The sweets of a dew-fprinkled rose,
The found of a murmuring stream,
The peace that from folitude flows,
Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme.
High tranfports are fhewn to the fight,
But we are not to find them our own:
Fate never bestow'd fuch delight,
As I with my Phyllis had known.

O ye woods, fpread your branches
To your deepest receffes I fly;

apace;

I would hide with the beafts of the chace;
I would vanish from ev'ry eye.

Yet my reed shall resound through the grove,
With the fame fad complaint it begun;
How the fmil'd, and I could not but love;
Was faithlefs, and I am undone!

The foregoing Pastoral Ballad, of four parts, has been long confidered as a master-piece in its kind, and perhaps may be ranked the first in the list of fimilar compofitions by the fame author.-We think the following, by Cunningham, is highly deferving the attention of the fcholar, not only in confequence of the great and many beauties it contains, but also as it affords a number of fituations in which he may administer infinite pleasure to his hearer, by reading it with propriety. A neat fimplicity of expreffion must be attended to; and, in delivering fome of the ftriking images with which it abounds, an occafional use of appropriate action will have a good effect;

K 2

effect; but do not be too profufe with it, as, in that cafe, you weaken, instead of adding strength to a fentiment.

MORNING.

IN the barn, the tenant cock

Clofe to Partlet perch'd on high,
Brifkly crows (the fhepherd's clock)

Jocund that the morning's nigh.

Jocund, as if fpelt with two ce-Joccund. When you commence the next verse, look upward.

Philomel forfakes the thorn,

Plaintive where the prates at night;
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the fhepherd's fight.

Paufe after "Soars," and let your voice have a tone of

continuation when you pause.

From

From the low-roof'd cottage ridge
See the chatt'ring fwallow fpring;
Darting thro' the one-arch'd bridge,
Quick the dips her dappled wing.

Let there be nothing loitering or heavy in your utterance.

Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale;
Kidlings now begin to crop
Daifies in the dewy dale.

From the balmy fweets, uncloy'd,
(Restless till her task be done)
Now the bufy bee's employ'd
Sipping dew before the fun.

Trickling thro' the crevic'd rock,
Where the limpid stream distils,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock,
When 'tis fun-drove from the hills.

Colin, for the promis'd corn

(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)

Anxious, hears the huntfman's horn,
Boldly founding, drown his pipe.

Sweet, O fweet! the warbling throng,
On the white embloffom'd spray!
Nature's univerfal fong

Echoes to the rifing day.

NOON.

FERVID on the glitt'ring flood
Now the noon-tide radiance glows;
Drooping o'er its infant bud,
Not a dew-drop's left the rofe.

By the brook the fhepherd dines;
From the fierce meridian heat
Shelter'd by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his graffy feat.

Now the flock forfakes the glade,
Where, uncheck'd, the fun-beans fall,

Sure to find a pleafing fhade

By the ivy'd abbey-wall.

Echo, in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock, and hill, Cannot catch a fingle found, Save the clack of yonder mill.

In the laft line, point your fore-finger, as if to the object mentioned. Action, when well applied, gives great life and Spirit to reading.