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MAY.

A PASTORAL.

THE month was May, the sky serene,
All nature hail'd the verdant scene;
'Twas early dawn, the late fall'n show'rs
In brighter tints array'd the flow'rs;
With orient pearls had deck'd the thorn,
And added lustre to the morn.
The blackbird, tenant of the grove,
Carol'd aloud the note of love;
The stock-dove too, in pensive mood,
Join'd the full chorus of the wood;
And linnets from their little throats,
Melodious pour'd their softest notes.
When from his cot Evander stray'd,
To count the flocks which round him play'd,
He, wrapt in thought, pursu'd his way,
And thus began his plaintive lay:

"Ah me! how blest are those," he cry'd,
"Who ne'er the cares of love have try'd,
Whose hearts from female wiles are free,
And taste those joys deny'd to me.
Farewell ye hawthorn-scented fields,
Farewell the joys which Summer yields,
Farewell the happy wake and fair,
Since Lucy scorns to meet me there.
In vain my flocks their fleeces show,
In vain my crowded barns o'erflow,

They but increase my present care,
Since Lucy scorns these gifts to share;
Some wealthier lover courts her smiles,
And all her vacant hours beguiles;
For him she quits her constant swain,
And proudly scorns the rural train."

-In these complaints he reach'd a shade
Where chance had brought the much-lov'd maid,
Lur'd by the sweets of May she rov'd,
But more to meet the man she lov'd.
The friendly oak's impervious shade
No longer hid the blushing maid,
(Not Venus rising from the sea
Was half so bright so fair as she,)
In sweet confusion, scatter'd round,
Her flowers, neglected, strew'd the ground.
Her artless fears she thus bespoke,
And thus the painful silence broke:
"Evander, say, what new-fraught care
Invites your wand'ring footsteps here?
That thus alone you pensive stray,
Regardless of the gladsome day;
When village maids and swains are seen,
In jocund dance upon the green?-
Can Lucy see Evander's woe,

Nor ask from whence his sorrows flow?"
"Blest be the hour " Evander cries,
(Sweet transport beaming in his eyes)
"That heav'n has heard my frequent pray'r,
And sent my Lucy, welcome here;

Say, will my fair my suit approve,
And listen to my constant love?
Shall Hymen with to-morrow's sun,
In bliss unite our hearts in one,
When all my future life shall prove
My tender care, my endless love?"
To his fond tale the maid inclin'd,
And sweet confusion spoke her mind,
Now hand in hand they jocund stray,
And conscious bless the month of May.

C. S.

THE STIPULATION.

WRITTEN IN THE REBELLION, 1745.

AWHILE, fond Damon! prithee tarry,
Nor woo me to thy eager arms;
Oh! think'st thou this a time to marry,
When all the nation's in alarms?

In holy wedlock shall we join

Our hands, when wild invasion braves? Or would'st thou wish to have me thine, To propagate a brood of slaves?

No, furbish up thy armour bright,
And let me first thy valour see!
Who for his country fears to fight,
I fear will never stand by me.

Then buckle on thy trusty sword,
And when our vanquish'd foes are fled,
I plight thee now my faithful word,
To take thee to my virgin bed.

Gentleman's Magazine.

ON WISHING.

To wishing the proverb may well be apply'd,
That if wishes were horses all beggars would ride.
To count or describe them would puzzle all wit,
And fill up more volumes than ever were writ.
The man wishes health, who lies sick on his bed;
The rich wish for titles, the poor wish for bread.
One wishes a garden, another a hall,

A third wishes money-for that will buy all.
Not all, tho' heav'n smil'd, can their wishes attain,
For one farmer wants sunshine, another begs rain.
One wishes a mistress, another a friend,

Some wish without reason, all wish-without end.
And our wishes so vary in joy or in sorrow,
What we wish for to day, we forget by to-morrow!
At Newmarket each jockey desires to be winner;
The hero seeks fame, and the poet-a dinner.

And as Prior well sings-to the grave from the cradle,
Life is all a vain wish-like Corisca's fine ladle.

Gentleman's Magazine.

TO ROBERT LOWE, ESQ.

OXTON.

No more in prose I'll baulk my fancy,
To tell you all I read or can see,
For having got astride Pegasus,
Whose fame your old grey horse surpasses,
I'll boldly soar to that fam'd hill,
Where all the poets drank their fill;
Where Shakespeare, Addison, and Gay,
And many more, as people say,
In days of yore grew wise by drink,
And never plagu'd themselves to think,
For inspiration at each cup

Call'd every bright idea up.

Where Milton-wonderful to tell!
Was led by Fancy to the well,
Where Sterne, with sympathetic skill,
Manag'd the passions at his will,
Call'd forth th' involuntary tear
O'er poor Le Fever's mournful bier,
In sweetest accents lull'd to rest
The anguish of Maria's breast.

But ah! how faint my feeble wing
To reach the blest Pierian spring.
Then let me chuse some humble theme,
Content to sip the chrystal stream

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