shade,
  By Friendship led, fair drooping Beauty moves;
Thy hallow'd cup of health affords no aid,
  Nor charm thy birds, that chant their woodland loves.

Each morn I view her thro' thy wave-girt grove,
  Her white robe flutt'ring round her sinking form;
O'er the sweet ruin shine those eyes of love,
  As bright stars beaming thro' a midnight storm.

Here sorrowing Love seeks a sequester'd bow'r.
  Calls on thy spring to calm his troubled breast;
Bright Hope alights not on his pensive hour,
  Nor can thy favour'd fountains yield him rest.

Despair across his joys now intervenes,
  And sternly bids the little cherub fly;
While his eyes close amid thy beauteous scenes.
  His last sighs bless the form that bids him die.

Farewell, then, Bristol! thou canst yield no joy,
  Thy woods look darken'd with funereal gloom,
Sickness and Sorrow on thy green banks sigh,
  And all thy form is but a beauteous tomb.

Ah! may each future suff'rer, hov'ring near,
  Rais'd by thy genial wave, delighted view
Returning joy and health, supremely dear,
  Long lost to him who sadly sighs adieu!

A SONG.

These shades were made for Love alone,—
  Here only smiles and kisses sweet
Shall play around his flow'ry throne,
  And doves shall sentinel the seat.

Come, Delia! 'tis a genial day;
  It bids us to his bow'r repair:—
"But what will little Cupid say?"—
  "Say! sweet?—why, give a welcome there."

There not a tell-tale beam shall peep
  Upon thy beauty's rich display,—
There not a breeze shall dare to sweep
  The leaves, to whisper what we say.

LINES

ON LADY W—— APPEARING AT THE EXHIBITION.

When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,
  The painter's mimic pow'r no longer mov'd;
All turn'd to gaze upon her beauteous mien,
  None envied her, for, as they look'd, they lov'd.

Amid the proud display of forms so fair,
  Of each fine tint the pencil can impart,
Nature with rapture seem'd to lead her there,
  To prove how she could triumph over Art.

LINES

WRITTEN AT BRIGHTON.

From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng,
  How sweet it is to steal away at eve,
To listen to the homeward fisher's song,
  Whilst dark the waters of the ocean heave;—

And on the sloping beach to bear the spray
  Dash 'gainst some hoary vessel's broken side;
Whilst, far illumin'd by the parting ray,
  The distant sail is faintly seen to glide.

Yes, 'tis Reflection's chosen hour; for then,
  With pensive pleasure mingling o'er the scene,
Th' erratic mind treads over life again,
  And gazes on the past with eye serene.

Those stormy passions which bedimm'd the soul,
  That oft have bid the joys it treasur'd fly,
Now, like th' unruffled waves of Ocean, roll
  With gentle lapse—their only sound a sigh.

The galling wrong no longer knits the brow,
  Ambition feels the folly of her aim;
And Pity, from the heart expanding, now
  Pants to extend relief to ev'ry claim.

Thus, as I sit beside the murm'ring sea,
  And o'er its darkness trace light's parting streak,
I feel, O Nature! that serenity
  Which vainly poetry like mine can speak!

O'er the drear tract of Time, Remembrance views
  Some dear, some long-departed, pleasure gleam;—
So o'er the dark expanse the eye pursues
  Upon the wat'ry edge a transient beam.

The spot fraternal love has sacred made,
  Solemn, yet sweet, like groves in twilight gloom,
Mem'ry revisits, and beneath its shade
  Faintly it sees each faded joy re-bloom.

By Fancy led, from Death's cold bed of stone,
  Lovely, tho' wan, what cherish'd form appears?
Oh! gentle Anna[A]! at thy name alone,
  Genius, and Grace, and Virtue, smile in tears.

Half-wrapp'd in mist I see thy figure move,
  O'er thy pale cheek appears its wonted smile;
With lunar lustre beam those looks of love,
  That once could life of ev'ry care beguile:

Faintly I hear thy angel-voice again;
  There's music in the sweet and dying sound;
Like Philomela's soft and echo'd strain,
  It spreads a soothing consolation round.

Adieu, bless'd shade!—Imagination roves
  To distant regions, o'er th' Atlantic wave;
Ah! not to genial skies, or fragrant groves,
  To drop a tear upon a kindred grave.

Hard was thy fate, Eliza[B]!—It was thine,
  Tho' wit thy mind, tho' beauty grac'd thy form,
Behind Affliction's weeping cloud to shine,
  With star-like radiance, in a night of storm.

Fierce from the sun the fiery fever flew,
  And bade the burning sand become thy tomb!
O'er thee no willow drops its mourning dew,
  Nor spotless lilies o'er thy bosom bloom!

Oh! when we stood around our brother's bier,
  And wept in life's full bloom to see him torn,
Ah! little did ye think that such a tear
  As then ye shed so soon your fate would mourn.

Farewell, dear shades! accept this mournful song,
  At once the tribute of my grief and love;
Fain would it try your virtues to prolong,
  Here priz'd and honour'd, and now bless'd above.

[Footnote A: Mrs. Hodges, a sister of the author.]

[Footnote B: Mrs Fountaine, another sister of the author, who accompanied her husband to Africa, and died at the Government-house, in one of the British settlements on that coast, where she survived but a short time the death of three of her children.]

ECHO.

Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!
Oh! cease to answer to the tones of love;
Or teach my Delia in thine art divine,
Thou loveliest nymph! to hear and answer mine!

OCCASIONAL LINES

Repeated at an elegant Entertainment

GIVEN BY LIEUTENANT-COLONEL D—— TO HIS FRIENDS

IN THE RUINS OF BERRY CASTLE, DEVONSHIRE.[A]

By your permission, Ladies! I address ye,
And for the boon you grant, my Muse shall bless ye.
I do not mean in solemn verse to tell
What fate the race of Pomeroy befell;
To trace the castle-story of each year,
To learn how many owls have hooted here;
What was the weight of stone, which form'd this pile,
Will on your lovely cheeks awake no smile:
Such antiquarian sermons suit not me,
Nor any soul who loves festivity.
Past times I heed not; be the present hour
In life, while yet it blooms, my chosen flow'r,
For well I know, what Time cannot disown,
Amidst this mossy pile of mould'ring stone,
That Hospitality was never seen
To spread more social joy upon the green;
Or, when its noble and capacious hall
Rang with the gambol gay, or