* Reflections of a Poet, on being invited to a great Dinner

SONNET--On seeing a Young Lady confined in a Madhouse

To Thaddeus

SONNET--To a Lyre

Address to Albion

SONNET--On the Death of Toussaint L'Ouverture

Epitaph--On Matilda

SONNET--To Peace

* Love

* SONNET--In the Manner of the Moderns

* Lines, delivered at a Young Ladies' Boarding School

On the Death of Sir Ralph Abercrombie

To ----

SONNET--To Melancholy

* Prometheus

To my Readers_ [This section may no longer exist.]

TO THE REVIEWERS.

Oh, ye! enthron'd in presidential awe,
To give the song-smit generation law;
Who wield Apollo's delegated rod,
And shake Parnassus with your sovereign nod;
A pensive Pilgrim, worn with base turmoils,
Plebian cares, and mercenary toils,
Implores your pity, while with footsteps rude,
He dares within the mountain's pale intrude;
For, oh! enchantment through its empire dwells,
And rules the spirit with Lethean spells;
By hands unseen aerial harps are hung,
And Spring, like Hebe, ever fair and young,
On her broad bosom rears the laughing loves,
And breathes bland incense through the warbling groves;
Spontaneous, bids unfading blossoms blow.
And nectar'd streams mellifluously flow.
There, while the Muses, wanton, unconfin'd,
And wreaths resplendent round their temples bind,
'Tis yours, to strew their steps with votive flowers;
To watch them slumbering midst the blissful bowers;
To guard the shades that hide their sacred charms;
And shield their beauties from unhallow'd arms!
Oh! may their suppliant steal a passing kiss?
Alas! he pants not for superior bliss;
Thrice-bless'd, his virgin modesty shall be
To snatch an evanescent ecstacy!
The fierce extremes of superhuman love,
For his frail sense too exquisite might prove;
He turns, all blushing, from th'Aoenian shade
To humbler raptures, with a mortal maid.

I know 'tis yours, when unscholastic wights
Unloose their fancies in presumptuous flights,
Awak'd to vengeance, on such flights to frown.
Clip the wing'd horse, and roll his rider down.
But, if empower'd to strike th'immortal lyre.
The ardent vot'ry glows with genuine fire,
'Tis yours, while care recoils, and envy flies
Subdued by his resistless energies,
'Tis yours to bid Pierian fountains flow,
And toast his name in Wit's seraglio;
To bind his brows with amaranthine bays,
And bless, with beef and beer, his mundane days!
Alas! nor beef, nor beer, nor bays are mine,
If