« ПретходнаНастави »
Or in this hour of ease,
Shalt thou Cerventes please,
Shall not my thoughts engage,
Though thy good-nature there
(To wit companion rare) Might smooth the furrows of the sternest brow,
And Quixote's eloquence
'Mid madness flashing sense, With wisdom's lessons laughter's hour endow.
Swift I will gladly praise
Thy skill in easy lays,
Some honour owes mankind,
Nombe yon volume sought,
An Attick vest where English genius wears,
Where harmless humour plays,
Soft as the Solar rays,
Be this thy praise alone,
There in their forms divine,
Religion, Virtue, shine, And point thy writings where thy actions guide. SAMUEL BISHOP.
Bishop, was Master of Merchant Taylor's school ; and
imagination need not be put upon the stretch, to form an idea of his life. It is pleasant, however, to see one of his profession tying up the birch twigs with ribbon couleur de rose, and gathering the flowers of Parnassus as he drove his flock along the road.
REV. GEORGE STEPNEY TOWNLEY,
What, shall the father hope, the mother pray, When their girl's eyes first open to the day?
That ductile Spirit, simple Truth,
And pregnant Sensibility, May lead up infancy to youth!
And every prank of playful glee Still seem to say, “ This babe was born, • A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!'
That year by year, new female grace
To manlier judgment may be join'd! Her genius animate her face !
Her manner indicate her mind !
That her full form, and perfect powers,
The worthy and the wise may strike ; · And Love, to bless her married hours,
Conduct and match her to her like! One, who shall know, and boast her born A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!
That her capricious heart may take
Grateful, the share of good decreed !
All she enjoys, be joy indeed! -
That never insults, loss, or pain,
May work an heavier weight of care,
Or provident discretion bear!
That age insensibly may creep!
And her last look may see survive
Her likeness, and her name alive!
THE BRAMBLE. WHILE Wits thro' Fiction's regions ramble, While Bards for fame or profit scramble:While Pegasus can trot, or amble; — Come, what may come,—I'll sing the Bramble.
• How now!'-methinks I hear you say :-