Some bliss, thro' Fancy's optics view'd,
All hope to gain to-morrow;
Still does the prize our grasp elude,
Replac'd, alas! by sorrow.

As mortals frequently 'tis seen,
Upon this precept trample;
So please my muse, its truth I mean
T'illustrate by example.

"Long time I've led a weary life"
Cries Tom, with hope elated,
"To Kate, my vixen of a wife,
By wedlock subjugated.

"At length my liberty I gain,

Thank fortune for the favour!

For Kate this night her bed has ta'en,
And all the world can't save her.

Then welcome days and nights replete With joys transcending measure! Nought henceforth can my bliss defeat, Or freeze the tide of pleasure!"

Ye whom such reveries delight,
By Tom's mishap take warning—
Kate took her bed on Thursday night,
But-rose on Friday morning!

ADDRESS TO WOMAN.

DESIGN'D for peace, and soft delight,
For tender love, and pity mild!
O seek not THOU the craggy height,
The howling main, the desert wild.

Stay in the shelter'd vale below,

Where calmly blows the fragrant air; But shun the mountain's stormy brow, For darken'd winds are whistling there.

The ruffian, MAN, endures the strife
Of tempests fierce, and raging seas;
But brave not thou the storms of life,
WOMAN, thou rosy child of ease!

Ah! surely on thy natal day

Great Nature smil'd in kindliest mood;

Suspended held the bloody fray,

And hush'd the wind, and smooth'd the flood.

While MAN, that lives a life of pain,

Was with a soul vindictive born,

Loud winds blew round him, and the rain
Beat furious on his wint'ry morn.

But THOU, beneath a kinder sky,

What distant tempest wakes thy fears? Why does that mild, that trembling eye, Gleam through a chrystal film of tears?

Stay in the vale!-no wild affright
Shall cross thy path, nor sullen care;
But go not to the craggy height-
The furious storm is raging there.

Miss Seward

SONNET.

DRY be that tear, my gentlest love,
Be hush'd that struggling sigh,
Not season's day, nor fate shall prove
More fix'd-more true than I!

Hush'd be that sigh-be dry that tear,
Cease, boding doubt-cease, anxious fear.

Ask'st thou how long my vows shall stay,
When all that's new is past?
How long-ah, Delia, can I say,
How long my life will last!

Dry be that tear, be hush'd that sigh,

At least I'll love thee till I die!

And does that thought affect thee too,
The thought of Sylvio's death,
That he, who only breathes for you,
Must yield that faithful breath?
Hush'd be that sigh, be dry that tear,
Nor let us lose our heaven here!

R. B. Sheridan.

VERSES.

LET others plough the foaming seas,
In search of wealth, and dear-bought pow'r,
Be mine poetic rural ease,

The humble cot, the quiet hour.

Let some assume the gilded state,
Attendant on their prince's nod,
Whilst I (disdaining to be great)
Would rather turn the fruitful sod.

Let some explore Arabia's waste,
Or visit Greenland's frozen shore,
Whilst I far greater pleasure taste,
And be contented, tho' yet poor.

Virtue can raise the drooping heart,
And from affliction wipe the tear,
With balm can cure the keenest smart,
And sweetly sooth the

pang of care.

C. S. 1776.

LINES

WRITTEN BY MRS. OPIE,

And sung at the Concert for the benefit of the Widow of the late Mr. Sharpe.

COLD are the lips whose gentle force
The reed to sweetest strains compell'd:
Hush'd is the breath whose ready course
In lengthen'd tone the cadence swell'd.

Lov'd child of feeling! now no more

Thy tones the soul of taste shall feed:
And we, in music's brightest hour,

Shall sigh and miss thy tuneful reed.

With thee, to our neglected plains

The soul of genuine music came;
Taste, genius, fir'd us in thy strains,

While all thy precepts fann'd the flame.

But short the boast-those strains so dear
No more the choral throng shall lead-
Yet still in grateful memory's ear

Will sweetly sound thy tuneful reed.