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THE DREAM.

THROUGH many a night, with wakeful sighs

I watch'd the taper's sickly gleam, Till Sleep, in pity, closed my eyes,

And brought me such a-such a dream ! Methought, whilst my poor heart was venting

Its griefs, so often breath'd in vain, I mark'd thy scornful soul relenting, And saw thee

weep-to see my pain. And when, this pity to improve,

My rising hopes I dared to name;
I heard thee chide my trembling love,

Yet whisper-Ah! I feel the same.
Oh then how fondly I caress’d thee !

How wildly gazed upon thy charms ! How madly to my bosom press'd thee !

And died-maye, died within thine arms! Thus-thus I triumph’d, haughty fair,

In spite of all thy barbarous pride! Thus did thy very scorn prepare

The very raptures it denied ! Henceforth

my

soul shall comfort borrow
From this dear, fleeting, fancied bliss;
Shall patient bear its days of sorrow,
In hopes of one more night like this.

S, W. Le

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SHOULD I resolve in verse to write,

(In Pallas' and Apollo's spite),
I fear no mortal man would chuse
My homely pages to peruse ;
But, with a thousand bitt'rest curses,
Damn both the poet and his verses.
Yet have I often tried your patience
With vague allusions and translations ;
And tho I write as never man did,
Still have I found you cool and candid;
To you then, free from cynic sneer,
I scribble without thought or fear,
Nor (tho', unaided by the Muse)
Tremble at Critical Reviews !
And now, altho' t with nose disjointed,
Au desespoir, quite disappointed,
I, as from hence you'll understand,
Have boldly “taken pen in hand,

• In Pallas spite-invità Minerva. + With nose disjointed-max allusion to the old saying, « You non'is'out of socket.”

To tell you, in a sad narration,
The horrors of my situation :
Hence do not falsely form conjectures
Of some as yet unheard-of lectures ;
* Or-wish to know what acquisitions
I've lately made-of impositions.

Tho'plagu'd to death with disputations
And Ciceronian declamations;
Trust me that ills far worse surround me,
Perplex, tease, vex, distress, confound me:
Worse e'en than those which poets say,
(Horace, and others of his day),
1 « The thief Prometheus once attended,
“ When he from Heav'n with fire descended,"
Know then, that love's the sole occasion
Of my desponding situation,
And that the summit of attraction
Has well-nigh brought me to distraction:
But since 'tis your's, as all can tell,
The clouds of sorrow to dispel ;
A truth, who doubts (if ought there be
Who dare dispute your pleasantry),
Send them to Brazen-nose, to Towers,
He'll vindicate

your

comic powers !
And, should a disbeliever crave it,
Would of this truth make affidavit,
66 That tho'o'erwhelm’d with storms of woc,
1 Or sighs steal out, or tears should flow;

* Or wish to know. Tu ne quæsieris scire.- Hor.

+ for particulars of that unfortunate gentleman see Hor. Od.. or Ovid at large. Or sighs steal out, &c. Now sighs steal out and tears begin to flow."

Pope. -Essay on Critician.

1

Yet spite of sorrow, when you're present, Should he be hang’d he must look pleasant.

With

you then shall my hours be spent In quips, and cranks, and merriment; And Care (if e'er he should attack us), We will resist with potent Bacchus. But when the spring, all-genial season, Has budding foliage spread the trees on, We will nobiscum, aut amicis, * “ Sail ev'ry ev’ning up the Isis; “ Or rather, should it please our taste, In phætons to Woodstock haste."

Here as I waste the midnight oil,
And vainly till Parnassian soil,
Wrapt in a melancholy gloom
I mourn my love's untimely doom.
While undisturb'd by festive sound
Here sacred silence reigns around,
Save where some Fellow of the College
Visits the dome of classic knowledge,
Which once fair Cloacina's seat,
Is now the Muse's dun retreat;
Or save, where on the house-top sprawling,
Wrapt in ecstatic caterwawling,
The tabby race, in am'rous play,
Pass many a pleasing hour away.

Oh would Calliope descend,
My humble verses to befriend;
Or would the maid of form divine
Inspire my breast with fire like thine,
Sail ev'ry ev'ning, &c. Navibus atque
Quadrigis petimus benè vivere. Hur.

Then would I sing of heroes taken,
Who could not wisely save their bacon.
Of Harcourt who, by * aid of Pallas,
Surpris'd great chieftains in his sallies;
Would tell of Sullivan's fam'd island,
Where ships stuck fast upon the dry land ;
And, to the squadron's great confusion,
Sir Peter + met with a contusion. I
Or would the gracious maid Urania
Grant me to sing of fair Titania;
Then would I treat of light-heel'd fairies
Tripping 'twixt Radcliffe and St. Mary's ;
While some with fist and stick belabour,
Aided by mouth and pipe, the tabor ;
Some from the acorn sip the dew,
And some at Corpus visit you.

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But soft, methinks a voice I hear
$ That checks me in my bold career,
Bids me attend to Wisdom's rule,
Nor out of season play the fool.
Yet may I safely tune my string
While trifling themes like these I sing ;
But oh! would Fate for once propitious
Grant me th' enjoyment of my wishes,
ll In humble track, and at a distance,
Devoid uf Clio's kind assistance,

By aid of Pallas. Aut ope Pallades. Hør. + Met with a contusion. See, if the reader think it worth while that gullant Commander's Letter. $ This Epistle was written during the American war, That checks me, &c. Phæbus volentem prælia me loqui

Increpuit. | At a distance. Longo sed proximus intervallo,

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