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DIEU to my Corydou dear,

Alas! that he now is no more ;
His name I shall ever revere,

His loss I shall ever deplore. There once was a time I complain’d,

That men were as false as the wind; But when my young heart he had gain'd,

His constancy alter'd my mind. I found him as true as the dove,

Nor riches could e'er gain his heart; He lov'd me for nought but my love,

Then guess how it grieves me to part. The joy that I felt in yon bow'r,

Arose from our mutual love; 'Twas such-to describe I've no pow'r,

'Twas such I can ne'er but approve. How often my far has drawn,

When wedlock had made us but one ; Night's mirth, or the business of morn,

Work ended, or labour begun, But fancy no longer can please,

No longer can give me delight ; Nor again can it give my heart ease,

Nor put these my sorrows to flight. No longer the hill or the vale,

To me any pleasure can give ; But pensive, l'll seek out the vale,

Where Corydon used to live, 'Tis there I will wander and roam,

'Till nature shall break at this heart; And send me to that happy home,

Where never again we shall part,



run !

EE, the school-hour is o'er, and the sports are begun,

See at cricket they halloo, they laugh-how they
A thousand frange projects resound far and near,
Regardless of prudence, regardless of fear ;
Till, forgetting each master's or parent's behest,
Gay, idle, and thoughtless, his heart light in his

breaft, Without thought of to-morrow, of sorrow, or strife, The fine pleasant fellow dalhes first into life. Now reynard's turn’d out, and he joins in the chase, Next, he's charm’d with the sport and the bets at a

race ;, drinks, and dances the long hours away, Impatient with pleasure to fill the whole day ; And alike fond of joys of the table or field, He scorns to give out, and was ne'er known to yield, Till all his companions observe with a smile, That the fine pleasant fellow is living in style. Grown older, done up, and unable to pay, Diseas'd, vex'd, and fretful-yet still fond of play, With those he despises, he's ftill seen to game, Still hoping to win, and still careless of fame, Each tradesman unpaid, who his follies supply'd, He itoops to all arts, and each meanness of pride! Till duns, debts, and attornies, each moment affail, And the fine pleasant fellow's confin’d in a jail! There, diftress’d and forsaken by foe and by friend, Bow'd down, by degrees he bends on to his end, Return'd to a sense of his fully too late, From morning to evening he curses his fate, And too proud to repent and too late tu recede, With a desperate hand does a desperate deed ! Whilst a terrified crowd the sad relicks survey, Of the fine pleasant fellow the martyr of play!


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NEE the school's broken up, and the pastinie's begun,

Full of mirth and good humour, of laughter, and


No thought of the future difturbs the gay breast,
But the scene is all frolic, all freedom and jeft,
The parties all made, and the books thrown afide,
Few think there are pleasures by prudence deny'd,
Few think it, save one, and who is he? d'ye ak ?
'Tis the dull plodding fellow, that's hard at his tak.
Now enter'd on life, with few pence in his purse,
He determines his little he ne'er will make worse,
But content to be poor, labour hard to be wise;
Yet as riches from learning are oft known to rise,
Should that be the case-it is part of his plan
To be known by the name of a staunch honeft man;
'Tis the title he'll bear to his life's latest end,
For the dull plodding fellow's still true to his friend.
Grown wealthy, and pleas'd with his fortunate lot,
The hope of his youth, tho' delay'd, not forgot;
The blessing he toil'a for, he asks and obtains,
The hand of his fair one rewards all his pains,
And children around him all strive to improve,
From the precepts of wisdom, deliver'd by love ;
Whilft each added year adds a joy to his life,
Belov'd by his friends, and his children, and wife.
Till advanc'd to old age, and now finking in death,
Not grieving but griev'd for, he yields his last breath ;
Servants, children, and wife, bless the voice that expires,
And e'en after his death ftill respect his desires;
Whilst the needy, in crowds, at the church-yard attend,
To drop the last tear o'er their much valu'd friend;
And each neighbour still fighs, as he passes his door,
For the dull plodding fellow was lov'd by the poor !

Literary Review.

The View of Hindoftan. Two Volumes. Quarto.

Hughs. 21. 125. 6d. THIS was the last work of the indefatigable Mro the close of the year 1798. In our Number for January 1799, we presented our readers with his portrait, together with a very particular detail of his life and labours. It was there mentioned that he had formed an extensive work under this expressive title, “ Outlines of the Globe!" The work had been finished, and remained in manuscript on the felves of his library. The ingenious author published these two volumes by way of specimen; they afford wonderful proofs of his persevering industry. The first paragraph of the preface is both striking and explanatory; it shall be tran. scribed.

“ These two volumes," says Mr. Pennant, composed from the fourteenth and fifteenth of my Out. LINES OF THE GLOBE. I had many solicitations from private friends, and a few wilhes from persons unknown, delivered in the public prints, to commit to the press a part in the form in which the pofthumous volumes might hereafter make their appearance. I might have pleaded the imprudence of the attempt, at my time of life, of beginning so arduous an undertaking in my seventy-first year. I happily, till very lately, had scarcely any admonition of the advanced season. I Vol. IX.



are ever

plunged into the sea of troubles, and, with my papers in one hand made my way through the waves with the other, and brought them secure to land. This, alas ! is senile boasting. I must submit to the judgment of the public, and learn from thence how far I am to be censured for so grievous an offence against the maxim of Aristotle, who fixes the decline of human abilities at the forty-ninth year. I ought to shudder, when I con. sider the wear and tear of twenty-two-years; and I feel shocked at the remark of the elegant Delaney, who observes, “ that it is generally agreed among wise men, that few great attempts at least in the learned way, have ever been wisely undertaken and happily executed after that period !" I cannot defend the wisdom, yet from the good fortune of my life, I will attempt the execution.

Thus modestly and engagingly does the venerable au. thor speak of this child of his old age. We howeve perceive' no marks of decline about the work, which is full of information and entertainment. In the latter part of the preface, Mr. Pennant acknowledges his igations in a handsome manner to Major Rennell

, Sir William Jones, and the Reverend Thomas Mau. rice, for the affiftance which their publications afforded him in the completion of this his favourire work.

Mr. Pennant's intention in the Outlines of the Globe, was to travel every part of this habitable earth in imagination, furnishing himself with materials from travellers and navigators, who had visited those parts of the world. In this manner did De Foe write a journal of the plague, which raged in this metropolis during the last century; and after this mode allo, was that ingenious man thought to have made his Tour through England.

Mr. Pennant, therefore, thus personifying the traveller, has, in these volumes, furnished a very eatertaining and instructive account of the East Indies ; those diftant regions of the globe which have contributed


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