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The other was of gentler cast,

From all such frenzy clear,
Her frowns were seldom known to last,

And never proved severe.
To poets of renown in song

The nymphs referr’d the cause,
Who, strange to tell, all judged it wrong,

And gave misplaced applause.
They gentle call’d, and kind and soft,

The flippant and the scold,
And though she changed her mood so oft,

That failing left untold.
No judges, sure, were e'er so mad,

Or so resolved to err,-
In short, the charms her sister had

They lavish'd all on her.
Then thus the God whom fondly they

Their great Inspirer call,
Was heard, one genial summer's day,

To reprimand them all. “ Since thus ye have combined," he said,

“ My favourite nymph to slight, Adorning May, that peevish maid,

With June's undoubted right, “ The Minx shall, for your folly's sake,

Still prove herself a shrew, Shall make your scribbling fingers ache,

And pinch your noses blue."

S. C.-10.




A HERMIT, (or if 'chance


hold That title now too trite and old), A man, once young, who lived retired As hermit could have well desired, His hours of study closed at last, And finish'd his concise repast, Stoppled his cruise, replaced his book Within its customary nook, And, staff in hand, set forth to share The sober cordial of sweet air, Like Isaac, with a mind applied To serious thought at eveningtide. Autumnal rains had made it chill, And from the trees, that fringed his hill, Shades slanting at the close of day Chill’d more his else delightful way; Distant a little mile he spied A western bank's still sunny side, And right toward the favour'd place Proceeding with his nimblest pace, In hope to bask a little yet, Just reach'd it when the sun was set.

Your hermit, young and jovial sirs ! Learns something from whate'er occurs ;And hence, he said, my mind computes The real worth of man's pursuits. His object chosen, wealth or fame, Or other sublunary game,

Imagination to his view
Presents it deck'd with every hue,
That can seduce him not to spare

of best exertion there,
But youth, health, vigour to expend
On so desirable an end.
Ere long approach life s evening shades,
The glow that fancy gave it fades ;
And, earn'd too late, it wants the grace
That first engaged him in the chase.

True, answer'd an angelic guide, Attendant at the senior's side,– But whether all the time it cost, To urge the fruitless chase be lost, Must be decided by the worth Of that which call'd his ardour forth. Trifles pursued, whate'er the event, Must cause him shame or discontent; A vicious object still is worse, Successful there he wins a curse; But he, whom e'en in life's last stage Endeavours laudable engage, Is paid at least in peace of mind, And sense of having well design'd; And if, ere he attain his end, His sun precipitate descend, A brighter prize than that he meant Shall recompense his mere intent. No virtuous wish can bear a date Either too early or too late.


The greenhouse is my summer seat; My shrubs displaced from that retreat

Enjoy'd the open air ; Two goldfinches, whose sprightly song Had been their mutual solace long,

Lived happy prisoners there.
They sang as blithe as finches sing
That flutter loose on golden wing,

And frolic where they list;
Strangers to liberty, 'tis true,
But that delight they never knew,

And therefore never miss'd.

But nature works in every breast,
With force not easily suppress'd;

And Dick felt some desires,
That, after many an effort vain,
Instructed him at length to gain

between his wires.

The open

windows seem'd to invite The freeman to a farewell flight;

But Tom was still confined ; And Dick, although his way was clear, Was much too generous and sincere

To leave his friend behind.

So settling on his cage, by play,
Aud chirp, and kiss, he seem'd to say,

You must not live alone;
Nor would he quit that chosen stand
Till I, with slow and cautious hand,

Return’d him to his own.


ye, who never taste the joys
Of friendship, satisfied with noise,

Fandango, ball, and rout!
Blush when I tell you how a bird
A prison with a friend preferr'd

To liberty without.



There is a field, through which I often pass, Thick overspread with moss and silky grass, Adjoining close to Kilwick's echoing wood, Where oft the bitch fox hides her hapless brood, Reserved to solace many a neighbouring squire, That he


follow them through brake and brier, Contusion hazarding of neck or spine, Which rural gentlemen call sport divine. A narrow brook, by rushy banks conceal’d, Runs in a bottom, and divides the field; Oaks intersperse it, that had once a head, But now wear crests of oven wood instead; And where the land slopes to its watery bourn Wide yawns a gulf beside a ragged thorn; Bricks line the sides, but shiver'd long ago, And horrid brambles intertwine below;

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