* * * * *

  VERSES ON A YOUNG LADY

  PLAYING ON A HARPSICHORD AND SINGING.

  1 When Sappho struck the quivering wire,
    The throbbing breast was all on fire;
    And when she raised the vocal lay,
    The captive soul was charm’d away!

  2 But had the nymph possess’d with these
    Thy softer, chaster power to please,
    Thy beauteous air of sprightly youth,
    Thy native smiles of artless truth—­

  3 The worm of grief had never prey’d
    On the forsaken love-sick maid;
    Nor had she mourn’d a hapless flame,
    Nor dash’d on rocks her tender frame.

* * * * *

  LOVE ELEGY.

  IN IMITATION OF TIBULLUS.

  1 Where now are all my flattering dreams of joy? 
      Monimia, give my soul her wonted rest;
    Since first thy beauty fix’d my roving eye,
      Heart-gnawing cares corrode my pensive breast.

  2 Let happy lovers fly where pleasures call,
      With festive songs beguile the fleeting hour;
    Lead beauty through the mazes of the ball,
      Or press her, wanton, in Love’s roseate bower.

  3 For me, no more I’ll range the empurpled mead,
      Where shepherds pipe, and virgins dance around,
    Nor wander through the woodbine’s fragrant shade,
      To hear the music of the grove resound.

  4 I’ll seek some lonely church, or dreary hall,
      Where fancy paints the glimmering taper blue,
    Where damps hang mouldering on the ivied wall,
      And sheeted ghosts drink up the midnight dew: 

  5 There, leagued with hopeless anguish and despair,
      A while in silence o’er my fate repine: 
    Then with a long farewell to love and care,
      To kindred dust my weary limbs consign.

  6 Wilt thou, Monimia, shed a gracious tear
      On the cold grave where all my sorrows rest? 
    Strew vernal flowers, applaud my love sincere,
      And bid the turf lie easy on my breast?

* * * * *

  BURLESQUE ODE.[1]

  Where wast thou, wittol Ward, when hapless fate
  From these weak arms mine aged grannam tore? 
  These pious arms essay’d too late
  To drive the dismal phantom from the door. 
  Could not thy healing drop, illustrious quack,
  Could not thy salutary pill prolong her days,
  For whom so oft to Marybone, alack! 
  Thy sorrels dragg’d thee, through the worst of ways? 
  Oil-dropping Twickenham did not then detain
  Thy steps, though tended by the Cambrian maids; 10
  Nor the sweet environs of Drury Lane;
  Nor dusty Pimlico’s embowering shades;
  Nor Whitehall, by the river’s bank,
  Beset with rowers dank;
  Nor where the Exchange pours forth its tawny sons;
  Nor where, to mix with offal, soil, and