thine
To rend fond hearts, and start the tend'rest tear
Where joy should long in cloudless radiance shine.

Alas! the mourning Muse in vain would paint,
Blest shade! how purely pass'd thy life away,
Or, with the meekness of a favour'd saint,
How rose thy spirit to the realms of day.

'Twas thine to fill each part that gladdens life,
Such as approving angels smile upon;--
The faultless daughter, parent, friend, and wife,--
Virtues short-lived! they set just as they shone.

Thus, in the bosom of some winding grove,
Where oft the pensive melodist retires,
From his sweet instrument, the note of love,
Charms the rapt ear, but, as it charms, expires.

Farewell, pure spirit! o'er thine early grave
Oblivion ne'er shall spread her freezing shade;
Nature shall bid her richest foliage wave
Where her reposing fav'rite child is laid.

There widow'd fondness oft, when summers bloom.
Shall with thy infant pledge of love repair;
Oft shall they kneel beside thy mossy tomb,
And tears shall dew the flow'rs that blossom there.

LINES

_Written upon a Watch-String_,

MADE AND PRESENTED TO THE AUTHOR BY MISS ----.

Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
What diff'rent thoughts thy taste and beauty move?
This woven chain, which graceful skill displays,
Leads me to think of time, and heave a sigh;
But when on thee and on thy charms I gaze,
Time unremember'd moves, or seems to die.

LINES

_Upon a Diamond Cross_,

WORN ON HER BOSOM BY MISS C.M.

Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
The sparkling cross, with hopes to soften Heaven;
For trust me, tho' so very young and fair,
Thou hast some little sins to be forgiven:--
For all the hopes which wit and grace can spread,
For all the sighs which countless charms can move,
Fall, lovely Kitty! on thy youthful head;
Yet fall they gently--for the crime is love.

LINES TO FORTUNE,

Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine
munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of
Fifteen Thousand Pounds.

Oh, Fortune! I have seen thee shed
A plenteous show'r of treasure down
On many a weak and worthless head,
On those who but deserv'd thy frown.

And I have heard, in lonely shade,
Her sorrows hapless Merit pour;
And thou hast pass'd the drooping maid,
To give some pamper'd fav'rite more.

But tho' so cold, or strangely wild,
It seems that worth can sometimes move;
Thou hast on