A LETTER from the Keeper of a Circulating Library in anobscure Tan to the Keeper of a Circulating Library at a fashionable Watering Pat

WHILE you, my friend, in ——————'s blissful bow'rs,

With joyful profit glad the smiling hours;

While fashionable crowds attend your will,
Your shew-glass empty, and your pockets fill;
Olet compassion touch your tender mind
For one to shores less fortunate confin'd;
Think of the place to which I'm chain'd by fate,
And image (if you can) my cruel state!
For, here no beaux the library frequent,
Who purchase useless toys at cent. per cent.
In this dull town no belles at raffles shine;
O town unworthy of a shop like mine!
In vain the modish volumes I arrange,
And wait, all day, to give and to exchange;
In vain with Birmingham's gay wares I gild
My shining shelves, and see my shew-glass fill'd;
The stupor of the place confounds my care,
And skill like mine but labours to despair.
While thus my melancholy lot I mourn,
Hourly to thee my envious thoughts are borne;
While our poor nymphs, in vulgar dulness sunk,
Scarce know the far-fam'd title of "The Monk,"
Your well-bred-fair take each new tale to-bed,
And not a novel crouds your shelves unread.
Oft in my dreams, admiring, I survey
Your evening-shop with well-drest loungers gay;
I see the rafflers press, by thousands, round;
I hear the die's still profitable sound :
Behind her counter, mark'd by nameless grace,
And matchless intrepidity of face,

My friend dispensing her rich wares I view,
Still swearing bad is good, and old is new:
While the kind purchasers, so civil grown,
Trust to her senses, and renounce their own.
O glorious scene! yes, soon my feet shall rove,
To realize the spectacle I love!

Thy friendly summons I'll with joy obey,
And taste the comforts of one social day.

Wednesday (kind Heav'n till then protract my date!)
Shall see me blest, and smiling at thy gate;

Meantime, no trifling customer shall fret ;

Meantime, no duns alarm me, though they threat;

Each fear I'll hush, each sorrow I'll subdue,

And only think of happiness and you.

Th

e TIMES of EUROPE: from the Imperial Epistle from Kien Long, Emperor of China, to George III. King of Great Britain.

are near :

FAR other sceles content, distrust and fear,

And brooding policy, in novel forms,

Call o'er the deep of empire clouds and storms.
And wild those storms would rend Britannia's field,
Should patriot bands the rod of faction wield,
While law, religion, property, they seize,
And senates tremble at their own decrees;
Sweeping with Reformation's iron sway
They'd crush each land that scrupled to obey;
From Splendour's robe each proud distinction wipe,
And place a barren bauble in thy gripe.
Then mitred fathers, and the ermin'd peer,

And ancestry, and all to honour dear,

The fond, well-earn'd, rewards of ancient worth,
All, spirits disembodied, leave the earth.

These are state-blots, which, in their dread intent,
Should be ras'd out in their first parliament;
For all empiricks, quacks of state or church,
Now hate all truths, but truths of great research;
They round their phrase with twisted nothings, call
Sophistic pomp, and meaner minds appal:
Then, unawares, the strong conclusion draw,
The master of the prince is master of the law.

Nor Thou, in fancied strength too safely wise,
Their base-born, dark original despise.

Whence draws the sun dire vapour? Whence conspire
The thund'rous tempest, and the lightning's fire?
From lake, and lazy pool, and weeds obscene,

The abode of putrid pestilence unclean,

The elemental fury from afar

Collects, and scatters wide, ethereal war,

Raging without confine, without controul;

Ev'n Heav'n's own firmament oft seems to roll,
And from the fated momentaneous shock

Eternal impress marks the riven rock;
The arch of majesty, the temple's dome,

The pillar'd all, the peasant's low-rooft home,
Alike in undistinguish'd ruin fall,

And shapeless desolation equals all.

Through Europe's bounds, 'tis her devoted age,
Fires from within, and central thunders rage.

On Gallia's shore, I mark the unhallow'd powe,
Her godless regents feel the madd'ning hour,
Dread architects of ruin and of crime,
In revolution's permanence sublime,

And cruel nonsense! O'er the astonish'd world
The flag of dire Equality unfurl'd,

Drizzling with blood of millions, streams in air,
The scroll, Fraterna! Freedom, Death, Despair.
They pass; nor Rhine nor Rubicon they know,
Torrents may roar, or tranquil streams may flow;
In unappall'd protrusion, on they burst,
All nations cursing, by all nations curst.
Lo! Belgium yields to unresisted fate;
Within her ministers of terror wait:
Nature, with rod petrific, smites the land,
And binds the floods in adamantine band,
Till Gallia's chief, in right of William sways,
And Freedom, once with life-drops bought, obeys.
See where, dismember'd, trembling Spain resigns
Golconda's radiance and Potosi's mines;
The pillars of the eternal city bow,
And the tiara from the pontiff's brow
Drops to the dust; no more in Peter's fane
The consistorial brotherhood shall reign.
Yet see the turban nods, by factions torn;
A length'ning, sad, and sullen sound is borne
Around Sophia's hallow'd conscious walls,
Mutt'ring the doom denounc'd; her crescent falls.
Stil view in western ciimes, Death's palest horse
With pestilence and slaughter marks his course;
While dusky tribes, with more than maniac rage,
Rending their brazen bonds, in war engage;
For France still burns to make, with dire intent,
Hell and this world one realin, one continent.

Yet once attend, great Brunswick, nor in vain
Hear thy Imperial brother's closing strain ;
Thee from thy people may no thought divide!
The statesman's rashness, or reformer's pride;
Reason, and her fond virtues, still distrust;
What but experience makes a kingdom just ?
Fix'd on her ancient base, let England rest,
And public danger arm the public breast;
On British sense depend. On foreign fame
To proud Versailles the fatal stranger came,
New law, new policy, new truth to tell;
And by new maxims the vast fabric fell.
Oh, should this nation slight her just alarms,
Nor Gallic truths dread more than Gallic arms,

Thy

Thy diadem must fade: the Tyrian dye
Sink in the scarlet of democracy:
All dignities of brighter times will fail;
No wisdom o'er the midnight-lamp grow pale,
But knowledge, fancy, genius, all retire,

And, faint and death-struck, learning will expire.
Look round the world, there nothing shall be found
But swords to guard, and ploughs to till, the ground.
-Though new awhile, beneath the afflictive rod,
Supernal power may bid thy Albion nod,
Humbl'd in due prostration may she bend,
And her far-fam'd beneficence extend;
Then, all her ancient energies, erect,
Strength from herself and from her God expect,
And, on her rocky ramparts bold, alone

Maintain her laws, and vindicate thy throne.

ODE to APOLLO. From the New Edition of Cowper's Poems.

VERSES to a Friend on his Marriage. By Mr. Rogers,

On thee, blest youth, a father's hand confers

The maid thy earliest, fondest wishes knew.
Each soft enchantment of the soul is hers;

Thine be the joys to firm attachment due.

As on she moves, with hesitating grace,

She wins assurance from his soothing voice;
And, with a look the pencil could not trace,

Smiles through her blushes, and confirms the choice.

Spare the fine tremors of her feeling frame!

To thee she turns-forgive a virgin's fears!
To thee she turns with surest, tenderest claim;
Weakness that charms, reluctance that endears!

At each response the sacred rite requires,

From her full bosom bursts the unbidden sigh.
A strange mysterious awe the scene inspires;
And on her lips the trembling accents die,

O'er her fair face what wild emotions play!

What lights and shades in sweet confusion blend!

Soon shall they fly! glad harbingers of day,

And settl'd sunshine on her soul descend!

Ah soon, thine own confest, extatic thought!

That hand shall strew each flinty path with flowers;
And those blue eyes, with mildest lustre fraught,
Gild the calm current of domestic hours!

ELEGIAC BALLAD, on an Act of Parliament relating to Marriages,
By Sir William Temple.

WAKE, all you dead! what ho! what ho!

How soundly they sleep whose pillows lie low!

They