I. A POETICAL EPISTLE TO GEORGE WASHINGTON: FROM A NATIVE OF THE PROVINCE OF MARYLAND. 1778. Ille Deum vitam accipiet, divisque videbit Virgil. TO THE READER. THE reader may depend upon the following lines being the genuine production of a native of America. The author is not vain enough to flatter himself that they will throw any fresh lustre on the character of General Washington; or entitle his untutored muse to the smallest share of poetical fame. His sole view in penning this Epistle was to express, in the best manner he was able, the warm feelings of a grateful individual towards that best of men, to whom he, and every American, will, in all likelihood, be principally indebted for the establishment of the independence and commercial prosperity of his country. While many a servile muse her succour lends While thousands slaughtered at Ambition's shrine Another manuscript copy has this motto: On his aspect shines Sublimest virtue and desire of fame, Where Justice gives the laurel; in his eye Glover's Leonidas. Whilst Whitehead lifts his hero to the skies, My native streamt swells thy Potomac's flood, Hail, happy man, crowned with immortal bays, Great without pomp, without ambition brave, *Poet Laureat to his Britannic Majesty, and obliged from his office to find praise for his royal patron twice a year. + The river Wicomico. AN ELEGY TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. MARY WHARTON, Who died at Philadelphia, on the second day of June, 1798; DULL roll the hours, and heavy hangs the day, Oppress'd with wo my broken spirit lies, Since my poor heart, to wretchedness a prey, Heav'd its last sigh o'er Mary's closing eyes. I I Stretch'd on the rack of thought, my tortured mind Recalls each image of the doleful scene; Nor in the range of nature can it find One transient ray that borders on serene. III Creation's glories, once my keenest joys, On contemplation's eye unseemly pall, Ev'n friendship's balm my loathing bosom cloys, For she is gone who once gave zest to all. I V Flow on, ye tears; pour forth, my wo-worn breast, O'er the cold clay your unavailing grief; For nought but sorrow now can yield me rest, In nought but tears my heart can find relief, V O ye, who fann'd by Hymen's choicest gales Once floated gaily down the stream of life, While love's soft breath fill'd all your flowing sails, And all was harmony, unmix'd with strife: |