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TO LADY

ON BEING ACCUSED BY HER OF HAVING GROWN CROSS,

O! was not then my soul content

When first with thee mine hours I spent?

My tender friendship seem'd to please,

And still my heart remain'd at ease;

When with thee happy-calm without thee.

No doubt, or fears my breast annoy'd:
But ah! the peace I then enjoy'd
Was, as alas! I now can tell!

Because although I liked thee well

By Heavens, I scarcely cared about thee.

But all my spirits now are flown;
And anxious, jealous, fretful, grown,

Thy presence oft I rudely fly;

Oft silent, sullen, sit and sigh;

Nay oft in accents stern reprove thee!

O! wherefore is my bliss expired!
Art thou grown odious, I grown tired;
Where friendship warm'd does hatred glow?

No, no Louisa 'tis not so;

But 'tis because at length I love thee.

S. W. I.

INSCRIPTION,

FOR A SEAT, ON THE SUMMIT OF A HILL.

BY ROBERT ANDERSON.

STOP, gentle traveller; on this rude seat,
Rest thee a while, and ponder on mankind.
If thou hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And Poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God by murm'ring at his will-
Consider what thou art-what thou must be
How life's dull path is short o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art near Eternity's dread brink.

Now, turn thine eye, yon mansion gay behold;
And if thou dar'st to envy its proud lord

Whose pow'r and rich domains extend atar,

Check the vain thought; know wealth is wrapt in

cares,

And but the virtuous are the truly great!

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'n.
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,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home.

Now deign to view yon cottage in the vale,
Where late content beam'd in each cheerful face;
See'st thou the ruins ?-Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In one who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
If thy young heart has not yet felt a pang,
For those, thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go!" learn the luxury of doing good :
Or, if unmindful of a better world,

The phantom Pleasure thou hast long pursu'd,
And self predominates o'er others wrongs,

Hence, sluggard! know thou art not welcome here!

EPIGRAM.

COME, prythee, dear Tagrhyme, a truce with your

curses!

Nor longer, disconsolate, murmur and groan Because pilfering Lackwit has stolen your verses, And wherever he reads them declares them 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

SWEET JOY, SWEET SORROW.

BY WM. CAREY, ESQ.

SWEET is the solemn moon-light hour
Of musing in the lonely bow'r;
When hills and woods and vales prolong
The Nightingale's enamour'd song.

Sweet is the look, in silence stole,
That speaks the virgin's secret soul:
Not half so sweet the early ray
Beams from the radiant eye of Day.

Sweet are the hours, when, led by love,
To the soft song of Hope they move;
More sweet than smiling Spring; more bright
Than frolic Summer's golden light.

Sweet is the maiden's fond delay,
When prest to name the bridal day:
Sweet is the lover's hope of bliss:
Sweet, sweet her mute consenting kiss.

VOL. VI.

Sweet is the vow of love for life;
Ah, sweet the change from maid to wife;
The feast, the dance, the wedding rite;
And sweet the husband's full delight.

Sweet fairy prospects follow soon;
Sweet omens each revolving moon;
Sweet symbols glad the happy pair;
The vines their purple clusters bear.

Sweet is that changing look; that eye
Of languor blue; that longing sigh;
That cheek, by turns, so flush'd! so pale!
That rose, that lilly sweet to hail!

Sweet is that form by Love imprest;
That growing waist; that swelling breast;
Sweet is that swoon; those transports sweet,
Thy baby yet unborn they greet.

Sweet fly the number'd moons: they fly;
And sweet those throes; that plaintive cry;
Sweet, sweet, the sweetest joy on earth,
The moment of auspicious birth.

Sweet name of Father, sweet to hear!

Sweet name of Mother, ever dear!
Sweet pledge of joy; in transport wild,
See Father, Mother clasp their Child.

These joys I've shar'd; these joys I've known:
These sweets-but ah! not these alone,
Sweet is the memory of the dead;

And sweet the tears that parents shed.

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