But when th' infuriate deep's vex'd billows roar,
Dashing their sounding surge, what joy to find
The grove's deep shelter on the stable shore,

Where the tall pine-tree sings beneath the wind!
How wretched he, whose toil is on the main,
A boat his home, the fish his dangerous prize!
While by some fountain marge, the spreading plane
Its friendly shade to my repose supplies.
Ah! then, how sweet the murmur to my ear,
Which soothes my sense, and not alarms my fear!

INSCRIPTION

UNDER A BUST OF ADDISON,

O ADDISON, to thy lamented dust,
With pious hands, I consecrate this bust.
Oh! grac'd with virgin purity of soul,
With wit to charm, with morals to controul,
To gentle MONTAGUE and SOMMERS dear,
Whilst verse as yet could soothe a Courtier's ear,
Lo! touch'd by thee, with pure Religion's flame,
Philosophy assumes a loftier aim,

And better Truths and Mysteries refine
The souls of SENECA and ANTONINE.

Thou great, best Censor of a vicious age,
Whose blameless life flow'd gently as thy page,
Tho' chaste yet courteous, tho' correct yet free,
Ev'n Virtue may admire herself in thee!

B. WALLER,

ODE TO THE SPRING,

BY A MAN OF FASHION,

Lo! where the party-giving dames,
Fair Fashion's train appear,
Disclose the long-expected games,
And wake the modish year,
The Opera warbler pours her throat,
Responsive to the actor's note,

The dear-bought harmony of Spring;
While, beaming pleasure as they fly,
Bright flambeaus through the murky sky
Their welcome fragance fling.

Where'er the rout's full myriads close
The staircase and the door,
Where'er thick files of belles and beaus
Perspire through ev'ry pore;
Beside some faro-table's brink,

With me the Muse shall stand and think
(Hemm'd sweetly in by squeeze of state),

How vast the comfort of the crowd,

How condescending are the proud,

How happy are the great!

Still is the toiling hand of Care,
The drays and hacks repose;
But, hark, how through the vacant air

The rattling clamour glows!

The wanton miss and rakish blade,

Eager to join the masquerade,

Through streets and squares pursue their fun;

'Home in the dusk some bashful skim;

Some, ling'ring late, their motly trim

Exhibit to the sun.

To Dissipation's playful eye,

Such is the life for man,

And they that halt and they that fly
Should have no other plan.

Alike the busy and the gay

Should sport all night till break of day,
In Fashion's varying colours drest;
Till seiz'd for debt through rude mischance,
Or chill'd by age, they leave the dance,
In gaol or dust-to rest.

Methinks I hear, in accents low,
Some sober Quiz reply,

Poor child of Folly! what art thou ?
A Bond-street Butterfly!

Thy choice nor Health nor Nature greets,
No taste hast thou of vernal sweets,

Enslav'd by noise, and dress, and play,
Ere thou art to the country flown,
The sun will scorch, the Spring be gone,
Then leave the town in May.

REV. J. Q.

IX.

$54, blameless Nymph, whose piteous doom Postic Annalists relate,

Immers'd in Severn's watery tomb
By Guendoline's remorseless hate
O'er the smooth current still presides,
And bids the spring-flowers on its sides
Diversify the broider'd green,
Where to the spheres' aerial sound
The light Fays trip their antic round
By meditating Shepherds seen:

If worn Tradition's specious tales,
In Fiction's gaudy mantle drest,
Were wont to celebrate her vales

With Nature's bounteous treasures blest;
Fame hiding more than half her blaze
Reserved to crown these later days
Her greatest, her most envied pride,
That while her banks thy numbers grace,
The Goddess sees thy fairer face
Reflected in her glassy tide.

XI.

Ask we on what terrestrial plain
The Graces condescend to dwell

When Thou, the loveliest of their train,
So aptly strik'st the chorded shell?
Whether from Bacchus' mighty race,
Or the dread Thunderer's stol'n embrace
Euphrosyne derived her birth

Regards not us Our dazzled sight
Struck with ineffable delight

Has found her parallel on earth.

1762.

INSCRIPTION ON A ROOT-HOUSE.

I

O, STRANGER! speed not on thy onward way,
But let this ivied shed thy step delay:

Lo! here the wand'ring sun-beam feebly falls,
And streaks with soften'd day the mossy walls;
Sweet here to gaze the blue expanse of noon,
Or placid watch the Summer's cloudless moon
With rays of snowy light ascending glide
'Midst the dark elms and o'er the mountain side,
Nor yet repine, if in tempestuous hour,
The rain slant rushing in a wintry show'r,
Or snow-blast keen thy rapid feet compel
To the rude covert of this rustic cell:
Pleasant it were to muse, as o'er the steep
The tall trees rock with stormy murm'rings deep;
And hear the, rush of rain, the strife of hail
Unfelt commingle in the o'er-passing gale,-
In this abstracted melancholy mood
A solemn joy shall bless thy solitude:
Thoughts of the beautiful, the good, and great,
Thy lifted soul with influence pure dilate;
And if the Muses own thee for their child,
The Muses here shall weave their visions wild!

CHARLES A. ELTON.