Verfes on the approach of Night.
THE fetting fun proclaims departing day,

And from the Weft, the glittring orb is fąca ;
And now it finks, in all its bright array,
Behind yon cloud, and leaves the world ferene.

The lowly peafant quits his daily toil,

And, like the fun, returns af ev'ning home;
The ftudious fage confumes the midnight oil,
And thro the heav'ns has taught his foul to roam.
See how the moon upon yon water plays,
And in its bofom fhews her image bright;
The weeping willow shades her filver rays,
And, bending, feems to court the poplar freight.
Now Nature lies involv'd in filent fleep,
And mortals bid adieu to all their woes;
Save but the guilty, who pale vigils keep,
Envious of innocence and calm repofé.

These lonely hours when filence reigns around,
Remind us of the grave, that gloomy night';

From which we'll rife, when the laft trump all found,
To realms above, where Peace and Joy unite.
DARLINGTON.

ELOUISA.

ELEGIAC STANZA S.

To the Memory of Mifs SW.

Qualis Vita, finis ita.

YOU'VE feen the tender, vernal blades à ṣpear,
The orphan flow'rs blow early in the foring ;

Before the parent of the coming year,

Had deign'd to fan the air with tepid wing.
'Twas thus the fair SABINA bloom'd awhile,
The Rofe and Lily open'd on her cheek;

Gay Health thro' each fine feature feam'd to faile
And o'er her head the choiceft vials break.

Her breaft was big with every facial charm,
Biov'd by all that worth or virtue priz'd;
Her pure monitions every heart did warm,
She hunn'd each vice, tho' e'er fo much disguis'd,
But, ah, je fair, who can the fequel tear,
Rear how the young Sabina's laid in clay,
And yet deny her manes a friendly tear,
Deny what fympathy calls me to pay,
Ye vailies lowe, yeriv'ters murmur on ja
In folemn numbers dearest Echo, tell,
The pride of ev'ry grove and mead ger.e,
And bade her rural haunts a long farewell.
Blow foftly, gentle breezes, o'er her g·ave;
Ye rathe paimrofes clothe the hallow'd mound:
In reg'lar rows, e jetty panties, wave,
Ye cowflips hang your penfile heads around ;
Ye myrtles brown-ye laurels-ever-greens,
Ye num'rous tribes, in Forest's fertile womb,
And all ye flow'rets, in mellif tous heens,
Bring here your choiceft fpoils to strew her tombe.
And ye to whom SABINA's name is dear,
An annual tribute pay at her low shrine;s
The whiteft linea round your bodies wear,
Around your virgin-brows Narciffus twines
Bring Hyacinths to ftrew their kindred earth;
And fadly flow move round in oval ring;,
Cal to your minds the dear De, ared's worth;
And o'er the dreary c'ay, cold mansion fing:

Hid from the light, in this low-delved grave, "Lier fair SABINA, now a lifeless corfe;

The earth-worms riot wie e each grace did wate "And dire Corruption gñaws without remorse.

SABINA! to our penfive breats how dear! How fweet the moments tha: we ha e e-joy'd, "When to thy themes we leat a willing ear, And Time's fwift wings our little tongues did chide. "But now, nor fin nor forrow can mɔlett; "Now arms of love bold Thee in downy fleep;

Ah, happier Thou! efcap'd to end'efs telt,

"Tean we, who still furvive to wake and weep."

VERSES by a YOUNG MAN,

On the Death of his Mother.
Fatal Death! who haft depriv'd of life-

The tendereft mother, and the worthieft wife!
Temples and tombs and towns fhall wafie swâyy" -
And Pow'r's vain pomp in mouldering duf decay.
"Not Med'cine's pow'r, nor the Phyfreian's fill,
"Can fave from Death, when he refolves to kill.
"Ah! no; not these, nor moblest worth can save i
"Elfe whom I mourn had longer ifcap'd the grave."
To Death's dark empire feen orglate muff yielda
The fairest flow'r that decks the human field.
In manners gentle, and in mindefesene,
Dy'd without murmur, in the midst of pain.
"On earth does happiness e'er perfect grow?
"No;-it ftill withers in this vale of woe.
« Hard lot indeed to part with one fo dear;
Yet may I not this lot with patience bear?
"Since well affur'd we part but for a time,
"In hopes to meet in a more cheerful elime."
Cheer'd with this pleafing hope, I safely trust
Jehovah's pow'r to raife us from the duft,

STOCKTON, May, 1793.

W. B.

The GAME of CRICKET.
PEACE, and her Arts, I fing. Her genial pow'r
Can give the breast to pant, the thought to tow's :
Tho' guilclefs, not inglorious flames infpires,
And boafts lefs favage, not lefé noble fires,
Than, in destructive War, the giddy croud admires.
Such is her fway, when CRICKET calls her train,
The Sons of Labour, `to th' accustom'd plain a
With all the hero's paffion and defire,
They (well, they glow, they envy, and admire ;
Defair and Refolution reign by turni,
Sefpence torments, and Emulation burne.

See

See in due rank difpos'd, intent they ftand,
In AC to flare—he eye, the foot, the hand,
Still a tire, eager, seem conjoin'd in one;
Tho' fixt ail moving, and, while prefent, gone.
In ancient combat, from the Parthian feed
Not more unerring flew the barbed reed,
Than rolls the ball, with vary'd vigour play'd,
Now levell'd, whizzing, o'er the fpringing blade;
Now tofs'd, to rife more fa al from the ground,
ExaЯ and faithful to th'appointed bound:
Yet vain it's fpeed, yet Väin itt ċertain aim,
The wary batfman watches o'er the game :
Before his ftroke the leathern orb fait flies,
Now wheels oblique, now, mounting, threats, the fisico.
Nor yet lefs vain the wary batfman's blow,
If intercepted by the circling foe;

Too foon the nimble, arm retorts the ball,
Or ready fingers carch it in its fall:

Thus vary'd Art with vary'd Fortune Arives,
And, with each chănging chance the sport reviver.
Emblem of many colour'd Life, the State
By Cricket-rules difcriminate the great :-
The outward fide, who Place and Profit want,
Watch to furprize, and labour to fupplant;

While those who taste the fweets of present winnings,
Labour as heartily to keep their innings.

On either fide the whole great game is play'd,
Untry'd no fill is left, unfought no aid s
Skill vies with skill, and pow'r contends with pow1⁄2.
While fquint-ey'd Prejudice computes the fcore.
In private he, like fingle-banded playʼrsTM*
We get few notches, but we meet few cares.
Full many a luffy effort, which a court
Would fix the doubtful issue of the sport,
Wide of its mark, or impotent to rife,
Ruins the rah, and difappoints the wife
Yet all, in public or in private, Arive
To keep the ball of action ftill alive

And just to all, when each bis Ground bas run,
DEATH TIPS THE

Land ibè Game is dene.

A THOUGHT.

A

THOUGHT..

HE more I think the more Dun fed

To lay mott folks are wrong in head,, From the gay fquire to Country clown, Tis plain the world's turn'd upfide down... In every clats, in every station,

It teems to run through all the nation..

The iquires are fond of hounds and pointers,
And wives are forc'do fell their Jointures;
While madain fpends the midnight hour,
With a few friends at double tower;
Even Damon leaves his humble rhyming,
With the gay world to run, and chime in ;
Strephon till thinks it is his duty
To praife the widow for a Beauty;
And Cimon thinks from all that paffes
That half the world must be turn'd affes.

LANTERDIMPUG.

DEAR

CHARLES.

AH me! my dear, my charming fwain,

What paffions tear my breaft for thee!

My days l'l wafte in endless pain,
If thou ne'er cast one thought on me.

Yet, yet my CHARLES, I'll not despair-
In time thy gentle heart to gain;

But, oh! of Faitehood's.iting beware,
Avoid to give thy Anna pain.

Ah!