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HE virgin, when foften'd by May,
Ador'd for her beauty above;
From the Weft as it wantonly blows,
That border the vernal alcove,
May tinges the butterfly's wing,
He flutters in bridal array ;
Their mufic is taught them by May:
The goddefs will vifit ye foon,
Ye virgins be sportive and gay;
Get your pipes, oh! ye fhepherds, in tune,
THE ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY..
Written by G. A. STEVENS.
ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrofial feaft,
Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing; Merry Momus,among them, was fat as a gueft, (Homer-fays the celeftials lov'd laughing :) On each in the fynod the humourist droll'd, So none could his jokes difapprove; He fung, repartee'd and fome fmart ftories told, And at laft thus began upon Jove.
"Sire! Atlas, who long has the univerfe bore, "Grows grievously tir'd of late;
"He fays that mankind are much worse than " before,
"So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was hurl'd,
From his fhoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of the world,
And he hung it up high in his hall.
Mifs, pleas'd with the prefent, review'd the globe round,
To fee what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, the whole with an atreofphere bound,
And the variously planted the earth: With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd; France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What fuited each clime, on each clime the beftow'd,
And freedom, fhe found, flourish'd here.
Four cardinal virtues the left in this ifle,
The bloffoms of liberty 'gan then to fmile,
"Then return it untainted to heav'n."
AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD.
Written by the EDITOR.
E fwains who inhabit the green,
You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the fad tidings are feen,
And her worth in your grief may be read.
Oh! was be not lovely and fair;
Has the fcarce left fuch beauty behind? And yet what was that to compare
With the graces which dwelt in her mind? But let me not think of her charms!
How I lov'd her my verfe cannot tell : Death has fnatch'd her away from my arms; With angels, alone, must she dwell.
In vain do I utter my grief;
Her lofs the whole world can't fupply: Death only will give me relief;
To him, then, with pleasure I fly.
Oh! fhew me the way to my fair;
Lead me on to the regions of blifs! And, fure as my love was fincere,
I'll praife thee, great victor, for this!
THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND; A CANTATA.
"TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells,
Where fad defpair and famine always dwells, A meagre Frenchman, Madam Grandfire's cook, As home he fteer'd, his carcafe that way took; Bending beneath the weight of fam'd Sir Loin, On whom he often with'd, in vain, to dine: Good Father Dominick by chance came by, With rofy gills, round paunch, and greedy eye; Who, when he first beheld the greasy load, His benediction on it he beflow'd: And as the folid fat his fingers prefs'd, He lick'd his chaps, and thus the knight addrefs'd.
O rare roast beef! lov'd by all mankind,
When drefs'd and garnish'd to my mind,
On thee c'en kings have deign'd to feed,
A half-ftarv'd foldier, fhirtless, pale and lean,
Ah, facre dieu! vat do I fee yonder,"
But to my guts if you give no heeding,
Written by Mr. GAY.
Go, rofe, my Chloe's bofom grace;
Know, hapless flow'r, that thou shalt find
I fee thy with 'ring head reclin'd
One common fate we both must prove;
Sung in Love in a Village. CUPID, god of foft perfuafion, Take the helpless lover's part: Seize, oh! feize, fome kind occafion To reward a faithful heart.
Juftly thofe we tyrants call,
What is grandeur? Foe to reft;
Catch, ye fools, the glitt'ring bait.