ANOTHER.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,

Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—

Silent and chaste she steals along,

Far from the world's gay busy throng;

With gentle yet prevailing force,

Intent upon her destin'd course;

Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where'er she goes,
Pure-bosom❜d as that wat❜ry glass,
And Heav'n reflected in her face.

THE POET'S NEW-YEAR'S-GIFT.

TO MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON.

MARIA! I have ev'ry good

For thee wish'd many a time,
Both sad, and in a cheerful mood,
But never yet in rhime.

To wish thee fairer is no need,
More prudent, or more sprightly,
Or more ingenious, or more freed
From temper-flaws unsightly.

What favour then not yet possess'd
Can I for thee require,

In wedded love already blest,

To thy whole heart's desire?

None here is happy but in part:
Full bliss is bliss divine;

There dwells some wish in ev'ry heart,
And doubtless one in thine.

That wish on some fair future day,
Which Fate shall brightly gild,
("Tis blameless be it what it may)
I wish it all fulfill'd.

ODE TO APOLLO.

ON AN INKGLASS ALMOST DRIED IN THE SUN.

PATRON of all those luckless brains,

That, to the wrong side leaning,
Indite much metre with much pains,
And little or no meaning.

Ah why, since oceans, rivers, streams,
That water all the nations,

Pay tribute to thy glorious beams,
In constant exhalations,

Why, stooping from the noon of day,

Too covetous of drink,

Apollo, hast thou stol'n away

A poet's drop of ink?

Upborne into the viewless air

It floats a vapour now,

Impell'd through regions dense and rare, By all the winds that blow.

Ordain'd perhaps ere summer flies,
Combin'd with millions more,

To form an Iris in the skies,

Though black and foul before.

Illustrious drop! and happy then
Beyond the happiest lot,
Of all that ever pass'd my pen,
So soon to be forgot!

Phoebus, if such be thy design,

To place it in thy bow,

Give wit, that what is left

With equal grace below.

may

shine

PAIRING TIME ANTICIPATED.

A FABLE.

I SHALL not ask Jean Jaques Rousseau*,
If birds confabulate or no;

'Tis clear, that they were always able
To hold discourse, at least in fable;

And e'en the child who knows no better,
Than to interpret by the letter,

A story of a cock and bull,

Must have a most uncommon skull.

It chanc'd then on a winter's day,

But warm, and bright, and calm as May,
The birds, conceiving a design

To forestal sweet St. Valentine,

In many an orchard, copse,

Assembled on affairs of love,

and grove,

* It was one of the whimsical speculations of this philosopher, that all fables, which ascribe reason and speech to animals, should be withheld from children, as being only vehicles of deception. But what child was ever deceived by them, or can be, against the evidence of his senses?