O! thrice more enchanting to view
Is the eye of my fweet little Anne.

Can aught like the morning delight,
When it dawns towards peaceable day?
Or bewitch like the planet of night,
When she steals in good humour away?
Is there aught like the sweetness of eve,
When ferene, as when nature began,
The foft fun takes his mellow laft leave?
Yes; the smile of my fweet little Anne.

Can aught more delicious be nam'd

Than the exquifite juice of the pine?
More inviting can aught be proclaim'd
Than the elegant branch of the vine ?
Is there aught can in flavour exceed
Ev'ry beverage precious to man?
O yes; these are taftelefs indeed,
To the kiss of my sweet little Anne.

Thrice more than the fun-fetting hour,
Or the dawn of the morning benign,
More delightful than fpring's sweetest flow'r,
Or the mirth-making juice of the vine:
More ferene than the gems of the sky,
And more foft than the down of the swan,

Is the cheek, is the lip, is the eye,
Is the smile of my fweet little Anne.

THE FALLING TOWER.

MAR-echote you falling stream?
Mark ye its bare and crumbling walls,
Where flowly fades the finking beam?

ARK ye the Tow'r whofe lonely halls

There, oft, when Eve, in filent trance,
Hears the lorn red-breaft's plaintive moan,

Time, cafting round a cautious glance,

Heaves from its base some mould'ring stone.

There, though, in Time's departed day,
War wav'd his glitt'ring banners high,
Though many a minstrel pour'd the lay,
And many a beauty tranc'd the eye;

Yet never 'midft the gorgeous scene,
'Midft the proud feafts of fplendid pow'r,
Shone on the pile a beam ferene,

So bright as gilds its falling hour.

Oh! thus, when Life's gay fcenes fhall fade,
And Pleasure lofe its wonted bloom,
When creeping Age shall bear my head,
And point to me the filent tomb,

Then may Religion's hallow'd flame,
Shed on my mind its mildest ray;
And bid it feek, in purer frame,
One bright Eternity of Day!

C

TO THE SNOW-DROP..

BY THE REV. J. BIDLAKE..

HILD of the wintry hour! ah! doom'd to trust
Thy tender beauties to inclement skies!
First off'ring of the year,

And harbinger of spring!

Cradled in friendly greens, how penfive droops
Thy nodding head! while in thy bafhful eye,
As mournful of thy fate,
Hangs fad a pearly tear,

Companion of Adverfity! like thee,
To dangers rough confign'd, the new-dropt lamb,
With unftain'd fleece and foft,
Preffes thy verdant bank.

Alas! in this bad world, nor Innocence
Secures from biting Slander's pois'nous tooth,
Nor Gentleness itself,

Her virgin fifter meek.

The temper mild, that knows not how to frown,
Nor of harsh rule the fceptre how to wield,
Is form'd to fink before

The boift'rous paffions' rage.

Alas! like thee, poor injur'd Flavia bloom'd,
The fweeteft bud of unfufpicious youth!
Like thee all purity,

Like thee, to ftorms confign'd.

But, ah! fhe felt the rude unpitying breath
Of Malice, keener than the wintry winds;
And fhrunk beneath the blaft
That never, never fpares.

Poor early victim of its pow'r, she sunk
Pity'd, believ'd, and mourn'd, alas! too late;
Chill'd by the icy touch,
And early foot of Death.

Oft as thy chafte, thy unaffuming face
Shall deck the morning of the nafcent year,
This wounded breaft fhall heave

With pangs of cureless grief:

When painful Mem'ry tells how foon fhe fell,
And hapless pafs'd, like thee, fair fpotlefs flow'r!
Her little life, forlorn,
Amid the wilds of fate.

PRESENTED WITH AN ALMANACK, 1797.

BY MR. PRATT.

AY the fmooth hours, that form Matilda's year,

M Be mark d by pleasure's fimile, or pleafure's tear!

In kind atonement of relenting fate,

Some with accomplish'd on each minute wait!
And as her eyes thefe circling leaves furvey,
To note the progrefs of each blissful day;
E'en while fhe fears that blifs too great to laft,
Still may the present triumph o'er the paft.
Happy the past, the future yet more bleft,
To-morrow ftill victorious o'er the reft!

TO A FROG.

OR being! wherefore doft thou fly,
Why feek to fhun my gazing eye,
And palpitate with fear?

Indulge a paffing trav'ller's fight,
And leap not on in vain affright;
No cruel foe is here.

I would but pause awhile, to view
Thy dappled coat of many a hue;
Thy rapid bound furvey;
And fee how well thy limbs can glide
Along the fedge-crown'd ftreamlet's tide,
Then journey on my way.

No favage fage am I, whose pow'r
Shall tear thee from thy rufh-wove bow'r,
To feel th' unfparing knife;

No barb'rous schemes this hand fhall try,
Nor, to prolong thy death, would I
Prolong thy little life.

Ah! let not him, whofe wanton skill
Delights the mangled frog to kill,
The wreath of praise attain!-
Philofophy abhors the heart
That proftitutes her facred art,
To give one being pain.

I

ANNA.

BY W. GIFFORD, ESQ.

Wish I was where Anna lies;
For I am fick of ling'ring here,
And ev'ry hour Affection cries,
Go, and partake her humble bier.
I wish I could! For when the dy'd
I loft my all; and life has prov'd
Since that fad hour a dreary void,
A waste unlovely, and unlov'd.-

But who, when I am turn'd to clay,
Shall duly to her grave repair,
And pluck the ragged moss away,

And weeds that have no " business there?"

And who, with pious hand, fhall bring

The flow'rs the cherish'd, fnow-drops cold, And vi❜lets that unheeded spring,

To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould?

And who, while mem'ry loves to dwell
Upon her name, for ever dear,
Shall feel his heart with paffion fwell,
And pour the bitter, bitter tear?

I did it; and would fate allow,

Should vifit ftill, fhould ftill deplore-
But health and ftrength have left me now,
And I, alas! can weep no more,

Take then, sweet maid! this fimple strain,
The last I offer at thy fhrine;

Thy grave muft then undeck'd remain,
Ánd all thy mem❜ry fade with mine.

And can thy foft persuasive look,
Thy voice, that might with music vie,
Thy air, that ev'ry gazer took,

Thy matchlefs eloquence of eye,

Thy fpirits, frolickfome, as good,
Thy courage, by no ills difmay'd,
Thy patience, by no wrongs fubdu’d,

Thy gay good humour-Can they " fade ?"