Ah! what to me avails the radiant sky, The verdant meadow, or the vocal grove? No kind companion shares the melting joy, And tunes his lute to melody and love. He was----but oh! no language can express---- What my lov’d Henry ever was to me: My joy in health, my support in distress, My lover, friend, and tender husband he. For me a parent’s love he did forego, With all the pleasures of his native shore: On me alone did ev’ry care bestow; He saw me happy, and he wish’d no more. Keen recollection animates my pain, And all my pleasures past augment my woes; Yet fond remembrance shall those joys retain, While vital life within this bosom flows.” Thus spoke Belinda, on the turf reclin’d; No ray of hope her sadd’ning fancy cheer’d: When from a thicket, as by heav’n design’d, A nymph celestial in her sight appear’d. Her flowing robes wav’d in the ambient air; A flow’ry wreath her modest temples grac’d; Her presence kindly smooth’d the brow of care, And all the horrors of the scene effac’d. Array’d in heav’nly smiles she onward came; Vain phantoms her superior pow’r confest: She view’d the sad, dejected, mournful dame, And thus in soothing accents her address’d. “Do not Belinda at thy fate repine, Nor by thy tears augment the pond’rous load; The lovely youth must be no longer thine: He’s gone, such is the sov’reign will of God. He’s gone to flourish in a fairer soil, A plant too noble for this noxious clime: Where virtue must triumphant ever smile, He’ll share of joys extatic and sublime. Vain are thy sorrows, vain the sighs of those, Who did his favour or his friendship share: He’s gone beyond the reach of human woes, Above the weight of ev’ry worldly care. Pure were the virtues center’d in his breast, With unassuming rectitude they sway’d: His tongue the dictates of his heart express’d, While his mild manners more than words convey’d! But human bliss is of a transient date, Nor permanent thy woes, tho’ now severe: Soon shall you meet in a celestial state, And then no more the pangs of parting fear. ON THE _BIRTH OF J----. H----. Esq.’s SON_. NOVEMBER 15, 1790. Dear lovely babe, with hearts elate, We hail thy natal hour: Here does the Muse impatient wait, Libations kind to pour. Upon a theme so new, so sweet, She now attempts to sing: No foreign aid she needs invite, To touch the vocal string. But while with anxious thoughts on thee, And ardent look, I gaze, Can I the valiant hero see, To animate my lays? The plodding philosophic eye, Shall I attempt to scan? Or in thy infant smiles descry The politicians plan? Too hard the task, my humble muse Can boast of no such art; Though hope, on flutt’ring pinions does All this and more impart. While fondl’d by a mother kind, Thou checks the falling tears, When thy lov’d father to her mind In ev’ry charm appears. His features sweet, attractive, mild, Each soft, each winning grace, She does in thee, her darling child, With fond remembrance trace.