Why Painter, you have done your Part,
I own th' Intention bold and good:
It finds some Passage to my Heart,
Which nothing quite unlike her could.

But view again that Shape! that Air!
That Hand! that Eye! that Lip! that Cheek!
There's still Abundance in my Fair,
Which you can't paint, which I can't speak!

Am I not right? once more behold!
Behold, and feel Conviction rise!
Thy Lines are faint, thy Colours cold —
He fails, my Friend, whoever tries.

Yet let him try, defie his Skill:
Smile at the utmost Art can do:

Again, by the moon's pallid light,
To heart-rending sorrow a prey!
I, weeping, unravel by night,
The wearisome task of the day.

O'er Ithaca widow'd I reign;
The rage of proud monarchs I dread;
Their combats ensanguine the plain;
And peace from my kingdom is fled.

For the son of Laertes I sigh;
His rivals I hear with disdain, —
Indignant their suit I deny, —
Ah! why will they add to my pain!

Their rude hands would tear from my heart
The image of him I adore; —
O! force them, ye gods, to depart,

I.

What sudden Damp invades my Heart
O Death ! who can thy Pow'r withstand?
No matter! I embrace the Dart,
Prepar'd , to follow thy Command;
For I have liv'd! each Hour employ'd!
Thou canst not take , what I've enjoy'd .

II.

No! 'twas a false Alarm! he flys,
Amaz'd, we have been found so brave,
His boasted Terrors to despise,
And view, unmov'd, the op'ning Grave.
Go, Tyrant , range the Earth, and make

One day I pluck'd, to deck my thoughtless breast,
A fragrant Rose, surpassing all the rest;
With pride I saw its blushing charms display'd;
But ere full-blown the blooming beauties fade.
Still longer to preserve my fav'rite flow'r,
I sought the crystal stream's enliv'ning pow'r;
Bent o'er the vase the drooping mourner hung,
And thus, pathetic, to my fancy sung:

Sole cause of my langour and pain,
No art can my beauty restore!

TO A WESTMINSTER SCHOLAR, WHO WAS AT WINDSOR DURING THE WINTER RECESS .

While you thro' Windsor's green retreat,
 Now bend your thoughtful way,
And contemplate the muse's seat
 On this thy Natal Day,—

O! may the tuneful maids attend,
 To harmonize your lay,
And each her kind assistance lend
 On this thy Natal Day.

May Phœbus, deck'd in radiant light,
 Dart down a beaming ray
Of inspiration, while you write,
 On this thy Natal Day.

See, Fame o'er Windsor's lofty towers,
 A laurel wreath display!

Close by the river Shannon's side,
 The peasant Donnel dwelt;
Few were the flocks and herds he had,
 And few the wants he felt.

Fair Kathleen many years had been
 The partner of his life;
The tenderest, fondest mother she,—
 The kindest, truest wife.

Six smiling rosy infants cheer'd
 The happy parents days;
For them, well pleas'd, the father toil'd,
 'Midst Summer's scorching rays.

For them, regardless of the storm,
 Thro' pouring rain he'd go;
For them he'd brave the piercing blast,
 And wade thro' winter's snow.

(A spirit with a naked sword.)

— A shadowy form I come from Babigor;
Sent by thy country to her doubting son —
O! on love's triflings waste thy soul no more:
Mina, or country — choose, and choose but one. —

(A spirit with a bent bow.)

— I visit thee from love's flower-scatter'd shore;
Three days my arrow Lada has possess'd
To sharpen — tell me, tell me, I implore —
Dost love thy country or thy Mina best? —
The midnight struck — I left the awful spot:
My eye still fix'd upon the misty shade —

As I have at present but very little Time,
Without endeavouring after the Stile sublime,
I'll send thee a Letter in plain Country Rhime,
Such as we were wont to use in our own native Clime.

When a-down Coley long Lane we us'd to walk,
With Ambrose , and with Joseph , and with many more young Folk:
Where of Nanny, Sally, Becky , and Jenny we would so talk;
And sometimes upon the Benches write their Names in Chalk.

O how the pleasing Thought my Breast inflames:

Pleasing the Harbour Sailors find,
Long toss'd, and blown by Waves, and Wind;
In Praise wife Authors take Delight;
Tyr'd Pilgrims in Repose at Night;
Laura in a well fancy'd Gown;
The Victor in his Laurel Crown;
Drunkards in Liquor stout, and old;
And Misers in their Hoards of Gold ;
Keen Sportsinen in the Woods, and Plains;
In fleecy Flocks the rural Swains ;
But we, my charming Cloi , prove
No, Joy so sweet as that of Love!

Now all are dead that were to die to Day,
And my Dadda has moraliz'd the Play,
One would have thought there was no more to say;
But, thank good Friends, we better taught have been;
They tell us Mirth must close the Tragic Scene,
For fear the Beaux should bear away the Spleen.
Whate'er the Play, the Epilogue should burst 'em —
So all the Learn'd affirm, the unlearn'd trust 'em,
Well — We obsequiously submit to Custom.

Thus leaving all Disputes to Drama-Factors ,
Ladies, let's criticise on these young Actors!