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 your 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, 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, perverting truth;
What, tho' our « nation's foes » lament the fate,
With generous 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,
Though ill success obscur'd 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 died:
Not one great people only raise his urn,
All Europe's far extended regions mourn.
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 resign;
Which Envy, wearing Candour's sacred mas k,
For PITT, and PITT alone, has dar'd to ask.
WITH THE POEMS OF CAMOENS.
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.
Ou did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine;
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love,'more than mortal, would be thine.
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.
When nature stamp'd thy beauteous birth, So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear'd that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest sylph appal, ·
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all,
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
'Tis said, that Berenice's hair,
In stars adorn the vault of heaven;
But they would ne'er permit thee there,
Thou would'st so far outshine the seven.
For, did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister lights would scarce appear:
E'en suns, which systems now control,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
WOMAN! experience might have told me,
That all must love thee, who behold thee;
Surely, experience might have taught,
Thy firmest promises are naught;
But, plac'd in all thy charms before me,
All I forget, but to adore thee.
Oh! Memory! thou choicest blessing,
When join'd with hope, when still possessing;
But, how much curs'd by ev'ry lover,
When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman, that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her
How throbs the pulse, when first we view
The eye that rolls in glossy blue;
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws
A beam from under hazel brows;
How quick we credit ev'ry oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth;
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When, lo! she changes in a day :
This Record will for ever stand,
Woman! thy vows are trac'd in sand (1).
(1) The last line is almost a literal translation from a Spanish proverb.
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