68 To GEORGE DEMPSTER. May I 8, 



The ftubborn furrow feels thy pladic hand, 

 The fields rejoice to fee their country's friend, 

 And drefled for thee, put on their beft array ! 

 O Denipfter ! leave not thy divine retreat, 

 Tho' thouf.inJs call thee to Augufta's towers. 

 Where ends the fret of bufy buftling life. 

 Seeking the praife of mountebanks and flaves ? 

 See Pitt and Poultency loft in other pits, 

 And like the waves they leave no trace behind : 

 Eve. I Burke himfelf, the Queen of France's friend, 

 L.ikc her has found that beauty will not do, 

 Nor words fublimc that hide themfclvcs in heaven. 



Albanici'? 



"To the Editor of the Bee. 



Epitaph fbr Napier of Marchijlon. 



No Napier ! thou wer't not that thing. 

 The creatute of a pageant king. 

 Which Bntonscall a lord ; 

 A fipiire thou wer'r, but fuch a fquire. 

 As might have held Apollo's lyre, 

 And touch'd itsnobltft chord. 



With purple flowers, O ftrew the grave. 

 Ye fons of faience, where he lies, 

 And whexi ye lightly tread the fod, 

 Say, " Here's the peer was made by God," 

 Who made him great and wife. 



A. L. 



Written on the blank leaf of a young Lady's mufc-boohfn 

 the Har/fichord. 



Music, 'tis faid, has charms that can impart 

 Exalted pleafures to the human heart ; 

 But if to mufic, beauty lends her aid, 

 Refiftlefs then appears th' accompliflied maid. 

 Thus, when alike with niceft (kill and fire. 

 Thy graceful fingers ftrike the trembling lyre, 

 Diffolv'd in bUfs, we gaze our fouls away, 

 -And yield our hearts to love's fuperior fway. 



Alexis, 



