Tis vanish'd all! remains alone
The eyeless scalp of naked bone;
The vacant orbits sunk within;
The jaw that offers at a grin.
Is this the object then that claims
The tribute of our youthful flames?
Must amorous hopes and fancied bliss,
Too dear delusions, end in this?
How high does Melancholy swell!
Which sighs can more than language tell;
Till Love can only grieve or fear:
Reflect a while, then drop a tear
For all that's beautiful or dear.
The daughter of a London tradesman, and authoress of various works, chiefly novels. Her Betsey Thoughtless, it has been said, suggested Madame D'Arblay's Evelina.
When Pope placed her in the Dunciad, it is probable that he was as much actuated by some provocation of a personal nature, as by indignation at the immorality of her early writings, for which, however, her later works greatly atoned.
Ximene fearing to be forsaken by Palemon, desires he would kill her.
Ir by my words my soul could be exprest,
You will not wonder at my fond request:
But in compassion with my wish partake,
"Tis kinder far to kill, than to forsake.
"Tis not long life, but glorious death renowns
The hero's honours, and the martyr crowns;
Laurels acquir'd in youth, in age decay,
Or by superior force are torn away,
To deck some new-made, hated, favourite's brow,
Who on the noble ruin great does grow.
A happy end is still the wise man's prayer,
Death is a safe, a sure retreat from care.
Should I live longer, I may lose your love,
And all the hells of desperation prove.
But now to die-now, in my joy's high noon,
Ere the cold evening of contempt comes on,
Were to die blest; and baffle cruel fate,
Which, envious, watches close to change my state.
Nay, more, to die for thee! and by thee too!
Would all my rival's happiness outdo:
My love would live forever in thy mind,
And I should pity those I left behind.
To have those eyes, dear heaven-drest orbs of light,
Convey soft pity to expiring sight,
That voice, whose every melting note inspires
Dissolving languishments, and warm desires,
Tun'd to kind, mournful, murmurings at my pain,
Would give a pride which life could never gain!
Haste then, the joys of passion to refine,
Let thro' my breast thy glittering weapon shine.
Dispel my fears, and keep me ever thine!
HENRIETTA, LADY LUXBOROUGH,
Was half-sister to the famous Lord Bolingbroke.
In Dodsley's Collection, some pieces of poetry ascribed to
a Lady of Quality, proceeded from her pen; one of
them is given here. A volume of her letters to Shen-
stone was printed in 1775.
The Bulfinch in Town.
HARK to the blackbird's pleasing note,
Sweet usher of the vocal throng!
Nature directs his warbling throat,
And all that hear, admire the song.
Yon bulfinch with unvaried tone,
Of cadence harsh, and accent shrill,
Has brighter plumage to atone
For want of harmony and skill.
Yet discontent with nature's boon,
Like man, to mimick art he flies;
On opera-pinions hoping soon
Unrival'd he shall mount the skies.
And while to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage remote from air
And faded plumes, is all he earns!
Go, hapless captive! still repeat
The sounds which nature never taught; Go, listening fair! and call them sweet, Because you know them dearly bought.
Unenvied both! go hear and sing
Your studied music o'er and o'er;
Whilst I attend th' inviting spring,
In fields where birds unfetter'd soar.
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