What Latin Sir? why there is no man
That e're thought you an English-Roman .
Your Father Horse could teach you none,
Nor was it e're your Mother tongue,
Your Education too assures
Me, that your Poem is not yours:
Besides, I thought you did detest
The Language of the Latin Beast ,
But now your Impudence I see
Did hereby shew its Modesty;
Each syllable would blush you thought,
If it had bin plain English taught,
And that your foul debauched stuff
Might do its Errand fast enough,
Forsooth your Wisedom thought it meet

Shepherd ! if you see me, fly;
And why should that thy Fears create?
Maids may be too often shy,
As well in Love, as Hate.
If from you I fly away,
'Tis because I fear to stay.

II.

Should I out of Hatred run,
Much less would be my Pains and Care.
But the Youth I love, I shun;
Who can such a Trial bear?
Who, that such a Swain could see,
Or who can love, and fly like me!

III.

A NACREONTICK .

Cupid by a Bee was stung,
Lately; since Anacreon sung:
Venus , with a smiling Eye ,
Laugh'd to hear him sob and sigh.
Angry Cupid in Revenge,
(Gods their Shapes at pleasure Change)
In the Form of Wasp or Bee,
Stella! fix'd his Sting in Thee:
Stella! fairest of the Fair:
Stella, Venus' dearest Care!
In Revenge He dealt the Blow
On her Favourite Below;
In Revenge of smiling Eyes ,
Sweetest Emblems of the Skies!
O my Finger! Stella cry'd:

FROM THE GERMAN OF GOËTHE

Unnoticed in the lonely mead,
A Violet rear'd its modest head,
A sweet and lovely flower;
A blooming maid came gadding by,
With vacant heart, and gladsome eye,
And tripp'd with sportive careless tread.

" Ah! " thought the Violet, " had I now
The Rose's matchless form and glow,
Though transient were the power;
To be but pluck'd by that sweet maid,
And on her virgin bosom laid; —
Bless'd fate, what more could Heaven bestow? "

Along the lovely maiden pass'd,

WHICH A DYING LOVER DIRECTED HIS FRIENDS TO FILL WITH HIS
ASHES PULVERIZED .

M ARK the pure crystal that contains
All that of Strephon's love remains;
Dust — in whose emblem is express'd
That Love must never hope to rest.

The hand of Death his parting soul disarms:
He dies, in Virtue's love — in Beauty's arms:
Descending Angels consecrate the tear,
And they accept him — from an Angel here .

Hither your Wreaths, ye drooping Muses, bring
The short-lived Rose, that blooms but to decay;
Love's fragrant Myrtles, that in Paphos spring,
And deathless Poetry's immortal Bay.

And Oh thou gentlest Shade accept the Verse,
Mean tho' it be, and artlessly sincere,
That pensive thus attends thy silent Hearse,
And steals, in secret Shades, the pious Tear.

What Heart, by Heav'n with gen'rous Softness blest,
But in thy Lines its native Language reads?
Where hapless Love, in Classic Plainness drest,

I.

Lord, all these works of thine
Become thy hand divine,
And pious thoughts inspire:
While all thy greatness prove,
Thee I admire and love,
Love and admire.

II.

The world's a temple, where
Thy creatures all appear
To offer praise and prayer:
The rocks, and hills and trees,
On earth, in air, in seas,
Thy altars are.

III.

Marked you her eye of heavenly blue?
Marked you her cheek of roseate hue?
That eye in liquid circles moving,
That cheek abashed at man's approving:
The one , love's arrows darting round;
The other , blushing at the wound!

In vain I touch the warbling lute,
To chear my love-sick mind;
Or plumb-tree pipe, or boxen flute,
Unless my DELIAS kind; —

Unless the Nymph, who reigns confest,
Queen of the joys I share;
Vouchfafes to drive from out my breast,
The pain that rankles there.

For ah! in love, the fev'rish soul
Flies madd'ning thro' the brain;
And arts that should the sense controul,