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Here are truths and grave maxims to please the dis

cerning; Here the wit may find jokes, and the scholarfind learning; Here is mirth for the gay, and sad tales for the

grave, And sieges, and battles, and wars for the brave. For the curious, inquisitive mind, that loves facts, Here are all sorts of hist'ries, and memoirs, and tracts; For the poet here's rhyme, for the solid here's prose, And assistants for those, wbo want helps to compose' ; Political pamphlets, and monthly reviews, Magazines of all sorts, and all inanner of news. To pass a dull hour, here are novels in store, Fairy tales, and romances, and fifty things more; Collections of all the best

songs

that

are sung, Devout books for the old, and love tales for the young. For the schoolman, here's nice and abstruse disquisitions, Court cabals, and state papers, to please politicians ! Here are wondrous exploits of intriguing gallants, And

young ladies escap'd from their old maiden aunts. Here are voyages, and travels, and letters, and plays, And operas, and riddles, and moral essays : Here's abundance of works of the sentiment kind, And here too the satyrist pleasure may find : All sorts of new music, songs, airs, and cantatas, Solos, trios, duets, catches, glees, and sonatas.

To sum up the whole, here's what each one may chuse, And what they do not they are free to refuse. That all may enjoy the effect of this treasure, And read for a trifling expense at their leisure;

Twelve shillings a year gives command of the whole;
You may read as you please, without any controul;
Or if that sum's too much, or you chuse a time shorter,
You may always subscribe for four shillings a quarter.

Thus having announc'd to the public his station, There remains but to make this sincere declaration, That he always will strive, with his utmost endeavours, To obey their commands, and so merit their favours. It affords him the highest delight to reflect, His success is beyond what he e'er could expect; And yet such is the honour to which he aspires, It is not a whit beyond what he desires.

This trilling affair having seen two editions,
Appears, as most other works do, with additions:
The reception the first hath obtain'd, leaves no fear
That this second will meet with a fate more severe;
Since it serves to convey his best thanks to his friends,
By whose favour he rose, and on whom he depends ;
The sense of whose kindnesses past, quite absorbs

Their most faithful,
Sincere, humble Servant,

JOHN FORBES.
A Printed Shop Bill.

ODE TO MUSIC.
Imitated from the Medea of Euripides.

Queen of every magic measure,
Sweetest source of purest pleasure !
Music, why thy pow'rs employ
Only for the sons of joy ?
Only for the genial guests,
At natal or at nuptial feasts?
Rather, thy lenient influence pour
On those whom secret griefs devour ;
Bid be still the throbbing hearts
Of those whom death, or absence parts;
Come, and with softly whisper'd air,
And smooth the brow of dumb despair !

Warton.

EPIGRAM.

The Odds.
The bright bewitching Fanny's eyes

A thousand hearts have won,
Whilst she, regardless of the prize,

Securely keeps her own.
Ah! what a dreadful girl are you

Who, if you e'en design
To make me happy, must undo

INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE.

Whoe'er thou art these lines now reading,
Think not that from the world receding,
I joy my lonely days to lead in

This desert drear, That with remorse a conscience bleeding

Hath led me here.

No thought of guilt my bosom sours,
Free-will'd I fed from courtly bowers;
For well I saw in halls and towers,

That lust and pride, The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,

In state preside.

I saw that Honour's sword was rusted ;
That few for aught but folly lusted;
That he was still deceiy'd who trusted

In love or friend; And hither came, with men disgusted,

My life to end.

In this lone cave, in garments holy,
Alike a foe to noisy folly
And brow-bent gloomy melancholy,

I wear away My life, and in my office holy

Consume the day.

Content and comfort bless me more in
This grot, than e'er I felt before in
A palace; and with thoughts still soaring

To God on high, Each night and morn with voice imploring,

This wish I sigh:

* Let me, O Lord! from life, retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, and loose desire ;

And when I die, Let me in this belief expire,

To God I Ay!”

Stranger, if full of noise and riot,
As yet no grief has marrd thy quiet,
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at

The Hermit's pray'r, But if thou hast a cause to sigh at

Thy fault or care,

If thou hast known false love's vexation,
Or hast been exil'd from thy nation,
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation,

And makes thee pine ; Oh! how must thou lament thy station,

And envy mine!

M. G. Lewis.

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