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How happy they who thus éscape while young,
Ere vice has time to stifle right with wrong;
Whose visionary life, on wings of wind,
Speeds far away, and leaves all ills behind,

TRANSLATION OF THE

FORTIETH ODE OF ANACREON.

PY ROBERT FARREN CHEETHAM.

Cupid once, in evil hour,
Cropp'd the pride of Flora's bower;
Cropp'd a rose, nor chanced to see,
Within the flower a sleeping bee :
But soon his finger felt the smart,
Inflicted by its tiny dart.
The god, unused to suffer pain,
Blew his hand, and shriek'd amain:
Flying then with ruffled mien,
To the fair Idalian Queen,
“ O Mamma!” he wildly cries,
“ Wounded, save, thy Cupid dies ;
Me a little serpent stung,
Hid the rose-bud leaves among,
Deck'd with curious wings like me;
Ploughmen call the thing a bee.”

Wiping Love's tear-streaming eyes,
Archly smiling-she replies :
“ Cupid, if a thing so small,
Pain thee thus, and give thee thrall,
Think, O think, what torturing woe,
They who feel thy dart must know.”

SONNET TO THE RIVER TWEED.

BY THE REV. W.L. BOWLES.

O Tweed! a stranger that, with wandering feet,

O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile;

If so his weary thoughts he might beguile, Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.

The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy steep banks, a soothing charm bestow; The murmur of thy wandering wave below, Seems to his ear the pity of a friend.

Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,

When spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is heard no more ;

Yet here with pensive peace could I abide, Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,

To muse upon thy banks at even tide.

VIRTUE'S REPLY TO PLEASURE.

SPENCE.

"Tis with the gods and god-like men I dwell;

Me, his supreme delight, the Almighty sire Regards well pleased; whatever works excel,

All, or divine or human, I inspire.

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Counsel with strength, and industry with art,

In union meet, conjoin'd with me reside;
My dictates arm, instruct, and mend the heart,

The surest policy, the wisest guide.
With me true friendship dwells: she deigns to bind
Those generous souls alone, whom I before have join'd.

Nor need my friends the various costly feast;

Hunger to them the effects of art supplies : Labour prepares their weary limbs to rest;

Sweet is their sleep; light, cheerful, strong they rise.

Through health, through joy, through pleasure and

renown, They tread my paths: and by a soft descent, At length to age all gently sinking down,

Look back with transport on a life well spent; In which no hour flew unimproved away, In which some generous deed distinguish'd every day.

And when, the destined term at length complete,

Their ashes rest in peace; eternal fame Sounds wide their praise : triumphant over fate,

In sacred song for ever lives their name.

This, Hercules, is happiness! obey

My voice, and live. Let thy celestial birth Lift and enlarge thy thoughts Behold the way

That leads to fame, and raises thee from earth. Immortal! lo, I guide thy steps. Arise, Pursue the glorious path, and claim thy native skies

HYMN TO CONTENT.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

O Thou, the nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temperate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth unalter'd brow.

O come, in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien composed, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdued delight.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

Thy modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye ;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair opening through this vale of tears,

A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temperate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild upvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet :
Inured to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his meek submitted head,

And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

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