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ODE

TO MY FRIEND.

DEAR Edward! should it e'er be said
That friendship from the earth is filed,

And sympathy unknown;
Let us confute those selfish elyes,
Who judge of others by theinselves,

By instancing our own.

Ours is no tie of common stamp,
Whose warmth an angry word may dampa

Which e’en a breath may end;
But 'tis that temper of the mind,
Which, every other wish resign’d,

Cares only for its friend,

Let Prussia, Germany, and Spain
Prepare against a fresh campaign,

And quarrel for--a bone.
We'll sit at home, con o'er the news,
And mark the interested views,

All have-yet none dare own.
Let whigs their tory foes bespatter,
We'll smoke our pipes, and cry, no matter :

'Tis all to help the farce on,"
Nor, when we see a mitre fall
On cranium, dubb’d episcopal,
Regret we're not the

parson,

When evening closes in the day,
And Luna's horns their tips display,

In winter's freezing season:
We'll trim the fire, and drink our ale,
(A source of joy, that ne'er shall fail,)

Nor think of courts, or treason.

On tardy sloth's luxurious bed,
Whilst others rest the aching head,

We'll taste the charms of murn?
Esulting skim the broad champaign,
Enlivened by the jocund strain,

The music of the horn.

Or else, should frosts enchain the ground,
Forbidding sports of horn, and hound,

The gun shall be our care,
Our dogs th' unshackled streams shall try,
*Till roving where the stragglers lie,

They snuff the tainted air. Health, a no longer bashful lass, Who flies the full nocturtial glass,

Each peaceful hour shall bless,
Contentment too, that timid maid,
No longer of mankind afraid,

Shall join our social mess.
But chief-to friendship we shall owe
Those joys, which uniformly flow,

And gild the cloudless day,
Faithfull we'll still agree to share
Each other's happiness, or care,
Till life dissolves away.

HORATIO.

TO LADY

ON BEING

ACCUSED BY HER OF HAVING GROWN

CROSS,

0!

was not then my soul content
When first with thee mine hours I spent?
My tender friendship seem’d to please,
And still.my heart remain’d at ease;

When with thee happy-calm without thee.
No doubt, or fears my breast annoy'd:
But ah! the peace I then enjoy'd
Was, as alas ! I now can tell!
Because although I liked thee well

By Heavens, I scarcely cared about thee. But all my spirits now are flown; And anxious, jealous, fretful, grown, Thy presence oft I rudely fly; Oft silent, sullen, sit and sigh;

Nay oft in accents stern reprove thee! O! wherefore is my bliss expired! Art thou grown odious, I grown tired; Where friendship warm’d does hatred glow? No, no Louisa 'tis not so;

But ʼtis because at length I love thec.

S. W. I.

INSCRIPTION,
FOR A SEAT, ON THE SUMMIT OF A HILL,

BY ROBERT ANDERSON.

Stop, gentle traveller; on this rude seat,
Rest thee a while, and purder on mankind.
If thon hast journey'd long thro' life's dark vale,
And Poverty hath thy companion been,
Offend not God by murm’ring at his will
Consider what thou art--what thou must be
How life's dull path is short o'er which thou stray'st,
And thou art near Eternity's dread brink.
Now, turn thine eye, yon mansion gay behold;
And if thou dar’st to envy its proud lord
Whose pow'r and rich domains extend atar,
Check the vain thought; know wealth is wrapt in

cares,
And but the virtuous are the truly great!

If Fortune's favors, traveller, thou canst boast, Bethink thee for what purpose they were giv'n, Nor loiter here: 'Time's ever on the wing. Yet, should thy panting bosom rest require, Let what thine eye beholds lead thee to heav'o. This Seat, thy wearied body that supports, Once tower'd majestic, the dark forest's pride; And many a humbler tree, and fragrant shrub, Its thick wov'n branches shelter'd from the blast: And oft the hind, to shun the fervid glow Of Summer's noontide sun, has sought its shade; Pleased with wild warblings from its topmost boughs, While o'er his scanty meal. Time-rent, and fall'n, Lo, its decay bespeaks the fate of man. If, pensive grown, thou hang'st a musing head, One moment's thought points out thy kindred earth;

And the sear leaves, that quivering, drop around,
Soon, soon may rustle o'er thy narrow home.

Nos leign to view yon cottage in the vale,
Where late content beam'd in each cheerful face;
See'st thou the ruins ?-Mark a helpless pair,
Who sit, and mourn, and tell to passers by,
How war hath blasted all their hopes of age,
In one who fought, and fell in foreign fields.
If thy young heart has not yet felt a pang,
For those, thy brethren, whose distress bespeaks
Thy country's ruin, in its growing pride,
Go!« learn the luxury of doing good :”
Or, if unmindful of a better world,
The phantom Pleasure thou hast long pursu'd,
And self predominates o'er others wrongs,
Hence, sluggard ! know thou art not welcome here!

EPIGRAM
Come, prythee, dear Tagrhyme, a truce with your

curses !
Nor longer, disconsolate, murmur and groan
Because pilfering Lackwit has stolen your verses,

And herever he reads them declares then his own. *Tis wisely ordain'd that eac': rascally action

Its own punishment, sooner or later, ensures ;
And, if vengeance can give to your heart satisfaction,

For the wrong he has done ample vengeance is your's.
Since Lackwit your lines as his own has repeated,

He nothing has gained but the bitterest scorn!
By all who have heard him, has Lackwit been treated
As the worst poetaster that ever was born.

R. A. DAVENPORT.

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