For our advantage shall their harvests grow,
And Scotsmen reap what they disdain'd to sow ;
For us, the sun shall climb the eastern hill;
For us, the rain shall fall, the dew distil;
When to our wishes nature cannot rise,
Art shall be task'd to grant us fresh supplies.
His brawny arm shall drudging labour strain,
And for our pleasure suffer daily pain;
Trade shall for us exert her utmost pow'rs,
Hers all the toil, and all the profit ours;
For us, the oak shall from his native steep
Descend, and fearless travel through the deep;
The sail of commerce for our use unfurl'd,
Shall waft the treasures of each distant world;
For us, sublimer heights shall science reach,
For us, their statesmen plot, their churchmen preach;
Their noblest limbs of counsel we'll disjoint,
And, mocking, new ones of our own appoint;
Devouring War, imprison'd in the north,
Shall, at our call, in horrid pomp break forth,
And when, his chariot wheels with thunder hung,
Fell Discord braying with her brazen tongue,
Death in the van, with Anger, Hate, and Fear,
And Desolation stalking in the rear,
Revenge, by Justice guided, in his train,
He drives impetuous o'er the trembling plain,
Shall, at our bidding, quit his lawful prey,
And to meek, gentle, gen'rous Peace give way.

ROBERT DODSLEY.

BORN 1703.-DIED 1764. '

Ir is creditable to the memory of Pope to have been the encourager of this ingenious man, who rose from the situation of a footman to be a respectable bookseller. His plan of republishing "Old English Plays" is said to have been suggested to him by the literary amateur Coxeter, but the execution of it leaves us still indebted to Dodsley's enterprise.

SONG.

MAN's a poor deluded bubble,
Wand'ring in a mist of lies,
Seeing false, or seeing double;
Who would trust to such weak eyes?

Yet presuming on his senses,

On he goes, most wondrous wise :
Doubts of truth, believes pretences.;
Lost in error, lives and dies.

SONG.

THE PARTING KISS.

ONE kind kiss before we part,
Drop a tear and bid adieu :
Though we sever, my fond heart
Till we meet shall pant for you.

Yet, yet weep not so, my love,

Let me kiss that falling tear, Though my body must remove, All my soul will still be here.

All my soul, and all my heart,

And every wish shall pant for you;

One kind kiss then ere we part,

Drop a tear and bid adieu.

ROBERT LLOYD.

BORN 1733.-DIED 1764.

ROBERT LLOYD was the son of one of the masters of Westminster school. He studied at Cambridge, and was for some time usher at Westminster, but forsook that employment for the life of an author and the habits of a man of pleasure. His first publication that attracted any notice was the Actor, the reputation of which stimulated Churchill to his Rosciad. He contributed to several periodical works; but was unable by his literary efforts to support the dissipated life which he led with Coleman, Thornton, and other gay associates. His debts brought him to the Fleet, and those companions left him to moralize on the instability of convivial friendships. Churchill however adhered to him, and gave him pecuniary relief to prevent him from starving in prison. During his confinement he published a volume of his poems; wrote a comic opera, "The Capricious Lovers ;" and took a share in translating the Contes Moraux of Marmontel. When the death of Churchill was announced to him, he exclaimed, "Poor Charles ! I shall follow him soon," fell into despondency, and Idied within a few weeks. Churchill's sister, to whom he was attached, died of a broken heart for his loss.

CHIT-CHAT.

AN IMITATION OF THEOCRITUS.

IDYLL. XV. Evdos Пgaživoa, &c.

Mrs. B. Is Mistress Scot at home, my dear? Serv. Ma'm, is it you? I'm glad you're here. My missess, though resolv'd to wait,

Is quite unpatient-'tis so late.

She fancy'd you would not come down,

-But pray walk in, ma'm-Mrs. Brown.

Mrs. S. Your servant, madam. Well, I swear I'd giv'n you over.-Child, a chair.

Pray, ma'm, be seated.

Mrs. B.

Lard! my dear,

I vow I'm almost dead with fear.

There is such scrouging and such squeeging,

The folks are all so disobliging;

And then the waggons, carts and drays

So clog up all these narrow ways,
What with the bustle and the throng,
I wonder how I got along.

Besides, the walk is so immense-
Not that I grudge a coach expense,

But then it jumbles me to death,

And I was always short of breath. How can you live so far, my dear?

It's quite a journey to come here.

Mrs. S. Lard! ma'm, I left it all to him,

Husbands, you know, will have their whim.