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,
And his fancy'd hope confounds;
Who, reflecting his faint eyes
On her face, with pleasure dies.

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;
But, scarce his passion known,
This Passage-Bird is flown

To warmer air, and brighter climes.

From shades to crowded rooms,
From flow'rs to dead perfumes→→→
The season calls-she must away.
'Tis then alone she lives,
When she, in riot, gives

To routs the night, to sleep the day.

He follows her enrag'd,
And finds her deep engag'd
At crafty Crib and brazen Brag;
He hears her betting high,

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,
Like man, to mimic art he flies:
On opera-pinions hoping soon

Unrivall'd he shall mount the skies.

And while, to please some courtly fair,
He one dull tune with labour learns,
A well-gilt cage, remote from air,
And faded plumes, is all he earns!

Go, hapless captive! still repeat

The sounds which nature never taught; Go, list❜ning fair! and call them sweet, Because you know them dearly bought.

Unenvy'd both! go hear and sing
Your study'd music o'er and o'er ;
Whilst I attend th' inviting spring,
In fields where birds unfetter'd soar.