Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view;
Like colours o'er the morning skies
As bright, as transient too.

The bashful look, the rising breast,
Alternate spread alarms:
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.

And, ah! forgive a stranger rude, A wretch forlorn," she cried; "Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude Where heav'n and you reside.

"But let a maid thy pity share,
Whom love has taught to stray;
Who seeks for rest, but finds despair
Companion of her way.

"My father liv'd beside the Tyne, A wealthy lord was he;

And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms

Unnumber'd suitors came,

Who prais'd me for imputed charms,
And felt, or feign'd a flame.

"Each hour a mercenary crowd
With richest proffers strove;
Among the rest young Edwin bow'd,
But never talk'd of love.

"In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or pow'r had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

"The blossom op'ning to the day,
The dews of heav'n refin'd,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree, With charms inconstant shine; Their charms were his, but, wo to me, Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art, Importunate and vain ;

And while his passion touch'd my heart, I triumph'd in his pain.

"Till quite dejected with my scorn,
He left me to my pride;

And sought a solitude forlorn
In secret where he died.

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault,
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay.

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I."

"Forbid it, Heaven," the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wond'ring fair-one turn'd to chide, 'Twas Edwin's self that prest.

"Turn, Angelina, ever dear,
My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restor'd to love and thee.

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart, And ev'ry care resign:

And shall we never, never part,
My life-my all that's mine?

"No, never from this hour to part,
We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart Shall break thy Edwin's too.

3

HAUNCH OF VENISON.

AN

EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

First printed in the Year 1765.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer o fatter

Ne'er rang'd in a forest, or smok'd in a platter; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:

I had thoughts, in my chamber, to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtu:
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pro-
nounce,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce;
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then to get courage to fly.
C 2