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SONNET to the AUTHOR's WIFE.
[From the fame Publication.]
OR thee, whofe love I value more than life,
Whofe charms the balm of heart-felt blifs inspire-
For thee I reaffume my humble lyre,
Here in this fhade, far distant from the strife
Of scenes, where fashion's pamper'd votaries, rife
In diffipation's revel, quench thy fire
O Mufe! and blaft the hallow'd name of wife
'Mid the dark orgies of impure defire-
For thee, tho' ne'er my unambitious strain
May foothe the unfeeling world, I yet awhile
Tune the rude fhell! and haply, not in vain,
If (fweet reward of every anxious toil)
My fimple fong have ftill the power to gain
From Laura, but a fond approving smile!
ADDRESS to the PUPIL of ELOQUENCE.
[From Mr. PoLWHELE'S English Orator, a Didactic Poem.]
HUS then the effentials hath the mufe unveil'd
thou, meanwhile, to trace
Their union and their order, as thy fphere
And genius of the just oration wills;
Except where verfatile occafion's turn,
Or fudden impulfe of thy audience points.
A devious courfe: for oft, their due degrees
Abandon'd, one effential ev'n excludes
The reft; or argument perhaps ufurps
The throne of pathos; or the paffions, free
From previous forms, as high emergence calls,
Burft on a Catiline's devoted head
Impetuous: fuch thy genius, now matur'd
To nerve of claffic vigour, feels-crelong
In quick accordance with that sense, to seize
The golden moment, as thy practice adds
Activity to frength. And now survey
That genius arm'd with high perfuafion's power-
The power of human conduct! awful trust!
Yet haply thine! And O if doom'd to guide,
Bleft arbiter of good, the moral scale;
Whether thy care to vindicate the rights
Of outrag'd innocence, and crush the fiends
That weave the Belial-artifice; or stem
In evil hour, corruption's torrent tide;
Or fhine the facred delegate of heav'n;-
O be thy study to imprefs on all
The features of thy honeft worth, and gain
The fame of Virtue! Hence Perfuafion draws
New dignity and grace! Attention hangs
Enamour'd on the mufic of a voice
Infpir'd by genuine probity, and breath'd
From all-effential goodness! Such the charms
Of Virtue!-Yet her femblance, uninform'd
By the warm heart, how vain! O feed the fires
That glow in generous bofoms! Be thy care
To give each exemplary deed the force
Of truth, and plain fincerity of foul!
For there's an energy in confcious worth-
A noble daring, (but to Virtue's race
Unknown) that kindles thro' the crowd, the flame
Of emulative merit; fpreads around
A kindred feeling; and impels the mind
To all that high activity, the fource
Of happiest execution. Such the fire
Of other days, while Greece furvey'd her fons
Crown'd, awful victors, with the double wreath
Of Eloquence and Virtue! Lo more pure
In redolence and bloom, to Glory's orb
The awaken'd genius of thy country waves
That wreath and warm with rapture as he views
Its heav'n-born luftre-"Be it thine (he cries)
"Aufpicious youth (to nobler deeds foredoom'd)
"To merit all the renovated rays;
"And thus, reflected by thy brighter brows,
Beyond ev'n Grecia's, be thy Albion's fame!"
ODE on his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY.
[By the Rev. THOMAS WARTON, B. D. Poet-Laureat.]
MID the thunder of the war,
True glory guides no echoing ear;
Nor bids the fword her bays bequeath,
Nor ftains with blood her brightest wreath;
No plumed hofts her tranquil triumphs own;
Nor fpoils of murder'd multitudes fhe brings,
To fwell the state of her distinguifh'd kings,
And deck her chofen throne.
On that fair throne to Britain dear,
With the flow'ring olive twin'd,
High fhe hangs the hero's fpear,
And there with all the palms of peace combin'd,
Her unpolluted hands the milder trophy rear.
To kings like thefe her genuine theme,
The Mufe a blameless homage pays; To George of kings like thefe fupreme, She wishes honour'd length of days, Nor prostitutes the tribute of her lays.
'Tis his to bid neglected genius glow,
And teach the regal bounty how to flow.
His tutelary fceptre's fway,
The vindicated arts obey,
And hail their patron king;
'Tis his, to judgment's steady line
Their flights fantastic to confine,
And yet expand their wing;
The fleeting forms of fashion to restrain,
And bind capricious Tafte in Truth's eternal chain,
Sculpture, licentious now no more,
For Greece her great example takes,
With Nature's warmth the marble wakes,
And fpurns the toys of modern lore:
In native beauty fimply plann'd,
Corinth thy tufted fhafts afcend;
The Graces guide the painter's hand,
His magic mimicry to blend.
To fofter Emulation's holy flame
To build Society's majestic frame;
Mankind to polifh and to teach,
Be this the monarch's aim;
Above Ambition's giant-reach,
The monarch's meed to claim.
[From the late Mr. LOVIBOND's Poems.]
HERE Hitchin's gentle current glides, An ancient convent ftands, Sacred to prayer and holy rites Ordain'd by pious hands.
Here monks of faintly Benedict
Their nightly vigils kept,
And lofty anthems fhook the choir
At hours when mortals flept.
But Harry's wide reforming hand
That facred order wounded;
He fpoke-from forth their hallow'd walls
The friars fled confounded.
Then wicked laymen ent'ring in,
Thofe cloisters/fair prophan'd;
Now Riot loud ufurps the feat
Where bright Devotion reign'd.
Ev'n to the chapel's facred roof,
Its echoing vaults along,
Refounds the flute, and fprightly dance,
And hymeneal fong.
Yet Fame reports, that monkish shades
At midnight never fail
To haunt the manfions once their own,
And tread its cloisters pale.
One night, more prying than the reft,
It chanc'd a friar came,
And enter'd where on beds of down
Repos'd each gentle dame.
Here, foftening midnight's raven gloom,
Lay Re, blufhing maid;
There, wrapt in folds of cypress lawn
Her virtuous aunt was laid.
He ftopp'd, he gaz'd, to wild conceits
His roving fancy run,
He took the aunt for priorefs,
And R▬▬▬▬▬e for a nun.
It happ'd that R's capuchin,
Across the couch difplay'd,
To deem her fifter of the veil,
The holy fire betray'd.
Accofting then the youthful fair,
His raptur'd accents broke;
Amazement chill'd the waking nymph :
She trembled as he spoke.
Hail halcyon days! hail holy nun!
This wond'rous change explain:
Again Religion lights her lamp,
Reviews thefe walls again.
For ever bleft the power that checkt
Reformifts wild diforders,
Reftor'd again the church's lands,
Reviv'd our facred orders.
To monks indeed, from Edward's days,
Belong'd this chafte foundation;
Yet fifter nuns may answer too
The founder's good dunation.
Ah! well thy virgin vows are heard :
For man were never given
Those charms, referv'd to nobler ends,
Thou fpotlefs fpoufe of Heaven!
Yet fpeak what caufe from morning mass
Thy ling'ring steps delays:
Hate to the deep-mouth'd organ's peal
To join thy vocal praise.
Awake thy abbess fisters all;
At Mary's holy fhrine,
With bended knees and fuppliant eyes
Approach, thou nun divine!
No nun am I, recov❜ring cried
The nymph; no nun, I fay,
Nor nun will be, unless this fright
Should turn my locks to grey.
'Tis true, at church I feldom fail
When aunt or uncle leads;
Yet never rife by four o'clock
To tell my morning beads.