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TO MY FRIEND.
DEAR Edward! should it e'er be said
And sympathy unknown;
By instancing our own.
Ours is no tie of common stamp,
Which e'en a breath may end;
Cares only for its friend.
And quarrel forma bone.
All have-yet none dare own.
66 ?Tis all to help the farce on," Nor, when we see a mitre fall On cranium, dubb'd episcopal,
Regret we're not the parson,
When evening closes in the day,
In winter's freezing season :
Nor think of courts, or treason.
On tardy sloth's luxurious bed,
We'll taste the charms of murn?
The music of the horn.
Or else, should frosts enchain the ground,
The gun shall be our care,
They snuff the tainted air.
Each peaceful hour shall bless,
Shall join our social mess.
And gild the cloudless day,
ACCUSED BY HER OF HAVING GROWN
was not then my soul content
When with thee happy-calm without thee.
By Heavens, I scarcely cared about thee.
Nay oft in accents stern reprove thee!
But ʼtis because at length I love thec.
S. W. I.
BY ROBERT ANDERSON.
Stop, gentle traveller; on this rude seat,
If Fortune's favors, traveller, thou canst boast, Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n, Nor loiter here: 'Time's ever on the wing. Yet, should thy panting bosom rest require, Let what thine eye beholds lead thee to heav'o. This Seat, thy wearied body that supports, Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride; And many a humbler tree, and fragrant shrub, Its thick wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast: And oft the hind, to shun the fervid glow Of Summer's noontide sun, has sought its shade; Pleased with wild warblings from its topmost boughs, While o'er his scanty meal. Time-rent, and fall'n, Lo, its decay bespeaks the fate of man. If, pensive grown, thou hang'st a musing head, One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;
And the sear leaves, that quivering, drop around;
Now deign to view yon cottage in the vale,
EPIGRAM. Come, prythee, dear Tagrhyme, a truce with yout
curses ! Nor longer, disconsolate, murmur and groan Because pilfering Lackwit has stolen your verses,
And wherever he reads them declares thein his own. *Tis wisely ordain’d that each rascally action
Its own punishment, sooner or later, ensures ; And, if vengeance can give to your heart satisfaction,
For the wrong he has done ample vengeance is your's. Since Lackwit your lines as his own has repeated,
He nothing has gained but the bitterest scorn! By all who have heard him, has Lackwit been treated As the worst poetaster that ever was born.
R. A, DAVENPORT.