ANSWER TO THE ABOVE, ADDRESS’D TO MISS ——­.

  Dear simple girl those flattering arts,
  (From which you’d guard frail female hearts,)
  Exist but in imagination,
  Mere phantoms of your own creation;
  For he who sees that witching grace,
  That perfect form, that lovely face;
  With eyes admiring, oh! believe me,
  He never wishes to deceive thee;
  Once let you at your mirror glance,
  You’ll there descry that elegance,
  Which from our sex demands such praises,
  But envy in the other raises.—­
  Then he who tells you of your beauty,
  Believe me only does his duty;
  Ah! fly not from the candid youth,
  It is not flattery, but truth.

July, 1804.

* * * * *

ON A CHANGE OF MASTERS, AT A GREAT PUBLIC SCHOOL.

  Where are those honours?  IDA, once your own,
  When Probus fill’d your magisterial throne;
  As ancient Rome fast falling to disgrace,
  Hail’d a Barbarian in her Caesar’s place;
  So you degenerate share as hard a fate,
  And seat Pomposus, where your Probus sate. 
  Of narrow brain, but of a narrower soul,
  Pomposus, holds you in his harsh controul;
  Pomposus, by no social virtue sway’d,
  With florid jargon, and with vain parade;
  With noisy nonsense, and new fangled rules,
  (Such as were ne’er before beheld in schools,)
  Mistaking pedantry, for learning’s laws,
  He governs, sanctioned but by self applause. 
  With him, the same dire fate attending Rome,
  Ill-fated IDA! soon must stamp your doom;
  Like her o’erthrown, forever lost to fame,
  No trace of science left you, but the name.

HARROW, July, 1805.

* * * * *

EPITAPH ON A BELOVED FRIEND.

  Oh Boy! forever lov’d, for ever dear,
  What fruitless tears have wash’d thy honour’d bier;
  What sighs re-echoed to thy parting breath,
  Whilst thou wert struggling in the pangs of death. 
  Could tears have turn’d the tyrant in his course,
  Could sighs have check’d his dart’s relentless force;
  Could youth and virtue claim a short delay,
  Or beauty charm the spectre from his prey. 
  Thou still had’st liv’d, to bless my aching sight,
  Thy comrade’s honour, and thy friend’s delight: 
  Though low thy lot, since in a cottage born,
  No titles did thy humble name adorn,
  To me, far dearer, was thy artless love,
  Than all the joys, wealth, fame, and friends could prove. 
  For thee alone I liv’d, or wish’d to live,
  (Oh God! if impious, this rash word forgive)
  Heart broken now, I wait an equal doom,
  Content to join thee in thy turf-clad tomb;
  Where this frail form compos’d in endless rest,