Ah! where is hid, if still it may survive The canker’d tooth of Age and Time’s despight, Ah! where is hid that Orb of glass so bright, That Merlin for King Ryence did contrive; That wond’rous Orb so bright, wherein did live, Or ever Time had brought them into light, The forms of things unborn, which to the sight Its high-enchanted power would strangely give!— For Hope, with counterfeit of this true Glass, Doth so beguile the lover’s easy mind, Still turning it to Fancy’s idiot eye, That Reason’s self forgets her majesty To join the gaze; till the fond phantoms pass, And Grief and stern Repentance rise behind. SONNET TO PETRARCH. O for that shell, whose melancholy sound, Heard in Valclusa by the lucid stream Of laurel-shaded Sorga, spread thy theme, Fair Laura and her scorn, to all around High-built Avignon, on the rocky mound That banks the impetuous Rhone, and like a steam From some rich incense rising, to the extreme Of desolate Hesperia did rebound, And gently waked the Muses:—so might I, Studious of song like thee, and ah! too like In sad complaint of ill-requited love, So might I, hopeless now, have power to strike Such notes, as lovers’ tears should sanctify, And cold Fidele’s melting sighs approve. TO A LADY, WHO DESIRED SOME SPECIMENS OF THE AUTHOR’S POETRY. Let not Eliza bid me now rehearse The unvalued rhymes that long forgotten lie: For all unfit is my rude-fashioned Verse To meet the censure of her curious eye: But for her sake a subject could I choose To draw down fame and envy on the Bard, Thy lovely Self should be my theme and Muse, And thy sweet smile, Eliza, my reward. EPITAPH ON A CHILD WHO DIED OF A SCARLET FEVER IN THE FIFTEENTH MONTH OF HIS AGE. 1802. Though thou wert dear, for lovely was thy form, And fair thy mind, and hopeful from thy birth; Though sudden was the pestilential storm That beat thy tender blossom to the earth; For thee we grieve not; certain that the soul Yet sinless, bursting from its earthy clod, Is borne on angel wings beyond the pole, Where infant innocence hath place with God. EPITAPH ON SIR CHARLES TURNER, BART. IN THE FAMILY MAUSOLEUM AT KIRK LEATHAM, YORKSHIRE. Beneath this hallow’d vault, this awful shade, Amidst his generous Forefathers laid, Lo TURNER sleeps, the latest of his race, In prime of manhood given to Death’s embrace. Heir of their name, and of their virtues heir, His heart was liberal, courteous, brave, sincere. Nor that his only praise; his patient mind, Cheerful in grief, in agony resign’d, Long bore the tedious hours of cureless pain, Which Love and Friendship strove to soothe in vain. Farewell, dear Consort of my happier days! To Thee this duty thy THERESA pays, Lamenting still for Thee, ’till fate shall join Her kindred spirit and her dust with thine.