In the MANNER of SPENCER.

O PEACE, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an Olive Tree,
I would that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be !
For ô! I wish my SARA's frowns to flee,

And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,

Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,

But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant Wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow

With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engross'd, Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,

As tho' my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.

"From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal

boast,

Rejected SLUMBER ! hither wing thy way; "But leave me with the matin hour, at most! As night-clos'd flowret to the orient ray,

My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.

But Love, who "heard the silence of my thought," Contriv'd a too successful wile, I ween:

And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught— "Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen: "To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien !"

He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed

The Morning shot her dewy glances keen,

When as I 'gan uplift my drowsy head

"Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!" the laughing Elfin said.

SLEEP, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;

When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,
With pathless wound it pierc'd him to the heart.
Was there some Magic in the Elfin's dart ?

Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?

For strait so fair a Form did upwards start

(No fairer deck'd the Bowers of old Romance)

That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor mov'd from his sweet

Trance!

My SARA came, with gentlest Look divine;

Bright shone her Eye, yet tender was its beam :

I felt the pressure of her Lip to mine!

Whisp'ring we went, and Love was all our theme-
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,

He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did

'bide

That I the living Image of my Dream

Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd

"O! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide !"

July, 1795.

TO THE

AUTHOR * of POEMS,

Published anonymously at BRISTOL, in September, 1795.

Unboastful BARD! whose verse concise yet clear
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,

May your fame fadeless live, as

66 never-sere"

The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
Embow'rs me from Noon's sultry influence!
For, like that nameless Riv'let stealing by,

Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear

Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd: the charm'd eye Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the Poetic mount

A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow

*Mr. Joseph Cottle.