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Ye friends of my heart,

Ere from you I depart,
This hope to my breast is most near;
· If again we shall meet,

In this rural retreat,
May we meet, as we part, with a Tear!

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When my soul wings her flight

To the regions of night,
And my corse shall recline on its bier ;

As ye pass by the tomb,
Where my ashes consume,
Oh! moisten their dust with a Tear.


May no marble bestow

The splendour of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;

No fiction of fame

Shall blazon my name :
All I ask, all I wish, is a Tear.



Delivered previous to the performance of « The Wheel of

Fortune , » at a private theatre..

Since the refinement of this polish'd age
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage; .
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an Author writ;
Since, now, to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from Beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest Muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence, though she find not fame.
Still, not for her alone we wish respect,
Others appear more conscious of defect;
To night, no vetran Roscii you behold,
In all the arts of scenic action old;
No Cooke, no Kemble, can salute you bere,
No Siddons draw the sympathetic tear;
To-night, you throng to witness the debut
Of embryo actors, to the drama new;
Here, then, our almost unfledg’d wings we try;
Clip not our pinions, ere the birds can fly;
Failing in this our first attempt to soar,
Drooping, alas ! we fall to rise no more.
Not one poor trembler, only, fear betrays,
Who hopes, yet almost dreads, to.meet your praise,
But all our Dramatis Personæ wait,
In fond suspense, this crisis of their fate.
No venal views our progress can retard,
Your generous plaudits are our sole reward;
For these, each hero all his power displays,
Each timid heroine slırinks before your gaze:

Surely, the last will some protection find,
None to the softer sex can prove unkind;
Whilst Youth and Beauty form the female shield,
The sternest censor to the fair must yield.
Yet, should our feeble efforts naught avail,
Should, after all, our best endeavours fail;
Still, let some mercy in yout bosoms live,
And, if you can't applaud, at least forgive.


The following illiberal Impromptu appeared in a

Morning Paper.

* Our Nation's foes lament on Fox's death, « But bless the hour when Pitt resign'd his breath ; « These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue, a We give the palm where Justice points its due. »

To which the Author of these Pieces sent the

following Reply.

On! factious viper! whose envenom’d tooth)
Would mangle still the dead, pervertiog truth;
What, tho' our « nation's foes » lament the fate,
With geocrous feeling, of the good and great;
Shall dastard tongues essay to blast the name
Of him, whose meed exists in endless fame?
When Pitt expir’d, in plenitude of power,
Thongh ill success obscurd his dying hour,
Pity her dewy wings before him spread,
For noble spirits « war not with the dead ; »

His friends, in tears, a last sad requiem gave, As all his errors slumber'd in the grave; He sunk, an Atlas, bending 'neath the weight Of cares o’erwhelming our conflicting state'; When, lo! a Hercules, in Fox, appear'd, Who, for a time, the ruin'd fabric rear’d; He, too, is fall’n, who Britain's loss supplied, With him, our fast reviving hopes have diéd : Not one great people only raise his urn, All Europe's far extended regions mourn. a These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue, « To give the palm where Justice points its due ; » Yet, let not canker'd calumny assail, Or round our statesman wind her gloomy veil. Fox! o'er whose corse a mourning world must weep. Whose dear remains in honour'd marble sleep, For whom, at last, e’en hostile nations groan, While friends and foes, alike, his talents own; Fox! shall in Britain's future annals shine, Nor e’en to Pitt, the patriot's palm resigv; Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mask, For Pity, and Pitt alone, has dar'd to ask.

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This votive pledge of fond esteem,

Perhaps, dear girl ! for me thou'lt prize;
It sings of love's enchanting dream,

A theme we never can despise..


Who blames it, but the envious fool,

The old and disappointed maid ? Or pupil of the prudish school,

In single sorrow doom'd to fade.

Then read, dear girl, with feeling read,

For thou wilt ne'er be one of those; To thee, in vain, I shall not plead,

In pity for the Poet's woes.

He was, in sooth, a genuine bard;
- His was no faint, fictitious flame;
Like his, may love be thy reward;.

But not thy hapless fate the same.

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On! did those eyes, instead of fire,

With bright, but mild affection shine; . Though they might kindle less desire,

Love,'more than mortal, would be thioe.

For thou art form’d so heav'nly fair,
· Howe'er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair:

That fatal glance forbids esteem.

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