Or in this hour of ease,

Shalt thou CERVENTES please,

And shew thy champions feasts-my prime delight?

No-now thy pleasant page

Shall not my thoughts engage,

Though Wit, though Virtue ruled thy fancy bright;

Though thy good-nature there

(To wit companion rare)

Might smooth the furrows of the sternest brow, And Quixote's eloquence

'Mid madness flashing sense,

With wisdom's lessons laughter's hour endow.

SWIFT I will gladly praise

Thy skill in easy lays,

Thy humourous prose, perspicuous, pure, and

terse;

Yet whilst my candid mind

Some honour owes mankind,

From thy malignant page it turns averse.

No-be yon volume sought,
With golden wisdom fraught,

An Attick vest where English genius wears,
Where harmless humour plays,

Soft as the Solar rays,

And beautifies the flowers that Virtue bears.

Be this thy praise alone,

Immortal ADDISON,

That whilst the Graces o'er thy works preside, There in their forms divine,

Religion, Virtue, shine,

And point thy writings where thy actions guide.

SAMUEL BISHOP.

London-1731-1795.

Bishop, was Master of Merchant Taylor's school ; and imagination need not be put upon the stretch, to form an idea of his life. It is pleasant, however, to see one of his profession tying up the birch twigs with ribbon couleur de rose, and gathering the flowers of Parnassus as he drove his flock along the road.

TO THE

REV. GEORGE STEPNEY TOWNLEY,

On the Birth of his daughter, September 18, 1779.

WHAT, shall the father hope, the mother

When their girl's eyes first open to the day?

pray,

That ductile Spirit, simple Truth,
And pregnant Sensibility,

May lead up infancy to youth!

And every prank of playful glee
Still seem to say, 'This babe was born,
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!'

That year by year, new female grace
To manlier judgment may be join'd!
Her genius animate her face!

Her manner indicate her mind!
A face, a mind, that show her born,
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That her full form, and perfect powers,
The worthy and the wise may strike;
And Love, to bless her married hours,

Conduct and match her to her like!
One, who shall know, and boast her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That her capricious heart may take
Grateful, the share of good decreed !

And comfortable candour make
All she enjoys, be joy indeed!

Joy, whose pure glow may prove her born
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That never insults, loss, or pain,

May work an heavier weight of care,
Than conscious honour can disdain,
Or provident discretion bear!

While meek complacence, speaks her born!
A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

That age insensibly may creep!

And her last look may see survive An offspring of her own, to keep

Her likeness, and her name alive! Then may she die, as she was born, A Rose of Beauty, with no Thorn!

THE BRAMBLE.

WHILE Wits thro' Fiction's regions ramble,While Bards for fame or profit scramble:

While Pegasus can trot, or amble;

Come, what may come,-I'll sing the Bramble.

'How now!'-methinks I hear you say :'Why? What is Rhyme run mad to-day?" -No, Sirs, mine's but a sudden gambol; My Muse hung hamper'd in a Bramble.