AN AUTHOR'S CONSOLATION FOR MISTATING HISTORICAL FACTS. ON On many a subject though the Learned say CHARLOTTE'S BIRTH-DAY. My Charlotte on this Day was born- I sing, that at my Charmer's birth The Graces flock'd around her; Some latent charm Each calling forth, While Cupid fondly crown'd her. Spring gave the God each op'ning flow'r That decks the lap of Nature; Selecting from his choicest bow'r An emblem of each feature. The e Lily join'd her spotless mien, With crimson tint adorning, And on her dewy lip was seen The Rose-bud of the morning. The Vi'let in her breath was prais'd, Like mountain-snow her bosom rose, Her eyes were mirrors rarely known, In ev'ry look distinctly shone Her heart and all its meaning. Such was the Birth of her I love And cherish most sincerely: Her constant Bard I'll ever prove, MY MY WORLD WITHOUT END; OR THE ANTICIPATION OF HEAVEN. THE heart once engag'd, can it beat for another, Oh, can it, my Friend, the warm sentiments smother, Alas! I too well in this bosom discover A fond lov'd idea which nothing can part; Though Friendship may charm, all its infl'ence is over The instant I think of the Lord of my Heart. Then talk not of Duty, nor yet talk of Reason, For neither can conquer stern Nature's decrce; 'Gainst both I must always be guilty of treason, While Nature impels me, sweet William, to thee. Yes, thou art the charm, the delight of thy Mary, In thinking of thee she can never be weary, For thou art my World, and my World without end. ON ON BEING ASKED WHY I AVOIDED FEMALE SOCIETY. HAD you e'er felt, as I have done, A proffer'd heart deny'd, Because it did not fortune own To meet the views of Pride; Like me, lament that paltry Dust Should bribe them from your arms. Yet Heav'n forgive the girl I lov'd— For purchas'd charms too often prove Disgusted with the buyer's love, THE LOVERS' QUARREL. WRITTEN ON THE 21ST OF DECEMBER, 1803. WE quarrell'd on the shortest day ; The sweet result was this: Oh, Oh, may it thus for ever prove THE COXCOMB'S TEAR. THE Tear that marks the Coxcomb's cheek Than what vain Fashion knows, To Sentiment a restless foe, To Virtue never true, His rapture is another's woe; His triumph, to undo. From him the sigh, the ready tear, In seeming truth can move. Ah! rather learn to prize that heart The |