Louisa's lips in kisses meet, To charm the gaze of man ; Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know, Lips, breath and bosom I can show, FRUITLESS CARE. In vain, within my tortur'd breast I smile, as though its balms possessing. In vain, those tears that strive to flow, Tears of a heart now. doom'd to languish, In vain! for more than tears or sighs R. A. DAVENPORT. VOL. II. I HORACE, LIB. 1. ODE 4. TRANSLATED BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ. 1. FANN'D by Favonius' balmy wing, And fields no more are white with snow. 2. Beneath the newly-rising Moon, Her Nymphs' and Graces' modest band; 3. Now with the myrtle green, and flowers, 4. Death with impartial step awaits, 5. Then shall no lucky throw to thee, 1802. EPIGRAM. IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH. BY MR. P. DODD. ON THE DEATH OF A SPENDTHRIFT. His last great Debt is paid-poor Tom's no more. *Last Debt! Tom never paid a Debt before. STANZAS, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ELIZA *. BY THE AUTHOR OF THE " Pleasures of Solitude." WHILE to their splendid scenes the race Though years have pass'd; still, from my mind Oh, if a flame as mild, as pure As ever warm'd the virgin-breast, May Heaven's approving smile secure, Dear parted Spirit! thou art blest. Children of Hope, to whom is dear * If the most amiable dispositions, endearing manners, and fine personal attractions, accompanied with a virtuous but unhappy attachment, can awaken sympathy, then will the fate of ELIZA be read, even by strangers, with no common regret. This interesting young lady died on the 22d of April, 1800, in her 24th year, of a rapid decline, to which she resigned herself, with humility and patience truly exemplary, and with a hope full of immortality f The following stanzas, were written on the evening of October the 14th, 1802. There sleeps beneath that chilling sod, But ere the genial hour had past, And rudely lower'd the tempest wild! Sacred the bounds, that now contain Here, Love and Friendship oft retire. Fresh o'er this earth the green-grass wave; Here Youth and Love and Beauty lie! EPITAPH ON ELIZA. WHILE o'er this turf in mingled sadness bend, One wreath, in which thy memory yet shall bloom. P. L. C. |