They parted both with fury burning,
All terms of reconcilement spurning.
Now as their intercourse was broken,
They yielded up each friendly token;
Even Clara's Lock of auburn bue,
No more would peevish Ranger view.
And lovely Clara, full as warm,
Tore Ranger's portrait from her arm;
In short, each Present Love had granted
Rage into other hands transplanted.
But souls so form'd as their's, you'll swear,
Long Separation could not bear;
So Harmony retook her stand,
Bestow'd on Ranger Clara's hand;
Whilst kind Oblivion buried Strife,
And made them blest and pleas'd thro' life.
'Twas so (I speak with due respect, Sir,) With you and Cla'rton's worthy Rector. No hearts that Nature ever form'd,
With real Friendship more were warm'd;
And yet you once-the Lord knows why,-
Look'd at each other rather shy;
But now, since matters are explain'd,
And perfect harmony attain'd
Each Gift that Anger threw aside,
Should to it's place be re-applied→
"Euphrosyne † and Columella,”
Still in your study hope to dwell-a.
+ Two well known Compositions from the pen of Mr. Graves.
Accept then, Sir, these humble Tomes,
Who long have wander'd from their Homes,
And got amongst a hackney'd drove
Of learned lumber in the Grove.
WRITTEN AT A FRIEND'S NEAR THE CELEBRATED NURSERY-GARDENS, IN THE KING'S-ROAD CHELSEA,
WHERE Smiling Chelsea spreads the cultur'd lands,
Sacred to Flora a Pavilion stands,
And yet a second Temple, neighb'ring near,
Nurses the fragrance of the various year;
Of Davy this, of Colville* that, the care,
While both the favor of the Goddess share.
But not for her,-the Deity of Flowers,-
Alone the incense breathes, still higher Powers:→
Fair Venus marks each Temple for her own,
And FASHION sits upon a blossom'd Throne.
She, pow'r supreme! bids vanquish'd Flora kneel,
And drags proud Beauty at her chariot-wheel.
The Cyprian Queen admits her loftier sway,
And blushing rivals with a smile obey.
At Fashion's shrine unnumber'd suppliants bow, And to their Idol chaunt the sacred vow.
A thousand Eves, each as their mother fair,
To these gay Edens every hour repair:
And tho' the Wreaths boast but a fleeting Bloom,
And often press at eve a twilight tomb;
Still, as by Magic we behold each morn
A fresh supply the pillag'd scenes adorn ;
And tho' the lovely Plunderers bear away
The fairy sweets that open'd with the day;
Tho' one fair Paradise is lost each night,
Another blooms with the returning light.
Thus, strange to tell! near London you behold,
The age of Fashion, Beauty, and of Gold.
You bid me versify on you,
Which now I shall attempt to do;
But first I wish that you shou'd know,
Why I've not written long ago:
It is because a hundred times,
You've been already in
Whene'er in Prose or Verse I drew
A Friend, on all occasions true,
Fanny was foremost in the throng,
Of faithful Friends to grace the Song.
Or when Good-nature charm'd the Muse,-
Good-nature that could ne'er refuse
The succour it but ill could
spareI copied Fanny's Likeness there: And oft as Worth inspir'd my Lay, The sanic to-morrow as to day, And Constancy to Faith allied,
It was but you personified.
Thus then, my Friend, you needs must own,
I often have your picture shown;
In short, whate'er was good and true
Found an Original in you:
And tho' I tell it you again,
'Tis but the Echo of my Strain.
PENCILLED WHILE ON AN EXCURSION TO HAMPTON
WHENCE is the holy kind of dread,
Pleasing yet sad, with which we tread
The tangled maze or pathway green,
Of this, and every antique Scene-
Castle dismantled, broken Tower,
Wild Wood, and desolated Bower?
Why do we pause as these we trace;
As if old Time had giv'n a Grace,
E'en by the ravage of his dart,
To every mutilated part?
Why, anxious, every sculptur'd Stone,
Relique uncouth, or crumbling Bone,
Or canker'd Coin that bears the mark
Of Ages half-illum'd, or dark,
Do we their vestiges explore,
When all their Pride and Blooms are o'er ;
When nothing but a wreck remains,
To gratify th' inspector's pains?
Can Curiosity-that Toy,
That Magic-lanthorn of the Boy,
Who with life's shadows loves to stray,
And frolic wheresoe'er they play ?—
Can Curiosity thus draw
The Man's fix'd gaze, his senses awe;
Alternate bid his bosom glow,
Or mount with joy, or sink with woe?
When from the living World apart,
Why do we commune with the Heart,
And view some vast Dome's alter'd state,
Where all that once was nobly great,
Took it's proud sweep, it's lofty range,-
Say, do we triumph in the change?
Does Envy, when no more annoy'd,
Delight to see the Power destroy'd,
Which seem'd imperiously to rise
Beyond the Mortal's narrow size,
As if the Sun, a second time,
Would stop to keep him in his Prime,
As the huge World were all his own,
At once the Footstool, and the Throne.
Say, whence is this?-It is the Mind,
It is the love of human-kind,
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