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SECLUSION,

ADAPTED TO THE TENDER ADAGIO OF THE

MEMORABLE D. RIZZIO.

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FAR from fortune's tinsel state,
And all the joys on wealth that wait,

Ye guardian pow'rs! my lot assign!
But give me, in some humbler shade,
To clasp some fond consenting maid,
And call domestic pleasures mine.

'Twas thus, to heav'n's paternal care,
I breath'd my unambitious pray'r,

And prostrate, sought a doom benign,
I sought-and lo! th' assenting skies,
Bade thee, my Julia, instant rise

And make domestic pleasures mine.

And now your insect wings, ye gay!
Ye flutterers thro' life's little day,
Expand-and boast your gaudy shine:
'Tis all in vain-I ask no more-
In her I view an ample store

Of dear dometic pleasures mine.

The World.

ON

LINES WRITTEN AT SEA,

LOOKING

AT THE COMPASS, Addressed to a Lady.

In all the wand'rings of my soul,
The gods have known me true,
For like the needle to the pole,
I always turn to you.

If chill misfortune should assail,
And cloud the joys in view,
Still, spite of ev'ry boist❜rous gale,
I always turn to you.

And tho' gay pleasure's rosy train

Unfold each magic hue,

O'er ev'ry scene those beauties reign, I always turn to you.

In vain another wou'd inspire,
Or make my heart untrue;
I feel, alas! but one desire,
And always turn to you.

The melting accents, when I hear
Of love that's pictur'd true,

A fond remembrance charms my ear,
And always turns to you.

Through all the changes of my life,
Since faith and love agree,

In mutual comfort, mutual strife-
Oh! may'st thou turn to me.

The World.

A RECIPE

TO MAKE A MODERN CRITIC.

Two drams of stale sense, and a scruple of wit,
A lump of old learning, of taste a small bit;

A line or two of Aristotle's rules,

And a satchel of nonsense glean'd up from the schools;
Of Lethe's thick stream a full gallon well shook,
Of sarcasms two hundred from any old book:
Ten or twelve lines of good classical prate,

With the name of old Horace to add to their weight;
A few latin maxims, two mottos from Greece,

A sprig from Quintilian, of logic a piece;
The law of a surgeon, and physics strong purge,
And all that mechanical powers can urge;
Twelve french repartees, and three lines from Boileau,
Politeness and modern refinement to show;

Of candour a grain, and of scandal a ton,
Of knowledge two ounces, of merit not one;
Cantharides plenty to blister the page,
But admit not a scruple of tincture of sage;
A handful of rue, and of onions a load,
The brain of a calf, and the breast of a toad;

The eye of a mole, and the nail of a cat,
The tooth of a mouse, and the wing of a bat;
The purse of old poverty, hunger's lank jaw,

The gander's long wind pipe, the monkey's crimp paw:
Take this dose, my good author, you quickly will do,
For critical, monthly, or any review.

Monthly Review.

TRANSLATION OF A FRENCH POEM

OF M. BERNARD.

DELIA'S smile is wealth to me,
Wealth and rank and ancestry;
She the noblest lineage proves,
Sister of a thousand loves!

Eyes that languish, heart that glows,
All the science Delia knows!

Charms like these could learning give?
Love with wit can never live.

The kiss, the sigh, the tender look,
Our language all from nature's book!
Our studies only to impart

Mutual pleasure to the heart.

Her voice the soul's soft music plays,
In one sweet word a thousand says!
Her face, a flower of vernal morn,
That opens and a smile is born!

I

The regions of her beauteous breast,
Seem of two gentle souls possest.
Advancing now with fond desire,
They now with modesty retire.

Monthly Review.

No

TO STELLA.

more, my Stella, to the sighing shades
Of blasted hope and luckless love complain;
But join the sports of Dian's careless maids,
And laughing liberty's triumphant train.

And see, with these is holy friendship found,
With snowy bosom open to the sight;
Her gentle hand shall close the recent wound,
And fill the vacant hand with calm delight.

Nor prudence slow, that ever comes too late,
Nor stern-brow'd duty, check her gen'rous flame;

On all her footsteps peace and honour wait,
And slander's ready tongue reveres her name.

Say, Stella, what is love, whose tyrant pow'r
Robs virtue of content, and youth of joy?
What nymph or goddess, in a fatal hour,

Gave to the world this mischief-making boy?

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