And say, thou solace of each care! A sweetness that could never cloy. Myrtilla! say, recluse from all That restless fashion would esteem; When storms have vex'd this rocking ball, Was peace with us? or but a dream? Surrounded then, as some would think, Have we not heard, from scenes like these, P. Courtier. HOPE. AN ELEGY. AMIDST the storms that ruffle life, All their worst stars can have in store. How comes it still this scene they prize, While youth leads on the sportive train, But winter damping ev'ry joy, When dead to love, or lost to fame; Tho' pain and grief our hours employ, The wish perpetual is the same! What is it, then, can'thus engage 'Tis Hope that cheers ev'n drooping age, And bids us shun the stroke of fate! Hope, that can still assistance lend, What choicer bliss could heav'n bestow, What happier boon could man receive, To sooth his cares, while here below, Tho' oft accus'd if it deceive? The kind deception rising still, Nor does the pleasing vision fade, Nor cease its influence to impart, Ere nature's springs are all decay'd, And life's last pulse beats at the heart. Ev'n now I feel its genial pow'rs, While adverse fortune's frowns I bear, Which bids me hope for calmer hours, And drives away the fiend Despair. Then let me hail thee, heav'nly guest! Till fate decrees eternal rest, Literary Magazine. AN OLD BALLAD. HE that loves a rosy cheek, So his flames must waste away. But a smooth and stedfast mind, Where these are not, what suffice Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes? Anonymous. TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. BENNET, Curate of the Parish of Wirksworth, Derbyshire. BENNET! although no lofty flights of verse Mr. T. Blore. ON MR. BACON'S ELEGIAC STANZAS TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE EARL COWPER. ILLUSTRIOUS Cowper! o'er thy hallow'd urn Ibid. TRANSLATION OF A SPANISH POEM. AH me! thou relic of that faithless fair! Sad changes have I suffer'd since that day, For soon true love each jealous care represses; Should wanton with the maiden's unbound tresses. Here on the cold clear Ezla's breezy side, Made me each rising thought of doubt discover, And vow'd and wept-till hope had ceas'd to fear, Ah me! beguiling like a child her lover. Witness thou how that fondest, falsest fair, |