To Miss HOYLAND.

From the original, in the possession of Mr. Gardner.

Go, gentle Muse! and to my fair-one say,
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay;
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her Chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft Turtle's cooing in the grove;
More than the Lark delights to mount the sky,
Then sinking on the green-sward soft to lie;
More than the bird of Eve at close of day
To pour in solemn solitude her lay;

More than grave Camplin* with his deep-ton'd note,
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;

* John Camplin M. A. Preceptor of Bristol.

More than Sage Catcottt does his storm of rain,
Sprung from th' abyss of his eccentric brain,
Or than his wild-antique, and sputt'ring brother
Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and pother;
More than soft Lewis, ‡ that sweet pretty thing,
Love's in the Pulpit to display his ring;

More than frail mortals love a brother sinner,
And more than Bristol Aldermen their dinner,
(When full four pounds of the well-fatten'd haunch
In twenty mouthfuls fill the greedy paunch.)

If these true strains can thy dear bosom move, Let thy soft blushes speak a mutual love; But if thy purpose settles in disdain,

Speak my dread fate, and bless thy fav'rite swain.

D. B.

The Reverend Mr. Catcott wrote a book on the Deluge.

Mr. Lewis was a dissenting Preacher of note, then in Bristol. Chatterton calls him in one of his Letters a "Pulpit Fop."

ELEGY,

On Mr. WILLIAM SMITH*.

From the original in the British Museum.

Ascend

my Muse on sorrow's sable plume,

Let the soft number meet the swelling sigh;

With Laureated Chaplets deck the tomb,

The bloodstain'd Tomb where Smith and Comfort

lie.

I loved him with a Brother's ardent love, Beyond the love which tenderest brothers bear; Tho' savage Kindred bosoms cannot move, Friendship shall deck his urn and pay the tear.

Happily mistaken, having since heard, from good authority, it is PETER.