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No more shall Freedom smile?
Shall Britons languish, and be men no more?

Since all must life resign,
Those sweet rewards, which decorate the brave,

'Tis folly to decline,
And steal inglorious to the silent grave.

SAMUEL BISHOP.

BORN 1731.-DIED 1795.

SAMUEL BISHOP was a clergyman, and for many years the head master of Merchant Tailors' school. He wrote several essays and poems for the Public Ledger; and published a volume of Latin pieces, entitled “ Feriæ Poeticæ.” A volume of his sermons, and two volumes of his poetry, were published after his death. '

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“ A KNIFE,” dear girl, “ cuts love,” they say!
Mere modish love, perhaps it may-
-For any tool, of any kind,
Can separate- what was never join'd.

• The knife, that cuts our love in two,
Will have much tougher work to do;
Must cut your softness, truth, and spirit,
Down to the vulgar size of merit;
To level yours, with modern taste,
Must cut a world of sense to waste;
And from your single beauty's store,
Clip, what would dizen out a score.

That self-same blade from me must sever
Sensation, judgment, sight, for ever:
All memory of endearments past,
All hope of comforts long to last;
All that makes fourteen years with you,
A summer;-and a short one too;-
All, that affection feels and fears,
When hours without you seem like years.

Till that be done, (and I'd as soon
Believe this knife will chip the moon,)
Accept my present, undeterr'd,
And leave their proverbs to the herd.

If in a kiss-delicious treat! -
Your lips acknowledge the receipt,
Love, fond of such substantial fare,
And proud to play the glutton there,
All thoughts of cutting will disdain,
Save only—“ cut and come again !"

TO THE S

ON THE ANNIVERSARY OF HER WEDDING-DAY, WHICH WAS

; : ALSO HER BIRTH-DAY, WITH A RÍNG.

“ Thee, Mary, with this ring I wed”-
So, fourteen years ago, I said.
Behold another ring !"for what?".
To wed thee o'er again?”-Why not?

With that first ring I married youth,
Grace, beauty, innocence, and truth ;
Taste long admir'd, sense long rever'd,
And all-my Molly then appear’d.

If she, by merit since disclos’d,
Prove twice the woman I suppos'd,
I plead that double merit now,
To justify a double vow.

Here then to-day, (with faith as sure,
With ardour as intense, as pure,
As when, amidst the rites divine,
I took thy troth, and plighted mine,)
To thee, sweet girl, my second ring
A token and a pledge I bring :
With this I wed, till death us part,
Thy riper virtues to my heart;
Those virtues, which before untried,
The wife has added to the bride:
Those virtues, whose progressive claim, i
Endearing wedlock's very namė,

My soul enjoys, my song approves,
For conscience sake, as well as love's.

And why!—They shew me every hour, Honour's high thought, Affection's power, Discretion's deed, sound Judgment's sentence,And teach me all things—but repentance.

EPIGRAM.

QUOD PETIS, HIC EST.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,

Plain folk, in humble plight;
One only tankard crown'd their board;

And that was fill'd each night;

Along whose inner bottom sketch'd,

In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd

A baby angel's face.

John swallow'd first a moderate sup;

But Joan was not like John;
For when her lips once touch'd the cup,

She swill’d, till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair ;

But she ne'er chang'd a jot; She lov'd to see the angel there,

And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonstrance vain,

Another card he play'd; .
And where the Angel stood so plain,

He got a Devil portray’d.

Joan saw the horns, Joan saw the tail,

Yet Joan as stoutly quaff’d;
And ever, when she seiz'd her ale,

She clear'd it at a draught.

John star'd, with wonder petrified;

His hair stood on his pate;
And “why dost guzzle now,” he cried,

" At this enormous rate?"

“ Oh! John,” she said, “ am I to blame?

“ I can't in conscience stop: ( For sure 'twould be a burning shamė,

“ To leave the Devil a drop!”

EPIGRAM.

SPLENDEAT USU,

See! stretch'd on nature's couch of grass,

The foot-sore traveller lies!
Vast treasures let the great amass';
A leathern pouch, and burning glass,

For all his wants suffice.
VOL. VI.

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