INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST.

SWEET bird, whom the winter constrains

And seldom another it can

To seek a retreat, while he reigns,

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of man, Who never can seem to intrude,

Tho' in all places equally free,

Come, oft as the season is rude,

Thou art sure to be welcome to me.

At sight of the first feeble ray,

That pierces the clouds of the east,
To inveigle thee every day

My windows shall show thee a feast.
For, taught by experience, I know
Thee mindful of benefit long;
And that thankful for all 1 bestow,
Thou wilt pay me with many a song.

Then, soon as the swell of the buds
Bespeaks the renewal of spring,
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods,
Or where it shall please thee to sing:
And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost,
Come again to my window or door,
Doubt not an affectionate host,

Only pay as thou pay'dst me before.

Thus musick must needs be confest
To flow from a fountain above;
Else how should it work in the best
Unchangeable friendship and leve

And who on the globe can be found,

Save your generation and ours, That can be delighted by sound, Or boasts any musical pow'rs?

STRADE PHILOMELA.

PASTOREM audivit calamis Philomela canentem,
Et voluit tenues ipsa referre modos;
Ipsa retentavit numeros, didicitque retentans
Argutum fida reddere voce melos.

Pastor inassuetus rivalem ferre, misellam

Grandius ad carmen provocat, urget avem
Tuque etiam in modulos surgis Philomela; sed impar
Viribis, heu, impar, exanimisque cadis,

Durum certamen! tristis victoria! cantum
Maluerit pastor non superasse tuum.

STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE.

THE Shepherd touch'd his reed; sweet Philomel
Essay'd, and oft assay'd to catch the strain,

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell,

The numbers, echo'd note for note again.

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before
A rival of his skill, indignant heard,
And soon, (for various was his tuneful store,)
In loftier tones defied the simple bird.

She dar'd the task, and rising, as he rose,

With all the force, that passion gives, inspir'd, Return'd the sounds awhile, but in the close, Exhausted fell, and at his feet expir'd.

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife,
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun ;

And, O sad victory, which cost thy life,

And he may wish that he had never won

·

ANUS SECULARIS,

Quæ justam centum annorum ætatem, ipso die natale, explevit, et clausit anno 1728.

SINGULARIS prodigium O senectæ,
Et novum exemplum diuturnitatis,
Cujus annorum series in amplum

desinit orbem!

Vulgus infelix hominum, dies en!
Computo quam dispare computamus!
Quam tua a summa procul est remota

summula nostra !

Pabulum nos luxuriesque lethi,
Nos simul nati, incipimus perire,
Nos, statim a cunis cita destinamur

præda sepulchro '

Occulit mors insidias, ubi vix
Vix opinari est, rapidæve febris
Vim repentinam, aut male pertinacis

semina morbi.

Sin brevem possit superare vita

Terminui, quicquid superest vacivum,

Illud ignavis superest et imbe

cillibus annis.

Detrahunt multum, minuuntque sorti
Morbidi questus gemitusque anheli;
Ad parem crescunt numerum diesque

atque dolores

Si quis hæc vitet (quotus ille quisque est !)
Et gradu pergendo laborioso

Ad tuum, fortasse tuum, moretur

reptilis ævum

At videt, mæstum tibi sæpe visum, injurias, vim, furta, dolos, et insolentiam, quo semper eunt, eodem

Nil inest rebus novitatis, et quod
Uspiam est nugarum et ineptiarum,
Unius volvi videt, et revolvi

ire tenore

Integram ætatem tibi gratulamur;
Et dari nobis satis æstimamus,
Si tuam, saltem vacuam querelis

23*

circulus ævi.

dimidiemus

ODE.

ON THE DEATH OF A LADY,

Who lived one hundred Years, and died on her Birth-day, 1728.

ANCIENT dame, how wide and vast,
To a race like ours appears,

Rounded to an orb at last,

All thy multitude of years!

We the herd of human kind,

Frailer and of feebler pow'rs; We, to narrow bounds confin'd, Soon exhaust the sum of ours.

Death's delicious banquet-we

Perish even from the womb,

Swifter than a shadow flee,

Nourish'd but to feed the tomb.

Seeds of merciless disease

Lurk in all that we enjoy ;

Some, that waste us by degrees,
Some, that suddenly destroy.

And if life o'erleap the bourn

Common to the sons of men:

What remains, but that we mourn,
Dream, and doat, and drivel then?

Fast as moons can wax and wane,

Sorrow comes; and while we groan,

Pant with anguish and complain,

Half our years are fled and gone.