Here, be your due devotion paid, I am the songstress of the shade."

A Linnet, that sat list'ning nigh,
Made the impostor thus reply:
"I fancy, friend, that vulgar throats
Were never form'd for warbling notes:
But if these lessons came from you,
Repeat them in the public view;
That your assertions may be clear,
Let us behold as well as hear."

The length'ning song, the soft'ning strain,
Our chatt'ring Pie attempts in vain,
For to the fool's eternal shame,

All she could compass was a scream.
The birds, enrag'd, around her fly,
Nor shelter nor defence is nigh.

The caitiff wretch, distress'd-forlorn!
On every side is peck'd and torn;
Till for her vile, atrocious lies,
Under their angry beaks she dies.

Such be his fate, whose scoundrel claim Obtrudes upon a neighbour's fame.

Friend E-n', the tale apply,
You are-yourself--the chatt'ring Pie:
Repent, and with a couscious blush,
Go make atonement to the Thrush 2.

PALEMON:

A PASTORAL.

PALEMON, seated by his fav'rite maid,
The sylvan scenes, with ecstasy, survey'd ;
Nothing could make the fond Alexis gay,
For Daphne had been absent half the day:
Dar'd by Palemon for a pastoral prize,
Reluctant, in his turn, Alexis tries.

PALEMON.

This breeze by the river how charming and soft!
How smooth the grass carpet! how green!
Sweet, sweet sings the lark! as he carols aloft,
His music enlivens the scene!

A thousand fresh flow'rets unusually gay
The fields and the forests adorn;

I pluck'd me some roses, the children of May,
And could not find one with a thorn.

ALEXIS. 1

The skies are quite clouded, too bold is the breeze,
Duli vapours descend on the plain;

The verdure 's all blasted that cover'd yon trees,
The birds cannot compass a strain :
In search for a chaplet my temples to bind,
All day as I silently rove,

I can't find a flow'ret (not one to my mind)
In meadow, in garden, or grove.

PALEMON.

I ne'er saw the hedge in such excellent bloom,
The lambkins so wantonly gay;

My cows seem to breathe a more pleasing perfume,
And brighter than common the day:

IA Y-shire bookseller, who pirated an edition of the Pleasing Instructor.

The compiler, and reputed authoress of the original essays in that book.

guide all my motions with freedom and ease, Run backward and forward, and turn when I please; Of Nature (grown weary) you shocking essay ! I spurn you thus from me-crawl out of my way."

The reptile insulted, and vext to the soul, Crept onwards, and hid himself close in his hole; But Nature, determin'd to end his distress, Soon sent him abroad in a butterfly's dress.

Ere long the proud Ant, as repassing the road, (Fatigu'd from the harvest, and tugging his load) The beau on a violet bank he beheld,

Whose vesture, in glory, a monarch's excell'd;
His plumage expanded-'twas rare to behold
So lovely a mixture of purple and gold.

The Ant, quite amaz'd at a figure so gay, Bow'd low with respect, and was trudging away. "Stop, friend," says the Butterfly"don't be

surpris'd,

I once was the reptile you spurn'd and despis'd; But now I can mount, in the sun-beams I play, While you must, for ever, drudge on in your way."

MORAL.

A wretch, though to day he's o'erloaded with sorrow, May soar above those that oppress'd him--to

morrow.

PHILLIS:

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

I SAID, -on the banks by the stream, I've pip'd for the shepherds too long: Oh grant me, ye Muses, a theme,

Where glory may brighten my song! But Pan bade me stick to my strain, Nor lessons too lofty rehearse; Ambition befits not a swain,

And Phillis loves pastoral verse.

The rose, though a beautiful red,

Looks faded to Phillis's bloom;

And the breeze from the bean-flower bed To her breath 's but a feeble perfume: The dew-drop so limpid and gay,

That loose on the violet lies, Though brighten'd by Phœbus's ray, Wants lustre, compar'd to her eyes.

A lily I pluck'd in full pride,

Its freshness with her's to compare ; And foolishly thought (till I try'd) The flow'ret was equally fair. How, Corydon, could you mistake?

Your fault be with sorrow confest, You said the white swans on the lake For softness might rival her breast.

While thus I went on in her praise,

My Phyllis pass'd sportive along :

Ye poets, I covet no bays,

She smil'd--a reward for my song!

The author intends the character of Pan for the late Mr. Shenstone, who favoured him with a letter or two, advising him to proceed in the pastoral manner.

O'ER Nature's fresh bosom, by verdure unbound, Bleak Winter blooms lovely as Spring:

Rich flow'rets (how fragrant!) rise wantonly round,
And Summer's wing'd choristers sing!

To greet the young monarch of Britain's blest isle,
The groves with gay blossoms are grac'd!
The primrose peeps forth with an innocent smile,
And cowslips crowd forward in haste.

Dispatch, gentle Flora, the nymphs of your train
Through woodlands, to gather each sweet:
Go-rob, of young roses, the dew-spangled plain,
And strew the gay spoils at his feet.

What honours, ye Britons! (one emblem implies)
What glory to George shall belong!
What Miltons, (the other) what Addisons rise,
To make him immortal in song!

To a wreath of fresh oak, England's emblem of power!

Whose honours with time shall increase! Add a fair olive sprig, just unfolding its flow'r, Rich token of concord and peace!

Next give him young myrtles, by Beauty's bright Collected-the pride of the grove! [queen How fragrant their odour! their foliage how green! Sweet promise of conjugal love!

Let Gaul's captive lilies, cropt close to the ground, As trophies of conquest be ty'd:

The virgins all cry, "There's not one to be found! Out-bloom'd by his roses-they dy'd."

Ye foes of Old England, such fate shall ye share, With George, as our glories advance- [despair, Through envy you'll sicken,-you'll droop-you'll And die-like the lilies of France.

ON

THE APPROACH OF MAY.

THE virgin, when soften'd by May,
Attends to the villager's vows;
The birds sweetly bill on the spray,
And poplars embrace with their boughs:
On Ida bright Venus may reign,

Ador'd for her beauty above!
We shepherds that dwell on the plain,
Hail May as the mother of Love.

From the west as it wantonly blows,
Fond Zephyr caresses the vine;
The bee steals a kiss from the rose,
And willows and woodbines entwine:
The pinks by the rivulet side,

That border the vernal alcove, Bend downward to kiss the soft tide: For May is the mother of Love.

May tinges the butterfly's wing,

He flutters in bridal array! And if the wing'd foresters sing,

Their music is taught them by May. The stock-dove, recluse with her mate, Conceals her fond bliss in the grove, And murmuring seems to repeat

That May is the mother of Love.

The goddess will visit you soon,

Ye virgins be sportive and gay: Get your pipes, oh ye shepherds! in tune, For music must welcome the May. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind, And all his keen anguish remove, Let him tell her soft tales, and he 'll find That May is the mother of Love.

Fre the lark's early carols salute the new day,
He springs from his cottage as jocund as May;
He cheerfully whistles, regardless of care,
Or sings the last ballad he bought at the fair:
While courtiers are toil'd in the cobwebs of state,
Or bribing elections, in hopes to be great,
No fraud or ambition his bosom e'er fill,
Contented he works, if there's grist for his mill.

On Sunday, bedeck'd in his homespun array,
At church he's the loudest to chant or to pray;
He sits to a dinner of plain English food,
Though simple the pudding, his appetite 's good,

A LANDSCAPE.

Rura mihi et irrigui placeant in vallibus amnes.

Now that Summer's ripen'd bloom

Frolics where the Winter frown'd, Stretch'd upon these banks of broom, We command the landscape round.

Nature in the prospect yields

Humble dales, and mountains bold, Meadows, woodlands, heaths,-and fields Yellow'd o'er with waving gold.

Goats upon that frowning steep,
Fearless, with their kidlings browse!
Here a flock of snowy sheep!
There an herd of motley cows!

On the uplands, every glade Brightens in the blaze of day; O'er the vales, the sober shade Softens to an evening grey.

Where the rill, by slow degrees, Swells into a crystal pool, Shaggy rocks and shelving trees Shoot to keep the waters cool.

Shiver'd by a thunder-stroke,

From the mountain's misty ridge,

O'er the brook a ruin'd oak,

Near the farm-house, forms a bridge.

On her breast the sunny beam Glitters in meridian pride; Yonder as the virgin stream

Hastens to the restless tide:

Where the ships by wanton gales

Wafted, o'er the green waves run, Sweet to see their swelling sails Whiten'd by the laughing Sun!

High upon the daisied hill,

Rising from the slope of trees, How the wings of yonder mill

Labour in the busy breeze!

Cheerful as a summer's morn,

(Bouncing from her loaded pad) Where the maid presents her corn, Smirking, to the miller's lad.

O'er the green a festal throng

Gambols, in fantastic trim! As the full cart moves along, Hearken 'tis their harvest hymn!

Linnets on the crowded sprays

Chorus, and the wood-larks rise, Soaring with a song of praise,

Till the sweet notes reach the skies,

Virz