'Erewhile thou to Phoebus wast dear,

When Ichin was calm'd by thy strains;
And fondly I deem'd I should hear

Thy pipe echoing shrill through my plains.
Go, Corydon, throw that pipe down,
Thy lips now no longer it breathes;
Go, Corydon, pluck off that crown,

Those laurels ill brook pleasure's wreaths.'

Oh Isis! thy taunts are in vain;

Far other cares tear my sad heart!
Nor can Phoebus e'er soothe my fix'd pain;-
Ah me! Love but laughs at his art.
In vain Nature pours o'er the ground
Her beauties-no beauties to me

If wherever I roll them around
These eyes can no Maryanne see.

F. LAURENCE.

PASTORAL BALLAD.

O! SHARE my cottage, dearest maid,
Beneath a mountain, wild and high,
It nestles in a silent glade,

And a clear river wanders by;
Each tender care, each honest art

Shall chase all future want from thee;

If thy sweet lips consent impart

To climb these craggy hills with me.

Far from the city's vain parade

No scornful brow shall there be seen; No dull impertinence invade,

Nor Envy base, nor sullen Spleen;

VOL. II.

Q Q

The shadowy rocks, that circle round,
From storms shall guard our silvan cell,
And there shall every joy be found

That loves in peaceful vales to dwell.

When late the tardy sun shall peer,

And faintly gild yon little spire;

When nights are long, and frosts severe,

And our clean hearth is bright with fire; Sweet tales to read, sweet songs to sing!

O! they shall drown the wind and rain, E'en till the soften'd year shall bring Merry springtime back again!

Then hawthorns, flowering in the glen,
Shall guard the warbling feather'd throng;
Nor boast the busy haunts of men

So fair a scene, so sweet a song.
Thy arms the new-yean'd lamb will shield,
And to the sunny shelter bear,
While o'er the rough and breathing field
My hands impel the gleaming share.

Ne'er doubt our wheaten ears will rise,
And full their yellow harvest glow,
Then taste with me the sprightly joys
That Love and Industry bestow.
Their jocund power shall banish strife;
Her clouds no passing day will see,
Since all the leisure hours of life
Shall still be spent in pleasing thee.

MISS SEWARD.

HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY.

HERE, here I live with what my board
Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne'er so mean the viands be,
They well content my Pru and me:
Or pea, or bean, or wort, or beet,
Whatever comes content makes sweet:
Here we rejoice, because no rent
We pay for our poor tenement
Wherein we rest, and never fear
The landlord or the usurer:
The quarter day does not affright
Our peaceful slumbers in the night:
We eat our own; and batten more,
Because we feed on no man's score;
But pity those whose flanks grow great,
Swell'd with the lard of others' meat:
We bless our fortunes when we see
Our own beloved privacy;

And like our living, where we're known

To very few, or else to none.

THE COUNTRY MAID.

A Pastoral Ballad.

AN easy heart adorns the vale

And gilds the lonely plain;
No sighs of mine increase the gale,
No peevish tears the rain.

HERRICK.

From happy dreams the orient beams
Awake my soul to pleasure,

With cheek that glows, I milk my cows,
And bless the flowing treasure.

To tend the flock through summer's day
Is surely no disgrace;

A wreath of leaves from noontide ray
Defends my shaded face,

Industrious heed the hours shall speed,
On pinions gay and light;

The rising thought, with virtue fraught,
Shall consecrate their flight.

A maple dish, a cedar spoon
Seem fair and sweet to me,
When, on a violet bank, at noon,
I sit, and dine with glee;
From crystal rill my cup I fill,

And praise the bounteous Giver;
Nor with the great would change my state,
But dwell in vales for ever.

I love to mark the sultry hour,
When Phoebus ardent glows,

How deeply still are plain and bower
In undisturb'd repose;

All but the rills, that down the hills
Their glittering waters fling,

And round the bowers, on sweet wild flowers,
The bees that murmuring cling.

When Eve's gray mantle veils the sun,

And hill's late gilded height,

When green banks whiten, as the moon
Sheds wide her milky light.

I mark the vales, and shadowy dales
In soft perspective showing;

Their winding streams beneath her beams
In trembling lustre flowing.

Then homeward my pleased steps I bend,
To yonder ivied cottage,

Where parents dear and gentle friend
Prepare the savoury pottage;
The wholesome fare, the pious prayer
Conclude my day so pleasant!
Ye rich and proud, confess aloud
Right happy such a peasant!

MISS SEWARD.

TO PHILLIS.

TO LOVE AND LIVE WITH HIM.

LIVE, live with me; and thou shalt see
The pleasures I'll prepare for thee;,
What sweets the country can afford
Shall bless thy bed, and bless thy board:
The soft sweet moss shall be thy bed,
With crawling woodbine overspread;
By which the silver-shedding streams
Shall gently melt thee into dreams:
Thy clothing, next, shall be a gown
Made of the fleece's purest down;
The tongues of kids shall be thy meat;
Their milk thy drink; and thou shalt eat
The paste of filberts for thy bread,
With cream of cowslips buttered: