The clouds are now scatter'd-the winds are at

peace;

The sheep to his pasture inclined:

But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,
Consider before you get in;

Though judgment and sentence are pass'd on your side,

By Joye you'll be fleeced to your skin.

Verses by the Author,

Written about three Weeks before his death.

Dear lad, as you run o'er my rhyme,
And see my long name at the end,
You'll cry-" and has Cunningham time
"To give so much verse to his friend?"

'Tis true, the reproof, though severe,
Is just, from the letters I owe ;
But blameless I still may appear,
For nonsense is all I bestow.

However for better for worse,.

As Damons their Chloes receive, Even take the dull lines I rehearse

They are all a poor friend has to give.

The drama and I have shook hands,
We have parted, no more to engage;
Submissive I met her commands
For nothing can cure me of age.

My sunshine of youth is no more! My mornings of pleasure are fled! 'Tis painful my fate to endure

A pension supplies me with bread!

Dependant at length on the man

Whose fortunes I struggled to raise !

I conquer my pride as I can—

His charity merits my praise!

His bounty proceeds from his heart; 'Tis principle prompts the supply

His kindness exceeds my desert,

And often suppresses a sigh.

But like the old horse in the song,

I am turn'd on the common to grazeTo fortune these changes belong,

And contented I yield to her ways!

She ne'er was my friend; through the day, Her smiles were the smiles of deceit

At noon she'd her favours display,

At night let me pine at her feet:

No longer her presence I court,

No longer I shrink at her frowns! Her whimsies supply me with sportAnd her smiles I resign to the clowns!

Thus lost to each worldly desire,

And scorning all riches-all fame,

I quietly hope to retire

When time shall the summons proclaim.

I have nothing to weep for behind!
To part with my friends is the worst!
Their numbers I grant are confined;
But you are still one of the first.

JAMES DANCE.

1774.

This Author was an Actor at Drury-Lane Theatre, under the assumed name of Love. He was the son of the City Architect, and published a small volume of poems printed at Edinburgh, in 1754.

The Wish.

When Time and gently creeping age
Shall point my exit from life's stage;
If all I could desire were mine
To smooth and soften my decline;
I'd ask but this-instead of wealth
A competence, and store of health,
Far from the city's busy noise,
From Pomp and Luxury's false joys,

With one dear female, and one friend,
I'd laugh and prattle to my end,

And think what mortals most esteem,
A trifling play,-an idle dream.
Let other actors grasp the bays

And pant each year for birth-day praise;
Or more voluptuous, hold their wish,
And gorge on venison, or on fish!
Far otherwise my soul is bent,

All I desire is but CONTENT.

EPIGRAM.

Janus commends me to my face,
As first in Wisdom's school;
The rogue in every other place,
Proclaims me for a fool.

By this confest a judging youth,
The world with trust receive him;
And I, self-conscious of the truth,
You may be sure, believe him.