Aye Mary-and myfelf alone
Can boaft th' original his own.
By nature's early cunning wrought,
That box no fecond polish fought;
Such in this form as on the bough,
Plain orange then, plain orange now.
Strong outline of a certain dame,
Whose taste from native judgement came;
To whom mere genius gives a ftile
Which fashion ne'er could mend, or fpoil..
Your boxes, of more modern make,
From various fources value take,
An artist's name and hum'rift's whim,
The curious hinge, the coftly rim;
But all in this agree, they bear
No perfume, till you place it there.
While modeft orange here augments
From its own store the richest scents,
A miniature exact and true
Of-why not speak at once?-of you!
Whofe manner in each part you fill,
Makes pleasure's felf more pleafing still!
This orange, in fome former hour,
Had like moft oranges, its four;
But foon that acid fount was drain’d.
And endless fragrancy remain'd.
So in the wonder I admire,
If pregnant fenfe, perchance infpire
A little jeft a little tart,
'Tis from the fancy, not the heart:
Fancy, whofe four a moment quells,
A heart, where fweetness ever dwells,
And is not then the picture like?
And does not every feature ftrike?
Yes, and the world would own it too,..
If what I've seen the world could view ;.
I, who, with this poor gift, and lay,
Salute the eighteenth wedding day;
And, cent'ring in one friend and guide
My joys excefs, my reafon's pride,
Would for increasing love engage;.
Were every year to come, an age.
V. WITH A COLLAR, AND PEARL BUCKLE.
(Never Published before.)
HE day was spent, the year was clos'd,
Befide his forge tir'd labour doz'd.
A golden buckle meant to deck,
At morn's return, my Mary's neck-
Tribute mere juftice long'd to pay-
Half finish'd on his anvil lay.
Benighted-how it matters not,
Love, truth, and time approach'd the spot ;
They faw th' imperfect frame, they knew
Where, and from whom, and when 'twas due.
What pity? things fhould thus ftand ftill, Till yon dull drudge hath flept his fill! • Suppofe,'
Suppofe,', the three companions cried,
'Ourfelves our joint exertions tried.'
The project pleas'd; so said, so done;
And each his feveral task begun.
For bloom, that heavens own painting shows,
For features, where high feeling glows,
For looks, that more than language fpeak,
For fweetness, dimpling humour's cheek,
For dignity by neatness drest,
Where still whatever is, is beft;
For pow'rs that call the captive eye
From all nymphs elfe, when fhe is by;
Yet makes us, when she is not near,
Ev'n for her fake the fex revere;
For foftness, and for strength of mind,
Senfe ripe, though rapid, keen, tho' kind;
For lib'ral purpofe, and prompt skill
That lib'ral purpose to fulfil;
For friendly zeal's afpiring blaze;
For gen'rous joy in honest praise;
For fympathy, that would postpone
No human forrows, but her own;
For all that can exalt, through life,
The woman, or endear the wife;
Love, whofe quickfight no facts evade,
A fep'rate pearl in order laid.
Truth, pearl by pearl exactly told,
Arrang'd them on the circling gold,
Announc'd their weight from first to last,
And fet them clofe, and clinch'd them faft.
ON READING THE SORROWS OF WERTER 55 Time o'er the whole a polish threw, Which brighter ftill and brighter grew. The work foon wrought with equal haste, The workmen on this collar plac'd; Then bade the fondeft husband bear The prefent to the worthiest fair, Bade him falute in cordial lay Her natal, and her bridal day; And his own fuffrage to approve, Appeal to time, and truth, and love.
On Reading the SORROWS of Werter,
(By an elderly LADY.)
HY felf wrought forrows, Werter, while Iview Why falls not o'er the Page foft pity's dew? Is there no tear for thy unhappy lot? Is tenderness no more-and love forgot? Chill'd is my breaft by fifty winters Snow? And dead the touch of fympathetick woe? No!o'er this bofom fifty winters old Love, wedded Love still points his fhafts of gold, Still waves his purple wings and o'er my urn With brightest rays his conftant lamp shall burn; Not fuch thy torch of Love-in angry mood By Furies lighted, and put out in Blood, From the black deed affrighted Pity flew, And Honor ftopt the tear compaffion drew. While from thy gloomy Page I learn to know That virtuous tears alone, for virtuous forrows flow.
The INDIAN PHILOSOPHER.
THY fhould our joys transform to pain?
W Why gentle Hymen's filken chain
A plague of iron prove?
Bendifh, 'tis ftrange the charm, that binds
Millions of hands, fhould leave their minds
At fuch a loofe from love.
In vain I fought the wond'rous cause,
Rang'd the wide fields of nature's laws,
And urg'd the schools in vain;
Then, deep in thought, within my breast
My foul retir'd, and flumber drefs'd
A bright inftructive scene.
O'er the broad lands, and crofs the tide,
On fancy's airy horfe I ride,
(Sweet rapture of the mind!)
"Till, on the banks of Ganges flood,
In a tall ancient grove I ftood,
For facred ufe design'd.
Hard by, a venerable priest,
Ris'n with his god, the fun, from reft,
Awoke his morning song;
Thrice he conjur'd the murm'ring ftream
The birth of fouls was all his theme,
And half divine his tongue.
He fang "th' eternal rolling flame,
"That vital mafs, that, ftill the fame,
"Does all our minds compose:
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