HYMN TO THE EVENING.

E’er the sun's declining ray

Has left yon distant sky,
And e'er the parting streak of day

Has shut upon the eye;

Come, modest Ev'ning, kindly spread

Thy dusk-ensabled vest,
And teach reflective thought to spread

Devotion on the breast.

O lift the mind to bless the pow'r,

Whose mem'ry still shall last ! And bid him prize the present hour,

Whose madness lost the past.

Insructive, tell the pomp of state,"

The pride of mighty blood, That none are ever truly great,

That are not truly good.

To all one admonition give,

Unfearful of reply,
That he alone deserves to live,
Who best prepares to die.

Anonymous.

A PESNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS.

TO A LADY.

You bid a penny for my thoughts,

I will unfold them fairly ;
I think you are a charming lass,

And know, I love you dearly.

I think you have a form and mind

In ev'ry part complete ;
I think your breast was not design'd

To harbour base deceit.

I think no love can ever last

Which does not meet return; I think love's fire a sudden blast,

Where souls don't equal burn.

I think true happiness depends

Upon a mutual love ;
I think who trusts to other ends,

The end will fatal prove.

I think you temp’rate, chaste, and true,

Mild, cleanly, and discreet;
I think those virtues meet in you,

Which make c'en bondage sweet.

I think of you whene'er I think,

And so I shall for ever ;
I sometimes think I may be bless'd,
And sometimes think-oh, ncver !

London Magazine.

SONG.

W

hen fortune reigns in splendid pride, What madding thousands court her shrine; With sweet simplicity their guide,

Oh, love! how few resort to thine.

Yet when of fortune's smile possess’d,

The sigh for other days they pour; Some secret horror stings the breast,

And languor fills each listless hour.

But love's pure joys unsullied last,

His vot'ries taste a bliss sublime
Sigh to regain the moments past,
And wish to clip the wings of Time.

Peter Pindar. SONG,

Away, let nought to love displeasing,

My Winifređa, move thy fear,
Let nought delay the heav'nly blessing,

Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy care.

What, tho' no grants of royal donors

With pompous titles grace our blood, We'll shine in more substantial honours,

And to be noble---we'll be good.

What, tho' from fortune's lavish bounty

No mighty treasures we possess, We'll find within our pittance plenty,

And be content without excess.

Still shall each kind returning season

Sufficient for our wishes, give, For we will live a life of reason,

And that's the only life to live.

Our name, whilst virtue thus we tender,

Shall sweetly sound where'er 'tis spoke, And all the great ones'much shall wonder

How they admire such little folk.

Thro' youth and age, in love excelling,

We'll band in band together tread,
Sweet smiling peace shall grace our dwelling,

And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.

How should I love the pretty creatures,

Whilst round my knees they fondly clung, To see 'em look their mother's features,

To hear 'em lisp their mother's tongue.

And when, with envy, time transported

Shall think to rob us of our joys, You'll in your girls again be courted, And I go wooing with my boys.

Cooper's Letters on Taste.

ON CENSURE.

Ye wise, instruct me to endure
An evil, which admits no cure :
Or how this evil can be borne,
Which breeds at once both hate and scorn.
Bare innocenee is no support,
When you are try'd in scandal's court.