Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
What diff’rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move? 
This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,
  Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;
But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,
  Time unremember’d moves, or seems to die.

LINES

Upon a Diamond Cross,

WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.

Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
  The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;
For trust me, tho’ so very young and fair,
  Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:—­
For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,
  For all the sighs which countless charms can move,
Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;
  Yet fall they gently—­for the crime is love.

LINES TO FORTUNE,

Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds.

Oh, Fortune!  I have seen thee shed
  A plenteous show’r of treasure down
On many a weak and worthless head,
  On those who but deserv’d thy frown.

And I have heard, in lonely shade,
  Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;
And thou hast pass’d the drooping maid,
  To give some pamper’d fav’rite more.

But tho’ so cold, or strangely wild,
  It seems that worth can sometimes move;
Thou hast on gentle Emma smil’d,
  And thou hast smil’d where all approve:—­

For Nature form’d her gen’rous heart
  With ev’ry virtue, pure, refin’d;
And wit and taste, and grace and art,
  United to illume her mind.

So dew-drops fall on some rare flow’r,
  That merits all their fost’ring care,
As tho’ they knew that, by their pow’r,
  Grateful ’twould wider scent the air.

A SONG.

THE LOVER

THE LUTE OF HIS DECEASED MISTRESS.

Alas! but like a summer’s dream
  All the delight I felt appears,
While mis’ry’s weeping moments seem
  A ling’ring age of tears.

Then breathe my sorrows, plaintive lute! 
  And pour thy soft consoling tone,
While I, a list’ning mourner mute,
  Will call each tender grief my own.

LINES

WRITTEN IN A COTTAGE BY THE SEA-SIDE

(In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm),

UPON SEEING AN IDIOTIC YOUTH SEATED IN THE CHIMNEY-CORNER, CARESSING A
BROOM.

’Twas on a night of wildest storms,
  When loudly roar’d the raving main,—­
When dark clouds shew’d their shapeless forms,
  And hail beat hard the cottage pane,—­

Tom Fool sat by the chimney-side,
  With open mouth and staring eyes;
A batter’d broom was all his pride,—­
  It was his wife, his child, his prize!