And see thee 'gainst thy prison grate
Thy little wings indignant beat,
And peck and flutter round and round
Thy narrow, lonely, hated bound;
And yet not ope thy prison door,
To give thee liberty once more.
None! none! but he whose vicious eye
The charms of Nature can't enjoy ;
Who dozes those sweet hours away,
When thou begin'st thy merry lay;
And 'cause his lazy limbs refuse
To tread the meadow's morning dews,
And there thy early wild notes hear,
He keeps thee lonely prisoner.
Not such am I, sweet warbler; no,
For should thy strains as sweetly flow,
As sweetly flow, as gaily sound,
Within thy prison's wiry bound,
As when thou soar'st with lovers' pride,
And pour'st thy wild notes far and wide,
Yet still depriv'd of every scene,
The yellow lawn, the meadow green,
The hawthorn bush besprent with dew,
The skyey lake, the mountain blue,
Not half the charms thou'dst have for me,
As ranging wide at liberty.
LIVERPOOL, APRIL 6, 1797.
O'ER the moor a Lady fair
Took her way so sadly,
Her face was pale, and loose her hair,
Sweet she sung, tho' madly:
"I had a lover once, believe me,
His blue eyes shone so mildly,
He's gone, and can I chuse but grieve me? He's lost, I wander wildly.
Stranger, do not look on me;
What would you discover?
I had a serpent sister; she
It was who stole my lover.
Stranger, do not weep for me,
I am past complaining;
The struggle that you think you see,
Is pride, my love disdaining.
But this struggle will not last,
Not beyond to-morrow;
Life's idle hour I pass so fast,
I leave behind my sorrow.
Farewel, stranger, now farewel,
Here I cannot ponder,
Hark! I hear the warning bell,
Death is waiting yonder.
In dim perspective see, oh! see,
His shadowy figure bending,
O'er a small spot, meant for me,
Round pale ghosts attending."
Sudden she turn'd, her wounded mind
With wilder phrenzy firing,
"Farewel" linger'd on the wind,
My soul with grief inspiring.
Sweet Maniac! I do not know,
Tho' sad thy lot and dreary,
If happier still thou art not so,
Than of reasoning sorrows weary.
On presenting the Hon. Mrs. Boscawen with St. François de Sales' Introduction to a devout Life.
WELL try'd in every charity of life,
Sister and Friend, the Mother and the Wife ;
Kind to the Poor, and pious to thy God,
The World's vast wild unerring thou hast trod :
In such a galaxy thy Virtues shine,
The Saint's feign'd life is realiz'd in thine.
OF THE CELEBRATED PASSAGE,
"Si tibi sancta cohors," &c.
ATTEND this truth-no sires can meanness grace,
No birth, tho' mean, whom worth exalts, debase:
But is thy mind to noblest deeds inspired?
In Virtue's cause is all thy bosom fired?
Does Misery seek, nor seek in vain, thy gate?
Are pleading tears a privilege from state?
Steadfast in right, and constant to thy trust,
And chaste in word, in deed severely just;
Such if you are, a lineage find, or make,
I'll love you by whatever name you take;
Your actions just, no matter what beside,
I love an honest man in Hicks
* or Hyde.
But thou, so lost to worth, so damn'd to fame,
Whom Boroughs, doubly-brib'd, yet blush to name;
Whose looser lewdness frights the wond'ring stew,
Whom vanquish'd bawds with new-felt horror view;
Say you, what folly leads to boast thy race,
And call up sires to prove you yet more base;
* Hicks, put for any vulgar name.
Those sires who once a totť'ring state upheld,
Whom France, then humbler, ne'er unaw'd beheld;
Say-do such deeds as these belong to you?
The honest Muse shall give e'en thee thy due.
"Tis thine the foremost of the jockey throng,
To crack the whip, or twist the knotted thong;
With rushing wheels the gathering dust to raise,
Whilst Ladies nod, and envying Coxcombs gaze;
By skilful lies to shun a pressing debt,
Or, favouring odds, to catch a lucky bet.
In Edward's days, while fashion yet was young, F'er the throng'd streets with rattling chariots rung; E'er dice, all-levelling, urg'd the midnight guilt, Hoyle yet unborn, and Brookes's yet unbuilt; There was a thing on earth call'd virtuous pride, Would different ranks, by due degrees, divide; No elbowing black-legs could a court disgrace, No haughty Warwicks bow'd to thieves in lace. Hail to these days when stronger reason shines, And every rank in one great circle joins! Where wealth attain'd may break the bars of pride, And cards combine whom envied ranks divide.
WHEN gay Lord Edward, in a lively freak
Kiss'd ancient Margaret-for the dame was kindHe found, although the rose had left her cheek, The thorn upon her chin remain'd behind.
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