RECITATIVE .

W HILE Gallia's chief, with cruel conquests vain,
Bids clanging trumpets rend the skies,
The widow's, orphan's, and the father's sighs,
Breathe, hissing through the guilty strain;
Mild Pity hears the harrowing tones,
Mixt with shrieks and dying groans;
While warm humanity, afar,
Weeps o'er the ravages of war,
And shudd'ring hears Ambition's servile train,
Rejoicing o'er their thousands slain.
But when the song to worth is given,

S TESICHORUS TO E RATOSTHENES

A LADY walking in the street
Her lover lately chanced to meet:
But dared not speak when he came nigh,
Nor make a sign, nor wink her eye,
Lest watchful spouse should see or hear:
And servants too were in the rear.
A plea she sought to stop his walk,
To touch his hand, to hear him talk:
A plea she sought, nor sought in vain;
A lucky scheme inspired her brain.
Just as they met, she feign'd to trip,
And sprain her ankle in the slip.
The lover, ready at his cue,

With awe my soul the wreck of Nature views,
The storm amid the echoing mountain hears;
The sighs of Autumn, mingling with my tears,
Mourn the sad ravages which time pursues.
Hear the wild roar of the tempestuous blast,
Whirling the forest leaves to distant air!
See blooming flowers in scatter'd fragments cast,
While torrents pouring thunder on the ear!
The sun's bright beam in dreary winter lost,
Not joyless is, as me, on passion's tempests tost.

My youthful charms fade 'neath my burning eyes,
The soul-entrancing morn of pleasure flies;

SONG I.

WILD wing my notes, fierce passions urge the strain;
Strong flame the fires that kindle in my soul;
I strike the wiery harp, nor will refrain;
Mad is despair, and scorns each feeble rein,
Feelings like mine no virtue can control.
Stifled, th' inflated heart with pain respires,
My crimson veins with struggling blood are press'd,
My cheeks are flush'd with passion's transient fires;
My brain with agonies distracted flies,
Till the fierce streams burst from my burning eyes,

CANTO THE FOURTH .

At length are seen the beauties long deferr'd,
And lips of melting snow have kiss'd the Bird.
Nor Fiction's herald was the gossip Fame,
But modest when the living meteor came;
His brilliant eye no painter's hue could reach,
No voice could emulate his gifted speech;
Nor less approv'd credentials to the Fair,
A look of spirit and a martial air.
Alas, that Beauty's provident Creator
Should in these charms have dress'd a shameless traitor!
Why cannot we distinguish in the face

CANTO THE THIRD .

In this light bark, his fugitive abode,
A pair of Nymphs, gay libertines, were stow'd —
A couple of Dragoons to these were join'd,
In ribbald wit both heroes of their kind —
A Monk — a Nurse — a thund'ring Gasconader,
Of Saints and Vestals a renown'd invader.
It must be own'd, that for a Bird of grace
The whims of chance had found a comic place:
But Strange are bedfellows that flock together,
With no credentials for it but the weather .

CANTO THE SECOND .

The feather'd Pupil could not be a fool
In gift of speech at such a vocal school,
But he was eloquent; the silver tone
Was by the Nuns adopted for their own.
It may be added that he talk'd a book
With a monastic air, and sapient look;
No gasconader, flirting, and profane,
Of the fair sex impertinently vain,
Or who, by secular endearments press'd,
Was into vice and foppery caress'd;
For he was moral, and of beak demure,
A Saint in feathers, innocent and pure;

CANTO I

T HOU , whose attractions, from the world retir'd,
Glow without art, and blush to be admir'd —
Whose piercing intellect, and born for truth,
To virtue has allied the charm of youth —
Has bound the Muses in a wreath of taste,
And vestal honour with a dimple grac'd;
At whose command I sing, in playful rhyme,
Offending purity, infection's crime,
The dupe, the cheat, the polish'd, and the coarse,
The saint by art, the libertine by force;
Be thou alone the genius of my lay,

HYMN XII.

Whene'er one sinner turns to God,
With contrite heart and flowing eyes,
The happy news makes angels smile,
And tell their joys above the skies.

Well may the church below rejoice,
And eccho back the heavenly sound:
" This soul was dead, but now's alive;
" This sheep was lost, but now is found.

See how the willing converts trace
The path their great Redeemer trod;
And follow thro' his liquid grave,
The meek, the lowly son of God.

Here in the holy laver plung'd,

HYMN XI.

See in what grave our Saviour lay,
Before he shed his precious blood;
How he mark'd out the humble way
To sinners thro the mystick flood.

The sun of righteousness his beams,
Tho so divinely fair and bright,
Immers'd in Jordan's swelling streams,
Submitting to this holy rite.

O Jordan! honour'd oft before!
What greater glory would'st thou have,
Than Christ descending from thy shore,
To find in thee a liquid grave?

Thy streams retir'd on either side,