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Wiping Love's tear-streaming eyes,
Archly smiling-she replies:
"Cupid, if a thing so small
Pain thee thus, and give thee thrall,
Think, O think, what torturing woe
They, who feel thy dart, must know."

SONNET TO THE RIVER TWEED.

BY THE REV, W.L. BOWLES.

O TWEED! a stranger that, with wand'ring feet,

O'er hill and dale has journey'd many a mile;

If so his weary thoughts he might beguile, Delighted turns thy beauteous scenes to greet.

The waving branches that romantic bend

O'er thy tall banks, a soothing cbarm bestow;

The murmurs of thy wand'ring wave below, Seem to his ear the pity of a friend.

Delightful stream! though now along thy shore,

When Spring returns in all her wonted pride, The shepherd's distant pipe is beard no more,

Yet here with peosive peace could I abide: Far from the stormy world's tumultuous roar,

To muse upon tby banks at even tide.

R

VIRTUE'S REPLY TO PLEASURE.

SPENCE.

'Tis with the gods and godlike men I dwell,

Me, his supreme delight, th' Almighty sire, Regards well pleas'd; whatever works excel,

All or divine, or human, I inspire.

Counsel with strength, and industry with art,

In union meet, conjoin' with me reside; My dictates arnı, instruct, and mend the heart,

The surest policy, the wisest guide. With me true friendship dwells: she deigns to bind Those generous souls alone, whom I before have join'd.

Nor need my friends the various costly feast,

Hunger to them th' effects of art supplies; Labour prepares their weary limbs to rest,

Sweet is their sleep: light, cheerful, strong they rise.

Thro' health, thro' joy, thro' pleasure and renown,

They tread my paths: and, by a soft descent, At length to age all gently sinking down,

Look back with transport on a life well spent. In which, no hour flew unimprov'd away, In which, some generous deed distinguish'd every day. And when, the destin'd term at length complete,

Their ashes rest in peace; eternal fame Sounds wide their praise : triumphant over fate,

In sacred song for ever lives their name.

This Hercules is happiness! obey

My voice, and live. Let thy celestial birth Lift and eularge thy thoughts. Behold the way

That leads to fame, and raises thee from earth. Immortal! Lo, I guide thy steps. Arise, Pursue the glorious path, and claim thy native skies.

HYMN TO CONTENT.

BY MRS. BARBAULD.

O thou, the Nymph with placid eye!
O seldom found, yet ever nigh!

Receive my temp'rate vow:
Not all the storms that shake the pole
Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul,

And smooth, unalter'd brow.

O come, in simplest vest array'd,
With all thy sober cheer display'd,

To bless my longing sight;
Thy mien compos’d, thy even pace,
Thy meek regard, thy matron grace,

And chaste subdued delights.

No more by varying passions beat,
O gently guide my pilgrim feet

To find thy hermit cell;
Where in some pure and equal sky,
Beneath thy soft indulgent eye,

Thy modest virtues dwell.

Simplicity in Attic vest,
And Innocence with candid breast,

And clear undaunted eye;
And Hope, who points to distant years,
Fair op’ning through this vale of tears,

A vista to the sky.

There Health, through whose calm bosom glide
The temp'rate joys in even tide,

That rarely ebb or flow;
And Patience there, thy sister meek,
Presents her mild unvarying cheek

To meet the offer'd blow.

Her influence taught the Phrygian sage
A tyrant master's wanton rage

With settled smiles to meet;
Inur'd to toil and bitter bread,
He bow'd his peek submitted head,

And kiss'd thy sainted feet.

But thou, O Nymph, retir'd and coy!
In what brown hamlet dost thou joy

To tell thy simple tale?
The lowliest children of the ground,
Moss-rose and violet, blossom round,

And lily of the vale.

O say what soft propitious hout
I best may chuse to hail thy pow's,

And court thy gentle sway? When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, Shall thy own modest tints diffuse

And shed tliy milder day.

When Eve, her dewy star beneath,
Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe,

And ev'ry storm is laid;
If such an hour was e'er thy choice,
Oft let me hear thy soothing voice

Low whisp'ring through the shade.

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