When fam'd Verelst this little wonder drew,
Flora vouchsaf'd the growing work to view:
Finding the painter's science at a stand,
The goddess snatch'd the pencil from his hand;
And finishing the piece, she smiling said,
Behold one work of mine, that ne'er shall fade.

There needes no Iuie, where the wine is good:
Nor queint discourse, where iudgemet leads the pen:
Nor forced praise, where Science spreads the saile:
Then gentle Bales , despise the scoffing brood;
Thy Booke hath past the eyes of learned men,
And shall supplie this Soyle with sweete auaile.
Truth needes no foile, but triumphs in desart:
A wanton flourish neuer dwells with Art.

Why does not Joy its favourites kill ?
To live and breathe, when Joy is fled,
A doom inflicts, more painful still
Than torments that can reach the dead .

T HE sympathizing Muse to feather'd grief
In a melodious tear imparts relief.
But, when Despair the bosom has oppress'd,
And leaves the heart no interval of rest,
In vain the Bard or Minstrel we implore:
Mute is their spirit, and is heard no more.

S WEET bloom, that 's ever in its prime,
Superior to the waste of Time,
Your privilege we all approve —
But wish the secret known to Love .

A WAY ! tormenter of the heart!
No more with unsuspected art
The cup of joy present!
From Love's regret thy mirrour banish,
Bid thy accusing spirits vanish,
Thy subtle fiends relent!

HERE Emma , though her discipline was hard,
Was made immortal by a deathless Bard:
For, though her Love nor age nor scene can boast,
The Nine adopt, and personate the Ghost.

Let us, my Friend , all peevish Self withstand,
And in the Meekness of the Spotless Lamb,
Lead one another gently by the Hand,
And travel forward to the holy Land,
Where the Redeemed on Mount Sion stand,
With Harps of Living Praises in their Hand.

ON AN ACTIVE TRADESMAN .

This headless column on a stone —
What may this mournful shaft betoken?
Pale orphans answer, with their moan,
" The key-stone of an arch is gone!
A mother's heart is broken. "

Robb'd of sixpence in the shilling,
Through twice fifteen years and more;
Then, worse paid than any idler,
Tom said, trembling, " I'll give o'er: "
Why? You're sick? You lie, ye Beggar!
Work! You work'd before.