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On Wednesday the sicken’d, I griev'd and was sad,

To nurse her, in vain I essay'd ;
For still she grew worse, and on Sunday so bad,

For her death I most ardently pray'd.
Death came to her aid, and her breath the resign'd,

And left me her aid to deplore;
For oh! she was beautiful, gentle, and kind,

But now I must see her no more.
At the end of the garden we made her a grave,

And with lilacs entwin'd it around;
Where, free from all trouble and grief she is laid,
And refteth within the cold ground.

C. B,

I

THE WISH.
MMORTAL Gods, my prayers befriend,

And to a suppliant maid attend;
Let not my days pass calm and ftill,
But chequer them with good and ill;
And let my life for ever be,
A mixture of variety ;
For when misfortune well I know,
I then shall feel for others' woe,
Join'd to courage, knowledge, truth,
Let honeft virtue crown my youth;
Give me that pride which will be free,
And scorns to crouch to tyranny;
My cheek ne'er know the blush of shame,
And add to this a well-earn’d fame!
Oh! grant, ye gods, it be my lot,
That when I'm dead I'm not forgot;
My first great wish is glorious fame!
Let future ages know my name !
To crown the whole, ye gods above!
Let me not know what 'tis to love!

S.

THE HUSBANDMAN.

ride

E

d
In gilded coaches, as ye glide
Among the vulgar crew;
Scorn not the man who tills the fields,
Who reaps the fruits which autumn yields,

That man's as good as you.
Tho' fortune adverse, for his home
Has rais’d in Itate no splendid dome,

Nor spread upon his board
Delicious dainties—and his name,
Unblazon'd in the rolls of fame,

Is still among the crowd;
Yet calm content around his head,
Will still her genial influence shed,

He envies not your lot;
When day declining, night returns,

And on his hearth one faggot burns,

He haftcns to his cot.
His infants, sportive round the fire,
In lisping accents greet their fire,

(While each alike's his care); With wanton gamb'lings itrive to please, And eager climb his honour'd knees,

The envied kiss to share:
The greeting o'er-tu reft he goes,
Ambition breaks not his repose,

Nor robs his soul of rest;
For envy, hate, corroding care,
The dire effects of fell despair,

Are strangers to his breast.
Can all your wealth--can all your pow'r,
Those glitt'ring playthings of an hour,

Bring happiness like this? Can pompous

titles and estates, The fleeting gifts of blinded fates,

Be reckon'd equal bliss ?

No ! hence ye vain delusive toys,
Ye

poor, fantastic, short-liv'd joys,

Give me a conscience pure ; Give me a mind content, serene, No cloud of guilt to intervene,

My joys will ftill endure.

VERNAL BEAUTIES,

OR

THI

(RURAL FELICITY. *HE little warblers of the spring

Their sweet melodious accents raise;
They make the hills and dales to ring,

In warbling out their Maker's praise.
The black-bird, wood-lark, and the thrush,

Unite with those of fecbler voice;
Whose chaunts resound from bush to bulh,

To rouse all nature to rejoice; Whilft nature seems to hear the sound,

Flowers, herbs, Ihrubs, trees, put forth their heads; To ask what have you, warblers, found

To make you fing; is winter fled? « Sweet yes,” the nightingale replies ;

“ For I'm the harbinger of spring ; « And to confirm the same,” she cries,

“ Hark! don't you hear yon cuckoo sing?” Oh, joyful sound! with one accord

They all embrace their welcome guest; Creation, and its earthly lord,

With second paradise are bleft. Ruckings, Kent.

JOHN FRANCIS,

1

W

VERSES WROTE ON A CALM SUMMER'S EVENING.

CIDE o'er the farther west the trembling beam

Sheds on deparțing day its latent gleam;
Now now and solemn, filver clad on high,
The young moon lifts her crescent in the sky;
Around her orb how soft a radiance glows,
And O! how sweet the soothing prospect shows.
Ah! 'tis a sacred hour, a stilly scene,
And more than filence rules the wide serene;
A mighty grandeur lifts my soaring thought,
With all the múses' inspiration fraught;
Far in the world of fancy led, I rove,
My glowing sentiments new charms improve.
I wish beyond the nether world to soar,
I wish the source of being to explore ;
Fain would I fly from orient east to west,
Where earth on boundless ocean leans her breast-
Dive into chaos, reach that ftern abode,
Where, clad in terror, rules the gloomy god;
Thence, borne on rapid wing, direct my flight,
And view the shrines of uncreated light.
Such are the themes that ev’ning's charms infuse,
And such the effort of my artless muse.

JOHN JONES,

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« Virgins! much, 100 much presuming,

“ In your boasted white and red; “ View us late in beauty blooming,

" Number'd now among the dead. Griping misers! nightly waking,

“ See the end of all your care;. “ Fled on wings of our own making,

" We have left our owners bare. Sons of honour! fed on praises,

“ Flutt'ring high on fancied worth; “Lo! the fickle air that raises,

“ Brings us down to parent earth. Learned sophis! in systems jaded,

« Who for new ones daily call; « Ccase, at length by us persuaded,

“ Every lcaf must have a fall. “ Youths! though yet no loffes grieve you,

“ Gay in health and manly grace ; 66 Let not cloudless skies deceive you,

“ Summer gives to autumn place., « Venerable Sires! grown hoary,

“ Hither turn th' unwilling eye; “ Think amidit your falling glory,

6 Autumn tells a winter nigh. “ Yearly in our course returning,

56 Méfiengers of shortest stay, “ Thus we preach this truth unerring,

“ Heaven and earth shall pass away! ** On the Tree of life eternal,

Mlan! let all thy hopes be said; * Which alone, for ever vernal,

* Bears a leaf which ne'er fall fade."

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