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WHEN first I dar'd by soft surprise

To breathe my love in Flavia's ear, I saw the mixt sensations rise

Of trembling joy, and pleasing fear;
Her cheek forgot its rosy hue,
For what has art with love to do?

But soon the crimson glow return'd,
Ere half my passion was exprest,
The eye that clos'd, the cheek that burn'd,

The quiv'ring lip, the panting breast, Shew'd that she wish'd, or thought me true, For what has art with love to do?

Ah! speak, I cry'd, thy soft assent:

She strove to speak, she could but sigh; A glance more heav'nly eloquent,

Left language nothing to supply.
She press'd my hand with fervour new;
For what has art with love to do;

Ye practis'd nymphs, who form your charms By fashion's rules, enjoy your skill; Torment your swains with false alarms,

And, ere you cure, pretend to kill: Still, still your sex's wiles pursue; Such tricks she leaves to art and you..

Secure of native powers to please,,
My Flavia scorns all mean pretence;
Her form is elegance and ease,

Her soul is truth and innocence;
And these, O heartfelt ecstacy!
She gives to honour, love, and me..


Mason's Poems.

POWER of these awful regions, hail!
For sure some mighty genius roves
With step unheard, or loves to sail

Unseen, along these cliff's and groves.

O'er the wild mountain's stormy waste,
The shatter'd crag's impending breast,
And rocks by mortal feet untrod;
Deep in the murmuring night of woods,
Or 'mid the headlong roar of floods,
More bright we view the

present God.

More bright, than if in glittering state
O'ercanopied with gold he sat,

The pride of Phidian art confess'd
Hail, power sublime! thy vot'ry shield;
O listen to my lay, and yield
A young, but weary, wanderer, rest.

But if from rest and silence torn,
And these lov'd scenes, I roam afar,
By fate's returning surge down borne,
To toss in care's tumultuous war;

Grant me, secure from toil and strife,
And all the vain alarms of life,

And all the rabble's fev'rish rage,
Remote in some obscure retreat,
At least, to pass in freedom sweet
The solitude of age.



TOM, ever jovial, ever gay,
To appetite a slave,

Still games, and drinks his life away,
And laughs to see me grave.

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STERN Winter! though thy rugged reign
Chills the pale bosom of the plain,
And in deep sighs thy hollow blast
Tells me the happy hours are past
That saw meek Spring her blossoms rear,
And led along the infant year;
Thy thick'ning glooms, and leafless tree,
Have charms for Emma, and for me.

And though the light-wing'd breeze no more
Wafts the rich sweets of Summer's store,
Though Autumn's scene no more beguiles,
My cot is warm, and Emma smiles.
Then, Winter, come! thy storms and rain
Beat on this happy roof in vain ;
The shiv'ring blast, and leafless tree,
Have charms for Emma, and for me.

Then, what avail thy wind and storm,
That nature's with'ring face deform,
If fancy's brisk and sportive lay
Awake to pleasure's willing sway;
If the quick jest, and lively song,
Bid the slow night move blithe along?
For then thy glooms, and leafless tree,
Have charms for Emina, and for me.

Thus, when the bloom of youth is dead,.
And fancy's frolic hours are fled,
Tranquil, and free from passion's rage,
I'll meet the hoary frost of age.
Then, Winter, come! these blessings bring;.
I sigh not for the gaudy Spring:

So shall thy glooms, and leafless tree,
Have charms for Emma, and for me.

Roberts's Looker-on.


WE pledg'd our loves, my love and I,
Me in her arms the maiden clasping,
I could not guess the reason why,

But, oh! I trembled like an aspen..

Her father's leave she bid me gain,

I went, but shook like any reed, I strove to act the man-in vain,

We had exchang'd our hearts indeed!


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