Thy infant morn shall sink away,

Thy noon of youth, and evening age, decay.
Then death shall wrap thee in his urn,
For dust thou wert, and shalt to dust return,

AN AUTUMNAL SONG.

THE Wood-path is carpeted over with leaves,
The glories of Autumn decay;

The Goddess of plenty has bound up her sheaves,
And carried the harvest away.

With dissonant guns, hills and vallies resound,
The swains through the coppices rove,
The patridges bleed on the dry stubble ground,
The pheasants lie dead in the grove,

To others such pastime, such sport I resign,
And fly to my heart's little queen,
Her breast with a sympathy tender as mine,
Will moura so pathetick a scene.

A keener enjoyment, my fair, we'll pursue,
From a sight so destructive remove,

Let sportsmen rejoice with the game in full view,
Our pastime's the pastime of love.

Together the true lover's knot let us tie,
While youth revels high in each vein,
When youth, and its pleasing concomitants fly,
The true lover's knot will remain.

Though age may creep on, and indenture the brow,

Still then shall our constancy last,

And, if we can't relish the feast we act now,
We'll think on the pleasure that's past.

JAMES MARRIOT.

1793.

This Author was a Fellow of Trinity-Hall, Cambridge; and one of the advocates in Doctor's-Commons. He published a volume of Poems, 1760.

Inscription upon an Hermitage.

BENEATH this rural cell

Sweet smiling Peace and calm Content

Far from the busy crowd sequester'd dwell.
Mortal approaching near,

The hallow'd seat revere,

Nor bring the loud tumultuous passions here ; For not for these is meant

The sacred silence of the stream,

Nor cave prophetick prompting fancy's dream;

If with presumption rude,
Thy daring steps intrude,
Know, that with jealous eye
Peace and content will fly;

The thoughtful Genius of the lone abode
And guardian spirit of this solemn wood
Will sure revenge the sacrilegious wrong;
Reflections tear will then in secret flow,
And all the haunted solitude belong
To Melancholy's train,

Who point the string of pain

With keen remorse and oft redoubled woe.

THE ACADEMICK.

Written April, 1755.

WHILE silent streams the moss-grown turrets lave,

Calm on thy banks with pensive steps I tread;

The dipping osiers kiss thy passing wave,

And evening shadows o'er the plains are

spread,

From restless eye of painful care,
To thy secluded grot I fly,

Where fancy's sweetest forms repair,
To sooth her darling poesy;

Reclined the lovely vissionary lies

In yonder vale and Laurel-vested bower: Where the gay turf is deck'd with various

dies,

And breathes the mingled scents of every flower:

While holy dreams prolong her calm repose, Her pipe is cast the whispering reeds among, High on the boughs her waving harp is hung, Murmuring to every wind that o'er it blows.

Oft have I seen her bathe at dewy morn

Her wanton bosom in thy silver spring, And, while her hands her flowing locks adorn With busy elegance, have heard her sing.

But say what long recorded theme,
Through all the lofty tale of time,
More worthy can the goddess deem

Of sounding chords and song sublime,