The Wandering SHEPHERD

Addressed to Mr. Random Shandy,

By a Young LADY

With angry billows rowl the waves,
And beat the trembling shore,
The mountain's deepest darkest caves
Repeat the fallen roar.

By you pale Moon I wander'd far,
Some hermitage to find,
I wander'd till the morning star
With softer lustre thin'd.

When soon Aurora's orient light
Diffus'd the gleam of day
Dispell'd the empty shades of night,
Sweet harbinger of day

To yonder cottage straight I steer'd,
"Say lodges here a Swain?"
I ask'd, and as I ask'd I fear'd
He'd cross the distant plain.

"No youth fair Maid has grac'd my cot;"
The aged Matron cries,
"I had a son - but he's forgot"-
The rest she told in sighs;

"Has death then snatch'd him in his prime,
"And crushed the budding flow'r?
"But death pays no regard to time,
"Alike to all his pow'r."
 

"Oh no fair Maid, o'er yonder rocks
("Ah! can I cease to mourn!)
"He went and drove his tender flocks,
"And said he'd soon return.

 "Since when three times the moon has wain'd
"Of him no more I hear:
"The only son I had remain'd
"To soothe his mother's care."
 

"I lost a Shepherd too, I said,
"I seek him o'er the plain,
"I thought perhaps he grac'd your shed,
"But find my labour vain."

When lo! the Genius of the Wood,
With music on his tongue
Advanc'd and as we wond'ring stood,
He tun'd his lyre and sung:

 CEASE, oh gentle maid to mourn,
Soon thy lover will return:
Love and joy with him appear,
Banish sorrow, banish fear.
 

With this aged Matron wait,
Cheer her in her hapless state;
Slowly walking thro' the vale,
Tell at eve thy tender tale:
 

Let thy trembling heart have rest,
Soon thy love shall make thee bless;
Doubt no longer, nor despair,
Soon thy lover will appear.
 

He ceas'd, and took his airy flight,
O'er sylvan scenes he flew;
And on the mountain's tow'ring height
My love appear'd in view.
 

"Oh welcome! welcome wand'ring Swain,
"Thy presence fear disarms,
"Thrice welcome to the happy plain,
"Thrice welcome to my arms."
 

Down the astonish'd Matron's face,
The tears forgot to run,
For in my Lover's sweet embrace;
She found her long lost Son.
 ----------

Sir,
if you think the following Lines worthy a Place in your Paper, they are very much at you service,
MERCATOR.
 

On a Cat sleeping in a CHURCH.
 

The Gentlefolks all gone from home,
Fine doings sure in such a case,
Puss then at liberty mat roam,
Unaw'd from place to place.
 

My sport the china jars among,
On damask bed, or toilette,
And fears much less than Betty's tongue,
Her playful paw may spoil it.
Such was the time (she knew not why)
Puss to the chapel stray'd
And in the closet mounted high,
The folks below survey'd.
 

With pleasure she the place beheld,
And all things to her mind,
The cushion that so charming swell'd,
She lik'd - and so reclin'd.
 

And now demure she seems methinks
Like any Judge in furrs;
And now mysteriously winks,
Or stately sits and purs.
 

Then rising gapes, and yawns, and stretches
Or to compose her listless pain,
Regardless what the parson preaches,
She stretches, yawns, and sleeps again.
 

Yet gentle puss one moment wake,
One transient look below,
And see how too your betters take,
Like you their nap below.
----------

If Mr. Creswell will be kind enough to insert the under-written Verses, in his Saturday's Paper, he will much oblige,

A Particular Friend.

On ELIZA's Absence.

What Verse sublime, thro' absence can express,
Or tell how gloomy does each scene appear;
But still my dear Eliza's kind redress,
May save the dropping of some starting tear,
 

Each am'rous thought's suppress'd with anxious care,
And circling joys are now, alas, no more;
But let me never, Hymen, taste, despair,
Whilst I my dear Eliza's charms adore.
 

How dull, how languishing appears each place!
The rural cot no more affords delight;
The verdant fields, o'er which we us'd to trace,
To wonted pleasures now no more invite.
 

Ah! view those verdant meads, once lovely gay,
The whistling thrush there ushers in the spring;
'Twas there the tender lambkins us'd to play.
And tuneful larks aloft melodious sing.
 

Now nought but solitude awaits around,
The thrush no more exalts her cheerful voice;
No sweet delights, nor harmony abound;
But love seems disposs'd of all its joys.
 

What horrid fate, what cruel destiny,
Hath left me here, never ceasing to complain?
And forc'd me from Eliza's arms to fly,
Unbless'd for ever, 'till return'd again?
 

Thou winged messenger of fate, go tell
What vast anxieties around me lie;
Fly to Eliza, and my cares reveal,
Bid her come to me, or forlorn I die.

ALEXIS.  

 To a YOUNG LADY, reading Dr. Laghorne's Solyman and Almena.

By the Wanderer.

To fair Almena's praise the verse is due,
But fair Almena's not so fair as you ;
You read the tale where love has done his part,
Where beauty sir'd where virtue charm'd the
heart,
In Irwin's vale midst spicy groves you stray,
Where fancy points, and wisdom leads the
way ;
Fair Irwin's streams and flow'ry banks you
rove,
The scenes of innocence, the scenes of love.

For Zara lost, a pitying tear you shed,
When from a father's frowne o'er the hills she fled ;
By Abba's side o'er dreary sands she flew,
While murd'ring ruffians far too swift pursue !
Then, then you with the whirlwinds swiftness
theirs,
In vain your wish, in vain your rising fears,
The ruffians come, nor pitying nor afraid,

But far from Abbas bear the trembling Maid.

Heave not your bosom with the tender sigh,
When fair Almena's dreaded fate is nigh ?
The brutish King commands the Maid to bless,
And give a wretch the greatest happiness
But pensive Solyman o'er hears her cries,
Bursts from his prison and o'er the palace flies,
Seizes the dagger, and with a well struck blow,
Sends the pale tyrant to the realms below.

Thus freed from woes they seek the golden
shore,
Blow gently gales, and waft the lovers o'er !
They come ! they come, the aged father cries !
Big swells his breast, and transport fills his
eyes ;
Press'd to his heart the lovers own their joy,
And bliss refin'd their future days employ.

And oh ! fair student wou'd you pleasure prove,
Such as are known in Irwin's shady grove :
Seek no the gay, luxurious scenes of mirth,
Where passions reign, that gave blind folly
birth :
Oh ! fly from those, their woes the bad bewail,
Seek rural ease, oh ! seek an Irwan's vale,
Where streams of joy for ever roll along,
And bless thy Poet for his artless song.

Permission is granted for all free personal and non-commercial uses. It is my intention to make all data contained herein freely available for all private, non-profit and non-commercial uses. Commercial use of any portion contained herein is expressly prohibited.