FALSE PLEASURE, A FRAGMENT.

Dea saeva potentibus herbis.

Envious of mankind;

When blefs'd with equal rule their virtues rise,
And blofsom and produce the fruits of love,
Concord and friendship and serene delight;
By fiends deputed, envious of mankind,
Th' offspring of luxury, false pleasure speeds
To blast the beautious scene. In gay attire
She comes with winning gesture, and her speech
Flows sweetly musical. O bar your ears
Against the dire enticement: nor allow
Her thrilling lay to gain and steep your hearts
In the lewd extacy. Whoever yeilds

To the soft dittied strain, shall rue, ere long,
With sore contrition: or all sense of right
Raz'd from his soul, fhall glory in a shape
Transform'd to brutal. For the witching song
Lures the free spirit from her lofty course
And tow'ring progress 'mid aerial tracts,
Dafhes and soils her plumage, that erewhile
Shone like th' Arabian phoenix, in the mire
And filth of sordid pafsion. Then adieu,
The lib'ral aim! Corruption, festring deep,
Grapples with canc'ring tang, the heart that heaves
Reluctant, soon in ev'ry cell and pore
To gufh with livid venom.In those days
The pleading eye of Pity; Mercy's smile:
Truth's lofty forehead challenging the storm,
That on its marble, like the breath of even,
Sighs ineffectual: Fortitude that grasps
A mountain oak, and marches firm athwart
The fury of a flood; th' ingenuous blush
That tinges with unbitten glow, the cheek
Of meek eye'd Modesty; and th' attractive grace
Of sprightly Temperance, no longer charm

Th' empafsion'd breast; nor gain deserv'd applause;
Nor kindle sympathetic fires; nor wake
The wish to imitate, and win like charms,
And clothe the soul with honour.

All those arts

That tend t' enoble and refine the mind,
Languih neglected. Thou informing power!
Thou genius of affecting song thou soul
Of ev'ry gen'rous art! by whom alone

VIRG.

The heart while melted is enlarg'd, released
From grov'ling bondage, fill'd with daring might;
O virtue when the tainted breast nor feels
Thy grandeur, nor thy loveliness; but seeks
The frivolous, the dazzling, and the vain;
Adieu the manly thought, th' intrepid mind;
And thou, fair Liberty, adieu !-Awake,
Ye sons of song, wake from th unfeeling trance,
And hurl the lightning of bold verse! Defend
The fane of holy freedom! for I deem
Whate'er of pleasing or sublime adorns
Or elevates the tuneful lay, depends

On that protecting power. When servile fear
Hangs on the drooping spirit, when restraint
Bars from the loveliest, sublimest theme ;--
Bars from the praise of virtue; and when pride,
Exalted, insolent and vain, requires

Th' applauding strain; enervated and mean
Creep the cold numbers. Sweep the mighty lyre
Undaunted, and the sons of other times
Your song fhall venerate, and write your name
High in the record of immortal fame.

JULIANA.

VERSES TO A LADY,

WITH THE GENTLE SHEPHERD.

Fair lady this affecting lay peruse,
The genuine offspring of the Doric muse:
The muse erewhile on Caledonia's plains

That charm'd the forests with mellifluent strains.
Copious and clear where Leven glides along:
Where Tweda listens to the fhepherd's song:
Where Spey impetuous pours his rapid tide;
Or in the valley of Commercial Clyde :
By winding Forth, or by the silver Tay,
Warbling the welcomed the return of May.
Cold now the hands, extinct the heavenly fire
That waked to extacy the living lyre.
No more the energy of song prevades
Our silent valleys and forsaken glades;

No more the green hill and the deepening grove
Resound the longing, languid voice of love.
For Hamilton the loves and graces mourn;
. And tuneful muses weep at Ramsay's urn.

A. L.

Continued from p. 72 and concluded.

CREATED for sorrow and tears, we wander here below in the midst of shades, in a night without stars. It is beyond the tomb that day lightens. To what givest thou the name of pleasure, unhappy mortal? Observe narrowly the dazzling scenes of life,-thou wilt only see a cloth on which error has thrown colours without brightness; the fool admires it, the sage considers it with indifference; sometimes it amuses him but it never deceives him.

But does not humanity offer more eminent pleasures? are they all like those of the frivolous young man, or of the prince without merit. No, sweet pleasures, confidents of virtue, follow the steps of the retired sage, who, too great for the confusion of the earth, pafses his days in the bottom of a peaceful valley, far from the tumult of cities, in the arms of a tender wife. Transported with joy, when the morning animates the meadows, he slowly traverses the smiling groves: animated with a secret gaity, he contemplates the flowers, which seem to smile upon him : insensibly the objects around lead him to the throne of the Creator. In his religious and profound contemplation, his soul darts beyond this criminal globe. His affectionate spouse presents herself before him; they em brace tenderly; tears of joy run down their glowing cheeks. The invisible angels who surround them, see with a celestial joy that God has permitted man to taste a felicity almost equal to their own.

In the evening, when a copious dew has mistened the fields, he again wanders out into the valley, his eyes raised to the

star of night,--who, serene and calm as his heart, casts her
gentle rays on him. At last he takes his lyre, he sings
the praise of the almighty, and his accents spread afar,
across the darkness and the silence of the forests. A se-
cond time Doris comes to find him in the valley: calm
as a fine evening, and serene as the summer's night, they
return to their rural habitation and fall asleep in the midst
of repose:
Thus slept Adam in the arms of his innocent
wife, whilst, guarded by angels, inh: bited delicious
Eden.
Where fhall I find the plea-
sures which I have been painting? Where is the wise man
happy? and how long does his felicity endure? Alas!
we may perhaps soon see him bathing, with his tears, the
the tomb of his beloved wife. Spring no longer flourish-
es for him; his lyre is become mute; he detests the,
light of day-the fhades of night increase his grief; he
sighs, he wishes for the moment that will unite his afhes
to those of his dear Doris.

But if heaven should spare him: if tears of sorrow never bath'd his eyes, would he be insensible to the misfortunes of others,-to the misfortunes of his friends? Would he see with an indifferent eye virtue in distrefs? Ah! if he has a feeling heart, how can he be happy here be low? and if he has not, how can he take the name of wise. Alas! for one happy incident, how many scenes of sorrow there are in the stage of life! There a furious warrior destroys the master pieces of an artist, who thought to live to immortality: the villager sees all his hopes rise in the smoke of his consuming cabin. In vain in his despair does he raise his innocent hands to heaven. The timid virgin is cruelly snatched from the arms of her mother by licentious soldiers; fhe implores the afsistance of her lover; but her lover is no more. He quitted her to seek glory in the fields of war. He has there fallen; and in dying he

1

She

still pronounced the loved name of his mistress. feels her heart inflamed by a sublime despair: a dagger snatches her soul from the earth, and her body from infamy. The soul darts to heaven; the body falls without being profaned; a peaceful tomb incloses it. In

better worlds, her soul will find that of her young lo

ver.

But what pleasure hast thou, unhappy young man, in tracing this picture of crimes and of sorrows? Alas! hast thou not enough of evils of thine own? why increase them with foreign ills, which thy imagination still heightens ? What is become of those sweet and smiling images which youth and hope presented to you in an agreeable back ground! Those brilliant visions of a happy futurity have disappeared. The ideas which made thy happiness are difsipated like the dream of the summer's right. Thy youth passes time will soon have devoured the last moment of it. Already thy days of sickness and distress are come. Thou wilt pafs the rest of thy days in a sad servitude; and thou wilt die unknown. Fools will pafs without emotion near the tomb where thou wilt repose.But when wilt thou repose? How many days poisoned with chagrin and melancholy await thee still! Who knows even, if fate in anger may not snatch thy lyre from thee? thy lyre, the last and sweetest consolation of thy life. . . Adieu, my friends! dont refuse me the last marks of friendship grant me a few tears.

Sweet, deceitful hope! Liberty which I have lost and which has cost me so many tears! Adieu.

Ye groves who hear my plaints, if ever a young man of sensibility comes to wander under your fhades, tell him (whilst your silence will have thrown him into poetić reveries, and a secret emotion fhall have laid hold of his heart) tell him that a young man came also to repose and