Thus tafte the feast by nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from
pomp, and wealth, and ftrife.
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, and Stella, and content ;
And fcorn! Oh! let that fcorn be thine!
Mere things of clay, that dig the mine.

STELLA IN MOURNING.

WHEN lately Stella's form display'd

The beauties of the gay brocade,

The nymphs who found their power decline,
Proclaim'd her not fo fair as fine.

"Fate! fnatch away the bright disguise,
"And let the goddess trust her eyes.”
Thus blindly pray'd the fretful fair,
And fate malicious heard the pray'r;
But brighten'd by the fable dress,
As virtue rifes in distress,

Since Stella still extends her reign,
Ah! how shall envy footh her pain?

Th' adoring youth and envious fair,
Henceforth fhall form one common prayer;
And love and hate alike implore

The skies" That Stella mourn no more.”

To

NOT

To STELLA.

OT the foft fighs of vernal gales,
The fragrance of the flowery vales,
The murmurs of the crystal rill,
The vocal grove, the verdant hill;
Not all their charms, tho' all unite,
Can touch my bofom with delight.

Not all the gems on India's fhore,
Not all Peru's unbounded store,
Not all the power, nor all the fame,
That heroes, kings, or poets claim;
Nor knowledge which the learn'd approve,
To form one wish my foul can move.

Yet nature's charms allure my eyes,
And knowledge, wealth, and fame I prize ;
Fame, wealth, and knowledge I obtain,
Nor feek I nature's charms in vain ;
In lovely Stella all combine,
And, lovely Stella! thou art mine.

VERSE S,

Written at the Request of a Gentleman to whom a Lady had given a Sprig of Myrtle *.

WHAT hopes what terrors does this gift create ?

Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate.

The myrtle (enfign of fupreme command,
Confign'd to Venus by Meliffa's hand)
Not lefs capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects a lover's prayer.
In myrtle fhades oft fings the happy fwain,
In myrtle fhades despairing ghosts complain.
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers heads,
The unhappy lovers graves the myrtle spreads.
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart.
Soon must this fprig, as you fhall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.

*Thefe verfes were firft printed in a Magazine for 1768, but were written between forty and fifty years ago. Elegant as they are, they were compofed in the short space of five minutes.

Та

A

TO LADY FIRE BRACE*,

AT BURY ASSIZES.

T length muft Suffolk beauties fhine in vain,

So long renown'd in B-n's deathless strain ? Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might infpire Some zealous bard to wake the fleeping lyre;

For fuch thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'ft at once, bright nymph, a Mufe and Grace.

To LY CE, an elderly LADY.

YE nymphs whom ftarry rays invest,

By flattering poets given,

Who shine by lavish lovers drest,

In all the pomp of heaven;

Engrofs not all the beams on high,
Which gild a lover's lays,

But as your fifter of the sky,

Let Lyce share the praise.

*This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, Efq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Esq. of that town; she became the fecond wife of Sir Cordell Firebrace, the last Baronet of that name (to whom she brought a fortune of 25,000l.), July 26, 1737. Being again left a widow in 1759, he was a third time married, April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, Efq. uncle to the prefent Duke of Argyle, and died July 3, 1782.

Her filver locks display the moon,

Her brows a cloudy fhow,

Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are seen,
And fhowers from either flow.

Her teeth the night with darkness dyes,
She's ftarr'd with pimples o'er ;
Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar.

But fome Zelinda, while I fing,
Denies my Lyce shines ;

And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.

Yet spite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards express,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter lefs.

ON THE DEATH OF

MR. ROBERT LEVET,

CONDE

A Practifer in Phyfic.

CONDEMN'D to Hope's delufive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,

By fudden blafts, or flow decline,
Our focial comforts drop away.

Well