HYMN TO PROSPERITY.

C

BY MISS SALLY CARTER.

ELESTIAL maid, receive this pray'r!
If e'er thy beam divine

Should gild the brow of toiling Care,

And bless a hut like mine:

WR

MEDITATION.

AN ELECY.

BY HUGH KELLY, ESQ

RAPP'D in the fhade where Meditation lies,
And holds a mental intercourse above;
Come, Truth, and teach a bofom to be wife,
Which mourn'd too long for difappointed love.

What art thou-wond'rous impulfe of defire,
Which blooming Hope so pleasingly has drefs'd?
Or whence proceeds th' involuntary fire,
Which burns fo fiercely in the human breaft?

Sweet inconfiftent offspring of the sky,
The latent cause in tenderness declare;

Nor force the heart eternally to figh,
And yet conceal the motive of despair.

"

If Mira's face in ev'ry charm is dress'd,
Why am I doom'd inceffantly to pine?
Or fhall the coldness of another's breast,
Create a sharp anxiety in mine?

Alas! fince being smil'd upon the morn,
And Nature faw how excellent it rose;
Thy race, O man, to mifery was born,
And doom'd to bear probationary woes.

Too eafy Nature, indolently kind,

From Fate's fevere restrictions to depart, Gave man a paffive tenderness of mind,

And beauty's fole dominion o'er the heart.

But

But yet the pang of never-hoping love,

To time's laft moment destin❜d to conceal; Is not the only forrow we must prove,

The only forrow we are doom'd to feel.

A latent train of hydra-headed woes,
From life each dearer benefit has stole;
Destroy'd the smallest glimmer of repose,
And damp'd the choiceft bleffings of the foul.

Perhaps, e'en now, fome high distinguish'd name,
Rais'd up to grandeur, and enrich'd by place,
Starts from fome new imaginary shame,
Or only flumbers to a fresh disgrace.

Perhaps, now tortur'd on imperial down,

Some scepter'd mourner languishes his hour; And finks beneath the burden of a crown,

The flave of greatnefs, and the wretch of pow'r.

Some ill-ftarr'd youth, whofe melancholy moan
As vainly founded in unpitying ears,
Now weeps, perhaps, in bitterness alone,
And gives a lavish freedom to his tears:

Science, which left him polish'd and refin'd,
Has giv'n a new occafion to complain;
And knowledge only has enlarg'd his mind,
To make it more fufceptible of pain.

No hand, alas! it's kind affiftance lends,

To drive misfortune from his lowly door;

For when, O when, did wretchedness make friends!
Or who will feek acquaintance with the poor!

Perhaps fome virgin is this moment led,

All ficklied over with dejected charms, Compell'd to languish in a hated bed, And feem quite happy in detefted arms.

Wedded to anguish and repining care,
Yet bound to wear no forrow in her eye;
And tho' condemn'd for ever to despair,
Deny'd the humble privilege to figh.

How dread a picture meditation brings
Of life's unceafing wretchednefs below!
Where the long chain and ordinance of things
Appear fo fraught with misery and woe.

Yet reft, my foul, fubmiffively, O reft,

Nor think that virtue has been treated hard: This world was made to prove it in the breast, And not alone intended to reward.

The great First Caufe, all-gracious, has defign'd,
His endless transports for a world of bliss ;

To crown a moral rectitude of mind,

And blefs obedient righteousness in this.

Whatever ills, in this uncertain ftate,

Lamenting man may frequently have known,
Spring from no with or negligence of fate,
But fome unhappy error of his own.

Then, all refign'd, O let him pour his heart,
And kiss the sharp, but falutary rod!
Nor, tho' condemn'd in bitterness to smart,
Prefume to throw the blame upon his God.

A LETTER

A LETTER FROM ITALY,

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE CHARLES LORD HALIFAX.

BY MR. ADDISON.

Salve magna parens frugum Saturnia tellus,
Magna virum! tibi res antique laudis et artis
Aggredior, fanctos aufus recludere fontes.

VIRG. Georg.

WHILE you, my lord, the rural fhades admire,

And from Britannia's publick posts retire;

Nor longer, her ungrateful fons to please,
For their advantage facrifice your eafe:
Me into foreign realms my fate conveys,
Thro' nations fruitful of immortal lays;
Where the soft season, and inviting clime,
Conspire to trouble your repose with rhyme..

For wherefoe'er I turn my ravish'd eyes,
Gay gilded scenes and shining prospects rise;
Poetick fields encompass me around,
And still I feem to tread on claffick ground;
For here the Muse so oft her harp has ftrung,
That not a mountain rears it's head unfung;
Renown'd in verfe each fhady thicket grows,
And ey'ry ftream in heav'nly numbers flows.
How am I pleas'd to fearch the hills and woods
For rifing fprings and celebrated floods!
To view the Nar, tumultuous in his courfe,
And trace the fmooth Clitumnus to his fource!
To see the Mincio draw his wat❜ry store
Thro' the long windings of a fruitful fhore!
And hoary Albula's infected tide,

O'er the warm bed of fmoaking fulphur glide!

Fir'd with a thousand raptures, I furvey Eridanus thro' flow'ry meadows ftray,

The