There Study shall with Solitude recline;
And Friendship pledge me to his fellow-swains;
And Toil and Temperance sedately twine
The slender cord that fluttering life sustains:
And fearless Poverty shall guard the door;
And Taste unspoiled the frugal table spread;
And Industry supply the humble store;
And Sleep unbribed his dews refreshing shed:
White-mantled Innocence, ethereal sprite,
Shall chase far off the goblins of the night:
And Independence o'er the day preside,
Propitious power! my patron and my pride.

ANONYMOUS.

SONG.

FROM THE SHAMROCK, OR HIBERNIAN CROSSES,
DUBLIN 1772.

BELINDA'S sparkling eyes and wit
Do various passions raise;

And, like the lightning, yield a bright,
But momentary blaze.

Eliza's milder, gentler sway,

Her conquests fairly won,

Shall last till life and time decay,

Eternal as the sun.

Thus the wild flood with deaf'ning roar

Bursts dreadful from on high;

But soon its empty rage is `o'er,

And leaves the channel dry:

While the pure stream, which still and slow
Its gentler current brings,
Through every change of time shall flow
With unexhausted springs.

EPIGRAM ON TWO MONOPOLISTS.

FROM THE SAME.

Two butchers thin, call'd Bone and Skin,
Would starve the town, or near it;
But be it known to Skin and Bone,

That flesh and blood won't bear it.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM.

BORN 1729.-DIED 1773.

JOHN CUNNINGHAM was the son of a wine-cooper. in Dublin. Having written a farce, called "Love in a Mist," at the age of seventeen, he came to Britain as a strolling actor, and was for a long time a performer in Digges's company in Edinburgh, and for many years made his residence at Newcastle upon Tyne. He died at that place, in the house of a benevolent printer, whose hospitality had for some time supported him.

CONTENT.

A PASTORAL.

O'ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren, and bare,

As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me-o'er lawns-to her home:

Yellow sheaves from rich Ceres her cottage had crown'd,

Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly

round,

And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sate ourselves down to a cooling repast,
Fresh fruits! and she cull'd me the best;
While thrown from my guard by some glances she

cast,

Love slily stole into my breast!

I told my soft wishes; she sweetly replied,
(Ye virgins, her voice was divine!)
I've rich ones rejected, and great ones denied,
But take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine.

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek;
So simple, yet sweet, were her charms!
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the dear maid in my arms.
Now jocund together we tend a few sheep,
And if, by yon prattler, the stream,
Reclin❜d on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,

Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And point out new themes for my Muse.
To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager, Peace, is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have nam'd her Content.

MAY-EVE; OR, KATE OF ABERDEEN.

THE silver moon's enamour'd beam
Steals softly through the night,
To wanton with the winding stream,
And kiss reflected light.

To beds of state go, balmy sleep,

('Tis where you've seldom been) May's vigil while the shepherds keep With Kate of Aberdeen.

Upon the green the virgins wait,
In rosy chaplets gay,

Till Morn unbar her golden gate,
And give the promis'd May.
Methinks I hear the maids declare,
The promis'd May, when seen,
Not half so fragrant, half so fair,
As Kate of Aberdeen.

Strike up the tabor's boldest notes,

We'll rouse the nodding grove; The nested birds shall raise their throats,

And hail the maid I love:

And see-the matin lark mistakes,

He quits the tufted green:

Fond bird! 'tis not the morning breaks,

'Tis Kate of Aberdeen.