“Yet stay, fair lady, rest a while,

Beneath this cloyster wall: See, through the hawthorne blows the cold wind,

And drizzly rain doth fall."

“O stay me not, thou holy Friar !

O stay me ņot, I pray!
No drizzly rain that falls on me

Can wash my fault away.”

“ Yet stay, fair lady, turn again,

And dry those pearly tears;
For see, beneath this gown of grey

Thy own true-love appears.

Here, forc'd by grief and hopeless love,

These holy weeds I sought; And here amid these lonely walls

To end my days I thought.

"Bat haply, for my year

of

grace Is not yet pass'd away, Might I still hope to win thy love,

No longer would I stay.”

<

Now farewell grief, and welcome joy

Once more unto my heart;
For since I have found thee, lovely youth!

We never more will part.”

A TALE.

BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.

Ere Saturn's sons were yet disgrac’d,
And heathen gods were all the taste,
Full oft (we read) 'twas Jove's high will
To take an air on Ida's hill.
It chanc'd, as once with serious ken
He view'd from thence the ways of men,
He saw (and pity touclı’d his breast)
The world by three foul fiends possest:
Pale Discord there, and Folly vain,
With haggard Vice upheld their reign.
Then forth be sent his summons high,
And call'd a senate of the sky.
Round as the winged orders prest,
Jove thus his sacred mind exprest:

Say, which of all this shining train
Will Virtue's conflict hard sustain?
For see, she drooping takes her flight,
While not a god supports her right.”
He paus’d-when from amidst the sky,
Wit, Innocence, and Harmony,
With one united zeal arose,
The triple tyrants to oppose.
That instant from the realms of day.
With generous speed they took their way!
To Britain's isle direct their car,
And enter'd with the evening star.

Beside the road a mansion stood,
Defended by a circling wood:
Hither, disguis'd, their steps they bend,
In hopes, perchance, to find a friend :
Nor vain their hope; for records say,
Worth ne'er from thence was turn’d away.
They urge the traveller's common chance,
And every piteous plea advance:
The artful tale that Wit had feign'd
Admittance easy soon obtain'd.

The dame who own'd, adorn’d the place; Three blooming daughters added grace. The first, with gentlest manners blest And temper sweet, each heart possest; Who view'd her, catch'd the tender flame: And soft Amasia was her name. In sprightly sense and polishid air, What maid with Mira might compare ? While Lucia's eyes and Lucia's lyre Did unresisted love inspire.

Imagine now the table clear,
And mirth in

face appear:
The song, the tale, the jest went round,
The riddle dark, the trick profound.
Thus each admiring and admir'd,
The hosts and guests at length retir'd;

When Wit thus spake her sister train:

“Faith, friends, our errand is but vain Quick let us measure back the sky; These nymphs alone may well supply Wit, Innocence, and Harmony.

AN INVITATION TO

THE FEATHERED RACE.

BY THE REV. MR. GRAVES.

Again the balmy Zephyr blows,

Fresh verdure decks the grove, Each bird with vernal rapture glows,

And tunes his notes to love.

Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,

And shun the noontide heat;
My shrubs a cooling shade supply,

My groves a safe retreat.

Here freely hop from spray

to

spray, Or weave the mossy nest; Here rove and sing the live-long day,

At night here sweetly rest.

Amidst this cool translucent rill,

That trickles down the glade, Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,

And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,

E’er shows his ruddy face,
Or twangs a bow, or hurls a stone

In this sequester'd place.

Hither the vocal Thrush repairs,

Secure the Linnet sings, The Goldfinch dreads no slimy snares

To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt

Yon distant woods among, And round my friendly grotto chaunt

Thy sweetly-plaintive song.

Let not the harmless Redbreast fear,

Domestic bird, to come And seek a sure asylum here,

With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe,

Shall store of fruit preserve; Oh, let me thus your friendship bribe !

Come, feed without reserve.

For you these cherries I protect,

To you these plums belong: Sweet is the fruit that you have peck’d,

But sweeter for your song.