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THE TRIUMPH OF BEAUTY.

THO'

on my birth Euterpe smil'd, And science fann'd the latent fire, I heeded not, ungracious child,

To mingle with the Thespian choir.

For oh! with Sloth, enfeebling fair,
I loiter'd in the magic bow'r,
Where, all devoid of virtuous care,
I listless doz'd the vernal hour.

Tho' younger Bion snatch'd the bays,
And all the muses hymn'd his name,
Sloth stifled Emulation's blaze,

Sloth bade me smile at deathless fame.

Yet oft when Homer's work was read,
I started from my trance supine,
Fierce, broke the spells around me spread,
Swift, mounted to the sacred nine.

But soon, too soon her arts prevail'd,
A magic languor on me hung;
Tho' seeming strong, my pinions fail'd,
The transports falter'd on my tongue.

Grey morn unbarr'd the gates of light,
With cloudless lustre Titan shone;
The silver moon adorn'd the night,
Sweet Philomela trill'd her moan.

In vain grey morn unbarr'd the light,
And Titan shone with cloudless ray;
The moon and music cheer'd the night,
On Inattention's lap I lay.

At last a form came tripping by,
More fair than fancy's tropes can tell;
I sprang alert, my pulse beat high,
On fire, I swept th' Aeolian shell.

My sweep the dulcet shell obey'd,
The numbers inspiration rais'd,
A fond attention hush'd the glade,
While I Neroa's beauty prais'd.

Smiling, she listen'd to the song,

Then whisper'd, if her heart I'd gain, That I must soar above the throng

By deeds, and Honour's palm obtain.

As when a snake benumb'd with cold
Is plac'd before Compassion's fire,
Heat circles thro' each thawing fold,

New vigour swells each bright'ning spire:

I burnish'd up the warrior-shield,
Impatient, shook the warrior-spear,
Fierce, rush'd into the bloody field,
Stern, bade adieu to Sloth and Fear.

Encyclopædia of Wit.

A QUACK DOCTOR'S NOTE CHANGED.

WHEN Doctor Lotion first began
To practice on the frame of man,
He bore but humble sway;

Each morn his hospitable door
Was open'd gratis to the poor,

'Twas then, "No cure no pay."

At length, with cane, and pond'rous wig,
The doctor struts a perfect prig,

In eminence secure;

The former system quite derang'd,

The poor forgot, the motto chang'd,

'Tis

now,

"No

pay no cure."

Ibid.

THE RESOLUTION.

WHEN faithless Clara was my theme,
I pluck'd the vi❜let and the rose,
And fondly raptur'd with the dream,
Sought ev'ry flow'r that sweetly blows;
And as I deck'd her breast and hair,
They breath'd new fragrance from the fair.

When I her mind or person prais'd,

To bow'rs of bliss beyond the skies
The god of love my genius rais'd,

Where beauties more than earthly rise,
With those her beauties to compare,
The fairest she among the fair.

Vi'lets and roses cease to blow,

Each flow'r of fragrance droops its head;
The nymph, forgetful of her vow,
Is from her love, from honour fled :
No longer deck'd her breast and hair,
For she is false as she is fair.

To bow'rs of bliss beyond the skies,
The god of love no more shall raise,
Where beauties more than earthly rise,
My genius to exalt her praise;
No more with angels shall compare
The nymph as false as she is fair.

Encyclopedia of Wit.

THE CONTENTED SHEPHERD.

By the side of a mountain, o'ershadow'd with trees, With thick clusters of vine intermingled and wove, I behold my thatch'd cottage, dear mansion of ease, The seat of contentment, of friendship, and love. Each morn when I open the latch of my door,

My heart throbs with rapture to hear the birds sing; And at night when the dance in the village is o'er, On my pillow I strew the fresh roses of spring.

When I hide in the forest from noon's scorching beam,
While the torrent's deep murmurs re-echoing sound,
When the herds quit their pastures to quaff the clear stream,
And the flocks in the vale lie extended around;
I muse, but my thoughts are contented and free,
I regret not the splendor of riches and pride;
The delights of retirement are dearer to me
Than the proudest appendage to greatness ally'd.

I sing, and my song is the carol of joy,

My cheek glows with health like the wild rose in bloom; I dance, yet forget not, tho' blithsome and gay,

That I measure the footsteps that lead to the tomb; Contented to live, yet not fearful to die,

With a conscience unspotted I pass thro' life's scene, On the wings of delight ev'ry moment shall fly, And the end of my days be resign'd and serene. Myrtle and Vine.

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