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For him tho' wealth be blown on every wind,
Tho' Fame announce him mightiest of mankind,
Tho'twice ten nations crouch beneath his blade,
Virtue disowns him, and his glories fade..
For him no prayers are pour'd, no pæans sung,
No blessings chanted from a nation's tongue ;
Blood marks the path to his untimely bier;
The curse of Orphans, and the Widow's tear,
Cry to high Heaven for vengeance on his head,
Alive, deserted, and accurft, when dead.
Indignant of his deeds the Muse, who sings
Undaunted truth, and scorns to flatter kings,
Shall shew the monster in his hideous form,
And mark him as an earthquake or a storm.
· Not so the patriot Chief who dar'd withstand
The base invader of his native land,
Who made her weal his noblest, only end,
Rul'd but to serve her, fought but to defend ;
Her voice in council and in war her sword,
Lov'd as her father, as her God, ador'd;
Who firmly virtuous and severely brave,
Sunk with the freedom that he could not save;
On worth like his the Muse delights to wait,
Reveres alike in triumph and defeat,
Crowns with true glory and with spotless fame,
And honours Paoli's more than Frederick's name.

Here let the Muse withdraw the blood-stain'd veil,
And shew the boldest friend of public zeal.
Lo! Sydney pleading o'er the block--his mien, '
His voice, his hand, unshaken, clear, serene :
Yet no harangue proudly declaim'd aloud,
To gain the plaudit of a wayward crowd :
No specious vaunt Death's terrors to defy,
Still Death deferring as afraid to die;
But sternly Silent down he bows, to prove
How firm his virtuous, tho' mistaken, Love.
Unconquer'd Patriot! form'd by ancient lore,
The love of ancient Freedom to restore ;
Who nobly acted what he boldly thought,
And seal'd by Death the lesson that he taught.

Dear is the rie that links the anxious Sire
To the fond Babe that prattles round his fire :
Dear is the love that prompts the generous youth,
His Sire's fond cares and drooping age to sooth;
Dear is the brother, fifter, husband, wife,
Dear all the charities of social life:
Nor wants firm friendship holy wreaths to bind
In mutual sympathy the faithful mind:

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But not th' endearing springs that fondly move
To filial duty or parental love,
Nor all the ties that kindred bosoms bind,
Nor all in Friendship's holy wreachs entwin'd,
Are half so dear, so potent to controul
The generous working of the patriot soul,
As is that holy voice that cancels all
Those ties, that bids him for his country fall.
At this high summons with undaunted zeal
He bares his breast; invites th' impending steel:
Smiles at the hand that deals the fatal blow,
Nor heaves one sigh for all he leaves below.

Nor yet doth Glory, though her port be bold,
Her aspect radiant and her tresses gold,
Guide thro' the walks of Death alone her car,
Attendant only on the din of war;
She ne'er disdains the gentle vale of peace,
Or olive shades of philofophic ease;
Where Heaven-taught minds to woo the muse resort,
Create in colours or with sounds transport;
More pleas'd on lsis filent marge to roam,
Than bear in pomp the spoils of Minden home.

To read with Newton's ken the starry sky,
And God the same in all his orbs descry;
To lead forth Merit from her humble shade;.
Extend to rising arts a patron's aid;
Build the nice structure of the generous law,
That holds the free-born mind in willing awe;
To swell the sail of trade—the barren plain
To bid with fruitage blush, and wave with grain ;
O'er pale Misfortune drop with anxious figh
Pity's mild balm, and wipe affliction's eye;

These, these are deeds Britaonia must approve,
Must nurse their growth with all a parent's love ;
These are the deeds that public virtue owns,
And, just to Public Vistue, Glory crowns.

The following little Poem was wrote in a blank leaf before Thomson's

Seasons, as a compliment to that ingenious Author, by his great admirer - and namesuke, the Rev. Mr. William Thompson, some time Fellow of · Queen's College, in Oxford.

LJAIL, Nature's Poet! whom she taught alone
11 To fing her Works in numbers like her own:
Sweet as the thruh that warbles in the dale,
And soft as Philomela's tender tale.



She lent her pencil too, of wond'rous power,
To catch the rainbow, and to form the flower,
Of many mingling hues; and, smiling, said,
(But firit with laurel crown'd her Favourite's head)
i These beauteous children, tho' so fair they shine,
“ Fade in my SeASONS, let them live in thine,"
And live they shall the charm of every eye,
'Till NATURE Gickens, and the Seasons die.

The following beautiful Lines were written by a Lady on ebserving force wbila

Hairs on ber Lover's Head.

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THOU, to whose power reluctantly we bend,

T Foe to life's fairy dreams, relentless Time,
Alike the dread of lover, and of friend,

Why ftamp thy seal on manhood's rosy prime?
Already twining 'midit my Thyrsis' hair,
The snowy wreaths of age, the monuments of care,
Thro all her forms, tho’ Nature own thy sway,

That boafed sway thou'lt here exert in vain;
To the last beam of life's declining day,

Thyrsis thall view, unmov'd, thy potent reign.
Secure to please, whilst goodness knows to charm,
Fancy and salte delight, or sense and truth inform.
Tyrant, when from that lip of crimson glow,

Swept by thy chilling wing, the rose iball Ay;
When thy rude scythe indents his polish'd brow,

And quench'd is all the luftre of his eye; !
When ruthless age disperses ev'ry grace,
Each smile that beams from that ingenuous face
Then, thro’ her stores, shall active Mem'ry rove,

Teaching each various charm to bloom anew,
And still the raptur'd eye of faithful love

Shall bend on Thyrsis its delighted view;
Still fall he triumph, with resiðless power,
Still rule the conquer'd heart to life's remoteft hour,

VERSES by Lady CRAVEN, on dreaming fee faw ber Heart at ber

W H EN Nature, tir'd with thought, was funk to reft,

And all my senses were by sleep pofseft;
Sweet sleep, that soft and balmy comfort brings
Alike to beggars and despotic kings;

I dreamt


I dreamt of peace I never felt before,
I dreamt my heart was lying on the floor.
I view'd it,' ftrange to tell! with joyful eyes,
And, Atranger fill, without the least surprise!
Elated with the fight, I smiling fat,
Exulting o’er the victim at my feet; .
But soon with words of anguish thus addrest
This painful sweet disturber of my breast:--
• Say, busy, lively, trembling, hoping thing,
What new disaster halt thou now to bring,
To torture with thy fears my tender frame,
Who must for all her ills thee only blame?
Speak now, and tell me why, ungrateful gueft,
For ten years past hast thou deny'd me rest?
That in my bosom thou wast nurs’d, 'tis true,
And with my life and with my ftature grew,
At first so small were all thy wants, that I
Vainly imagin'd I could ne'er deny
Whate'er thy fancy alk'd.-Alas! but now
I find thy wants my ev'ry sense outgrow;
And ever having, ever wanting more,
A power to please, to give, or to adore.
Say, why, like other hearts, thou dost not bear
With callous apachy each worldly care?
Why dost thou shrink at Envy's horrid cries?
In thee Compaflion Hatred's place supplies.
Why not with malice treat malicious men?
Why ever pity, where thou should'st condemn?
Why, at the hearing of a dismal tale,
Doft thou with sorrow turn my beauty pale ?
Why, when distress in any shape appears,
Dolt thou diffolve my very soul in tears?
Why in thy secret folds is Friendship bred ?
In other hearts its very name is dead.
Why, if keen Wit and learned Sense draw nigh,
Dost thou with emulation beat so high?
And while approving, with to be approv'd,
And when you love, with more to be belov'd?
Why not, in cold indifference ever clad,
Alike unmov'd, regard the good and bad ?
Why dost thou waste my youthful bloom with care,
And sacrifice myself, that I may share
Distress in others? Why wilt chou adorn
Their days with roses, and leave me a thorn?'

But here I saw it heave a heavy figh,
And thus in sweetest sounds it did reply:

« Ah! cease, Eliza! cease thy speech unjust; Thy Heart bas c'er fulill'd its sacred trust;

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And ever will its tender mansion serve,.
Nor can it from thee this reproach deserve:
Against my diclates murm'ring have I found,
Which thus has laid me bleeding on the ground.
Compare thyself in this fame hour depriv'd
of this soft Heart, from whence are all deriv'd
The same bewitching graces which adorn
And make thy face appear like beauteous morn:
With me its brilliant ornaments are fled,
And all thy features, like thy soul, are dead.
'Tis I that make thee other's pleasures share,
And in a sister's joy forget thy care.
'Tis by my di&tates thou art taught to find
A godlike pleasure in a godlike mind;
That makes thee oft relieve a stranger's woes,
And often fix those friends that would be foes. '
'Tis I that tremblingly have taught thine ear
To cherilh Music; and 'tis I appear
In all its foftest dress, when to the hearts
Of all beholders my dear voice imparts
Harmonic strains : 'tis not because 'tis fine,
For every note that's felt is surely mine.
In smoothest numbers all that I indite,
For 'tis I taught thy fearful hand to write :
My genius has with watchful care supply'd
What Education to thy sex deny’d;
Made Sentiment and Nature all combine
To melt the Reader in each flowing line,
Till they in words this feeling truth impart,
She needs no more, who will consult the Heart;
And own in reading what is writ by thee,
No study ever could improve like me.
And when thy bloom is gone, thy beauty flown,
And laughing youth to wrinkled age is grown,
Thy actions, writings, friendship, which I gave,
Still shall remain an age beyond the grave.
*Then do not chus displaced let me remain,
But take me to thy tender breast again.'

• Yes, soft persuader (I return'd) I will; And if I am deceiv'd, deceive me itill !!

Seduc'd I was in hafte; then stooping low,
Soon re-instated my sweet, pleasing foe;
And waking, found it had not less nor more
Thạn all the joys, the pangs it had before !


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