That smiling o'er each hapless land,
Sweet peace might call her hallow'd band,
To crown the festive hour.




TO ******


0 Nymph! with cheeks of roseate hue,
Whose eyes are violets bath'd in dew,
So liquid, languishing, and blue,
How they bewitch me!
Thy bosom hath a magic spell,
For when its full orbs heave and swell,
I feel--but, oh! I must not tell,
Lord! how they twitch me!




ON THE DEATH OF GENERAL WASHINGTON.


Lamented Chief! at thy distinguish'd deeds
The world shall gaze with wonder and applause,
While, on fair hist'ry's page, the patriot reads
Thy matchless valor in thy country's cause.