Two doves I found, like new-fall'n snow, So white the beauteous pair! The birds to Delia I'll bestow, They're like her bosom fair! My secret wish she'll see; May Delia share with me. DAPHNE. JOHN CUNNINGHAM. No longer, Daphne, I admire When Celia cry'd, How senseless she, It had been kinder us'd. The man's a fool that pines and dies, Because a woman's coy; The gentle bliss that one denies, A thousand will enjoy.' Such charming words, so void of art, And though the maid subdu'd my heart, A wretch condemn'd, shall Daphne prove; In the sweet calendar of love A THOUGHT. Oh let me grow unto those lips, Oh let not those fair sculptur'd hands, The bee that sucks the mossy rose, And still increasing joys may greet. O then my love think not to end But let me cling unto those lips, And woo where bees themselves would light. THE LASS OF COCKERTON. Tune," Low down in the broom." "Twas on a summer's evening, I met a maiden fresh and fair, Whose lovely look such sweetness spoke, With modest face,-her dwelling place With raptures fir'd, I eager gaz'd, Those lovely charms, that so alarins Now would the gods but deign to hear An artless lover's prayer, This lovely nymph I'd ask, And scorn each other care. Her love to share alone, No mortals know, what pleasures flow, [From Ritson's "Bishopric Garland, or Durham Minstrel, being a choice collection of excellent Songs, relating to the above county," 1784. The various publications of Ritson's referring to particular districts were collected into one volume in 1810, by Mr. Haslewood.] THE ROSE. WILLIAM COWPER. Born 1731-Died 1800. The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower, The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower, The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet, And it seem'd to a fanciful view To weep for the buds it had left, with regret, I hastily seized it, unfit as it was For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd, And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart This elegant rose had I shaken it less, Might have bloom'd with its owner awhile; And the tear, that is wiped with a little address, May be followed perhaps by a smile. [The following compliment was sent by Cowper to the Count Gravina, on his translating the above song into Italian verse:My Rose, Gravina, blooms anew, And steep'd not now in rain, LORD GREGORY. JOHN WOLCOT. Born 1738-Died 1819. "Ah ope, Lord Gregory, thy door, "Who comes with woe at this drear night- If she whose love did once delight, "Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, "But should'st thou not poor Marian know, And think the storms that round me blow, |