BELSHAZZAR.

BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN.

How curs'd the wretch, to dire Ambition held
In vassalage, thy fate, Belshazzar! speaks
A loud memento.-What though at the hour
When Treason, shunning the broad eye of day,
Pall'd in the gloom of night, with blushless front
Stalk'd forth, to jocund feast and waffailing
Thou gavest up thyfelf- -thrice happier he,
The meanest son of Babylon, his cares

In balmy slumber hush'd! Though at thy throne
Innumerous Satraps bow'd the servile knee,

And kiss'd the hand they fear'd, and troul'd the

tongue

Of flattery, they could not hail thee heir

Of Heaven's sweet Eden! Though thy palace walls
Rang with the full of Harmony; nor sound
Of flute, or cornet, sackbut, psaltry, harp,
Or dulcimer, could lull the harrowing pangs
Of Conscience to repose. What though a robe
Sidonian, with the gold of Omphir wrought,
Thy limbs so gaily mantled-though a tiar,
Borrowing new lustre from the dazzling gleam
Of countless tapers, and the spiral blaze
Of incense-breathing vases, on thy brows

In all the pride of Ormuz beam'd-those gaudes,
Those pageant trappings ill avail'd to hide
The deep, the dread damnation of thy sins
From Salem's righteous God!-Ah! why recoil'd
Thy soul in speechless horror from those signs
Of most mysterious import, character'd
By fingers more than human? Why, O King!
But that it found in one disastrous hour
Its fancied greatness vanish, and its pride,
Sky-vaulting pride, abash'd in mid career!

ON A BEAUTIFUL LADY

WHO HAD BUT ONE EYE.

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

Ir one bright eye such mischief singly do,
How many murders had she done with two!
But if I perish once by that one eye,
Give her a second, and I twice shall die.

THE SAME, TRANSLATED INTO LATIN.

BY EDMUND SWIFT, ESQ.

Tor clades tantasque Oculus si spargeret unus,
Cum gemino laté quas daret illa neces!
Si tamen hoc oculo peream semel ictus ab uno,
Accedat Geminus, bisque necatus ero.

A SONG,

BY DR. OGILVIE.

WRITTEN IN EARLY LIFE.

BENEATH a cool shade, Where fair Chloe had stray'd, Her wishes, unseen, to discover; To the Gods oft she cried,

And implored as she sigh'd,

That great Jove would but grant her a lover.

Poor Cupid behind,

In a grove lay reclin'd,

Whither Venus to rest had convey'd him

When he heard out the pray'r,

He soon found with despair,

That though blind, yet his ears had betray'd him.

He tugg'd at the dart

That stuck fast in his heart,

And he tried the soft passion to smother;

Till he heard once again,

And soon found by the pain

That his breast had been pierced with another.

Then ne stamp'd, and he swore,
Till he could do no more,

When by his own darts he was wounded;
And he cried, as he strove

Both with rage, and with love,
Was there ever poor God so confounded?

To the Nymph then he came,
And first told her his name,

Then cried, "Madam, I swear that I love ye,
"And vow by old Styx,

"(For a speech were prolix) "That no other shall ever remove ye."

Fair Chloe rejoin'd,

"Sir, your vows are but wind, "Without pledge I'd not credit my mother: "When these shafts I secure,

""Tis but then I'll be sure
"That my Cupid can ne'er love another."

So the bargain was made
For the tools of his trade;
In her love-darting eyes she has set 'em;
Where they're always at will,

And can ne'er fail to kill,

As oft as the Fair will but let 'em.

Now ye Beaus have a care,

Of this Charmer beware,

If you venture one look you are dead Sir;
In vain were your hope,

When once caught, to elope,

Though your heels were as light as your heads are. ;`

VERVERT.

CANTO I.

Translated from the French of Gresset,

BY MISS PEARSON.

O You, near whom each solitary grace,
In unaffected charms, preserves its place;
You, whose pure mind celestial truths impress,
Who know to lead in Virtue's awful train
Taste, Freedom, Pleasure, in their loveliest dress
Listen in soft complacence to my strain,

Since at your wish I venture to relate,
A winged wanderer's miserable fate.

O be my muse-give me the glowing fire,

Teach me the tender strains breath'd from your lyre, When fair Fidelia, in life's early bloom,

Torn from your arins, was shrouded in the tomb :
For my illustrious hero well may claim

Tears from the brightest eyes that read his fame.
His virtues travers'd by his wayward fate,

His wanderings, and his errors, known too late,
Might to another Odyffey give rise,-

Sealing with drowsy charm the reader's eyes ;
Might ask Mythology's creative aids,
Call Gods and Demons from ideal shades,