We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast,
Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best;

While thrown from my guard by some glances she

cast,

Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,
But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine.

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek;
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclin❜d on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my Muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.

THE silver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go, balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,

Till Morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love:

And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

Now lightsome o'er the level mead,
Where midnight fairies rove,

Like them, the jocund dance we'll lead,
Or tune the reed to love:

For see the rosy May draws nigh;

She claims a virgin queen;

And hark, the happy shepherds cry,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.

GEORGE LORD LYTTLETON.
BORN 1709.-DIED 1773.

THIS nobleman's public and private virtues, and his merits as the historian of Henry II. will be remembered when his verses are forgotten. By a felicity very rare in his attempts at poetry, the kids and fawns of his Monody do not entirely extinguish all appearance of that sincere feeling with which it must have been composed. Gray, in a letter to Horace Walpole, has justly remarked the beauty of the stanza beginning "In vain I look around." "If it were all like this stanza," he continues, “I "could be pleased." Nature, and sorrow, and tenderness are the true genius of such things (monodies). Poetical ornaments are foreign to the purpose, for they only shew a man is not sorry, and devotion

worse, for it teaches him that he ought not to be sorry, which is all the pleasure of the thing.

FROM THE MONODY.

AT length escap'd from every human eye,
From every duty, every care,

That in my mournful thoughts might claim a share,
Or force my tears their flowing stream to dry;
Beneath the gloom of this embowering shade,
This lone retreat, for tender sorrow made,
I now may give my burden'd heart relief,
And pour forth all my stores of grief;
Of grief surpassing every other woe,
Far as the purest bliss, the happiest love
Can on th' ennobled mind bestow,
Exceeds the vulgar joys that move
Our gross desires, inelegant and low.

In vain I look around

O'er all the well-known ground,
My Lucy's wonted footsteps to descry;
Where oft we us'd to walk,

Where oft in tender talk

We saw the summer sun go down the sky;

Along the valley, can she now be found:
In all the wide-stretch'd prospects' ample bound
No more my mournful eye

Can aught of her espy,

But the sad sacred 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 side,

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 strew'd with flowers the thorny ways of truth? O loss beyond repair!

O wretched father! left alone,

To weep their dire misfortune, and thy own!
How shall thy weaken'd mind, oppress'd with woe,
And drooping o'er thy Lucy's grave,
Perform the duties that you doubly owe!

Now she, alas! is gone,

From folly and from vice their helpless age to save?

O best of wives! O dearer far to me
Than when thy virgin charms

Were yielded to my arms,

How can my soul endure the loss of thee?
How in the world, to me a desert grown,
Abandon'd and alone,