Instead of harmony, 'tis jar

And tumult, and intestine war.

The love that cheers life's latest stage,
Proof against fickness and old age,
Preferv'd by virtue from declenfion,
Becomes not weary of attention,
But lives, when that exterior grace
Which first infpir'd the flame, decays.
'Tis gentle, delicate and kind,

To faults compaffionate or blind,
And will with fympathy endure
Thofe evils it would gladly cure.
But angry, coarfe, and harsh expreffion
Shows love to be a mere profeffion,
Proves that the heart is none of his,
Or foon expels him if it is.

To

To the REV. MR. NEW TO N.

An Invitation into the Country.

1.

THE fwallows in their torpid ftate,
Compose their useless wing,

And bees in hives as idly wait

The call of early spring.

2.

The keeneft frost that binds the stream,

The wildeft wind that blows,

Are neither felt nor fear'd by them,

Secure of their repose.

3.

But man all feeling and awake

The gloomy scene surveys,

With prefent ills his heart must ach,

And pant for brighter days.

Old

4.

Subrubet illa pudore, et contrahit altera frontem,
Me torquet mea mens conscia, pfallo, tremo;
Atque Cupidineâ dixit Dea cincta coronâ,
Heu! fallendi artem quam didicere parum.

BOADICEA,

AN OD E.

I.

WHEN the British warrior queen,

Bleeding from the Roman rods,

Sought with an indignant mien,

Counfel of her country's gods,

2.

Sage beneath a spreading oak

Sat the Druid, hoary chief,

Ev'ry burning word he spoke,
rage and full of grief.

Full of

Princefs!

1

3.

Princefs! if our aged eyes

Weep upon thy matchlefs wrongs,

'Tis because refentment ties

All the terrors of our tongues.

4.

Rome fhall perish-write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;

Perish hopeless and abhorr'd,

Deep in ruin as in guilt.

5.

Rome for empire far renown'd,

Tramples on a thousand states,

Soon her pride fhall kifs the ground

Hark! the Gaul is at her gates.

Other Romans shall arise,

6.

Heedlefs of a soldier's name,

Sounds, not arms, fhall win the prize,

Harmony the path to fame.

4.

Old winter halting o'er the mead,

Bids me and Mary mourn,

But lovely spring peeps o'er his head,

And whispers your return.

5.

Then April with her sister May,
Shall chafe him from the bow'rs,
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,
To crown the smiling hours.

6.

And if a tear that speaks regret

Of happier times appear,

A glimpse of joy that we have met

Shall fhine, and dry the tear.

TRANS