Next Fancy claim'd him for her own,
But Prudence disallow'd her right;
She deem'd her iris pinions shone
Too dazzling for his infant sight.

To Hope awhile the charge was given,
And well with Hope the cherub throve,
Till Innocence came down from heaven,
Sole guardian, friend, and nurse of Love.

Pleasure, a fury in her spight,
When all prefer'd to her she found,
Vow'd cruel vengeance for the slight,
And soon success her purpose crown'd.

The trait'ress watch'd a sultry hour,
When, pillow'd on her blush-rose bed,
Tired Innocence to Slumber's pow'r
One moment bow'd her virgin head.

Then, Pleasure on the thoughtless child
Her toys and sugar'd poisons prest;
Drunk with new joy, he sigh'd, he smil’d—
And True Love died on Pleasure's breast.

ANSWER

ΤΟ

A LADY'S VERSES ON "TO-MORROW."

As the gales, whilst your hand crops the flow'rbending spray,

Bring you sweets which from flow'rs at a distance they borrow,

So ever for you, to the joys of to-day,

May hope add a taste of the joys of "To-morrow!"

But to me, lovely friend, worse than doubtful appears Your "Improver of bliss, and dispeller of sorrow," Since, alas! it presents me no hopes and no fears— My misfortune is sure-for I leave you to-morrow!

ORIGIN OF A PEN.

LOVE begg'd and pray'd old Time to stay,
Whilst he and Psyche toy'd together;
Love held his wings, Time tore away,
But, in the scuffle, dropp'd a feather!

Love seiz'd the prize, and with his dart,
Adroitly work'd to trim and shape it ;-
"O Psyche! tho' 'tis pain to part,
This charm shall make us half escape it!

"Time need not fear to fly too slow,
When he this useful loss discovers;

A pen's the only plume I know,
That wings his pace for absent lovers!"

EPITAPH ON MISS SPENCER,

WHO DIED NOVEMBER 15, 1799, AGED NINE YEARS.

AN angel form, for earth too pure, too bright,
Glanc'd in sweet vision o'er parental sight:
It fled this holiest hope to faith is given,
To find that dream,-reality in heaven!

BETH GÉLERT,

OR

THE GRAVE OF THE GREYHOUND.*

THE spearmen heard the bugle sound,
And cheerly smil❜d the morn;

And many a brach, and many a hound,
Obey'd Llewelyn's horn.

And still he blew a louder blast,

And gave a lustier cheer;

"Come, Gêlert, come, wer't never last
Llewelyn's horn to hear.-

*The story of this ballad is traditionary in a village at the foot of Snowden, where Llewelyn the Great had a house. The Greyhound, named Gêlert, was given him by his father-in-law, King John, in the year 1205, and the place to this day, is called Beth-Gêlert, or the grave of Gêlert.