CONES: 1.
A PASTORAL.

BY CUNNINGHAM.

ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren and bare,

As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from richCeres her cottage hadcrown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round. And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

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ER moorlands and mountains, rude, barren and bare,

As wilder'd and wearied I roam,

A gentle young shepherdess sees my despair,
And leads me o'er lawns to her home.

Yellow sheaves from richCeres her cottage hadcrown'd, Green rushes were strew'd on her floor,

Her casement sweet woodbines crept wantonly round. And deck'd the sod seats at her door.

We sat ourselves down to a cooling repast,
Fresh fruits!-and she cull'd me the best;
Whilst, thrown from my guard by some glances she cast,
Love slily stole into my breast.

I told my soft wishes-she sweetly reply'd, (Ye virgins her voice was divine!) "I've rich ones rejected, and great ones deny'd; Yet take me, fond shepherd-I'm thine."

Her air was so modest, her aspect so meek,

So simple, yet sweet were her charms,
I kiss'd the ripe roses that glow'd on her cheek,
And lock'd the lov'd maid in my arms.

Now jocund together we tend a few sheep;
And if on the banks by the stream,
Reclin'd on her bosom, I sink into sleep,
Her image still softens my dream.

Together we range o'er the slow-rising hills,
Delighted with pastoral views,
Or rest on the rock whence the streamlet distils,
And mark out new themes for my Muse.

To pomp or proud titles she ne'er did aspire,
The damsel's of humble descent;

The cottager Peace is well known for her sire,
And shepherds have nam'd her, Content.

A PRAYER FOR

INDIFFERENCE.

BY MRS. GREVILLE.

OFT I've implor'd the gods in vain, And pray'd till I've been weary; For once I'll try my wish to gain Of Oberon the fairy.

Sweet airy being, wanton sprite,
That lurk'st in woods unseen,
And oft by Cynthia's silver light
Tripp'st gaily o'er the green;

If e'er thy pitying heart was mov'd,
As ancient stories tell,

And for th' Athenian maid who lov'd,
Thou sought'st a wondrous spell;

Oh! deign once more t'exert thy power;
Haply some herb or tree,
Sov'reign as juice of western flower,
Conceals a balm for me.

I ask no kind return of love,

No tempting charm to please:

Far from the heart those gifts remove, That sighs for peace and ease.

H

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