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I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate; But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart, 'Mid all the 'pomp and circumstance' of state, Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start

Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream, That shaped a seraph form, and named it Love, Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove.

To one soft accent of domestic joy Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome; Those plaudits that thy public path annoy, Alas! they tell thee--Thou'rt a wretch at home!

O then retire, and weep! Their very woes Solace the guiltless. Drop the pearly flood On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose, Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighbouring bud.

And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend To lure thy Wanderer from the Syren's power; Then bid your souls inseparably blend Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower.

1796.