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WRITTEN BY MRS, CATH. PHILIPS.
BY MRS. CARTER.
NARCISSA! still thro' every varying name,
her fame to late remembrance bloom, And everlasting laurels shade her tomb, Whose spotless verse with genuine force exprest The brightest passion of the human breast.
In what blest clime, beneath what favoring skies, Did thy fair form, propitious Friendship, rise ? With mystie sense, the poet's tuneful tongue Urania's birth in glittering fiction sung; That Paphos first her smiling presence own'd, Which wide diffus'd its happy influence round. With hands united, and with looks serene, Th’attending graces hail'd their new-born queen ; The zephyrs round her wav'd their purple wing, And shed the fragrance of the breathing spring; The rosy hours, advanc'd in silent Aight, Led sparkling youth, and ever new delight. Soft sigh the winds, the waters gently roll, A purer azure vest the lucid pole, All nature welcom'd in the beauteous train, And heaven and earth smil'd conscious of the scene.
But long ere Paphos rose, or poet sung, In heavenly breasts the sacred passion sprung: The same bright flames in raptur'd seraphs glow, As warm consenting tempers here below: While one attraction, Mortal, Angel, binds, Virtue, which forms the unison of minds : Friendship her soft harmonious touch affords, And gently strikes the sympathetic chords, Th' agreeing notes in social measures roll, And the sweet concert flows from soul to soul.
By heaven's enthusiastic impulse taught, What shining visions rose on Plato's thought!
While by the Muses' gently winding flood,
THE NEW YEAR'S OFFERING.
SAM. JOHNSON, L. L. D.
for ; Out-standing debts beyond account, And new-who knows to what amount ? Tho'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 arts combine
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.