And live by thee unblest:

My joyless hours fly faft away;

Let them fly on, I chide their stay,

For fure 'tis Heav'n to reft.

ODE, tranflated from the Perfian of the Poet HAFEZ.
By Sir WILLIAM JONES.

WEET Maid, if thou would'ft charm my fight,
And bid there arms thy neck enfold,

That rofy cheek, that lily hand,
Would give thy poet more delight,
Than all Becara's vaunted gold,
Than all the gems of Samarcand.

Boy, let yon liquid ruby flow,
And bid thy penfive heart be glad.
Whate'er the frowning zealots fay,
Tell them their Eden cannot fhew
A ftream fo clear as Ronabad,
A bower fo fweet as Mofellay.

Oh! when these fair perfidious maids,
Whofe eyes our fecret haunts infeft,
Their dear deftructive charms difplay;
Each glance my tender breast invades,
And robs my wounded foul of reft,
As Tartars feize their deftin'd prey.
In vain with love our bofoms glow:
Can all our tears, can all our fighs,
New luftre to those charms impart ?
Can cheeks where living rofes blow,
Where Nature spreads her richest dyes,
Require the borrow'd glofs of art?

Speak not of fate-ah!-change the theme,
And talk of odours, talk of wine,

Talk of the flowers that round us bloom;

'Tis all a cloud, 'tis all a dream!

To love and joy thy thoughts confine,
Nor hope to pierce the facred gloom.

Beauty has fuch refiftlefs power,-
That even the chafte Egyptian dame
Sigh'd for the blooming Hebrew boy:
For her how fatal was the hour,

When to the banks of Nilus came

A youth fo lovely and fo coy!

r

But

But ah! fweet maid, my counfel hear,
(Youth fhould attend when those advise

Whom long experience renders fage)
While mufic charms the ravish'd ear,
While fparkling cups delight our eyes,

Be gay, and scorn the frowns of age.
What cruel answer have I heard!

And yet, by Heav'n, I love thee ftill:
Can ought be cruel from thy lip?
Yet fay, how fell that bitter word
From lips which ftreams of sweetness fill,
Which nought but drops of honey fip?

Go boldly forth, my fimple lay,

Whofe accents flow with artless ease,
Like Orient pearls at random ftrung:

Thy notes are fweet, the damfels fay;
But, oh! far fweeter, if they please

The nymph for whom these notes are fung.

SOFTLY, an Ode from the fame.
By the late Captain THOMAS FORD.

ISGUIS'D, laft night, I rufh'd from home;
To feek the palace of my foul:
I reach'd by filent fteps the dome,
And to her chamber foftly stole.
On a gay various couch reclin'd,

In fweet repofe I faw the maid;
My breaft, like afpins to the wind,

To love's alarum softly play'd.

Two fingers, then, to half expanfe,

I trembling op'd-with fear opprefs'd,

With thefe I pull'd her veil afkance,
Then softly drew her to my breaft.

Who art thou, wretch!" my angel cry'd;
Whifp'ring, I faid Thy flave thy fwain

:

But hush, my love!-forbear to chide:

Speak foftly, left fome hear the train.”
Trembling with love, with hope, and fear,
At length her ruby lips I prefs'd:

Sweet kiffes oft mellifluous-dear-
Softly I fnatch'd-was foftly blefs'd.

"O let me," now inflam'd I faid,

My idol clafp within thefe arms :"
"Remove the light"-deep-figh'd the maid-
Come foftly, come-prevent alarms."

Now by her fide with blifs I glow'd,-
Swift flew the night in amorous play:
At length the morning's herald crow'd ;-
When foftly thence I bent my way.

EPIGRAM on this Question:

"Which is the more eligible for a Wife, a Widow or an Old Maid?** From the Efay on Old Maids.

YE

E, who to wed the sweetest wife would try,
Obferve how men a fweet Cremona buy!
New violins they feek not from the trade,
But one, on which fome good mufician play'd:
Strings never try'd fome harflinefs will produce;
The fiddle's harmony improves by use.

By the Right Hon. HENRY FOX, late Lord HOLLAND.

O!

Where are all the winds? O! who will feize

And bear me gafping to fome northern breeze?

Or weftward to yon Pyrenæans go,

Lay me where lies the yet unmelted fnow.

O! my foul's panting with in mid-day dreams!
O! native foil! O! verdure, woods, and ftreams,
Where are ye? And thou! lovely Redlynch! where
Thy graffy profpects, and thy vernal air?
Ofend thy fpacious waters to my aid,
Lend me thy lofty elm's protecting fhade;
Henceforth within thy limits let me live.
O! England! injur'd climate! I forgive
Thy fpleen-inflicting mifts, thy gloomy days,
I'll think thy clouds but intercept fuch rays
As now rage here, before whofe hoftile blaze
The waters fhrink, withers herb, fruit, and grain,
And the blood throbs in the distemper'd vein.
So fhall I pleas'd behold thy low'ring fkies,
Contented fee thy thickeft fogs arife,
For e'en to thy November's arms, to fhun
This painful heat, with tranfport would I run,

Thefe verfes, with many fimilar advertisements in profe, were spoken at a private masquerade, in the character of a Town-cryer.

N 3

A plain,

A plain, old-fashion'd habitation,
Subftantial without decoration,

Large, and with room for friends to fpare;
Well-fituate, and in good repair.

Alfo the furniture; as fighs,

Hopes, fears, oaths, pray'rs, and fome few-lies ;
Odes, fonnets, elegies, and fongs,
With all that to th' above belongs.
Aljo,-what fome might have been glad
Tho' in a fep'rate lot to have had,—
A good rich foil of hopeful nature,
Six measur'd acres (feet) of ftature.
Likewife another lot-an heap
Of tatter'd modefty, quite cheap.
This with the rest would have been fold;
But that by feveral we were told,
If put up with the heart, the price
Of that it much might prejudice.

Note well; th' eltate, if manag'd ably,
May be improv'd confiderably.
Love is our money, to be paid
Whenever entry thall be made;
And therefore have we fix'd the day
For entering, in the month of May.
But if the buyer of the above
Can on the foot pay ready love,
Hereby the owner makes profeffion,
She inftantly fhall have poffeffion,
The highest bidder be the buyer.
You may know further of THE CRYER.

RONDE A U.

YOURS, Jenny, yours in every thought,

At length this fickle heart is caught:
this fickle

This heart that broke kind Kitty's chain
Tho' ftudious to prevent my pain,
What you deny, the gave unfought.
And, if to my embrace were brought
She, for whom Greece and Ilion fought,
Ev'n her for you would I disdain,

9

Yours, Jenny, yours!

This is the only legitimate Rondeau, in the language. It was written at the requeft of a friend to exemplify the fyftem of rhymes, the divifion of ftanzas, and the laws of the return, according to the practice of Voiture, and the other French writers, who have most excelled in this laborious kind of trifling.

Then