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VERSES ON MRS. ROWE.

Such were the notes our chaster Sappho sung,
And every Muse dropped' honey on her tongue.
Blest shade! how pure a breath of praise was thine,
Whose spotless life was faultless as thy line;
In whom each worth and every grace conspire,-
The Christian's meekness, and the poet's fire.
Learn’d without pride, a woman without art;
The sweetest manners, and the gentlest heart.
Smooth like her verse her passions learned to move,

And her whole soul was harmony and love.

Virtue that breast without a conflict gained,

And easy, like a native monarch, reigned.
On earth still favoured as by Heaven approved,

The world applauded, and Alexis loved.

With love, with health, with fame and friendship blest,

And of a cheerful heart the constant feast,

What more of bliss sincere could earth bestow?

What purer heaven could angels taste below?

But bliss from earth’s vain scenes too quickly flies ;

The golden cord is broke ;—Alexis dies!

Now in the leafy shade and widowed grove

Sad Philomela mourns her absent love;

Now deep retired in Frome's enchanting vale,
She
pours

her tuneful sorrows on the gale; Without one fond reserve the world disclaims,

And gives up all her soul to heavenly flames.
Yet in no useless gloom she wore her days;
She loved the work, and only shunned the praise :
Her pious hand the poor, the mourner blest;
Her image lived in every kindred breast. .
Thynn, Carteret, Blackmore, Orrery approved,
And Prior praised, and noble Hertford loved;
Seraphic Kenn, and tuneful Watts were thine,
And virtue's noblest champions filled the line.

Blest in thy friendships ! in thy death, too, blest ! Received without a pang to endless rest.

Heaven called the saint matured by length of days,

And her pure spirit was exhaled in praise.
Bright pattern of thy sex, be thou my Muse;
Thy gentle sweetness through my soul diffuse :
Let me thy palm, though not thy laurel share,
And copy thee in charity and prayer :-
Though for the bard my lines are far too faint,
Yet in my life let me transcribe the saint.

TO A DOG.

DEAR faithful object of my tender care,
Whom but my partial eyes none fancy fair ;
May I unblamed display thy social mirth,

Thy modest virtues, and domestic worth :

Thou silent, humble flatterer, yet sincere,

More swayed by love than interest or fear;
Solely to please thy most ambitious view,

As lovers fond, and more than lovers true.

Who can resist those dumb beseeching eyes,

Where genuine eloquence persuasive lies ?
Those eyes, where language fails, display thy heart
Beyond the pomp of phrase and pride of art.
Thou safe companion, and almost a friend,

Whose kind attachment but with life shall end,

Blest were mankind if many a prouder name

Could boast thy grateful truth and spotless fame!

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When blooming beauty in the noon of

power, While offered joys demand each sprightly hour, With all that pomp of charms and winning mien Which sure to conquer needs but to be seen; When she, whose name the softest love inspires, To the hushed chamber of Disease retires,

To watch and weep beside a parent's bed,
Catch the faint voice, and raise the languid head,

What mixt delight each feeling heart must warm !
An angel's office suits an angel's form.
Thus the tall columu graceful rears its head
To prop some mouldering tower with moss o’erspread,

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