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in conception, and abound with the purest precepts of religion and morality. With this praise, slight as it is, her poetic memory must be content.
THOUGHTS AT MIDNIGHT.
While night in solemn shade invests the Pole,
If, by the day's illusive scenes misled,
With grief oppress'd and prostrate in the dust, Should'st thou condemn, I own the sentence just. But, oh! thy softer titles let me claim, And plead my cause by mercy's gentle name: Mercy, that wipes the penitential tear, And dissipates the horrors of despair; From rig'rous justice steals the vengeful hour; Softens the dreadful attribute of
power; Disarms the wrath of an offended God, And seals my pardon in a Saviour's blood.
All pow'rful grace, exert thy gentle sway, And teach my rebel passions to obey; Lest lurking folly, with insiduous art, Regain my volatile inconstant heart. Shall ev'ry high resolve devotion frames, Be only lifeless sounds and specious names ? Or rather, while thy hopes and fears controul, In this still hour each motion of my soul, Secure its safety by a sudden doom, And be the soft retreat of sleep my tomb. Calm let me slumber in that dark repose, 'Till the last morn it's orient beam disclose: Theu, when the great Archangel's potent sound, Shall echo through creation's ample round, Wak'd from the sleep of death, with joy survey The op'ning splendors of eternal day.
TO THE MEMORY OF. Could modest sense with softest manners join'd Attract the due attention of mankind, Unhappy Florio ! thy ungentle fate Had ne'er reproach'd the wealthy or the great.
In vain admir'd, applauded, and reverd,
Though by the world abandon'd and forgot,
ON THE SAME.
And zephyr oft restor'd the vernal bloom,
And twin'd the cypress garland round thy tomb.
Though long compos'd thy peaceful ashes sleep
In worlds remote beneath the southern pole; Nor wide stretch'd lands, nor interposing deep,
Can check the progress of th' unfetter'd soul.
Perhaps thy gentle spirit still surveys,
With some regard ise object once so dear, Nor undelighted feels the honest praise
Which truth bestows on death's unflatter'd ear.
Yet no vain wish recals thee from the tomb
To tread the toilsome round of mortal years, But kind compassion, smiling, heard the doom, .
That stopt thy progress through a vale of tears. A vale of tears to thee was all below,
Where no glad prospect cheered the thorny way, Save that which virtue's piercing eyes bestow
Through death's dark perspective to endless day.
TO MISS LYNCH. Occasioned by an Ode written by Mrs. PHILIPS.
Narcissa! still through ev'ry varying name, My constant care and bright enlip'ning theme, In what soft language shall the muse declare The fond extravagance of love sincere ? How all those pleasing sentiments convey, That charm my fancy, when I think on thee? A theme like this Orinda's thoughts inspir’d, Nor less by friendship than by genius fir'd. Then let her happier, more persuasive art Explain th' agreeing dictates of my heart: Sweet may her fame to late remembrance bloom, And everlasting laurels shade her tomb, Whose spotless verse with genuine force exprest The brightest passion of the human breast.
In what blest clime, beneath what fav'ring skies, Did thy fair form, propitious friendship ! rise? With mystic sense, the poet's tuneful tongue Urania's birth in glitring fiction sung, That Paphos first her smiling presence own'd, Which wide diffus'd its happy influence round.
With hands united, and with looks serene,
By heaven's enthusiastic impulse taught