1797] 
Ye Princes of the Earth, oh! rather yield 
To sUFF’RING Man this glorious facrifice : 
To chafe for ever from th’-enfanguin’d field,  - 
War’s horrid crew, and bid fweet Peace arife, 
(Now proftrate bound in mad Ambition’s 
chains 3) 
To wipe away the tear Pon, Sorrow? S cheek ; 
To free the debtor, foothe the fick man’s-pains, 
Fell th’ oppreffor, and fuftain the weak ! 
Then Angels thal! attune their harps torapt’rous 
lays, 
And Earth’s ten thoufand tongues fhall fwell 
the note of praife, 
fore grateful far to Bray n than Fafts or Hely 
Days. 
TS. 2. 
eee - 
To the Editor of the Monthly Magazine. 
SUR: 
HOULD the crack Poems, compoted 
by the late Mrs. Beoaker, author of Julia 
Mandewille, Emily Montague, the opera of 
Rofaa, &c. be judged worthy of an infertion | 
in the Monthly Magazine, they are at your 
fervice. They were written during the early 
youth of the author, and have not, te my know- 
ledge, appeared in-print. They are not free 
from. defects ; but appear to me to poffefs the 
true poetic fpirit. 
a very intimate friend of Mrs. Brooke, and have 
been in my pofleflion many years, 
M. H. 
ODE I. | 
WHY will dear Sabina find 
- Us beyond the prefent hour ? 
Why torment her gentle mind 
With malicious Fortune’s pow’r ? 
To Fate belopgs to-morrow’s dawn, 
But let to-day be al! our own. - 
While ’tis giv’n to hear thy voice, 
Breathe the foftneis of thy foul ; 
Let us, dearefi maid! rejoice, 
Let us fill the fprightly bowl ; 
And whifp’ring low the favour’d youth, 
Commend his tendernefs and truth. 
Wherefore doth thy fading cheek 
Speak the doubt, the tender fear? 
Why that faint effay tu {pe ak ? 
Tell me, why that ftarting tear ? 
Does Damon flight thy gentle chain, 
And figh for Rhodopé again t 
Ah! too plain that ftreaming eye 
Speaks my lov’d Sabina’s pain ¢ 
_ Wain the voice of feftive joy, 
“Sorrow waits the lover’s train ! 
Too weak, alas! the pow’rful bowl, 
To cure the ficknefs of the foul. 
ODE I. 
AWAY !> nor talk of flow’ry chains, 
Of foft diftrefs, and pleafing pains ; 
- But learn this ufeful truth from me, 
That Pleafure dwells with Liberty. 
Orizinal Poetry of the late Mrs. Brooke. 
. My gentle lyre, 
They were given to me by © 
r4t 
Me, raptur’d, let the Mufes lead, 
_ To wander carclefs o’er the mead ¢ 
Or foft repos’d befide the ftream, - - 
To taite the wild, poctic dream! 
Let glowing fancy paint the fcene 
- Of airy Pindus, ever green ; 
Around the Dclian God, in fiate, 
Let all his tuneful vot’ries wait. 
And, fee! where Sappho fits alone ; 
Her Romine robe, her loofen’d zones 
Th* ambrofal {cent her locks diffufe, 
Diftinguith well the Lefbian mufe. 
A rofy {mile o’erfpreads her face, 
Her mien affumes. a fofter grace ; 
She waves her fnowy band and fee ! 
fhe points to thee. 
She takes, fhe tunes, my trembling lyre, 
__And fwelling, lo! the notes afpire 4 
She ftrikes the chords, and all around #*. 
Lift’ning echoes drink the found. 
But, ah! how treach’rous does fhe prove; 
She fets the yielding ftrings to love ; 
And now,: alas ! my rebel tyre’ 
Will only found to fott defire. 
ODE III. 
. To SAPPHO. 
NOT Philomela’s liquid throat, 
Nor dear Amintor’s fofter note, 
Oh, charmer of the Lefbian plains ! 
Car equal thy melodious ftrains. 
When in thy bright, enchanting pages 
I view the tender, am’rous rage ; 
The melting lines. my bofom move; 
And all my y1- Iding foul is love. 
And fare thy raptur’d notes have art, 
To melt the ftubborn, marble heart ; 
To wake the foft confenting glow, 
Ey’n in Amintor’s breaft of fnow ! 
If magic numbers can contraul 
His native cruelty of foul ; 
Ah ! bring the filver-founding lyre, 
To wake the gentle, young defirg, 
Harmonious fongftrefs, I no more 
Will Cytheréa’s pow’ r adore 3 
Since fuch diffolying numbers prove 
That Sappho is the queenof love. 
ODE IV. 
THE Lefbian lute no more can charm, 
Nor my once panting bofom warm ; 
No more I breathe the tender figh : 
Nor when my beauteous fwain appears, 
With down-cait look, and ftarting tears, 
Confefs the luftre of his eye. 
With freedom bleft, at early dawny 
1 wander /’er the verdant lawn, 
And hail the {weet returning {pring $ 
The iragrant breeze, the feather’d’ choir, 
Yo raife my vernal joys confpire, 
While Peace and Healththeir treafures bine: 
oy 4 Me @omey 
