But see him now for pardon sue! See, how his eye of glossy blue With mingled hope and grief he lifts to me. Convinced by that forgiving kiss, That I can never part from Julia and from thee. M. G. LEWIS. TO MISS SARAH FOWLER. WHEN first Aurora's gorgeous car Springs from night's dreary vault released, And beauty's consecrated star Retires behind the blushing east, Can Titan's orient beams dispense To animate the' exulting earth Not in the solitary gloom, By the dim taper's sickly ray, Where Poesy erects her seat, The myrtle's fragrant branches twine. Beneath the Pleasures' nimble feet Upstarts the new born columbine. Methinks I see the jocund band The rose's aromatic bloom Adorns their wild fantastic grove, And o'er the violet's perfume Angelic forms delighted rove; Fair Sappho in Elysian bowers Beguiles the gently stealing hours, And soothes entranced Despair to rest; Her strains so feelingly express The force of elegant distress, Implanted in a female breast. Careless tripping o'er the green The sprightly Deshoulieres appears With winning air and brow serene, Unclouded by the frown of years; Around the Nymph in graceful state A thousand smiling Cupids wait, And each performs his destined part; Some give the cheeks a livelier glow, Some tune the lyre, some twang the bow, To pierce the most obdurate heart. The plaintive Rowe, whose warbling breath O'erhung the sickening vales of Frome, To the soft Cyprian lute recites fears, the hopes, the fond delights, The tender blandishments of love, Their mutual happiness completing, Where Innocence and Pleasure meeting Have fix'd them in the realms above. Beside them Cytherea stands In Virtue's snowy garb array'd, Severed by Death's remorseless blade: Yet not from these romantic shades, The bright Sabrina joys to hear: She, blameless Nymph, whose piteous doom Poetic annalists relate, Immersed in Severn's watery tomb By Guendoline's remorseless hate, If worn Tradition's specious tales, In Fiction's gaudy mantle dress'd, Were wont to celebrate her vales With Nature's bounteous treasures bless'd; Her greatest her most envied pride, So aptly strikest the chorded shell? Has found her parallel on earth. WODHULL. ON A SERMON AGAINST GLORY. 1747. COME then, tell me, sage divine, Is it an offence to own That our bosoms e'er incline Toward immortal Glory's throne? For with me nor pomp, nor pleasure, So conciliate Reason's choice, As one approving word of her impartial voice. If to spurn at noble praise Than Timoleon's arms acquire, And Tully's curule chair, and Milton's golden lyre. AKENSIDE. THE MAN OF TASTE. HENCE! phantom! weak and vain, And cradled in the wild distemper'd brain! A full grown baby! skittish! prone to range! Find out some high tower's pinnacle! and watch That veers with every blast to every part! But come! thou sober Influence, Where fruit and flower the meads arraying, The many-tinged rainbow's dye, |