ON HAVING OUR MINDS SUITED TO OUR FORTUNE. ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND. THIS Would be still my wish, could I Such bitter curse allow, That those I hate have spirits high, But surely when we vapour most, She'll pull (in spite of all our boast) How seldom is our good enjoy'd, A lowly heart, and little eye, These maxims sage and dry, you'll say, Take our superior sense away, And sink us into fools. Whoe'er can ease by folly get, But sure ourselves aright to see,, Think not I envy courts and kings, Ev'n I perhaps, if heav'n would deign As equal to my power. My mind with weight of bus'ness charg'd, Till then, a lowly heart and eye Kind heav'n on me bestow; Let those I hate have spirits high, With fortunes that are low. Weekly Amusement. A THOUGHT ON WAKING. SLEEP by night, and cares by day, Bear my fleeting life away; Lo! in yonder eastern skies Sol appears, and bids me rise; Tells me "Life is on the wing, And has no returning spring; Death comes on with steady pace, And life's the only day of grace." Shining preacher! shining morning! Let me take th' important warning! Rouse then all my active pow'rs, Well improve the coming hours; Let no trifles kill the day, (Trifles oft our hearts betray) Virtue, science, knowledge, truth,Guide th' enquiries of my youth: Wisdom, and experience sage, Then shall sooth the cares of age: They with time shall never die, TO A LADY ON HER RETURN FROM BATHING. Be hush'd, ye winds, ye tempests cease, My love now tries the faithless main; Be hush'd, ye waves, and roll in peace, Until my love return again. Yet should the wat'ry mountains roll, Yet see, more bright in all her charms, That down her hair its fond embrace, That one fond wave, upon her breast, And weeping as it closer prest, In showers of silver tears dissolv'd. Yet grateful still for so much bliss, Upon the ruby lips of love. Literary Magazine. CHLOE HUNTING. WHILST thousands court fair Chloe's love, She fears the dang'rous joy, But, Cynthia-like, frequents the grove, As lovely and as coy. With the same speed she seeks the hind, Oh, strange caprice in thy dear breast, To follow thus each worthless beast, Consider, fair, what 'tis you do, How thus they both must die, Not surer they, when you pursue, Than we whene'er you fly. Soame Jenyns. U |