Where on the world's remoteft verge

Th' unactive leafons lie,

And not one genial ray

The rigor of the sky.

unbinds

On that unhabitable shore,
Expofe me all alone,

Where I may view without a fhade,
The culminating sun.

Beneath th' Æquator, or the Pole,
In fafety could I rove ;
And in a thoufand different climes

Could live for her I love.

A PROLOGUE for the STROLLERS.

GENTEELS, of old pert prologues led the way,

To guide, defend, and usher in the play,

As powder'd footmen run before the coach,
And thunder at the door my lord's approach.
But though they speak your entertainment near,
Moft prologues speed like other bills of fare;
Seldom the languid ftomach they excite,
And oftener pall, than raise the appetite.

As for the play-'tis hardly worth our care,
The prologue craves your mercy for the player;
That is, your money---for by Jove I swear,
White-gloves and lodging are confounded dear.
Since here are none but friends, the truth to own,
Hafp'd in a coach our company came down,
But I moft fhrewdly fear we fhall depart,

Ev'n in our old original, a cart.

With pride inverted, and fantastic power,
We strut the fancy'd monarchs of an hour;
While duns our emperors and heroes fear,
And Cleomenes ftarves in earnest here:
The mightiest kings and queens we keep in pay,
Support their pomp on eighteen-pence a day.
Great Cyrus for a dram has pawn'd his coat,
And all our Cæfars can't command a groat;
Our Scipio's, Hannibals, and Pompeys break,
And Cleopatra shifts but once a week.

To aggravate the case, we have not one,
Of all the new refinements of the town:
No moving statues, no lewd Harlequins,
No pasteboard-players, no heroes in machines
No rosin to flash lightning---'twould exhaust us,
To buy a devil and a Doctor Fauftus.
No windmills, dragons, millers, conjurers,
To exercife your eyes, and spare your ears;
No paper-feas, no thunder from the skies,
No witches to defcend, no ftage to rife;
Scarce one for us the actors---we can fet
Nothing before you but meer sense and wit.
A bare downright old-fashion'd English feast,
Such as true Britons only can digest;
Such as your homely fathers us'd to love,
Who only came to hear and to improve:

Humbly content and pleas'd with what was dreft,
When Otway, Lee, and Shakespeare rang'd the feaft.

*The Spartan Hero, a tragedy, by Mr. Dryden.

The

The EIGHTH PSALM TRANSLATED..

King eternal and divine !

The world is thine alone:

Above the stars thy glories shine,
Above the heavens thy throne.

How far extends thy mighty name !
Where'er the fun can roll,
That fun thy wonders shall proclaim,
Thy deeds from pole to pole.

The infant's tongue shall speak thy power,

And vindicate thy laws;

The tongue that never spoke before,

Shall labour in thy cause.

For when I lift my thoughts and eyes,
And view the heavens around,
Yon' ftretching waste of azure skies,
With ftars and planets crown'd;

Who in their dance attend the moon,
The empress of the night,

And pour around her filver throne,
Their tributary light :

Lord! what is mortal man? that he

Thy kind regard should share ?

What is his fon, who claims from thee

And challenges thy care?

The flocks that through the valley ftray,
The herds that graze the plain.
The furious tiger fpeeds his flight,
And trembles at his power;
In fear of his fuperior might,
The lions cease to roar.

Whatever horrid monfters tread

The paths beneath the fea,
Their king at awful distance dread,

And fullenly obey.

O Lord, how far extends thy name!
Where-e'er the fun can roll,
That fun thy wonders shall proclaim,

Thy deeds from pole to pole.

PSALM the Twenty-fourth, PARAPHRASED.

F

AR as the world can ftretch its bounds,

The Lord is king of all,

His wondrous power extends around

The circuit of the ball.

For he within the gloomy deeps

Its dark foundations caft,

And rear'd the pillars of the earth
Amid the watery waste.

Who fhall afcend his Sion's hill,

And fee Jehovah there?

Who from his facred fhrine fhall breathe

The facrifice of prayer?

He only whofe unfully'd foul

Fair virtue's paths has trod,

Who with clean hands and heart regards
His neighbour and his God.

On him fhall his indulgent Lord
Diffufive bounties fhed,

From God his Saviour fhall defcend
All bleffings on his head.

Of those who feek his righteous ways,

Is this the chofen race,

Who bafk in all his bounteous fmiles,

And flourish in his grace.

Lift up your stately heads, ye doors,
With hafty reverence rife;

Ye everlasting doors, who guard

The paffes of the skies.

Swift from your golden hinges leap,

Your barriers roll away,

Now throw your blazing portals wide,
And burft the gates of day.

For