Thy strong imagination, active power!
Retraces every tint of the long-wither'd flower.
Ah! why should cruel disappointment blast
The bud of genius, its aspirings chill!
The brightest day sometimes is overcast;
From low'ring clouds refreshing rains distill:
And, as the sun breaks through th' impending
gloom,
So on thy brow the well-earn'd wreath shall bloom.
It is not sure in fortune to repress
The energies of such a soul as thine;
I know thou'it rise superior to distress,
As the hot furnace doth the gold refine :
And, as the gold comes purer from the flame,
So shall thy virtues and thy spotless name.
Song, youth, and beauty, Young's* fair fav'rite's boast,
In sweet assemblage all unite in thee;
But, in the whirl of time, these must be lost: 'Tis this, which sets the stamp of vanity
On sublunary blessings; but the soul
Shall last, when suns and seasons cease to roll.
So well endow'd, 'twere impious to complain; Bless then the Power, that has such talents
And rise superior to th' applause of man,
Fixing your hopes, your dearest hopes on heav'n:
The Painter and the Poet's crown are thine, To these, accomplish'd maid, the Christian's join.
WRITTEN AT THE REQUEST OF a Lady, in THE ABSENCE OF HER HUSBAND AND CHILD.
FOR you sweet babe these lines are penn'd; They come from an endearing friend; 'Tis from a mother's heart they flow, A heart oppress'd with grief and woe! My husband's absent from my arms; My beauteous infant's opening charms
No more delight my ravish'd eye;
For her I heave the secret sigh!
But why lament my absent dear?
Don't she enjoy a father's care?
A father, whose delight is plac'd
In the sweet child, and sees her grac❜d
With every charm that can engage,
In one of Harriot's tender a ge.
And when she sense enough attains,
To profit by parental pains,
Our mutual care shall be combin❜d,
To make her both in form and mind,
A pattern of each female grace.
May heaven our fond endeavours bless!
TO THE MEMORY OF MR. O——— P—————.
MY muse laments the woes of private life:
Not blood-stain'd battle, war's horrific strife,
Provokes her daring; but the peaceful swain,
Whose timeless fate with sorrow dews the plain,
Awakes to solemn sounds the fun'ral lyre,
While grief and pity plaintive lays inspire.
Sure some celestial pow'r his soul sustain❜d,
While dire disease his manly vigour drain'd;
Drank up his spirit, dimm'd his radient eye:
They suffer much, who thus by inches die.
But who conceives the happiness prepar'd,
The palm of victory, the divine reward,
Which waits the faithful christian on that shore,
Where sin and sorrow, pain and death's no more?
Weep not, ye friends! indulge no bitter sighs!
Why mourn his elevation! let him rise.
But oh! his children, his bereaved mate,
Left in a widow'd, and an orphan state!
These your condolence claim, your care indeed;
Give them that tenderness he cannot need.
THE Young Aspasia, like an op'ning rose,
Which to the morn its beauties doth disclose,
Serenely smiles in the gay morn of life,
Thoughtless of dangers, sorrows, care, or strife; With friends and fortune, fame and beauty bless'd;
Of all beloved, and of all caress'd;
In sweet delight she spends each happy day,
And time smiles on her as it wings away.
Take heed, sweet nymph, before it be too late;
Upon a firmer basis, fix thy fate:
These things seem strong, yet they might chance to break,
And, if you please, I'll prove them all but weak.
First, then, what's riches, but a glittering snare,
Which often leads in paths that vicious are?
And what is fame? 'us bright but brittle too;
'Tis priz'd by all, yet gain'd but by a few.
Then cries Aspasia, whither shall I fly?
On what lay hold in this extremity?
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