LINES ON THE REV. MR. CAMBRIDGE.
When the opens her lips, like the clack of a mill,
Her brifk tongue is in motion-it never lies ftill;
A firm foe to my peace, the indeed is a pest,
As the rattles away when I with her at reft.

In a day, as the often appears in her airs,
Very oft the wants time for her household affairs;
With unnumber'd divifions the turns a dispute-
Oh how oft do I wish that her tongue had a mute!
When paffion provok'd puts her face in a maze,
No fweet graces the then in her perfon difplays;
Her whole figure in attitudes ftriking appears;

He who looks at her, starts, and he dreads her who hears.
Hurried on by an impulfe to woe and to need,

Of no matters to come did I trouble my head—
Let each marriage of love, then, with caution be made,
As I dearly, alas! for my crotchet have paid.

27

LINES,

WRITTEN BY MR. O'KEEFFE, ON THE REV. MR. CAM-
BRIDGE HAVING HAD A SEAT PUT UP FOR HIM IN
HIS MEADOWS.

LONG this mead fhould fervid funbeams heat thee,
As walking on to Twick'nham or to Sheen,

Forfake the path, and on this rude block feat thee--
Cool is the fhade, enjoy the rural scene,

And think nor couch nor throne fo fafe or fo ferene.
From this calm fpot fly far all things unholy,
Light Fays and guardian Sylphs affemble here;
But most is welcome penfive Melancholy,

With wounded mind, though foften'd not auftere,

To make upon the world remarks not too severe.
For num'rous as the boughs and leaves above thee,
Poor mortal, are the faults to which thou 'rt prone!
Take comfort-though a bad world cease to love thee,
In candour let its num'rous faults alone-
Contemplate here the means to rectify thine own.

Here, Peace, bring health-hence, fullen deep Dejection ! Here dreams of grief to waking joys give way: Lift to yon thrufh-his fong chides fad reflection; Soft confolation pours from ev'ry spray, To charm the foul refign'd with full harmonious lay.

IMPROMPTU,

ÓN SEEING A NOTICE TO PARTIES NOT TO

DINE

IN

THE MEADOWS OF A CLERGYMAN, ON THE BANKS OF THE THAMES.

[From the Morning Poft.]

MOSES, the meekeft and the best of men,
Confin'd his mild and pure decrees to ten;

But thou, benevolent elect of Heav'n,
Haft fwell'd the code fo pious to eleven;
And, left our joys below fhould be too sweet,
Command'ft us, in thy kindness, not to eat.

No

THE INCHCAPE ROCK.

ftir in the air, no stir in the sea, The fhip was ftill as the might be;

Her fails from heav'n receiv'd no motion

Her keel was fteady in the ocean.

Without either fign, or found of their fhock,
The waves flow'd over the Inchcape Rock:
So little they rofe, fo little they fell,
They did not move the Inchcape bell.

The pious Abbot of Aberbrothok

Had floated that bell on the Inchcape Rock;
On the waves of the ftorm it floated and swung,
And louder, and louder, it warning rung.
When the Rock was hid by the tempeft's fwell,
The mariners heard the warning bell;
And then they knew the perilous Rock,
And blefs'd the priest of Aberbrothok.

The

The fun in heaven fhone fo gay-
All things were joyful on that day:

The fea-birds fcream'd, as they fported round,
And there was pleasure in their found.

The float of the Inchcape bell was seen,
A darker fpeck on the ocean green;
Sir Ralph, the rover, walk'd his deck,
And he fix'd his eye on the darker speck.
He felt the cheering pow'r of spring;
It made him whistle, it made him fing:
His heart was mirthful to excess---
But the rover's mirth was wickedness.

His eye was on the bell and float-
Quoth he, "My men, put out the boat;
And row me to the Inchcape Rock,
And I'll plague the prieft of Aberbrothok."
The boat is lower'd, the boatmen row,
And to the Inchcape Rock they go;
Sir Ralph bent over from the boat,
And cut the warning bell from the float.

Down fünk the bell, with a gurgling found;

The bubbles rofe, and burft around.

Quoth Sir Ralph, "The next who comes to the Rock, Will not bless the priest of Aberbrothok."

Sir Ralph, the rover, fail'd away;

He fcour'd the feas for many a day;

And now, grown rich, with plunder'd store,

He fteers his course to Scotland's fhore.

So thick a haze o'erfpreads the sky,
They could not fee the fun on high;
The wind hath blown a gale all day;
At evening it hath died away.

On deck the rover takes his ftand,
So dark it is, they fee no land;

Quoth Sir Ralph," It will be lighter foon,
For there is the dawn of the rifing moon."

30 THE BLIND LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.

"Canft hear," faid one, "the breakers roar?
For yonder, methinks, fhould be the fhure.
Now, where we are I cannot tell,

But I wish we could hear the Inchcape bell."
They hear no found; the fwell is strong;
Though the wind hath fallen, they drift along,
Till the veffel ftrikes with a fhiv'ring shock-
O Chrift! it is the Inchcape Rock!

Sir Ralph, the rover, tore his hair;
He curit himself in his despair.
The waves rush in on ev'ry fide,
The fhip is finking beneath the tide.

But even in his dying fear,

One dreadful found could the rover hear;
A found as if with the Inchcape bell,
The devil below was ringing his knell.

THE BLIND LOVER TO HIS MISTRESS.
BY LAURA SOPHIA TEMPLE.

AH! let me hear again that mellow strain,
That dulcet trill, whofe foft and lucid sweep
Steals o'er my trembling foul like gale of eve,
That o'er the world of waters fteals its wing,
Wakening the fea-wave. Thus let thy fweet fong
Wake the now flumb'ring waves of parfing thought,
And through my fecret heart pour the rich tide
Of mem'ry's flood. Let the fair fhades arife
Of buried hours; let ev'ry witching charm
That fancy weaves, hang on thy quiv'ring note,
And speak of raptures paft, and yet to come.
What though to me are veil'd the living morn,
And gay luxuriance of the woodland bloom;
Though fpring steps forth to wander o'er the wild,
Yet paffes me without one funny fmile:
Though moon, nor ftars, nor all the beamy train
That gem the blue ferene, ere hang their lamps
To bless these raylefs orbs-yet am I blefs'd

Beyond

Beyond their power of bleffing-Mufe, my heart,
O'er all thy treafures! oh! with a mifer's care,
Brood o'er the rich amount! Weep tears of joy,
To think thou 'rt monarch o'er a world of love!
Yes, fhe is mine!-fhe chofe me from the throng;
Me, whom the frown of fate forbade to drink
The rapture-fwimming light of beauty's glance,,
Forbade to pour the deep and lengthen'd gaze
Of tenderness-forbade to fondly dwell
On ev'ry gentle waving line of grace

That marks that angel form :-the seraph smile,
The warm and mantling tinge, the funny locks
That break in wild profufion o'er the brow,
Throwing their foften'd fhade-to me are loft.
I only hear thou 'rt fair-from others hear
Of all the bright perfections of thy face:-
Yet can I inward look and view thee there,
Glowing in all the finer charms of mind.
There will I gaze-there dwell in witching trance
On all thy truth, and singleness of heart.
Ah! lead me, dear one! to the craggy steep,
For now the fea-gale hurries o'er its brow
On fresh'ning wing; and o'er the upland scene
Steals the foft veil of eve.-Let airs of heav'n
Bathe my faint form-and thou, O most belov❜d,
Give to my foul again the light of song.

PAWLITSKI AND ARAVINE.

A RUSSIAN BALLAD.

[The Ballad, of which the following is an Imitation, is ftill a very favourite one in Ruffia. It is attributed to the of Peter the Great.]

NEAR Mofcua Reca's * stream so clear,

A lover rofe before the fun,

To view the tow'r where flept his dear,
Whofe charms his youthful heart had won.

* Moscua Reca is a river which runs near the city of Moscow.

pen