Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The drays and hacks repose;
But, hark, how through the vacant air

The rattling clamour glows!

The wanton miss and rakish blade,

Eager to join the masquerade,

Through streets and squares pursue their fun;

Home in the dusk some bashful skim;

Some, ling'ring late, their motly trim

Exhibit to the sun.

To Dissipation's playful eye,

Such is the life for man,
And they that halt and they that fly
Should have no other plan.
Alike the busy and the gay

Should sport all night till break of day,
In Fashion's varying colours drest;
Till seiz'd for debt through rude mischance,
Or chill'd by age, they leave the dance,
In gaol or dust-to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some sober Quiz reply,

Poor child of Folly! what art thou?
A Bond-street Butterfly!

Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets,
No taste hast thou of vernal sweets,

Enslav'd by noise, and dress, and play,
Ere thou art to the country flown,
The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone,
Then leave the town in May.

REV. J. 0.

THE TALE OF ECHO.

BY THE REV. J. H. POTT.

REST, fair Maid! O rest thee here,
Where these willow'd waters flow;
The noon-tide gale shall fill thine car,
And, murmuring, breathe the words of woe.
If secret grief has taught thy mind

To shun the crowd and mourn apart,
In pensive silence here reclin'd,

Indulge the sigh that swells thy heart. Think not the stone, which now sustains Your arm of snow was planted here By careless hands; these worn remains Demand a sad and pious tear.

Though Time, which fills up every wound,

Has clos'd with moss the sculptured name; Though creeping weeds, that twine around, Have hid it from the search of Fame;

And though Oblivion opens slow
Her bosom to its sinking weight,
Yet Echo heard the shrieks of woe,
And can the mournful tale relate.
And when in many a year one maid,

As mild of heart, as chaste, as fair,
As she, whose ashes here are laid,
Wooes to this spot the evening air,

The hollow breeze shall sooth her breast
With Echo's Tale, and claim a tear:
For she, your mind, your charms possess'd,
Whose silent ashes slumber here.

The hand of Nature form'd her face,
To move esteem in every breast;

For gentle blood and native gracé,

And peace and love were there express'd. Where these soft waves in silence flow,

At evening's close, the youth she sought; Whose eyes first taught her cheek to glow, Flush'd with a warm and tender thought. The shrill winds whistled round her head, And darkness mock'd the straining eye; Foul night her raven locks had spread,

Wet with thick damps thro' all the sky. The ruthless blast sung through her hair, But patient Hope her fears allay'd; And when her cold lips breath'd a prayer, Not for herself that prayer was made. She wander'd round the destin'd place, And listen'd oft and wept through fear; The rude brier tore her beauteous face, And mix'd with blood the falling tear. At length she found her love, she thought, He slept, the cold ground was his bed; Trembling, his stony hand she caught, She call'd, nor knew she call'd the dead. For he had met his sécret foe; Unarm'd, alas! in vain he strove; A rival's malice aim'd the blow, In dire revenge of slighted love.

All pierc'd with wounds, and warm in blood,
He dragg'd the breathless body here
In cruel sport; she shriek'd aloud,

And rent with cries the troubled air.
Her fair locks to the winds she gave,
And sought, with frantic grief possess'd,
This guilty stream; the ruthless wave
Clos'd o'er her head, she sunk to rest.
By pious hands this stone was laid,
By pious eyes 'twas water'd o'er :
Such was her fate. For thee, fair maid,
Heaven keep a happier lot in store.

EPITAPH.

Intended for a Mausoleum, excavated from a Rock on the Sea Coast in Wales, by a Lady, where she had ordered her Remains to be deposited.

green

WITHIN this rock, from whose commanding brow,
In the
mirror of the sea below,
Now placid, now with angry winds at strife,
She mark'd the sad vicissitudes of life,
And to herself applied the checquer'd scene
(For much was her's of boisterous and serene,)
Maria sleeps-who, many a danger past,
Finds the calm haven of the grave at last;
And, sleeping safe, the world's last storm defies,
By Faith's firm anchor fasten'd to the skies.

R. FENTON, ESQ.

AN EPISTLE.

WRITTEN IN 1764.

BY F. N. C. MUNDAY, ESQ.

Quid Roma faciam ?—JUVENAL.

Nee-vixit male qui natus moriensque fefellit—HORAT.

Mix with the world, the polish'd world, you cry,
Nor waste thy prime in dull obscurity;
Go, join assemblies of the great and gay,
Thy worth, thy wit, thy genius there display;
In towns, in courts, the road to greatness find,
Improve thy manners, and enlarge thy mind,
A place, a pension, or high-portion'd dame
Thy fortune shall repair and sinking name.

-Hold, hold my friend! and first consult with care What suits my genius, what my strength will bear; To education we our manners owe;

And as you bend the twig the tree will grow.
The mind once-form'd, distort it how you will,
Plain simple nature will be nature still.

"Twere strange to see a horse with human head;
As strange that I, a rustic born and bred,
My life half spent shou'd now embrace the town,
A mongrel beau engrafted on a clown:

They who in wondering at the beast concurr'd,
Would hiss at me, a mixture more absurd.
Shall I, an enemy to noise and strife,

Who cannot relish turtle for my life,

Who sleep at midnight and by daylight dine,
Who hate French manners, and abhor French wine,