No virgin e'er at first design'd

Thro' all the maze of love to stray; But each new path allures her mind, Till wandering on, she lose her way.

'Tis easy ere set out to stay;

But who the useful art can teach,
When sliding down a steepy way,
To stop, before the end we reach ?

Keep ever something in thy power, Beyond what would thy honour stain: He will not dare to aim at more,

Who for small favours sighs in vain.

LÆTITIA PILKINGTON,

Born 1712, died 1750,

Was the daughter of Dr. Van Lewen of Dublin, and wife of the Rev. Mr. Pilkington. The life of this talented but frail fair one, written by herself, is an amusing work.

Ode, in Imitation of HORACE.

I ENVY not the proud their wealth,
Their equipage and state;
Give me but innocence and health,
I ask not to be great.

I in this sweet retirement find
A joy unknown to kings,
For sceptres to a virtuous mind
Seem vain and empty things.

Great Cincinnatus at his plough
With brighter lustre shone,
Than guilty Cæsar e'er could shew,
Though seated on a throne.

Tumultuous days, and restless nights,
Ambition ever knows,

A stranger to the calm delights
Of study and repose.

Then free from envy, care, and strife,
Keep me, ye powers divine!
And pleas'd, when ye demand my life,
May I that life resign!

SONG.

LYING is an occupation

Us'd by all who mean to rise; Politicians owe their station

But to well-concerted lies.

These to lovers give assistance
To ensnare the fair one's heart;
And the virgin's best resistance
Yields to this commanding art.

Study this superior science,

Would you rise in church or state;

Bid to truth a bold defiance,

'Tis the practice of the great.

ELIZABETH TOLLET,

Born 1694, died 1754,

Is authoress of Poems, and Susanna, a sacred drama.

Winter Song.

Ask me no more, my truth to prove,

What I would suffer for my love:

With thee I would in exile go,

To regions of eternal snow;

O'er floods by solid ice confin'd;

Thro' forest bare with northern wind;
While all around my eyes I cast,

Where all is wild and all is waste.
If there the timorous stag you chase,
Or rouse to fight a fiercer race,
Undaunted I thy arms would bear,
And give thy hand the hunter's spear.
When the low sun withdraws his light,
And menaces an half year's night,
The conscious moon and stars above
Shall guide me with my wandering love.

Beneath the mountain's hollow brow,
Or in its rocky cells below,

Thy rural feast I would provide;
Nor envy palaces their pride;

The softest moss should dress thy bed,
With savage spoils about thee spread;
While faithful love the watch should keep,
To banish danger from thy sleep.

On a Death's Head.

ON this resemblance, where we find
A portrait drawn from all mankind,
Fond lover! gaze awhile, to see
What beauty's idol charms shall be.
Where are the balls that once could dart
Quick lightning thro' the wounded heart?
The skin, whose teint could once unite
The glowing red, and polish'd white?
The lip in brighter ruby drest?
The cheek with dimpled smiles opprest?
The rising front, where beauty sate
Thron'd in her residence of state;

Which, half-disclos'd and half-conceal'd,

The hair in flowing ringlets veil'd?