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August.
See the reapers, gleaners, dining,

Seated on the verdant yrass ;
O'er the gate the squire reclining,

Wanton eyes each ruddy lass.

September.
Hark! a sound like distant thunder-

Murd'rer may thy malice fail!
Torn from all they love asunder,

Widow'd birds around us wail.

October.
Now Pomona pours her treasure,

Leaves autumnal strew the ground,
Plenty crowns the market measure,

While the mill runs briskly round.

November.
Now the giddy rites of Comus,

Crown the hunter's dear delight;
Ah! the year is flitting from us,

Bleak the day, and drear the night.

December.
Bring more turf, and set the glasses,

Join, my friends, our Christmas cheer; Come a catch !-and kiss the lasses

Christmas comes but once a year.

SONNET TO MRS. G.

Ah! why will memory, with officious care,

The long-lost visions of my days renew;
Why paint the vernal landscape green and fair,

When life’s gay dawn was opening to iny view.

Ah! wherefore bring those moments of delight,

When with my Anna, on the southern shore; I thought the future as the present bright:

Ye, dear delusions !-ye return no inore !

Alas! how different does the truth appear,

From the warm picture youth’s rash hand pourtrays! How fades the scene as we approach it near,

And pain and sorrow strike; how many ways.

Yet of that tender heart, ah! still retain
A share for meand I will not complain.

. General Evening Post.

... IMPROMPTU. On a tax being laid upon spirits in order to make up a small

deficiency in the million per annum, appropriated to the

payment of the national debt. “AMOR PATRIÆ,", to Pitt is a passion innate,

(The virtues of Chatham he surely inherits) If a million per annum he saves to the state;

No wonder, good people, he raises your spirits !

EPITAPH ON DR. JOHNSON.

HERE lies poor Johnson. Reader have a care,
Tread lightly lest you rouse a sleeping bear;
Religious-moral, generous and humane
He was—but self-sufficient-rude and vain:
Ill bred and overbearing in dispute,
A scholar and a christian-yet a brute.
Would you know all his wisdom and his folly,
His actions--sayings-mirth and melancholy ;
Boswell and Thrale, retailers of his wit,
Will tell you how he wrote and talk'd and cough'd
and spit.

Anonymous.

EPIGRAM.

THEE, Johnson, both dead and alive we may nete,

In the fam'd biographical line ;
When living the life of a Savage you wrote,

Now many a Savage writes thine.

SONG.

Say, lonely maid, with down-cast eye.com

O Delia say, with cheek so pale, What gives thy heart the lengthen'd sigh,

That tells the world a mournful tale?

That tears, that thus each other chase,

Bespeak a bosom swell’d with woe; Thy sighs, a storm that wrecks thy peace, Which souls like thine should never know..

O tell me, doth some favour'd youth,

With virtue tir'd, thy beauty slight; And leave those thrones of love and truth,

That lip, and bosom of delight?

Perhaps to nymphs of other shades,

He feigns the soft impassion'd tear; With songs their easy faith invades,

That treach rous won thy witless 'ear..

Let not those maids thy envy move,

For whom his heart may seem to pine That heart can ne'er be bless'd by love, Whose guilt could force a pang from thine. 3

Peter Pindar.

MARIA'S EVENING SERVICE

TO THE VIRGIN.
Ar morn and eve to thee I pray,
And as I pass the mountain's side,
I drop the tear, the tender sigh!,
For who can all their sorrows hide?

O shower your choicest blessings down
Upon a hapless, cheerless maid,
Who wanders here, and quite forlorn,
'Tis thou must guide the paths I've stray’d.

General Evening Post.

SONNET TO MRS. SMITH,

On reading her Sonnets.

Not the sweet bird, who thro’ the nights of May,

Pours the sad story of her hapless love;
To the touch'd heart such tender things can say,

Or with such plaintive eloquence can move!

Base were those groveling minds, those breasts of stone,

Who taught thee grief, nor time nor hope can heal: Hours may they know unpitied and alone;

When their own woes shall make the wretches feel.

Oh! cou'd or fame, or friendship, aught impart

To cure the wounds thy injur'd peace has known; For other’s sorrows still thy tender heart

Should softly melt, but never for thine own.

Till pitying all--and ev’n thy foes forgiv’n,
Thy candid spirit seeks its native heav'n.

General Evening Post.

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