Ye too, my idol babes, farewell! Yet know, we only fall to rise, My spirit lo! for your's shall wait, CHORUS. Go injur'd king, with seraphs shine, Dr. Wolcot. ON A BOUQUET OF COWSLIPS. Now from your cups who sips the honey'd dew? No more, gay children of the glowing spring, 'Tis yours to paint the fascinating view, No more your posies to young Flora bring. The vernal fairies, in their wanton rounds, No more shall court your innocent perfume; Perhaps, like you, ere morning music sounds, Your pensive poet may explore his tomb. Dear emblems of life's transitory scene, Torn from your verdant beds, to pleasure's eye You shrink, you languish, and must ever fade : So he who marks your fate, shall droop and die, Leave nature's landscape, and become a shade. Gentleman's Magazine. THE LADIES TO THE GENTLEMEN. SHOULD WE Surrender, soon, our hearts, And say, that maids should never feign. How wretched, then, is virgin youth! THE GENTLEMEN TO THE LADIES. A BRAVE resistance gives renown, Whilst easy conquest all disdain; The longer you defend the town, The greater honour still you gain. From questions, by ensnaring youth You're on your oaths no more than we. SWIFT flew the hours in thoughtless glee, And Sylvia blush'd to own She half forgot her Strephon's plea, That said "love me alone." Dear swain forgive! a sister pleads! Thy Sylvia still is true; And when she stray'd thro' pleasure's meads, Her thoughts half dwelt on you. The dance, the revel, evening walk, She shut her ears to am'rous talk When beaux have flutter'd nigh. And if in gay diversion's round 'Tis past!-assuage her heart-felt wound, Kiss off her falling tear. ZEPHYR enamour'd of the opening Rose, With many a wooing sigh her beauty greets, While, softly mov'd, her blushing head she bows: And coldly coy, resigns her treasur'd sweets. Lo! now half rais'd, again her face she shows The sportive spoiler's am'rous breast to meet; And now the senseless wand'rer ruder grows, And lays her faded charms beneath our feet. Ah! soft remembrancers of certain fate, By pleasure's gay enamell'd paths beguil❜d, To drop the tear, and contemplate the tomb? Mrs. Stephens. SONNET. THE chilling gale that nipp'd the rose, Upon the silv'ry floods of day. Health breathes on ev'ry face I see, The woodbine wafts its odours meek, Perchance, when youth's delicious bloom Mrs. Robinson. |