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Far diffrent was Solander's fate,

Asleep by coldness laid,
Although he saw stern Death await,

Should sleep his limbs invade.

Till wak'd by Banks, he scap'd that doom,

Which all must sometime bear; While Last, by sleep, escap'd his tomb,

The same could kill or spare.

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A POETICAL PORTRAIT OF A

MARRIED LADY,

If possible, more graceful than the Graces, a Diamond

of the first brilliancy.

CAPRICE, thou idol of the female breast,

At whose sad shrine, my mystic vows I pay; On thee I call to give me ease and rest,

And free my mind from Laura's fickle sway.

Long have I felt love's slow consuming flame,

With thrilling transports vibrate in my heart; Long have I felt at sound of Laura's name,

My bosom struck with Cupid's poison'd dart.

But when I ask, to ease my tortur'd mind,

A portrait of sweet Laura's angel face, She answers, No! how cruel, how unkind,

Thou fairest, ficklest, of the female race,

Thus

Thus to refuse one copy of thy form,

To him, who loves thee with so pure a fire; Thy fair orig'nal, animate and warm,

Has ne'er possess'd him, with unchaste desire.

Still to C***'s lawful arms confine thy bust,

Made in luxuriant Nature's sweetest mould; But e're that form's consign'd again to dust,

And, like the marble, polished, yet cold,

Let art's enchanting pencil snatch a grace,

A Guido's touch preserve each matchless charm, That time may transmit to the future race,

What e'en on canvas, will the bosom warm.

Ilow Nature once, in sportive frolic hour,

The Graces call'd around her magic seat,
And these besought, to deck with fairest flow'r,

And perfume with the most luxuriant sweet,

One matchless child, whose elegance, and taste,

The happiest efforts, of her genius shew'd, Nature's chef d'æuvre each fair Goddess grac'd,

And to them all, Laura her beauty ow'd.

The The Graces gave her dignity of air,

A face that sure would make a saint run mad; Venus pronounc'd her, fairest of the fair,

Who many a blithsome heart should render sad.

Minerva lightning to her eyes convey'd,

A melting softness mingled with their fire; Nature with witching smiles, her face array'd,

And made her voice harmonious as the lyre.

Momus gave quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Such fascinating pow'r to please the soul, That all, who caught the focus of her smiles,

Confess'd the magic of her soft controul,

Unable to repress the falling tear,

Each felt her beauty, did his heart ensnare ; Like the poor bird, whom fascinating fear, Throws in the serpent's mouth, when soaring in the

air.

ON

STANZAS, TO MORPHEUS,

THE GOD OF SLEEP. ,

W ITH kind complacence, hear a suppliant's pray'r,

And spread, 0 Sleep, thy pinions o'er his breast; lliin some rich drops from heav'nly Lethe spare,

And hush him slumb’ring to the shades of rest.

Whose soul no evil conscience keeps awake,

That like a death watch, ticking in the ear,
With weak low sound, makes ev'ry nerve to shake,

Midst horrid pauses of convulsive fear..

Conscience which, whisp'ring, more the soul appals ,

Than Ætna's sudden bursts of rocky fire;
The dreadful roar when some proud city falls,
Or that loud crash when elements conspire..

O gentle

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