Such as, to human fancy, muft improve
The nameless raptures of the bless'd above:
Where is the wretch so hardy to deny,
But female skill with boasted man's may

vie!

The facred art of Poetry, we owe
To that blefs'd fource of chiefeft blifs below,
The fond affection which can live, alone,
Between two hearts that love has render'd one:

Where Nature feems to speak, with meaning plain,

Thy joys, proud man, were without woman vain! Like thee, fhe feels each paffion of the heart, Her blifs as great as thine, as great her smart; And well fhe knows, with words of magick found, • To check the rifing hope, or heal the faithful wound. • Then why refuse them to an equal share

In arts which owe their being to the fair?

Say, canft thou meanly think that science strives

To taint the female breast where most it thrives?

Yet, if a spark within your own refides,

And fcorn to fear YOUR virtue difallow'd!

Unjuft it is-regard the past with shame;

And let them henceforth share the road to fame.'
Happy for England, were each female mind,
To science more, and less to pomp inclin'd;
If parents, by example, prudence taught,

And from their QUEEN the flame of virtue caught!
Skill'd in each art that ferves to polish life,

Behold, in HER, a fcientifick wife!

Tho' moft entitled to the glare of drefs,

No private lady can regard it lefs:

Yet still she keeps the glorious golden mean,
And always wears what best becomes a queen ;
Rich, tho' not tawdry; elegant, tho' neat;
And all her perfon, like her mind, compleat.

While, in each duty of domeftick life,
She yields not to the lefs-exaited wife;
Attends, herself, the royal offspring's care,
And pours the virtuous precept in their ear;
Teaches the duty which to God they owe,
And tells how poor the thanks they can bestow.
Nor doth herfelf neglect each day to join
Their much-lov'd prefence in the rites divine:
And oft her pious lips to Heav'n address

The fervent wish, that Britain's woes were lefs;
That War might sheathe his deeply-crimson'd fword,
And Peace, throughout the world, be once again reilor'd.
Whether we view her as a wife, poffefs'd

Of ev'ry charm to make her confort blefs'd;
(New fource of envy in the breasts of those
His virtues, with his pow'r, have render'd foes :).
Or as a mother, chriftian, `queen, or friend;
Alike we must admire, alike commend!
But vain are words her merits to impart,
For CHARLOTTE's virtues reign-in ev'ry heart.
Great is the task my Genius has affign'd,
And much it needs a more enlighten'd mind;
To traverse Nature's garden all around,
Where ev'ry weed and ev'ry flow'r is found;
Diftinguish well the properties of all,
And harm no grateful herb, however small :
Yet crop each painted pageant of a day,
That hardly blooms before it knows decay;
Nor leave a fingle flow'r, tho' gay or fair,
Which owns a scent less fragrant than the air;
Leaft it's foul breath contaminate the whole,
And make the food-the poison of the soul.

The task is great, indeed! But, when I fear,

My better Genius cries, Still perfevere !

Think, by your means, each fair-one may adorn

Her brow with rofes, fearlefs of the thorn n;

May range thro' Nature's rich parterres with ease,
And fafely pluck whatever flow'r she please ;
Nor fear, howe'er incautioufly she tread,
To place her foot upon the adder's head:

• Affur'd each plant or flow'r that meets her eyes,
Is to the virtuous mind a welcome prize.

E'en CHARLOTTE's felf fome leisure hour may rove
In thofe delightful scenes fhe must approve,
With rapture view the skilful Gard❜ner's care,
And deem THY WORK a bleffing to the Fair!
Dare, then, proceed-nor think your labours hard;
For what of toil can merit fuch reward!'

THE FEMALE

SEDUCERS.

BY MR. EDWARD MOORE.

IS faid of widow, maid, and wife,

"That honour is a woman's life;

Unhappy fex! who only claim
A being in the breath of fame,
Which tainted, not the quick'ning gales
That sweep Sabéa's spicy vales,
Nor all the healing fweets reftore,
That breathe along Arabia's fhore.
The trav'ller, if he chance to ftray,
May turn uncenfur'd to his way;
Polluted ftreams again are pure,
And deepest wounds admit a cure:
But woman no redemption knows
The wounds of honour never close!

1

Tho' diftant ev'ry hand to guide,
Nor skill'd on life's tempeftuous tide,
If once her feeble bark recede,
Or deviate from the courfe decreed,

In vain the feeks the friendlefs fhore,
Her fwifter folly flies before;
The circling ports against her clofe,
And shut the wand'rer from repofe;
Till, by conflicting waves opprefs'd,
Her found'ring pinnace finks to rest.
Are there no offerings to atone
For but a fingle error ?-
-None.
Tho' Woman is avow'd, of old,
No daughter of celestial mould,
Her temp'ring not without allay,
And form'd but of the finer clay,
We challenge from the mortal dame
The ftrength angelick natures claim;
Nay, more; for facred stories tell,
That e'en immortal angels fell,
Whatever fills the teeming sphere
Of humid earth, and ambient air,
With varying elements endu❜d,
Was form'd to fall, and rife renew'd.
The ftars no fix'd duration know;
Wide oceans ebb, again to flow;
The moon repletes her waining face,
All-beauteous, from her late disgrace;
And funs, that mourn approaching night,
Refulgent rife with new-born light.

In vain may death and time fubdue,
While Nature mints her race anew,
And holds fome vital spark apart,
Like virtue, hid in ev'ry heart;
'Tis hence reviving warmth is feen
To clothe a naked world in green.
No longer barr'd by winter's cold,
Again the gates of life unfold;
Again each infect tries his wing,
And lifts fresh pinions on the spring;

Again, from ev'ry latent root,

The bladed ftem and tendril fhoot,
Exhaling incenfe to the fkies,
Again to perish, and to rise.

;

And muft weak Woman, then, difown
The change to which a world is prone;
In one meridian brightnefs fhine,
And ne'er, like ev'ning funs, decline?
Refolv'd and firm alone?-Is this
What we demand of Woman!Yes.
But should the spark of veftal fire,
In fome unguarded hour expire;
Or fhould the nightly thief invade
Hefperia's chafte and facred fhade,
Of all the blooming fpoil poffefs'd,
The dragon Honour charm'd to rest
Shall Virtue's flame no more return ?
No more with virgin fplendor burn?
No more the ravag'd garden blow
With fpring's fucceeding bloffom ?—No.
Pity may mourn, but not reftore;
And Woman falls, to rife no more!
Within this fublunary sphere,
A country lies-no matter where;
The clime may readily be found
By all who tread poetick ground:
A ftream, call'd Life, acrofs it glides,
And equally the land divides;
And here of Vice the province lies,
And there the hills of Virtue rife.
Upon a mountain's airy stand,
Whofe fummit look'd to either land,
An ancient pair their dwelling chofe,
As well for profpect as repofe;

For mutual faith they long were fam'd,
And Temp'rance and Religion nam'd.

A um'ro