Did not oft thy breath destroy And corrode life's sweetest hour; Did not oft thy poison'd shaft Pierce the breast that most we prize, And on fading faith engraft Doubt, constraint, and sad surmise. Luckless is. that child of care, Who beneath thy scourge must live, Doom'd from early youth to bear All the torments thou canst give. Once thy fatal influence spread, Hard and cruel is his lot, Fiend relentless-tyrant grim- Thou wilt be observ'd no more. When the sad, the fun'ral knell, Whether he deserv'd such blame. Love, perhaps, may o'er his tomb County Magazine. THE ANGLER'S WISH. I IN these flow'ry meads would be: Sit here and see the turtle dove Or on that bank, feel the west wind Or a leverock build her nest; Thus free from law-suits, and the noise Or with my Bryan, and a book, Walton. EPIGRAM. On a dissatisfied, ill-tempered, Man. STILL restless, still chopping and changing about; Still enlarging, rebuilding, and making a rout; Little Timothy, outrè as it may appear, Pulls down, and builds up again, ten times a year: With this altering rage, poor dissatisfy'd elf, What a pity it is he don't alter himself. Anonymous. AN EVENING'S WALK. THE air was still, the sky serene, Sudden the clouds with darkness rise, Peaceful and quiet is this hour, The next brings on sad ills of life; Misfortune's clouds begin to low'r, With malice, bickerings, and strife. Then happy they whose humble shed Can screen them till the storm is past; Where sweet content, by temp'rance fed, Shall be their shelter to the last. Fly swift, ye shafts of envy, fly! The blaze awhile may terrify, But ne'er can hurt the upright heart. County Magazine. THE ROSE. Go, lovely Rose! Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be. Tell her that's young, And shuns to have her graces spy'd, That hadst thou sprung In desarts, where no men abide, Small is the worth Of beauty, from the light retir'd; Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desir'd, And not so blush to be admir'd. Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare May read in thee, How small a part of time they share, Waller. |