Poems

And he, to whose impervious ear
The sweetest sounds no charms dispense,
Can bid his inmost soul appear
In clear, tho' silent, eloquence.

But we, my Julia, not so blest,
Are doom'd a diff'rent fate to prove,--
To feel each joy and hope supprest
That flow from pure, but hidden, love.

IMPROMPTU LINES,

UPON ANACREON MOORE'S SAYING THAT HE DISLIKED
SINGING TO MEN.

By Beauty's caresses, like Cupid, half-spoil'd,
Thus Music's and Poesy's favourite child
Exclaim'd,--"'Tis, by Heaven! a terrible thing
Before a he-party to sit and to sing!"
"By my shoul! Master Moore, you there may be right,"
Said a son of green Erin; "tho' dear to my sight
Are all the sweet cratures, call'd women, I swear,
Yet I think we can feel just as well as the fair:
Tho' you'd bribe us with songs, blood and 'ounds! let me say, I'd not be a wo