So, lost in love, oppress'd by grief,
'Midst social mirth, a short relief,

The sorrowing heart may know;
But when to lonely thought retired,
It mocks the joy by mirth inspired,
And droops to lasting woe!

Selected Poetry.

Parnassus, 20th June, 1814.

FROM A LONDON PAPER.

IT was customary in our publick schools, for the scholars to sing the ancient song of "Dulce Domum," previous to the vacation. This performance I lately attended with great pleasure at Winchester; whether the custom is observed in other schools, I cannot tell. The spirit and beauty of this celebrated composition, is acknowledged by every scholar, and perhaps some of your young literary friends may be induced, during the vacation, to favour us with a translation. Your's, ADVENA.

Concinamus, O Sodales,
Eja, quid silemus?

Nobile Canticum,

Dulce melos domum,

Dulce domum resonemus.

UUORES.

CHORUS.

Domum, domum, dulce domum,
Domum, domum, dulce domum,
Dulce, dulce, dulce domum,
Dulce domum, resonemus.

Appropinquat, ecce! felix
Hora gaudiorum,
Post grave tædium

Advenit omnium

Meta petita laborum.

CHORUS.

Musa, libros mitte, fessa,
Mitte pensa dura,

Mitte negotium,

Jam datur otium,
Me, mea, mittito cura.

CHORUS,

Ridet annus, prata rident,
Nosque rideamus,

Jam repetit domum,

Daulias advena,

Nosque domum repetamus.

CHORUS.

Heus, Rogere, fer caballos,
Eja! nunc eamus,

Limen amabile

Matris et oscula,

Suaviter et repetamus.

CHORUS

Concinamus ad penates,

Vox et audiatur,

Phosphore, quid jubar,

Segnius emicans,

Gaudia nostra moratur.

CHORUS.

THE following Ode, was written by Cowley, upon the idea of two Angels playing a game of Chess.

It was said by Plautus,

"We are but Tennis balls for the Gods to play withall, " which they strike away at last, and call for new ones. When the fates lay hold on man, he is confounded and loses his wits. Fatality dazzles the sight of his judgment. So it happens that the designs and counsels of the man that is to perish, are corrupt.

LO! of themselves the enlivened chess men move:

Lo! the unbid ill organ'd pieces prove

As full of art and industry,

Of courage and of policy,

As we ourselves, who think there's nothing wise, but we.

Here a proud pawn, I admire,

That still advancing higher,
At top of all, became

Another thing and name.

Here I am amazed at the bold actions of a knight,

Who does great wonders in the fight,

Here I the losing party blame,

For those false moves, which break the game,
That to their grave the conquered pieces bring,
And above all the ill conduct of the mated king.
Whate'er these seem, whate'er philosophy
And sense or reason tell, said I,

These things have life, election, liberty.

Tis their own wisdom moulds their state,

Their faults and virtues make their fate.

Thus they do, (said I,) but strait

Lo! from my enlightened eyes, the mists and shadows fall, That hinder spirits from being visible,

And lo! I saw two Angels played the mate.

With men alas, no otherwise it proves :
An unseen hand makes all their moves.
And some are great, and some are small,

Some climb to good, and some from good fortune fall;

Some wise men, and some fools we call,

Figures alas of speech, for destiny plays them all.

With fate what boots it to contend?

Such I began, so am, and so must end!

The star that did my being frame,
Was but a lambent flame:

And some small light it did dispense,

But neither heat, nor influence.

No matter Cowley, let proud fortune see

That thou cans't her despise, no less than she does thee:

Let all her gifts the portion be of folly,

Fraud, extortion, vice and calumny,
Rebellion and hypocrisy :

Do thou not grieve, nor blush to be,

As all the inspired tuneful men,
And all thy great forefathers were,
From Homer down to Ben.*

1680.

SERENADE.

AWAKE, awake, my lyre,

And tell thy silent master's humble tale,
In sounds that may prevail.

Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire,

Though so exalted she,

And I so lowly be,

Tell her such different notes make all thy harmony.

Hark, how the strings awake,

And though the moving hand approach not near,
Themselves with awful fear,

A kind of numerous trembling make.

Now all thy forces try,

Now all thy charms apply,

Revenge upon her ear, the conquest of her eye.

Weak lyre, thy virtue sure

Is useless here, since thou art only found
To cure, but not to wound,

And she to wound, but not to cure.

Too weak too, wilt thou prove
My passion to remove,

Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to Love.

Sleep, sleep again, my lyre,

For thou can'st never tell my humble tale
In sounds that will prevail,

Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire.

All thy vain mirth lay by,
Bid thy strings silent lie,

Sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die.

COWLEY.

* Een Jonson.

EPITAPH.

SOUS ce tombeau gît St. Parin;
Donne des larmes á sa fin.
Tu fus de ses amis peut-être ?
Pleure ton sort, pleure le sien:
Tu n'en fus pas? pleure le tien,
Passant, d'avoir manqué d'être.

Solution of the first puzzle in the last Repository.

I TRIED a sceptre to transpose,
And it produced respect.
Transposed again, a spectre rose
With livid horrours deck'd.

Solutions of the Latin enigmatical Epitaph in our last.

O superbe, tua superbia te superabit. Terra et es in terram ibie

OSMYN.