Their minutes, swift flying, I crowd with delight,
Turn winter to summer, and day into night;
O my dearest delights! my visits, my calls
My parties, my dinners, assemblies, and balls,
And 'mong my attendants, I'm sure I ne'er had
Or Prudence, or Wisdom, or Religion, so sad.
But why should I name my delights as they rise,
My rites, never seen by your cynical eyes?
Our new modes of dress, and the colours we wear,
Thy dictates, Simplicity, ever held dear,
For to make our dress simple as grand-mother Eve's, Instead of our muslin we only want leaves.
As to you, Mr. Cynick, I sincerely advise
That you strive little more in our favour to rise
You must leave off your silence, your awkwardness,
gloom,
And deck yourself out in Fashion's full bloom.
Learn to talk about nothing, be witty on weather,
And praise a new bonnet, admire a new feather;
And lastly, to gain the sure praise of the fair,
Learn to dress, lie, and flatter, dance waltzes and
I SAW a flower, fair, newly blown,
And thought to make its sweets my own :
But O! within its downy breast
It fondly lull'd a Bee to rest.
A truant bee who left his hive,
With her in sweets and love to live,
Shook from his roseate couch of bliss,
The flower's soft breast and honied kiss.
On me he flew with angry wing,
And anguish tells how keen his sting.
'Tis thus with beauty-fair it blows,
As fair and sweet as Persia's rose ;
But wouldst thou seek it, O beware,
For love the bee doth nestle there.
PURE as the snow-drop bending in the vale, O'er whose soft bosom floats the vernal gale ; Where'er she moves a heavenly radiance plays, Enchanting beauty chains the raptur'd gaze: Let 'plauding seraphs waft her matchless fame, Live in her praise, and die upon her name.
STANZAS ON MR. GARRICK.
BY WM. JULIUS MICKLE.
FAIR was the graceful form Prometheus made,
Its front the image of the God display'd;
All heaven approv'd it e'er Minerva stole
The fire of Jove, and kindled up the soul.
So Shakespeare's page, the flower of poesy,
Ere Garrick rose had charms for every eye,
'Twas nature's genuine image, wild and grand,
The strong mark'd picture of a master's hand.
But when his Garrick, nature's Pallas, came,
The bard's bold painting burst into a flame;
Each part new force and vital warmth receiy'd,
As touch'd by Heaven--and all the picture liv'd.
BY WM. DRUMMOND.-1616.
TRUST not, sweet soul, those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow,
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow,
Nor snow of cheeks with Tyrian grain enroll'd.
Trust not those shining lights which wrought my
When first I did their azure rays behold,
Nor vice, whose sounds more strange effects do show,
Than of the Thracian harper hath been told.
Look at this dying lily, fading rose,
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice,
And think, how little is 'twixt life's extremes;
The cruel tyrant that did kill these flowers,
Shall once, ah me, not spare that spring of yours.
WHEN Nature bursts the gelid spell,
Prepar'd in Winter's polar dell,
Where shades unblest for ever moan
Around the tyrant's ice-pil'd throne,
To the pure spirit of the Spring
I ope the portals of the skies,
While, from her sun-illumin'd wing
She waves the gales of Paradise ;
Her beaming eye, of azure hue,
Shines thro' the dim receding storm,
While clouds, fill'd with ambrosial dew,
Serenely float around her form!
My breath expands the new-sprung flowers
That scent the breeze in myrtle bowers,
As wide I spread my guardian wing
To shield the infancy of Spring.
In blushing wreaths, for Nature's brow, The olive and the rose I weave;
While, on each zephyr-shaken bough,
The moon beam lights the tears of eve.
I guide thro' the etherial maze,
From spheres of pure eternal light,
Yon star, whose trembling lustre plays
Thro' the dim shadowy form of night.
I hover o'er the twilight dell,
Near Contemplation's mossy cell,
To pour upon the rising winds
The hymns that charm seraphick minds.
When Genius sheds her kindling beam,
To wake the ardent soul of fire,
I aid the young enthusiast's dream,
Lur'd from above by Fancy's lyre.
While Hope for him unfolds her bower;
My warblings fill the blest abode ;
Pure as the transports of the hour
When infant spirits hail their God.
I guard the hallow'd turf-built dome,
The cottager's sequester'd home;
Where pure Religion holds her reign,
Nor dreams of Superstition's chain.
When grateful vespers float on high,
Rais'd o'er the altar of the Even,
I smite my harp in ecstasy,
To hear on earth the songs of heaven.
When artless bosoms own the fire,
That burns on rapt Devotion's shrine,
I list, while Mercy's golden lyre
Awakes the energies divine.
Borne on the pinions of the gale,
That breath'd delight thro' Eden's vale,
I watch'd at eve the sacred grove,
Far from my seraph throne above
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