H́nh ảnh trang

To the Editor of the Bee.


Recited by a CLUB on the 31st of December 1791.


my lads since time is fleeting, And our year upon the wing, Let us have a jovial meeting,

And its parting requiem sing.

Hither drawer! bring us claret,
Quickly fill us flowing bowls!
Mouldy cash!---Why should we spare it?
Banish dull unsocial souls.

Murm'ring mortals, still repining,

With us cannot find a place : Double hearts, with flatt'ry whining, Shall not fhew their Janus face..

Those who murder reputation,

Sons of scandal come not here! Discord dire, and vile vexation,

Shall not in our club appear.

Here is nought but social pleasure,

Love and Friendship reign confest; In this bumper blooms a treasure,

Chears the care-corroded breast!

Liberty we here enjoy,

Britain's sons, and born free; Let us then this with employ,

That as happy all may be!

France, Great Britain's new-born sister,
Rising from despotic sway;
May that pow'r who thus hath blest her,
Lead her forth to Freedom's day!

Weep for Afric's sons forlorn,

Pledge their health, and wish them free!
Freedom's fire with all is born,

Why slaves to us fhould negroes be?
VOL. vii.


Awkward were our presen tmeeting,
Should we here neglect the Fair;
May the peerlefs maids of Britain,
Still be heav'n's peculiar care!
Venus smiling here before us,

Bids us fill a flowing glass;
While in one harmonious chorus,

Ev'ry lad fhall pledge his lafs.
May our sweetheart's gentle bosoms,

Glow with love and modest fame!
Still may Virtue's fairest blossoms,
With fresh laurels fhade their name.


For the Bee.

THIS tale I heard once in a shop,
The owner was a monstrous fop;
His setting dog laid claim to wit,
And call'd poor puís a sneaking cit,
Who ne'er could taste what life affords,
And hunt in company with lords;
Nor range before the tube of fate,
And see the partridge rise elate,
Now flutt'ring from its place of rest,
Now panting on its speckled breast;
Nor see the hare bound o'er the field,
Nor see the timid trembler yield;
Nor at the peep of dew-clad morn,
Exulting tread on unreap'd corn,
While modest farmers see despoil'd,
The fruits for which so long they've toil'd;
And if they dare the ill resent,
Are damn'd,---licens'd by government!
All this I taste, while master smiles,
And fhopmen ease his low-bred toils.

Says pufs, 'tis true I hunt for vermin, Yet even I could give a sermon.

If you and master thus employ
The hours of youth,---the hours of joy,
No skill prophetic need presage,

A bankrupt, and a starving age.

Few months went round, ---the tradesman fail'd!

Pufs still with mice was well regal'd,
His friends laugh'd at the mock disaster,
And Pompey's sold to feed his master.

The moral's fhort, nor need I cox ye,
Est,---drink,--but never work by proxy.


From the prologue to the twelfth book of Virgil,
By GAVIN DOUGLASS bishop of Dunkeld.

WELCOME TO THE SUN. WELCUM the lord of licht, and lampe of day! Welcum fosterare of tender herbis grene, Welcum quikkynnar of flurist flouris schene! Welcum support of every rute and vane, Welcum confort of all kinde frute and grane! Welcum the birdis beild upon the brere, Welcum maister and reulare of the yere! Welcum welefare of husbandis at the plewis, Welcum reparare of woddis, treis, and bewis, Welcum depaynter of the blomyt medes, Welcum the lyffe of every thing that spredis, Welcum restorare of al kynd bestial; Welcum be thy bricht bemes gladand al! Welcum celestiall myrrour and espye, Atteiching al that hantis sluggardly!

And with this wourd, in chaumer quhare I lay, The nynth morow of freshe temperit May, On fute I sprent into my bare sark, Wilfu for to complete my langsum wark, Tuiching the latter buke of Dan Virgil, Quhilk me had tarry't al so lang ane quhyle, And to behauld the cummyng of this king, That was a welcum to al warldly thing, With sic triumphe and pompous courage glaid, Than of his soverane chymmes, as is said, Newly-arising in his estate ryall; That by his hew, but orliger or dyal, I knew it was past four houres of day, And thocht I wald na langare ly in May, Lest Phoebus suld me losingere attaynt; For Progne had or than sung hir complaynt, And eik her dredful sister Philomene Hir lay is endit, and in woddis grene, Hid hir selvin, eschamit of hir chaunce, And Esacus completit his pennance, In ryveres, fludis, and on every laik, And Peristera biddis luffaris awake, To serf my lady Venus here with me; Lerne thus to make your observance, quod sche, Into my hartis ladis swete presence Beholdis how I being, and does reverence; Hir neck scho wrinklis, trasing mony fold, With plumis glitterand azure upon gold,

Rend'ring an cullour betwix grene and blew
In purpre glance of hevenlie variant hew:
I mene our awen bird, gentil dow,
Singand on hir kynde, I come hidden to wow,
So prikking his grene courage for to crowde,
In amorous voce and wowar soundis lowde,
That for the dynning of her wantoun cry,
I irkit of my bed and might not ly,
But gan me blis, sine in my wedis drefsis,
And for it was are morrow or tyme to messes,
I hint ane scripture, and my pen
furth tuke,
Syne thus began of Virgil the twelt buke.

A translation of this very elegant and inimitably natural description of the dove is requested.


[Continued from p. 187. and concluded.]

THIS discourse quite dismayed St Castins. He spoke against it every thing that reason, grief, and love could suggest to him most convincing; nothing seemed to be so to the young savage. She wept, but persevered in her design. All that the disconsolate Celario could obtain from her, was a promise, that though Ouabi should appear to her a second time in a dream, she should wait, before she put herself to death, to be assured of his; of which St Castins was resolved to know the truth as soon as possible.

The savages neither exchange nor ransom their prisoners; contenting themselves to rescue them out of the enemy's hands, whenever they can. Sometimes the conqueror destines his captives to slavery; but he oftener puts hem to death. Such are particularly the maxims of the Iroquois. There was, therefore, reason to presume, that Ouabi had died of his wounds, or was burnt by that barbaTous nation. Azakia believed it to be so, more than any other: But St Castins would have her at least doubt of it. On his side, he re-animates the courage of the Hurons, and proposes a new enterprise against the enemy. It is ap

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proved of-they deliberate upon electing a chief, and all voices unite in favour of St Castins, who had already given proofs of his valour and conduct. He departs with his troop, but not till after he had again Azakia's word, that, notwithstanding all the dreams fhe might yet have, she would defer, at least till his return, the doleful journey she had designed.

This expedition of the Huron warriors was attended with all imaginable succefs. The Iroquois believed them to be too much weakened or discouraged to think of undertaking any thing, and were themselves on their march to come and attack them; but they were no way cautious how they proceeded. It was not so with St Castins' band of warriors. He had dispatched some of his people to reconnoitre. They discovered the enemy without being seen by them, and returned to give advice thereof to their chief. The ground was found very fit for lying in ambuscade; and the Hurons availed themselves so well of it, that the Iroquois saw themselves hemmed in, when they believed they had no risk to run. They were charged with a fury that left them no time to know where they were. Most of them were killed on the spot; and the remainder maimed, or grievously wounded. The Hurons march off directly to the next village, and surprise the Iroquois afsembled there. They were going to enjoy the spectacle of seeing a Huron burnt; and already the Huron was beginning to sing his death-song. This, no savage, whom the enemy is ready to put to death, ever fails to do. Loud cries, and a fhower of mufket balls, soon dispersed the multitude. Both the fugitives, and those that faced about to resist, were killed. All the savage ferocity was fully displayed. In vain St Castins endeavoured to stop the carnage. With difficulty he saved a small number of women and children. He was apprehensive, particularly, that in the midst of 'this horrid tumult, Ouabi himself should be mafsacred, supposing he was still living, and was in that

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