Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, And wave thy heaths with blossoms red! But never more shall poet tread Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, That ever breath'd the soothing strain. A COURT AUDIENCE. OLD South, a witty churchman reckon'd, The doctor stopp'd; began to call, 2F2 TO THE MAY FLY. Poor insect! what a little day Of sunny bliss is thine! And yet thou spread'st thy light wings gay, And bids't them, spreading, shine! Thou humm'st thy short, and busy tune, And, careless, while 'tis burning noon, A show'r would lay thy beauty low, Then spread thy little shining wing; For, man, like thee, has but his spring- THE FEMALE PRATTLER. FROM morn to night, from day to day, Forbear, my Fannia! oh, forbear! If your own health or ours you prize; For all mankind, that hear you, swear Your tongue's more killing than your eyes. Your tongue's a traitor to your face, Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd; All are distracted while they gaze, But if they listen, soon are cur'd. Your silence would acquire more praise Than all you say, or all you write; One look ten thousand charms displays; Then hush! and be an angel quite. Anonymous. A WISH. MINE be a cot, beside the hill, A bee-hive's hum shall sooth my ear; The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch, Around my ivied porch shall spring The village church, among the trees Where first our marriage vows were giv'n, Where merry peals shall swell the breeze, And point with taper spire to heav'n. Rogers. LAURA. THINK not, while gayer swains invite Thou art the world's delighted guest, I will not say, how well, how long, But, Laura, should misfortune's wand Then, thoughtless of my own distress, Mrs. Opie. |