!

These, the poets all declare,
Constitute the charming fair ;
But, alas! she's only found
In poet's song, and fairy ground.

Lloyd's Evening Post.

THE MOUNTAIN VIOLET.

Sweet fragile flow'r, that bloom'st unsought,

And bloom'st by many an eye unseen, Thy beauty wakes my pensive thought,

And shews thee worthy of my theme.

Expanding wild, thy rich perfume

Impregnates sweet th'unhallow'd air, Which reekless on thy virgin bloom,

Sweeps not o'er thee more mild or fair.

Now brighten’d by the morning ray,

Luxuriant spreads thy grateful breast : Now ev’ning comes, with tyrant sway,

And chills thy little form to rest.

Sweet emblem of the soul-fraught mind,

Expos'd life's keenest storms to bear; Yet, like thee, tenderly refin’d,

And shrinking from ungenial air.

The ray which gilds with lucid gleam,

Is inward peace, which none can wrest; The ev’ning chill which shrouds the beam,

The sad reflection of the breast.

Like thee, too, from the vulgar eye,

The chasten'd mind shall live forlorn; For tho' no kindred soul may sigh,

In solitude there's none to scorn.

Dear flow'r, be thou my fav’rite sweet,

I'll rear with care thy lowly head, Save thy soft breast from guardless feet,

And court young zephyrs to thy bed.

Yet if perchance, in evil hour,

Some lawless hand invade thy shrine; Or nightly blast, with cruel pow'r,

Sap the short life which might be thine:

Ah! then with sad regret I'll kneel,

And try thy beauties lost to cheer ;
When, vain if all my hopes I feel,
I'll, dead, embalm thee with a tear.

Nottingham Journal. TO A FRIEND Who pressed the author to marry for the sake of a

great fortune.

In vain with riches would you try

My stedfast heart to move;
No, I'll give up my liberty

For no less price than love.

Riches, indeed, may give me pow'r,

But not a cheerful mind;
Whilst joy and peace attend each hour

On those whom love has join'd.

But should the itch of pow'r or state,

My views to riches carry,
I'd cringe at court, at senate prate,

Do any thing but marry.

Since, then, not wealth's deceitful shew

Can tempt me to this chain,
Try next, what gen'rous love can do ;
All other bribes are yain.

Duke of Dorset.

SONG,

Swains, I hate the boist'rous fair,
Who bold, assume a manly air;

Soft, unaffected, gentle be,
Still, the girl that's made for me.

Let her not boast, like man to dare
The dangers of the sylvan war;

With gentler sports delighted be
The girl, that fate ordains for me.

Nor pert coquet, nor formal prude,
Gay let her be, but never rude,

From airs, from flights, from vapours free;
She is the girl that's made for me.

Her well-chose dress, in ev'ry part,
Be artful without shewing art;

From all fantastic fashions free,
She is the girl that's made for me.

Loose flow her locks without constraint,
Her healthy cheeks let nature paint,

To all a goddess seem to be,
And
prove a woman still to me.

INSCRIPTION

For a sequestered retreat, called the “ Bower of

Oberon," in a beautiful pleasure-ground.

Round these fair scenes direct your eyes,
Nor let their beauties raise surprize ;
The various wonders that ye see
(Be grateful mortals) spring from me;
O'er this enchanted vale I reign,
And here my elfin state maintain:
On me the fairy race depend,
A thousand sprites my nod attend;
Beneath each shining leaf they lie,
Unseen by gross material eye;
With charms each bending branch is bound,
And many a magic spell is round.

Tremble, thou wretch, whose sordid breast
By selfish passions is possess'd !
Whose soul is mean and insincere;
Tremble, nor dare to enter here !
Expos’d thy very thoughts shall lie,
Thy heart be read by ev'ry eye.
But let the gen’rous, brave, and kind,
The soul sincere, the cultur'd mind,
Unaw'd by guilt-pursuing fear,
And, freely welcome, enter here.