English

  Provence, where love and rhyme
  Sweetened one throb of time;
  Provence, whose voice is dead,
  Whose rose-tree vanishëd;
  Provence, old broken broc ,
  Whose melodious Langue d'oc ,
  Like sweet wine spilled and gone,
  Has left a fragrance ever lingering on;
Whose nightingale finds no new song to sing,—
 I, a wild bird upon the outer rim
Of a young choir, this sunrise carol fling
 Across thine ashes and thy ruins dim!

Provence,
  This new song in my mouth
  Is of the younger South,

Mid foliage green and gold,
And bloom-sprays manifold,
I feel
The fragrance of eternal freshness steal
Forth from the rising day,
And far away,
Like the murmuring of a stream,
Or a lute-chord in a dream,
On the horizon stirs
The rich and rapturous anthem of the Future's choristers.
How it flows
And grows
On its notes
What triumph floats!
Before it earth is gladdened and the sea is like a rose.
The dawn
Is coming on—
Sweeter,
Fleeter,

Much adicted to Gaming .

Still you persist, unthinking Youth,
In spite of daily, painful Truth ;
Why suffer all my friendly Care
To vanish into fleeting Air?
Let Reason but assume her Reign,
You'll quickly be yourself again;
And loath (with me) such vile Employ,
Destructive, Foe to ev'ry Joy;
'Tis Madness all — avaunt the Plea
Of rooted Custom , that with M E
Weighs nothing; 'tis an idle dream,
And Reason knows not what you mean:
Judge by Effects, they best declare,
How ill the Cause; desist, forbear —

Address'd to Miss Charlotte B***s, upon her presenting the Author with a Sprig of Myrtle .

May my future Days be Rue,
If this Myrtle Sprig from you,
Gives me not exalted Joy:
What's the finest D EARD -bought Toy,
When compar'd to Nature's Store?
But to make the Treasure more,
From a Fair, divinely sweet!
Where the dimpl'd Graces meet;
Giv'n with that Goddess Air,
Thanks, my Charlotte — lovely Fair!

Upon the Death of Mr . W ILLIAM W EBB , ( a very ingenious young Gentleman) at the Hot-Well, Bristol .

I.

Death! is the common Lot of all,
The Prince and Peasant both must fall;
Not all the Splendor of the Great,
Can shield 'em from this gen'ral Fate.

II.

But when such op'ning Virtues fly,
Too early seek their Kindred Sky,
Who but laments? deplores the Time?
As I, in sympathetic Rhime;

III.

When such a Youth, esteem'd, belov'd,
To Friends most dear, by all approv'd,

" Forever with the Lord!"
Amen, so let it be:
Life from the dead is in that word,
'T is immortality.

I hear at morn and even,
At noon and midnight hour,
The choral harmonies of heaven
Earth's Babel-tongues o'erpower:

Then, then I feel that he,
Remembered or forgot,
The Lord, is never far from me,
Though I perceive him not.

" Forever with the Lord!"
Father, if 'tis thy will,
The promise of that faithful word,
Even here to me fulfil.

Be thou at my right hand,

Upon seeing two Sisters dancing.

What a sweet, engaging Air!
Show me two such lovely Fair:
How superior in the Round,
Not their Equals to be found;
See the very Graces move,
Ev'ry Step an ambush'd Love .
Add to Elegance of Ease,
That all-pow'rful Charm to please,
Such Perfection of the Mind,
Sprightly, charming, unconfin'd.
Hail to all the Sister Train,
Long may Health and Pleasure reign;
Thus with grateful, best Regard,
Greets your most respectful Bard.

Upon a recent Proof of Patriotic V IRTUE .

I.

" Get Money, " 'tis the worldly Mode,
No Matter for the Means; —
That's very true, cries honest Blunt ,
For so in troth it seems.

II.

Of this a flagrant damning Proof,
Ask but at Newgate — there
You'll find a conscientious Group ,
And eke their worthy M — I .

III.

There let the T — — IS groan in Chains,

One would think the dead were burying the living, not the living the dead,
The way we hold funerals ...
Bah! my heart sickens!

Please, when I die, know that I am very well able to care for myself,
And that the journey is mine, not yours:
Then take the refuse I left behind me
And quickly and quietly burn it up.

I.

Let the blinded horse go round
Till the yellow clay be ground,
And no weary arms be folded
Till the mass to brick be moulded.

In no stately structures skilled,
What the temple we would build?
Now the massive kiln is risen —
Call it palace — call it prison;
View it well: from end to end
Narrow corridors extend, —
Long, and dark, and smothered aisles: —
Choke its earthly vaults with piles
Of the resinous yellow pine;
Now thrust in the fettered fire —