he now can give, or thou receive.
When last I saw thee in thy envied bloom,
That promis'd health and joy for years to come,
Methought the lily, nature proudly gave,
Would never wither in th'untimely grave.
Ah, sad reverse! too soon the fated hour
Saw the dire tempest 'whelm th'expanding flow'r?
Then from thy tongue its music ceas'd to flow;
Thine eye forgot to gleam with aught but woe;
Peace fled thy breast; invincible despair
Usurp'd her seat, and struck his daggers there.
Did not the unpitying world thy sorrows fly?
And ah, what then was left thee--but to die!
Yet not a friend beheld thy parting breath,
Or mingled solace with the pangs of death:
No priest proclaim'd the erring hour forgiv'n,
Or sooth'd thy spirit to its native heav'n:
But Heaven, more bounteous, bade the pilgrim come,
And hovering angels hail'd their sister home.
I, where the marble swells not, to rehearse
Thy hapless fate; inscribe my simple verse.
Thy tale, dear shade, my heart essays to tell;
Accept its offering, while it heaves--farewel!

_SONNET_.

TO PEACE.

Come long-lost blessing! heaven-lov'd seraph, haste,
On pity's wings upborne, a world's wide woes
Invoke thy smiles extatic, long effac'd,
Beneath the tear which all corrosive flows;
While reason shudders, let ambition weep,
When wounding truth records what it has done:
Records the hosts consign'd to death's cold sleep,
Conspicuous 'mid the pomp of conflicts won!
Shall not the fiend relent, while groaning age
Pours its deep sorrows o'er its offspring slain;
While sire-robb'd infants mourn the deathful rage,
In many a penury enfeebled strain?
Sweet maid, return! behold affliction's tear,
And in my theme accept a nation's prayer.

LOVE.

Love! what is love? a mere machine, a spring
For freaks fantastic, a convenient thing,
A point to which each scribbling wight must steer,
Or vainly hope for food or favor here,
A summer's sigh, a winter's wistful tale,
A sound at which th'untutor'd maid turns pale,
Her soft eyes languish and her bosom heaves,
And hope delights as fancy's dream deceives.

Thus speaks the heart, which cold disgust invades,
When time instructs and hope's enchantment fades;
Through life's wide stage, from sages down to kings,
The puppets move, as art directs the strings;
Imperious beauty bows to sordid gold,
Her smiles, whence heaven flows emanent, are sold;
And affectation swells the entrancing tones,
Which nature subjugates, and