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AN ADMONITION.

BY ANNA SEWARD.

FLORIO, the wild, the frolic, and the loud,
Of curb impatient, and of outrage proud;
Skill'd on the turf, familiar with the stews,
Whose lawless senses not a vice refuse,

But young, and titled, amorous, and gay,
Deigns at thy feet the nuptial wreath to lay,
Admir'd RosILDA!-Ah, in time, beware!
Trust not thy peace to this resplendent snare;
Nor from that Man of errors hope to prove
The faith and tenderness of wedded love!-
Thy fond attentions, thy unswerving truth,
Thy beauties given in such a morn of youth
As fairly promises their rising sway

A brighter noon, and long-enduring day;
While each auxiliar elegance combines,

The wit that lightens, and the sense that shines-
These rare endowments!-Ah! they all are vain,
Habitual vices form a stronger chain.

Inur'd to Change, Change only can impart Exhaustless transport to the sensual heart. Blow not the bubble hope, that peerless charms May bind the plighted Wanderer to thine arms, When soft attractions in a novel face,

The wanton glance, the gay voluptuous grace,

Venal, or libertine, his faith invade
Who asks nor Virtue's, nor Religion's aid.
As soon expect, on yonder grassy height,
The new fall'n drifts of April's winter'd night
Lasting shou'd prove, as when, on Jura's side,
Their pure expanse may Summer-beams deride.
Lo! on our humbler mountains dawns the Day,
And the warm South-Wind meets him on his way;
Wide o'er their fleecy tops the Sun shall glow,
And where is then their dissoluble snow?

VERSES

ON THE DEATH OF JOHN HOOLE, Esq.

AUTHOR OF "CYRUS," TRANSLATOR OF TASSO, ARIOSTO, &c.

BY THE REV. G. L. SCHOEN, LL.D.

OH, summon'd from this vale below
Of toil, and vanity, and woe;
Thy christian warfare now is o'er;
Thy wearied bark hath gained the shore;
And full of days, in cheerful age,
Is closed thy blameless pilgrimage!

What tho' thy labours to diffuse
The splendor of the Tuscan Muse,
Dispersing, with a Master's hand,
Her treasures o'er thy native land,

Shall long attest thy polished mind,
Thy flow of verse and taste refined,
Far different objects strike the few
Thy pure unsullied worth who knew.
Be theirs the daily task to trace
Each modest unassuming grace,
Which, in a world of pride and strife,
Adorned thy calm unenvied life,
And, led by Virtue's gentle flame,
On thine, their devious steps to fame.
To me, who marked from early youth
Thy manners mild, and moral truth,
How keenly tempered is the dart,
When fond regret assails the heart!
For oft will wayward Fancy stray
To bask in Childhood's sunny day,
That early sabbath of the breast
From Passion's hateful strife at rest,
When, freed from discipline and care,
I ran thy social smiles to share:
My frequent haunt at eve when school
Relaxed the rigour of its rule;
There, to each boyish effort kind,
Thy valued stores enriched my mind,
Thy precepts formed my taste, and gave
The little skill in verse I have.

Though all the pride of wealth and power
But glitters for a transient hour,

Tho' Rhetoric's richest strains must fade
When cold the listening ear is laid,
The Poet's energetic fire,

"Oh, proud distinction of the Lyre!"

Aspires to never-dying fame,

And ages ratify the claim:

But human toils have still their date
e;
The Muse herself must stoop to Fate,
And, in the general wreck of all,
Must see her proudest trophies fall!
While modest Worth, tho' known to few,
And shrinking from the public view,
Labouring amid the Passion's storm,
Life's arduous duties to perform,
And prompt at every Christian call,
And rich in charity to all,
Shall still be register'd above,
In realms of endless peace and love.

EPIGRAM

To a covetous Woman, who rouged her Cheeks while recovering from the Yellow Jaundice.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

BY MR. PHILIP DODD.

UNGRATEFUL Slave of Gold! What, blush to be
The wearer of your master's livery!

THE PICTURE.

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

COME, Painter, learn of me to trace
The fairest form, the sweetest face;
The Muse's raptures shall inspire
Thy hues of flame, thy tints of fire,
Her pencil aid the pictured strife,
And touch the likeness into life.
Come, Painter, come; and, as I sing,
Thy pallet spread, thy colours bring,
One spangled, rich, refulgent sky,
Whose stars in lucid order lie.
Here the sweet blush, of Phosphor born,
To light the pearly path of morn:
There the mild radiance of the west,
That beams on Hesper's dewy breast:
And see the mingled splendors roll!
See Beauty's sun illumes the whole!

Light would you lay your colours on,
From Cypria's softest, fairest swan
The bosom-down be thine to take;
Of this a plumy pencil make.

Or would thy fearful hand prefer
The summer cloud, or gossamer,
Thence let the silver lustres flow,
Soft as the fleecy, feathery snow.

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