While yet in ardent youth we fly,

Pregnant of life and hope, to sip Nectareous dew, entrancing joy! From blushing beauty's rosy lip:

Their sudden shafts the Fates dispense,
And wither all the beauteous dream,

Or tasteless age steeps every sense
In apathy's oblivious stream.

Then still while love and young desire
Play thro' the veins and warm the soul,

Burn, burn with love's exalting fire,

And drink to beauty's health the bowl.

L. T.

UNDER THE PICTURE OF

LADY *****

THOSE charms that time destroys the painter gives,

The beauty withers when the picture lives:
Be Shee your painter, but your poet I,

Verse lasts immortal, colours fade and die.

You, happy fair! perpetual bloom might hope
If Shee were Reynolds, and if I were Pope.

ARS LONGA, VITA BREVIS*.

Too fleeting life forbids us to be wise

For, ere the sage is form'd, the mortal dies.

A saying of Hippocrates.

Trin. Coll. Camb.

HORACE TO NEÆRA.

'Twas night-the silver moon serenely shone,

The stars around her throne,

When you more close than clasping ivy twin'd

Within these arms reclin❜d,

And swore by all the injur'd deities

These faithless perjuries:

"Long as the raging wolf the herd devours,

66 Long as Orion pours

"His roaring tempest on the wintry wave

"To fright the sailor brave;

"Long as th' enamour'd wanton gale caresses

66

Apollo's flowing tresses,

"Neæra's breast with mutual flames shall burn,

"And thy true love return."

Ah! cruel nymph, and shall thy Flaccus see

Another bless'd by thee?

Another swain enjoy his lost delights,

His happy, happy nights?

Ah! shall he see a rival's hated face

Contented with disgrace?

And you, fond boy! by my misfortune blest,

By my false fair carest;

Tho' in your wide domains Pactolus roll'd

His glittering sands of gold;

Tho' all the arts the sage of Samos knew

Tho' your fair form e'en Nireus' form surpass'd,

Her love would never last;

Soon will her charms another swain beguile,

"Tis then that I shall smile.

Trin. Coll. Camb. 1805.

TRANSLATION FROM

COWLEY.

WHAT! verse again? O fool to feed once more

That dire disease that you so oft forswore;
That rooted ail that baffles all your skill,
Mocks force and reason yet, and ever will:
Does Jove, my friend, and all to favour you,
Laugh at the lover's lies, and poet's too?

Softly, good sir! forgive the son of song,
In rhyme's tight chains reluctant dragg'd along :
The doctor's art I lately dar'd to try,

And thought no dunce alive so calm as I;

But then, the moon at full has turn'd my brain,

And brought me my poetic fits again.

Trin. Coll. Camb.