es, shall the happy and blest
Lean over its bright-beaming walls,
To guide and support to the regions of rest
The soul of the patriot who falls.

Britannia! thy Muse, on a rock high and steep,
The fate of the fight shall proclaim;
The strings of her lyre Inspiration shall sweep,
Recording each hero by name.

The world to its centre shall shake with delight,
As thus she announces their fall;
"They sink! our invaders submit to our might,
The ocean has buried them all!"

LINES TO ANNETTE.

Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?
His trembling love unfolded hear?
And mark the while th' impassion'd tear,
Th' impassion'd tear of agony?

Adown his anxious features steal,
Nor then one burst of pity feel?
But, as bereav'd of ev'ry sense,
Look on with cold indifference.
Go, then, Annette, in all thy charms,
Go bless some gayer, happier, arms;
Go, rest secure, thy fear give o'er,
These eyes shall follow thee no more;
And never shall these lips impart
One thought of all that rends my heart.

Yet, since will burst the frequent sigh,
And since the tear will ever fall,
From thee and from the world I'll fly;
Deserts shall hide, shall silence, all.

LINES

SENT WITH SOME INDIAN ROUGE TO MISS W----.

Go, faithless bloom! on Delia's cheek
Your boasted captivations try;
Alas! o'er Nature would you seek
To gain one moment's victory?
Her softer tint, sweet look, and gentle air,
Shall prove you're but a vain intruder there.

But go, display your charms and taste;
Soon shall you blush a richer red,
To find your mimic pow'r surpass'd;
And, whilst upon her cheek you spread
Your vermeil hue, tell her ingenuous heart,
'Tis the first time she ever practis'd art.

MISS W---- RETURNED THE ROUGE

_With the following elegant Lines_.

When men exert their utmost pow'rs,
To while away the tedious hours,
With soothing Flatt'ry's art,
When ev'ry art and work well skill'd,
And ev'ry look with poison fill'd,
Assail a woman's heart,

Tho' ardently she'd wish to be
Proof 'gainst the charms of Flattery,
The task is hard, I ween;
Self-love will whisper "'Tis quite true,
Who can there be more fair than you?
Who more admir'd, when seen?"

Then take this tempting gift of thine,
Nor e'er again wish me to shine
In any borrow'd bloom:
Nor rouge, nor compliments, can charm;
Full well I know they both will harm;
Truth is my only plume.

LINES TO A YOUNG LADY,