To win me from his tender arms

Unnumbered suitors came;

Who praised me for imputed charms,

And felt, or feigned, a flame.

Each hour a mercenary crowd

With richest proffers strove; Among the rest young Edwin bowed, But never talked of love.

In humble, simplest habit clad,
No wealth or power had he;
Wisdom and worth were all he had,
But these were all to me.

The blossom opening to the day,
The dews of heaven refined,
Could nought of purity display
To emulate his mind.

The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

With charms inconstant shine: Their charms were his; but, woe to me! Their constancy was mine.

For still I tried each fickle art,

Importunate and vain;

And while his passion touched my heart,

I triumphed in his pain.

Till, quite dejected with my scorn,

He left me to my pride; And sought a solitude forlorn

In secret, where he died.

But mine the sorrow, mine the fault!
And well my life shall pay ;
I'll seek the solitude he sought,
And stretch me where he lay !

And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
I'll lay me down and die;
'Twas so for me that Edwin did,
And so for him will I!

Forbid it, Heaven! the Hermit cried,
And clasped her to his breast:
The wondering fair-one turned to chide-
'Twas Edwin's self that pressed!

Turn, Angelina, ever dear;

My charmer, turn to see

Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here,
Restored to love and thee!

Thus let me hold thee to my heart,
And ev'ry care resign:

And shall we never, never part,

My life-my all that's mine?

87

No, never from this hour to part;
We'll live and love so true,

The sigh that rends thy constant heart
Shall break thy Edwin's too!

JOHN GAY.

This poet was born in 1668, near Barnstable, Devonshire, and is distinguished as "the easy, indolent, good-humored JOHN GAY, who seems to have been the most artless and best-beloved of all the Pope and Swift circle of wits and poets." The sweetness of his manners and the sincerity of his heart gained him friends, wherever he appeared, and he was admitted into the company of the great and powerful. His resources being scanty, he received from the Duchess of Monmouth an appointment of secretary, and his muse was prompted to renewed exertions. The death of Queen Anne, shortly afterward, cast a shadow over his hopes. The succeeding court, however, being unpopular, and he rejecting with indignity an offer to be made gentleman-usher to the young princess Louisa, he listened to a suggestion from Swift, with whom at this time he became acquainted, to write a Newgate pastoral, in which the characters should be thieves and highwaymen, and the result was THE BEGGAR'S OPERA, which was produced, and received with unbounded applause, and had a run of sixty-three nights, and which is occasionally performed at the present day; and his ballad of “Black Eyed Susan" must ever remain popular as long as the language is spoken. His principal works, besides the above, are-Rural Sports, Shepherd's Week; Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London; The Fan; The Wife of Bath, a comedy, and a failure; a play by the

title of What D'ye Call It? Three Hours after Marriage, a comedy; The Captives, a drama; and numerous pieces of lesser note. He realized a handsome living from his writings, and died December 4th, 1732, deeply lamented by Swift and Pope, both of whom were sincerely attached to him.

RURAL SPORTS.

CANTO I.

You, who the sweets of rural life have known,
Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;
In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,
And, undisturbed, yourself and muse enjoy.
Thames listens to thy strains, and silent flows,
And no rude wind through rustling osiers blows;
While all his wondering nymphs around thee
throng,

To hear the Syrens warble in thy song.

But I, who ne'er was blest by fortune's hand,
Nor brightened ploughshares in paternal land,
Long in the noisy town have been immured,
Respired its smoke, and all its cares endured;
Where news and politics divide mankind,
And schemes of state involve the uneasy mind;
Faction embroils the world; and every tongue
Is moved by flattery, or with scandal hung:
Friendship, for sylvan shades, the palace flies,
Where all must yield to interest dearer ties;
Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,

And honesty forsakes them all by turns:
While calumny upon each party's thrown;
Which both promote, and both alike disown.
Fatigued at last, a calm retreat I chose,

And smoothed my harassed mind with sweet repose,

Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime, Inspire the sylvan song, and prompt my rhyme. My muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,

t

And deck with rural sports her native strains;
And the same road ambitiously pursue,
Frequented by the Mantuan swain and you.
'Tis not that rural sports alone invite,
But all the grateful country breathes delight;
Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,
And strings the sinews of the industrous swain.
Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,
Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,
Where I behold the farmer's early care
In the revolving labors of the year.

When the fresh spring in all her state is crown'd,
And high luxuriant grass o'erspreads the ground,
The laborer with a bending scythe is seen,
Shaving the surface of the waving green;
Of all her native pride disrobes the land,
And meads lay waste before his sweeping hand;
While with the mounting sun the meadow glows,
The fading herbage round he loosely throws: