FROM nature, too, I take my rule,
To fhun contémpt and ridicule.
I never, with important air,
In converfation over-bear:
Can grave and formal pafs for wife,
When men the folemn owl defpife?
My tongue within my lips 1 rein;
For, who talks much, muft talk in vain
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who liftens to the chatt'ring pye?
Nor would I, with felonious flight,
By ftealth, invade my neighbour's right,
Rapacious animals we hate :

Kites, hawks, and wolves, deferve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and ferpent kind?
But envy, calumny, and fpite,
Bear ftronger venom in their bite.
Thus every object of creation,
Can furnish hints for contemplation;
And, from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean.

THY fame is juft, the fage replies:
Thy virtue proves thee truly wife.
Pride often guides the author's pen,
Books, as affected are, as men :
But, he who ftudies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;
And thofe, without our schools, fuffice
To make men moral, good, and wife,

II.

THE FAN.

ΤΗ

HE fan fhall flutter in all female hands, And various fashions fhew, of various lands. For this, fhall elephants their ivory fhed, And polish'd sticks the waving engine spread; His clouded mail the tortoife fhall refign, And, round the rivet, pearly circles fhine. On this, fhall Indians all their art employ, And, with bright colours, ftain the gaudy toy. Their paint fhall here in wildeft fancies flow, Their drefs, their cuftoms, their religion fhew: So fhall the British fair their minds improve, And, on the fan, to diftant regions rove. Here China's ladies fhall their pride display, And filver figures gild their loose array. This, boafts her little feet, and winking eyes; That, tunes the fife, or tinkling cymbal plies: Here, cross-legg'd nobles, in rich ftate, fhall dine s There, in bright mail, diftorted heroes fhine. The peeping fan, in modern times, shall rife, Through which, unfeen, the female ogle flies ; This fhall, in temples, the fly maid conceal, And shelter love, beneath devotion's veil. As learned orators, that touch the heart, With various action raise their soothing art, Both head and hand affect the lift'ning throng, And humour each expression of the tongue; So fhall each paffion, by the fan, be feen, From noify anger, to the fullen spleen.

III.

ON

ODE TO LEVEN WATER.

N Leven's banks, while free to rove,
And tune the rural pipe to love,

I envied not the happiest swain
That ever trod th' Arcadian plain.

PURE ftream! in whofe transparent wave My youthful limbs I wont to lave; No torrents ftain thy limpid fource; No rocks impede thy dimpling course, That fweetly warbles o'er its bed, With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; While, lightly pois'd, the fcaly brood, In miriads, cleave thy cryftal flood: The springing trout, in fpeckled pride; The falmon, monarch of the tide The ruthless pike, intent on war; The filver eel, and motled par. Devolving from thy parent lake, A charming maze thy waters make, By bowers of birch, and groves of pine, And hedges, flower'd with eglantine,

STILL on thy banks, so gaily green,
May numerous herds and flocks be seen ;
And laffes, chanting o'er the pail ;
And shepherds, piping in the dale;
And ancient faith, that knows no guile,
And industry, imbrown'd with toil;
And hearts refolv'd, and hands prepar'd,
The bleffings they enjoy, to guard.

1 V.

INVITATION TO THE FEATHERED RACE.

A

GAIN 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 fhun the noon-tide heat:
My fhrubs, a cooling fhade fupply;
My groves, a fafe retreat.

Here, freely hop, from fpray to spray;
Or weave the mossy nest :

Here, rove and fing the live-long day;
At night, here fweetly reft.

Amid this cool translucent rill,
That trickles down the glade,
Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.

No fchool-boy rude, to mischief prone,
E'er fhews his ruddy face,

Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone,
In this fequefter'd place.

Hither the vocal thrush repairs;
Secure, the linnet fings;
The goldfinch dreads no flimy fnares,
To clog her painted wings.

Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt,
Yon diftant woods among,

And,

And, round my friendly grotto, chant
Thy fweetly plaintive fong.

Let not the harmless red-breaft fear,
Domeftic bird, to come,
And feek a fure afylum here,
With one that loves his home.

My trees for you, ye artless tribe!
Shall ftore of fruit preserve:
O! let me thus your friendship bribe;
Come feed without referve.

For you, thefe cherries I protect;
To you, these plums belong :
Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd;
But, fweeter far, your fong.

Let, then, this league betwixt us made,
Our mutual interefts guard :
Mine, be the gift of fruit and fhade;
Your fongs, be my reward.

WEET AUBURN! lov'lieft village of the plain! Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring fwain; Where fmiling fpring its earliest visit paid, And parting fummer's ling'ring blooms delay'd: Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease! Seats of my youth, when every sport could pleafe!' How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endear'd each scene:

How