Be the stern virtue of thy soul resign'd,
Let gushing tears attest thy yielding mind!
Swear by the dread avenger of the tomb,

By all thy hopes, by Death's tremendous gloom!
That ne'er by thee deceiv'd, the tender maid
Shall mourn her easy confidence betray'd;
Nor weep in secret thy triumphant art,
With bitter anguish rankling in her heart.

So may each blessing, which impartial fate,
Show'rs on the good, but snatches from the great,
Adorn thy favor'd course with rays divine,

And heav'n's best gift, a virtuous love be thine!

WRITTEN DURING A TOUR TO THE

WEST OF ENGLAND.

Hic ipso tecum consumerer ævo.

FROM ev'ry rich and gaudy scene,
Which crouded capitals display,

I court the solitary green,

Or o'er the pathless mountains stray.

From vice, from folly, pomp, and noise,

On Reason's wings I fly:

All hail ye long expected joys

Of calm tranquillity!

At least in this secure retreat,

Unvisited by kings,

Has virtue fix'd her halcyon seat,

And freedom waves her wings.

B 3

O gentle Lady of the West,

Whose charms on this sequester'd shore,

With love can fire a stranger's breast;

A breast that never lov'd before!

O tell me, in what silent vale,

To hail the balmy breath of May,

Thy tresses floating on the gale,

All simply neat, thou deign'st to stray:

Not such thy look, not such thy air,

Not such thy unaffected grace;

As 'mid the town's deceitful glare,

Mark the proud nymph's disdainful face.

Health's rosy bloom upon thy cheek,
Eyes that with artless lustre roll,
More cloquent than words to speak
The genuine feelings of the soul.

Such be thy form! thy noble mind
By no false culture led astray;
By native sense alone refin'd

In reason's plain and simple way.

Indiff'rent

Indiff'rent if the eye of fame,

Thy merit unobserving see;

And heedless of the praise or blame
Of all mankind, of all but me.

O gentle Lady of the West!

To find thee be my only task;
When found, I'll clasp thee to my breast:
No haughty birth, or dow'r I ask.

Sequester'd in some secret glade,
With thee unnotic'd would I live;

And if Content adorn the shade,

What more can Heav'n or Nature give?

Too long deceiv'd by pomp's false glare,

'Tis thou must soothe my soul to rest ;

Tis thou must soften ev'ry care,

O gentle Lady of the West!

THE FOLLOWING VERSES WERE ADDRESSED TO MRS. DAY,

During an absence of a few weeks into the North of England.

LET lighter Bards in sportive numbers play,
Weave the gay wreath, or join the choral lay,
Round pleasure's altar fading chaplets twine,
And deck their temples with the madd'ning vine!
My chaster muse selects, for fancy's dream,
A dearer object, and a nobler theme.
For thee, thou dear companion of my soul !
She bids spontaneous numbers artless roll;
Nor scorns the sacred lyre, which long had hung
Forgotten in the shade, untouch'd, unstrung!
Oh! while thy friend, thy more than lover strays
Thro' this vain world's inexplicable maze,
Shall not remembrance strive with mimic art,
To soothe the secret anguish of his heart?
Come then, thou friend of solitary care!
Unfold the canvas, and the tints prepare;
Till the fair form in full proportion rise,
Confest to view, and swim before his eyes!
May 1783.

THESE