HORACE*, ODE VII. BOOK III. TRANSLATED BY THE LATE REV. W. B. STEVENS, WHY fall those tears on fair Asterie's breast? With faith, that cannot change, with fortune blest, A distant port withholds him from thy sight, In vain fair Chloe spreads her festive snare, In vain she tells his constant heart to prove, How Argos' amorous queen, with cruel thought, Her credulous lord to her dire humour wrought, "The true forte of Horace, in his Odes, is not perhaps the "sublime. It seems to me that he is never so much at home as "when he expatiates upon common topics, where he can indulge "his genius in a certain vein of elegant familiarity. "STEVENS." In vain her treacherous eloquence assails Deaf as a rock to her allusive tales, His ears, his heart reject her claim. But thou, whilst thus his manly faith disarms Beware thy gallant neighbour's graceful charms, What tho' he winds at will the fiery steed, Still from thy threshold, at approach of eve, Trust not the open'd casement with thine car, That whilst he artful swears thou art severe, TO MAJOR ROOKE, OF MANSFIELD, On the Publication of his Diurnal Register of the Winds for the last Two Years. No gale unlucky may thy fortunes find, On grateful wings, from blight and tempest free, ANNA SEWARD, ANACREONTIC. COME reach me old Anacreon's lyre, Then let me wake the rapturous shell, With cords of sweet remembrance strung; While grateful Age delights to tell Of joys that glow'd when life was young. And, lest the languid pulse forego The throb that Fancy's flight inspires, Anacreon's flowing cup bestow, And urge with wine the waning fires. But temper me the Teian bow!! And chasten me the Teian shell! Yet, Nature!thine the votive string, Nor lawless thro' the realms of love, Shall yet excursive Fancy rove, If, while the mantling goblet flows, I sing of Beauty's charms divine ;— And when with high-enraptur'd air J. THELWALL. On a LADY'S FAN of her own Painting. Of danger careless, while the youth admires The emblematic toy on which thy art, In rich device, has shadow'd Hymen's fires, Love's sacred altar, and the votive heart; As from the author to the work he turns, Th' insidious flame steals on him by degrees, Till with the rapture all his bosom burns, And his heart proves the sacrifice he sees. R. FENTON, ESQ. ODE. BY MR. SHAW. O THAMES with chrystal face, Not where thy wave beside, O! let not there my youth pursue But where thy silver springs To seek the seats of kings; O! Thames, there let me rear my bower, |