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GO little plant, to Julia's gentle care,
With many a friendly wish I thee resign:
Tho' lost the genial warmth, the humid air,
In modest gracefulness thou still shalt shine.

What tho' her tender touch too often try'd,
Cause thee to feel a momentary pain;

Beneath so soft a hand when thou hast dy'd,
Her look shall sooth thee into life again.

Go, little plant—in all thy beauty go,

Obey her mandate, droop, but not repine;

And thus obedient, thou shall quickly know
Her sensibility can equal thine.



HOW happy in my native bow'rs,
My youthful days I spent:
Serenely past the fleeting hours,
In mirth and sweet content.

There, urg'd by innocence and love,

I told an am'rous tale,
To her who did its flame approve;

Fair Emma of the vale.

Together oft we rang'd the dell,

And nature's beauties view'd;
Or wand'red on the moss-crown'd hill,

And vows of love renew'd;
Then happiness my mind possess'd,

"Hope told a flatt'ring tale,"
Love lull'd my heart in peace to rest,

For Emma of the Vale.

But now, alas! those days are gone,

For I my bow'rs have left,
And happiness hath from me flown;

And I'm of hope bereft.
Unus'd to live midst pomp and shew,

Where noise and vice prevail,
I long in calmer scenes to dwell,

With Emma of the Vale.




By Mr. William Hanbury.

WHAT tho' the stormy tempests dreadful roar. Sent by chill winter's unrelenting hand; What tho' the raging north, from shore to shore, Spreads desolation o'er the shrivell'd land.

Soon cease the wintry storms; and thou, fair spring,
Soon shalt return with beaming glory trown'd,

Soon thy innumerable treasures bring,
And happiness diffuse to all around.

The sun, who late his radiant face conceal'd,
Unwilling still to clear the mazy skies,

For thee, sweet spring, his glories soon shall yield,
For thee, with double radiance soon shall rise.

In ev'ry heart content and joy shall re:gn,

Whilst many a nymph and village hind shall sing,

As with light iooisteps swift they pace the plain, "All hail! thou queen of beauty, fragrant spring 1"


On the two recent Poems of the Farmer's Boy, and Matilda.

WHY does Britannia Thompson's loss deplore?
Why mourns the muse that Cowper is no more f
Their souls, with kindred angels, taste the bliss
In yon bright world, they ne'er could hope in this.
Yet, muse, ah! weep not for the saints above,
For still on earth are vot'ries for thy love i
Fame chides thy tears; she bids thee wake to joy,
And points, exulting, to the " Farmer's Boy."
Each season charms; encreas'd delight supplies i
In ev'ry page sec excellence arise:
In vain she shews where partial beauties shine^,
For magic numbers dwell in ev'ry line;
No more she mourns the poets of her isle,
But greets each rising genius with a smile.
A modest daughter claims her gen'rous care,
In native beauty unadorn'd, yet fair;
She pleads so sweetly her affecting cause,
Matilda gains our pity and applause.
And kind attention while her strains prevail,
Find ample payment in her artless tale.

You, who in honest Giles* an interest take,
Will love Matilda for her virtues sak!e;
In native innocence behold her charms:
(That youth delights, or apathy d:sarms)
O hear her modest accents gently breathe>
(Which deck with beauty the poetic wreathe)
Attend the duteous maid, and join the tear,
That dews with sacred grief a parent's bier,
Partake the blessing that her choice approv'd,
And lead her to the gentle youth she lov'd.

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Read here, ye grave, and owrr with gcn'rous smiles,
While lives Matilda, or the rural Giles,
The Muses still support Britannia's Isles.




By a lady.

ABOY one morn into a garden stray'd, Which Flora had adorn'd with sweetest flow-'rs; Roses, azalias, lilies, pinks, display'd

Their various charms, their fascinating powr's: The little rogue delighted, view'd the rich parterre, And long'd to rifle every heauty there: But Flora, when she saw him thus dispos'd, Drew near, and wisely interpos'di She smiling said, " My liuie friend, To one alone your choice must beconrin'd;

Look round; select one to your mind,
Where balmy odours with rare beauty blend."

He quickly laid his hand upon a rose,
Whose charms might well his little heart engage,
When soon the thorns his rude attack oppose.
With indignation fir'd,
He from the lurking enemy retir'd,
And scornful, thus express d his idle rage:
"Go wither on thy stem, thou treach'rous flow'r,

There pine and fade, neglected and forlorn;
I'll seek another rose in yonder bow'r,

Who fair, like thee, shall blow without one thorn." He ran to pluck one from the clust'ring store, Each bow'r examin'd o'er and o'er, As vainly search'd the garde n round, Alas! no rose without a thorn was to be found. His heartbeat high with rising pride, That thus his wishes were deny'd i (For he had never felt controul;) At length a flood of tears reliev'd his swelling souk,

Flora, diverted at such childish grief, Yet willing to encourage him, approach'd again: « My son, (she said) your tcirs arc vain,

But take my counsel, you will find relief; Courage and perseverance never fail; First o'r the thorn* prevail, Each difficulty you will then remove, And gain the object of your love." To this, each little student may compare The hours of learning, often mixt with care; Yet while the road to knowledge is in view, With diligence its winding paths pursue; And should some briars on the way appear, Those will be conquer'd, if you persevere! And having well employ'd yonr youthful hours, Reap with advautage, time's most precious flow'rs.





William Cowper, Esq.
J THIS said, read Homer once, anil you no more
]\ Can read; all oiher books appear so poor.
But if the page of Cowper we peruse,
Further to read Will scarcely be of use.
Boldly be claims the native rights of man,
Each act to ponder, each event to scan.
Clearly he shows what seems forgot forsooth!
That cuitom, numbers, are no firoof of truth.

Unbrib'd, his judgement marks in letters clear,
What men in general setm, and what they are.
Howe'er conceal'd, and fene d from common view,
Vice he detests, and gives to vice its due.
And though weak men poor virtue disregard,
Cowper defends, and shows her great reward.
Ye British elders, show his works to youth,
They'll lead to goodness, and they'll lead to truth:
Not what is call'd so by a vicious age.
But what is prov d so by the sacred page.
Great Homer wrote ia strains sublime; 'tis true;
But Cowper writes what Homer never tnrw.

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