Yet, under great BELLARIO's care, He gain'd each day a better air; With many a leader of renown,,

Deep in the learning of the Town,

Who never other science knew,

But what from that prime source they drew ;
Pleas'd, to the Opera they repair

To get recruits of knowledge there;
Mythology gain at a glance,

And learn the Classics from a dance:
In Ovid they ne'er car'd a groat
How far'd the vent'rous Argonaut;
Yet charm'd they see MEDEA rise
On fiery dragons to the skies.

For DIDO, though they never knew her
AS MARO's magic pencil drew her,
Faithful and fond, and broken-hearted,
Her pious Vagabond departed,

Yet, for DIDONE how they roar!
And CARA! CARA! loud encore.

One taste BELLARIO's soul possess'd,

The master-passion of his breast;
It was not one of those frail joys,
Which, by possession, quickly cloys;
This bliss was solid, constant, true,
"T was action, and 't was passion too;
For though the business might be finish'd,

The pleasure scarcely was diminish'd;

Did he ride out, or sit, or walk,

He liv'd it o'er again in talk;
Prolong'd the fugitive delight,

In words by day, in dreams by night.
'Twas eating did his soul allure.
A deep, keen, modish Epicure;
Though once this name, as I opine,
Meant not such men as live to dine;
Yet all our modern Wits assure us,
That's all they know of EPICURUS:
They fondly fancy, that repletion

Was the chief good of that fam'd Grecian.
To live in gardens full of flowers,
And talk philosophy in bowers,

Or, in the covert of a wood,

To descant on the sovereign good,
Might be the notion of their founder,
But they have notions vastly sounder:
Their bolder standards they erect,
To form a more substantial sect;
Old EPICURUS would not own 'em,
A Dinner is their summum bonum;
More like you'll find such sparks as these
To EPICURUS' deities;

Like them, they mix not with affairs,

But loll and laugh at human cares.
To beaux this difference is allow'd,

They choose a sofa for a cloud.
BELLARIO had embrac'd with glee
This practical philosophy.

BOWLES.

RETURN TO OXFORD.

CHERWELL.

CHERWELL! how pleased along thy willow'd edge
Erewhile I stray'd; or when the Morn began
To tinge aloft the turret's golden fan,

Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the sighing sedge,
And now, reclin'd upon thy banks once more,
I bid the pipe FAREWELL, and that sad lay
Whose music on my melancholy way
I woo'd, beneath thy willows waving hoar,
Seeking to rest-till the returning sun

Of joy beam out, as when HEAVEN'S humid bow
Shines silent on the passing storm below;

Whate'er betide, yet something have I won

Of solace, that may bear me on serene,

Till Eve's dim hand shall close the sinking scene.

ON THE RHINE.

'Twas morn, and beautiful the mountains' browHung with the clusters of the bending vineShone in the early light, when on the RHINE

We sail'd, and heard the waters round the prow

In murmurs parting; varying as we go,

Rocks after rocks come forward and retire,

As some grey convent-wall, or sunlit spire

Starts up, along the banks, unfolding slow.
Here castles, like the prisons of despair,

Frown as we pass-There, on the vineyard's side,
The bursting sunshine pours its streaming tide;
While GRIEF, forgetful amid scenes so fair,
Counts not the hours of a long summer's day,
Nor heeds how fast the prospect winds away.

THE CELL OF THE MISSIONARY.

FRONTING the ocean, but beyond the ken
Of public view, and sounds of murm'ring men,-
Of unhewn roots compos'd, and gnarlèd wood,
A small and rustic Oratory stood:

Upon its roof of reeds appear'd a cross,

The porch within was lin'd with mantling moss;
A crucifix and hour-glass, on each side-
One to admonish seem'd, and One to guide;

This, to impress how soon life's race is o'er;

And that, to lift our hopes where time shall be no more. O'er the rude porch, with wild and gadding stray,

The clust'ring copu weav'd its trellis gay:

Two mossy pines, high bending, interwove
Their aged and fantastic arms above.