Of her, in time of heaviest woe,
I think, and tears forget to flow;
Of her, in passion's fervid dreams,
And rapture's self the sweeter seems.-

And shall the name, whose magic pow'r
Throws light on every passing hour,
Shall it, a word of usage grown,
By every heartless fool be known?

No-let it, shrin'd within my breast,
A little saint, for ever rest,

With pious ardours worshipp'd there,
Yet never mentioned, but in pray'r!

DON *

TO HIS MISTRESS.

Translated from the Spanish.

If thou wish thy young blooms were pourtray'd, And thy graces in splendour to shine,

O linger, and list, heavenly maid,

For the arduous task shall be mine.

Thy countenance fairer than snow,
Or than marble, that's polish'd around,
Has encounter'd the God of the Bow,
And his arrows are impotent found.

Young Cupid a quiver has trimm'd

Of thine eyebrows, so full and so fair;
But below, in bright ambush reclin❜d,
Found those eyes, and has died in despair.

DRAB BONNETS.

BY BERNARD BARTON.

These verses were occasioned by reading, in a Morning Paper, that, at a Meeting convened in London for some charitable purpose," among other Ladies, were observed a considerable number, whose Drab Bonnets bespoke them members of the Society of Friends."

They may cant of costumes, and of brilliant headdresses,

A-la-Grecque-à-la-Français-or what else they

will;

They may talk of tiaras that glitter on tresses

Enwreath'd by the Graces, and braided with skill : Yet, to my partial glance, I confess, the Drab Bonnet Is the loveliest of any—and most when it bears Not only the bright gloss of nature upon it— But beneath, the expression benevolence wears! Then let Fashion exult in her vapid vagaries,

From her fascinations, my favourite is free: Be Folly's the head-gear that momently varies, But a Bonnet of Drab is the sweetest to me.

Though stately the Ostrich-Plume, gracefully throwing Its feathery flashes of light on the eye;

Though tasty and trim the Straw Bonnet, when glowing
With its ribbons so glossy of various dye :-

Yet, still I must own, although none may seem duller
Than a simple Drab Bonnet, to many a gaze ;-
It is, and it will be, the favourite colour,
Around which my fancy delightedly plays :

And it well suits my Muse, with a garland to wreath it,
And echo its praises with gratefullest glee,

For, knowing the goodness that oft lurks beneath it, The Bonnet of Drab beats a Turban with me.

Full many a rare gem-(the Poet has chaunted)

In the depths of the ocean, flings round it its sheen; And many a flow'ret, its beauties undaunted,

Springs to life, sheds its perfume, and withers un

seen:

And well do I know, that our sisterhood numbers,
Array'd in the liv'ry that coxcombs reprove,
Forms as fair as e'er rose on a Poet's sweet slumbers,
And faces as lovely as ever taught love.

This I know, and have felt ;-and thus knowing and feeling,

A recreant minstrel I surely should be,

If, my heart-felt attachment ignobly concealing,
The Bonnet of Drab past unhonour'd by me!

I have bask'd in the blaze of both beauty and fashionHave seen these united with gifts rich and rare ;

And crown'd with a heart, that could cherish com

passion,

And by sympathy soften what sorrow must bear. Yet acknowledging this,-which I can do sincerely,

For the highest enjoyment this bosom e'er knew, The glance, which it treasures most fondly, most dearly,

Beam'd from under a Bonnet of Drab-coloured hue. "Twas my pleasure, my pride!—it is past and has perish'd,

Like the track of a ship o'er the dark heaving sea; But its loveliness lives, its remembrance is cherish'd; And the Bonnet of Drab is still beauteous to me!

THE ROCK OF RUBIES, AND THE QUARRIE OF PEARLS.

BY HERRICK.

Some asked me, where the rubies grew ?

And nothing did I say;

But with my finger pointed to

The lips of Julia.

Some asked how pearls did grow and where?

Then spoke I to my girl,

To part her lips, and shew'd them there

The Quarelets of Pearls.

THE CURE OF LOVE.

When, Chloe, I confess my pain,

In gentle words, you pity show;
But gentle words are all in vain ;-

Such gales, my flame but higher blow.

Ah! Chloe, would you cure the smart
Your conquering eyes have keenly made;
Yourself, upon my bleeding heart,

Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid.

Thus, for the viper's sting, we know
No surer remedy is found,
Than to apply the torturing foe,

And squeeze his venom on the wound.

CONSTANCY.

BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.

I cannot change, as others do,

Though you unjustly scorn;

Since that poor swain, who sighs for you,

For you alone was born.

No, Phillis, no; your heart to move,

A surer way I'll try ;

And to revenge my slighted love,

Will still love on, and die.