"O, when or care, or sickness pale, "Forbid sweet sleep to bless the night, "What joy to hear her tender tale "Charm each long hour till morning light. "And when the ghastly form of death "Shall swim before these mournful eyes; "And round my heart my latest breath, "Heaves, painful heaves, long lab'ring sighs; "O then her voice of love divine! "Shall soothe to peace my trembling breast, "And patient I the world resign, "In life with love, and Delia blest." Academic Trifles. INVOCATION TO HEALTH: WHAT sprightly nymph trips o'er the lawn, Than blooming Hebe's self more bright; O! fairer than the purple dawn, Chasing the joyless gloom of night! I know thee well; thy buskin'd feet, My frugal cot thou oft hast blest. By mortals styl'd heart-cheering health, O! welcome! more than power or wealth; As o'er the fairest landscape's face, But when thou'rt absent nought can please, The bloom of spring, or autumn's store; The wood-lark's notes but vainly teaze, And e'en the muse delights no more. Thy smiles, on verdant couch reclin'd, Thou wisely shun'st the pale resorts : Tho' haply in the sulphurous draught,... Yet, rather o'er the mountain's brow, Come then, blest nymph! my cottage cheer, And decent mirth shall meet thee there; Euphrosyne, Vol. 2. AN OLD BALLAD. I CANNOT eat but little meat, But sure I think, that I can drink I stuffe my skin, so full within, Of jolly good ale and olde. Back and side go bare, go bare, Both foot and hand go colde; But, belly, God send thee good ale inoughe, I love no rost, but a nut browne toste, A little bread, shall do me stead, No frost, no snow, no windes, I trowe, I am so wrapt, and throwly lapt Back and side, &c. And Tib my wife, that as her life And "faith sweet heart, I took my part Back and side, &c. Now let them drinke, till they nod and winke, Even as good fellows sholde do; They shall not misse to have the blisse Good ale doth bring men to. And all good sowles that have scoured bowles, God save the lives of them and their wives, Whether they be younge or olde! Back and side, &c. Warton informs us that the first "Chanson a boire," or drinking ballad, of any merit in our language, was the above, which appeared in the year 1551. He remarks, that it has a vein of ease and humour which we should not expect to have been inspired by the simple beverage of those times. Warton's Hist. of English Poetry, Vol. 3. D SONNET TO MR. JACKSON.. ENCHANTING harmonist! the art is thine, Unmatch'd to pour the soul-dissolving air, That seems poor weeping virtue's hymn divine, Soothing the wounded bosom of despair! O`say, what minstrel of the sky hath given And lent thy happy hand her lyre to mourn? So sad thy songs of hopeless hearts complain, Love from his cyprian isle prepares to fly; He hastes to listen to thy tender strain, And learn from thee to breathe a softer sigh. Peter Pindar. TRANSLATION OF FENELON'S ODE TO SOLITUDE. BEYOND this plain's extensive bounds, O'er yon fertile furrow'd grounds, Those mountains blue, and vallies fair, |