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Bashful lo! she bends her head,
And darts a blush of deeper Red !
Too well those lovely lips disclose
The Triumphs of the op’ning Rose ;
O fair ! O graceful ! bid them prove
As passive to the breath of Love.
In tender accents, faint and low,
Well-pleas'd I hear the whisper'd “No!”
The whisper'd “No”---how little meant !
Sweet Falsehood, that endears Consent;
For on those lovely lips the while
Dawns the soft relenting smile,
And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy
The gentle violence of Joy.

TO A YOUNG ASS.

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT.

Poor little Foal of an oppressed Race !
I love the languid Patience of thy face:
And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head.
But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismay’d,
That never thou dost sport along the glade ?
And (most unlike the nature of things young)
That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ?
Do thy Prophetic Fears anticipate,
Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate ?-
The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ?
Or is thy sad heart thrillid with filial pain
To see thy wretched Mother's shorten'd Chain ?
And truly, very piteous is her Lot-
Chain’d to a Log within a narrow spot

Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen,
While sweet around her waves the tempting Green!
Poor Ass! thy Master should have learnt to show
Pity--best taught by fellowship of Woe!
For much I fear me, that he lives, like thee,
Half-famish'd in a land of Luxury !
How askingly its footsteps hither bend ?
It seems to say,

" And have I then one Friend ?
Innocent Foal! thou poor despis'd Forlorn!
I hail thee Brother-spite of the fool's scorn!
And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his Bride,
And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side !
How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
And frisk about as Lamb or Kitten gay!
Yea! and more musically sweet to me
Thy dissonant harsh Bray of Joy would be,
Than warbled Melodies that sooth to rest
The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast !

THE SIGH.
WHEN Youth his fairy reign began
Ere Sorrow had proclaimed me man ;
Wbile Peace the present hour beguil’d,
And all the lovely Prospect smil'd :
Then, Mary? 'mid my lightsome glee
I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.
And when, along the waves of woe,
My harass'd Heart was doom'd to know
The frantic Burst of Outrage keen,
And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen ;
Then shipwreck'd on Life's stormy sea
I heav'd an anguish'd Sigh for thee !

But soon Reflection's power imprest
A stiller sadness on my breast;
And sickly Hope with waning eye
Was well content to droop and die :
I yielded the stern decree,
Yet heav'd a languid Sigh for thee !
And tho’ in distant climes to roam,
A wanderer from my native home,
I fain would sooth the sense of Care
And lull to sleep the Joys, that were !
Thy Image may not banish'd be-
Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.

DOMESTIC PEACE.
TELL me, on what holy ground
May Domestic Peace be found ?
Halcyon Daughter of the skies,
Far on fearful wings she flies,
From the pomp of sceptered State,
From the Rebel's noisy hate.
In a cottag'd vale She dwells
List’ning to the Sabbath bells ?
Still around her steps are seen
Spotless Honour's meeker mien,
Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
Sorrow smiling through her tears,
And conscious of the past employ
Memory, bosom-spring of joy,

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,

Death came with friendly care; The opening bud to Heaven convey'd

And hade it blossom tbere.

LINES

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тн.

HOUSE OF THE

WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARME, ROSS, FORMERLY

MAN OF ROSS." RICHER than Miser o'er his countless hoards, Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords, Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! O Trav’ller, hear : Departed Merit claims a reverent tear. Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass, Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : To higher zest shall Mem'ry wake thy soul, And Virtue mingle in tli' ennobled bowl. Friend to the Friendless, to the sick man health, With Generous joy he viewed liis modest wealth ; He hears the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of praise, He marks the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze, Or where the sorrow-shriveld captive lay, Pours the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray. But if, like me, thro' life's distressful scene Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; And if, thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, Thou journeyest onward tempest-toss'd in thought; Here cheat thy cares; in generous visions melt, And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt !

LINES

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE. ONCE more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wand'ring

near

I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours,
With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers,
(Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)
My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.

For not thro' pathless grove with murmur rude Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude: Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, The Hermit-Fountain of some dripping cell ! Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks, Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest, Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. The rustic here at eve with pensive look Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread : She vainly mindful of her dame's command, Loiters, the long fill'd pitcher in her hand. Unboasted Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls The faded form of past delight recalls, What time the morning sun of Hope arose, And all was joy ; save when another's woes A transient gloom upon my sonl imprest. Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast. Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon Or silv'ry stole beneath the pensive Moon. Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, Or, o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!

LINES ON A FRIEND

WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER, INDUCED BY

CALUMNIOUS REPORTS. EDMUND! thy grave with aching eye I scan, And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast-Man! 'Tis tempest all or gloom : in early youth, If gifted with the Ithuriel lance of 'Truth

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