And there, without the power to fly,
Stands fix'd a tip-toe Mercury.
The villa thus compleatly grac'd,
All own that Thrifty has a taste,

And madam's female friends and cousins,
With common council-men by dozens,
Flock ev'ry Sunday to the feat,
To ftare about them and to eat.

LORD LYTTLETON'S MONODY

TO THE MEMORY OF HIS LADY.

Ye tufted groves, ye gently falling rills,
Ye high o'er-fhadowing hills,

Ye lawns gay-fmiling with eternal green,
Oft' have you my Lucy feen!

But never shall you now behold her more;
Nor will she now with fond delight,

And tafte refin'd, your rural charms explore,
Clos'd are thofe beauteous eyes in endless night!
In vain I look around,

O'er all the well-known ground,

My Lucy's wonted footsteps to defcry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk,

We faw the fummer fun go down the sky,

Nor by yon fountain's fide,

Nor where it's waters glide

Along

Along the valley can fhe now be found,

In all the wide-stretched prospects ample bound; No more my mournful eye,

Can ought of her espy.

But the fad facred earth where her dear relics lie. Sweet babes, who like the little playful fawns, Were wont to trip along these verdant lawns, By your delighted mother's fide;

Who now your infant steps shall guide ? Ah! where is now the hand whose tender care, To every virtue would have form'd your youth, And ftrew'd with flow'rs the thorny ways of truth: Oh! lofs beyond repair!

Oh! wretched father left alone.

To weep their dire misfortune and my own!
Tell how her manners by the world refin'd,
Left all the taint of modifh vice behind,
And made each charm of polish'd courts agree
With candid Truth's fimplicity,

And uncorrupted Innocence !

Tell how to more than manly fenfe,
She join'd the foftening influence,
Of more than female tenderness ?

A prudence undeceiving, undeceiv'd,
That, nor too little, nor too much believ'd,
That fcorn'd unjuft fufpicion's coward fear,
And without weakness knew to be fincere.

CARTE

CARTE BLANCHE.

Mrs. Pilkington's brother having teized her to write fome Verfes, as a fchool exercife for him, afked him what the fhould write upon; why, faid he pertly, what should you write upon but the paper? fo taking it for her fubject fhe wrote the following lines.

O fpotle's paper, fair and white!

On whom, by force, constrain'd I write,
How cruel am I to destroy

Thy purity to please a boy 2
Ungrateful I, thus to abufe,

The fairest fervant of the mufe.
Dear friend, to whom I oft impart.
The choiceft fecrets of my heart,
Ah! what atonement can be made,
For spotlefs innocence betray'd?
How fair, how lovely, didst thou show
Like lilly'd banks, or falling fnow!
But now, alas! become my prey,
No floods can wash thy ftains away.
Yet this small comfort I can give,

That, which destroy'd, shall make thee live.

TRAN

TRANSLATION FROM HORACE.

Receive, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So fhalt thou live beyond the reach
Of adverse fortune's power:
Not always tempt the diftant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous fhore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between,

The little and the great;

Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,
Embittering all his ftate.

The tallest pines feel moft the power
Of wintry blasts; the loftieft tower
Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's fide,
The cloud-capt eminence divide,
And spread the ruin round.
The well informed philofopher,
Rejoices with an wholesome fear,

And hopes, in fpite of pain;

If winter bellows from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,
And nature laughs again.

What

What if thy heaven be over-cast,
The dark appearance will not last ;
Expect a brighter sky.

The God that strings the filver bow,
Awakes fometimes the mufes too,
And lays his arrows by.

If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy ftrength be feen:
But, Oh! if Fortune fill thy fail,
With more than a propitious gale,
Take half thy canvass in.

THE LAST SPEECH AND DYING WORDS OF

WILLY, A PET-LAMB,

Who was executed by the hand of a common butcher, for gnawing, tearing, and murdering one of

" AND muft I die? Muft your poor Willy bleed ?
"For one poor witlefs fault my life refign?
"Forgive your little lambkin, and indeed
"Henceforth on Ruffles never will I dine.