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SONNET

In the Hermitage at Wrest in Bedfordshire.

STRANGER, or guest, whome'er this hallow'd grove
Shall chance receive, where sweet contentment dwells,
Bring here no heart that with ambition swells,
With av'rice pines, or burns with lawless love.

Vain tainted souls will all in vain remove

To sylvan shades, and hermit's peaceful cells; In vain will seek Retirement's lenient spells, Or hope that bliss which only good men prove.

If heav'n-born Truth and sacred Virtue's lore,
Which cheer, adorn, and dignify the mind,

Are constant inmates of thy honest breast;
If, unrepining at thy neighbour's store,

Thou count'st as thine the good of all mankind, Then welcome share the friendly groves of Wrest.

T. E. Esq.

EPIGRAM.

WHEN George was poor, the youth was gay and free,
Of late he's grown brim full of pride and pelf;
You wonder that he do'nt remember me,

Why so? you see he has forgot himself.

TO A PIPE OF OLD PORT.

AN IMITATION OF HORACE, ODE 21, LIB. 3. Ad Amphoram.

OH! hallow'd cask of virtues rare,
Imported when John Wilkes was may'r;
Whether the juice which you contain,
To love or madness fire the brain;
Whether to wit you give a zest,
Or rouse to rage the heated breast;
Or, Lethe like, the senses steep
In fond, oblivious, balmy sleep?

I'll broach this night your latent hoard,
For Towers this night will grace my board;
And he well skill'd, as I opine,

Loves mellow Lusitanian wine;
Tho' stern in Freedom's glorious cause,
A bold asserter of her laws,

He'll not, I'm sure, your gifts deride,
With sanctimonious, surly pride;
E'en Priestley's faith some folks pretend,
Your spirit could not fail to mend;
Correct the creed that Horsley shocks,
First make him drunk, then orthodox;
That you make dunces wond'rous wise,
From thousand proofs let two suffice.

Pray what made Young of Newton treat?
And Billy Morgan write on heat?
Severely kind you still engage,
In playful mirth, each rugged sage;
Those secrets, Melancholy's food!
Which oft distract the wise and good,
By cheerful glasses are reveal'd,
And every mental wound is heal'd;
To anxious minds, who hope forswear,
You vigour give, and chase despair;
Tho' press'd with want, the poor man sings,
Regardless of the frowns of kings,

If chance the martial file he meets,
Who daily now disgrace our streets,
When warm'd by you, they nought appal,
He boldly pushes for the wall,
'Gainst which he rests, nor moves a foot,
Then damns them and the bank to boot.
Bacchus will come, a welcome guest,
And Venus, sworn to make us blest;
The Graces too, as guests I name,
For once not fearful of their fame,
All! all! shall come, and house to-night,
Long as the lustres lend their light;
And they will burn till Phœbus rise,
To reign the monarch of the skies.

English Chronicle.

INSCRIPTION UNDER AN HOUR-GLASS,

IN A GROTTO NEAR THE WATER.

THIS bubbling stream not uninstructive flows,
Nor idly loiters to its distant main;
Each flower it feeds that on its margin grows,
Bids thee to blush, whole days are spent in vain.

Nor void of moral, tho' unheeded glides

Time's current, stealing on with silent pace;
For lo! each falling sand his folly chides,
Who lets one precious moment run to waste.

Q. L.

THE DREAM.

AN ODE.

COME, gentle god of soft repose,
And charm my weary'd soul to rest;
In thy embraces let me lose

The cares that rack my pensive breast.

Arise, ye dear deceits, arise,

And drest in Damon's manly form,
My long expecting, wishing eyes,
With his ador'd resemblance charm.

Those melting sounds still let me hear,

Which did his ardent flame impart ;
Which blest with love my list'ning ear,
And charm'd my young, my yielding heart.

Why rove my thoughts on fancy'd bliss,

Which fleeting dreams alone bestow?
For ah! whene'er the morn appears,
I wake to sure and certain woe!

The envious light from my sad eyes,
Drives every festive joy away;
With night the lovely phantom flies,
And leaves me sad in hated day.

Since waking, then, I am distrest,

And rosy Pleasure's fled with him;
If sleeping, I can still be blest,

Let life be all one blissful Dream!

By a young Lady, aged 15.

BREVIS ESSE LABORO.
TRANSLATED.

In a suit of three years, for three pinches of snuff, Here's a brief of three yards, and that's brief enough.

Anonymous.

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