And art thou dead thou much-lov'd youth ? Then farewel home! for evermore But first upon my true-love's grave Yet ftay, fair Lady, reft a-while See through the hawthorn blows the cold wind, O ftay me not, thou holy Friar! No drizzly rain that falls on me Yet ftay, fair Lady, turn again, Here forc'd by grief, and hopeless love, And here amid thefe lonely walls But haply, for my year of grace Might I still hope to win thy love, Now farewel grief, and welcome joy, A TALE. BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ. ERE Saturn's fons were yet difgrac'd, And heathen gods were all the taste, Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will To take an air on Ida's hill. It chanc'd, as once with ferious ken He view'd from thence the ways of men, He faw (and pity touch'd his breaft) The world by three foul fiends poffeft: Pale Discord there, and Folly vain, With haggard Vice, upheld their reign. Then forth he fent his fummons high, And call'd a fenate of the sky. Round as the winged orders preft, Jove thus his facred mind expreft: "Say, which of all this fhining train "Will Virtue's conflict hard fuftain? "For fee, the drooping takes her flight, "While not a god fupports her right." He paus'd-when from amidst the sky, The triple tyrants to oppose. That inftant from the realms of day, Befide the road a manfion stood, The dame, who own'd, adorn'd the place; In fprightly fenfe and polifh'd air, Imagine now the table clear, The fong, the tale, the jeft went round, 1 "Faith, friends, our errand is but vain"Quick let us measure back the sky; "These nymphs alone may well supply, "Wit, Innocence, and Harmony." AN INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE. BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES. AGAIN the balmy Zephyr blows, Fresh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glòws, Ye gentle warblers, hither fly, And fhun the noon-tide heat; My fhrubs à cooling fhade supply, Here freely hop from spray to spray, Here rove and fing the live-long day Amidft this cool translucent rill, That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill, And revel in the shade. No school-boy rude, to mifchief prone, Hither the vocal Thrush repairs, Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt, Let not the harmless Redbreaft fear, And feek a fure asylum here, With one that loves his home. My trees for you, ye artless tribe, Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe ! M |