English

As Celia lay reclin'd in sleep,
Within a fragrant grove,
Regardless of her crook and sheep,
She left her lambs to rove.

A Bee, ambitious of his pow'r,
Beheld the lovely fair;
And found thee, ah, too hapless hour!
When Delvill was not there.

To fix on Celia's damask cheek,
And print his fatal sting;
But ere he thought his slight to seek,
She seiz'd the tremb'ling thing.

With earnest look, and pain intense,
Yet anger she repress'd;
And mindless of his great offence,

Her garden was a tiny space,
But bright with many a simple flower,
I grew to love her withered face
When passing every sunset hour.

I knew her heart would smile to hear
A stranger praise her violet plots,
And tinkling fuchsia bells, and dear
Pansies and shy forget-me-nots.

Yet still I passed in silence, while
Her spirit flowered in that sweet place.
Alas! I never saw the smile
I might have kindled in her face.

Only the midnight stars dimly divine
The hidden sanctuary of my desire;
The dreaming earth trails far beneath the fire
That overflows this throbbing heart of mine;
Teach me the secrets of thine inmost shrine,
My gentle Saint of Passion — throned higher
Than highest praise of the celestial choir,
Thine every ecstasy a sacred sign.

Each tear — a tribute to the flying hour,
Each failing sigh — a sweetly answered prayer,
Each joy fulfilled — a freshly gathered flower
Flung on Love's ever fragrant altar, ere

Quatrain

When Nature's heart was young and wild,
She bore in secret a love-child,
And weeping, laughed — too glad to dress
Its lawless naked loveliness.

Forbear Maria, Oh! forbear!
Nor trust to adverse winds;
Let England guard her lovely fair,
Where beauty safety finds.

One Venus has escap'd the sea,
From Neptune's wat'ry cell;
And now he only waits for thee,
Where ev'ry virtue dwell.

Think not to pass his dread domain,
The god in person waits;
And swears his Venus to regain,
And baffle e'en the Fates.

Be thine the Task, Urania! to display
The Charms of Britain 's Queen! bright Gift of May ,
Whose Birth's commemorated on this Day:
Apollo deigns, t' accompany the Strain,
While glad Ierne , doth her Joy explain,
With smiling Mirth, and Concord in her Train.

Air .

O Gracious Queen!—thrice happy Land,
 That boasts a Gem so rare;
Whose dazzling Virtues must command
 Our Love, and warmest Care:
Celestial Wreaths shall grace thy Brow,

Peru's rich mines by captive slaves explor'd,
Where Plutus reigns supreme, by all ador'd;
'Tis not his treasures Williams' pen impart,
Her subject's Nature, glowing from the heart;
To her the Muse, the noblest tasks consign,
Expanded thought, gave energy divine,
Unfolded Nature's secrets to her view,
And form'd the line her conduct should pursue;
And well the maid's perform'd the mighty task,
The deed was great—no more the Muse could ask;
Peru unbosoms, all the Nine foretold
Where Nature forms the universal mould,

 To speak of merit in impartial lays,
And without flattery a friend to praise;
For this the muse shall strike the vocal lyre,
And sing in numbers which thy works inspire;
Who feels your sorrow with a sigh sincere,
And spite of resolution drops a tear.

 Tho' clouded, like the sun, thy genius shines
Thro' fortune's mist in bright immortal lines;
Like martyrs from affliction stronger grows,
Nor drooping sinks beneath a weight of woes.

 Not so could Ovid in his exile write;

As Jove held above a council of late,
Fair Venus was call'd to the chair;
Young Cupid was lost, and the charge laid to fate,
By old Vulcan's too lovely fair.

In vain he took oath, he flew from his arms,
One moment when absent in thought;
The goddess too conscious of pow'r and charms,
Swore Fate should to judgment be brought.

“Forbear,” cry'd Pallas, who rose to decide,
And waving her wand o'er the earth,
“Venus stands culprit, herself's to be try'd;
“For see where young Love has took birth.”

Sorrow, away! ye gloomy thoughts begone!
Thalia comes in ev'ry grace array'd;
Prepare the cymbal, tune the festive song,
See ev'ry homage to the goddess paid.

Unfold the Cestus form'd by magic skill,
And bind around Attraction's airy waist;
Enough — beware — each arrow aims to kill,
Shot from the bow of Fancy, and of Taste.

Methinks I see the lovely fair one smile,
And lightly trip it o'er the mimic stage;
Her artless look, devoid of ev'ry guile,
Unknowing, captivates and charms the age.