Towards the end of a little Poem, entitled, "The Vanity of external Accomplishments," we find thefe ra tional, elegant, and melodious Verfes: But who would waste their bloom, and not engage Milton's Paradife Loft is now fo univerfally known and efteemed, that any quotations from thence may feem fuperfluous; but as there may be fome few Ladies who have paffed this refined fublime Author unnoticed, I fhall take the liberty of prefenting fome few beautiful paffages. O unexpected stroke, worfe than of death! My early vifitation, and my last At ev❜n, which I bred up with tender hand Who Who new fhall rear you to the fun, or rank With what to fight or smell was sweet; from thee And wild, how fhall we breathe in other air Whom thus the angel interrupted mild. heart Forfake me not thus, Adam, witness heav'n I beg and clasp thy knees; bereave me not, My only ftrength and Ray: forlorn of thee, Against a foe by doom exprefs affign'd 'us, The Thy hatred for this mifery befall'n, Me, me only, juft object of his ire. This Poem beautifully concludes with the following affecting lines. In either hand the haft'ning angel caught Our ling ring parents, and to the eastern gate Led them direct, and down the cliff as faft To the subjected plain; then disappear'd. They looking back, all th' eaftern fide beheld Of Paradife, fo late their happy feat, Wav'd over by that flaming brand, the gate With dreadful faces throng'd and fiery arms; Some natural tears they drop'd, but wip'd them foon The world was all before them, where to chufe Their place of reft, and Providence their guide: They hand in hand with wandring steps and flow, Through Eden took their folitary way. DELJA 288 DELIA AND THE GOLDFINCH. FROM ROBERTSON'S POEMS. MERCY, dear hawk!the little flutt'rer fpare, "Nor thus pursue him with blood-hungër'd mind. See, how the tyrant downward darts the blow:- She faid-when lo! the deftin'd Finch she spies Neftling, his little bofom flutt'ring beats, Here, fweet mufician-fafe may'ft thou remain, ie Here, Here, fweet musician, in this warm retreat Like this poor bird, my distant lord may want, "From favage cruelty, a fhelt'ring wing; “Good heav'n, in mercy that protection grant, "And to these arms reftor'd my hero bring. "Ah! why wou'd Celadon for wars alarms "And honor's bubble, from his Delia rove? Why wou'd he quit these ever-faithful arms?"What's wealth---What's honor, when compar'd to love? "Fly, little warbler---to fome lonely mate "A Celadon belov'd perhaps thou art :Fly, little warbler, e'er it is too late, "And with thy fong revive her drooping heart." The Goldfinch freed, all gratitude, repays |