Dear rising train, let not my words offend! Nor the pure dictates of my love despise; To one, late like yourselves, attention lend, And, taught by his experience, be wise! Ah! banish from your eye the fiend Disdain; Let fair simplicity supply its place; Nor longer let conceit the bosom stain; The child of weakness, follow'd by disgrace. Should time from you each glowing beauty wrest, You will not then those self-reproaches feel, Which every eye awaken'd in my breast, And twenty winters scarce suffic'd to heel. Nor will your friends observe each faded charm, Since still your countenance its smile retains, And the same lov'd companion, kind and warm, With unassuming manners, yet remains. SEPT. 8, 1795. ON A FAN. Now I've painted these flowers, say what can I do, To render them worthy acceptance from you? I know of no sybil, whose wonderful art Could to them superior virtues impart, Who, of magical influence wonders could tell, And, who over each blossom could mutter a spell. You only the humbler enchantments can prove, That arise from esteem, from respect, and from love; With such I assail you, and pow'rful the charm, When applied to a heart sympathetic and warm; To a heart such as that, which, if right I divine, O C--ll--n--n! dwells in that bosom of thine. NOV. 10, 1795. TO SIMPLICITY. Fair village nymph, ah! may I meet Thy pleasing form where'er I stray! With open air and converse sweet, Still cheer my undiscover'd way! With eyes, that shew the placid mind, And with no feign'd emotions roll; With mien, that sprightly or resign'd, Bespeaks the temper of the soul. With smiles, where not the lips alone Receive a brighter, vermil hue, The cheek does warmer roses own, And the eyes beam, a deeper blue! Though Fashion's minions scorn thy pow'r, And slight thee, 'cause in russet drest, Yet Joy frequents thy peaceful bow'r, And sorrow flies to thee for rest. The echoing laugh, the rapturous tear, The smile of friendship, gay and free, Delight but when they are sincere, And given, lovely nymph, by thee. When my Rosina reads a tale, Though sweet the tuneful accents flow, No studied pathos does prevail To bid the hearer's bosom glow; Her voice to sympathy resign'd, Each different feeling can impart. And, tell me not, we e'er can find A modulator, like the heart! And Mary's locks of glossy brown, That fall in waves, with graceful swell, In ever-varying ringlets thrown, The fairest curls of art excel. Still rob'd in innocence and ease, Daughter of Truth, shall thou prevail, When Affectation cannot please, And all the spells of Fashion fail. NOV. 17, 1795. THE TERRORS OF GUILT. Yon coward, with the streaming hair, And visage, madden'd to despair, With step convuls'd, unsettled eye, And bosom lab'ring with a sigh, Is _Guilt!_--Behold, he hears the name, And starts with horror, fear, and shame!