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No! for thy glory all these beauties rise;
Yet may improve the good, inftruct the wife,
You, Madam, fprung from Beaufort's royal line,
Who, loft to courts, can in your clofet fhine,
Best know to use each bleffing he bestows,
Best know to praise the Power from whence it flows.
your hand the Parian rock defy,
Or agate, or Ægyptian porphyry;
More gloffy they, their veins of brighter dye.
See! where your rifing pyramids aspire;
Your guests, furpriz'd, the shining pile admire!
In future times, if fome great Phidias rise,
Whofe chiffel with his miftrefs Nature vies,
Who, with fuperior skill, can lightly trace,
In the hard marble block, the softeft face;
To crown this piece, fo elegantly neat,
Your well-wrought bufto fhall the whole compleat;
O'er your own work from age to age prefide,
It's author once, and then it's greatest pride.
ULSE fhook his head; poor Damon lay a dying i
And clofe by his bed-fide his wife fat crying:
Oftay!' fhe faid; and must we part!
My foul, like thine, is on the wing:
Methinks, I feel Death's iron dart;
But, oh! 'tis that which wounds thy heart,
That bears to mine the fting!'
Her grief was great, so was her moan,
And much to die the feem'd inclin'd;
Howe'er, the let him go alone,
And prudently remain'd behind.
A week, or fo, was paft and gone,
Still the continu'd weeping on,
When to her houfe her father came,
And thus addrefs'd the mournful dame :
My child,' faid he,
‹ Think of the living,
enough of tears you've fhed; :
and forget the dead.
Another spouse-don't ftartle at the word,
'Tis but a fecond; you may have a third!
As foon as decency permits,
< I have a husband to propose;
Young, handfome, rich, juft one of those
That's form'd to cure a widow's fits.'
Ah, Sir! is this a father's part,
To wound afresh a bleeding heart?
• Shall I another husband wed?
Oh, no! my only love is dead:
. Nor will I other wedding have,
• Till I am bedded in his grave!
The father left her to digeft
The wife and prudent things he faid;
He put the husband in her head,
And Time, he knew, would do the reft.
The cares of mourning next took place,
To dress her grief, and fuit her face:
'Twas Cupid's thought; for what exceeds
A pretty widow in her weeds!
And now each looking-glafs could tell
That black became her vaftly well.
The fmiles and graces, that were scar'd away,
With all the band of little loves,
And Cytheræa's doves,
Came dropping in each day.
The father, if report fays true,
Another vifit made, ere mourning over;
I'm glad, my dear,' faid he, fo well to find you !"
But mention'd not a word of the new lover:
Muft I then, Sir, remind you?
The thing's too serious to be made a joke of :
• Where is the husband, pray, that once you spoke of ?* Wide is the difference, as you fee it here,
'Twixt widow of a day, and widow of a year.
All lenient Time expands his wings,
Away he flies with human cares;
Then back, full fraught with joy, repairs,
And every balmy comfort brings.
Time checks the mourning husband's fighs; 'Tis he congeals the falling tear,
To form the lovely lucid leer, Which sparkles in a widow's eyes.
ON OCCASION OF THE PEACE.
WRITTEN, IN THE YEAR M DCC LXII.
BY THE REV.. MR. FRANCIS FAWKES.
Peace o'er the world her olive wand extends,
And white-rob'd Innocence from heaven defcends.
DIEU, the horrors of destructive war,
And mad Bellona in her iron car!
But welcome to our smiling fields again,
Sweet Peace! attended with thy jocund train,
Truth, Virtue, Freedom, that can never cloy,
And all the pleafing family of Joy.
Those schemes purfu'd, which Pitt fo wifely plann'd,
Conqueft has shower'd her bleffings on the land;
And Britain's fons more laurels have obtain❜d,
Than all her Henry's, or her Edward's gain'd.
George faw with joy the peaceful period given,
And bow'd obedient to the will of Heaven :
Awful he rose to bid diffention cease,
And all the warring world was calm'd to peace;
Thus did the roaring waves their rage compofe,
When the great father of the floods arofe.
Then came Aftrea mild, our isle to bless,
Fair queen of virtue, and of happiness !
Then came our troops, in fighting fields renown'd,
And mark'd with many an honourable wound.
The tender fair one, long by fears opprefs'd,
Now feels foft raptures rifing in her breast,
The blooming hero of her heart to view,
And hear him bid the dangerous camp adieu.
The widow'd bride, that long on grief had fed,
And bath'd with weeping the deferted bed,
Glad that the tumults of the war are o'er,
That terror, rage, and rapine are no more,
Greets her rough lord, fecure from hostile harms,
And hopes an age of pleasure in his arms:
While he, with pompous eloquence, recites
Dire scenes of caftles ftorm'd, and defperate fights;
Or tells how Wolfe the free-born Britons led,
How Granby conquer'd, and the Houfhold fled;
She, to the pleasing dreadful tale intent,
Now fmiles, now trembles, for the great event.
O curs'd ambition, foe to human good,
Pregnant with woe, and prodigal of blood!
Thou fruitful fource, whence ftreams of forrow flow,
What devastations to thy guilt we owe !
Where'er thy fury riots, all around
Confufion, havock, and dread deaths abound:
Where Ceres flourish'd, and gay Flora fmil'd,
Behold a barren, folitary wild!
To ftately cedars, thorns and briars fucceed,
And in the garden spreads the noxious weed ;
Where cattle paftur'd late, the purple plain,
Sad scene of horror! teems with heroes flain;
Where the proud palace rear'd it's haughty head,
Deep in the duft, fee crumbling columns spread;
See gallant Britons in the field expire,
Towns turn'd to afhes, fanes involv'd in fire !
Thefe deeds the guilt of rash Ambition tell,
And bloody Difcord, furious fiend of hell!
Ye baneful fifters, with your frantick crew,
Hence speed your flight, and take your last adieu,
Eternal wars in barbarous worlds to wage;
There vent your inextinguishable rage,
But come, fair Peace, and be the nation's bride,
And let thy fifter Plenty grace thy fide;
O come! and with thy placid presence chear f
Our drooping hearts, and stay for ever here.
Now be the fhrill ftrife-ftirring trumpet mute;
Now let us liften to the fofter lute:
The shepherd now his numerous flocks shall feed,
Where war relentless doom'd the brave to bleed
On ruin'd ramparts shall the hawthorn flower,
And mantling ivy clafp the nodding tower;
Unusual harvests wave along the dale,
And the bent fickle o'er the fword prevail.
No more shall states with rival rage contend,
But Arts their empire o'er the world extend;
Ingenuous Arts, that humanize the mind,
And give the brightest polish to mankind!
Then shall our chiefs in breathing marble stand,
And life seem starting from the fculptor's hand s
Then lovely nymphs in living picture rife,
The faireft faces, and the brightest eyes:
There polish'd Lane* no lofs of beauty fears;
Her charms, ftill mellowing with revolving years,
Shall, e'en on canvas, youthful hearts engage,
And warm the cold indifference of age:
* The Hon. Mrs. Lane,, daughter of the Right Hon. Lord Chancellor 'Henley, and wife to the Hon. Mr. Lane.