A TALE. BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ. ERE Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'd, It chanc'd, as once with serious ken The triple tyrants to oppose. That instant from the realms of day With generous speed they took their way! To Britain's isle direct their car, Beside the road a mansion stood, The dame who own'd, adorn'd the place; In sprightly sense and polish'd air, Imagine now the table clear, The song, the tale, the jest went round, Thus each admiring and admir'd, The hosts and guests at length retir'd ; When Wit thus spake her sister train: " "Faith, friends, our errand is but vain— Quick let us measure back the sky; These nymphs alone may well supply Wit, Innocence, and Harmony. AN INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE. BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES. AGAIN the balmy Zephyr blows, Ye gentle warblers! hither fly, Here freely hop from spray to spray, Amidst this cool translucent rill, That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill, And revel in the shade. No school-boy rude, to mischief prone, Or twangs a bow, or hurls a stone Hither the vocal Thrush repairs, Secure the Linnet sings, The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares To clog her painted wings. Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt And round my friendly grotto chaunt Let not the harmless Redbreast fear, Domestic bird, to come And seek a sure asylum here, With one that loves his home. My trees for you, ye artless tribe, Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe! For you these cherries I protect, To you these plums belong: Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd, But sweeter far your song. Let then this league betwixt us made Our mutual interests guard, Mine be the gift of fruit and shade; Your songs be my reward. ODE TO TRUTH. BY MASON. SAY, will no white-rob'd son of light, Swift darting from his heav'nly height, Here deign to take his hallow'd stand; Here wave his amber locks; unfold His pinious cloth'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand? And you, ye hosts of saints! for ye have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze, Though now ye circle yon eternal throne With harpings high of inexpressive praise, Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with mercy's beam this gathering cloud of fate 'Tis silence all. No son of light Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height : No train of radiant saints descend. G |