Where peace and reason, unsoil'd mirth, improve
The powers of friendship and the joys of love;
Where thought meets thought ere words its form array,
And all is sacred, elegant, and gay:
Such pleasure leaves no sorrow on the mind,
Too great to fall, to sicken too refined;
Too soft for noise, and too sublime for art,
The social solace of the feeling heart,
For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high,
'Tis virtue's pleasure, and can never die!



"THE CANDIDATE" {2}
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY REVIEW.



AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS OF THE AUTHOR TO HIS POEMS.

Multa quidem nobis facimus mala saepe poetae,
(Ut vineta egomet caedam mea) cum tibi librum
Sollicito damus, aut fesso, &c.
HORACE, Epistle 1.


Ye idler things, that soothed my hours of care,
Where would ye wander, triflers, tell me where?
As maids neglected, do ye fondly dote,
On the tair type, or the embroider'd coat;