BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.
HASTE thee Cupid, haste away,
Hie thee hence, nor more delay:
Quit, O quit my aching heart,
Or I'll make thee feel its smart,
And avenging all thy tricks,
Hurl thee headlong over Styx;
First thy plumy pinions bind
In a rosy wreath behind;
Then away thine arrows throw,
Snap the quiver, break the bow;
Last, thyself I'll sacrifice.-
Now, what death shall I devise?
If I hang thee up, you will
Round my heart be hanging still;
If I slay thee-then indeed,
I beneath the blow shall bleed;
Or should'st thou in flame expire,
Shall not I consume in fire?
Then to ease, to end my cares,
I will drown thee in my tears.
COME! ye generous, gallant band,
Bulwarks of your native land,
In determin'd phalanx stand,
Firm as rocks, to meet your foe.
Lo! the fiend of France draws nigh!
-Now your noble hearts beat high:
Hark! he threats that ye shall die,
Die or groan in slavery.
Europe's scourge! he now aspires
Here to quench bright Freedom's fires,
Cherish'd by our warlike Sires,
Many a splendid century.
Thinks he that we fear his power?
No! he comes to meet his hour,
Here his evil angels lour,
Death, and scoffing Infamy!
All in vain his demon-band
Pant to tread this sacred land,
Britons circle hand in hand,
Sworn to conquer or to die.
Lo! the savage horde arrives.
-Now to save your homes, your wives, Now to save your childrens' lives,
Men of England crush the foe!
Hark! he raves, in fury dire;
Men of England! rouze your ire!
Hearts of iron, souls of fire,
Guard your country's liberty!
If you hate the name of slave,
Fight, your liberties to save,
Win the field, or find a grave,
Where freemen may nobly die.
Tom, you tell us, has treated you ill past example: He's sick-go prescribe your revenge will be ample.
LE CONNOISSEUR OF MARMONTEL.
Ir, my Louisa, it be true
That souls transmigrate when we die, May mine, existing but for you,
For you a rose-bud vivify.
And if by eyes unhallow'd seen,
By hands profane, approach'd too nigh,
I'd shrink beneath my thorny skreen,
And sheltered there indignant lie.
But by Louisa's presence grac'd
I'd spread to meet her brilliant eyes;
If on her swelling bosom plac'd
Where love in chaste concealment lies.
I'd there display my gayest bloom,
Exhaling all my fragrance there,
That mingling with her breath's perfume,
I might congenial sweetness share.
CONSOLATIONS OF VICISSITUDE.
WHY, o'er the tomb of what his soul held dear,
Hangs the wan youth with agonizing tear?
Nature, to thee 'tis sacred! yet shall Mind,
From Reason's store, some consolation find;
Of change, or chance, tho' he awhile complain,
O, let him pause and meditate again!
O Thou! who in the clear blue sky art seen,
Jocundly smiling, soothingly serene!
Or, veil'd in dreadful Majesty afar,
Hurl'st the red shafts of elemental war!
Winging thy lightning, which to mortal sight
Falls not where Man, vain Man, would deem aright;
Teach us to put our guilty doubts to rest,
For this we know, "Whatever is, is best."
Nor yet e'en here, in Life's uncertain day,
Is there no twilight joy to cheer the way;
Mark how the sun with gently-dawning light,
Dries up the pearly tear-drops of the night,
Or o'er the parched earth steals th' evening dew,
And mellows all the landscape to the view;
So too, shall softening Time with downy wing,
Heal the fierce smarts which from Misfortune spring!
|