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TO LADY FIREBRACE',

AT BURY ASSIZES.

AT length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain, So long renown'd in B- -n's deathless strain? Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace, might inspire Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre; For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face, Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph, a Muse and Grace.

VERSES

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 (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd to Venus by Melissa's hand)
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects a lover's prayer.
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain:
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
The' unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads.

This lady was Bridget, third daughter of Philip Bacon, Esq. of Ipswich, and relict of Philip Evers, Esq. of that town; she became the second 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, she was a third time married, April 7, 1762, to William Campbell, Esq. uncle to the present Duke of Argyle, and died July 3, 1782.

Oh! then the meaning of thy gift impart,

And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart: Soon must this sprig, as you shall fix its doom, Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb..

THE YOUNG AUTHOR.

WHEN first the peasant, long inclined to roam,
Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,
Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields,
He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields;
Then dances jocund o'er the watery way,
While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play:
Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,
And future millions lift his rising soul;
In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine,
And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine.
Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies,
Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise;
Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore,
And vows to trust the faithless deep no more—
So the Young Author, panting after fame,
And the long honours of a lasting name,
Intrusts his happiness to humankind,

More false, more cruel than the seas or wind.
Toil on, dull crowd (in ecstasies he cries),
For wealth or title, perishable prize;
While I those transitory blessings scorn,
Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.'-

This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too
He flies to press, and hurries on his fate; [late,
Swiftly he sees the' imagined laurels spread,
And feels the' unfading wreath surround his head.

Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth, be wise,
Those dreams were Settle's once and Ogilby's'!
The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise,
To some retreat the baffled writer flies;
Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest,
Safe from the tart lampoon and stinging jest;
There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot,
Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

TO MYRTILIS.

THE NEW YEAR'S OFFERING.

MADAM,

LONG have I look'd my tablets o'er,
And find I've much to thank you for;
Outstanding debts beyond account,
And new-who knows to what amount?
Though small my wealth, not small my soul:
Come, then, at once I'll pay the whole.

Ye powers! I'm rich, and will command
The host of slaves that round me stand;
Come, Indian, quick disclose thy store,
And hither bring Peruvian ore:
Let yonder Negro pierce the main,
The choicest, largest pearl to gain:
Let all my slaves their art combine
To make the blushing ruby mine,
From eastern thrones the diamonds bear
To sparkle at her breast and ear.
Swift, Scythian, point the' unerring dart,
That strikes the ermine's little heart,

Settle was city poet, and Ogilby a neglected translator of Homer and Virgil.

And search for choicest furs the globe,
To make my Myrtilis a robe.

Ah, no! yon Indian will not go,
No Scythian deigns to bend his bow,
No sullen Negro shoots the flood:
How, slaves!—Or am I understood?
All, all my empty power disown,
I turn and find myself alone;
'Tis Fancy's vain illusion all,
Nor Moor nor Scythian waits my
call.
Can I command, can I consign?
Alas! what earthly thing is mine?

Come then, my Muse, companion dear
Of poverty, and soul sincere;
Come, dictate to my grateful mind
A gift that may acceptance find;
Come, gentle Muse, and with thee bear
An offering worthy thee and her; :
And though thy presents be but poor,
My Myrtilis will ask no more.

A heart that scorns a shameful thing,
With love and verse, is all I bring;
Of love and verse the gift receive,
'Tis all thy servant has to give.

If all whate'er my verse has told,
Golconda's gems, and Afric's gold;
If all were mine from pole to pole,
How large her share who shares my soul!
But more than these may Heaven impart;
Be thine the treasures of the heart;
Be calm and glad thy future days
With virtue's peace and virtue's praise;
Let jealous pride, and sleepless care,
And wasting grief, and black despair,

And languor chill, and anguish fell,
For ever shun thy grove and cell;
There only may the happy train
Of love, and joy, and peace remain:
May plenty, with exhaustless store,
Employ thy hand to feed the poor,
And ever on thy honour'd head
The prayer of gratitude be shed!
A happy mother, mayst thou see
Thy smiling virtuous progeny,
Whose sportful tricks, and airy play,
Fraternal love, and prattle gay,
Or wondrous tale, or joyful song,
May lure the lingering hours along;
Till death arrive, unfelt, unseen,
With gentle pace and placid mien,
And waft thee to that happy shore
Where wishes can have place no more.

ON THE

DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET.

CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts or slow decline,
Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.
Yet still he fills affection's eye,
Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

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