When Sol exhales the morning dew,
And bids each flower perfume the gale;
Thou rofe! fhalt wear a paler hue,
Compar'd to blooming Stavordale.

Her cheek requires no foreign aid,
Her radiant eyes with truth express,
In all their native charms array'd,
Virtue, good-fenfe, and tenderness.

Ye fhepherds! tune your oaten reeds,
With rural mufic fill the vale;
Let echo to the distant meads
Repeat the praise of Stavordale;

Applaud her unaffected grace,

Her innocent and tranquil air,

The sweet expreffion of her face,

The smile that speaks a heart fincere.

(The woodland chorus to improve,)
Obedient zephyr will not fail,

Beyond the limits of the grove,
To waft thy name, Oh Stavordale.

The Mufe, delighted, hears the found;
To thee fhe vows her humble strain,
Whilst thou on Avon's banks art found,
The fairest of the female train.

We

We many blooming flowers have seen,
Who to the rose compar'd are pale,
Aru many blooming nymphs have been
Eclips'd by lovely Stavordale.

Unrivall'd charms are those she wears,
Serene and steady, like the moon ;
She far outfhines furrounding ftars,
And men her gentle empire own.

ON A LATE EVENT.

To charming Celia's arms I flew,

And there in riot feafted;

No God fuch transport ever knew,

Nor mortal ever tasted.

Loft in the sweet tumultuous joy,
And pleas'd beyond expreffing-
"How can your flave, my fair, faid I,
"Reward fo great a bleffing?

"The whole creation's wealth furvey,
"To both the Indies wander;
"Afk what brib'd Senates give away,
"And fighting Monarchs fquander ?"

She,

She, blushing, cried-" My life, my dear, "Since Celia is your own,

"Give her-but 'tis too much, I fear,

"Oh! give her HALF A CROWN.”

ON HEARING MR. W. PARKE'S PERFORMANCE ON

THE OBOE, IN THE NEW OPERA OF FONTAIN BLEAU.

To thee, whilst others pour their praise,
The bard delighted joins the throng,
With pride he tunes (tho' weak his lays)
Where merit juftifies the fong.

Yet think not, Parke, thy wond'rous fkill,
Fair praise alone from mortals draws;
Lo! Phœbus liftens from his hill,

And all the Muses join th' applause.

THE METAMORPHOSI S.

BY THE AUTHOR OF THE LOUSIAD.

SWEET was the nymph I lov'd, divine her air, Her cheek, ah! purer than the blush of morn; Fairer than Alpine fnows, her breast so fair Look'd down upon the lily's white with fcorn.

Mild on my ear her melting accents stole,
That promis'd ages of delicious love;
Her form with Grecian ftatues vied, her foul
Seem'd borrow'd from fome Saint that fings above.

Thus fancy rioted-all wrapt in flame

I marry'd, blefs'd my stars, and went to bed, Poffefs'd--and found next morn my wond'rous dame h that ever wore a head.

The d-d'ft b

BILLYE DE N,

OR, THE RENEGADO SCOUT.

To the Tune of Ally Croaker."

I.

THERE lived a man at BECKNAM in Kent, Sir,
Who wanted a place to make him content, Sir;
Long had he figh'd for BILLY PITT's protection,
When thus he gently courted his affection;

Will you give a place, my dearest BILLY PITTO!
If I can't have a whole one, oh let it be a bit O!

II.

He pimp'd for GEORGE ROSE, he lied with the Doctor,

He flatter'd Mrs. HASTINGS, 'till almost he had

fhock'd her;

He

He got the Archbishop to write in his favor,

And when BILLY gets a beard, he fwears he'll be his fhaver;

Then give him a place, oh dearest BILLY PITT O, If he can't have a whole one, oh let it be a bit O!

III.

To all you young men, who are famous for changing, From party to party continually ranging,

I tell you the place of all places to breed in,

For maggots of corruption's the heart of BILLY EDEN.

Then give him a place, oh dearest BILLY PITT O, If he can't have a whole one, oh let it be a bit O!

THE LAUREA T.

ΑΝ ODE.

WARTON, I know you'll ne'er repine

That witlings carp at ev'ry line,

And with your lyricks quarrel. Alas! from party, fpite; or whim, Such ever is the fate of him

Who boafts the Royal laurel.

That laurel, once by Dryden worn!
But fince by many dunces borne,
N

VOL. II.

Each