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Thinks his strong Muse takes wond'rous flights,
Whene'er she sings of peerless wights,
Of dens, of palfreys, spells and knights :
'Till allegory, Spenser's veil
T' instruct and please in moral tale,
With him's no veil the truth to shroud,
But one impenetrable cloud.

Others, more daring, fix their hope On rivalling the fame of Pope. Satyr's the word against the timesThese catch the cadence of his rhymes, And borne from earth by Pope's strong wings, Their Muse aspires, and boldly flings Her dirt up in the face of kings. In these the spleen of Pope we find; But where the greatness of his mind? His numbers are their whole pretence, Mere strangers to his manly sense.

Some few, the fav’rites of the Muse, Whom with her kindest eye she views ; Round whom Apollo's brightest rays Shine forth with undiminish'd blaze; Some few, my friend, have sweetly trod In Imitation's dang'rous road,

Long as Tobacco's oild perfume
Shall scent each happy curate's room,
Oft as in elbow-chair he smokes,
And quaffs his ale, and cracks his jokes,
So long, O Brown *, shall last thy praise,
Crown'd with Tobacco-leaf for bays ;
And whosoe'er thy verse shall see,
Shall fill another Pipe to thee.

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* Isaac Hawkins Browne, Esq. author of a piece called The Pipe of Tobacco, a most excellent imitation of six different authors.

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SONG.

THOUG# winter its desolate train

Of frost and of tempest may bring, Yet Flora steps forward again,

And Nature rejoices in spring.

Though the sun in his glories decreast,'

Of his beams in the evening is shorn, Yet he rises with joy from the east,

And repairs them again in the morn.

But what can youth's sunshine recall,

Or the blossoms of beauty restore ? When its leaves are beginning to fall,

It dies, and is heard of no more.

The spring-time of Love then employ,

'Tis a lesson that's easy to learn, For Cupid's a vagrant, a boy,

And his seasons will never return.

A BALLAD.

Hark, hark, 'tis a voice from the tomb,

Come, Lucy, it cries, come away, The grave of thy Colin has room

To rest thee beside his cold clay. I come; my dear shepherd, I come,

Ye friends and companions adieu : I haste to my COLIN's dark home,

To die on his bosom so true.

All mournful the midnight bell rung,

When Lucy, sad Lucy, arose; And forth to the green turf she sprung,

Where COLIN's pale ashes repose. All wet with the night's chilling dew,

Her bosom embrac'd the cold ground, While stormy winds over her blew,

And night-ravens croak'd all around.

How long, my lov'd Colin," she cry'd,

“ How long must thy Lucy complain? “ How long shall the grave my love hide?

« Ilow long ere it join us again?

“ For thee thy fond shepherdess livd,

" With thee o'er the world would she fly; “ For thee has she sorrow'd and griev'd;

" For thee would she lie down and die.

" Alas! what avails it how dear

“ Thy Lucy was once to her swain ! “ Her face like the lily so fair,

“ And eyes that gave light to the plain, “ The shepherd that lov'd her is gone;

“ That face and those eyes charm no more; And Lucy forgot, and alone,

“ To death shall her Colin deplore.”

While thus she lay sunk in despair,

And mourn’d to the echoes around, Inflam'd all at once grew the air,

And thunder shook dreadful the ground, “ I hear the kind call, and obey,

Oh, Colin receive me,” she cried, Then breathing a groan o'er his clay,

She hung on his tomb-stone, and died.

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