THE SIMILE.

Beware in persisting to start from his arms,
But with his fond wishes comply;

Come, take my advice; or he's pall'd with your

charms,

Like the youth and the beautiful fly.

Says Sylvia,-Colin, thy simile's just,

But still to Amgntor I'm coys

For I vow she's a simpleton blind that would trust A swain, when he courts to destroy.

THE BUGS.

THOU source of long sublime! thou chiefest muse!

Whose sacred fountain of immortal fame
Bedew'd the flow'rets cull'd for Homer's brow,
When he on Grecian plains the battles sung
of frogs and mice: Do thou, thro' fancy's maze
Of sportive pastime, lead a lowly Muse

Her rites to join, while, with a fault'ring voice,
She sings of reptiles yet in song unknown.

Nor you, ye bards! who oft have struck the lyre, And tun'd it to the movement of the spheres In harmony divine, reproach the lays, Which, tho' they wind not thro' the starry host Of bright creation, or on earth delight

To hunt the murm'ring cadence of the floods, Thro' scenes where Nature, with a hand profuse, Hath lavish strew'd her gems of precious dye;

THE BUGS.

་་་་་་

Yet, in the small existence of a gnat,

Or tiny bug, doth she, with equal skill,
If not transcending, stamp her wonders there,
Only disclos'd to microscopic eye.

Of old the Dryads near Edina's walls
Their mansions rear'd, and groves unnumber'd rose
Of branching oak, spread beech, and lofty pine,
Under whose shade, to shun the noontide blaze,
Did Pan resort, with all his rural train

Of shepherds and of nymphs.--The Dryad's pleas'd
Would hail their sports, and summon Echo's voice
To send her greetings thro' the waving woods;
But the rude axe, long brandish'd by the hand
Of daring innovation, shav'd the lawns;
Then not a thicket or a copse remain'd
To sigh in concert with the breeze of eve.

Edina's mansions with lignarian art

Were pil'd and fronted.-Like an ark she seem'd