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I.
WHY we love, and why we hate,

,
Is not granted us to know:
Random chance, or wilful fate,

Guides the shaft from Cupid's bow.

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WEEPING o'er thy sacred urn,

Ever shall the M uses mourn ;
Sadly fall their numbers flow,
Ever elegant in woe.

Thousands, nobly born, fhall die,
Thousands in oblivion lie,
Names, which leave no trace behind,
Like the clouds before the wind,
When the dusky shadows pafs,
Lightly fleeting o'er the grass.

But, O Halifax, thy name
Shall through ages rise in fame :
Sweet remembrance shalt thou findi,
Sweet in every noble mind.

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To the HONOURABLE
MISS CARTER E T.
BLOO
LOOM of beauty, early flower

Of the blissful bridal bower,
Thou, thy parents pride and care,
Fairest offspring of the fair,
Lovely pledge of mutual love,
Angel seeming from above,
Was it not thou day by day
Dost thy very sex betray,

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Female niore and more appear,
Female, more than angel dear,
How to speak thy face and mien,
(Soon too dangerous to be seen)
How shall I, or shall the Muse,
Language of resemblance chuse?
Language like thy mien and face,
Full of sweetness, full of grace !

By the next returning spring,
When again the linnets 'sing,
When again the lambkins play,
Pretty sportlings full of May,
When the meadows next are seen,
Sweet enamel! white and green,
And the year in fresh attire,
Welcomes every gay desire,

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Blooming on shalt thou appear
More inviting than the year,

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Fairer fight than orchard shows,
Which beside a river blows :
Yet, another foring I see,
And a brighter bloom in thee :
And another round of time,
Circling, still improves thy prime :
And, beneath the vernal skies,
Yet a verdure more shall rise,
Ere thy beauties, kindling flow,
In each finish'd feature glow,
Ere, in smiles and in disdain,
Thou exert thy maiden reign,
Absolute to save, or kill,
Fond beholders, at thy will.

Then the taper-moulded waste
With a span of ribbon brac'd,
And the swell of either breast,
And the wide high-vaulted chest,
And the neck fo white and round,
Little neck with brilliants bound,
And the store of charms which shine
Above, in lineaments divine,
Crowded in a narrow space
To complete the desperate face,
These alluring powers, and more,
Shall enamour'd youths adore;
These, and more, in courtly lays,
Many an aking heart shall praise.

Happy thrice, and thrice again,
Happiest he of happy men,

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Who,

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