He only joys to urge the chase,
To course the well-train'd steed,
To wound from far the pheasant's race,
Or bid the partridge bleed.

In vain (for him) to winter's gloom
Succeeds the purple spring;

In vain each bush begins to bloom,
And ev'ry bird to sing.

The blackbird, warbling to the throng,
Oft finds the leaden death;
And oft, amidst his tuneful song,
The thrush resigns his breath.

But you, my fair one, better know
The songster's worth to prize,

For him who charm'd your ears, shall flow
The tribute of your eyes.

When you the wanton's acts recite,
While fast your sorrows stream,

The muse, whom nature's charms delight,

Shall join the plaintive theme. `

Westminster Magazine.

SONG.

O, BARRA vale, gay joy was mine When first thy rural shades I knew ; I deem'd my native fields divine,

Till joy and hope together flew : Ah! then while love the heart invades, Before the eye all beauty fades; So faded now, I bid farewell To early bliss, and Barra vale.

O, Barra vale, beneath thy shades
I fondly sported, while a boy;
Thy flow'ry wilds, and balmy glades,
The smiling scenes of harmless joy:
Now destin'd from their charms to rove,
Dear haunts of innocence and love;
With deep regret I bid farewell
To early bliss, and Barra vale.

O, Barra vale, when torn away

From ev'ry scene to pleasure dear; And doom'd in distant climes to stray, Chaste fancy still will linger here: The lovely seats of youth to view, The hope of banish'd joys renew; On ev'ry tender thought to dwell, Of early bliss, and Barra vale.

COLIN.

How long shall hapless Colin mourn
The cold regard of Delia's eye?
The heart whose only crime is love,
Can Delia's softness doom to die?
Sweet is thy name to Colin's ear,

Thy beauties, O divinely bright!
In one short hour by Delia's side,
I taste whole ages of delight.

Yet, tho' I lov'd thee more than life;
Not to displease a cruel maid,
My tongue forbore its fondest tale,

And sigh'd amid the distant shade.
What happier shepherd wins thy smile,
A bliss for which I hourly pine?
Some swain, perhaps, whose fertile vales,
And fleecy flocks, are more than mine.

Few are the vales that Colin boasts,

And few the flocks those vales do rove,
With wealth I court not Delia's heart,
A nobler bribe I offer,-Love!
Yet, should the virgin yield her hand,
And thoughtless wed for wealth alone,
The act may make my bosom bleed,
But surely cannot bless her own.

Peter Pindar.

LOVE TRIUMPHANT.

NOISE, nonsense, and the town, adieu,
Where fancy racks the lover's mind;
Who seldom draws the picture true,
But shows the willing fair unkind.

Shall Damon for a moment's joy,

His freedom, and his all, enslave? Woman shall ne'er those gifts destroy, Which bounteous nature frankly gave.

Come, reason, all thy beauties show,
Teach me what's lovely, fair, and just;
Crop Cupid's pinions, snap his bow,
And leave him flutt'ring in the dust.

But lo! my matchless fair draws nigh,
In beauty's artless form array'd;
Now, reason, cast thy strictest eye,
Thou'lt ne'er my faultless flame upbraid.

If sprightly sense, with sweetness join'd,
A face serene, an air divine;
Can strike the eye, or charm the mind,
Those graces, Cælia, all are thine.

British Magazine.

ODE TO HEALTH.

THE Lesbian lute no more can charm,
Nor once my panting bosom warm,

No more I breathe the tender sigh; Nor, when my beauteous swain appears, With down-cast looks and starting tears, Confess the lustre of his eye.

With freedom blest, at early dawn
I wander o'er the wood and lawn,

And hail the sweet returning Spring;
The fragrant breeze, the feather'd choir,
To raise my vernal lays conspire,

While peace and health their treasures bring.

Come, lovely Health! divinest maid!
And lead me thro' the rural shade,

To thee the rural shades belong;

'Tis thine to bless the simple swain, And, while he tries the tuneful strain, To raise the raptur'd poet's song.

Behold the patient village hind!
No cares disturb his tranquil mind;
By thee and sweet contentment blest;
All day he turns the stubborn plain,
And meets at eve his infant train,

While guiltless pleasures fill his breast.