Thus the wild flood with deaf'ning roar But soon its empty rage is o'er, While the pure stream, which still and slow EPIGRAM ON TWO MONOPOLISTS. FROM THE SAME. Two butchers thin, call'd Bone and Skin, JOHN CUNNINGHAM. BORN 1729.-DIED 1773. JOHN CUNNINGHAM was the son of a wine-cooper in Dublin. Having written a farce, called "Love in a Mist," at the age of seventeen, he came to Britain as a strolling actor, and was for a long time a performer in Digges's company in Edinburgh, and for many years made his residence at Newcastle upon Tyne. He died at that place, in the house of a benevolent printer, whose hospitality had for some time supported him. CONTENT. A PASTORAL. O'er moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare, As wilder'd and wearied I roam, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor, Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door. We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast, cast, Love slily stole into my breast! I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied, (Ye virgins, her voice was divine!) I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied, But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine. Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek; Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils, The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN. THE silver moon's enamour'd beam Upon the green the virgins wait, Strike up the tabor's boldest notes, The nested birds shall raise their throats, And hail the maid I love: And see-the matin lark mistakes, He quits the tufted green : Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks, 'Tis Kate of Aberdeen. Now lightsome o'er the level mead, Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead, For see the rosy May draws nigh; And hark, the happy shepherds cry, GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON. BORN 1709.-DIED 1773. THIS nobleman's public and private virtues, and his merits as the historian of Henry II. will be remembered when his verses are forgotten. By a felicity very rare in his attempts at poetry, the kids and fawns of his Monody do not entirely extinguish all appearance of that sincere feeling with which it must have been composed. Gray, in a letter to Horace Walpole, has justly remarked the beauty of the stanza beginning "In vain I look around." "If it were all like this stanza," he continues, " I " could be pleased." Nature, and sorrow, and tenderness are the true genius of such things (monodies). Poetical ornaments are foreign to the purpose, for they only shew a man is not sorry, and devotion |