648 
But feek thou, firft, for neatrefs’ fake, 
The Naiad’s cryfial ftream ; 
Swift let it round the concave play, 
And o’cr the furface gleam. 
Of falt, more keen than that of Greece, 
Which cooks, not poets ufe, 
Sprinkle thou then with {paring hand, 
And thro’ the mafs diffufe. 
Then let it reft, difturb’d no more, 
Safe in its feady feat, 
Til thrice Time’s warning bell hath ftruck, 
Nor yet the hour compleat. ; 
_And now let Fancy revel free, 
- . By noftern rule confin’d; 
On glitt’ring tin, in varied form, 
Each Sally-Lun be twin’d. 
But heed thou well to Jift thy thought 
_ Tome, thy power divine; 
Then to the oven’s glowing mouth 
The wond’rous work confign. 
oe 
TO A CHIMNEY-SWEEPER. 
; AFH! ceafe thy fhrill-pipe, rirTte sweep, 
For thou wak’{t me but to weep. 
When morning ftreaks with mifty white 
_ The fable veftments of the night ; 
Then, gentle dreams in gambols bound, 
And light-drawn flumbers glide around ; 
‘Then, rofy Fancy flings her chains, 
And leads us o’er enchanted plains. 
Ah! wake me not then, LITTLE SWEEP, 
For Tonly wake to weep. 
Thy clarion loud I hate to hear, 
find, dreading Tee, I fleep in fear 
For fleep is all the good I know, 
The filky veil which hides my woe. 
No bright ideas gild my bed, 
No lively hopes their treafures fhed: 
A dreary, vapid, joylefs fcene, 
Is ALL my grave and me between. 
Pafs filent on then, LITTLE SWEEP, 
For I only wake to weep. 
How fad it feems, when flumbers fly, 
And fun-beams b!aze along the iky, 
To feel no fun-beam in the mind! * 
There, all is dark, and cold, and blind. 
Then MEMORY, on impy wings, 
Her retrofpe&tive poifon brings, 
And Expectation, blacker ftill, 
Bids deep Defpair my bofom fill. 
Huth, huth thy cry then, LITTLE swEEP, 
For I only wake to weep 
Pafs on, pafs on, thou ling’ring child, 
Nor roufe me with thy thriekings wild. 
To biifsful dwellings {peed thy way, 
For they with tranfport meet the day. 
No honet has a fofter note, 
Than that which tears thy ebon throat, 


O17 ginal Poetry. 
[ Sept. 
When to a Aapjy ear it fpeaks, 
And every drowfy cinéture breaks; 
hea {cream not here, thou LITTLE, SWEEP, 
For I onlv wake to weep. 
Once. charming was my waking hour, 
When fweet reflections knew my bower; 
When fpringing rom my ch of balm, 
My views were bright, my heart was calm, 
When laughing pieafure at my board 
Spread out its ever-{parkling hoard ; 
When friends and filzal Cherubs fmil'd, 
And of its thorn each care beguil’d. 
Nos !---Wake me not, O CRUEL SWEEP, 
For I only wake to weep. 
Set. 22,1796. LEoNoRE, . 
—— 
TO THE LILIES OF FHE VALLEY. 
By the Rew. J. Bipvake, of Plymouth. 
YE lowly children of the fhelter'd vale, 
Like modeft worth by fcornful pride dif- 
dain'd, 
Your little, fleeting life, 
Who wafte unfeen, unknown, 
In verdant veil how bafhfully enwrap’d, 
Ye inua the officious hand, the fearchful fight, 
With down-cait, penfive eyey 
And ever-mufing heads ! 
Ah! when I view your meek, your humble. 
mien, 
And all your highly breathing fragrance tafle, 
How bleeds my fad’nimg foul, 
For unprotected worth! 
How bleeds to think, that mortal excellence 
Zs doom’d to live forgot, unheeded aie ! 
For in your fhort-liv’d charms 
Are pictur’d well its fate. 
For ye, ere yet the morning’s rifing gale 
Shall wing its early courie, may ccafe to greet 
With the fweet brea h of love 
The wakeful wanderer’s way. 
Nor longer, virtue’s boaft! a little day, 
A little hour, fhe bicoms ! Nog can her pow’r 
Us helplefs victims fhield” 
From the unpitying grave. 
Then come, my Anna’s faithful boom deck : 
For ever there true worth, true wifdom dwell. 
Congenial to your ftate, 
Soit in that heaven ret. 
There thall no bufy infect dare obtrude 
Your fweets to rifle with perfidious kifs ; 
While ye more fragrance tafte 
Than in your native beds, 
Your higheft incenfe breathe, to emulate 
Thofe more than opning morning’s pureft 
{weets, 
That fit on rofy lips 
Of {miling chaftity. 
A CORRECT 
