How slowly Time creeps till my Phoebe return !
While amidst the soft zephyr's cool breezes I burn:
Methinks, if I knew whereabouts he would tread,

I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt down the lead. Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,

And rest so much longer for't when she is here.

Ah, Colin! old Time is full of delay,

Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst say.

Will no pitying power that hears me complain,
Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cured, thou must, Colin, my passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love!
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your fair.

SALLY IN OUR ALLEY.

BY HENRY CAREY.-1700-43.

[THIS song may be regarded as one of the prettiest and most natural of English love ditties, combining grace, tenderness, and humour in the simplest manner. Carey had been watching an apprentice and his betrothed in Vauxhall enjoying their cakes and ale, and he came home and wrote the song. His own career was a wild and sad one. He was the author of several burlesques and other dramatic pieces, very popular in their day.]

Her father he makes cabbage-nets

And through the streets does cry 'em; Her mother she sells laces long

To such as please to buy 'em :
But sure such folks could ne'er beget
So sweet a girl as Sally!

She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When she is by, I leave my work,
I love her so sincerely;
My master comes like any Turk,
And bangs me most severely-
But let him bang his bellyful,
I'll bear it all for Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

Of all the days that's in the week
I dearly love but one day-

And that's the day that comes betwixt
A Saturday and Monday;

For then I'm drest all in my best
To walk abroad with Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

My master carries me to church,
And often am I blamed
Because I leave him in the lurch
As soon as text is named;
I leave the church in sermon-time
And slink away to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,
And she lives in our alley.

When Christmas comes about again
O then I shall have money;
I'll hoard it up, and box it all,

I'll give it to my honey:

I would it were ten thousand pound,
I'd give it all to Sally;
She is the darling of my heart,

And she lives in our alley.

My master and the neighbours all
Make game of me and Sally,
And, but for her, I'd better be
A slave and row a galley;

But when my seven long years are out
O then I'll marry Sally,--

O then we'll wed, and then we'll bed,
But not in our alley!

A HYMN TO THE SEASONS.

BY JAMES THOMSON.-1700-48.

27 66

[JAMES THOMSON was born at Ednam, near Kelso, on the 11th of September, 1700. His father was the minister of the parish. When eighteen years of age, the youth was sent to Edinburgh to be educated for the Church; but, on the death of his father, he resolved to try his fortune in London. In March, 1727, he published his " Winter," which, in successive years, was followed by "Summer," "Spring," and "Autumn." In 1731, he became travelling companion, or tutor, to the son of Sir Charles Talbot; he was thus occupied for three years, in the course of which he visited all the most remarkable places on the Continent. On his return to England he obtained the sinecure situation of Secretary of Briefs in the Court of Chancery, which, however, he lost on the death of his patron, Lord-Chancellor Talbot. His circumstances were afterwards improved by a pension of 100/. which he received from the Prince of Wales through Lord Lyttelton; he was also appointed Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands, the duties of which he could perform by proxy, and which realized to him 300l. a-year. Being now comparatively rich, he retired to a cottage in the neighbourhood of Richmond. He there wrote several tragedies, and his "Castle of Indolence." He died, after a short illness, on the 27th of August, 1748.]

THESE

HESE as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year

Is full of Thee.

Forth in the pleasing Spring

Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love.
Wide flush the fields; the softening air is balm ;
Echo the mountains round; the forest smiles;
And every sense, and every heart is joy.
Then comes Thy glory in the Summer-months,
With light and heat refulgent. Then Thy sun
Shoots full perfection through the swelling year :
And oft Thy voice in dreadful thunder speaks;
And oft at dawn, deep noon, or falling eve,

By brooks and groves, in hollow-whispering gales.
Thy bounty shines in Autumn unconfin'd,
And spreads a common feast for all that lives.
In Winter awful Thou! With clouds and storms
Around Thee thrown, tempest o'er tempest roll'd,
Majestic darkness! on the whirlwind's wing,
Riding sublime, Thou bid'st the world adore,
And humblest Nature with Thy northern blast.

Mysterious round! What skill, what force divine, Deep felt, in these appear! a simple train, Yet so delightful mix'd, with such kind art, Such beauty and beneficence combin'd; Shade, unperceived, so softening into shade; And all so forming an harmonious whole; That, as they still succeed, they ravish still. But wandering oft, with brute unconscious gaze, Man marks not Thee, marks not the mighty Hand, That, ever-busy, wheels the silent spheres, Works in the secret deep, shoots, steaming, thence The fair profusion that o'erspreads the Spring, Flings from the Sun direct the flaming Day, Feeds every creature, hurls the tempest forth, And, as on earth this grateful change revolves, With transport touches all the springs of life.

Nature, attend! join every living soul,
Beneath the spacious temple of the sky,
In adoration join, and, ardent, raise
One general song! To Him, ye vocal gales,

Breathe soft, whose Spirit in your freshness breathes.
O, talk of Him in solitary glooms,

Where, o'er the rock, the scarcely waving pine
Fills the brown shade with a religious awe.

And ye, whose bolder note is heard afar,

Who shake the astonished world, lift high to heaven The impetuous song, and say from whom you rage. His praise, ye brooks, attune, ye trembling rills;

And let me catch it as I muse along.

Ye headlong torrents, rapid and profound;