also known as: Sir John Carr
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Wide thro' the azure blue and bright
These shades were made for Love alone, -
When stormy show'rs from Heav'n descend,
Alas! but like a summer's dream
Thou, lamp! the gods benignly gave,
See, the waves clasp the Sun, as he sinks from our sight,
Poor Molly O'Flannagan (Lord rest her soul!)
The Cit, relying on his trade,
Echo! thou sweet enchantress of the grove!
To such extremes were I and Bet
How fairly Fortune all her gifts imparts;
Well with the purpose does the place agree;
By painful sickness long severely prest,
Epitaph To The Memory Of A Worthy Man, The Rev. Mr. Sleep, Curate Of Kingswear Church, Devon, Whose Devotional Elocution Was Remarkably Impregnated With Soporific Qualities.
Bristol! in vain thy rocks attempt the sky,
When men exert their utmost pow'rs,
The sign of the house should be chang'd, I'll be sworn,
By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,
Whilst, in a dress that one might swear
How like is childhood to the lucid tide
Tell me, thou grotto! o'er whose brow are seen
Madam! you ask what marks for beauty pass:
Adieu! dear girl! if we are doom'd to part,
With horror dumb, tho' guiltless, stood
Go, little flutt'rer! seek thy feather'd loves,
When lovely Delphine sought the crowded scene,
In days that long have glided by,
Go, faithless bloom! on Delia's cheek
Tho' unknown is the hand that bestow'd thee on me,
These bays be thine; and, tho' not form'd to shine
Written during a severe Winter.
Oh! form'd to prompt the smile or tear,
Whose Timidity frequently agitated her, when pressed to gratify her Friends by her Musical Talents.
Thou rear'st thy beauteous head, sweet flow'r
Canst thou, Annette, thy lover see?
Say, Delia, why, in muslin shade,
Occasioned by a very amiable and generous Friend of mine munificently presenting Miss E.S. with a Donation of Fifteen Thousand Pounds.
Sweet guardian of the rosy cheek!
Once, for a palace, Painting left her grove,
Tho', Julia, we are doom'd to part,
Oh! why does sorrow shade thy face,
Upon Her Appearing At A Ball In An Elegant Plaid Dress,
I look'd the fragrant garden round
Since Friendship soon must bid a fond adieu,
Tell me what taught thee to display
Oft does the lucid pebble shine,
When Heav'n, sweet Laura! form'd thy mind,
Within his cold and cheerless cell,
Tho' nought, amid these darkened groves,
Oh! with what genuine pleasure do I trace
'Twas when the leaves were yellow turn'd,
Upon His Approaching Nuptials With The Princess Shebatoff.
O Study! while thy lovers raise
Dire were the horrors of that ruthless storm,
[The Original in Dutch.]
Tyrant of all our loves and friendships here,
Ah, stranger! if thy pilgrim footsteps love,
- manibus date lilia plenis:
Sing, bird of grief! still eve descending,
Well on that neck, sweet Kitty! may you wear
Sweet stranger! tho' the merc'less storm
The Moon had bespangled the murmuring wave,
In Mousseau's sweet Arcadian dale
Much injur'd, Scotia! was thy genuine worth,
Gorgeous and splendid was the sight;
Upon its native pillow dear,
When Time a mellowing tint has thrown
No sweeter verse did e'er inspire
From Mirth's bright circle, from the giddy throng,
Bless'd are the steps of Virtue's queen!
Amid the ruins of monastic gloom,
Still Summer lingers on these peaceful shores,
Reader! I do not wish to brag;
In which the Author had taken Shelter during a violent Storm, Upon Seeing An Idiotic Youth Seated In The Chimney-Corner, Caressing A Broom.
Tho' leafless are the woods, tho' flow'rs no more,
Delicious gloom! asylum of repose!
When thoughtless Delia unconcern'd surveys
Ah! sweet romantic spot, adieu!
Say, lovely Charlotte! will you let me prove
Who supports herself, and an aged and infirm Mother, by selling Stockings and Gloves of her own Knitting, which she offers to Travellers as they pass by; in doing which she has been known to run close by the Side of a Carriage for several Miles.
Bless'd be thy slumbers, little love!
Streams ever limpid, fresh, and clear,
'Tis pity, ev'ry maiden knows,
Given By Lieutenant-Colonel D ---- To His Friends In The Ruins Of Berry Castle, Devonshire.[A]
To my Muse give attention, and deem it not a mystery
Rebecca was the fairest maid
A wreath from an immortal bough
Ah! if my voice is heard in vain,
Nature's imperfect child, to whom
Wilt thou, because thy Florio loves,
No gentleman of England now sits at home at ease,
Has Time a changeling made of thee?
When storms on the ocean
Here, far from all the pomp Ambition seeks,
Ah! hapless stranger! who, without a tear,
The leaves are flutter'd by no tell-tale gales,
- "they show an outward hideousness,
In a chariot of fire, thro Hell's flaming arch,
Upon the breezy cliff's impending brow,
Awake, my Muse! awake each slumb'ring string,
This is the favourite Song with the Inhabitants of the vine-covered Region of the Rhingau, an extensive District along the Banks of the Rhine, where the finest Wines are produced.
By the walk of the willows I pour'd out my theme,
[The French is by Bosquillon, which I translated as under, in a beautiful Swedish island in the Baltic, as I sat by the side of a fine clear stream of rock-water.]
Oh, Time! thy merits who can know?
Just as a fawn, in forest shade,
Emma! 'tis early time for thee
Think not, thou pride of Summer's softest strain!
Time, since thou gav'st this flow'r to me,
Dearer to me, thou pile of dust!
[These Lines were written for a Lady who set them to Music.]