Fugitive Pieces | Page 8

whose envenom'd tooth,
Would mangle still the
dead, in spite of truth,
What though our "nation's foes" lament the fate,

With generous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall therefore
dastard tongues assail the name
Of him whose virtues claim eternal
fame?
When PITT expired in plenitude of power,
Though ill
success obscur'd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him
spread,
For noble spirits "war not with the dead;"
His friends in
tears, a last sad requiem gave,
And all his errors slumber'd in the
grave.
He died an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight,
Of cares
oppressing our unhappy state;
But lo! another Hercules appear'd,

Who for a time, the ruined fabric rear'd;
He too is dead! who still our
England propp'd,
With him our fast reviving hopes have dropp'd;

Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended
regions mourn.
"These feelings wide, let Sense and Truth unclue,

"And give the palm where Justice points it due;"
But let not canker'd
calumny assail,
And round our statesman wind her gloomy veil.

Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep,
Whose dear
remains in honoured marble sleep;
For whom at last, even hostile
nations groan,
And friends and foes alike his talents own;
Fox! shall
in Britain's future annals shine,
Nor e'en to Pitt_, the patriot's _palm
resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask,
For PITT,
and PITT alone, would dare to ask.

TO A LADY, WHO PRESENTED THE AUTHOR A LOCK OF

HAIR, BRAIDED WITH HIS OWN, AND APPOINTED A
NIGHT IN DECEMBER, TO MEET HIM IN THE GARDEN.
These locks which fondly thus entwine,
In firmer chains our hearts
confine;
Than all th' unmeaning protestations,
Which swell with
nonsense, love orations.
Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it,

Nor time, nor place, nor art, have mov'd it;
Then wherefore should we
sigh, and whine,
With groundless jealousy repine.
With silly whims,
and fancies frantic,
Merely to make our love romantic.
Why should
you weep like Lydia Languish,
And fret with self-created anguish.

Or doom the lover you have chosen,
On winter nights, to sigh half
frozen:
In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
Only because the
scene's a garden.
For gardens seem by one consent
(Since
SHAKESPEARE set the precedent;)
(Since Juliet first declar'd her
passion)
To form the place of assignation.
Oh! would some modern
muse inspire,
And seat her by a sea-coal fire,
Or had the bard at
Christmas written,
And laid the scene of love in Britain;
He surely
in commiseration,
Had chang'd the place of declaration.
In Italy I've
no objection,
Warm nights are proper for reflection;
But here, our
climate is so rigid,
That love itself, is rather frigid;
Think on our
chilly situation,
And curb this rage for imitation.
Then let us meet,
as oft we've done,
Beneath the influence of the sun;
Or, if at
midnight I must meet you,
Oh! let me in your chamber greet you;

There we can love for hours together,

Much better in such snowy
weather,
Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
That ever witness'd
rural loves;
There if my passion fail to please,
Next night I'll be
content to freeze;
No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
But curse
my fate, forever after.

TO A BEAUTIFUL QUAKER.
Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er
forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will

thy form retain;
I would not say, "I love" but still
My senses
struggle with my will;
In vain to drive thee from my breast,
My
thoughts are more and more represt,
In vain, I check the rising sighs,

Another to the last replies;
Perhaps this is not love, but yet
Our
meeting I can ne'er forget.
What though we never silence broke,
Our eyes a sweeter language
spoke;
The tongue in flattering falsehood deals,
And tells a tale, it
never feels;
Deceit, the guilty lips impart,
And hush the mandates
of the heart,
But soul's interpreters, the eyes
Spurn such restraint,
and scorn disguise.
As thus our glances oft convers'd,
And all our
bosoms felt, rehears'd,
No spirit from within reprov'd us,
Say rather,
"'twas the spirit mov'd us."
Though what they utter'd, I repress,
Yet,
I conceive, thou'lt partly guess;
For, as on thee, my memory ponders,

Perchance, to me thine also wanders;
This for myself, at least I'll
say,
Thy form appears through night, through day,
Awake, with it
my fancy teems,
In sleep, it smiles in fleeting dreams;
The vision
charms the hours away,
And bids me curse Aurora's ray;
For
breaking slumbers of delight,
Which make me wish for endless night.

Since, oh! whate'er my future fate,
Shall joy or woe my steps await;

Tempted by love, by storms beset,
Thine image, I can ne'er forget.
Alas! again no more we meet,
No more our former looks repeat;

Then let me breathe this parting prayer,
The dictate of my bosom's
care:
"May Heaven so guard my lovely quaker,

"That anguish never
can o'ertake her;
"That peace and virtue ne'er forsake her,
"But bliss
be aye, her heart's partaker:
"No jealous passion shall invade,
"No
envy that pure breast pervade;"
For he that revels in such charms,

Can never seek another's arms;
"Oh! may the happy mortal fated,

"To be by dearest ties related;
"For her_ each hour _new joy discover,

"And lose the husband in the lover.
"May that fair bosom never
know
"What 'tis to feel the restless woe;
"Which stings the soul,
with vain regret,
"Of him, who never can