In thy large recompence, and fhalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.

Thus fang the uncouth fwain to th'oaks and rills,
While the ftill morn went out with fandals gray,
He touch'd the tender ftops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the fun had stretch'd out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay;
At laft he rofe, and twitch'd his mantle blue:
To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

THE BREWER'S COACHMAN,
By Mr. TAYLOR.

[ONEST William, an eafy and good-natur'd fellow,
Would a little too oft get a little too mellow,
Body coachman was he to an eminent brewer-
No better e'er fat on a box, to be fure.

His coatch was kept clean, and no mothers or nurses
Took that care of their babes that he took of his horses.
He had thefe-ay, and fifty good qualities more ;
But the business of tippling could ne'er be got o'er :
So his mafter effectually mended the matter,
By hiring a man that drank nothing but water.
Now, William, fays he, you see the plain cafe ;
Had you drank as he does, you'd keep a good place.
Drink water! quoth William-had all men done fo,
You'd never have wanted a coachman, I trow,

They're foakers, like me, whom you load with reproaches,
That enable you brewers to ride in your coaches.

Vol. IV. 14.

E

THE

THE

MYNSTRELLES SONGE IN ELLA,

A TRAGYCAL ENTERLUDE.

By THOMAS CHATTERTON.

O'

! Synge untoe my roundelaie,

O droppe the brynie teare wythe mee,

Daunce ne moe atte hallie daie,

Lycke a reynynge * ryver bee ;

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Black hys cryne + as the wyntere nyght,
Whyte hys rode as the fommer fnowe,
Rodde hys face as the mornynge lyghte,
Cale he lyes ynne the grave belowe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree;

*Running. Hair. ‡ Complexion.

Swote

Swote hys tongue as the throftles note,
Quycke ynne daunce as thought cann bee,
Defte hys taboure, codgelle flote,

O hee lys bie the wyllowe tree:
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,
Al under the wyllowe tree:

Harke! the ravenne flappes hys wynge,
In the briered dell belowe ;

Harke! the dethe-owle loude dothe fynge,
To the nyghte-mares as heie goe;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

See the whyte moone fheenes onne hie ;
Whyterre ys mie true loves fhroude;
Whyterre yanne the mornynge fkie,
Whyterre yanne the evenynge cloude;
Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Heere, upon mie true loves grave,
Schalle the baren fleurs be layde,
Nee one hallie feynote to save

Al the celnefs of a myade.
E 2

Mie

Mie love ys dedde,

Gonne to hys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Wy the mie hondes I'll dent the brieres
Rounde his hallie corfe to gre,
Ouphante fairie, lyghte your fyres,
Heere mie boddie flylle schalle bec.

Gonne to hy's deathe-bedde.

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Comme, wythe acorne-coppe and thorne,
Drayne mie hartys blodde awaie;
Lyfe & all yttes goode I fcorne,
Daunce bie nete, or feafle by daie.
Mie love ys deede,

Gonne tohys deathe-bedde,

Al under the wyllowe tree.

Water wytches, crownede wythe reytes*,
Bere mee to yer leathalle tyde.

I die; I comme; mie true love waytes,
Thos the damfelle fpake, and dyed.

*Water-flags.

ODE

ODE TO THE GENIUS OF SHAKESPEARE.

By Mr. OGILVIE.

I.

1.

R

APT from the glance of mortal eye;

Say, burft thy Genius to the world of light? Seeks it yon ftar-befpangled sky?

Or fkims its fields with rapid flight?

Or, mib yon plains where Fancy flrays,

Courts it the balmy breathing gale?
Or where the violet pale

Droops o'er the green-embroider'd stream;

Or where young Zephyr flirs the ruling sprays,
Lies all diffolv'd in fairy dream.

O'er yon bleak defart's unfrequented round
Seeft thou where Nature treads the deep'ning gloom,

Sits on yon hoary tow'r with ivy crown'd,
Or wildly wails o'er thy lamented tomb;
Hear'ft thou the folemn mufic wind along?

Or thrills the warbling note in thy mellifluous fong?

I. 2.

Oft while on earth 'twas thine to rove
Where'er the wild-eyed goddefs lov'd to roam,
To trace ferene the gloomy grove,

Or haunt meek Quiet's fimple dome