Still she lights the conscious flame,
Still her charms appear the same;
If she strikes the vocal strings,
If she's silent, speaks, or sings,
If she sit, or if she move,
Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the casual transient glance,
Which alone can please by chance-
Beauty, which depends on art,
Changing with the changing heart,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
Pendent gems, and rich brocade.
I those charms alone can prize
Which from constant Nature rise,
Which nor circumstance, nor dress,
E'er can make, or more, or less.

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TO A FRIEND.

No more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless sighs are breathed for more.
Oh! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchase Heaven, has gold the power?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life, can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be sold?
No; all that's worth a wish-a thought,
Fair Virtue gives unbribed, unbought.
Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.

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With Science tread the wondrous way,
Or learn the Muse's moral lay;

In social hours indulge thy soul,

Where Mirth and Temperance mix the bowl;
To virtuous love resign thy breast,

And be, by blessing beauty, blest.

Thus taste the feast by Nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come, taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife!
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, in Stella, and content;

And scorn, oh! let that scorn be thine,
Mere things of clay, that dig the mine!

TO A YOUNG LADY,

ON HER BIRTHDAY.

THIS tributary verse receive, my fair,
Warm with an ardent lover's fondest prayer.

May this returning day for ever find

Thy form more lovely, more adorn'd thy mind;
All pains, all cares, may favouring Heaven remove,
All but the sweet solicitudes of love!

May powerful Nature join with grateful Art,
To point each glance, and force it to the heart!
Oh then, when conquer'd crowds confess thy sway,
When ev'n proud Wealth and prouder Wit obey,
My fair, be mindful of the mighty trust,
Alas! 'tis hard for beauty to be just!

Those sovereign charms with strictest care employ ;
Nor give the generous pain, the worthless joy :

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With his own form acquaint the forward fool,
Shown in the faithful glass of Ridicule;
Teach mimic Censure her own faults to find,
No more let coquettes to themselves be blind,
So shall Belinda's charms improve mankind.

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EPILOGUE

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY A LADY WHO WAS TO PERSONATE 'THE GHOST OF HERMIONE.'

YE blooming train, who give despair or joy,
Bless with a smile, or with a frown destroy;
In whose fair cheeks destructive Cupids wait,
And with unerring shafts distribute fate ;
Whose snowy breasts, whose animated eyes,
Each youth admires, though each admirer dies;
Whilst you deride their pangs in barbarous play,
Unpitying see them weep, and hear them pray,
And unrelenting sport ten thousand lives away:
For you, ye fair! I quit the gloomy plains,
Where sable Night in all her horror reigns;
No fragrant bowers, no delightful glades,
Receive th' unhappy ghosts of scornful maids.
For kind, for tender nymphs, the myrtle blooms,
And weaves her bending boughs in pleasing glooms;
Perennial roses deck each purple vale,

And scents ambrosial breathe in every gale;
Far hence are banish'd vapours, spleen, and tears,
Tea, scandal, ivory teeth, and languid airs;

No pug, nor favourite Cupid there enjoys
The balmy kiss for which poor Thyrsis dies;

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Form'd to delight, they use no foreign arms,

No torturing whalebones pinch them into charms;
No conscious blushes there their cheeks inflame,
For those who feel no guilt can know no shame;
Unfaded still their former charms they show,
Around them pleasures wait, and joys for ever new.
But cruel virgins meet severer fates;

Expell'd and exiled from the blissful seats,
To dismal realms, and regions void of peace,
Where furies ever howl, and serpents hiss,
O'er the sad plains perpetual tempests sigh,
And pois'nous vapours, blackening all the sky,
With livid hue the fairest face o'ercast,
And every beauty withers at the blast:
Where'er they fly, their lovers' ghosts pursue,
Inflicting all those ills which once they knew;
Vexation, fury, jealousy, despair,

Vex every eye, and every bosom tear;
Their foul deformities by all descried,
No maid to flatter, and no paint to hide.

Then melt, ye fair, while crowds around you sigh,
Nor let disdain sit lowering in your eye;
With pity soften every awful grace,

And beauty smile auspicious in each face;
To ease their pain exert your milder power;

So shall you guiltless reign, and all mankind adore.

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THE YOUNG AUTHOR.

WHEN first the peasant, long inclined to roam,
Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,
Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields,
Ile scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields;

Then dances jocund o'er the watery way,

While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play:
Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,
And future millions lift his rising soul;
In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine,
And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine.
Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies,
Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise;
Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore,
And vows to trust the faithless deep no more.
So the young author, panting after fame,
And the long honours of a lasting name,
Intrusts his happiness to human kind,
More false, more cruel than the seas or wind!

Toil on, dull crowd! in ecstasies he cries,
For wealth or title, perishable prize;
While I those transitory blessings scorn,
Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.

This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late,
He flies to press, and hurries on his fate;
Swiftly he sees th' imagined laurels spread,
And feels th' unfading wreath surround his head.
Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth be wise,
Those dreams were Settle's1 once, and Ogilby's! 2
The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise,
To some retreat the baffled writer flies,
Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest,
Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest ;
There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot-
Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

1 'Settle:' sce Life of Dryden.—2 'Ogilby:' a poor translator.

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