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Of flaves, to grace the triumph of her eyes ;
Nor, having won her lover's faithful heart,
To leave him, proud-exulting in his pains.
For him alone the riband gay is seen,
On Sundays streaming in het hat of straw,
Luring at church unwary eyes from pray’rs.
Still near her thro' the field he strives to toil,
And oft, when unperceiv'd, they tell their love
In fidelong glances : language sweet! that speaks
In silence more than all th' affected fop,
Practis'd in flatt'ry's arts, with oily tongue,
Pours in his vainer fair's deluded ears.
Here 'tis, that Love bestrews his pleasing joys,
Unblended with his cares; for here no fears
Of rankling jealousy disturb the breaft.
He knows his maiden true, as flie her swain ;
And so fhall each be prov'd, for Hymen foon
In bondage sweet fall join their willing hands.

Be kind, ye Southern breezes! blow not yet,
Nor bid your train of gloomy clouds and how'rs,
Unwelcome now, deform the tranquil fky!
But let the frequent wain, unstopp'd by rains,
Clear the dry hayfield of its dulky piles !

REPAST of LUCIAN and Swift, in the House of RIDICULE, [From the PARADISE of Taste, by ALEXANDER THOMSON, Esq.)


to the other table,

OW turning the other table,

Which rather look'd more comfortable,
Thereon two covers we survey'dy
And things in rank for supper laid,
While warm and snug, another pair
Of satirists were seated there
The Greek, whose lively fancy drew
So many a pleasing interview;
Who heroes old so well could show
Conversing in the shades below,
And whose celestial dialogues
Made all Olympus whores and rogues ;
His messmate was Hibernia's boait,
In caustic wit himself a host;
Expose to view who durst presume
The secrets of the dresling-room;
Who ev'n reveal'd to vulgar fight
The raptures of the bridal

And trembling Strepton's eager joy,
To find a woman in his Chloe;
But worst of all, whose faithless hand,
At Nightcd ráncour's dire command,


The vile disguftful picture drew
Of that inhuman brute Yahoo.
Before them, hunger's best relief,
An ample dish of steaks of beef,
Stood smoking, juicy, fat, and nice,
Of which they each secur'd a fice,
And season'd it, without dispute,
As best it might his palate fuit.
The Greek was inighty well content
With pickles from Jamaica sent,
And pepper brought from Surinam,
More hot and fiery than a dram.
Not so St. Patrick's dirty dean,
Who rubb'd along his platter clean
Of affafoetida a pound,
Which threw a dismal french around,
And then he gobbled up in haste
His odoriferous repaft;
Which done, no longer would he stay,
But instant rose, and ran away.
Then to my keen inquiring eye
My gracious guide made this reply :-
I cannot bring my tuneful tongue,
“ To sounds of other order ftrung,
“ To tell you now the thameful place
Where this strange wretch has hid his face,
" Who views those lights with pleasure's smiles,
« From which each other eye recoils;
“ To whom those sounds alone are dear,
" That strike with pain each other ear:
u If curiosity be strong,
6 Much better go with him along,
4. And see him there, in all his glory,
“ Rehearling of a filthy ftory;
" But nie you must, my child, excuse,
“ Whose eye such objects never views. ***
To this what answer I Niould make,
Long time to think I did not take:
“ I feel,” says I, “no inclination
" For such minute investigation ;
" And rather ne'er would see his face,
4 Than follow him to such a place."

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(From the same Work.]

HERE up to heav'n a mass of rock was pild,


Of rude access it was, and prospect wild,


And rear'd its proud ambitious head so higli
As almost left behind the aching eye.
Deck'd was the scene with beauties all its own;
Whose pow'rful charms each critic glance defy;
And on its topmost height, the regal throne
Of this romantic realm, stood Avon's bard alone.

Alone he stood for there was none but he
On such a fearful precipice could stand;
Careless he stood, from fear and danger free,
And wav'd with ease that more than magic wand,
Whose pond'rous weight would numb each other hand ;
For who like him could fairy chaplets twine,
Could paint with living hues the airy band
Of shapes infernal and of forms divine,
Or dive so wond'rous deep in fancy's golden mine?

Reluctant rising from their nether skies,
A troop of grielly ghosts before him stood,
With iron teeth and staring ftony eyes,
Demons and fiends, and all the hellish brood
Which fancy figures in her trembling mood;
Around his head those elves and spirits flew,
Who taste on earth of heav'n's ambrosial food,
Who fuck with bees the cowslip's honey due,
And steal, to make them coats, the rainbow's brilliant hue.

There on her car sate Mab the fairy queen,
And dreams of various hue around her fung;
Her coachman, merry Puck, array'd in green,
Before her on the nut-built chariot hung,
And all his knavith tricks and frolics sung.
There was the witch's child, who ne'er unclos'd
His brutal lips but forth a curse there sprung;
And Ariel quaint, of other mold compos'd,
Who trode the winter wind, and in the gale repos’d.


(From CONVERSATION, a Didactic Poem, by WILLIAM COOKE, Esq.]

CONVERSATION, ever on the wing,
Delights to rove through all the honied spring
Like music's voice, harmonious, deep, and clear,
Pours all its information through the ear,
Draws out the force of education's plan,
Combines the whole, and finishes the man.

See how it decorates the classic page!
And how the ancients felt this pleasing rage!

Or at their baths-their meals—the public hall,
'Twas. Conversation took the lead in all.
Here rights were canvass’d-manners understood,
And laws develop'd for the public good,
Here heroes' deeds were told with kindred blaze,
Nor humbler virtues 'scap'd their share of praise.
The matron's constancy--the sage's sense,
The power of beauty, and its bei defence,
The poor man's firmness in the struggling hour,
Contentment's charm, or riches' liberal power,
All learning taught-all daily life had thewn
-The molt unerring science to be known-
Were here enforc'd with simpleness and truth,
As food for age, or models for their youth;
Nay, ev'n in death they felt for human kind,
And left their moral legacies behind.

O! life's true teacher ! -most illustrious fage! Whose great example burns, from age to age, Who scorn'd the trammels of the wrangling schools, And taught philosophy by christian rules; Tho' doom'd a bafe--unsvorthy death to share, In spite of pity's voice, and virtue's prayer Still did thy foul unbroken, and serene, With conscious truth survey the awful scene, Fearless what pangs the poison'd bowl could give, And to the last inform'd us how to live.

With these bright models plac'd before our view, Let's learn to copy each proportion true, Explore what Conversation can produce, For moral happiness, and social use. In life's gay spring 'tis that perpetual school, Which moulds the manners, free from tyrant rule, Gives flow of speech, and readiness to scan The various habitudes of active man. Posless'd of this, we better learn to prize What comforts fashion gives, or what denies; What dress imports, what friendship's crowds employ, In all the frivolous pursuits of joy. Shielded by this, we better learn to thun Those baser lengths which youthful pafsions run; Gaming's sad charm, which rends all social ties, Engenders fraud, rapacity, and lies; Or Bacchus' court, or luft's decoying cell, Where rank disease and dissipation dwell. Far from those haunis, the tutor'd bosom strays, Who converse love-love not those dangerous ways.


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What books we read, tho' read with critic zeal,
'Tis Conversation ftamps the final seal;
Marks what's original, and what is known,
And adds another's strictures to our own.
What school, what travels, what examples taught,
As rich materials for our use are brought,
Proud now to feel what charm'd our earlier days;
Return with ten-fold interest to our praise,
On every fide we some advantage prove,
It warms our friendship, and inspires our love.

In latter age, when paffions milder flow,
And our chief pride is rais'd on what we know,
Tho'love no longer takes an active part,
No longer flames, or agitates the heart,
Still Conversation keeps its settled throne,
Its power of pleasing still is all our own.
By this once more we prove the virgin kind,
And gain fresh conquests o'er her charms of mind,
Difperse the gloomy, aid the cheerful hour,
Obtain respect, and confidence, and power.
And when, approaching to its awful close,
Life seeks its chiefeft pleasure in repose,
This social charm fall gild our setting day,
Iofpire fresh hopes, and brighter views display;
Hopes which foretaste, confrin'd by pious trust,
The sacred Conversation of the just.
Where man " made perfect” feels celestial fires,
Glows in discourse, or hymns in heav'nly choirs,
Where, bleft communion! every joy is thine,
Eternal truth-and harmony divine.

ELEGY occasioned by the Loss of the Author's DAUGHTER.

| From SORROWS, sacred to the Memory of PENELOPE, by Sir Brooke



Ow the down of the fwan o'er my temples is spread,

And grief and misfortune have bow'd down my head;
Now old age is at hand, and each forrowful day
Something adds to the load, as the strength wears away.
'Twere fitting, the little that life had to last,
Free from care and alarm might have quietly pass'd;
That in studious repose, to my bosom till dear,
Soft peace might have ended an humble career;
In the house of my fathers, ah! too much my pride!
On a wife's faithful breast have securely relied;
With a few dear companions, who knowing my heart,
Had to faults been indulgent, where that had no part;


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