None can avoid th' appointed hour of Fate. What folly, then, to rear the spacious dome, Yon icy cellar, now profusely stor❜d With claret, or Burgundia's rarer wine, Will soon be emptied by the youthful Lord, Who oft invites the jovial hunt to dine. Ev'n with the joys of dear domestic life, The sweetest pleasures of the virtuous heart,— The smiling family, the tender wife At the grim tyrant's stern command-we part! Of all enjoy'd, or occupied below, A soda stone, is all that then remains, Vain man! who lives in ostentatious shew, And dies a fool, to crown his idle pains! Thus sings the heathen Bard. His feebler eyes Far other are the Christian's views! Inspir'd He dwells with Piety, and tramples Death! LINES, WRITTEN ON MOUSEHOLD HILL, NEAR NORWICH. BY WILLIAM CASE, JUN. STRANGER, whose feet this mountain's sun-burnt steep The Oak's broad branches bow'd. Tho' o'er the land ages since have roll'd, the name of Kett Two Lives in his country's curse! Such fate be theirs, STANZAS, BY MR. P. L. COURTIER. So you say that my looks now no longer convey Restore me the dimple that played on that cheek, And the eyes in mild lustre so gratefully beaming, And the tongue that in accents of music would speak, When of love and of hope my fond bosom was dreaming. Yes, be the same girl that I once could adore My eyes and my heart by thy beauties enchaining, Be this! and in conscience I think that no more Any cause wilt thou find for reproof and complaining. O that time, which can reason and friendship mature, Should the frailty of softer affection discover, Should declare that, however important and pure, Too vain are the sighs and the vows of the lover. And yet, on reflection, perhaps I gave rise To the change and the evils I thus am lamenting; Obscured the sweet radiance that shone in those eyes, And taught to that tongue the sad art of tormenting, If So, and my girl can the truant forgive, slighted, He will now do his best in contrition to live, EPIGRAMS. TRANSLATED FROM LUCIAN, AND FROM PAULUS SILENTIARIUS. BY EDMUND L. SWIFT, ESQ. THY Riches use, as hastening to the Grave, Love is my wound; the tear is blood, Then should a smile thy victim save, TRANSLATION FROM HORACE, LIB. 2. ODE 8. TO BARINE. BY E. L. SWIFT, ESQ. 1. Ir e'er to thee, perfidious maid, 2. But while thy vows for vengeance call, Thou comest forth, more bright and fair, Of all our youth the public care. 3. Swear by thy mother's hallow'd tomb, |