Or purple heath is ting'd in vain :

For such the rivers dash the foaming tides,

The mountain swells, the dale subsides;

Ev'n thriftless furze detains their wandering sight,

And the rough barren rock grows pregnant with delight.

*

Why brand these pleasures with the name Of soft, unsocial toils, of indolence and shame ? Search but the garden, or the wood,

Let yon admir'd carnation own,

Not all was meant for raiment, or for food,
Not all for needful use alone;

There while the seeds of future blossoms dwell, 'Tis colour'd for the sight, perfum'd to please the

smell.

Why knows the nightingale to sing?

Why flows the pine's nectareous juice?
Why shines with paint the linnet's wing?
For sustenance alone? For use?
For preservation? Every sphere
Shall bid fair pleasure's rightful claim appear.
And sure there seem, of human kind,
Some born to shun the solemn strife;

Some for amusive tasks design'd,

To soothe the certain ills of life;

Grace its lone vales with many a budding rose, New founts of bliss disclose,

Call forth refreshing shades, and decorate repose.

ODE TO MEMORY.

O MEMORY! celestial maid!

Who glean'st the flowerets cropt by Time; And, suffering not a leaf to fade,

Preserv'st the blossoms of our prime; Bring, bring those moments to my mind When life was new, and Lesbia kind. And bring that garland to my sight,

With which my favour'd crook she bound; And bring that wreath of roses bright Which then my festive temples crown'd; And to my raptur'd ear convey The gentle things she deign'd to say.

And sketch with care the Muse's bower,
Where Isis rolls her silver tide;

Nor yet omit one reed or flower

That shines on Cherwell's verdant side; If so thou may'st those hours prolong, When polish'd Lycon join'd my song.

The

song it 'vails not to recite

But sure, to soothe our youthful dreams, Those banks and streams appear'd more bright Than other banks, than other streams:

Or, by thy softening pencil shown,
Assume thy beauties not their own?

And paint that sweetly vacant scene,
When, all beneath the poplar bough,

My spirits light, my soul serene,

I breath'd in verse one cordial vow: That nothing should my soul inspire, But friendship warm, and love entire.

Dull to the sense of new delight,

On thee the drooping Muse attends; As some fond lover, robb'd of sight,

On thy expressive power depends; Nor would exchange thy glowing lines, To live the lord of all that shines.

But let me chase those vows away Which at ambition's shrine I made; Nor ever let thy skill display

Those anxious moments, ill repaid: Oh! from my breast that season raze, And bring my childhood in its place.

Bring me the bells, the rattle bring,
And bring the hobby I bestrode;
When, pleas'd, in many a sportive ring,
Around the room I jovial rode:
Ev'n let me bid my lyre adieu,
And bring the whistle that I blew.

Then will I muse, and pensive say,
Why did not these enjoyments last;
How sweetly wasted I the day,

While innocence allow'd to waste!
Ambition's toils alike are vain,
But ah! for pleasure yield us pain.

HENRY CAREY.

DIED 1763.

HENRY CAREY was a musician by profession, and author both of the words and melody of the pleasing song of " Sally in our alley." He came to an untimely death by his own hands.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.
There is no lady in the land,
Is half so sweet as Sally:
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Her father he makes cabbage-nets,

And through the streets does cry 'em';

Her mother she sells laces long,

To such as please to buy 'em:
But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!

She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
(I love her so sincerely)
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely:
But, let him bang his belly full,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week,
I dearly love but one day;

And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm dress'd all in my best,
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed,
Because I leave him in the lurch,
As soon as text is named:

I leave the church in sermon time,
And slink away to Sally;

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again,
Oh then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,
I'll give it to my honey: