INSCRIPTION" ON THE MONUMENT OF GENERAL WOLFE. To the memory of Major-General and Commander in Chief of the on an Expedition against Quebec, was slain in the moment of victory on the 14th of September, 1759. The King and Parliament of Great Britain. dedicate this Monument. Westminster Abbey. AT WESTERHAM, KENT, WHERE GENERAL WOLFE WAS BORN. · WHILE George in sorrow bows his laurel'd head, Proud of thy birth, we boast th' auspicious year; Struck with thy fall, we shed the general tear: With humble grief inscribe one artless stone, And from thy matchless honour date our own. TO THE MOON. THOU silent Moon, that look'st so pale, Yet I have often seen thee bring Thy beams o'er yon bare mountain's steep; When the pilgrim's heart did fail, Sure that passing blush deceives; For thou, fair nymph, art chaste and cold; Love our bosom seldom leaves; But thou art of a diff'rent mould! Hail, chaste queen! for ever hail! Yet stay-perhaps thou'st travell'd far, Hath spread his charms before thy sight; From an old MS. TO A FRIEND REMONSTRATING. AH! chide me not, if yet once more Yes, I confess, 'tis poor, 'tis weak And sorrow for an ingrate's charms. Yet let me still my cares retain, Still droop, with folded arms still sigh; Nor mock me that I still remain The willing captive of her eye. ; For Love, with all his keenest smart, And tortur'd thus, thus doom'd to mourn, I still must feed this cherish'd grief, And could my peace once more return, My heart would scorn the poor relief. Then chide me not, if yet once more Bayley's Poems. MODERN SONNET TO AN OLD WIG. HAIL thou! who ly'st so snug in this old box; Like my poor aunt, thou hast seen better days! Oh! thou hast heard e'en Madame Mara sing, Alas! what art thou now? a mere old mop! With which our housemaid Nan, who hates a broom, Dusts all the chambers in my little shop, Then slily hides thee in this lumber room!. Such is the fate of wigs! and mortals too! Vain man! to talk so loud, and look so big! How small's the diff'rence 'twixt thee and a wig! How small, indeed! for speak the truth I must, Wigs turn to dusters, and man turns to dust. The Spirit of Public Journals. As STANZAS FOR MUSIC. s now the shades of eve embrown The scenes where pensive poets rove, From care remote from envy's frown, The joys of inward calm I prove. What holy strains around me swell! No wildly rude tumultuous sound; Sweet is the gale that breathes the spring, Sweet is the note Love's warblers sing, Matthias. |