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Be envied, wretched—and be flatter'd, poor;
All luckless wits their enemies profest,
And all successful, jealous friends at best.
Nor Fame I slight, nor for her favours call;
She comes unlook'd for, if she comes at all.
But if the purchase cost so dear a price
As soothing folly, or exalting vice;
Oh! if the Muse must flatter lawless sway,
And follow still where Fortune leads the way ;
Or if no basis bear my rising name
But the fall’n ruins of another's fame--
Then teach me, Heaven! to scorn the guilty bays,
Drive from my breast that wretched lust of

praise ; Unblemish'd let me live, or die unknown Oh, grant an honest fame, or grant me none !"

A PASTORAL ELEGY,

ON THE DEATH OF JACKSON, THE MUSICAL

COMPOSER.

O SHEPHERDS! 't is CORYDON's knell,

That, sounding, now saddens the wind: When he bade us for ever farewell,

He left not an equal behind.

How often ye dwelt on his strain,

That fill’d with sweet echoes the grove! How happy the nymphs of the plain,

When he soften’d the bosom to love!

Our garlands his tomb shall adorn;

His shade shall our praises receive ; The lark shall salute him at morn,

And Philomel soothe him at eve.

Near his ashes the myrtle shall bloom,

Which Pity will plant with a sigh, And, oft as she visits his tomb,

Lament that such merit should die.

He sought not false fame to obtain :

To the SHEPHERD no art did belong : SIMPLICITY taught him her strain ;

SIMPLICITY govern’d his song.

Lo! his reed that lies mute on the ground,

For with him its sweet sorrows depart! For like him, none can give it a sound,

That tells a fond tale of the HEART!

ANACREONTIC.

SYLVIA, a kiss or two I stole,
That thrill’d me to the very soul:
But, sooner than thou shalt complain,
I'll place them on thy lips again,

THE FIRE-SIDE.

BY DR. Cotton.

DEAR CHILoe, while the busy crowd, The vain, the wealthy, and the proud,

In Folly's maze advance; Tho' singularity and pride Be call’d our choice, we 'll step aside,

Nor join the giddy dance. .

From the gay world we ’ll oft retire
To our own family and fire,

Where love our hours employs ;
No noisy neighbour enters here,
No intermeddling stranger near,

To spoil our heart-felt joys.

If solid happiness we prize,
Within our breast this jewel lies ;

And they are fools who roam:

The world has nothing to bestow;
From our own selves our joys must flow,

And that dear hut, our home.

Of rest was Noah's dove beteft,
When with impatient wing she left

That safe retreat, the ark;
Giving her vain excursion o'er,
The disappointed bird once more

Explor'd the sacred bark.

Tho' fools spurn Hymen's gentle pow'rs, We, who improve his golden hours, .

By sweet experience know, That marriage, rightly understood, Gives to the tender and the good

A Paradise below.

Our babes shall richest comforts bring;
If tutor’d right, they'll prove a spring

Whence pleasures ever rise :

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