Each youthful bofom beating with delight,
Waits the brifk fignal for the pleafing fight:
While lovely eyes, that flash unusual rays,
And fnowy bubbies pull'd above the ftays,
Quick bufy hands and bridling beads declare
The fond impatience of the starting fair.
And fee the fprightly dance is now begun!
Now here, now there, the giddy maze they run;
Now, with flow fteps they pace the circling ring;
Now, all confus'd, too fwift for fight they fpring:
So, in a wheel with rapid fury tofs'd,

The undiftinguifh'd fpokes are in the motion loft.
The dancer here no more requires a guide;
To no ftrict steps his nimble feet are ty'd;
The Mufe's precepts here would useless be,
Where all is fancy'd, unconfin'd, and free:
Let him but to the mufick's voice attend,
By this inftructed, he can ne'er offend;
If to his fhare it falls the dance to lead,
In well-known paths he may be fure to tread;
If others lead, let him their motions view,
And in their steps the winding maze purfue.
In ev'ry country-dance a ferious mind,

Turn'd for reflection, can a moral find;

In Hunt the Squirrel, thus the nymph we view,
Seeks when we fly, but flies when we pursue.
Thus, in round-dances, where our partners change,
And, unconfin'd, from fair to fair we range,
As foon as one from his own confort flies,
Another feizes on the lovely prize:
Awhile the fav'rite youth enjoys her charms,
Till the next comer fteals her from his arms.
New ones fucceed, the laft is fill her care;
How true an emblem of th' inconftant fair!
Where can philofophers, and fages wife,
Who read the curious volumes of the skies,

A model more exact than dancing name,
Of the creation's univerfal frame?

Where worlds unnumber'd, o'er th' ætherial way,
In a bright regular confufion ftray;

Now here, now there, they whirl along the fky,
Now near approach, and now far diftant fly,
Now meet in the fame order they begun,
And then the great celestial dance is done.
Where can the moralift find a jufter plan
Of the vain labours, and the life of man?
Awhile thro' juftling crowds we toil and fweat,
And eagerly purfue we know not what;
Then, when our trifling fhort-liv'd race is run,
Quite tir'd, fit down, just where we first begun.
Tho' to your arms kind Fate's indulgent care
Has giv❜n a partner exquifitely fair,

Let not her charms fo much engage your heart,
That you neglect the fkilful dancer's part;
Be not, when you the tuneful notes should hear,
Still whifp'ring idle prattle in her ear;
When you should be employ'd, be not at play,
Nor for your joys all other steps delay:

But when the finish'd dance you once have done,
And with applause thro' ev'ry couple run,
There reft awhile; there fnatch the fleeting bliss,
The tender whifper, and the balmy kiss;
Each fecret wifh, each fofter hope confefs,
And her moist palm with eager fingers prefs.
With fmiles the fair fhall hear your warm defires,
When mufick melts her foul, and dancing fires.
Thus, mix'd with love, the pleafing toil purfue,
Till the unwelcome morn appears in view;
Then, when approaching day it's beams difplays,
And the dull candles fhine with fainter rays;
Then, when the fun juft rifes o'er the deep,
And each bright eye is almoft fet in fleep;

With ready hands, obfequious youths, prepare,
Safe to her coach to lead each chofen fair,
And guard her from the morn's inclement air;
Let a warm hood enwrap her lovely head,..
And o'er her neck a handkerchief be spread;
Around her fhoulders let this arm be cast,
Whilft that from cold defends her flender waist;
With kisses warm her balmy lips fhall glow,
Unchill'd by nightly damps, or wintry snow;
While gen'rous white-wine, mull'd with ginger warm,
Safely protects her inward frame from harm.

But ever let my lovely pupils fear

To chill their mantling blood with cold fmall beer.
Ah, thoughtless fair! the tempting draught refuse,
When thus forewarn'd by my experienc'd Mufe;
Let the fad confequence your thoughts employ,
Nor hazard future pains, for prefent joy;
Deftruction lurks within the pois nous dose,
A fatal fever or a pimpled nose.

Thus, thro' each precept of the Dancing art,
The Mufe has play'd the kind instructor's part;
Thro' ev'ry maze her pupils fhe has led,
And pointed out the fureft paths to tread :
No more remains; no more the goddess fings;
But drops her pinions, and unfurls her wings.
On downy beds the weary dancers lie,
And Sleep's filk cords tie down each drowzy eye;
Delightful dreams their pleafing sports restore,
And, e'en in fleep, they seem to dance once more.
And now the work compleatly finish'd lies,
Which the devouring teeth of Time defies.
Whilft birds in air, or fish in ftreams we find,
Or damfels fret with aged partners join'd ;
As long as nymphs fhall, with attentive ear,
A fiddle rather than a fermon hear s

G 2

}

So

So long the brighteft eye fhall oft perufe
The ufeful lines of my inftructive Mufe;
Each belle fhall wear them wrote upon her fan,
And each bright beau fhall read them-if he can.

THE TOMB OF SHAKSPEARE,

A VISION.

BY JOHN GILBERT COOPER, ESQ.

WHAT time the jocund rofy-bofom'd hours

Led forth the train of Phoebus and the spring,
And Zephyr mild profufely scatter'd flowers
On Earth's green mantle from his musky wing-

The Morn unbarr'd th' ambrofial gates of light,
Weftward the raven-pinion'd Darkness flew;
The landscape fmil'd in vernal beauty bright,

And to their graves the fullen ghosts withdrew

The nightingale no longer fwell'd her throat
With love-lorn plainings tremulous and flow,
And on the wings of Silence ceas'd to float
The gurgling notes of her melodious woe-

The God of Sleep myfterious vifions led,
In gay proceffion, 'fore the mental eye;
And
my freed Soul awhile her manfion fled,
To try her plumes for immortality.

Thro' fields of air, methought, I took my flight,
Thro' ev'ry clime, o'er ev'ry region pafs'd;

No paradife or ruin 'fcap'd my fight,
Hefperian garden, or Cimmerian wafte.

On

On Avon's banks I lit, whofe ftreams appear

To wind, with eddies fond, round Shakspeare's tomb;
The year's firit feath'ry fongfters warble near,
And violets breathe, and earliest rofes bloom.

Here Fancy fat-her dewy fingers cold,

Decking with flow'rets fresh th' unfullied fodAnd bath'd with tears the fad fepulchral mold, Her fav'rite offspring's long and lait abode,

Ah! what avails,' fhe cried, a poet's name?
Ah! what avails th' immortalizing breath,
To fnatch from dumb Oblivion other's fame?
My darling child here lies a prey to Death!

Let gentle Otway, white-rob'd Pity's priest,
• From grief domestick teach the tears to flow;
Or Southern captivate th' impaffion'd breaft
• With heart-felt fighs, and fympathy of woe!

For not to thefe His genius was confin'd,

• Nature and I each tuneful pow'r had giv'n; Poetick tranfports of the madding mind,

' And the wing'd words that waft the foul to heav'n:

The fiery glance of th' intellectual eye,

Piercing all objects of creation's store,

Which on this world's extended furface lie;

And plaftick thought, that still created more."

O grant,' with eager rapture I replied,
Grant me, great goddefs of the changeful eye,
To view each being in poetick pride,

To whom thy Son gave immortality!'

Sweet