"O, when or care, or sickness pale, "Forbid sweet sleep to bless the night, "What joy to hear her tender tale "Charm each long hour till morning light.

"And when the ghastly form of death
"Shall swim before these mournful eyes;
"And round my heart my latest breath,

66

Heaves, painful heaves, long labʼring sighs;

"O then her voice of love divine!

"Shall soothe to peace my trembling breast, "And patient I the world resign, "In life with love, and Delia blest."

Academic Trifles.

INVOCATION TO HEALTH

WHAT sprightly nymph trips o'er the lawn,
Than blooming Hebe's self more bright;
O! fairer than the purple dawn,
Chasing the joyless gloom of night!

I know thee well; thy buskin'd feet,
Thy flowing locks and azure vest:
Banish'd the revels of the great;.

My frugal cot thou oft hast blest.

By mortals styl'd heart-cheering health,
In heaven Hygeia is thy name.
O! welcome! more than power or wealth;
Than beauty's self; or life or fame.

As o'er the fairest landscape's face,
The solar beams fresh lustre shed;
Thy charms to pleasure add new grace,
And grief erects her languid head..

But when thou'rt absent nought can please, The bloom of spring, or autumn's store; The wood-lark's notes but vainly teaze, And e'en the muse delights no more.

Thy smiles, on verdant couch reclin'd,
The wealthy Satrap courts in vain ;
And frets to see thee prove more kind,.
And bless the sturdy rustic swain.›.

Thou wisely shun'st the pale resorts

Of midnight ball, or masquerade ;. More pleas'd to join the rural sports

Of village nymphs beneath the shade..

Tho' haply in the sulphurous draught,.
That flows from Bladud's fuming rills,.
Thy powers convey'd, or sometimes bought,
From the sage Leach's nauseous pills..

Yet, rather o'er the mountain's brow,
Thro' forest wild or balmy grove,
'Midst summer's heat or winter's snow,
With Dian thou delight'st to rove.

Come then, blest nymph! my cottage cheer,
Hale exercise thy steps shall guide;
And decent mirth shall meet thee there;
And temperance at the board preside.

Euphrosyne, Vol. 2.

AN OLD BALLAD.

I CANNOT eat but little meat,
My stomach is not good;
But sure I think, that I can drink
With him that wears a hood.
Though I go bare, take ye no care,
I nothing am a colde;

I stuffe my skin, so full within,
Of jolly good ale and olde.
Back and side go bare, go bare,
Both foot and hand go colde;
But, belly, God send thee good ale inoughe,
Whether it be new or olde.

I love no rost, but a nut browne toste,

And a crab laid in the fire;

A little bread, shall do me stead,
Moche bread I noght desire.
No frost, no snow, no windes, I trowe,
Can hurt me if I wolde,

I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt
Of jolly good ale and olde!

Back and side, &c.

And Tib my wife, that as her life

Loveth well good ale to seeke,
Full oft drinks shee, till ye may see

The teares run down her cheeke.
Then doth she trowle to me the bowle,
Even as a malt worme sholde;
And "faith sweet heart, I took my part
Of this jolly good ale and olde!

Back and side, &c. Now let them drinke, till they nod and winke, Even as good fellows sholde do;

They shall not misse to have the blisse

Good ale doth bring men to.

And all good sowles that have scoured bowles,
Or have them lustely trolde,

God save the lives of them and their wives,

Whether they be younge or olde!

Back and side, &c.

Warton informs us that the first " Chanson a boire," or drinking ballad, of any merit in our language, was the above, which appeared in the year 1551. He remarks, that it has a vein of ease and humour which we should not expect to have been inspired by the simple beverage of those times. Warton's Hist. of English Poetry, Vol. 3.

D

SONNET TO MR. JACKSON..

ENCHANTING harmonist! the art is thine, Unmatch'd to pour the soul-dissolving air, That seems poor weeping virtue's hymn divine, Soothing the wounded bosom of despair!

O`say, what minstrel of the sky hath given
To swell the dirge, so musically lorn?
Declare, hath dove-ey'd pity left her heav'n,
And lent thy happy hand her lyre to mourn?

So sad thy songs of hopeless hearts complain, Love from his cyprian isle prepares to fly;: He hastes to listen to thy tender strain,

And learn from thee to breathe a softer sigh.. Peter Pindar.

TRANSLATION OF FENELON'S ODE TO SOLITUDE.

BEYOND this plain's extensive bounds,
O'er yon fertile furrow'd grounds,
Those mountains blue, and vallies fair,
Retiring, half dissolv'd in air,

In such wild forms fantastic rise,
As nature paints in ev'ning skies,