Dearest of woman-kind, when I review

All thy fond, plighted vows, faithful and true,
Fain would my spirit fly

To the bright realms on high,

And, in thy destiny,

Triumph anew!

Ah! my fond heart, all thy wishes are vain.

Thy transports are vanish'd, thy griefs must remain.

Mem'ry! torment no more,

Fancy! thy reign is o'er !

Canst thou to me restore

Pleasure again?

Silence, my muse! nor thus idly deplore

Her whom no sorrow of thine can restore!

Nobly endure thy pain,

Sighs and tears both are vain,

Cease then thy mournful strain,

Sorrow no more!

SONNET TO

HAST thou not, Lady! read how once of old

A bard crav'd audience of a duchess fair,

While he might sing of border chieftains rare,

But soon repented of his suit so bold?

So, when to my enchanted sight unfold

Of polish'd courtesy, the graceful air ;

Of mental powers, an union rich and rare;

All verse of mine seems raptureless and cold.

Though bright the blaze of beauty, yet to me It shines unheeded, if it shine alone,

Talents and wit offend me, when I see
The first abus'd, the last to malice prone
But freely does my heart their empire own
Resistless all; when all combin'd in thee.

WHIGS & TORIES.

INSCRIBED TO

SUSAN, in friendship's social hour,

Perchance for want of better themes,

We've scann'd the deeds of those in power,

And argued on their various schemes.

Of Whigs and Tories, ins and outs,

Of this or that administration;

We've own'd our fears, our hopes, and doubts,

From which the state might hope salvation.

Nor did our converse lack the zest

Which different principles could give; A Tory thou, and I confest

As staunch a Whig as e'er could live.

Oft, when to censure Pitt I've dar'd

In sober truth, or playful mirth,

How zealously hast thou declar'd

His matchless powers, his peerless worth.

By me the Statesman's fame and power

Unheeded shone, though bright their blaze;

But I must own, at such an hour,

I've almost envied him thy praise.

For, trust me, Susan, the esteem

And homage of a heart like thine;

My partial taste must ever deem

A source of pleasure half divine.

Let Whigs and Tories vent their spite

In endless feuds; still unimpair'd,

Our friendship shall afford delight,

And social joys be duly shar'd.

Be thy opinions wholly wrong,

Thy actions might their faults redeem;

Thy virtues still must claim my song,
While gratitude supplies a theme.

An hour there was, when doom'd to brave

Affliction's stormy billowy ocean,

I look'd for death in every wave,

Alone! amid the wild commotion.

At that dread hour, when all around

Confess'd stern horror's ruthless sway,

When not one glimpse of hope was found, And fancy's meteors ceas'd to play;