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TO MY DAUGHTER,
DEAR to my heart as life's warm stream,
For thee I court the waking dream,
Yet will it be as when the past
Twin'd ev'ry joy, and care, and thought, And o'er our minds one mantle cast Of kind affection finely wrought? Ah no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne'er can meet again.
May he who claims thy tender heart
If so belov'd, thou'rt fairly won ;
THOUGH NO specious skill I show
On a lie my bliss to raise,
Should I, (tell me) should I swear
With heaven's purest fleece might vie? Should I urge the false pretence,
.Would'st thou not with scorn reprove? Yes-thy more exalted sense,
Severs flattery from love.
Must the false one gain the heart,
Vainly sought without disguise?
E'en though Anna is the prize :
Arts, for my weak grasp too high-
Few, I own, to truth attend,
Take my everlasting love.
The Monthly Mirror.
BY A GENTLEMAN
Omitting to subscribe his name to a Letter to a Lady.
"Tis true I did forget my name,
But many a man has done the same,
In circumstance like mine;
Alas! my crazy head's too prone
Not only to forget my own,
But every name-but thine.
Howe'er the means are in your pow'r
(Dear charmer, then abet it)
And never more forget it.
Addressed to Mrs. Crew, by the Hon. Charles Fox.
WHEN the loveliest expression to features is join'd,. By nature's most delicate pencil design'd,
When blushes unbidden, and smiles without art, Speak the sweetness and feeling that dwells in the heart;
When in manners enchanting no blemish we trace,
Then tell me, mysterious enchantress! O tell!
Is't ambition that fills up each chink of my heart,
For alike in this only, enjoyment and pain
Both slacken the springs of the nerves which they
That I've felt each reverse which from fortune can
That I've tasted each bliss which the happiest know, Has still been the whimsical fate of my life,
Where anguish and joy have been ever at strife. But tho' vers'd in th' extreme both of pleasure and
I'm still but too ready to feel them again;
If then, for this once in my life, I am free,
And escap'd from a snare, might catch wiser than me,
But 'tis love, and love only, our hearts can inflame.
HERE is my much lov'd Celia laid,
At rest from all her earthly labours!
And to the ears of all her neighbours!