Her form, like the afpen, wild graces display'd,
And the eyes, over which her luxuriant locks ftray'd,
As the fkies of the fummer were blue!

Still lab'ring to live, yet reflecting the while,
Young William confider'd his lot;

'Twas hard, yet 'twas honeft; and one tender smile
From Phoebe at night overpaid ev'ry toil,

And then all his fatigues were forgot.

By the brook, where it glides thro' the copfe of Arbeal,
'When to eat his cold fare he reclin'd,

Then foft from her home his fweet Phoebe would fteal,
And bring him wood-ftrawberries to finish his meal,
And would fit by his fide while he din'd.

Fair Hope, that the lover fo fondly believes,
Then repeated each foul-foothing fpeech,
And touch'd with illufion, that often deceives
The future with light; as the fun through the leaves
Illumines the boughs of the beech.

But once more the tempefts of chill winter blow,
To deprefs and disfigure the earth;

And now, ere the dawn, the young woodman must go
To his work in the foreft, half-bury'd in fnow,

And at night bring home wood for the hearth.

The bridge on the heath by the flood was wash'd down,
And faft fell the fleet and the rain,

The ftream to a wild rapid river was grown,
And long might the widow fit fighing alone
Ere fweet Phoebe could fee her again.

At the town was a market-and now for fupplies,
Such as needed her humble abode,

Young William went forth; and his mother with fighs
Watch'd long at the window, with tears in her eyes,
Till he turn'd through the fields to the road.
Then darkness came on; and fhe heard, with affright,
The wind ev'ry moment more high;

She look'd from the door, not a ftar lent its light,
But the tempeft redoubled the gloom of the night,
And the rain pour'd in sheets from the sky.
The clock in her cottage now mournfully told
The hours, that went heavily on ;

'Twas midnight; her fpirits funk hopeless and cold,
And it feem'd, as each blaft of wind fearfully told,
That long, long would her William be gone.
Then, heart-fick and cold, to her fad bed she crept,
Yet first made up the fire in the room

To guide his dark fteps; but the liften'd and wept,
Or if for a moment, forgetful, fhe flept,

Soon fhe started-and thought he was come.

'Twas morn; and the wind, with a hoarse sullen moan, Now feem'd dying away in the wood,

When the poor wretched mother ftill drooping, alone,
Beheld on the threshold a figure unknown,
In gorgeous apparel who food.

"Your fon is a foldier," abruptly cry'd he,
“And a place in our corps has obtain❜d;
"Nay be not caft down; you perhaps may foon fee
"Your William a captain! he now fends by me
"The purse he already has gain'd."

So William, entrapp'd 'twixt perfuafion and force,
Is embark'd for the ifles of the Weft;

But he seem'd to begin with ill omens his course,
And felt recollection, regret, and remorse,
Continually weigh on his breast.

With useless repentance he eagerly ey'd

The high coaft as it faded from view,

And faw the green hills, on whose northernmoft fide Was his own fylvan home: and he faulter'd and cry'd, "Adieu! ah! for ever adieu!

"Who, now, my poor mother, thy life fhall fuftain,
"Since thy fon has now left thee forlorn?
"Ah! canft thou forgive me? and not, in the pain
"Of this cruel desertion, of William complain,
"And lament that he ever was born?

"Sweet Phoebe !-if ever thy lover was dear,
"Now forfake not the cottage of woe;
"But comfort my mother, and quiet her fear,
"And help her to dry up the vain fruitlefs tear,
"That too long for my absence will flow.
Yet what if my Phoebe another fhould wed,
"And lament her loft William no more ?"

The thought was too cruel; and anguish now fped
The dart of difeafe-with the brave num'rous dead
He has fall'n on the plague-tainted fshore.

In the lone village church-yard, the chancel-wall near,
High grafs now waves over the spot,

Where the mother of William, unable to bear
His lofs, who to her widow'd heart was fo dear,
Has both him and her sorrows forgot!

By the brook, where it winds thro' the wood of Arbeal,
Or amid the deep forest, to moan,

The poor wand'ring Phœbe will filently steal,
The pain of her bofom no reason can heal,
And she loves to indulge it alone.

Her fenfes are injur'd; her eyes dim with tears;
She fits by the river and weaves

Reed garlands, against her dear William appears,
Then breathlessly liftens, and fancies she hears
His ftep in the half-wither'd leaves.

Ah! fuch are the mis'ries to which ye give birth,
Ye ftatesmen! ne'er dreading a scar;

Who from pictur'd faloon, or the bright sculptur'd hearth,
Disperse desolation and death through the earth,
When ye let loose the demons of war.

I

THE CHOICE.

BY THE REV. JOHN FOMFRET.

F Heav'n the grateful liberty would give,
That I might choose my method how to live,
And all thofe hours propitious fate should lend
In blissful ease and fatisfaction spend:

Near fome fair town I'd have a private feat,
Built uniform; not little, nor too great;
Better if on a rifing ground it ftood;

On this fide fields, on that a neighb'ring wood.
It should, within, no other things contain
Than what were useful, neceffary, plain:
Methinks 'tis naufeous, and I'd ne'er endure
The needlefs pomp of gaudy furniture.
A little garden, grateful to the eye,
And a cool rivulet run murm'ring by;

On whofe delicious banks a flately row
Of fhady limes or fycamores fhould grow,
At th' end of which a filent ftudy plac'd,
Should be with all the nobleft authors grac❜d.
Horace and Virgil, in whofe mighty lines
Immortal wit and folid learning fhines;
Sharp Juneval, and am'rous Ovid too,
Who all the turns of love's foft paffion knew:
He that with judgment reads his charming lines,
In which strong Art with ftronger Nature joins,
Muft grant his fancy doth the best excel;
His thoughts fo tender, and exprefs'd fo well.
With all thofe moderns, men of steady sense,
Efteem'd for learning, and for eloquence.
In fome of thefe, as fancy fhould advise,
I'd always take my morning exercise :
For fure no minutes bring us more content
Than those in pleasing, useful studies spent.

I'd have a clear and competent eftate,
That I might live genteelly, but not great:
As much as I could moderately spend,
A little more, fometimes t'oblige a friend.
Nor fhould the fons of Poverty repine
Too much at fortune, they fhould taste of mine:
And all that objects of true pity were

Should be reliev'd with what my wants could fpare,
For that our Maker has too largely giv'n
Should be return'd in gratitude to heav'n.
A frugal plenty fhould my table spread;
With healthy, not luxurious dishes fed:
Enough to fatisfy and fomething more,
To feed the stranger, and the neighb'ring poor.
Strong meat indulges vice, and pamp'ring food
Creates diseases, and inflames the blood.
But what's fufficient to make nature strong,
And the bright lamp of life continue long,
I'd freely take; and as I did poffefs,
The bounteous Author of my plenty bless.

I'd have a little vault, but always ftor'd
With the best wines each vintage could afford.
Wine whets the wit, improves its native force,
And gives a pleasant flavour to discourse:

By making all our fpirits debonair,
Throws off the lees, the fediment of care,
But as the greatest bleffing heaven lends
May be debauch'd, and ferve ignoble ends;
So, but too oft, the grape's refreshing juice,
Does many mifchievous effects produce.
My houfe fhould no fuch rude disorders know,
As from high drinking confequently flow;
Nor would I ufe what was fo kindly giv❜n,
To the dishonour of indulgent heav'n:
If any neighbour came, he should be free,
Us'd with refpect, and not uneafy be,
In my retreat, or to himself or me.
What freedom, prudence, and right reafon give,
All men may, with impunity, receive:

But the leaft fwerving from their rule's too much;
For what's forbidden us, 'tis death to touch.

That life may be more comfortable yet,
And all my joys refin'd, fincere, and great;
I'd choose two friends, whofe company should be
A great advance to my felicity;

Well-born, of humours suited to my own,
Discreet, and men, as well as books, have known:
Brave, gen'rous, witty, and exactly free
From loose behaviour, or formality:
Airy and prudent; merry, but not light;
Quick in difcerning, and in judging, right:
Secret they fhould be, faithful to their trust:
In reas'ning cool, ftrong, temperate, and just;
Obliging, open, without huffing, brave,
Brifk in gay talking, and in fober, grave;
Clofe in difpute, but not tenacious; try'd
By folid reason, and let that decide:
Not prone to luft, revenge, or envious hate;
Nor bufy meddlers with intrigues of state:
Strangers to flander, and fworn foes to spite;
Not quarrelfome, but ftout enough to fight:
Loyal and pious, friends to Cæfar; true,
As dying martyrs, to their Maker too.
In their fociety I could not mifs
A permanent, fincere, fubftantial blifs.

Would bounteous heav'n once more indulge, I'd choose

(For who would fo much fatisfaction lofe,