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Rear high thy bleak majestic hills,
Thy shelter'd vallies proudly spread,
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills,
And wave thy heaths with blossoms red!
But never more shall poet tread

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign,
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead,
That ever breath'd the soothing strain.

A COURT AUDIENCE.

OLD South, a witty churchman reckon'd,
Was preaching once to Charles the Second,
But much too serious for a court

Who at all preaching made a sport:
He soon perceiv'd his audience nod,
Deaf to the zealous man of God!

The doctor stopp'd; began to call,

66

Pray 'wake the Earl of Lauderdale!

My Lord! why 'tis a monstrous thing!

You snore so loud-you'll 'wake the King!"

2 F 2

TO THE MAY FLY.

POOR insect! what a little day

Of sunny bliss is thine!

And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay, And bids't them, spreading, shine!

Thou humm'st thy short, and busy tune,

Unmindful of the blast;

And, careless, while 'tis burning noon,
How short that noon is past!

A show'r would lay thy beauty low,

The dew of twilight be

The torrent of thy overthrow

Thy storm of destiny!

Then spread thy little shining wing;

Hum on thy busy lay;

For, man, like thee, has but his spring

Like thine, it fades away!

THE FEMALE PRATTLER.

FR

ROM morn to night, from day to day,
At all times, and in ev'ry place,

You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease.

Forbear, my Fannia! oh, forbear!

If your own health or ours you prize; For all mankind, that hear you, swear Your tongue's more killing than your eyes.

Your tongue's a traitor to your face,

Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd; All are distracted while they gaze,

But if they listen, soon are cur'd.

Your silence would acquire more praise
Than all you say, or all you write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then hush! and be an angel quite.

Anonymous.

A WISH.

MINE be a cot, beside the hill,

A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill

With many a fall, shall linger near.

The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch,
Shall twitter from her clay-built nest;
Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch,

And share my meal, a welcome guest.

Around my ivied porch shall spring

Each fragrant flow'r that drinks the dew; And Lucy at her wheel shall sing, In russet gown and apron blue.

The village church, among the trees

Where first our marriage vows were giv'n, Where merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n.

Rogers.

LAURA.

THINK not, while gayer swains invite
Thy feet, dear girl, to pleasure's bow'rs,
My faded form shall meet thy sight,
And cloud my Laura's smiling hours.

Thou art the world's delighted guest,
And all the young admire is thine;
Then I'll not wound thy gentle breast,
By numb'ring o'er the wounds of mine.

I will not say, how well, how long,
This faithful heart has sigh'd for thee,
But leave thee happier swains among,
Content, if thou contented be.

But, Laura, should misfortune's wand
Bid all thy youth's gay vision fly,
From thy soft cheek the rose command,
And force the lustre from thine eye;

Then, thoughtless of my own distress,
I'll haste thy comforter to prove:
And Laura shall my friendship bless,
Although, alas! she scorns my love.

Mrs Opie.

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