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VERSES
WRITTEN AT THE BEQUEST OF A GENTLEMAN TO WHOM A LADY HAD GIVEN A SPRIG OF MYRTLE.
What hopes, what terrors, does this gift create,
Ambiguous emblem of uncertain fate!
The myrtle (ensign of supreme command,
Consign'd to Venus by Melissa's hand),
Not less capricious than a reigning fair,
Oft favours, oft rejects a lover's prayer.
In myrtle shades oft sings the happy swain,
In myrtle shades despairing ghosts complain.
The myrtle crowns the happy lovers' heads,
The unhappy lovers' graves the myrtle spreads.
Oh! then, the meaning of thy gift impart,
And ease the throbbings of an anxious heart;
Soon must this sprig, as you shall fix its doom,
Adorn Philander's head, or grace his tomb.
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TO LADY FIREBRACE,[1]
AT BURY ASSIZES.
At length must Suffolk beauties shine in vain,
So long renown'd in B—n's deathless strain?
Thy charms at least, fair Firebrace! might inspire
Some zealous bard to wake the sleeping lyre;
For such thy beauteous mind and lovely face,
Thou seem'st at once, bright nymph! a Muse and Grace.
[Footnote 1: 'Lady Firebrace:' daughter of P. Bacon, Ipswich, married three times—to Philip Evers, Esq., to Sir Corbell Firebrace, and to William Campbell, uncle of the Duke of Argyle.]
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