What joy to hear the tempest howl in vain,
And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast !
Or, lull'd to slumber by the beating rain,
Secure and happy, sink at last to rest !

Or, if the sun in flaming Leo ride,
By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my Delia, walking side by side,
Hear how they murmur as they glide away!

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,
To stop and gaze on Delia as I go!
To mingle sweet discourse with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know!

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,
In silent happiness I rest unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia and myself alone,

Hers be the care of all my little train,
While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,
By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.

For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plough,
In gloomy forests tend my lonely flock;
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock:

Ah, what avails to press the stately bed,
And far from her 'midst tasteless grandeur weep,
By marble fountains lay the pensive head,
And, while they murmur, strive in vain to sleep!

Delia alone can please, and never tire,
Exceed the paint of thought in true delight;
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows through every night:

Beauty and worth in her alike contend,
To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and my friend,
I taste the joys of sense and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze, when others loves are o'er,
And dying press her with my clay-cold hand
Thou weep'st already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

Oh, when I die, my latest moments spare,
Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill,
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Though I am dead, my soul shall love thee still ;

Oh, quit the room, oh, quit the deathful bed,
Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart;
Oh, leave me, Delia, eré thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part:

Let them, extended on the decent bier,
Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Through all the village spread the tender tear,
While pitying maids our wondrous loves relate.

JOHN OLDMIXON, RIDICULED in the Tatler under the name of Omikron, the unborn poet, and one of the heroes of the Dunciad, who mounts the side of a lighter in order to plunge with more effect. His party virulence was rewarded with the place of collector of the customs at the port of Bridgewater.

SONG.

FROM HIS POEMS ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS, IN IMITATION OF

THE MANNER OF ANACREON,

I LATELY vow'd, but 'twas in haste,

That I no more would court
The joys that seem when they are past

As dull as they are short.

I oft to hate

my

mistress swear,
But soon my weakness find;
I make my oaths when she's severe,

But break them when she's kind.

ON HIMSELF.

FROM ANACREON.

UNDERNEATH a myrtle shade,
On a bank of roses laid,
Let me drink, and let me play,
Let me revel all the day.

Love, descending from his state,
On
my

festivals shall wait ; Love among my slaves shall shine, And attend to fill me wine.

Swift as chariot wheels we fly,
To the minute we must die;
Then we moulder in an urn,
Then we shall to dust return.

Then in vain you'll 'noint my tomb With your oils and your perfume; Rather let them now be mine, Roses round my temples twine.

You who love me now I live,
Give me what

you

have to give; Let Elysium be my care, When the gods shall send me there. WILLIAM SOMERVILLE.

BORN 1692.-DIED 1742.

WILLIAM SOMERVILLE was born at Edston, in Warwickshire, of an ancient and illustrious family. He possessed an estate of 15001. a year, was amiable and hospitable, and united elegant and refined puruits with the active amusements which he has celebrated in his poem of the Chase; but from de. ficiency in economy and temperance was driven, according to Shenstone's account, to drink himself into pains of body in order to get rid of those of the mind.

BACCHUS TRIUMPHANT.

A TALE.

“ For shame," said Ebony, “ for shame,
“ Tom Ruby, troth, you're much to blame,
« To drink at this confounded rate,
" To guzzle thus, early and late.”

Poor Tom, who just had took his whet,
And at the door his uncle met,
Surpris'd and thunder-struck, would fain
Make his escape, but, oh! in vain.
Each blush, that glow'd with an ill grace,
Lighted the flambeaux in his face;

VOL. IV.

H