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Here are truths and grave maxims to please the dis
cerning; Here the wit may find jokes, and the scholarfind learning; Here is mirth for the gay, and sad tales for the
grave, And sieges, and battles, and wars for the brave. For the curious, inquisitive mind, that loves facts, Here are all sorts of hist'ries, and memoirs, and tracts; For the poet here's rhyme, for the solid here's prose, And assistants for those, wbo want helps to compose' ; Political pamphlets, and monthly reviews, Magazines of all sorts, and all inanner of news. To pass a dull hour, here are novels in store, Fairy tales, and romances, and fifty things more; Collections of all the best
are sung, Devout books for the old, and love tales for the young. For the schoolman, here's nice and abstruse disquisitions, Court cabals, and state papers, to please politicians ! Here are wondrous exploits of intriguing gallants, And
young ladies escap'd from their old maiden aunts. Here are voyages, and travels, and letters, and plays, And operas, and riddles, and moral essays : Here's abundance of works of the sentiment kind, And here too the satyrist pleasure may find : All sorts of new music, songs, airs, and cantatas, Solos, trios, duets, catches, glees, and sonatas.
To sum up the whole, here's what each one may chuse, And what they do not they are free to refuse. That all may enjoy the effect of this treasure, And read for a trifling expense at their leisure;
Twelve shillings a year gives command of the whole;
Thus having announc'd to the public his station, There remains but to make this sincere declaration, That he always will strive, with his utmost endeavours, To obey their commands, and so merit their favours. It affords him the highest delight to reflect, His success is beyond what he e'er could expect; And yet such is the honour to which he aspires, It is not a whit beyond what he desires.
This trilling affair having seen two editions,
Their most faithful,
ODE TO MUSIC.
Queen of every magic measure,
A thousand hearts have won,
Securely keeps her own.
Who, if you e'en design
INSCRIPTION IN AN HERMITAGE.
Whoe'er thou art these lines now reading,
This desert drear, That with remorse a conscience bleeding
Hath led me here.
No thought of guilt my bosom sours,
That lust and pride, The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers,
In state preside.
I saw that Honour's sword was rusted ;
In love or friend; And hither came, with men disgusted,
My life to end.
In this lone cave, in garments holy,
I wear away My life, and in my office holy
Consume the day.
Content and comfort bless me more in
To God on high, Each night and morn with voice imploring,
This wish I sigh:
* Let me, O Lord! from life, retire, Unknown each guilty worldly fire, Remorseful throb, and loose desire ;
And when I die, Let me in this belief expire,
To God I Ay!”
Stranger, if full of noise and riot,
The Hermit's pray'r, But if thou hast a cause to sigh at
Thy fault or care,
If thou hast known false love's vexation,
And makes thee pine ; Oh! how must thou lament thy station,
And envy mine!
M. G. Lewis.