This beautiful address to conjugal love, a subject too much neglected by the libertine Muses, was, I believe, first printed in a volume of "Miscellaneous Poems, by several hands, published by D. [David] Lewis, 1726." 8vo.

It is there said, how truly I know not, to be a translation "from the ancient British language."

AWAY; let nought to love displeasing,
My Winifreda, move your care;
Let nought delay the heavenly blessing,
Nor squeamish pride, nor gloomy fear.

What tho' no grants of royal donors
With pompous titles grace our blood;
We'll shine in more substantial honors,
And to be noble we'll be good.

Our name, while virtue thus we tender,

Will sweetly sound where-e'er 'tis spoke;
And all the great ones, they shall wonder
How they respect such little folk.

What though from fortune's lavish bounty
No mighty treasures we possess;

We'll find within our pittance plenty,
And be content without excess.

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Still shall each returning season
Sufficient for our wishes give;
For we will live a life of reason,
And that's the only life to live.

Through youth and age in love excelling,
We'll hand in hand together tread;
Sweet-smiling peace shall crown our dwelling,
And babes, sweet smiling babes, our bed.
How should I love the pretty creatures,
While round my knees they fondly clung;
To see them look their mothers features,
To hear them lisp their mothers tongue.
And when with envy time, transported,
Shall think to rob us of our joys,
You'll in your girls again be courted,
And I'll go a wooing in my boys.

XIV.

The Witch of Wokey

was published in a small collection of Poems, entitled Euthemia, or the Power of Harmony, &c., 1756, written in 1748 by the ingenious Dr. Harrington, of Bath, who never allowed them to be published, and withheld his name till it could no longer be concealed. The following contains some variations from the original copy, which it is hoped the author will pardon, when he is informed they came from the elegant pen of the late Mr. Shenstone.

Wokey-hole is a noted cavern in Somersetshire, which has given birth to as many wild fanciful stories as the Sybil's Cave in Italy. Through a very narrow entrance it opens into a large vault, the roof whereof, either on account of its height or the thickness of the gloom, cannot be discovered by the light of torches. It goes winding a great way under ground, is crost by a stream of very cold water, and is all horrid with broken pieces of rock: many of these are evident petrifactions, which, on account of their singular forms, have given rise to the fables alluded to in this poem.

IN aunciente days, tradition showes,
A base and wicked elfe arose,

The Witch of Wokey hight:

Oft have I heard the fearfull tale,
From Sue and Roger of the vale,
On some long winter's night.

Deep in the dreary dismall cell,
Which seem'd and was ycleped hell,
This blear-eyed hag did hide;
Nine wicked elves, as legends sayne,
She chose to form her guardian-trayne,
And kennel near her side.

Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
While wolves its craggy sides possest,
Night-howling thro' the rock;

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No wholesome herb could here be found:
She blasted every plant around,

And blister'd every flock.

Her haggard face was foull to see;
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to bee;
Her eyne of deadly leer.

She nought devis'd but neighbour's ill,
She wreak'd on all her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly chear.

All in her prime, have poets sung,
No gaudy youth, gallant and young,
E'er blest her longing armes;
And hence arose her spight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,

By dint of hellish charms.

From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell despight,
And well he did, I ween:
Sich mischief never had been known,
And, since his mickle lerninge shown,
Sich mischief ne'er has been.

He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He crost the water, blest the brooke,
Then, pater-noster done,--

With all that's good and virtuous join'd,
Yet hardly one gallant.

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Shall then sich maids unpitied moane?

They might as well, like her, be stone,
As thus forsaken dwell.

Since Glaston now can boast no clerks;

Come down from Oxenford, ye sparks,

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And oh! revoke the spell!

Yet stay-nor thus despond, ye fair;
Virtue's the gods' peculiar care;

I hear the gracious voice:
Your sex shall soon be blest agen,
We only wait to find sich men,
As best deserve your choice.

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XV.

Bryan and Pereene,

A WEST-INDIAN BALLAD,

is founded on a real fact, that happened in the Island of St. Christopher's, about 1760. The editor owes the following stanzas to the friendship of Dr. James Grainger, who was an eminent physician in that island when this tragical incident happened, and died there much honoured and lamented in 1767. To this ingenious gentleman the public is indebted for the fine Ode on Solitude, printed in the fourth volume of Dodsley's Miscellanies, p. 229, in which are assembled some of the sublimest images in nature. The reader will pardon the insertion of the first stanza here, for the sake of rectifying the two last lines, which were thus given by the author:

"O Solitude, romantic maid,

Whether by nodding towers you tread,
Or haunt the desert's trackless gloom,
Or hover o'er the yawning tomb,
Or climb the Andes' clifted side,
Or by the Nile's coy source abide,

Or starting from your half-year's sleep
From Hecla view the thawing deep,
Or at the purple dawn of day
Tadmor's marble wastes survey," &c.,

alluding to the account of Palmyra published by some late ingenious travellers, and the manner in which they were struck at the first sight of those magnificent ruins by break of day.

THE north-east wind did briskly blow,
The ship was safely moor'd;

Young Bryan thought the boat's crew slow,
And so leapt overboard.

Pereene, the pride of Indian dames,
His heart long held in thrall;

And whoso his impatience blames,
I wot, ne'er lov'd at all.

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A long, long year, one month and day,
He dwelt on English land,

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Nor once in thought or deed would stray,

Tho' ladies sought his hand.

Author of a poem on the Culture of the Sugar-Cane, &c.