No guardian fylph, in golden panoply, Lifts the broad fhield, and points the sparkling spear. Now near and nearer rush thy whirring wings, Thy dragon-scales ftill wet with human gore. A WISH. MINE be a cot befide the hill; A bee-hive's hum fhall footh my ear; A willowy brook, that turns a mill, The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Shall twitter from her clay-built neft; Oft fhall the pilgrim lift the latch, And fhare my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch fhall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, fhall fing, In ruffet gown and apron blue. The village-church, among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were giv❜n, With merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n. N VERSES WRITTEN TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS.* YES, 'tis the pulfe of life! my fears were vain! I wake, I breathe, and am myself again. Where I died last-by poison or the sword; Blanching each honeft cheek with deeds of night, Done here fo oft by dim and doubtful light. *After a Tragedy, performed for her benefit, at the Theatre Royal in Drury-lane, April 27, 1795. -To drop all metaphor, that little bell Call'd back reality, and broke the spell. No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; A very woman-scarce reftrains her own! Can fhe, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, When to be grateful is the part affign'd? Ah, No! she scorns the trappings of her Art; No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart! But, Ladies, fay, muft I alone unmask? Is here no other actress? let me afk. Believe me, those, who best the heart diffect, Know every Woman ftudies stage-effect. She moulds her manners to the part she fills, As Instinct teaches, or as Humour wills; |