THE MOSQUETO.

LITTLE busy, buzzing thing,
With thy sharp and pointed sting;
While my mind is full of musing,
Thou the widest pore art choosing.
Darting quick thy little lance in,
Fierce as hero when romancing;
Ankle, nose, or ears, or finger;
Where the little bloated stinger
Quaffs the rosy blood as merry
As a Spaniard does his Sherry;
Quick I feel the titillation,
Dash the robber from his station,
But my thoughts are set a flying,
As a flock the fowler spying;
And e'er fancy's realms. I pitch in;
Reveries give place to itching.

a

* For a curious account of this little pernicious animal, see Dr. Coke's History of the West-Indies.

If by streams that soft meander,
Thro' the lonely woods. I wander,
Where no eye my haunt can see,
But the partridge on the tree.
And beneath the maple's shade,
For devotion's chamber made;
Sweet I taste no other needing,
All the luxury of reading:
Gravely poring o'er the page
Of the past or present age;
Feeding with an inward rapture
On each new-turn'd page or chapter.
Near my feet the stream is purling,
Or in little eddies curling;
Every passion wrapt in slumbers,
But the love of sacred numbers.
While the lofty maple trees
Gently rustle in the breeze;
And from maple, copse, or hillock,
Whip-poor-will or Chictowillock.
Make the solitude delighting,
Nothing now to spoil inditing;
Nothing, till I hear the humming
of the little robbers coming;

Quick they spy their prey, and dart
Vulture-like on every part.
Quick I shut my book, and get
Up, and brush me in a pet:
Think the little fell remora
Impious as a son of Corah.
If I sometimes feel a pride in
The mild exercise of riding,
And the woodland path am pacing,
Providence or Scripture tracing;
Something 'neath my knee is darting,
Soon I feel the itching smarting;
All my mind is in a pucker
With the venemous blood-sucker.
When the toiling day is done,
Lost in shades the setting sun,
And the hour of sleep inviting,
Bids me lay aside my writing;
Soon as e'er my eye-lids closing,
Feel the sweetness of reposing,
I'm assaulted by such numbers,
As destroy the sweetest slumbers.
Round and round my cranne singing,
Nose, and ears, and temples stinging,

Till I think no more of sleeping

Then a bridegroom would of weeping. If beneath the sheets I hide,

'Tis so hot I can't abide :

Thus a rose-leaf, gnat, or feather,
Can our worldly comforts wither;
And will vex, and fret, and fire us,
Unless patience sweet inspire us,
This can blunt the edge of teazing,
And make e en affliction pleasing
With its mild and simple veto
It can curb the fierce Mosqueto.

w

THE NEGRO MARY, OR INHUMANITY TO

THE DEAD.

RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED TO THE MANUMISSION

SOCIETY OF THE CITY OF NEW-YORK,

Under ground
Precedency's a jest; vassal and lord,
Grossly familiar, side by side consume.
Surely there's not a dungeon slave that's buried
But lies as soft and sleeps as sound as he...BLAIR.

ANGELS ope the pearly doors,
Sweetly swell the raptur'd lay;
Lo a ransom'd spirit soars,
Guide her to immortal day,