But, could the plaudit circle round the zones,
Poor is that cloudy theatre to thee !-
A voice is heard, amid the saintly thrones,
Prelusive to a nobler symphony.

If one regenerate soul is joy above,

Faith, plum'd by Hope, a chorus hears on high, Applauding, when, betimes paternal love,

Such numbers calls the hallowed task to ply.

Long may the lessons of the Pastor's care,
That woke the sacred flame, its soarings guide,
And æras long of lineal worth declare
What virtues o'er the rising race preside.

EPIGRAM.

CORINNA's quite a fright to me,
While Ned can only beauty see,

With every grace her form adorning!
We both are wrong, and both are right;
Ned sees her still by candle light,

But I have seen her in the morning!

R. A. D.

TO A LADY, WITH A ROSE.

BY THEOPHILUS SWIFT, ESQ.

WHEN Venus first from ocean sprung, • With rapture earth exulting rung, And gave, on that auspicious morn, THE ROSE, for Beauty then was born. The blooming stranger Venus views, Its balmy blush, and day-bright hues, Marks the green fence that guards it round, For then no jealous thorn was found. Sweet was her kiss :-The Rose receives The charm through all th' impassion'd leaves: In nectar now she bathes the bud, Now plunges in the purple flood: Instant, the finished Wonder grows The Type of Love, and Beauty's Rose. To Paphos, then, she bore the flower, And planted in her favorite bower, And watch'd, and nurst, and tended there, As yet too young the blast to bear; Now fearing, folded from the night, Now waked to meet the morning light; With her own breath perfumed, and fann'd, Her breath, as Zephyr's whisper bland;

And the warm sunshine of her eyes
A soul of fragrant life supplies.
Then ever fair, and ever young,
The triumphs of the Rose she sung,
And thus the Daughter of the Main
Prophetic raised the Teian strain.

"Fairest, fondest child of earth, "Pledge of pleasure's infant birth! "When thine early blooms appear, "All shall own Our season near. "Thou shalt crown the mantling bowl, "Thou shalt chear the Lover's soul. "Dear to beauty, dear to love, "Dear to every Muse above! "With the Rose's annual praise "Bards shall purple all their lays; "And when chaplets they compose "Change the Laurel for the Rose. "Does the swain his wishes breathe ? "Rosy bands his brow shall wreathe. "Does he sing the charmer's cheek? "There, shall rosy blushes break. "Rise the rosy-bosomed hours?

"Each shall hail the Queen of flowers. "Moves the morn with rosy finger? "O'er thy bud her hand shall linger, "Whilst to thee her melting eyes "Pay their dewy sacrifice. "In the dance delight our Graces? "Rosy feet shall print their paces; "As their golden ringlets fall, "Wreath'd with rosy coronal. "And should either sister dare "Thence the rival Rose to tear,

"We will spring a thorn around,
"Her invidious touch to wound.
"When with sickness faints the heart,
"Thou the cordial shalt impart;
"In the vase of China's earth
"Thou shalt gain a second birth,
"And the dead, beyond the tomb,
"Steal from THEE a lasting bloom."
Thus sang the Queen of Soft Desire,
THE ROSE resounding on her lyre.
Then to the Boy that bears the bow
Of power to lay the mighty low,
The Rose she

gave

with rosy

smile :

And "haste," she said, "to Erin's Isle ;

"There seek the Swain whose heart beats high "At once with love and poesy:

"Bid him his softest song employ

"To hymn this happy child of joy;
"And charge him, as he hopes to gain
"One smile of mine, one favor'd strain,
"To celebrate our Rose, and sing
"This matchless marvel of the spring;
"This brightest emblem of our flames,
"That Nature gives, that Beauty claims,
"That Love's own hand delights to rear,
"And DELIA best deserves to wear."

EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH. THAT your wife is not young, and sweet-temper'd,

and fair,

No mortal, dear Damon, pretends;

But, when that she's constant you loudly declare, We ask how you've so many friends?

1 3

R. A. D.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY,

Who often requested the Author to make her the Subject of a Poem.

BY W. PRESTON, ESQ.

I've been in debt, a year and more,
"Tis time, by heav'ns, to quit the score!
Jemima, yes, it shall be done:

And yet, bad rhymes are worse than none.
The Bard, dear creature, should be young,
By mirth and love the lyre be strung.
But, when will women list to reason,
Or pay regard to time or season?
Does it to hoary hairs belong
To treat a Lady, with a song?
To count the babies in her eyes,
Or kisses, to her lips that rise?
Could I recall the vanish'd time,

When youth and beauty wak'd the rhyme,
And all the power of female charms

My bosom fill'd with soft alarms;
And could I in my numbers hope

For Prior's ease, and rhymes of Pope;