› Ah soon, thine own confess'd, ecstatic thought!
That hand shall strew thy summer path with flow'rs;
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours!

ROGERS'S PLEASURES OF MEMORY,

NAUSICAA.

SWIFT at the royal nod th' attending train
The car prepare, the mules incessant rein.
The blooming virgin with dispatchful cares
Tunics, and stoles, and robes imperial bears.
The queen assiduous, to her train assigns
The sumptuous viands, and the flav'rous wines.
The train prepare a cruise of curious mould,
A cruise of fragrance, form'd of burnish'd gold;
Odour divine! whose soft refreshing streams
Sleek the smooth skin, and scent the snowy limbs.

Now mounting the gay seat, the silken reins
Shine in her hand; along the sounding plains
Swift fly the mules: nor rode the nymph alone;
Around, a bevy of bright damsels shone.
They seek the cisterns where Phæacian dames
Wash their fair garments in the limpid streams;
Where, gath'ring into depth from falling rills,
The lucid wave a spacious basin fills.

The mules unharness'd range beside the main,
Or crop the verdant herbage of the plain.

Then emulous the royal robes they lave,
And plunge the vestures in the cleansing wave
(The vestures cleans'd o'erspread the shelly sand,
Their snowy lustre whitens all the strand) :
Then with a short repast relieve their toil,
And o'er their limbs diffuse ambrosial oil;
And while the robes imbibe the solar ray,
O'er the green mead the sporting virgins play

(Their shining veils unbound). Along the skies Toss'd, and retoss'd, the ball incessant flies.

They sport, they feast; Nausicaa lifts her voice, And warbling sweet, makes Earth and Heav'n rejoice. POPE'S ODYSSEY,

ON SENSIBILITY.

CELESTIAL spring! to Nature's fav'rites given; Fed by the dews that bathe the flow'rs of Heav'n. From the pure crystal of thy fountain flow

The tears that trickle o'er another's wo,
The silent drop, that calms our own distress,
The gush of rapture at a friend's success:

Thine the soft streams from Beauty's lids that steal,
To sooth the heart-wounds 'twere a crime to heal.
Thine, too, the tears of ecstacy that roll,
When genius flashes on the conscious soul;

And thine the hallow'd flood, that drowns the eye,
When warm Religion lifts the thought on high.

MY MARY.

THE twentieth year is well nigh past,

Since first our sky was overcast,

JERNINGHAM,

Ah would that this might be the last!

My Mary!

Thy spirits have a fainter flow,

I see thee daily weaker grow

"Twas my distress that brought thee low,

My Mary!

Thy needles, once a shining store,

For my sake restless heretofore;

Now rust disus'd, and shine no more,

My Mary!

For could I view nor them nor thee,
What sight worth seeing could I see?
The sun would rise in vain for me,

My Mary!

And still to love, though press'd with ill,

And should my future lot be cast

With much resemblance of the past,

Thy worn-out heart will break at last,

My Mary!

COWPER.

FEW HAPPY MATCHES.

SAY, mighty love, and teach my song,
To whom my sweetest joys belong,
And who the happy pairs,

Whose yielding hearts, and joining hands,
Find blessings twisted with their bands,
To soften all their cares.

Not the wild herd of nymphs and swains
That thoughtless fly into the chains,
As custom leads the way:
If there be bliss without design,

Ivies and oaks may grow and twine,
And be as blest as they.

Not sordid souls of earthly mould,
Who, drawn by kindred charms of gold,
To dull embraces move:

So two rich mountains of Peru

May rush to wealthy marriage too,

And make a world of love.

Not the mad tribe, that Hell inspires With wanton flames; those raging fires The purer bliss destroy;

On Etna's top let furies wed,

And sheets of lightning dress the bed,

T'improve the burning joy.

Nor the dull pairs, whose marble forms
None of the melting passions warms,
Can mingle hearts and hands:

Logs of green wood, that quench the coals,
Are married just like stoic souls,

With osiers for their bands.

Not minds of melancholy strain,
Still silent, or that still complain,
Can the dear bondage bless :
As well may heav'nly concerts spring
From two old lutes with ne'er a string,
Or none beside the bass.

Nor can the soft enchantments hold
Two jarring souls of angry mould,
The rugged and the keen:
Sampson's young foxes might as well
In bonds of cheerful wedlock dwell,
With firebrands tied between.

Nor let the cruel fetters bind
A gentle to a savage mind;

For love abhors the sight:
Loose the fierce tiger from the deer,
For native rage and native fear
Rise and forbid delight.

Two kindest souls alone must meet,

'Tis friendship makes the bondage sweet, And feeds their mutual loves.

Bright Venus on her rolling throne

Is drawn by gentlest birds alone,

And Cupids yoke the doves.

WATTS'S LYRICS.

THE FIRST HOUSEWIFE.

SO saying, with dispatchful looks in haste She turns, on hospitable thoughts intent What choice to choose for delicacy best,

M