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But neither anxious prayer nor gorgeous spoil,

Can purchase Peace; she floats in air aloof; And Aies the guilty tumults that embroil, When Care, with vulture wing, scowls o'er the dark

eni'd roof. How wisely, cheaply blest is he whose mind

Scorns not the earthen dish, or maple bowl, But sweet Content in his own cot can find ;

Nor Terror breaks his sleep, nor Guilt alarms his soul. Why aim we then the creatures of a day,

To grasp the round of Jove's eternal year? From clime to clime, why ever-restless stray,

Sick of the genial Sun, that gilds our native sphere? Sick of ourselves, ourselves we cannot fee :

The wind invites thee;--swifter than the wind, Care at the helm thy ready pilot see !

Or spur thy rapid steed; the demon sits behind ! Ah, born so soon to die, so much to feel !

O mortal man, indulge the short delight Thy present genius gives ! nor lift the veil, Which hides in sacred shade the future from thy

sight.

FOURTH IDYLLIUM OF MOSCHUS.

BY THE SAME.

Wuen o'er unruffled Ocean's azure plain

Soft zephyrs sigh, my sympathetic breast Sinks into sadness; then the Muse's strain

Delights not; all my wish, oblivious rest.

But when th' infuriate deep's vex'd billows roar,

Dashing their sounding surge, what joy to find The grove's deep shelter on the stable shore,

Where the tali pine-tree sings beneath the wind ! How wretched he, whose toil is on the main,

A boat his home, the fish his dangerous prize! While by some fountain marge, the spreading plane

Its triendly shade to my repose supplies.
Ah! then, how sweet the murmur to my ear,
Which soothes my sense,

and not alarms my fear!

INSCRIPTION

UNDER A BUST OF ADDISON.

O Addison, to thy lamented dust,
With pious hands, I consecrate this bust.
Oh! grac'd with virgin purity of soul,
With wit to charm, with morals to controul,
To gentle MONTAGUE and SOMMERS dear,
Whilst verse as yet could soothe a Courtier's ear.
Lo! touch'd by thee, with pure Religion's flame,
Philosophy assumes a loftier aim,
And better Truths and Mysteries refine
The souls of Seneca and ANTONINE.

Thou great, best Censor of a vicious age,
Whose blameless life flow'd gently as thy page,
Tho'chaste yet courteous, tho' correct yet free,
Ev'n Virtue may admire herself in thee !

B. WALLER.

[graphic]

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 sciz'd for debt through rude mischance,
Or chilld 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 ear,

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,

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