But she, whose first best wish is your applause,
Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.
Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene,
Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene,
Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir'd!
And can she act, with thoughts like these inspir'd?
Thus from her mind all artifice she flings,
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things;
To you uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows,
For all that life endears to you she owes.

'Fie, fie,' she cried, why sleep so long,
When she, the nymph you dearly love,
Now roves the vernal flowers among,
And waits for you in yonder grove?

'Hark! you may hear her cherub voice:
The voice of health is sweet and clear;
Yes, you may hear the birds rejoice
In symphony her arbour near."

I rose, and hasten'd to the grove,
With eager steps and anxious mind;
I rose the elfin's truth to prove,

And hop'd the promis'd nymph to find,

My fairy took me by the hand,
And cheerfully we stepp'd along;
She stopp'd but on the new-plough'd land,
To hear the russet woodlark's song.

We reach'd the grove-I look'd around,
My fairy was no longer near;
But of her voice I knew the sound,

As thus she whisper'd in my ear:

'The nymph, fair health, you came to find,
Within these precincts loves to dwell;
Her breath now fills the balmy wind;
This path will lead you to her cell,'

I bended

I bended to the primrose low,

And ask'd, if health might there reside ? 'She left me,' said the flower, 'but now, For yonder violet's purple pride.'

I question'd next the violet queen,
Where buxom health was to be found?
She told me, that she late was seen
With cowslips toying on the ground.

Then thrice I kiss'd the cowslips, pale,
And in their dew-drops bath'd my face;
I told them all my tender tale,
And begg'd their aid coy health to trace.
From us,' exclaimed a lowly flower,

The nymph has many a day been gone;
But now she rests within the bower
Where yonder hawthorn blooms alone.'

Quick to that bower I ran, I flew,
And yet no nymph I there could find;
But fresh the breeze of morning blew,
And Spring was gay, and Flora kind.

If I return'd sedate and slow,
What if the nymph I could not see?
The blush that pass'd along my brow
Was proof of her divinity.

And still her votary to prove,

And still her dulcet smiles to share,
I'll tread the fields, I'll haunt the grove,
With untir'd steps and fondest care.

O sprite belov'd! vouchsafe to give
A boon, a precious boon to me;
Within thy influence let me live,
And sometimes too thy beauties see.

So shall the muse, in nobler verse,
And strength renew'd, exulting sing;
Thy praise, thy charms, thy power rehearse,
And sweep, with bolder hand, the string.

A TALE

1

A TALE; by the Rev. Mr. BISHOP.

Quod petis hic est.

No plate had John and Joan

to hoard,

folk, in humble plight; One only tankard crown'd their board, And that was fill'd each night,

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,
In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby Angel's face.

John swallow'd first a mod'rate sup;
But Joan was not like John;
For, when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She swill'd till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair,
But she ne'er changed a jot;
She lov'd to see the Angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,
Another card he play'd;
And, where the angel stood so plain,
He got a devil portray'd.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd;
And ever, when she seized her ale,
She cleared it at a draught.

John star'd, with wonder petrify'd,
His hairs rose on his pate;
And "why dost guzzle now" he cry'd,
"At this enormous rate?"

"O John," said she " am I to blame?
I can't in conscience stop;
For sure'twould be a burning shame
To leave the Devil a drop!"

AN

:

AN EPIGRAM; from the Gentleman's Magazine.

FRIAR Paul, in his cell, made his exit of late,
Of the gravel some say; but no matter for that;
He died, that's enough; and if the story say right,
Arrived at hell gate in a pitiful plight,
Who's there! cries the Dæmon onguard; Quoth the other
A guilty poor priest, sir, a catholic brother,
Halt, instantly halt, cry'd the sentry; stand clear,
Go be damned somewhere else, for you sha'nt enter here.
We admit no such savage, no wretch so uncivil;

Who above ate his god, may below eat the devil !

HOPE PERSONIFIED. From Lorenzo de' Medici. By WILLIAM

I

MMENSE of

ROSCOE.

bulk, her tow'ring head she shews,

Her floating tresses seem to touch the skies,
Dark mists her unsubstantial shape compose-
And on the mountain's top her dwelling lies.
As when the clouds fantastic shapes disclose,
For ever varying to the gazer's eyes,
'Till on the breeze the changeful hues escape:-
Thus vague her form, and mutable her shape.

Illusive beings round their sovereign wait-
Deceitful dreams, and auguries, and lies;
Innum'rous arts the gaping crowd that cheat,
Predictions wild, and groundless prophecies;
With wondrous words, or written rolls of fate,
Foretelling (when 'tis past) what yet shall rise;
And alchymy, and astrologic skill,
And fond conjecture-always form'd at will!

THE HAPPINESS OF A COUNTRY LIFE. By the same.

T

HY splendid halls, thy palaces forgot,

Can paths o'erspread with thorns a charm supply;
Or, dost thou seek, from our severer lot,
To give to wealth and pow'r a keener joy ?

Thus I replied " I know no happier life,
No better riches than you shepherds boast:

Freed from the hated jars of civil strife,
Alike to treach'ry and to envy lost.

The

The weed ambition 'midst your furrow'd field
Springs not, and av'rice little root can find :
Content with what the changing seasons yield,
You rest in cheerful poverty resign'd.

What the heart thinks the tongue may here disclose,
Nor inward grief with outward smiles is drest;
Not like the world, where wisest he who knows
To hide the secret closest in his breast."

The Author calls upon the Faculties of his own Mind to exert themselves to great and useful Purposes. By WM. ROSCOE. From the same.

R

ISE from thy trance, my slumb'ring genius rise,
That shrouds from Truth's pure beam thy torpid eyes!
Awake, and see, since reason gave the rein
To low desire, thy ev'ry work how vain.
Ah think that bliss the mind explores,
In futile honours, or unbounded stores:
How poor the bait that would thy steps decoy
To sensual pleasure and unmeaning joy!
Rouse all thy pow'rs for better use design'd,
And know thy native dignity of mind :
Not for low aims and mortal triumphs given-
Its means exertion, and its object Heaven.
Hast thou not yet the diff'rence understood
"Twixt empty pleasure and substantial good?-
Not more oppos'd, by all the wise confest,
The rising Orient from the farthest west.
Doom'd from thy youth the galling chain to prove
Of potent beauty and imperious love;
Their tyrant rule has blighted all thy time,
And marr'd the promise of thy early prime.
Tho' Beauty's garb thy wond'ring gaze may win,
Yet know, that wolves-that harpies dwell within.

Ah think how fair thy better hopes had sped,
Thy widely-erring steps had reason led;
Think, if thy time a nobler use had known,
Ere this the glorious prize had been thine own;
Kind to thyself, thy clear discerning will,
Had wisely learn'd to sever good from ill.
Thy spring-tide hours consum'd in vain delight,
Shall the same follies close thy wintry night:
With vain pretexts of Beauty's potent charms,
And Nature's frailty blunting Reason's arms.