ON FAVOURABLE WEATHER HAPPENING AFTER THE AUTHOR'S First addreSS TO THE NEW MOON.
AUSPICIOUS Planet! thou hast heard my pray'r:
Unshrouded now thy crescent beams prevail;
Thy drooping sister is at length thy care;
Already Ceres feels the ripening gale:
Her sickled swains behold thy genial ray;
Blithsome prepare for toil, and watch the day.
Without one spot, now glows to Fancy's eye
Thy bounteous throne of heav'n's cœrulean clear,
And all the hills and valleys we descry,
In thy fair visage crown'd with sheaves appear;
The Lunar harvests shining there we see,
And kindred Earth repays each sheaf to thee.
But not to transient scenes like these confin'd, 'Tis said, O magic Orb! thy power extends To the wild movements of the wand'ring Mind,
When from her shaken seat smote Reason bends: Ah, then, this Moon-struck rage of WAR controul: Loose the dire spell of blood from Man's distemper'd soul!
RECEIVE a beauteous Casket, which enfolds
A Gem more rare than all Peruvia holds.
This little Book a wondrous charm contains
For the vast catalogue of human pains:
There's virtue in the Leaves, which you must bind,
With gentlest pressure, on your wounded mind;
And soon o'er every aching sense will creep
A mental slumber, sweet as infant sleep;
A trance will follow, stealing o'er the past;
Then a soft dream, and wak'd by Hope at last:
The Book of Magic, then, dear Suff'rer, take;
Let the Spell work, nor fear that it will break.
Ah me! how oft, in deep Misfortune's hour, When Fortune broke her charm, I've tried its power! Tried it when Falsehood ill repaid my Truth, And bore full hard on my disaster'd Youth; Tried it in life mature, when many a year My eyes had fill'd with Sorrow's various tear; When foul Ingratitude,-the crime of Hell, By which from Heav'n itself the Angels fell; The poisonous tooth, like some envenomed dart, Tore, without pity, my believing heart; E'en then I found Hope's life-restoring beam, Like soothing visions in a sick man's dream ;
The pale check tinting with Hope's genial ray,
Begun, once more, like morning-light to play;
Gradual expell'd the darkness of despair,
And the half-doubting Soul subdu'd to pray'r.
Oh, Gift of God! blest Hope! e'en now thy smile
May still my latent grief, though sharp, beguile.
I woo thy aid, fair Daughter of the Sky!
To check th' embitter'd drop, and soothe the sigh;
Or bid them both alternate heave and flow
More fast, and give the Lenitives of Woe:
Till, o'er the mist which now thy power enshrouds,
Thy Beams shall rise, as from a World of Clouds;
E'en like the Rainbow Promise to the Soul,
Shall the dread Tide of 'whelming Fate controul.
TO MR. AND MRS. FONBLANQUE;
ON THE DEATH OF ONE OF THEIR CHILDREN.
FROM Death's sharp pang, which Stoics ill can bear,
Yet by your Suckling borne-'tis yours to spare
Resign'd the tender Suff'rer,-who was giv'n
To smile on Earth, then seek its native Heav'n!
There, near its God-the spotless Infant's place-
Haply the Guardian Angel of your race,
It sits enthron'd, with Cherubims sublime:
Superior o'er the powers of Death and Time!
WHEN new-imported Faces meet
Faces less recent in the street,
In Union-Passage, or Cock-Lane,
Where crowd the fashionable Train,
A kind of morning Jostling-bout,
Rehearsing for the Evening Rout;
Or settling the next day's devices,
At Morland's, over Soups and Ices:
Thus runs the chit-chat of the Springs,
Amongst a thousand other things;
The Rooms, the Play-house, and the Papers;
The Riders, Walkers, Scribblers, Scrapers;
Rauzzini,-Prince of Badon's Stringers,-
With all his Concerts and his Singers;
The Volunteers and Sailors hearty;
Pichegru, Moreau, and Buonaparte;
The Loungers, Dashers, Drinkers, Eaters;
The M. P. Lists of lovely Creatures ;
The Fairies at Miss Fleming's Ball;
The Christie who out-fairy'd all;
The Elfin-Train of Elliston,
And which her dancing Laurel won:
The popular Divine for Sunday;
The extra-Bath-Gazettes for Monday;
The latest Fashion that came down,
Hat, Cap, and Shoe, Pelisse, and Gown;
The hopes, and how-do-you's polite;
The visit paid, and new invite;
The little Slander of the Day,
With many an et-cetera.
"Pray, Madam, since you rattled down
To this dear, fascinating Town,
Have you yet seen that child of Fun,
The modern Proteus-Elliston?
So arch, so odd, so droll, so sly-
He's sure the Soul of Comedy!"
An Invalid, beside the Pump,
Thus question'd, leaning on his stump,-
"Pray, have you seen that Child of Sorrow,
Who makes us all dispos'd to borrow
Niobe's tears for our relief,
When he insists upon our grief?
Yet sweet the tear, and soft the sigh-
He's sure the Soul of Tragedy!"
The next, a late-invited Guest,
The transport of the heart express'd—
"Since the Bath course you have begun,
Pray have you met with Elliston?
Could you but get to hear him read,
You'd have a charming treat indeed:
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