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, ere 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 make my oaths when she's severe,

But break them when she's kind.

:

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 1500l. a year, was amiable and hospitable, and united elegant and refined pursuits with the active amusements which he has celebrated in his poem of the Chase; but from deficiency 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

No loop-hole left, no slight pretence,
To palliate the foul offence.

"I own (said he) I'm very bad-
"A sot-incorrigibly mad-

"But, sir-I thank you for your love,
"And by your lectures would improve :
"Yet, give me leave to say, the street
"For conference is not so meet.
"Here, in this room-nay, sir, come in-
"Expose, chastise me for my sin;
"Exert each trope, your utmost art,
"To touch this senseless, flinty heart.
"I'm conscious of my guilt, 'tis true,
"But yet I know my frailty too;
"A slight rebuke will never do.
"Urge home my faults-come in,
"Let not my soul be cast away."

I

Wise Ebony, who deem'd it good T'encourage by all means he could These first appearances of grace, Follow'd up stairs, and took his place. The bottle and the crust appear'd,

And wily Tom demurely sneer'd.

pray

"My duty, sir!"-" Thank you, kind Tom."

"Again, an't please you." "Thank

"Sorrow is dry-I must once more

66 Nay, Tom, I told you at the door

you:

Come."

"I would not drink-what! before dinner?-
"Not one glass more, as I'm a sinner-
"Come, to the point in hand; is't fit
"A man of your good sense and wit