Ev'n he, whose nod a thousand beauties wait,
And, wishing, silently expect their fate;
Aw'd by her charms, shall a just vengeance meet,
And lie a slave despairing at her feet.

But O! bright Nymph, let not a long return Make wretched we your tedious absence mourn: Let then the barbarous nations soon restore Fair Galatea to the British shore:

Else they expect in vain the war should cease,

And England's Moderator signs in vain the peace.

TO THE

LADY MARCHIONESS GREY.

BY THE HON.

MISS MARGARET YORKE.

THY shades, Vacuna, and thy verdant meads,
The seat of Heroes fam'd for valiant deeds,
Demand the song. O gentle Graia! hear;
To a young Bard a few short moments spare:
Be thou my Muse, and with one gracious smile
Reward and animate the tuneful toil.

And O! inspire my verse, while it recites
Vacuna's much-lov'd elegant delights:
Whether embower'd in shady groves we walk,
Or in the Temple of chaste Dian talk;

Or if with laughter clear the dome resounds,
When Wray the ear with uncouth phrases wounds:
If now the sprightly Bam our wit employs,
Now graver studies give more solid joys:
If lightly on the green we jocund dance,

Or round the spacious garden choose to prance;

Whether the setting-sun-beam's golden fire
Or Cynthia's paler beauties we admire;

Still Innocence and Virtue lead the round,
With Mirth and Pleasure all our days are crown'd.
And O! if Heaven will hear my ardent prayer,
And grant a wish, which from my bosom ne'er
Shall be remov'd-long may these shades obey

The mild commands of her, whose name adorns this lay!

TO

A LADY,

WITH A

PRESENT OF POPE'S WORKS.

BY THE HON. CHARLES YORKE.

THE lover oft, to please some faithless dame,
With vulgar presents feeds the dying flame,
Then adds a verse, of slighted vows complains,
While she the giver and the gift disdains :
These strains no idle suit to thee commend,
On whom gay Loves with chaste Desires attend;
Nor fancied excellence, nor amorous care,
Prompts to rash praise, or fills with fond despair:
Enough, if the fair volume find access;
Thee the great poet's lay shall best express;
Thy beauteous image there thou may'st regard,
Which strikes with modest awe the meaner bard.
Sure, had he living view'd thy tender youth,
The blush of honor, and the grace of truth,

Ne'er with Belinda's charms his song had glow`d,
But from thy form the lov'd idea flow'd;
His wanton satire ne'er the sex had scorn'd,
For thee, by Virtue and the Muse adorn'd.