SONNET, TO A SICK BED. WHAT though thy pillow's set with many a thorn; And round thee wait the family of pain, With nightly phantoms of the fever'd brain; Yet oft a ray of comfort gilds the morn; Etherial forms thy waking dreams adorn: When we an interval of ease obtain, Nor throbbing pangs acute the fibres strain, We muse on things divine, and worldly scorn. Reflection calm, Devotion's spirit pure Breathe joy, like gales from Paradise that blow; The passions still, the soul of aid assure, And teach it well itself, and friends to know. Thus Mercy to the couch of woe has given To prove the heart of man, and bless the hand of heaven. EDINBURGH. G. H. D. 2 SONNET. TO AVAR O. BRING forth thy gilded Car, and mount the throne, 'Tis a new purchase! see, it featly swings, And seems to dance on its elastic springs; Nor mind the wheels that mock yon exile's groan, "Tis all but fancy-drive your pamper'd steeds O'er that wide Champaign, all you there survey Is yours-the hapless Swains are far away, Whose looks might else arraign your wrongful deeds, You think the very air which you inhale Your property; insatiate tho' you be, Your craving shall be sated soon, my friend! Yonder the Demon hovers in the gale, That brews the vapour of Mortality— Soon other wheels thy mourning gate shall tend. A NEW SONNET. BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ. THE Moon-beam slumber'd on the silent wave Ah! me! beneath the foot of yonder hill He sleeps pale ghosts among, where damp and chill The green turf bends its grassy head to save Eugenia's gentle spirit':-Saint divine! Whose vows for Henry's life not Henry knew. But Death's embraces in one tomb confine Their mingled souls. Now, reader, tell me true, Dost understand my Sonnet?" Every line." Why faith, that's strange: 'tis more than I can do. BELSHAZZAR. BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN. How curs'd the wretch, to dire Ambition held In balmy slumber hush'd! Though at thy throne And kiss'd the hand they fear'd, and troul'd the tongue Of flattery, they could not hail thee heir Of Heaven's sweet Eden! Though thy palace walls VOL. III. N In all the pride of Ormuz beam'd—those gaudes, IF ON A BEAUTIFUL LADY WHO HAD BUT ONE EYE. BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ. one bright eye such mischief singly do, How many murders had she done with two! But if I perish once by that one eye, Give her a second, and I twice shall die. THE SAME, TRANSLATED INTO LATIN. BY EDMUND SWIFT, ESQ. Tor clades tantasque Oculus si spargeret unus, |