As the trout in speckled pride, Playful from its bosom springs; To the banks, a ruffled tide Verges in successive rings. Tripping through the silken grass, Linnets, with unnumber'd notes, And the cuckoo bird with two, Tuning sweet their mellow throats, Bid the setting sun adieu. EPIGRAM, A MEMBER of the modern great But Sawney shall receive the praise His lordship would parade for ; One's debtor for his dapple greys, And t'other's shoes are paid for. CONTENT: A Pastoral. O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare, As wilder'd and weary'd I roam, A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair, And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home: Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor, Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round, And deck'd the sod seats at her door. We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast, cast, Love slily stole into my breast. I told my soft wishes: she sweetly reply'd, Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek, Now jocund together we tend a few sheep, Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills, Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils, And point out new themes for Muse. my To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire, The damsel's of humble descent; The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire, And the shepherds have named her Content, The Sheep and the Bramble Bush. A Fable. A thick twisted brake, in the time of a storm, Seem'd kindly to cover a sheep: So snug, for a while, he lay shelter'd and warm, It quietly soothed him asleep. The clouds are now scatter'd-the winds are at peace; The sheep to his pasture inclined : But ah! the fell thicket lays hold of his fleece, His coat is left forfeit behind. My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd, Though judgment and sentence are pass'd on your side, By Jove you'll be fleeced to your skin. Verses by the Author, Written about three Weeks before his death. Dear lad, as you run o'er my rhyme, 'Tis true, the reproof, though severe, However for better for worse, As Damons their Chloes receive, Even take the dull lines I rehearse They are all a poor friend has to give. The drama and I have shook hands, My sunshine of youth is no more! My mornings of pleasure are fled! 'Tis painful my fate to endure A pension supplies me with bread! Dependant at length on the man Whose fortunes I struggled to raise ! I conquer my pride as I can His charity merits my praise! His bounty proceeds from his heart; His kindness exceeds my desert, And often suppresses a sigh, |