HER women, insolent and self-caress'd
By vanity's unwearied finger dress'd,
Forgot the blush, that virgin fears impart
To modest cheeks, and borrow'd one from art;
Were just such trifles, without worth or use,
As silly pride and idleness produce:
Curl'd, scented, furbelow'd and flounc'd around,
With feet too delicate to touch the ground,
They stretch'd the neck, and roll'd the wanton eye,
And sigh'd for ev'ry fool that flutter'd by.
MANNER is all in all, whate'er is writ,
The substitute for genius, sense, and wit,
To dally much with subjects mean and low
Proves that the mind is weak, or makes it so.
Neglected talents rust into decay,
And ev'ry effort ends in push-pin play.
THE FOREST BY MIDNIGHT.
How sweet and solemn is the midnight scene! 'The silver moon unclouded holds her way
Through skies where I could count each little star:
The fanning west wind scarcely stirs the leaves;
The river, rushing o'er its pebbled bed,
Imposes silence with a stilly sound.
In such a place as this, at such an hour,
If ancestry in aught can be believed.
Descending spirits have conversed with man,
And told the secrets of the world unknown.
With yellow radiance lightened all the vale:
And, as the warriors moved, each polished helm.
Corslet, or spear, glanced back in gilded beams.
The hill they climbed; and halting at its top.
Of more than mortal size, towering, they seemed
An host angelic clad in burning arins.
BORN in yon blaze of orient sky,
Sweet May! thy radiant form unfold;
Unclose thy blue voluptuous eye,
And wave thy shadowy locks of gold.
For thee the fragrant zephyrs blow,
For thee descends the sunny shower;
The rills in softer murmurs flow,
And brighter blossoms gem the bower.
Light graces deck'd in flowery wreaths
And tiptoe joys their hands combine;
And Love his sweet contagion breathes,
And, laughing, dances round thy shrine.
Warm with new life, the glittering throng
On quivering fin and rustling wing,
Delighted join their votive song,
And hail thee Goddess of the Spring!
Erasmus Darwin, 1731-1802,
ELIZA AT THE BATTLE OF MINDEN.
NEAR and more near the intrepid beauty press'd,
Saw through the driving smoke his dancing crest,
Heard the exulting shout-"They run !-they run !"
"He's safe!" she cried, "he's safe! the battle's won!"
-A ball now hisses through the airy tides,
(Some Fury wings it, and some Demon guides,)
Parts the fine locks her graceful head that deck,
Wounds her fair ear, and sinks into her neck :
The red stream issuing from her azure veins,
Dyes her white veil, her ivory bosom stains.
"Ah me!" she cried, and sinking on the ground, Kiss'd her dear babes, regardless of the wound:
Oh, cease not yet to beat, thou vital urn,
Wait, gushing life, oh! wait my love's return!"—
Hoarse barks the wolf, the vulture screams from far.
The angel, Pity, shuns the walks of war;—
"Oh spare, ye war-hounds, spare their tender age !
On me, on me," she cried, "exhaust your rage!"
Then with weak arms, her weeping babes caress'd,
And sighing, hid them in her blood-stain'd vest.
Erasmus Darwin,
HARK! heard ye not that piercing cry,
Which shook the waves, and rent the sky!
E'en now, e'en now, on yonder Western shores
Weeps pale Despair, and writhing Anguish roars.
E'en now in Afric's groves with hideous yell
Fierce Slavery stalks, and slips the dogs of Hell;
From vale to vale the gathering cries rebound,
And sable nations tremble at the sound!-
Ye bands of Senators! whose suffrage sways
Britannia's realms; whom either Ind obeys;
Who right the injur'd, and reward the brave;
Stretch your strong arms, for ye have pow'r to save!
TRIBUTE TO A MOTHER.
NATURE, who deck'd thy form with beauty's flowers, Exhausted on thy soul her finer powers;
Taught it with all her energy to feel
Love's melting softness, friendship's fervid zeal,
The generous purpose and the active thought,
With charity's diffusive spirit fraught.
There all the best of mental gifts she placed,
Vigor of judgment, purity of taste,
Superior parts without their spleenful leaven,
Kindness to earth and confidence in heaven.
While my fond thoughts o'er all thy merits roll,
Thy praise thus gushes from my filial soul;
Nor will the public with harsh rigor blame
This my just homage to thy honored name;
To please that public, if to please be mine,
Thy virtues train'd me―let the praise be thine.
William Hayley, 1745-1820.
ON THE TOMB OF MRS. UNWIN.
TRUSTING in God with all her heart and mind,
This woman proved magnanimously kind;
Endured affliction's desolating hail,
And watch'd a poet through misfortune's vale.
Her spotless dust angelic guards defend!
It is the dust of Unwin, Cowper's friend.
That single title in itself is fame,
For all who read his verse revere her name.
WHEN silent time, wi' lightly foot,
Had trod on thirty years,
I sought again my native land
Wi' mony hopes and fears.
Wha kens gin the dear friends I left
May still continue mine?
Or gin I e'er again shall taste
The joys I left langsyne!
As I drew near my ancient pile,
My heart beat a' the way;
Ilk place I passed seemed yet to speak
O' some dear former day;
Those days that follow'd me afar,
Those happy days o' mine,
Whilk made me think the present joys
A' naething to langsyne.
Susanna Blamire, 1747-'94
WHAT AILS THIS HEART O' MINE.
WHAT ails this heart o' mine?
What ails this watery ee?
What gars me a' turn pale as death
When I take leave o' thee?
When thou art far awa',
Thou'lt dearer grow to me;
But change o' place and change o' folk
May gar thy fancy jee.
SHOULD the lone wanderer, fainting on his way,
Rest for a moment of the sultry hours,
And, though his path through thorns and roughness lay,
Pluck the wild rose or woodbine's gadding flowers;
Weaving gay wreaths beneath some sheltering tree,
The sense of sorrow he a while may lose e;
So have I sought thy flowers, fair Poesy!
So charm'd my way with friendship and the Muse
But darker now grows life's unhappy day,
Dark with new clouds of evil yet to come:
Her pencil sickening Fancy throws away,
And weary Hope reclines upon the tomb, And points my wishes to that tranquil shore, Where the pale spectre Care pursues no more!
Charlotte Smith, 1749-1806.
THE APPLE DUMPLINGS AND A KING.
ONCE on a time, a monarch, tired with whooping,
Whipping and spurring.
Happy in worrying
A poor defenceless harmless buck
(The horse and ride wet as muck),
From his high consequence and wisdom stooping,
Enter'd through curiosity a cot,
Where sat a poor old woman and her pot.
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