The tears these eyes so often drop
To daylight are unknown;
For every gushing tear I stop
Till I can weep alone,
DEATH OF THE DUKE OF BEDFORD.
OE'R Dukes that perish we may drop a tear-
What eye withholds it from a Russell's bier?-
Yet if kind Heav'n in compensation give
One honest Earl to flourish and to live,
All is not lost-Britannia still shall find
Its Guardian Genius in a Rawdon's mind.
PYGMALION's proud-you ask me why?
I really do not know:
His looks and words are very high,
But all his ways are low.
By such extremes if mortals think
In character to rise,
To mute regret let Wisdom sink,
'Tis folly to be wise.
I LOVE thee, Chloe-Shall I tell thee why?
Because I think there 's candour in thine eye;
That no deceit thy youthful bosom sways,
But honour dictates all my Chloe says.
If I be right, Heav'n keep me still the same!
For Chloe's kindness is my dearest aim.
If I be wrong, Oh, let me still be so;
For there is bliss in ignorance of woe.
I CANNOT LIVE WITHOUT THEE.
WERE I denied my lovely Fair,
Not Heav'n itself could please me;
For, if my Anna was not there,
Its very joys would tease me.
Then ask me not, enchanting Maid,
If I do love thee dearly?
No Vows, I'm sure, were ever made
Or utter'd more sincerely.
Yes, by those melting eyes I vow
No man e'er lov'd as I do:
To thee alone my wishes flow,
Thee only do I sigh to.
All day my thoughts are fix'd on thee,
All night I dream about thee;
No other joy my soul can see:
Then can I live without thee?
ON HEARING THAT A CERTAIN NOBLEMAN'S BILLS
WERE MUCH IN CIRCULATION.
THOUGH Milo's Paper float about the town,
And in loose ways by looser hands be shown,
The breath of Slander cannot reach his name;
His worth is spotless, and untouch'd his fame:
Each want created by a wish to bless,
His very debts are Charity's excess.
Hear this, ye sordid Usurers! and learn
To feel for others 'midst the trash you earn.
Hear this, ye purse-proud miserable crew,
And do to others as you'd have them do;
Learn, if you can, from Milo's boundless heart,
To act a generous, yet an honest part.
THE Soldier knows that every ball
A certain billet bears;
That, whether doom'd to rise or fall,
Dishonour's all he fears.
To save his Country's all his plan;
Unaw'd and undismay'd,
He fights her battles like a man,
And by her thanks is paid.
To foreign climes he cheerly gots,
By duty only driven;
And, when he falls, his Country knows
To whom his life was given.
Recorded on the front of day
The Warrior's deeds appear;
For him the Poet breathes his lay,
The Virgin sheds her tear.
LINES WRITTEN IMPROMPTU TO A GENTLEMAN OF LANDED PROPERTY.
A NEW-MADE Lord is one of those strange things
That squanders gold on tinsel, stars, and strings;
That throws industrious ancestry aside,
And sinks their worth in equipage and pride.
Among old Lords of all esteem bereft,
And scorn'd or pitied by the race it left,
This foolish creature struts about the town,
Without one wish or feeling of its own.
At Courts a bauble, laugh'd at by the Great,
And in the mob a mockery of state.
ON AN ATTORNEY OF BAD CHARACTER BEING SENT TO PRISON, AND TAKING A TAME PIGEON WITH
A RANK Attorney, on whose miscreant look
Sate all the plund'ring mischief of the Rook,
Commenc'd a sneaking Scriv❜ner of the town,
Without one honest tenet of his own.
At length, outwitted by his own foul lies,
He went to prison to grow just and wise.
Nor wise nor just this ingrain villain grew,
For still he kept his former tricks in view;
And, lest the knowledge of these tricks should die,
Preserv'd a Pigeon constant in his eye.
LET not Passion govern Reason,
Or to wild luxuriance shoot:
Passion blooms a short-liv'd season,
Reason is a lasting root.
Cheerful as an April-morning
Passion at its birth appears,
Vernal tints each hope adorning,
Vernal smiles and vernal tears:
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