Each character performs its noble part, And stamps its Image on the Readers heart. In _Tamerlan_ you a true Hero drest, A generous conflict wars within his breast, This there the mightyest passions you have shew’d By turns confest the Mortal and the God. When e’re his steps approach the haughty fair He bows indeed but like a Conqueror, Compell’d to Love yet scorns his servial chain, In spight of all you make the Monarch reign. But who without resistless tears can see The bright, the innocent, _Irene_ die? _Axalla’s_ life a noble ransom paid, In vain to save the much-lov’d charming maid, Nought surely cou’d but your own flame inspire Your happy Muse to reach so soft a fire. Yet with what Art you turn the pow’rful stream When trecherous _Ragallzan_ is the theam: You mix our different passions with such skill, We feel ‘em all and all with pleasure feel. We love the mischief, thô the harms we grieve, And for his wit the villain we forgive. In your _Despina_ all those passions meet, Which womans frailties perfectly compleat. Pride and Revenge, Ambition, Love and Rage, At once her wilful haughty Soul engage; And while her rigid Honour we esteem, The dire effects as justly must condemn. She shews a virtue so severely nice As has betray’d it to a pitch of vice. All which confess a God-like pow’r in you Who cou’d form woman to herself so true. Live, mighty Sir, to reconcile the Age To the first glories of the useful Stage. ‘Tis you her rifl’d Empire may restore And give her power she ne’re cou’d boast before. _To_ Damon. _To inquire of him if he cou’d tell me by the Style, who writ me a Copy of Verses that came to me in an unknown Hand, by Mrs._ A. B. Oh, _Damon_, if thou ever wert That certain friend thou hast profest, Relieve the Pantings of my heart, Restore me to my wonted rest. Late in the _Silvian_ Grove I sat, Free as the Air, and calm as that; For as no winds the boughs opprest, No storms of Love were in my breast. A long Adieu I’d bid to that Ere since _Amintas_ prov’d ingrate. And with indifference, or disdain, I lookt around upon the Plain And worth my favor found no sighing Swain. But oh, my _Damon_, all in vain I triumph’d in security, In vain absented from the Plain. The wanton God his power to try In lone recesses makes us yeild, As well as in the open feild; For where no human thing was found My heedless heart receiv’d a wound. Assist me, Shepherd, or I dye, Help to unfold this Mystery.