Louisa's lips in kisses meet,
Like a twin-cherry, ripe, and sweet;
In Catherine's breath, rich perfume dwells;
But ah! how Julia's bosom swells,

To charm the gaze of man ;

Yet if I praise them, sweet one, know,
They singly but remind me, so

Lips, breath and bosom I can show,
All blent in mistress Aune.

FRUITLESS CARE.

In vain, within my tortur'd breast
Its love-inspired sighs repressing,
A stranger to the balms of rest,

I smile, as though its balms possessing.

In vain, those tears that strive to flow,

Tears of a heart now. doom'd to languish,
I check, lest aught on earth should know
How dark my fate, how deep my anguish.

In vain! for more than tears or sighs
This, sure, my passion must discover,
That, spite of care, my tell-tale eyes
In every glance betray the lover!

R. A. DAVENPORT.

VOL. II.

I

HORACE, LIB. 1. ODE 4.

TRANSLATED BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ.

1.

FANN'D by Favonius' balmy wing,
Sharp Winter melts beneath the Spring;
Again the streams unfetter'd flow;
Now from their stalls the herds retire,
The plowman quits his humble fire,

And fields no more are white with snow.

2.

Beneath the newly-rising Moon,
Now Venus leads in varying tune,

Her Nymphs' and Graces' modest band;
While Vulcan feeds his glowing forge,
And their dread toil the Cyclops urge,
To fill the thunderer's awful hand.

3.

Now with the myrtle green, and flowers,
That earth's unshackled bosom pours,
Our temples gayly let us twine;
And pay, whiche'er the God approves,
To Faunus in the sacred groves,
A lamb or kidling at his shrine.

4.

Death with impartial step awaits,
The cottage doors, the palace gates;
Thence, happy Sextius, wisely learn,
How short is life, and hope how vain :-
E'en now the spirits' shadowy train,
Expect thee at thy destin'd bourn,

5.

Then shall no lucky throw to thee,
The empire of the bowl decree,
In Pluto's solitary shade;
No Lycidas with sprightly song,
Shall there the lonely hour prolong,
Or wake to love the raptur'd maid.

1802.

EPIGRAM.

IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH.

BY MR. P. DODD.

ON THE DEATH OF A SPENDTHRIFT.

His last great Debt is paid-poor Tom's no more. *Last Debt! Tom never paid a Debt before.

STANZAS,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF ELIZA *.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE " Pleasures of Solitude."

WHILE to their splendid scenes the race
Of fickle Pleasure madly throng,
I seek, sweet Saint! this lonely place,
And wake the melancholy song.

Though years have pass'd; still, from my mind
Years to efface thy memory fail!-
Why lingered Friendship then behind
Thy blameless sufferings to bewail!

Oh, if a flame as mild, as pure

As ever warm'd the virgin-breast, May Heaven's approving smile secure, Dear parted Spirit! thou art blest.

Children of Hope, to whom is dear
The morning of life's little day,
Though rapture raise th' impassioned tear,
Yet thoughtful view this kindred clay.

* If the most amiable dispositions, endearing manners, and fine personal attractions, accompanied with a virtuous but unhappy attachment, can awaken sympathy, then will the fate of ELIZA be read, even by strangers, with no common regret. This interesting young lady died on the 22d of April, 1800, in her 24th year, of a rapid decline, to which she resigned herself, with humility and patience truly exemplary, and with a hope full of immortality f The following stanzas, were written on the evening of October the 14th, 1802.

There sleeps beneath that chilling sod,
One, blythely innocent as you,
Who erst the stage of being trod,
And all its warmest transports knew.

But ere the genial hour had past,
While yet the morning sweetly smiled,
Her sun of peace was overcast,

And rudely lower'd the tempest wild!

Sacred the bounds, that now contain
What once could tenderest joys inspire;
Here, let Repose eternal reign,

Here, Love and Friendship oft retire.

Fresh o'er this earth the green-grass wave;
And, softening here, ye tempests sigh;
'Tis sweet ELIZA's early grave:

Here Youth and Love and Beauty lie!

EPITAPH ON ELIZA.

WHILE o'er this turf in mingled sadness bend,
The honoured parent, and the early friend,
ELIZA, see! upon thy vernal tomb,

One wreath, in which thy memory yet shall bloom.
Dear, sainted shade !-calm be this hallowed rest,'
Calm as the virtues of thy spotless breast;
Till, through the dreary regions of the dust,
Benignly break the Morning of the Just!

P. L. C.