Say, shall thine eye, and with the eye the mind, Dwell on a work for thee alone design’d? Traced by my hand, selected by my heart, Will it not pleasure to a friend impart, And her dear smile an ample payment prove For this light labour of aspiring love? Read, but with partial mind, the themes I choose; A friend transcribes, and let a friend peruse! This shall a charm to every verse impart, And the cold line shall reach the willing heart; 10 For willing hearts the tamest song approve, All read with pleasure, when they read with love. There are no passions to the Muse unknown— Fear, sorrow, hope, joy, pity are her own. She gives to each the strength, the tone, the power, By varying moods to suit the varying hour; She plays with each, and veils in changing robes The grief she pities, and the love she probes. ’Tis hers for we the sullen smile to feign, } And Laughter lend to Envy’s rankling pain, 20} Soft Pity’s look to Scorn, mild Friendship’s to Disdain. } Joy inexpressive with her tear she veils, And weeps her transport, where expression fails. TO A LADY, ON LEAVING HER AT SIDMOUTH. Yes! I must go—it is a part That cruel Fortune has assign’d me— Must go, and leave, with aching heart, What most that heart adores, behind me. Still I shall see thee on the sand Till o’er the space the water rises; Still shall in thought behind thee stand, And watch the look affection prizes. But ah! what youth attends thy side, With eyes that speak his soul’s devotion— 10 To thee as constant as the tide That gives the restless wave its motion? Still in thy train must he appear, For ever gazing, smiling, talking? Ah! would that he were sighing here, And I were there beside thee walking! Wilt thou to him that arm resign, Who is to that dear heart a stranger, And with those matchless looks of thine The peace of this poor youth endanger? 20 Away this fear that fancy makes, When night and death’s dull image hide thee! In sleep, to thee my mind awakes; Awake, it sleeps to all beside thee. Who could in absence bear the pain Of all this fierce and jealous feeling, But for the hope to meet again, And see those smiles all sorrow healing! Then shall we meet, and, heart to heart, Lament that fate such friends should sever; 30 And I shall say—“We must not part;” And thou wilt answer—“Never, never!” TO SARAH, COUNTESS OF JERSEY, ON HER BIRTHDAY. Of all the subjects poetry commands Praise is the hardest nicely to bestow; ’Tis like the streams in Afric’s burning sands, Exhausted now, and now they overflow. As heaping fuel on a kindling fire, So deals a thoughtless poet with his praise; For, when he would the cheerful warmth inspire, He chokes the very thing he hopes to raise.