Stranger! if thou e'er did'st love, If nature in thy bosom glows, A Minstrel, rude, may haply move,
O Love! divinest dream of youth, Thy day of ecstacy is o'er, My bosom, touch'd by time and truth,
Who stops the Minister of State, When hurrying to the Lords' debate? Who, spite of gravity beguiles,
When Discord blew her fell alarm On Gallia's blood-stain'd ground, When Usurpation's giant arm
Come, thou blessed day of rest! Soother of the tortured breast, Wearied souls release from toil,
Ah! this wild desolated spot, Calls forth the plaintive tear; Remembrance paints my little cot,
A Sketch. So stood the Sibyl: stream'd her hoary hair Wild as the blast, and with a comet's glare
O Sue! you certainly have been A little raking, roguish creature, And in that face may still be seen