For conscious peace, for virtue pure,
For all domestic bliss bestows,
Where wearied with eternal toil,

The anxious bosom seeks repose:
Twines fondly round the cherish'd dome,
And forms the paradise of home.

Such are blest pair! your heartfelt joys,
And time shall give them glad increase;
And when at length Life's closing hour
Consigns you to the realms of Peace;
My Muse e'en then shall bless the day
That strung her lyre and tun'd her lay.

A. N

EPIGRAM

FROM THE FRENCH.

OLD John a bookseller, renowned in the trade,
By this traffic a fortune prodigious has made;
While young John, his son, who scrawls prose, Sir,

and verse,

By the bookselling trade has quite emptied his purse.
Can you guess why so different a fate is assign'd
For a pair to the same occupation confin'd?
Old John speculates, like a shrewd one, alone
On the works of those authors for merit well-known;
But young Johan, alas! speculates on his own.

R. A. D.

LOST FRIENDS;

AN EPISTLE TO MRS. 0–

TO MRS. O

MY DEAR MADAM,

THE

HE following little Poem, if I may be allowed to call it so, is entirely indebted to yourself for its appearance, and probably for its existence. For this reason, permit me to address at to you, as a mark of my best esteem and regard, to which I know you are so well entitled.

The trifling lines with which the Poem begins, will indicate to you the lively spirit with which I sat down to address you in the character of a Sylph-a title which I have ventured to assume to myself, with the hope of being acknowledged by the amiable and ingenious *" Sylph" of E-, as an admissible correspondent.

* Alluding to a very pleasing and ingenious copy of verses written by Mrs. O in the character of a "Sylph." Note, the title of " Sylph" is appropriated indiscriminately to either sex :

"Her guardian "Sylph" prolong'd the balmy rest,
"'Twas He had summon'd to her silent bed

"The morning dream.".

RAPE OF THE LOCK.

"As now your own, our Beings were of old,

"And once inclos'd in " Woman's" beauteous mould."

ID.

I had no intentions of exceeding the bounds of a short poetical Epistle when I began it--but the subject grew so fast upon me, and the Muse found so many dormant materials ready to engage her memory, sorrows, and attention, that I have been insensibly led to notice many remarkable and melancholy events in my lifeand to describe the sensations with which the recollection of them is now accompanied.

I may be permitted also to add, that I have found relief in giving my complaints utterance, particularly as I know, that I communicate my feelings to a mind, which, from a perusal of its productions, I am convinced is in many essential respects congenial with my own.

I pay myself a great compliment by this comparison, and by thinking my verses worthy of your kind acceptance-for though I profess myself to be, I hope, not an undiscerning admirer of the Muse, yet I have no pretensions to be highly favoured by her in return. It is but very rarely that I indulge myself in committing my thoughts to verse, and then only I do it for the gratification of myself, and a very narrow circle of friends-in which number, give me leave, henceforth, to inscribe your name, as the "Sylph" or Muse of E-.

With every sentiment of sincerity and esteem,

JULY 8, 1805.

Believe me to be,

My Dear Madam,

Yours most faithfully,

THE AUTHOR.

LOST FRIENDS.

DEAR Sylph,

And so this long-intended visit

Of Mine' to Your's' is settled, is it?
Well I could wish with all my heart,
That I myself might bear a part;
But we're so busy with our hay,

I cannot, must not, come away:
For Master's eye' or

Master's mind,'

We Sylphs well know, should stay behind. Things being thus, I judge it better,

If possible, to send a letter:

*

love:

(Of course, I fancy, you expect one)
To introduce my Friends to E—.
Indeed, the friendship which I bear
For them who hourly claim my care,
Makes me more anxious yet to show you,
That They I wish so much to know you,
May, on acquaintance, haply prove
Not undeserving of your
And that Yourselves' welcome too
The kind regard they feel for You.
Know then, with joy sincere they greet
The pleasure promis'd when you meet;
For, trust me, though but seldom seen,
They yet, long time, your friends have been.
They, who in Virtue's peaceful ways,
Have liv'd, like you, a length of days;

may

Surveying, with discerning eyes,
The forms of Folly as it flies;

And conscious, that "ourselves to know,"
Is supreme Wisdom here below;
By ev'ry bond of worth approv'd,
May well be honor'd-and be lov'd!

The mis'ry which on life attends,

The loss of health-the Loss of Friends"
Ye too have felt-nor will deny
The tear of Sensibility.

Ah! there, dear Sylph, my sorrow leads,
And asks the balm my bosom needs;
For many years must yet return,
Before we here shall cease to mourn,
With sighs and tears beyond controul,
The child-the darling-of our soul.
The Angel-lent us to excite

*

Foretaste of Heav'n's pure delight!
But this world's promises are vain;
Scarce have we labour'd to attain
Life's op'ning threshold, ere we find
The grave-the 'victory' of mankind!
Such have we found it here-and Age
Confirms the fatal pilgimage.
For oft in contemplation deep,
And taught by recent wounds to weep
Our dear-lost-child-the sorrowing Muse
Her mournful tales of grief renews:

"The hour," she says, "which gave me birth, "Consign'd my mother to the earth

The Author's eldest child, his dear Lydia, born July, 1795, died November, 1804.

+ The Author, born Jan., 14, 1768.

The Author's mother, born Feb. 1735; married Nov. 1760; died March 20, 1768.