THE BROKEN CHINA.

SOON as the sun began to peep
And gild the morning skies,
Young Chloe, from disorder'd sleep,
Unveil'd her radiant eyes.

A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite
That waited on her still,

Had teased her all the tedious night
With visionary ill.

Some shock of fate is surely nigh,
Exclaim'd the timorous maid:
What do these horrid dreams imply
My Cupid can't be dead!'

She call'd her Cupid by his name,
In dread of some mishap;
Wagging his tail, her Cupid came,
And jump'd into her lap.

And now the best of brittle ware,
Her sumptuous table graced:
The gentle emblems of the fair,
In beauteous order placed.

The kettle boil'd, and all prepared
To give the morning treat,
When Dick, the country beau, appear'd,
And bowing took his seat.

Well-chatting on of that and this,

The maid reversed her cup; And, tempted by the forfeit kiss, The bumpkin turn'd it up.

With transport he demands the prize:
Right fairly it was won:

With many a frown the fair denies;
Fond baits to draw him on.

A man must prove himself polite,
In such a case as this;

So Richard strives with all his might
To force the forfeit kiss.

But as he strove-O, dire to tell!
. (And yet with grief I must)
The table turn'd-the china fell,
A heap of painted dust!

O fatal purport of my dream!
(The fair, afflicted, cried)
Occasion'd (I confessary shame)
By childishness and pride

For in a kiss, or two or three,
No mischief could be found;
Then had I been more frank and free,
My china had been 'sound.'

SIR W.

ON

B-T'S BIRTHDAY.

DOES true felicity on grandeur wait?
Delights she in the pageantry of show?
Say, can the glittering gewgaws of the great
An hour of inborn happiness bestow?
He that is just, benevolent, humane,

In conscious rectitude supremely bless'd, O'er the glad hearts of multitudes shall reign, Though the gay star ne'er blazed upon his breast.

Ye happy children of the hoary North,

Hail the glad day that saw your patron born; Whose private virtues and whose public worth Might the rich seats of royalty adorn.

ON THE DEATH OF LORD GRANBY. FOR private loss the lenient tear may flow, And give a short, perhaps a quick relief;. While the full heart, o'ercharged with public woe, Must labour through a long protracted grief.

This sudden stroke ('twas like the lightning's blast)

The sons of Albion can't enough deplore; Think, Britons, think on all his triumphs past, And weep-your Warrior is-alas! no more,

Blight, we are told, respects the Conqueror's tree,

And through the laurel grove with caution flies: Vague-and how vain must that assertion be, Cover'd with laurels when a Granby dies!

ON THE DEATH OF MR.

OF SUNDERLAND.

Go, breath of Sorrow; go, attending sighs! Acquaint the natives of the northern shore, The man they loved, the man they honour'd dies, And Charity's first steward is no more.

Where shall the poor a friendly patron find? Who shall relieve them from their loads of pain? Say, has he left a feeling heart behind,

So gracious-good-so tenderly humane? Yes-there survives his darling offspring—young, Yet in the paths of virtue, steady-sure! "Twas the last lesson from his parent's tongueThink, (O remember) think upon my poor.'

6

ON THE DEATH OF MRS. SLEIGH, OF STOCKTON.

MUCH loved, much honour'd, much lamented Sleigh!

The kindred virtues had expired with thee, Were it ordain'd the daughters of the sky, Like the frail offspring of the earth, could die; Trembling they stand at thy too early doom, And mingling tears to consecrate thy tomb.

ON A VERY YOUNG LADY.

SEE, how the buds and blossoms shoot;
How sweet will be the summer fruit!
Let us behold the infant rose;
How fragrant when its beauty blows!
The morning smiles, serenely gay;
How bright will be the promised day!
Contemplate next the charming maid,
In early innocence array'd;

If, in the morning of her

years,
A lustre so intense appears,

When time shall point her noontide rays,
When her meridian charms shall blaze,
None but the eagle-eyed must gaze.

TO THE HON. MASTER B

SENT WITH A CHOICE COLLECTION OF BOOKS, THOUGH, gentle youth! thy calm untainted mind Be like a morning in the Spring serene,

Time

may commit the passions unconfined To the rude rigour of a noontide reign.

Then in the morn of placid life be wise,

And travel through the groves of science soon; There cull the plants of virtue, that may rise A peaceful shelter from that sultry noon.

ON SEEING W. R. CHETWOOD

CHEERFUL IN A PRISON.

SAY, loved Content-fair goddess! say,
Where shall I seek thy soft retreat,
How shall I find thy halcyon seat,

Or trace thy secret way?

Love pointed out a pleasing scene,
Where nought but beauty could be found,
With roses and with myrtles crown'd,
And named thee for its queen,