TO THE DUCHESS OF HAMILTON .

Awake, bright Hamilton! arise,
Goddess of Love and of the Day;
Awake, disclose thy radiant eyes,
And shew the sun a brighter ray:
Phaebus in vain calls forth the blushing morn;
He but creates the day which you adorn.
The lark, that wont with warbling throat
Early to salute the skies,
Or sleeps, or else suspends his note,
Disclaiming day till you arise.
Goddess! awake, thy beams display,
Restore the universe to light:
When Hamilton appears then dawns the day,

We envy Shropshire now, since it of late
Doth you impropriate,
Not letting us have the least share in you,
To whom a part is due.

We wish your Buckland-house a palace were
That we might see you there;
For since the time that you went hence away,
We not ourselves enjoy.
In losing you we lose our better part,
And now we have no heart.
Or quick'n us with your presence as before,
Or else we languish and can live no more.

I.

Charmer! no more, by partial friendship led,
To humble themes, mis-tune thy heav'nly lyre!
Wide as the poles, thy sweeping pinions spread,
And soar to subjects, worthy of thy fire !

II.

C HAIN'D short, by fortune , I, unwing'd , remain,
A fruitless meaner, far beneath thy praise:
Warm'd , by thy heat, I poorly wish, in vain,
For means, to fan thy earth-enlight'ning blaze.

III.

To Spain ! forbid it, heav'n ! oh, think no more,
To bless, profusely, that abounding shore!
It can, to souls, like thine , no pleasure yield,
To waste manure, on the too fertile field:
Our beggar'd soil, at home, alone, shou'd share,
The gen'rous influence of E LIZA 's care!
Since Spain , high-treasur'd, grasps the golden west ,
Oh! let thy Indies , be, by us, possest!

STROPHE

 Halcyon, O Halcyon,
 Who by Pontus' rocky shore
 Singest mournful evermore,
 In a song whose tones are clear
 If kindred sorrow lends an ear,
Calling for thy husband lost,
 Brooding on the sea,—
Wingless halcyon of the foam,
 I can grieve with thee.
Grieving for the home I love,
 Longing for Diana's shrine
Where she dwells in Cynthian grove,
Where purple fold and locks of gold
 Deck her form divine;
For the fragrant Daphne's flowers;
 For the olive's fruitage sere,
 Precious gift of loved Latona,

[A New Version OF AN O LD S ONG ]

When Abraham spends without measure,
Sending armies and navies afar,
Who fills up the chests of his treasure,
Who tightens the sinews of war?
Undaunted by danger or omen,
'T is the In-ter-nal Revenue,
That flaunts in the face of the foeman
The flag of the Red, White, and Blue.

Each stamp breaks a link of our fetters,

Were I to draw Grief's picture to the life,
I'd take't from you now mourning for your wife:
Armes folded, fixed eyes, and full of tears,
Repeated sighes, neglected cloaths and hairs,
Pale face, no words but what are pumpt by force,
Small difference is betwixt you and a corse.
Sure 'tis not you but your ghost, come to tell
How much you lov'd your lady, and how wel,
That having but one soul between you two,
She being gone, you had no more to do
But vanish strait; such power hath love to make
An husband pine away for his wife's sake;

As from a window, in the wane of night,
With starry views , I feasted wand'ring sight,
I saw L IBERIA watch the rising day,
Whose lustre was to light her friend away!
That friend , whose kindred passion serv'd to prove,
The promis'd ardour of her brother's love!
That brother's love, which, tho' it meets regard,
Remains uncrown'd , with the yet-hop'd reward!
As, in some overcast and dismal day,
We start, to see the sun, at once, break way ,
So, at that hour, to see such charms advance,
When ghosts are said to rise, and fairies dance!

There was a jolly shepherd lad,
And Colin was his name,
And all unknown to her old dad,
He sometimes to see Peggy came —
The object of his flame.

One day of his absence too secure,
Her father thunder'd at the door,
When, fearing of his frown,
Says she, " dear love the chimney climb;"
" I can't," cries he, " there is not time
" Besides, I should tumble down."

Here's all her geer, her wheel, her work;
These little bobbins to and fro,
How oft I've seen her fingers jerk,
Her pretty fingers, white as snow.

Each object to me is so dear,
My heart at sight on't throbbing goes;
'Twas here she sat her down, and here
She told me she was Colin's Rose.

II.

This poesy for her when she's dress'd,