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of fanatics, my

Now Sir, could I meet with a set long lanthern-jaws would accord very well with the character I fhould there have to act. But the misery is, that nature has thrown into my countenance such a dash of facetious humour, that I cannot for my life afsume" these hypocritical grimaces for two minutes together; so that here also I fhould be foiled. The upfhot of the whole is, that I suspect I am not one of the men who have "found out many inventions" to make money; so that I fear I must remain even as God made me, upright and poor to the end of the chapter: and I much doubt I fhall never visit the land of promise, which overfloweth with milk and honey; nor have I any ambition to visit Botany Bay; so that for aught I can see, I must even remain as I began

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A POOR DOMINE.

READING MEMORAND UMS.

LET us give up our fig leaved theories, and betake ourselves to the continuation of the experimental system of the great Roger Bacon, and his more fortunate succefsor the lord of Verulam.

The result of this noble and satisfactory system will be the increase of human happinefs, and the confefsion of every reasonable soul, that to be busy, and useful, and virtuous, and pious, is to be happy and truly beneficial to society, for which we were originally intended by our bountiful Creator.

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In one of the early volumes of the Bee I was pleased to see some remarks on pastoral poetry; and was in hopes these might have been continued, but regret that they have not. I agree with the writer of these in thinking that there are very few good specimens of pastoral poetry existing, and that these few are to be found chiefly among the rustic compositions of the unlettered muse; for there only we meet with nature free from affectation, the great bane of modern pastorals. I beg leave to send you a specimen of pastoral poetry, that pleased me very much; and will be glad it you give it a place in the Bee. It is perfectly devoid of those nause ating common places that that so frequently recur in almost every eclogue of modern times. I need hardly add that it is taken from the poems of Rowley, with the orthography a little modernised.

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MAN.

THE HAY FIELD, Amoral eclogue.

WOULDST thou see nature pure and unarray'd?
Visit the lowly cottage of the hind;

His art (if any) home spun and rough made,
Disguises not the workings of his mind.

To thee whom simple nature's lore can charm,
These words I send, heard late in village-farm.
But whither fair maid do ye go?
Oh where do ye bend your way?

I will be told whither ye go,

I will not be answered nay.

WOMAN. I go to the dale, down to Robin and Nell,
To help 'em at making of hay.

ΜΑΝ

Sir Robert, the parson, has hired me there,
Come, come, let us hasten away;

A..

[cheer']

We'll work and we'll sing, and we 'll make merry
As long as the long summer's day.

WOMAN. How hard is it always to work?

MAN.

How full is our sad state of care?
Lady Bridget who lies in the kirk,
Deckt with jewels and gold,
Was of the same mold;--

Why than ours was her fortune more fair?

Lo, our good priest is at the gate.

Ever ready to counsel his neighbour,
He'll tell why, whilst some are so great,
We are doom'd without ceasing to labour,
SIR ROBERT the priest [meditating alone]
The sultry sun is in his mid career;

A seed of life from ev'ry beem he sheds:
Yet. while his piercing rays the grafs make sear,
See the sever'd flowret withers o'er the meads!
Lost its rich fragrance! lost its vermeil bloom!—
When sever'd by death's dart, such is the gen'ral doom.

MAN.

PRIEST.

MAN.

PRIEST.

All-a-boon, Sir priest! all-a-boon!

I beseech thee now say unto me,

Why Sir Geoff'ry the knight, with his lady so bright,
So rich and so happy fhould be,

Whilst myself and my mate, in wretched estate,
Must in labour and drudgery all our days waste,
Yet never of plenty or honours fhall taste?

Turn thine eyes round upon this new mown lee;
With look attentive view the wither'd dale;
Here to thy question thou'lt fit answer see;
This faded flow'r suggests a moral tale.
Late fresh it blow'd, it flourished and did well,
Proudly disdaining the short neighb'ring green;
Yet now its pride is humbled;-lo! where fell
Its faded glories on the sun burnt plain!
Did not its gaudy look, whilst it did stand,

To pluck it in its prime move some dread hand?
Such is the way of life-the great man's wealth
Tempts ruffian violence his peace to wound:
If thou art blefs'd with bread, content, and health,
Believe the truth,-none is more happy found.
Thou workest?-well can that a trouble be?

Sloth more would tire thee than the roughest day:
Couldst thou the inmost soul of man but see,

Full well thou'dst be convinc'd of what I say.
But let me hear thy way of life; and then
Hear thou from me the lives of other men.
I rise up with the sun,

Working the live long day;
And when my work is done,
I tune some roundelay;
I follow the plough-tail
With a jug of good ale.
On ev'ry holiday

With the Minstrils am I seen,
Chearful, footing it away,

With maidens on the green:

But oh I wish to be more great
In honour, title, and estate.

Hast thou not seen a tree upon a hill,

Whose tow'ring branches to the skies ascend?

Hast thou not seen it by the roots up-torn,

When some fierce tempest earth and heav'n doth rend?
While lowly fhrubs that in the vale delight,

Un hurt, unfhaken bide the pelting storm?
Such is this world's estate :-the man of might
Is tempest chaft; his woe great as his form:
Thyscit, now a low shrub of small account,

Woud'st fiercer feel the wind, if higher thou coud'st mount,

THE SOLITUDES.

Communicated by Senex.

In compliance with the request of our respectable correspondent Senex, we do not hesitate to insert the following reflections, though sensible that to some of our readers they will not be altogether acceptable but to such as have had the tender ties of friendship and congenial feelings disunited by death, and other cross accidents of life, so as to give the susceptible mind that serious cast which looks forward to a state of future existence, as to a resting place, where care and sorrows fhall be for ever banished, it will excite a voluptuous flow of tender ideas which are ineffably pleasing.

SOLITARY fields where nature is silent, buried in dismal horror burning plains where melancholy dwells! frightful rocks! hide the world from my view; my wearied soul sighs for repose. The universe, my heart, every thing is like a desert-all is calm like the tomb.

O thou, my lyre! who by thy harmonious sounds canst render peace to the soul! thou who wert wont to sing the fleeting sorrows of my youth! thou art now silent, and liest neglected in the dust still make these savage wilds resound with thy tender plaints! And thou, spark of eternal light, O Sun! conceal thy sad rays: here all is frightful!

:

What majestic divinity descends slowly from the hill, with downcast eyes, and plunged in a deep reverie? Her beauty fhines through her sadnefs; her forehead is crowned with cyprefs; the zephir gently waves her flowing hair : the advances slowly with a celestial serenity; the deserts even become beautiful at her approach. She resembles the inhabitants of Olympus, or thee, O fair Amelia. Young man, know the muse destined by heaven to console ten

Sept. II. der hearts. Not her who sighed formerly the weak complaints of Ovid, and the soft griefs of Tibullus, but the who, full of sublime gravity, animated the immortal nights of the British bard.

Come O muse! animate me also in my turn. But alas! you fly from me. Agreeable error! return.

I still find myself alone in the midst of the gloomy plains.-The muse has disappeared. But would the have consoled me !-me whom wisdom herself cannot console.

Wisdom! earthly wisdom, what art thou? An illusion of a few instants: a pompous dream where the ideal Irus is seated on the throne of kings; but when Aurora, from the bosom of the blushing clouds descends upon the smiling earth-when the darkness is dispelled, the dream flies away and leaves only a beggar in place of a king.; in the place of a sage, nothing but a fool.

Like to those despicable warriors who before the battle insult the fugitives, and menace the enemy from afar; but who, when he is near, know only to tremble and to fly; thou darest to brave the eyils to come, and in thy pride to boast that thou wilt conquer grief. But alas! thou fliest at the aspect of misfortunes present. The sage discovers then what he is

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a man ; unanimated dust.

that

. And thou, O lovely Se

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rena! art thou then no more than dust! tender tears of friendship will awaken thee no more! Thy sleep will endure till the sound of the last trumpet fhall afsemble us again. Thou sleepest! ... No, thou dost not sleep. Elevated above the luminous clouds,

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