Fair the bud of beauty blows,
Mellow sweets are palling;
Crown us with the virgin rose,
And so prevent its falling.
See the charms that nature yields;
Why sleep away your duty?
Arise! the fragrance of the fields
Is friendly to your beauty.
Lads, for shame! abed till now!
Forsake them, and be wiser;
There's health and pleasure, you'll allow,
In being an early riser.
Bound with ivy, bound with vines,
Youth serenely passes;
Bacchus round our temples twines,
And sparkles in our glasses.
No longer drown the mind in sleep;
But breathe the vernal air!
Our hours may thus improvement reap,
And who has any t' spare?
Salem Mercury, May 17, 1788.
From the New Monthly Magazine.
On seeing a Tomb adorned with Angels weeping.
Though sculptors, with mistaken art,
Place weeping Angels round the tomb;
Yet, when the good and great depart,
These shout to bear their conquerors home.