When fainting Nature call'd for aid,
And hov'ring Death prepar'd the blow.
His vig'rous remedy display'd

The pow'r of Art without the show.

In Mis'ry's darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh;
Where hopeless Anguifh pour'd his groan,
And lonely Want retir'd to die.

No fummons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain difdain'd by pride;
The modeft wants of ev'ry day,
The toil of ev'ry day supplied.

His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And fure th' Eternal Mafter found
His fingle talent well employ'd.

The bufy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by;

His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh.

Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forc'd his foul the nearest way.

ON A PINCUSHION.

OF all the trinkets that the toilet grace,
The Pincushion deferves the highest place.
When balls or operas invite the fair,

How could fhe fet her knots, or curl her hair,
Did not th' important pin each air supply,
Subduing stubborn plaits that stand awry?
The little pin ftill finds an useful place
In mobs, in lappets, and in Bruffels lace:
The modest Pilgrim o'er the shoulders draws,
Or from the well-plac'd peeper gains applause ;
In every office it performs is bleft,

Now to her eye is nearest, now her breaft.

Others may to the milliner repair,
But Sylvia deigns not to be furnish'd there:
Cupid himself fupplies her magazines,
And works his pointed arrows into pins:
No wonder ev'ry look fhou'd wound a heart,
Each Corkin that adorns her is a dart.

ON AURELIA SLEEPING.

WRITTEN BY A YOUTH AT THE AGE OF FIFTEEN.

I.

SEE! where the bright Aurelia lies

In yonder vi'let fmelling bow'r;
Sleep, gentle Sleep, has clos'd her eyes.
Ye Cupids! guard the happy hour..

II.

Zephyrs play foft around her breast ;:
Fan from her lips the fipping fly,
That dares fuch beauty to molest,
At whofe command I live or die.

III.

Silence! ye feather'd, warb'ling throng!"
Awhile your harmony forbear;
Awhile fufpend each rural fong,
Left you awake my fleeping fair.

IV.

So may you never, never hear

The gun dread-founding thro' the air,

So may you never, never fear

The cruel fchool-boy's limy fnare.

THE GIRDLE OF VENUS.

A FABLE FROM THE GREEK,

FOR GROWN LADIES.

WHEN Jupiter's high mettl'd dame
(As we read in Dan Homer the story)
Had a mind his cold breaft to inflame,
And to fhine with additional glory.

She order'd her peacocks and car,

And then flew to the Queen of the doves,

Who liv'd from her palace not far,

In the midst of the Graces and Loves.

Dear Venus," thus flow'd her fmooth fpeech, "Prythee lend me your ceftus to-day, "To repair a small conjugal breach ;

And be quick, for I foon muft away

" I must

" I must hafte to unite a good pair,
"Who took care of me when I was young,
"And each other now hardly can bear,
"Having both been by Jealousy ftung."

Her fecret defign fhe conceal'd,

(So fhould women act when they're married) For fhe knew if it once was reveal'd,

It would foon round Olympus be carried.

The blithe Goddefs not gueffing her drift,
On her waste tied the ceftus of pleasure,
And the cloud-ruler's fifter, then swift

As his eagle, whirl'd off with her treasure.

In this girdle was curioufly ftitch'd
The attractions which toying infpire,
And moreover, 'twas finely enrich'd
With all arts to re-kindle defire.

In this girdle, good-humour and ease,
Sweet words and fond looks were exprefs'd,

A perpetual endeavour to please,

And a face with gay fmiles ever dress'd.

Poffefs'd of fo rich a machine,

She was eager its virtues to try,

And then leaving the love-darting Queen,
Shot a thousand bright beams from each eye.

ΤΟ