We’ll grafp the minutes as they pafs, Unconfcious of all future woes: Mirth, love, and joy, ihallcrown each glafi, And call our forrows to our foes.

Let every white and happy hour Which fate has to my life decreed: With roliy wings its blelfidgs fhower, And each in order llill fucceed :

But when the 1hort-liv’d fmiling fiore No longer can my hlifs engage, Cut of? the ufelefs thoufands more, - And add them to fome coward’s age.

P O R T R A I T qf a Provincial Poet, draw/z ficm tlve Lgfi, 45w: .. For!) Tear: ago.

_ HOW happy the Poet, how void of all care, Who vrilhes for nought, who has nothing to fear, Who has nothing to lofe-money, houfes, or lands, -Nor a Foot of the earth, but the ground where he {lands 1 Whilfi madmen are fighting, and bluflering for fame, And defolate worlds to purchale-a name ; Whilfi the beggarly mifer is watching his fiore, Andonever content, {till wide graf ping for more ; His foul far fuperior, ne’er centring in (elf, Laughs at folly’s wild rage, and defpifes the pelf. In friendlhip fiill true, and in love ftill refin’d, His friend and his millrefs poffefs his full mind ; But wayward in conduct, averfe to all rule, By fools deem’d a madman, by wife men a fool, He flies from their firife to the brook or the grove, And knows no defires but; his mufe and his love.