Can I, who fcarcely am in bloom,

Let froft and fnow be fuing;
Twould fpoil each rip'ning joy to come,
Bring ev'ry charm to ruin;
For drefs and fhew to touch my pride,
My little heart is panting;
But then there's fomething elfe befide
I foon fhould find was wanting.

Then Colin, thou my choice fhalt gain,
For thou wilt ne'er deceive me ;
And grey-hair'd wealth fhall plead in vain,
For thou hast more to give me.
My fancy paints thee full of charms,
Thy looks fo young and tender;
Love beats his new and fond alarms:
To thee I now furrender.

The Shepherd's Moral. A Pafioral Baliad.

TH

HE fky was clear; the air was still,
The fun had gilt the eastern bill;
The fiver dews impearl'd the ground,
And Nature breath'd her fragrance round;
The wild muficians of the grove
Attan'd their little fouls to love;
And every throat, from every spray,
With rapture hail'd the rifing day:
When WILL, with fadly-penfive tread,
As up the hill his flock he led,
Saw Sux advancing with her pail,
And flew to meet her on the vale.
Long had the youth in fecret mourn'd,

Ner told the flame with which he burn'd;
Occafion call'd; he blefs'd the day,
And thus began the rural lay;

Obferve, my fair-one, all around
What beauties deck the painted ground;
How (weet a smell the bloffoms yield,
How rich a verdure clothes the field;
The kies how clear; how foft the breeze,
That, panting, dies upon the trees;
How mild the morn's ambrofial ray;
How lovely all the bloom of May!

Up yon green hill, whofe wood-crown'd brow
Hangs o'er the ftream that brawls below,
Behold, how gamefome, on the grafs,
The fucks their jocond minutes pafs;
And hark! how fweet from yonder bow'r
The birds their artlefs fonnets pour :
Love guides the sport: Love tunes the lay ;
And all creation owns his sway.

Pafs but a little while, and fee
How fad a change the Fates decree !
No more the tender flocks remain
Ja fportive gambols on the plain;
No more, exulting on the wing
The birds their early carrols fing:
They hang their heads; and all the gay,
The bright appearance, melts away.

Stern Winter walks abroad-and lo!
All Nature fhudders at the blow:
Ha icy hand deforms the scene,
And mars the glories of the green;

Lays bare the hill's enamell'd fide,
And ftrips the meadow of its pride;
Thick clouds obfcure the genial ray,
And all things ficken to decay.

Thus too from life-or Wifdom lies→→→
Each hour fteals fomething as it flies:
What pain to think! That form of thine,
That lovely form fhall foon decline:
The rofes from thy cheek fhall fy;
The lightnings fhall defert thine eye;
And all thy charms' affemblage gay
Devouring time fhall make his prey.

Learn then, my fair, nor think it wrong To learn, the moral of the fong: The prefent hours do thou improve, And give, O give it all to love! Time's on the wing! Let us be wife, And catch the blefling ere it flies. Life's but a fpan; and fages fay, That youth's the morning of the day.

A Refreshment after the Fatigues of War, or the Hero's Philofopby. By the King of Pruffia, written at Breflau.

'T'

IS Hope that keeps our love alive;
Zeal, by reward, is made to thrive ;
Authority, 'tis pow'r keeps up,
Weakness in prudence finds a prop;
Credit's a gift of truth's bestowing,
Good bealth to temperance is owing;
Bright wit is by content maintain'd,
Content by eafe alone is gain'd,
Eale by economy obtain'd.

To please my tafte, a gentle mind
Outvalues form in womankind;
In authors, fact is far more precious,
Than language flourishing and fpecious.

Would't thou be happy? Place reliance
On folid virtue more than fcience;
Prize friendship more than foft'ning pity,
Strive to be prudent more than witty;
On health than riches more intent,
Seek quiet more than cent. per cent.

Amongst my chief delights are number'd, A fmail eftate, but unincumber'd;

A garden little, table small,

A little lafs to fport withal.

I love, when wint'ry frofts bite home,
A good large fire in little room.
With epicures no treat furpaffes
High flavour'd wine in smallest glasses;
Great dainties, then, beft fuit their wishes,
When serv'd in smallest plates for dishes,

The full refult of all this rhyme is,
That ancient proverb, ne quid nimis ;*
What pregnant truths that phrafe affords!
What wildom couch'd in three short words!
Too much repofe our genius dulls,
And too much buftle makes us fools;
Of phlegm, too much grows indolence;
Of love, too much o'erturns our fenfe;

Phyfic,

Phyfic, too much, will fate complete,
Cunning, too much, is downright cheat;
Too rigid juftice is a vice,
Too careful faving, avarice :
Courage is rathness when too great,
Too bulky wealth becomes a weight,
An errant flavery too much state.
Too frequent pleasure brings difafter,
Too fprightly wit deftroys its mafter ;
From too much truft we're oft beguil❜d,
From too much freedom men run wild-;
By too good-natur'd, weak is meant ;
By too polite, impertinent.

All this excefs, well understood,
Might eafily be chang'd to good ;
But blindly we our good mifcall;
'Tis nothing; nothing's all in all.
A nothing is th' abundant fource
Whence great events derive their courfe.
In love, in war, in law prevails;
A very nothing turns the fcales.

A nothing with the Great our aid is,
A nothing ferves us with the Ladies:
A nothing all our art expends;
On nothing, nay, on lefs depends
The chance we gain or lofe our ends!
In hopes, a nothing makes us tower,
In fears, a nothing finks us lower ;
Thy paffion, love, like all the others,
A nothing lights, a nothing fmothers.

}

their eyes,

First let their fervant for himself appear,
To with returning feasons joyful here.

In fuch a wish he acts no ftudy'd part,
It flows, unbidden, from his grateful heart,
If grateful hearts of eloquence could boaft,
Did they who feel the deepeft, fpeak the moff,
What bounds of language should his thanks
controul,

But filence fpeaks the language of the foul!

Yet a new boon to-night he dares to crave, (For bounty gives afreth where bounty gave) Your favour on a ftranger's part to claimYet not a ftranger, if we knew by fameYet not a ftranger, when her country's known, For the can boast of Scotland as her own.

But here, by no ungenerous rules confin'd, Why plead we country to the liberal mind? If here, in paffion's genuine colours dreis'd She comes a native to the throbbing breaft,

If when the droops a hapless mourner here,
Congenial pity fheds the willing tear,
She needs no foreign aid to prop her cause,
Nor would the wrong your hearts to ask ap-
plaufe.

EPILOGUE on the fame Occafion :
Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

WHEN the ductile heart,

HEN through each fcene that moulds

The Tragic Mufe has prov'd her powerful art = With her own Shakespeare's more than mortal glow,

Has ftrung the nerves, or taught the tears to flow

To Nature's felf a faithful mirrour held,
And oft the growing feeds of vice expell'd;
Bade the ftern tyrant foft contrition feel,
And fterner murd'rer drop the lifted feel;
Or when the patriot lines, with glorious fire,
Warm every pulse, and every deed inspire;
When all the drama's force has rais'd the mind
Above the level of debas'd mankind,
The curtain falls-the Mufe, with flippant
mirth,

Steps forth, and ftifles Wisdom in its birth;
Drives every godlike feeling from the breaft,
And Virtue dies-the martyr of a jest !

Not fuch my task-for other paffions rife
In this full heart-If from thefe beauteous eye
The parting tear your wifh'd applause has shown
For fanty'd woes, for fufferings not our own;
O! if a paffion, but affum'd, could raise
The voice of fympathy, the voice of praise,
What thould I now when Fiction drops he
veil,

And crouding thoughts my fwelling breaf affail?

No more the actress now-Can words impart
The strong emotions of a grateful heart?
Though flattering hope and felf-applaufe deceiv
The mind, too prompt its wishes to believe,
Yet must I think, your patronage confeft,
I came no busy, no intruding guest:
That 'twas not vanity forbade my fear,
But fomething whisper'd oft my welcome here
Secure, where first my happy breath I drew,
To meet that candour ever found in You.