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'Tis gentle, delicate, and kind,
TO THE REVEREND MR. NEWTON.
AN INVITATION INTO THE COUNTRY.
The swallows in their torpid state
Compose their useless wing, And bees in hives as idly wait
The call of early spring.
The keenest frost that binds the strean,
The wildest wind that blows, Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,
Secure of their repose.
But man, all feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys; With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
Old winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn; But lovely spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,
Shall chase him from the bow'rs, And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,
To crown the smiling hours.
And, if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear, A glimpse of joy, that we have met,
Shall shine, and dry the tear.
PRIOR'S CHLOE AND EUPHELIA.
MERCATOR, vigiles oculos ut fallere possit,
Nomine sub ficto trans mare mittit opes; Lene sonat liquidumque meis Euphelia chordis,
Sed solam exoptant te, mea vota, Chloe.,
Ad speculum ornabat nitidos Euphelia crines,
Cum dixit mea lux, heus, cane, sume lyram. Namque lyram juxta positam cum carmine vidit,
Suave quidem carmen dulcisonamque lyram,
Fila lyræ vocemque paro, suspiria surgunt,
Et miscent numeris murmura mæsta meis, Dumque tuæ memoro laudes, Euphelia, formæ,
Tota anima interea pendet ab ore Chloes.
Subrubet illa pudore, et contrahit altera frontem,
Me torquet mea mens conscia, psallo, tremo; Atque Cupidinea dixit Dea cincta corona, Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere
BO ADICE A.
When the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods, Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,
Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs, 'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.
Rome shall perish.... write that word
In the blood that she has spilt; Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.
Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states ; Soon her pride shall kiss the ground....
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!
Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name; Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize....
Harmony the path to fame.
Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land, Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.