Saw bursting clouds eclipse the noontide beams, While sounding billows from the mountains roll'd, With bitter waves polluting all my streams,

My nectar'd streams, that flow'd on sands of gold.

Then vanish'd many a sea-girt isle and grove,

Their forests floating on the wat❜ry plain: Then, fam'd for arts and laws deriv'd from Jove, My Atalantis sunk beneath the main,

No longer bloom'd primæval Eden's bow'rs,

Nor guardian dragons watch'd th'Hesperian steep: With all their fountains, fragrant fruits and flow'rs, Torn from the continent to glut the deep.

No more to dwell in sylvan scenes I deign'd,
Yet oft descending to the languid earth,
With quick'ning pow'rs the fainting mass sustain'd,
And wak'd her slumb'ring atoms into birth.

And ev'ry echo taught my raptur'd name,
And ev'ry virgin breath'd her am'rous vows,
And precious wreaths of rich immortal fame,
Show'r'd by the Muses, crown'd my lofty brows.

But chief in Europe, and in Europe's pride,

My Albion's favour'd realms, I rose ador'd; And pour'd my wealth, to other climes denied ; From Amalthea's horn with plenty stor❜d.

Ah me! for now a younger rival claims
My ravish'd honours, and to her belong
My choral dances, and victorious games,

To her my garlands and triumphal song.

say what yet untasted beauties flow, What purer joys await her gentler reign? Do lilies fairer, vi'lets sweeter blow?

And warbles Philomel a softer strain?

Do morning suns in ruddier glory rise?
Does ev'ning fan her with serener gales?
Do clouds drop fatness from the wealthier skies,
: Or wantons plenty in her happier vales?

Ah! no: the blunted beams of dawning light
Skirt the pale orient with uncertain day;
And Cynthia, riding on the car of night,
Through clouds embattled faintly wings her way.

Pale, immature, the blighted verdure springs,
Nor mounting juices feed the swelling flow'r;
Mute all the groves, nor Philomela sings

When silence listens at the midnight hour.

Nor wonder, man, that nature's bashful face,
And op'ning charms her rude embraces fear:
Is she not sprung from April's wayward race,
The sickly daughter of th' unripen'd year?

With show'rs and sunshine in her fickle eyes,
With hollow smiles proclaiming treach'rous peace,
With blushes, harb'ring, in their thin disguise,
The blasts that riot on the Spring's increase?

Is this the fair invested with my spoil

By Europe's laws, and senates' stern command? Ungen'rous Europe! let me fly thy soil, And waft my treasures to a grateful land;

Again revive, on Asia's drooping shore,

My Daphne's groves, or Lycia's ancient plain; Again to Afric's sultry sands restore

Embow'ring shades, and Lybian Ammon's fane:

Or haste to northern Zembla's savage coast,
There hush to silence elemental strife;
Brood o'er the regions of eternal frost,

And swell her barren womb with heat and life.

Then Britain-Here she ceas'd. Indignant grief, And parting pangs, her falt'ring tongue supprest: Veil'd in an amber cloud she sought relief,

And tears and silent anguish told the rest.

SONG TO

WHAT! bid me seek another fair

In untried paths of female wiles?
And posies weave of other hair,

And bask secure in other smiles?
Thy friendly stars no longer prize,
And light my course by other eyes?

Ah no!-my dying lips shall close,
Unalter'd love, as faith, professing;
Nor praising him who life bestows,
Forget who makes that gift a blessing.
My last address to Heav'n is due;
The last but one is all-to you.

FRANCIS FAWKES.
BORN 1721.-DIED 1777.

FRANCIS FAWKES made translations from some of the minor Greek poets (viz. Anacreon, Sappho, Bion and Moschus, Musæus, Theocritus, and Apollonius), and modernized the description of " May and Winter," from Gawin Douglas. He was born in Yorkshire, studied at Cambridge, was curate of Croydon, in Surrey, where he obtained the friend

ship of Archbishop Herring, and by him was collated to the vicarage of Orpington, in Kent. By the favour of Dr. Plumptre, he exchanged this vicarage for the rectory of Hayes, and was finally made chaplain to the Princess of Wales. He was the friend of Johnson, and Warton; a learned and a jovial parson.

THE BROWN JUG.

DEAR Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,

(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale)
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank a bottle, or fathom'd a bowl;
In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.

It chanc'd as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow'r-woven arbour as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,
His breath-doors of life on a sudden were shut,
And he died full as big as a Dorchester butt.

&

His body, when long in the ground it had lain,
And time into clay had resolv'd it again,

A potter found out in its covert so snug,

And with part of fat Toby he form'd this brown jug, Now sacred to friendship, and mirth, and mild ale, So here's to my lovely sweet Nan of the Vale.