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THE APPROACH OT MAY.
Written by Mr. CUNNINGHAM,
HE virgin, when softer'd by May,
The birds sweetly bill on the spray,
And poplars embrace with their boughs. On Ida bright Venus may reign,
Ador'd for her beauty above ;
Hail May as the mother of love.
Fond zephyr carcfles the vine, The bee steals a kiss from the rose,
And willows and woodbines entwine. The pinks by the rivulet fide,
That border the vernal alcove, Bend downward to kiss the soft cide :
For May is the mother of love.
He fiutiers in bridal array ;
Their music is taught them by May:
Conceals her fond bliss in the grove; And, murmuring, seems to repeat,
That May is the mother of love. The goddess will visit ye soon,
Ye virgins be sportive and gay; Get your pipes, oh! ye shepherds, in tune,
For music muft welcome the day. Would Damon have Phillis prove kind,
And all his keen anguish remove ; Let him tell a soft tale, and he'll find,
That May is the mother of love.
THE ORIGIN OF ENGLISH LIBERTY..
Written by G. A. STEVENS. ONCE the gods of the Greeks, at ambrosial
feaft, Large bowls of rich nectar were quaffing ; Merry Momus,among them, was sat as a guest,
(Homer-says the celeftials lov'd laughing :) On each in the synod the humourist drollid,
So none could his jokes disapprove; He fung, repartee'd and some smart ftories told,
And at last chus began upon Jove. 'Sire! Atlas, who long has the universe bore,
“ Grows grievously tir'd of late ; " He says that mankind are much worse than
or before, “ So he begs to be eas'd of their weight." Jove, knowing the earth on poor Atlas was
hurld, From his shoulders commanded the ball, Gave his daughter, Attraction, the charge of
the world, And the hung it up high in his hall. Miss, pleas'd with the present, review'd the
globe round, To see what each climate was worth; Like a diamond, che whole with an atraosphere
bound, And she variously planted the earth : With filver, gold, jewels, the India endow'd;
France and Spain she taught vineyards to rear; What suited each clime, on each cline the be
ftow'd, And freedom, she found, Aourish'd here. Four cardinal virtues the left in this ifle,
As guardians to cherith the roof;
The blossoms of liberty 'gan then to smile,
And Englishmen fed on the fruit. Thus fed, and thus bred, from a bounty so rare,
O preserve it as free as 'twas giv'n ! « We will, while we've breath; nay, we'll grasp
"it in death,
AN ELEGIAC PASTORAL BALLAD.
Written by the EDITOR. YE swains who inhabit the green,
You have heard that my Phillida's dead; In your looks the sad Lidings are seen,
And her worth in your grief may be read. Oh! was fe not lovely and fair;
Has the scarce left such beauty behind ? 'And yet what was that to compare
With the graces which dwelt in her mind ? But let me not think of her charms !
How I lov'd her my verse cannot tell : Death bas snatch'd her away from my arms;
With angels, alone, must the dwell. In vain do I uiter my grief;
Her loss the whole world can't supply: Death only will give me relief;
To him, then, with pleasure I fly. Qh! thew me the way to my fair;
Lead me on to the regions of bliss ! And, rure as my love was fincere,
I'll praise thee, great victor, for this!
On thee e'en kings have deign'd to feed,
Unknown to Frenchmen's palate i Then how much doth thy tafte exceed Sorap-meagre, frogs, and sallad !
Dat look so tempeing red and vite?
Oh! grant to me von little bite,
And cruel fate dis boon denies ;
AIR. Sweet beef, that now causes my stomach ta
rise, Sweet beef, &c.
So taking thy fight is,
My joy, that lo light is, To view thee, by pailfulls runs out of my eyes, While here I remain, my life's not worth a
farthing, While here, &c.
Ah, hard-hearted Loui,
Why did I come to you! The gallows, more kind, would have sav'd me from starving
Who was so blythe of late ;
When hunger is so great !
When roasted nice and brown;
THE ROAST BEEF OF OLD ENGLAND; A
RECITATIVE. "TWAS at the gates of Calais, Hogarth tells,
Where sad despair and famine always dwells,
If I were doom'd to have thee,
And (wimming in thy gravy, Not all ihy country's force comoin'd
Should from my fury save thee, Renown's Sir Loin, oft-rimes decreed
The theme of Englim ballad;
Sung at VAUXHALL, WHEN I awake, with painful brow,
Ere the cock begins to crow;
Written by Mr. Gay. Go, rose, my Chloe's bolom gracę;
How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envy'd place
With never-fading love!
More fragrant roses there,
With envy and despair :
And, to stop the gushing tear,