’Tis an empty fleeting shade, By imagination made: ’Tis a bubble, straw, or worse; ’Tis a baby’s hobby-horse: ’Tis a little living, clear; ’Tis ten thousand pounds a-year: ’Tis a title, ’tis a name: ’Tis a puff of empty fame, Fickle as the breezes blow: ’Tis a lady’s YES _or_ NO! And when the description’s crown’d ’Tis just _no where_ to be found. * * * * * * * * * +For the New-York Weekly Magazine.+ * * * TO AMYNTA. Sad, O Amynta! through these shades I rove, And pensive hear the distant cannon roar; No charming warbler cheers the dreary grove, And peace, and glad content are now no more. ’Twas to these fields our dauntless fires of yore, With their bright goddess Liberty retir’d; They fix’d her standard on the desart shore, The barb’rous native at their feet expir’d. Her smiles illumin’d o’er the gloomy plains, And peace and glory were their valour’s meed: The virtuous ardour still informs our swains, And still they conquer, still they dare to bleed. Erewhile, all uninur’d to war’s alarms, And good and gentle was the generous swain; But now vindictive wrath his bosom warms, He grasps the steel, and treads the sanguine plain. The pensive Genius of our hapless land, Sits sadly weeping on a rock reclin’d: But, see Hope smiling hov’ring o’er him stand, And spread her gilded banners to the wind. MATILDA. CEDAR GROVE, 1777. * * * * * _For the +New-York Weekly Magazine+._ * * * THE CONFESSION. Olivia, though Strephon I praise, His wit and good humour approve; Though the beauty, I own, of his lays, Yet still I may not be in love. His merit was always allow’d, By ev’ry gay nymph on the plain, And I sure must be stupid or proud, Not to join in the praise of the swain. But when each dear look I admire, When with raptures I list to his song, When my heart it beats time to his lyre, And the minutes without him seem long; Then I fear, that not friendship alone, My heart could so tenderly move; Yet, I’m still at a loss, I must own-- For it cannot--it must not be love. To her friend thus the shepherdess said, Who suspected a little deceit, With smiles she reply’d to the maid, (Resolv’d to discover the cheat,) “Suppose he was equally charm’d, “Say, could you the shepherd approve?” The nymph of her caution disarm’d, With blushes confest--she could love. New-York, _August 13, 1796_. * * * * * * * * * AN ELEGY WRITTEN AT SEA. Heaven gave the word, Delia! once more farewell, Ah me! how fleeting all our joys are found; The pangs I feel thy tender heart can tell, For pangs like mine thy tender heart must wound.