What artful folds the robe must take, The form more flexible to make, Till every pulse and limb may move, The sure provocatives to love; What magic scale connects the kiss And the last wild extreme of bliss. Yet tho' no statute may exist On such discovery to insist, Kind Chloe near her every snare Hangs out in capitals-BEWARE! For, by a thousand ways exprest, Her machinations stand confest; Whilst every object gives the alarm, To fly from the surrounding harm. Her hangings by the Graces wrought, With every warm voluptuous thought, Instruct the emblematic room, To antedate our certain doom. To fill her sofas all the loves From Cytherea's moulting doves, Have caught and treasur'd up the down, In softness something like her own; And see in all her toilet's round, What smallest implement is found, Without some ornamental hint, In speaking, varnish, or in print; Which seems not loudly to proclaim, That hearts are there the lawful game. A Cupid here, with guileful look, Bends a heart-angler o'er a brook; And tho' he practise various baits Success each stratagem awaits: Another, at his mother's lips, In fatal balm his quiver tips, Ꭱ Ꮞ

Then with the sweetly-venom'd darts
Makes nursing pincushions of hearts.
Ye silent counsellors, how vain
Is all your monitory strain!
For let us only look at her
To whom those various types refer,
The syren with a glance destroys
The moral of the fabled toys;
The fate we see we cannot shun,
And by consent we are undone.

LINES

Written between Caernarvon and Bangor,

PLEAS'D have I travers'd that terrific vale,
At which th' astonish'd traveller turns pale;
Where Snowdon's form stupendous widely spread
Props the high Heav'ns with his gigantic head,
And Glyder's rocky summit e'er sustains

Fierce lightnings, warring winds, and dashing rains,
Mountain of storms! and o'er the lake serene
Dolbadern's solitary tow'r is scen.

Yet, Menai, do I not thy haunts despise,
Or view thy softer charms with careless eyes,
Sweet wood and lawn, and Mona's tufted shore,
By venerable Druids trod of yore;

And here, fair stream, more glad would I abide,
Than where dread Nature frowns in nobler pride.
So, better far than proud ambition's strife
Are the calm peaceful haunts of private life.

E. HAMLEY.

HORACE. ODE XVI. B. 11.

TO GROSPHUS.

IMITATED BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS*.

THE Seaman in some wild tempestuous night, When Horror rides upon the wide-mouth'd wave, And stars deny the mercy of their light,

Longs for some peaceful port his shatter'd bark to

save.

The soldier struggling in unequal war,

In search of wounds and death condemn'd to roam, Or crown'd with blood-stain'd spoils in Victory's car, Pants to return in peace to his dear native home.

* «The lovers of elegant literature are much indebted to Miss Seward, not only for her original productions, but for the very highlyfinished Version of some Odes of Horace, which she has presented to the public. The striking superiority of her specimens must be felt and acknowledged by all persons of taste, who have looked into the attempts of Creech and Francis. I shall venture to assert, in defiance of pedagogues and pedants, that Miss Seward's Translation of the Ode to Barine will not suffer from the strictest comparison with the original-that- indeed it is more beautiful. From this persuasion, and to bear testimony to her poetical merit, I an induced to inscribe to that lady the above version of the prior part of Horace's Ode to Grosplius, and likewise a translation of a delicious morceau of a more ancient bard, the fourth Idyllium of Mofchus The version from Horace perhaps may be rather called an imitation than a translation; but that from Moschus will, I believe, be found to be as close a version as the idiom of English versification will admit "STEVENS.

But neither anxious prayer nor gorgeous spoil,
Can purchase Peace; she floats in air aloof;
And flies the guilty tumults that embroil,

When Care, with vulture wing, scowls o'er the darken'd roof.

How wisely, cheaply blest is he whose mind
Scorns not the earthen dish, or maple bowl,
But sweet Content in his own cot can find;

Nor Terror breaks his sleep, nor Guilt alarms his soul.

Why aim we then the creatures of a day,

To grasp the round of Jove's eternal year? From clime to clime, why ever-restless stray,

Sick of the genial Sun, that gilds our native sphere?

Sick of ourselves, ourselves we cannot flee:

The wind invites thee;-swifter than the wind, Care at the helm thy ready pilot see!

Or spur thy rapid steed; the demon sits behind!

Ah, born so soon to die, so much to feel!

O mortal man, indulge the short delight

Thy present genius gives! nor lift the veil,

Which hides in sacred shade the future from thy sight.

FOURTH IDYLLIUM OF MOSCHUS.

BY THE SAME.

WHEN o'er unruffled Ocean's azure plain
Soft zephyrs sigh, my sympathetic breast
Sinks into sadness; then the Muse's strain
Delights not; all my wish, oblivious rest.

But when th' infuriate deep's vex'd billows roar,
Dashing their sounding surge, what joy to find
The grove's deep shelter on the stable shore,

Where the tall pine-tree sings beneath the wind!
How wretched he, whose toil is on the main,
A boat his home, the fish his dangerous prize!
While by some fountain marge, the spreading plane
Its friendly shade to my repose supplies.
Ah! then, how sweet the murmur to my ear,
Which soothes my sense, and not alarms my fear!

INSCRIPTION

UNDER A BUST OF ADDISON.

O ADDISON, to thy lamented dust,
With pious hands, I consecrate this bust.
Oh! grac'd with virgin purity of soul,
With wit to charm, with morals to controul,
To gentle MONTAGUE and SOMMERS dear,
Whilst verse as yet could soothe a Courtier's ear.
Lo! touch'd by thee, with pure Religion's flame,
Philosophy assumes a loftier aim,

And better Truths and Mysteries refine
The souls of SENECA and ANTONINE.

Thou great, best Censor of a vicious age,
Whose blameless life flow'd gently as thy page,
Tho' chaste yet courteous, tho' correct yet free,
Ev'n Virtue may admire herself in thee!

B. WALLER.