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Ege Saturn's sons were yet disgrac'd, And heathen gods were all the taste, Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will To take an air on Ida's hill. It chanc'd, as once with serious ken He view'd from thence the ways of men, He saw (and pity touch'd bis breast) The world by three foul fiends possest: Pale Discord there, and Folly vain, With haggard Vice, upheld their reign. Then forth he sent his summons high, And call'd a senate of the sky. Round as the winged orders prest, Jove thus his sacred mind exprest: “ Say, which of all this shining train Will Virtue's conflict hard sustain? For see, she drooping takes her fight, While not a god supports her right." He paus'd—when from amidst she sky, Wit, Innocence, and Harmony, With one united zeal arose, The triple tyrants to oppose. That instant from the realms of day With generous speed they took their way!

To Britain's isle direct their car,
And enter'd with the evening star.

Beside the road a mansion stood,
Defended by a circling wood:
Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend,
In bopes, perchance, to find a friend :
Nor vain their hope ; for records say,
Worth ne'er from thence was turn'd away.
They urge the traveller's comnion chance,
And every piteous plea advance:
The artful tale that Wit had feign'd
Admittance easy soon obtain'd.

The dame who own’d, adorn'd the place;
Three blooming daughters added grace.
The first, with gentlest manners blest
And temper sweet, each heart possest;
Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame:
And soft Amasia was her name.
In sprightly sense and polish'd air,
What maid with Mira might compare?
While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre
Did unresisted love inspire.

Imagine now the table clear,
And mirth in every face appear:
The song, the tale, the jest went round,
The riddle dark, the trick profound.
Thus each admiring and admir'd,
The hosts and guests at length retir’d;

When Wit thus spake her sister train :

“ Faith, friends, our errand is but vain-
Quick let us measure back the sky;
These nymphs alone may well supply
Wit, Innocence, and Harmony.



BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES. AGAIN the balmy Zephyr blows,

Fresh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glows,

And tunes his notes to love.

Ye gentle warblers ! hither fily,

And shun the noontide heat;
My shrubs a cooling shade supply,

My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray to spray,

Or weave the mossy nest;
Here rove and sing the live-long day,

At night here sweetly rest.

Amidst this cool translucent rill,

That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plames, here drink your fill,

And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,

E’er shows his ruddy face,
Or twangs a bow, or hurls a stoue

In this sequester'd place.

Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,

Secure the Linnet sings, The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares

To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt

Yon distant woods among, And round my friendly grotto chaunt

Thy sweetly-plaintive song.

Let not the harmless Redbreast fcar,

Domestic bird, to come And seek a sure asylum here,

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,

Shall store of fruit preserve; Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe!

Come, feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,

To you these plums belong : Sweet is the fruit that you have peck's,

But sweeter far your song.

Let then this league betwixt us made

Our mutual interests guard,
Mine be the gift of fruit and shade;

Your songs be my reward.



SAY, will no white-rob'd son of light,

Swift darting from his heav'nly height, Here deign to take his hallow'd stand;

Here wave his amber locks; unfold

His pinious cloth'd with downy gold; Here smiling stretch his tutelary wand?

And you, ye hosts of saints! for ye have known Each dreary path in Life's perplexing maze,

Though now ye circle yon eternal throne With barpings high of inexpressive praise, Will not your train descend in radiant state, To break with mercy's beam this gathering cloud of fate

'Tis silence all. No son of light
Darts swiftly from his heav'nly height:

No train of radiant saints descend.


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