Far hence retire, O Night! thy praise,
Majestic queen! in nobler lays

Already has been sung:
When thine own spheres expire, thy name,
Secure from time, shall rise in fame,

Immortaliz’d by Young.

See, while I speak, Aurora sheds
Her early honours o'er the meads,

The springing valleys smile;
With cheerful haste, the village swain
Renews the labours of the plain,

And meets th' accustom'd toil.

Day's monarch comes to bless the year!
Wing’d zephyrs wanton round his car ;

Along the athereal road
Plenty and health attend his beams,
And truth, divinely bright ! proclaims

The visit of the God.

Aw'd by the view, my soul reveres
The great first Cause, that bade the spheres

In tuneful order move :
Thine is the sable-mantled night,
Unseen Almighty! and the light

The radiance of thy love.

Hark! the awaken'd grove repays
With melody the genial rays,

And echo spreads the strain ;
The streams in grateful murmurs run,
The bleating flocks salute the sun,

And music glads the plain.

While nature thus her charms displays,
Let me enjoy the fragrant breeze,

That op’ning flow'rs diffuse;
Temp’rance and innocence attend,
These are your haunts, your influence lend,

Associates of the muse.

Riot and guilt, and wasting care,
And fell revenge, and black despair,

Avoid the morning's light:
Nor beams the sun, nor blooms the rose,
Their restless passions to compose,

Who virtue's dictates slight.

Along the mead, and in the wood,
And on the margin of the flood,

The goddess walks confess'd ;
She gives the landscape pow'r to charm,
The sun his genial heat to warm

The wise and gen'rous breast.

Happy the man! whose tranquil mind
Sees Nature in her changes kind,

And pleas'd the whole surveys;
For him the morn benignly smiles,
And ev’ning shades reward the toils

That measure out his days.

The varying year may shift the scene,
The sounding tempest lash the main,

And heav'ns own thunders roll;
Compos'd he views the bursting storm,
Tempests nor thunder can deform
The calmness of his soul.

C. B.

SONNET,

ADDRESSED TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES.

Pour, pour again, sweet bard, thy wonted strains,

Soft let them breathe on Sorrow's list’ning ear: For who like thee so tenderly complains,

Stealing from Pity's eye the ready tear!

Resume thy lyre, and with a master's hand

Awake its chords that now neglected lie; Around each lover of the muse shall stand, Bath'd in delicious floods of harmony.

Nor thou refuse this weak, tho' willing lay;

Nor, with contempt, the feeble praise regard Of her, who, as she wanders on her way,

Forms a rude chaplet for her fav'rite bard; Whose melting strains congenial virtue hears, And weeps, and smiles, rejoicing in her tears.

Miss Locke.

DESCRIPTION

OF THE MANNER OF LIFE OF A CELEBRATED

WRITER,

Written by himself.

I pass the silent rural hour,
No slave to wealth, no tool to pow'r.
My mansion's warm, and very neat;
You'd say, a pretty snug retreat.
My rooms no costly paintings grace,
The humbler print supplies their place.
Behind the house iny garden lies,
And opens to the southern skies :
The distant hills gay prospects yield,
And plenty smiles in ev'ry field.

The faithful mastiff is my guard,
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard;
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their soft plumes improve my bed.

My cow rewards me all she can, (Brutes leave ingratitude to man ;) She, daily thankful to her lord, Crowns with nectareous sweets my board. Am I diseas'd ;-the cure is known, Her sweeter juices mend my own.

I love my house, and seldom roam,
Few visits please me more than home.
I pity that unhappy elf
Who loves all company but self,
By idle passions borne away
To op'ra, masquerade, or play ;
Fond of those hives where folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains.

Do not arraign my want of taste, Or sigh to ken where joys are plac'd. They widely err, who think me blind, And I disclaim a stoic's mind. Like yours are my sensations quite ; I only strive to feel aright. My joys, like streams, glide gently by, Tho'small, their channel never dry; Keep a still, even fruitful wave, And bless the neighb'ring meads they lave.

My fortune (for I'll mention all, And more than you dare tell) is small;