LINES

TO MRS. B——­, AT BRISTOL HOT WELLS

Tho’ nought, amid these darkened groves,
  But various groups of death appear,
Scar’d at the sight, tho’ fly the Loves,
  And Sickness saddens all the year,

Yet, Clara, where you deign to stay,
  Your sense and manners charm us so,
E’en sick’ning Sorrow’s self looks gay,
  And smiles amid the wreck of woe.

LINES

TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS ELIZABETH,

UPON THE PRINTS

From her beautiful Drawings of the Birth and Triumph of Cupid.

Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove,
  And taught her royal fav’rite’s hand to trace
A beauteous maiden’s tale of little Love,
  His silken wings, soft limbs, and laughing face!

Then Nature wept o’er each expressive line,
  To think the sweet creation so confin’d,
That such a boy, so fair, and so divine,
  Was but the playful prattler of her mind;

And had he near the royal easel flown,
  And seen the features of this mimic brother,
He would have known the portrait for his own,
  And claim’d the beauteous painter for his mother.

EPITAPH

TO THE MEMORY OF A WORTHY MAN,

THE REV.  MR. SLEEP,

CURATE OF KINGSWEAR CHURCH, DEVON,

Whose devotional Elocution was remarkably impregnated with soporific Qualities.

Reader! since Parson Sleep is gone,
And lies beneath yon humble stone,
Whene’er to Kingswear Church we go,
  Holy the sabbath-day to keep
(Indeed ’tis right it should be so),
  We never more shall go to sleep.

LINES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY A FEMALE FRIEND,

Upon an Infant recommended to her Care by its dying Mother.

Bless’d be thy slumbers, little love! 
  Unconscious of the ills so near;
May no rude noise thy dreams remote,
  Or prompt the artless early tear;—­

For she who gave thee life is gone,
  Whose trust it was thy life to rear,
Now in the cold and mould’ring stone
  Calls for that artless early tear.

Sleep on, thou little dreamer! sleep;
  For, long as I shall tarry here,
I’ll soothe thee; thou shalt never weep,
  Tho’ flows for thee the tend’rest tear.

Then be thy gentle visions blest,
  Nor e’er thy bosom know that fear,
Which thro’ the night disturbs my rest,
  And prompts Affection’s trembling tear.

LINES

ON THE CALEDONIAN HARP BEING SUCCEEDED

BY THE HIGHLAND BAGPIPES.