hallow'd convent go! Can I for ever Henry leave?-ah! no:— but O lost innocence!-I lost a name:O honour! -broken is the bubble, fame. Are my sins monstrous? do invented crimes, alike unknown to past, or present times, demand red vengeance? Some peculiar curse?— crowds stand recorded for the same,-or worse. Have I, unpitying, heard the poor complain, or seen the wretched weep, and weep in vain?

have I my flame feign'd for a sordid end? e'er wrong'd a foe, or e'er betray'd a friend? not to my charge such crimes has malice brought, love, only love, is my unbounded fault:

a fault, that sure may heav'n to pity move, since half of heav'n ('tis said) consists in love.

Ah! foolish nymph!-Here, view the queen! the laws!

but there, view Henry, as th' enchanting cause! by such a cause the priestess would retire,

and quit the vestal for a nobler fire.

I will again th' immortal powers implore; brave Henry for Britannia's sake restore! In him she lives, to him her joys are due, and only sends her earliest thanks to you. But oh! my lord, my darling lord, beware! tempt not too bold the dangers of the war! think, when thou seest the fate impelling dart, O! think it aim'd at Rosamonda's heart!

Were but each breast as soft as mine! no more should tumults rise, or martial thunders roar; heroes should scorn the glories of the field, and the fam'd laurel to the myrtle yield: for sweeter passions, sweeter strifes inspire, and love alone should set the soul on fire. May then these eyes in tears no longer mourn, but cheerful hail their Henry's wish'd return! O! swift, victorious, hush the war's alarms! swift, if thy Rosamonda boasts some charms, fly on the wings of love and conquest, to her arms!

HENRY TO ROSAMOND:

AN EPISTLE.

Shall then his beauteous Rosamonda mourn, nor Henry's soul the soft complaint return? O cease, my fair! I deeply feel thy smart, and all thy sorrows double in my heart: far from my breast, ye scenes of war! remove, far from my breast, be every scene but love; soft rising thoughts as when, in Woodstock-bowers, joyful, we lov'd away the laughing hours.

Now midnight-rest relieves the soldier's care, hush'd are the drums, and every voice of war; faint gleam the fires along the dewy field, and faint the noise, that sleeping coursers yield; yet love, the lordly tyrant of my breast, alarms my soul, and interrupts my rest; in vain a nation's cares the monarch move, for ah! far greater is the monarch Love!

Warm from my lips, thy tender letter lies, and every word is magic to my eyes; weeping, I read, and hear thy soft-breath'd woes, and all the warrior in the lover lose:

then I by fancy vanish'd joys restore,

feast on false love, and act past pleasures o'er. Fancy can soothe my soul with pleasing dreams while tented Galia, bowery Woodstock seems; led by delusive steps, in thought, I rove, through well known greens, and every winding grove. There, haply on some flowery bank reclin'd my sweet-reposing Rosamonda find;

when then (for then thy secret thoughts I see) in pious slumbers breath'st thy soul to me: dissolv'd with joy, and feasting on thy charms,

I clasp thee in imaginary arms;

and then-ah then!-I seem sincerely blestthen only Rosamonda, knows the rest

O glories! empires! crowns! how weak ye prove, if thus out-rivalled by a dream of love!

O love! what joys thy real sweets bestow,
when ev'n their shadows can transport me so!
O bliss ecstatic! blest relief from cares!
thus let me lose my soul in softer wars!
by love's transporting sighs my sweet alarms,
nor worlds, but Rosamonda crown my arms!
in her alone, my full desires agree,

her charms are empires, glories, all to me!

THE HOUR-GLASS.

As in my silent study late I sate,
intent on poet's poor precarious state,
around my sight a sudden dimness play'd,
and ting'd the taper with a bluey shade;
when to my eyes appear'd that watchful pow'r
which measures out the sandy-streaming hour,
a human form the meagre phantom wore,
and on it's brow a faded laurel bore,

on me were fix'd it's looks, whilst thus it spoke,
and sounds like these the solemn silence broke.
"At length the time is come to tell a truth
to thee, to thee alone, O fated youth!
then mark my story well; in happier days,
like thine my bosom panted after praise;
foe to the grave fatigues of life I strove
to grow immortal in a myrtle grove:
lost there, I lavish'd out my little store,
destin'd to live poetically poor;

what slender gains my labours brought I spent, and through the glass my luscious profit went; from thence, with fictious inspiration warın'd, a vain eternity's reversion charm'd;

my fate I bless'd-for future fame reserv'd! for that I glory'd!-and for that I-starv'd! thence by some powerful transmigration turn'd, in these repentant streams my folly mourn'd: here, as you see, my fleeting ininutes pass, still, as of old, devoted to the glass.

As once too humble for proud rooms of state, in homely cottages I seek my fate,

and find my vast poetic promis'd land

all dwindled to this little barren sand;

with which advice, ye youthful sons of rhyme, in abler studies to employ your time;

warn'd by my fate, to learn, for learn you must that all your fame, like mine, but turns to dust."

ABELARD TO ELOISA.

In my dark cell, low prostrate on the ground, mourning my crimes, thy letter entrance found; too soon my soul the well known name confest, my beating heart sprung fiercely in my breast; through my whole frame a guilty transport glow'd and streaming torrents from my eyes fast flow'd. O Eloisa! art thou still the same?

dost thou still nourish this destructive flame? have not the gentle rules of peace, and heav'n from thy soft soul this fatal passion driven? Alas! I thought you disengag'd, and free, and can you still, still sigh, and weep for me? What powerful deity, what hallow'd shrine