If merit pines away forgot,

If rakes at sacred honours sneer,
If wedlock proves a gordian knot,
And lovers dread to be severe :
'Tis not that men so much delight
To deviate from honour's rules,
But that it's vulgar to be right,
And thus they all are fashion's fools.

Say, what conclusion's to be drawn,
Are we to fancy, or to feel,
To live awake, or in a yawn,
To be consistent, or genteel?

Soon the election may be made—

Let's square our lives by reason's rules,

So far be fashion's modes obey'd,

But let us not be fashion's fools.

Quam rara est fortuna Geta? cum deficit unda Potat aquam, sed si sufficit unda, merum.

TRANSLATION.

SAYS the miller, how odd is this fortune of mine, When my stream's low, I drink it-when high, I drink wine.

BALLAD.

THE poet says, that love's like fire,
Which kindly heat and joy imparts,
For ev'ry purpose, and desire,

That warms and that expands our hearts:
But, trust this fire, where is the bound
That can its devastation stay?
Relentless ruin stalks around,

And horror marks its trackless way: Thus both we dread, and both admire, Thus poets say that love's like fire.

The toper says, that love's like wine,

And that its pow'r, 'bove human ken, Can lift the soul, and so refine

Our joys, that gods might envy men: But from this elevation sunk,

The moment reason leaves the feast,
His godship finds a god, when drunk,

Is little better than a beast:
Thus both are beastly, both divine,
Thus topers say that love's like wine.

Your sportsmen 'say, love's like the chase,
That leads us many a weary mile,
Through many a rude and dang'rous place,
O'er mound, and hedge, and ditch, and stile:

But when his pleasures with his toil

Are fairly counted, what's the gain! Fatigu'd, and tir'd, he makes a coil, And puts up game not worth the pain: Thus love's without a goal, a race, Thus sportsmen say, love's like a chase.

True lovers say, love's like the devil,

Who turns a hundred devious ways, With saint-like face, and heart of evil,

And smiles the most when he betrays: Does not the devil take ev'ry hue,

And in all forms and fashions move?
Is he not black, and white, and blue,

And hot, and cold?and so is love:
And thus to love are lovers civil,
As Indians court from fear the devil.

Let carping ideots still condemn,
Where reason bids them most rejoice,
For if they err the fault's in them,

And in the object of their choice:
The lover that shall all excel,

Let him but chuse a faithless fair;
His love shall prove a very hell,
No Lethe to relieve his care:
Let him of reason take advice,
His love shall be a Paradise.

Dibdin.

LOVE AND INDUSTRY.

O

SHARE my cottage, dearest maid! Beneath a mountain wide and high, It nestles in a silent glade,

And Wye's clear current wanders by. Each tender care, each honest art,

Shall chase all future want from thee; When thy sweet lips consent impart,

To climb these steepy hills with me.

Far from the city's vain parade,

No scornful brow shall there be seen; No dull impertinence invade,

Nor envy base, nor sullen spleen. The shadowy rocks, that circle round, From storms shall guard our sylvan cell; And there shall ev'ry joy be found,

That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.

When late the tardy sun shall peer,
And faintly gild yon little spire;
When nights are long, and frosts severe,

And our clean hearth is bright with fire; Sweet tales to read, sweet tales to sing,

O! they shall drown the wind and rain, E'en till the soften'd season bring

The merry spring-time back again.

Then hawthorn's flow'ring in the glen,

Shall guard the warbling plumy throng; Nor boast the busy haunts of men

So fair a scene, so sweet a song.
Thy arms the new-yean'd lamb will shield,
And to the sunny shelter bear;
While, o'er the rough and breathing field,
My hands impel the gleaming share.

Ne'er doubt our wheaten ears will rise,

And full their yellow harvest glow;
Then prove, with me, the sprightly joys
That love and industry bestow:
Their jocund powers can banish strife,
Her clouds no passing day will see;
Since all the leisure hours of life

Shall still be spent in pleasing thee.

Miss Seward.

AN IDEA ON A PECK OF COALS.

I BUY my Coals by Pecks, that we
May have 'em fresh and fresh, d'ye see!