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Soon on the eye the vivid col'ring fades,

Soon Hope's gay song in distant echo dies, While Mem'ry, pointing thro' her twilight shades, Pours her sad requiem o'er departed joys:

Ah! sweeter grace adorns the drooping rose,
Which, bending, strews her pale leaves o'er thy shrine,
Than when in summer's ruddiest tints she glows,
Wild Riot's festal goblet to entwine.

Lovelier the gem which sparkles on the cheek,
Or lends soft lustre to the pensive eye;
And sweeter language does its silence speak,
Than the rude laughter of insensate joy.

Then, when too oft deceiv'd, the weary heart
Can trust Hope's visionary tale no more,
When life's bright summer hastens to depart,

And age and winter shed their influence hoar,

When the chill evening comes, and every blast
Murmurs of pleasures never to return,
Let me, with thee, retrace the fleeting past,

Smile on my lays, and teach them how to mourn.



TELL me not of size or hue,
Jetty black, or azure blue,
Hazle, sober grey, or brown;
If they're clouded by a frown,
And without expression fraught,
Or signs of reason and of thought,
They'll never please.

But, though sparkling with delight,
Or, with sorrow dark as night;
Tho' their lustre dimm'd by woe,
Or by bashfulness cast low;
If oft gemm'd by Pity's tear,
Let their owner never fear;

They'll surely please.

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On Mr. Day, a very tall man,marrying Miss Knight,

who was rather short.

THIS match to me appears but right,
Though long the Day, yet short the night.



HENCE, curious Toy!—to Laura go,

And dangle by her side,

Thou emblem of a modern beau,
In all his glitt'ring pride.

When in her bed you hang in air,
And measure out dull time,
Say, joy and love should be her care,
Now beauty's in its prime.

When first she wakes at Jenny's knock,
-Then thoughts are frank and free-
Tell her instead of-what's o'Clock,
"Tis time to think of me!

Tell her-a lover in her arms,
His pulse will beat as true;
His heart would spring with love's alarms,
And vibrate quick as you!




YES-labour, love, and toil would please,
Were toil and labour borne for thee;
And Fortune's nursling, lap'd on ease,
In wealth of heart be poor to me!

Why should I pant for sordid gain?

Or why Ambition's voice believe?
Since, dearest, thou dost not disdain.

The only gift I have to give?

Time would with speed of light'ning flee,
And every hour a comfort bring,
And days, and years, employ'd for thee,
Shake pleasures from their passing wing!
Lord Strangford.


SLEEP on, sweet maid, and wait th' Almighty's will, Then rise unchang'd, and be an angel still.

Harrow Church-yard.


IN vain to me the howling deep
Stern Winter's awful reign discloses :
In vain shall Summer's zephyrs sleep

On fragrant beds of budding roses :
To me alike each scene appears,

Since thou hast broke my heart, or nearly; While mem'ry writes in frequent tears, That I have lov'd thee very dearly!

How many summers pass'd away!

How many winters sad and dreary!
And still I taught thee to be gay,

Whene'er thy soul of life was weary ;
When ling'ring sickness wrung thy breast,
And bow'd thee to the earth severely,
I strove to lull thy mind to rest;

For then I lov'd thee,-Oh how dearly!

And though the flush of joy no more
Shall, o'er my cheek its lustre throwing,
Bid giddy fools that cheek adore,

And talk of passion ever glowing—
Still to thy mind should time impart

A charm to bid it feel sincerely; Nor idly wound a breaking heart

That lov'd thee long, and lov'd thee dearly!

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