So, when these seats of joy and love, The hermit Cell, the whispering Grove Shall hear our mirthful sounds no more, And this sweet VILLA's charms be o'er, Her sun declin'd, her glories past,——

-The Bard's immortal fame shall last. Time shall devour the brazen bust, And marbles crumble into dust; E'en BATH's high palaces o'erthrow, Lay Wood's proud architecture low; Each Doric, each Ionian pillar

But guard the sacred Urn of MILLER.

To Verse the triumphs of the field,
Heroes and kings to Verse must yield,
To deathless Verse, that far outshines
The silver of POTOSI's mines;

That precious bane, that pois'nous ore,
Let misers hoard, and fools adore;
Such shining dross the Poet spurns,
Leaves all such grov'ling base concerns

To pettifoggers, Jews, and factors,

Pimps, gamblers, brokers, and contractors;

He never battens on the stealth

Of public, or of private wealth,
Such as the frugal parent's care
Oft gathers for his spendthrift heir,
Or England tax'd, disgrac'd, forlorn,
Feels from her inmost bowels torn;
Enough for him, that PHOEBUS fills

His cup from pure Castalian rills,
That when he strikes the trembling strings,

Virtue her fairest guerdon brings,

Folly restrains her thoughtless round

And vice shrinks backward at the sound.

Go then, ye base, plebeian throngs,

Go, triumph in the Muse's wrongs:

ENVY, that preys on living bards,
Gives them in death their just rewards.

E'en me, the meanest of the train,

Who tune this wild advent'rous strain,

If aught of spleen or envious joke

My artless numbers can provoke,

When death shall close my falt'ring tongue,

Cold be my hand, my lyre unstrung,

Me too Detraction may release,

And bid my ashes rest in peace.

And, O! ye chaste, ye beauteous Maids, Who grace BATHEASTON's vocal shades! If, when the friendly Muse beguiles Life's heavier hours, I steal your smiles, Smiles, such as genuine joy bespeak, And mantle in your dimpling cheek, Haply one MYRTLE-SPRIG may bloom, And join the cypress o'er my tomb; Time may its fragrant life prolong, And some kind bard in faithful song Record the spot where first it grew, Give the well-meaning Muse her due, And one short sigh escape from you.

WINTER AMUSEMENTS,

ΑΝ

ODE,

Read at Lady MILLER'S Assembly,

DECEMBER 3, 1778.

YE

In

E beauteous nymphs, and jovial swains,

Who deck'd with youthful bloom,

gay assemblage meet to grace

Philander's cheerful dome:

Mark how the wint'ry clouds hang o'er

Yon frowning mountain's brow!

Mark how the rude winds warp the stream,

And rock the leafless bough!