Sweet lonely Grott! nor art thou less
 Than those antique Retreats admir'd,
Where or the Sylvan Goddesses,
 Or where Diana 's Self retir'd;

In Thee no glorious Roofs are shown,
 Nor the proud Column's graceful Height;
But hoary Moss, and rustic Stone,
 Commend thy Structure to the Sight;

In this plain Neatness lovelier far,
 Than all the pompous Piles of State,
Since here nor enters Dread, nor Care,
 Nor busy Strife, nor factious Hate.

Here CAROLINE to learned Ease,
 And studious Solitude resign'd,

Here, Traveller, from Human Eyes
Conceal'd for ever Cowley lies:
In this mean Cell the Poet chose
To seek his long-lov'd last Repose;
When tir'd with each ambitious Strife,
And all the foolish Farce of Life,
To sacred Silence he withdrew,
And bid the busy World adieu.
His better Part surviving tries
To Truth's and Wisdom's Heights to rise,
The solid Joys of Virtue finds,
Converses with Celestial Minds,
And pitying sees what various Woe
The giddy Croud pursues below.

A SKETCH ON THE SPOT .

The room was low and lone, but linger'd there,
In careless loveliness, the marks of mind;
The page of chivalry, superb and drear,
Beside a half-fill'd vase of wine reclined,
Told how romance and gaiety combined.
And there, like things of immortality,
Stood statues, in their master's soul enshrined,

The flames of fyre and clowds of cold, repugnant in my brest,
Hath quite exiled me from ioy, and reft all quiet rest.
Yet oft (alas) in shewe I smile, to shade my inwarde smarte,
When in my laughter waues of woe, well nie do burst my harte.
Whose driery thoughts I would to God, were seene so ful to thee,
As mine afflicted minde in payne, doth powre them out on mee.
So should perhaps thy frozen hart, now harde as Flintie stone,
Within thy brest w th melting teares, take ruth on this my mone.
But as he well cannot discerne, what tempest Saylers trye,

No, no, 'tis in vain in this turbulent Town,
To expect either Pleasure or Rest;
To Hurry and Nonsense still tying us down;
'Tis an overgrown Prison at best.

From hence to the Country escaping away,
Leave the Croud and the Bustle behind;
And there you'll see liberal Nature display
A thousand Delights to Mankind.

The Change of the Seasons, the Sports of the Fields,
The sweetly-diversify'd Scene,
The Groves, and the Gardens — nay ev'ry thing yields
A Happiness ever serene.

Here, here from Ambition and Avarice free,

Spring returns, the Winter's gone,
And Nature puts her Beauties on.
The Sun, that erst shone out from high,
Feebly through the frozen Sky,
Now rejoices to display
All the Majesty of Day.
The teeming Earth her Riches yields,
And clothes the Trees, and paints the Fields,
And, grateful for its Blessings giv'n,
Breathes a thousand Sweets to Heav'n.
The cloudless Æther shines serene,
And graceful nods the Sylvan Scene.
Old Ocean smooths his Brow, and all
His Storms subside, his Sürges fall,
And only o'er the wat'ry Way

A SOLILOQUY OF OTHER TIMES .

The clock had struck — the wish'd-for hour was past,
And many a longing look had C ELIA cast:
The scanty ringlets o'er her shoulders flow'd —
No more her head sustain'd the pleasing load;
No more the curls, in tow'ring heaps aspir'd,
Nor vain delusive hopes her bosom fir'd.
The treach'rous Frizeur had forgot the time, —
And what could ere excuse so black a crime?
The hopeless C ELIA , on a couch reclin'd,
Thus spoke the tortures of her restless mind: —
— Unhappy day! — she cried, — that he shou'd miss —

A FABLE

As Charity, the other day,
Unheeded took her secret way;
Her face was mask'd, her air serene —
She stole so softly o'er the green,
No human creature cou'd have heard her;
Even Malice wou'd have thought her further.
Cautious of treach'ry seem'd the maid,
Of her own shadow half afraid;
She often look'd behind her too,
That none her footsteps might pursue.
Thus as she walk'd with cautious feet,
Hypocrisy she chanc'd to meet,
Who wore a face so like her own,

Why shoulde we feare to dye?
Or seeke from Death to flye,
When Death the way doth make,
Eche worldly woe to slake,
By whome we passe to ioye,
Where neuer comes annoye.

Our tryflying tryumphs heere,
Though we esteeme them deere,
Are like to vapours vayne,
That waste with little rayne,
Deluding Dreames in deede,
Whereon our fancies feede.

What yeelde our pleasures all,
But sweetenesse mixt with Gall,
Their pryme of chiefest pride,
Vnwares away doth slide,
Whose shewe of sweete delight,

On hopes of his Recovery, after being dangerously wounded in a Duel

Since still the vital flame is left to burn,
And life's gay flatt'ring prospects to return;
Oh! may the hours of pain a blessing prove,
And Custom's fatal prejudice remove.
Pain, that recalls faint Reason in her flight —
Displays fair Truth in all her dazzling light —
Expells proud Passion — clears the minds deceit,
And shews 'tis oft its own most dangerous cheat,
Oh! may it check the ardour of thy Soul,
Where vile Revenge the mask of Honour stole.