No smiling harvest waves its golden ears,

Bending beneath soft zephyr's gentle gale ; No blooming April sheds her short-liv'd tears, Sure earnest of a charming May-blown vale.

Dire contrast-now quick down the rocky steep,
to crag
the melted snow-storm pours;

From crag
And rushing onwards with destructive sweep,
Rolls in wild torrents to the river's shores.

Driving the lucid dew from off the thorn,

In hollow whistlings raves the bleak north-east; And riding on the wet wing of the morn, To its lone shelter drives the shiv'ring beast.

Again it roars—all nature hears the crash ;
The peasant trembles in his propp'd abode,
And fears the loosen'd snow with thund'ring dash,
May sink his cot beneath the whelming load.

In this cold dismal scene of wintry woe,

Where can the soul of feeling wish to stray? Where do the genial streams of pleasure flow, To tempt a traveller through the cheerless way?

Yes, bliss is mine-my lovely Stella's charms
Lures my fond footsteps to her cottage door;
The dear idea all my bosom warms,

I think of her, and Winter reigns no more.

O, dearest maid! thy goodness, and thy truth,
Decks the drear prospect with the bloom of May;
The ardent soul of thy adoring youth,
Recalls the twitt'ring bird on ev'ry spray.

O may thy heart allow my image room;
Throw frozen Winter from its sweet recess;
May flow'rs of love in that dear bosom bloom,
And everlasting Spring thy faithful swain will bless.

Gardner.

EPIGRAM.

A HAMPER I receiv'd of wine,

As good, Dick says, as e'er was tasted-
And Dick may be suppos'd to know,
For he contriv'd his matters so
As every day with me to dine,
Much longer than the liquor lasted :
If such are presents-while I live
Oh! let me not receive—but give.

TO A YOUNG LADY
Upon her Birth-day.

SWEET modesty, the maid's defence,
That e'er the chastest awe inspires,
And like the far-fam'd plant of sense,
Within its shrinking self retires.

Meek Innocence, a simple maid,
Whom morning woos adown the dale,
As all in snow-white stole array'd,
She culls the lily of the vale.

Pity, a nun, who once her beads

Counted, where bloom'd her hopes awhile, With willow wreath, and mourner's weeds, With pilgrim tear, and angel smile.

Young Health! with gaudy cheek of bloom,
That sports upon the village lawn,
That early treads the heath of broom,
To hail the morning's rising dawn.

All these, dear maid, auspicious smile,
And proud to bless thy natal day,
Shall guide thee from the steps of guile,
And smooth for thee life's thorny way.

Literary Magazine.

A RECEIPT FOR A LOVE LETTER.

A PAINTED dart with anguish tipt,

A cup of poison take;
An op'ning bud untimely nipt,

A victim at a rack.

A bleeding heart, a vestal flame,
A mind in deep despair,
A thousand tortures without name,
And style her killing fair!

Each look that faintly speaks disdain,

A flash of lightning call;
And should she give denial plain,
Be that a thunder ball.

Ten thousand oaths, all well apply'd,
Must here in course be ta'en,
Tho' they're all meant to be bely'd,
And taken o'er again.

Swear that her eyes are two bright stars, Her cheeks exceed the rose,

And purer white than lily bears

On her soft bosom flows.

Her lips must crimson velvet be,
And silver all her teeth;
Sweeter than any spicy tree
Must be her balmy breath.

The sun must be as cold as ice,
When with your flame compar'd;

Nay, light be darkness in a trice,
If she but speak the word.

Then you must break your heart in two ;—
Send her the better half;-

She'll, may-be, say 'tis something new,
And condescend to laugh.

And when she laughs, the sun must shine
With an enliv'ning ray ;-
Her smile be brightness all divine,
A perfect summer's day.

Let daggers, poison, blood, and death,
Fill every other line;
Between them let the gentle breath
Of soft persuasion shine.

First talk of love, and then the grave,
Of racks, and woodbine bow'rs;
Now swear, now praise, kiss, weep, and

In time she must be yours.

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