Gay, blufhing fweetness; lovely, fragrant thing; Thy rife, thy flourish, and thy fall, I fing.

The vernal fun now, with a brighter ray, Shed o'er the plain a more refulgent day; The dropping clouds their grateful fhow'rs diftill'd;

The genial zephyrs warm'd the happy field,
Unlock'd Earth's fertile womb, fo calling forth
The various vegetating tribes to birth;

Now up
the rigid veins, in wonted courfe,
Slowly afcends the vital fap, by force
Abforbent drawn ; now here and there appear
The tender buds, and speak the fummer near;
And now the fresh unfolding leaves adorn,
With

a gay veil of green, the spiky thorn.
The fummer dawns, and now the potent ray
Exalts thy fweets, and calls thee forth to day;
In fragrance rich, in lovelieft colours clad,
Thy glowing bofom to the funbeam fpread,
Charm'd we behold thee; grateful odours rife,
And on foft-fwelling gales afcend the skies.
Beauteous all o'er the lowly fhrub is feen;
The crimson bloffom, and the foliage green,
miling with fweet diverfity appear,
The brightest glory of the blooming year.

But ah! dear fhort-liv'd fubject of my verse, Why fade thy charms while I their fweets re

Soon fhall old-age this healthful bloom destroy, And waste with rigid hand life's every joy; Youth's pleafing follies, love's' fweet cares be

o'er,

And the once-tuneful mufe infpire no more;
Feebler each pulfe, and fainter every breath,
Till, with victorious hand, impartial Death,
Severely kind, ftop fhort the doubtful ftrife,
And terminate the long disease of life.

Thou too, my Celia, dear, adored maid!
Ev'n thou (a lovelier though the gods ne'er madey
Muft yield to cruel time's wide-wafting rage,
And feel the preffure of invading age.
But there's a beauty which can time defy;
The beauty of the foul can never die.
While others glory in a matchless face,
Too negligent of each fuperior grace,
Be god-like virtue your peculiar care;
Virtue alone can make divinely fair.

When beauty's charms decay, as foon they
muft,

And all its glory's humbled in the dust,
The virtuous mind, beyond the rage of time,
Shall ever bloffom in a happier clime,
Whose never-fading joys no tongue can tell,
Where everlasting youth and beauty dwell;
Where pain and forrow never more fhall move
But all is pleasure, harmony, and love.

ODE to MAY. Sung at Ranelagh.,

ODE to the ATHEIST.

Expatiate long in nice debate,

On chance, neceffity, and fate;
With learn'd Lucretius ftray
In Epicurus' magic grove,
Where the felf-motion'd atoms rove
In mazy mystic play.

Some vain hypothefis admit,
The fpecious cobweb-work of wit;
And daringly deny
What every object round avows,
What every act of reason fhews,
An all-wife. Deity.

The cleareft evidence conteft,
Divinely ftamp'd ́on ev'ry breast,
Since time was taught to roll;
In error's gloomy coverts ftray,
From truth's indisputable ray
Remote, as pole from pole.

So fhuts the moping bird of night
Her feeble eyes against the light,
That glads the chearful day;
And, when prevailing dark nefs reigns,
Thro' groves obfcene, or dreary plains,
She wings her dubious way.

Confult the blue expanfe on high,
The blush that paints the morning sky,
The cloud that nimbly rides,
The orbs that mark with luftre bright
The fpangled mantle of the night,
Who there fupreme refides.

Queftion the gaudy flow'rs around,

That fcent the air, or paint the ground,

M

A SOLILOQUY.

Yfterious inmate of this breaft,
Inkindled by thy flame;
By thee my being's best expreft,
For what thou art I am.

With thee 1 claim celeftial birth,
A fpark of Heav'n's own ray;
Without thee fink to, vileft earth,
Inanimated clay.

Now, in this fad and difmal hour
Of multiply'd diftrefs,

Has any former thought the pow'r
To make thy forrows lefs?

When all around thee cruel (nares
Threaten thy deftin'd breath,

And every harp reflection bears
Want, exile, chains, or death.

Can aught that paft in youth's fond reign

Thy pleafing vein restore?

Lives beauty's gay and feftive train

In memory's foft ftore?

Or does the mufe? 'Tis faid her art.

Can fierceft pangs appease,

Can fhe to thy poor trembling heart
Now fpeak the words of peace?

Yet he was wont at early dawn
To whisper thy repofe,

Nor was her friendly aid withdrawn,
At grateful ev'ning's close.

Friendship, 'tis true, its facred might
May mitigate thy doom;
As lightning fhot across the night,
A moment gilds the gloom.

O God! thy providence alone
Can work a wonder here,
Can change to gladnefs every moan,
And banish all my fear.

Thy arm, all-powerful to fave,
May every doubt destroy;

And, from the horrors of the grave,

New raise to life and joy.

Fron

From this, as from a copious fpring, Pure confolation flows;

Makes the faint heart midst fufferings fing, And midft defpair repofe.

Yet from its creature gracious Heav'n,
Moft merciful and juft,

Afks but, for life and safety given,
Our faith and humble trust.

An Ode to the Memory of Mifs B-
the Manner of Collin's Ode to Evening.
Paulumque morati,

Serius aut citius fedem properamus ad unam.

S

in

OVID.

Weeteft Melancholy, thou matron, fage And holy, admit me of thy penfive train, Who oft have liften'd to

Thy ftrangely whifper'd ftrains;

Or thou, mild Thompfen, Nature's meekeft child, Lead thy young vot'ry! or, fweeteft Shakefpear, Firft of Fancy's children,

From thy fine, phrenfied lore,

Teach me to breathe fome fadly foften'd note
Attun'd to fong of dol'rous argument.

For gone is a fweet nymph
To the undifcover'd bourne;

From whence the youngest trav'ller ne'er return'd.

O rude-handed Death! to crop fo fair a flow'ret Timclefs, juft when the spring

Of life began to blow.

So have I feen a lilly fair to-day

Soft imiling; to-morrow with rude embrace Of ruffian mildew

Her dainty form disdain'd.

Or tell me, fweet wand'rer, did e'er thy foul That chafte refinement feel (but known to few!)

No more the cherub beauty on thy brow.

Shall meekly fit inthron'd,

Nor roles paint thy cheek.

And never now that converfe meek and mild, That foft endearing grace, which ev'ry paint eludes,

Save the fine paint of thought,
Shall chear man's day!

But in thy lowly bed for ever fleep

Thofe comely merits, that op'ning to bloom
Had, in their fummer's day,
Riper'd to goodliest fruit.

Then light, O earth, lie on her maiden breast;
And ye, whofe fronts burnish with Fortune's gem,
Or gay Ambition's plume,

Who crop Pleasure's bri'ry rofe,
Beftow the farewell-tribute of a figh.
But

ye who fram'd in Nature's fineft mould,
That thrill at the foft touch

Of Pity, dove-ey'd maid,

Pour the impaffion'd tear. O Life, wond'rous
Is thy fleet day-dream, and what, or where we

are:

We come, we know not whence, We go, we know not whither.

Φίλος.

FRO

ROM the fuccefs of the method of propagation by fmall pieces of the branches of trees, it is natural to conceive, that fmaller or larger pieces of the roots will anfwer the purpofe; and reason is very fairly on the fide of the experiment. We fee that 100ts, wherever they reach the furface of the ground, shoot up into young trees; and we find, by manifold experience and obfervation, that the difference between roots and branches is little more in nature, than that the one are buried under ground, the other kept above it. This new method of propagation depends upon one principle, namely, that the rudiments of new plants are lodged in all parts of the old, and are ready to grow, from them to perfection, whenever they have proper advantages; therefore it should appear. to realon, that, if a piece of a root can be kept from decaying in the earth, it will produce

one or more new plants. This I proposed to try by the following experiment:

November 3, 1759, I raised carefully, by opening the ground, a large horizontal root of the willow-leaved buckthorn: I trimmed off all the fide fhoots; and, cutting the two ends fmooth, wiped them perfectly dry, and covered them with the dreffing, [of which the reader may fee the procefs in the above referred to Magazine, page 196] all over the raw parts; not only the two ends, but the feveral places alfo from whence I had cut the fide fhoots and large fibres. I opened a trench in a bed in the nursery, long enough to receive the whole piece, and laid it in horizontally, and covered it an inch deep with mould, not raifing a ridge over it, but keeping the place on a level with the rest of the bed.

April 12, I examined this ground, and

found