May not a lowly bard adopt a tale,

With truth and feeling fraught, tho' genius fail,
And make the Voice of Nature still prevail?

Where, where is nature with more force exprest,
Than in the fond babe-plunder'd mother's breast?
Where is a breast inore dead to nature prov'd
Than his who, sees that mother's pangs unmov'd!
That cause assails the human heart by storm,
Which pleads the ties of all in human form:
The grief-wrung female for her infant wild,
Harrows each parent, and affects each child;
Beneath your roofs her pictured anguish glides,
And brings the interest to your own fire-sides.

Britons!-to whom (though adamant in arms) Domestic duties yield peculiar charms ;Who, were those duties with less ardour known, Might learn a sweet example from the Throne.Give your applause, to-night!-at least, be mild! A Play, remember, is a Poet's Child.

EPIGRAM.

IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.

BY DR. DARWIN.

WINE, women, warmth, against our lives combine; But what is life without warmth, women, wine?

TO HIM WHO SAYS HE LOVES.

You tell me that you truly love;

Ah! know you well what love does mean? Does neither whim nor fancy move

The rapture of your transient dream?

Tell me, when absent, do you think
O'er every look, o'er every sigh?

Do you in melancholy sink,

Do

And doubt, and fear, you know not why?

you, when near her, die to say,

How much you love, yet cannot tell ? Does a look melt your soul away,

A touch, your nerves with transport swell?

Could you for her, fame, wealth despise ?
In poverty and toil feel blest,

Drink sweet delusion from her eyes,

Or smile at ruin on her breast?

The charms of every other fair,

With coldness, could you learn to view? Fondly unchang'd to her repair,

With transports ever young and new?

VOL. II.

e b

And tell me, at her loss or hate,
Would death your only refuge prove?
Ah if in aught you hesitate,

Coward! you dare not say you love.

ODE TO MUSIC,

BY DR. WARTON.

ROSA.

QUEEN of every moving measure!
Sweetest source of purest pleasure!
Music! why thy powers employ
Only for the sons of Joy?
Only for the smiling guests
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather thy lenient numbers pour
On those whom secret griefs devour;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those whom Death or Absence parts;
And with some softly-whispered air
Smooth the brow of dumb Despair.

ODE *.

BY MR. R. A. DAVENPORT.

YES, I have said that on thy cheek

The rose and lilly sweetly blended; Have thought whene'er I heard thee speak, Thy voice the lute's soft tones transcended; Have felt the magic from thy bright eyes glancing, And gaz'd enamour'd on thy form entrancing.

Yes, I must own, from thee

away,

I never aught of pleasure tasted,

But many a weary, lingering day,

In sighs, and gloomy sadness wasted;

Thy every grace in memory retaining,
For thee alone, each rival fair disdaining.

* There is such a resemblance between the thoughts in this Ode, and some of those in Metastasio's beautiful Canzonet La Liberta, that to prevent any imputation upon him, the Author thinks it ne cessary solemnly to declare, that at the time it was written, he had neither seen nor heard Metastasio's Canzonet, nor even any translation of it. The first knowledge he had of its existence, was from a literary friend, who on reading this Ode, remarked the similarity of thought in the two poems. Two persons with the same feelings, will frequently express themselves in nearly the same manner. Had the Author imitated another writer, he would have thought it a duty to acknowledge, without reserve, his obligations.

But now! no more on thee I rave,

Peace, health, and friendship's joys neglected: Those days are past; no more thy slave,

I rove impassion'd or dejected:

I see thee now, nor feel my heart high-beating, Nor think the hours with envious speed are fleeting.

Yet still I think that thou art fair,

As first when love my breast invaded;

For neither sickness, pain, nor care,

Thy beauty's peerless bloom hath faded :

Still in each tone, each look, each smile excelling,
A thousand nameless witcheries are dwelling.

Why then is fond affection flown?

And dost thou ask why thou art slighted! Lady, not form or bloom alone,

Or tender voice, my soul delighted:

Thy mind as matchless as thy charms believing,
Well did I love-O, why wert thou deceiving!

1797.

EPIGRAM,

FROM THE GERMAN OF LESSING.

You hesitate if you shall take a wife:
Do as your father did-live single all your life.