Lady's Poetical Magazine, Or Beauties of British Poetry

• Down in your lap a plenteous fhower they fall;
• Glad you receiv'd them, and you eat them all.

When fair-day came, I donn'd my Sunday fuit,
Brush'd the best pillion clean, and faddled Cutt.
Then up we got; you clung about my waist;
Pleas'd to be hugg'd, I charg'd you clip me faft;
And when you loos'd your hold, and backwards flipp'd,
I held your petticoats, and never peep'd.

The pofied garters, and the top-knot fine,
The golden gingerbread, and all was mine:

I paid the puppet-fhow, the cakes, the fack;

And, fraught with fairings, brought you laughing back,
Sufan but fpoke, and each gay flower was there,

To dress her bough-pot, or adorn her hair;
For her the choiceft of the woods I cull,
Sloes, hips, and strawberries, her bellyful:
< My hoard of apples I to her confefs'd;

My heart was her's, well might she have the rest,
And Sufan well approv'd her Robin's care:

Yes, you was pleas'd; at least you faid you were,
In love's foft fire you feem'd like me to burn,
And footh'd my fondness with a kind return.
At our long table, when we fat to dine,

• You ftretch'd your knees, and mingled feet with mine;
With fatteft bacon you my trencher ply'd,

And flic'd my pudding from the plummy fide:
And well I wot, when our small-beer was ftale,
You ftole into the barn, and brought me ale.
But, oh! the foldier, blafter of my hopes!
(Curse on pretending kings, and Papish popes!)
He came from Flanders with the red-coat crew,
To fight with rebels, and he conquer'd you.

• His dowlas ruffles, and his copper lace,

His brickduft stockings, and his brazen face ;
These are the charms for which you flight my youth,
Charms much too potent for a maiden's truth!

• Soon on the feather'd fool you turn'd your eyes;
• Eager you liften'd to the braggart's lyes;

And, fcorning me, your heart to him refign,
• Your faithless heart, by vows and service mine.
True, he is gone, by our brave duke's command,
To humble Britain's foes in foreign land ::

Ah, what is that! the fpoiler bears away

• The only thing for which 'twas worth to stay,
But forrow's dry; I'll flake it in the brook-
• Ọ well-a-day! how frightful pale I look!
"Care's a confumer," (fo the faying speaks ;)

The faying's true, I read it in my cheeks.
Fye! I'll be chearful, 'tis a fancied pain;
A flame fo conftant cannot meet disdain ;
I'll wash my face, and shake off foul despair;
My love is kind!-alas, I would fhe were!
• Well fays our parfon; and our parson said,
"True love, and tithes, should ever well be paid,"
Sufan, from you my heart shall never roam,
If your's be wandering, quickly call it home,'

ΤΟ ΤΗΣ RIGHT HON.

LADY ANNE COVENTRY.

UPON VIEWING HER FINE CHIMNEY-PIECE OF SHELL

WORK.

THE

BY MR. SOMERVILLE.

HE greedy merchant plows the sea for gain,
And rides exulting o'er the watery plain;

While howling tempefts, from their rocky bed,
Indignant break around his careful head.

The royal fleet the liquid waste explores,
And speaks in thunder to the trembling shores;

The

The voice of wrath awak'd, the nations hear,
The vanquish'd hope, and the proud victors fear;
Those quit their chain, and thefe refign their palm,
While Britain's awful flag commands a calm.

The curious fage, nor gain nor fame pursues,
With other eyes the boiling deep he views;
Hangs o'er the cliff inquifitive to know

The secret causes of it's ebb and flow;
Whence breathe the winds that ruffle it's smooth face,
Or ranks in claffes all the fishy race,

From those enormous monsters of the main,
Who in their world, like other tyrants, reign,
To the poor cockle-tribe, that humble band,
Who cleave to rocks, or loiter on the ftrand.
Yet even their shells the Forming Hand divine
Has, with diftinguish'd luftre, taught to shine.
What bright enamel! and what various dyes!
What lively tints delight our wondering eyes!
Th' Almighty Painter glows in every line :
How mean, alas! is Raphael's bold defign,
And Titian's colouring, if compar'd to thine!
Juftly Supreme! let us thy power revere,
Thou fill'st all space! all-beauteous every where!
Thy rifing fun with blushes paints the morn;
Thy fhining lamps the face of night adorn;
Thy flowers the meads, thy nodding trees the hills;
The vales thy pastures green, and bubbling rills:
Thy coral groves, thy rocks that amber weep,
Deck all the gloomy manfions of the deep;
Thy yellow fands, diftin&t with golden ore,
And these thy variegated fhells, the fhore!
To all thy works fuch grandeur haft thou lent,
And fuch extravagance of ornament.

For the falfe traitor, man, this pomp and fhow?"
A scene fo
for us poor worms below?

gay,

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 closet shine,
Best know to use each bleffing he bestows,

Best know to praise the Power from whence it flows.
Shells in 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 fhining 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 softest face;
To crown this piece, fo elegantly neat,

Your well-wrought busto shall the whole compleat;
O'er your own work from age to age prefide,
It's author once, and then it's greatest pride.

THE

YOUNG WIDOW.

BY MR. CHARLES DENIS.

ULSE fhook his head; poor Damon lay a dying ;

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, fo 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

When to her house 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, just 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 digest
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 drefs her grief, and fuit her face:

'Twas Cupid's thought; for what exceeds

A pretty widow in her weeds !