None can avoid th' appointed hour of Fate.
Death, unexpected, finds his certain way,
Arrests his captive, opes th' oblivious gate,
And shuts the scene of life's precarious day.

What folly, then, to rear the spacious dome,
Adorn the garden, or the grove expand,
And fix the semblance of a lasting home,
When, every hour, departure is at hand!

Yon icy cellar, now profusely stor❜d

With claret, or Burgundia's rarer wine, Will soon be emptied by the youthful Lord, Who oft invites the jovial hunt to dine.

Ev'n with the joys of dear domestic life,

The sweetest pleasures of the virtuous heart,— The smiling family, the tender wife

At the grim tyrant's stern command-we part!

Of all enjoy'd, or occupied below,

A soda stone, is all that then remains, Vain man! who lives in ostentatious shew, And dies a fool, to crown his idle pains!

Thus sings the heathen Bard. His feebler eyes
Descried no brighter scene beyond the tomb,
And caught no beam descending from the skies,
To cheer the spirits, and dispel the gloom.

Far other are the Christian's views! Inspir'd
By pure Religion's animating breath,
With promis'd heav'ns eternal glories fir'd,

He dwells with Piety, and tramples Death!

LINES,

WRITTEN ON MOUSEHOLD HILL, NEAR NORWICH.

BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN.

STRANGER, whose feet this mountain's sun-burnt steep
Laboring have scaled, if that thou lov'st to muse
On deeds of other days, O may this spot
Arrest thy roving fancy! Know, that erst
Kett, that base recreant to the loyal cause,
Marching his rabble thousands up these heights,
Here pitch'd his wide-spread camp; here grew of yore
That tree, the " Oak of Reformation" named,
Beneath whose hoary boughs the factious chief
Harangued his vile adherents. Sallying forth
Sudden, he storm'd yon city gates, then pour'd
His bold marauders on the neighbouring towns,
And awed them to subjection. Yet not long
Thus triumphed he-high on yon castle walls
Was hung his chained corse; his colleagues shar'd
The rebel's doom, and with their carcases

The Oak's broad branches bow'd. Tho' o'er the land ages since have roll'd, the name of Kett

Two

Lives in his country's curse! Such fate be theirs,
Who vaunting, as in scorn, the hallow'd cause
Of Freedom, plot against their Albion's weal.

STANZAS,

BY MR. P. L. COURTIER.

So you say that my looks now no longer convey
The language that once was to you most delighting;
This you say, but forget, at the same time, to say,
How long you have ceased to be also inviting.

Restore me the dimple that played on that cheek,

And the eyes in mild lustre so gratefully beaming, And the tongue that in accents of music would speak, When of love and of hope my fond bosom was dreaming.

Yes, be the same girl that I once could adore

My eyes and my heart by thy beauties enchaining, Be this! and in conscience I think that no more

Any cause wilt thou find for reproof and complaining.

O that time, which can reason and friendship mature, Should the frailty of softer affection discover, Should declare that, however important and pure, Too vain are the sighs and the vows of the lover.

And yet, on reflection, perhaps I gave rise

To the change and the evils I thus am lamenting; Obscured the sweet radiance that shone in those eyes, And taught to that tongue the sad art of tormenting,

If So, and my girl can the truant forgive,
Who too long may her charms and her

slighted,

He will now do his best in contrition to live,
And be with those charms and those graces delighted.

EPIGRAMS.

TRANSLATED FROM LUCIAN, AND FROM PAULUS SILENTIARIUS.

BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ.

THY Riches use, as hastening to the Grave,
And as of Life secure, thy Riches save.
So are the wise prepar'd to die or live,
That Life may keep, and Death may riches give.

Love is my wound; the tear is blood,
That bathes my fault with endless flood;
Oppressive sighs my bosom heave,
Nor can Machaon's art relieve.
O were I Telephus to thee,
Faithful Achilles thou to me,

Then should a smile thy victim save,
And Beauty heal the wound it gave!

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE,

LIB. 2. ODE 8.

TO BARINE.

BY E. L. SWIFT, ESQ.

1.

Ir e'er to thee, perfidious maid,
One broken vow its charge had laid,
Hadst thou one blemish'd tooth or nail,
Again thy falsehood might prevail :

2.

But while thy vows for vengeance call,
Swift on thy perjur'd head to fall,

Thou comest forth, more bright and fair,

Of all our youth the public care.

3.

Swear by thy mother's hallow'd tomb,
The silent stars that night illume,
Swear by the deathless powers divine ;-
False Fair, no punishment is thine.