She is faithlefs, and I am undone;

Ye that witnefs the woes I endure, Let reafon inftruct you to fhun

What it cannot inftruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of an higher degree : It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle they be.

Alas! from the day that we met,'
What hope of an end to my woes ?
When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repofe.

Yet time may diminish the pain:

The flow'r, and the fhrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleafure in vain, In time may have comfort for me.

The fweets of a dew-fprinkled rofe,
The found of a murmuring ftream,
The peace which from folitude flows,

Henceforth fhall be Corydon's theme.
High tranfports are shown to the fight,
But we are not to find them our own;

Fate never beftow'd fuch delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.

O ye woods, fpread your branches apace!
To your deepeft receffes I fly ;

I would hide with the beafts of the chafe;

I would vanish from every eye.

Yet my reed fhall refound through the grove
With the fame fad complaint it begun ;
How the fmil'd, and I could not but love!
Was faithlefs, and I am undone !

CORY DO N.

A PASTORAL.

TO THE MEMORY OF WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ

BY CUNNINGHAM

I.

COME, fhepherds, we'll follow the hearse,

We'll fee our lov'd Corydon lay'd,
Though forrow may blemish the verfe,
Yet let a fad tribute be paid.

They call'd him the pride of the plain;
In footh he was gentle and kind!

He mark'd on his elegant ftrain

The graces that glow'd in his mind.

II.

On purpose he planted yon trees,
That birds in the covert might dwell;
He cultur'd his thyme for the bees.
But never wou'd rifle their cell.

Ye lambkins that play'd at his feet,
Go bleat-and your mafter bemoan ;
His mufic was artlefs and sweet,

His manners as mild as your own.

III.

No verdure fhall cover the vale,
No bloom on the bloffoms appear;
The fweets of the foreft fhall fail,
And winter difcolour the year.
No birds in our hedges fhall fing
(Our hedges fo vocal before),

Since he that fhould welcome the spring,
Can greet the gay feafon no more.

IV.

His Phyllis was fond of his praife,

And poets came round in a throng; They liften'd, they envy'd his lays, But which of them equall'd his fong? Ye fhepherds, henceforward be mute, For loft is the paftoral ftrain; So give me my Corydon's flute,

And thus- -let me break it in twain.

THE DAY OF JUDGMENT.

FROM YOUNG'S NIGHT THOUGHTS?

AMAZING

AMAZING period! when each mountain height
Out-burns Vefuvius; recks eternal pour

Their melted mafs, as rivers cnce they pour'd;
Stars rush; and final ruin fiercely drives
Her ploughfhare o'er creation ;-while aloft,
More than aftonishment! if more can be!
Far other firmament than e'er was feen,
Than e'er was thought by man! far other ftars!
Stars animate, that govern thefe of fire;

Far other fun!-A fun, O how unlike
The Babe at Bethle'm! how unlike the man
That groan'd on Calvary !—yet He it is;
That man of forrows! O how chang'd! what pomp!
In grandeur terrible, all heav'n defcends!
And gods, ambitious, triumph in his train.
A fwift archangel, with his golden wing,
As bolts and clouds, that darken and difgrace
The fcene divine, fweeps ftars and funs afide.
And now, all drofs remov'd, heav'n's own pure day,
Full on the confines of our ether, flames.

Lorenzo! welcome to this fcene; the last

In nature's courfe; the firft in wifdom's thought. This ftrikes, if aught can ftrike thee! this awakes

The most fupine; this fnatches man from death.,
Roufe, roufe, Lorenzo, then! and follow me,
Where truth, the most momentous man can hear,
Loud calls my foul, and ardour wings her flight.
I find my inspiration in my theme:

The grandeur of my fubject is my mufe.

At midnight, when mankind is wrapt in peace,
And worldly fancy feeds on golden dreams,
To give more dread to man's most dreadful hour,
At midnight, 'tis prefum'd, this pomp must burst
From tenfold darkness; fudden, as the spark-
From fmitten fteel; from nitrous grain the blaze.
Man, ftarting from his couch, fhall fleep no more !
The day is broke, which never more fhall clofe !
Above, around, beneath, amazement all!
Terror and glory join'd in their extremes !
Our God in grandeur, and our world on fire!
All nature ftruggling in the pangs of death!
Doft thou not hear her? doft thou not deplore
Her ftrong convulfions, and her final groan?
Where, where, for shelter fhall the guilty fly,
When confternation turns the good man pale ?
Great day! for which all other days were made;
For which earth rofe from chaos; man from earth;
And an eternity, the date of gods,

Defcended on poor earth-created man!
Great day of dread, decifion, and despair!
At thought of thee, each fublunary wish