truth disowns.

I love th'ingenuous maiden, practis'd not
To pierce the heart with ambush'd glances, shot
From eyelashes, whose shadowy length she knows
To a hair's point, their high arch when to close
Half o'er the swimming orb, and when to raise,
Disclosing all the artificial blaze
Of unfelt passion, which alone can move
Him, whom the genuine eloquence of love
Affected never, won with wanton wiles,
With soulless sighs and meretricious smiles,
By nature unimpress'd, uncharm'd by thee.
Sweet goddess of my heart, Simplicity!

_SONNET_.

IN THE MANNER OF THE MODERNS.

Meek Maid! that sitting on yon lofty tower,
View'st the calm floods that wildly beat below,
Be off!--yon sunbeam veils a heavy shower,
Which sets my heart with joy a aching, oh!
For why, O maid, with locks of jetty flax,
Should grief convulse my heart with joyful knocks?
It is but reasonable you should ax,
Because it soundeth like a paradox.
Hear, then, bright virgin! if the rain comes down,
'Twill wet the roads, and spoil my morning ride;
But it will also spoil thy bran-new gown,
And therefore cure thee of thy cursed pride.
Moral--this sonnet, if well understood,
Shows the same thing may bring both harm and good.

LINES,

DELIVERED AFTER THE REPRESENTATION OF A PLAY AT
A YOUNG LADIES' BOARDING SCHOOL.

When first the infant bird attempts to fly,
And cautious spreads its pinions to the sky,
Each happy breeze the timid trav'ller cheers,
Assists its efforts, and allays its fears;
Return'd--how pleas'd it views the shelt'ring nest
From which it rose, with doubt and fear oppress'd.

Like this, is ours; this night we ventur'd out
On juv'nile wing, appall'd by many a doubt,
Cheer'd by your sanction, every peril o'er,
With joy we hail this welcome, friendly shore:
Our little band, ambitious now to raise
A pleasing off'ring for your wreath of praise
On them bestow'd, depute me here to tell
The lively feelings that their bosoms swell;
For your indulgent and parental part,
They feel the triumph of a grateful heart:
That, each revolving year shall truly prove,
How much they honor, how sincere they love;
And for your fostering care will make return
By filial duty, and desire to learn.

ON THE DEATH OF

GENERAL SIR RALPH ABERCROMBIE.

Mute, memory stands, at valor's awful shrine,
In tears Britannia mourns her hero dead;
A world's regret, brave Abercrombie's thine.
For nature sorrow'd as thy spirit fle