When perhaps some nymph, whose eyes Makes both men and beasts her prize, Swifter than Camilla's pace Soon o'er-takes the winged race, And with one bright glance she wounds, When the sports are done, they rest Underneath some shade, and feast On sweet beds of violets, crown'd With sweet roses, on the ground. Where they garlands weave and posies Of green myrtle, pinks, and roses; For which grace the ravish'd swains Pay soft kisses for their pains. Thus they dally till the light Falls behind the scene of night. THE BIRD OF PASSAGE. MDCCXLIX. BY DR. JOHN HOADLY. GROWN sick of crowds and noise, To peaceful rural joys Good Belmont from the town retires; Miss Harriet seeks the shade, And looks the country maid, And artfully his taste admires. Their sympathizing themes Of lawns, and shades, and streams, Were all they sung, and all they said. The music sweet he finds Of well according minds, And loves the perfect rural maid. His honest pure desires, Not fed by vicious fires, Suggest to speak his flame betimes; To warmer air, and brighter climes. From shades to crowded rooms, To routs the night, to sleep the day. He follows her enrag'd, He sees her slur the die He takes his boots, and mounts his nag. THE BULLFINCH IN TOWN. BY LADY LUXBOROUGH. HARK to the blackbird's pleasing note, Sweet usher of the vocal throng! Nature directs his warbling throat, And all that hear admire the song. Yon bullfinch, with unvary'd tone, Of cadence harsh, and accent shrill, Has brighter plumage to atone For want of harmony and skill. Yet, discontent with nature's boon, Unrivall'd he shall mount the skies. And while, to please some courtly fair, |