Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Phœbe, the brightest nymph of Beauty's train,
With tend'rest vows by Basil was addrest;
But Pride, of Happiness and Love the bane,
Forbad her speak the language of her breast.

Slighted his vows, poor Basil inly pin'd,
No gleam of comfort opening to his view,
Whilst Pride and Love contend in Phœbe's mind;—
Ah, what has Pride with meek-ey'd Love to do!

Soon as the lark's first warblings float on air,
The neighb'ring grove knows Basil for its guest,
There sighing Eccho mocks his sad despair,
And every feeling doubly is confest.

Upon a bank close by the river's side,
Musing on Basil, Phœbe lay repos'd;
The treach'rous earth gave way; the am'rous tide
Infolds the maid, and o'er her beauties clos'd.

A shriek, and thunder from the whitening flood
Arous'd the swain, and ecchoed Danger nigh:—
With folded arms he long had musing stood,
And in his thoughts alone did Phœbe spy.

Eager he flew the drowning wretch to save,
Like lightning plung'd amid the wat'ry roar,
And Jason-like from forth the liquid grave,
The more than golden fleece exulting bore.

But in the speechless fair one when he saw,
Stretch'd on the strand, his Phœbe pale and cold,
Who can the chaos in his bosom draw?
Lovers may guess, but words can ne'er unfold.

Frantic he homeward bore the hapless maid;
His fault'ring tongue cou'd ill the tale relate;
But heav'n in pity sent reviving aid,
She wak'd, and Basil bless'd his happy fate.

Again her beauties glad the wond'ring plains,
Her cheeks the lilly and the rose display;
Whilst fever riots thro' poor Basil's veins,
And Death with greedy maw o'er-hangs his prey.

The nymph, alarm'd, to Basil straightway flies,
And at his feet herself, all-trembling, cast;
“To save ungrateful Phœbe, Basil dies,
“That hour that knells for Basil, marks my last.

“My Basil, my preserver! here—ah—view
“A maid unworthy such exalted truth;
“Had I the world's heap'd treasures—all were due
“To worth like your's—He hears me not, dear youth.

“How to his plainings cou'd I close mine ear?
“How to his virtues cou'd I prove unkind?

“To my own heart how prove so insincere?
“But cursed Pride had warp'd and stain'd my mind.

“Tho' flocks more numerous and richer meads
“I boast, than gen'rous Basil's scanty store,
“Merit like his Wealth's futile boast exceeds,
“Basil is rich, and pride-stain'd Phœbe's poor.

“A stranger from this hour to peace or rest,
“Ne'er will repentant Phœbe quit the room,
“'Till heav'n in Basil's safety makes me blest,
“Or gives us both devoted to the tomb.”—

Close to his pillow, watchful now she sits,
Her throbbing bosom pierc'd with anguish keen;
Nor for a moment her dear Basil quits;
A nurse so young, so fair, is seldom seen.

No med'cine save from Phœbe's hand he knows,
Her care a quick return of health ensures;
With Love's sweet balm each healing cup o'erflows;—
Tho' Love can wound, his balm as certain cures.

Basil restor'd, Love smiling leads the way;
The wish'd-for knot is at the altar ty'd;
And nymphs and shepherds bless the happy day,
When Love triumphant banish'd hateful Pride.

TULLIA.

An Elegy.

Like lightning swoops a Vulture keen,
And bears a Lambkin far away,
As by its dam upon the green,
It frisk'd around in wanton play.

When Tullia, with heart-rending sighs,
Exclaims from forth the neighb'ring dale,
“Do not, poor Sheep, with lifted eyes,
“And mournful bleatings, fondly wail.

“How small your loss to mine compar'd!
“Your Lambkin ne'er in smiles exprest
“It's anxious love—nor e'er was heard
“With songs to soothe it's dam to rest.

“A few sad hours o'erblown—again
“Your pulse with wonted glee shall beat,
“Again you'll cheerful, crop the plain,
“Again with artless music bleat.

“You have no Celia to lament,
“No poor betray'd and murder'd child,
“Whose heart, tho' pure, by shame was rent,
“By Man, than Vulture worse, beguil'd.

“Fair as the summer's orient beam,
“That speaks the rising Phœbus nigh,
“Modest as violets o'er the stream,
“That humbly bend with timid eye;

“Unsullied as the virgin-snow,
“Sequester'd on the clifted hill,
“As melting too—when Pity's glow
“Caus'd thro' her eyes her soul distill;

“Yet lively as the bounding Fawn,
“Fearless of Hunter's snare or gun,
“That sports around the flow'ry lawn,
“And licks the hand, which wise, 'twou'd shun;

“Such was my Celia!—All the day
“She cheer'd me with her angel-voice;
“At night, when wrap'd in sleep I lay,
“She made in dreams my soul rejoice.

“'Till Derville, like a Dæmon fell,
“Conceal'd in Flattery's rain-bow guise,
“Came with alluring magic spell,
“And made her virgin soul his prize.

“My door still hail'd him as a friend,
“My table as a favor'd guest,
“While in return the smiling fiend
“A dagger plung'd within my breast.

“Poor Celia!—Guileless was her heart—
“Each specious gilded vow believ'd,
“A stranger she to hollow art,
“From her own feeling was deceiv'd.

“In Lust's fell policy compleat,
(“The hour unguarded when he came)
“He ruin'd—and as lightning fleet,
“Bore her to infamy and shame.

“Ah! where were then a mother's cries,
“To pierce the base insidious foe?
“But can a mother's tears and sighs,
“The Vulture make his prey forego!

“In vain I flew the country round,
“In vain did weep and wildly rave,
“Nor my poor hapless Lambkin found,
“Till I beheld her recent grave.

“Grief, like a canker-worm at heart,
“Had ravag'd from his inmost cell;
“Despair had pierc'd her with his dart,
“And Hope had sigh'd a last farewell.

“Weary'd with tears and ceaseless moan,
“Derville—may heav'n the fiend repay—
“Left her, all helpless and unknown,
“To black Remorse a dying prey.

“She, who from wond'ring gaze was wont,
“Within herself for safety hide,
“Modest and feeling as the plant
“The slightest touch which cannot bide,

“Ah, how cou'd she the distant sneer,
“The barbed sting that mocks all cure,

“From happier Pride the taunt severe,
“Ah, how the wanton's curse endure!

“For Me incessant was her cry,
“By Me she pray'd to be forgiven,
“Then laid her down—and with a sigh,
“Her contrite soul resign'd to heav'n.

“Heart-rending thought!—No mother near,
“In that dread hour to close her eyes,
“To breathe my soul upon her bier,
“And make for both one grave suffice!

“Has not, O Derville, to your care,
“A Sister gracious heav'n assign'd?
“Can you on this reflect—yet dare
“To hope your crimes will mercy find?

“Should you that Sister dear behold,
“The public infamy and scorn,
“To menial slaves a prey for gold,
“To Want abandon'd and forlorn?

“Wou'd not your instant rage pursue,
“Tho' guarded by a sov'reign Throne,
“The wretch—such Derville, such are you—
“By whom your darling was undone?

“Can Man—by heav'n all just and kind—
“Ordain'd our Guardian, Lover, Friend,
“With coward heart and wiles refin'd,
“Destroy what Nature bids Defend.

“The Vulture smiles not when he bears,
“To certain fate his destin'd food;
“The honest Wolf a foe appears,
“And boldly howls his thirst for blood.

“Oh, what a black-stain'd marble heart—
“If heart you have—your breast must chill!
“No print can Conscience there impart,
“Nor Pity's dew-drops thence distill.

“My days that erst so cheerful past,
“Like autumn sunshine, mildly bright,
“With wint'ry clouds are now o'ercast,
“Ah! when comes Death and friendly Night?”

More she had said, but choaking sighs
Her fault'ring accents quite supprest,
With broken heart she homeward hies,
Looks her last pray'r, and sinks to rest.

The Sensitive Plant.

The POET and STRAW.

A Fable.

On Richmond Hill, with doublet bare,
A hungry poet takes the air:
The air on Richmond Hill, tho' good,
And excellent Camelion food,
Is rather of too thin a nature
For a beef-loving, two-legg'd creature:
Our poet stops, he looks around,
And murmurs thus in doleful sound:

“While plenty o'er the landscape reigns,
“Shall Bards alone feel meagre pains?
“Ah, what avails, if in the Town,
“My madrigals acquir'd renown;
“If stranger to all-pow'rful coin
“I seldom taste the rich sirloin;
“If for the produce of my brain,
“I meet from money'd fools disdain;—
“In vain the laurel crowns my brows;
“What crowns my pocket?—Not one souse:
“Of bay or laurel, where the use is?
“Nor bay or laurel fruit produces:—
“I've fame pursu'd, and now I've caught her,
“She proves—mere moonshine in the water;
“How happier the unletter'd glutton,
“Who can indulge on beef and mutton:—
“How curst each servant of the nine!
“I'd rather be a fool and dine.”

He said, and to his great surprize
Beneath his feet a Straw replies:—

“Ah, hapless Bard, look down and see
“Thy striking emblem here in me;
“Despis'd by those, to whom my head
“Furnish'd the staff of living—bread:
“That gain'd, behold me here cast down,
“Trod on by ev'ry sordid clown:
“Just so the bard, who, from his brain,
“The hungry mind can entertain,
“Is soon neglected and forgot,
“A barren praise his hapless lot;
“To fame becomes an empty bubble,
“Trod on by fools like straw or stubble.”

To a Discarded FAVOURITE.

Flutt'ring within a sunny ray,
A shining Mote was heard to say,
“In Me what glories are display'd!
“For Me the sun and stars were made;
“For Me”—The sun his beams withdrew,
The Mote was lost—and so are You.

The CONNOISSEUR.

In that fam'd room where artists strive,
True taste and genius to revive,
Where modern Guidos put in claim,
Contending for the wreath of Fame;
Where Virtû's sons, with great precision,
Their knowledge prove by wise decision;
A judge allow'd—a Connoisseur,
With buckram gait, and phiz demure,
Noting a piece, on which the Crowd
Unusual compliments bestow'd,
His glass first peeps thro' with an air,
(True Connoisseurs short-sighted are)
The painting carelessly survey'd,
And, when inform'd 'twas English made,
Thus to an elbow-friend, with look
Oracularly cynic, spoke:—
“Sure never was performance seen
“More gothic, tasteless, lifeless, mean:
“Painting!—'Tis canvass spoil'd—Oh, gad!
“'Tis daubing!—Execrable!—Sad!
“No colouring! keeping!—And such Clare-
“Obscure!—All Englise!—All Barbare!
“And how unnaturally shows
“That ill-made fly on that vile rose!
“A fly! 'tis no more like”—When quick,
Pointing toward the fly his stick,
To prove his criticism true,
Away the little Insect flew.

The Exhibition-Room in the Strand.

The TRAVELLER and RAINBOW.

A Fable.

A Gawdy Rainbow, vivid, gay,
Resplendent with the various ray,
Arrests a Trav'ler's raptur'd gaze,
While thus he cries with wild amaze;—
“Heav'ns! what a sight! how rich a glow!
“Can art a scene thus lovely show?
“The pallat this emboss'd with teints,
“That Nature uses when she paints;
“And such an arch!—It sure supports
“Olympus, and the Thund'rer's courts;
“The hemisphere bestriding wide;—
“Magnificent, from side to side:—
“Wou'd Jove but mount me to yon sphere,
“Where I might view this wonder near;
“Where I might all its glories trace,
“Which distance greatly must efface,
“Wou'd Jove but grant me this request,
“How thankful shou'd I be!—how blest!

No sooner said, than, quick as thought,
Aloft in distant air he's caught,
Mid floating oceans chill'd to death,
Mid fogs almost depriv'd of breath—
When words like these in accents clear,
Strike the affrighted Trav'ler's ear:—
“What late your admiration drew,
“In genuine colours here you view;
“Meer earth-born vapours, mist and rain
“Rais'd by the sun to float amain,

“Which, gilded by his beams, appear
“Thus glitt'ring to your lower sphere,
“To dazzle wondring eyes, and show
“What outside ornaments can do:
“Learn hence with caution to decide
“On objects at a distance spy'd,
“Nor think that Fortune's smiles impart
“Contentment to the Garter'd Heart:
“The gaudiest flowers oft contain
“Within their core a cank'rous bane;
“And for a truth this axiom hold,
“What glitters is not always gold.—

“Learn too, that men, who often show,
“When distant, like the dazzling Bow,
“If nearer search'd, prove Fogs at best,
“By an illusive sun-beam drest.”—

Ended the Voice, the Trav'ler found
Himself replac'd upon dry ground.

EPIGRAM.

[Cleora's breasts two hillocks are of snow]

Cleora's breasts two hillocks are of snow,
On which two little fragrant rose-buds grow;
Between those hills lies Cupid's down-smooth vale,
Where Jove himself enraptur'd might regale,
And lodg'd within, a treasur'd heart is known,
Form'd like her sister Medicis' of Stone.

The Cleanly SPARROW.

Never was Sparrow half so blest,
As lovely Cloe's fluttering Phil;
She gives her bosom for his nest,
Of pleasure to indulge his fill.

Richer than nabobs, dukes, or kings,
Forth from his nest he chirps his thanks;
Expands his little quiv'ring wings,
And shows a thousand wanton pranks.

And when a cobweb veil of gauze,
Covers the heaving lillied skin,
Philly with eager bill and claws,
Unpins the charm, and nestles in.

The chirping language of his heart,
Sweet as the sky-lark's warblings prove,
For Cloe knows such sounds impart
True marks of gratitude and love.

Partaker of each choice repast,
The sugar'd tea well cream'd he sips;
Or pecks with wanton eager taste,
The honey'd morsel from her lips.

But from her mouth as he conveys
The prize more sweet than nectar'd pap,
He cocks his tail above her stays,
And drops a Something in her lap.

Be not offended, lovely Fair,
Phil knows his home your downy breast,
And ancient proverbs well declare,
A cleanly bird ne'er fouls his nest.

The MERCIFUL.

A Butcher with a heart as hard as stone,
And callous to an orphan Lambkin's moan,
Seizes his fated prey with horrid grin,
And whistles while the knife he plunges in;
Nell, who the scene beheld, with piteous look,
And shrugg'd-up shoulders, thus her feelings spoke:
“Thou barb'rous wretch! thus unprovok'd to spill
“So sweet a creature's blood that ne'er did ill!—
“See how it struggles, how it pants for life,
“The murd'rer's jaws clasping the reeky knife:
“To do a deed like this, were I to gain
“The universe—ev'n such a bribe were vain.”
Thus Nell with tenderness exclaims and feels—
While all the time—good soul!—She skins live Eels.

SHAKESPEARE.

When Nature to Athens and Rome bad adieu,
To Britain the goddess with extasy flew;
So tempting she look'd, and so blooming her charms,
Jove quitted his sky, and indulg'd in her arms.

On Avon's fair banks, now the subject of Fame,
She brought forth a boy, and Will Shakespeare his name,
Not egg was to egg more alike, than in feature,
The smiling young rogue to his parent dame Nature.

Of all her sweet prattlers she lov'd Willy best,
She nurs'd the young smiler with milk from her breast
And as he grew older, she nothing conceal'd,
But all, all her secrets to Willy reveal'd.

She fed him with honey from Hybla's sweet store,
The same which her Homer had tasted before;
A Swan on the Avon first taught him to sing,
Whilst the Loves and the Graces danc'd round in a ring.

An Eaglet from Jove's fav'rite hobby was given,
On which the young genius oft frolic'd to heav'n;
And when Willy sung, all the Deities swore,
They ne'er heard such warblings, such wild-notes before.

With envy just bursting, with impotent lies,
And sneers, Momus pelted the bard of the skies;

Jove kick'd the foul Critic from heaven's azure round,
And, venting his spleen, now at Ferney he's found.

To govern, and lead as he pleas'd in a string,
Jove gave him the passions; they hail'd Willy king.
The Muses, as handmaids, were doom'd to attend him,
And Phœbus with Wit's brightest ray did befriend him:

A pow'r to create Jove to Willy assign'd,
This pow'r was to Fancy's bright regions confin'd,
Or Willy all Chaos with life had endu'd,
And Jove for Creations had wanted new food.

Jove next gave the boy from his thunder a shaft,
Will grasp'd it, and fearless play'd with it, and laugh'd;
Not Jove cou'd his lightning dispatch with more art,
Or send the wing'd vengeance more sure to the heart.

The Deities all shew'd their love to the boy,
Minerva gave wisdom, and Venus gave joy;
But Juno, quite jealous, with insolent pride,
To Jove's love-begotten all favours deny'd.

Fresh pluck'd from his wing Cupid gave him a quill,
Which Willy long flourish'd with magical skill,
He penn'd with it strains that enchanted the spheres,
And drew from the soul of stern Pluto salt tears.

The harp, when he sounded, Vice instant grew pale,
While Virtue triumphant rode high on the gale;
Each note to our inmost of cores found its way,
Nor, like mortal notes, on the surface did play.

The light-tripping Fays still awaited his nod,
Oft with them he danc'd on the green-circled sod;
Sylphs, Demons, and Witches, strait flew at his call,
And his magic the mob of the air could enthrall.

Ye bards of all ages, yield Shakespeare the bays,
What star can be seen 'mid the sun's dazzling blaze?
Let Britons, enraptur'd, their thanks swell on high,
One Shakespeare on earth—and one Jove in the sky.

Voltaire's Seat near Geneva.

In the Heathen Mythology Jove was supposed to form Creation out of Chaos.

HENRY and SOPHY.

Henry and Fortune now are friends,
His many sorrows all are past;
Fortune, to make him full amends,
Gives to his wishing arms at last

The long-lov'd Sophy; fairest maid
That ever caus'd or felt love's smart;
In her most richly were display'd
An angel form and dove-like heart.

Long had their friends with souls severe,
Oppos'd the lovers happy fate;
But chang'd, they smiling now appear,
And with them at the altar wait.

Deep in the maiden's roseate bloom
Grief's canker-worm had wasteful fed,
To snatch his Sophy from her tomb,
Invited, love-lorn Henry sped.

The holy Priest pronounc'd aloud
The Gordian wonder-working spell;
While Love and Hymen both avow'd,
“Shrin'd in their breasts they'd ever dwell.”

“And art thou mine,” the bridegroom cry'd,
“With all thy wond'rous truth and charms?”
She smil'd—she wou'd have spoke—she sigh'd—
And straight expir'd within his arms.—

Too weak to bear Joy's rushing flow
Her tender frame resigns her breath;
This moment in Love's arms—and now,
Enfolded in the arms of Death.

In vain, in vain you fly for aid,
Life shall no more that form relume;
The marriage-bed, ill-fated maid,
For thee ordain'd, is a cold tomb.

While floods of tears and piteous moan,
A genuine sorrow testify,
Silent poor Henry's seen alone,
No tear bedews poor Henry's eye.

Homeward his Sophy's corpse he tends,
Frantic his Sophy he infolds;
That friendly night his sorrow ends,
One grave the new-wed lovers holds.—

We grasp at joys within our reach;
We grasp, and catch a wat'ry bow;
Lessons like these shou'd mankind teach,
True joy exists not here below.

AMINTOR and ANNA.

Curst with a conscious feeling mind,
The poor Amintor lay,
Within a cheerless Jail confin'd,
And sigh'd his hours away.

To save a friend of means bereft,
Amintor enter'd bail;
Friends oft prove false—Amintor's left
To languish in a jail.

Where are those friends, Amintor, where
Your summer days could boast?
Like insects now they disappear,
Kill'd by a wint'ry frost.

No friend, save one, now anxious came
To heal misfortune's wound:
That friend, true to his peace and fame,
Was in his Anna found.

Hymen and Cupid wove the chain,
That link'd her to his heart;
With her he half forgot his pain,
Nor felt Affliction's dart.

Tho' all the charms that Beauty knows,
Were in her form exprest,
Yet faint her outward charms to those
That lodg'd within her breast.

Her words, sweet as when Peace is giv'n
To a departing soul,
Or angel-accents sent from heav'n,
Into his bosom stole.

“Cease, cease these unavailing sighs,
“Let Hope your brow unbend;
“Goodness supreme our patience tries,
“It strikes but to amend.

“Affliction's cloud once overblown,
“Joy, doubly Joy appears;
“The morn o'ercast, the noon-tide sun
“A stronger brightness wears.

“Virtue essay'd still mounts the higher,
“And nobler worth assumes;
“As gold, when dross-rid by the fire,
“More pure and bright becomes.

“While innocence and goodness reign
“In my Amintor's breast,
“Our fate with courage we'll sustain,
“And leave to heav'n the rest.”

Chearful with him, she still appears
The messenger of Hope;—
When from him—to her smother'd tears,
She gives a boundless scope.

The rose, that erst with blooming grace
Had with the lilly shone,

By Grief was wither'd:—In her face
The lilly reign'd alone.

Their loves one darling babe had crown'd,
His parents best delight;
The only comfort Anna found
Each lonely widow'd night.

Like Magdalen, all radiant Grace,
The Smiler at her breast,
She oft with bended eye wou'd trace
Amintor's self imprest;

Then—eager clasp, and gaze and weep,
And pour the honey'd kiss,
Whilst sad remembrance pierc'd full deep,
With scenes of bury'd bliss.

Soon as the lark salutes the day,
Each morning Anna flies,
To chase corroding spleen away,
And bless Amintor's eyes.

A long, long day—No Anna's seen;—
Her absence causes dread;
When silent, Grief cuts far more keen—
She presses a sick bed.

The tidings brought, he raving cries,
“Oh wretch accurst!—For Thee,
“For Thee the faithful Anna dies,
“Her fated end I see.

“'Tis thy accursed hand that throws
“The deadly murd'rous dart,
“'Tis Thou art author of her woes;
“Thou, Thou hast broke her heart.”—

No more, Amintor, now complain,
Thy Anna's amply blest;
Of Fortune and her glitt'ring train,
To utmost wish possest:

A kinsman Carle, whose griping hand,
When living was unkind,
Dying, bequeath'd her all his land,
Sore griev'd 'twas left behind.

From her forsaken couch she springs,
And low, enraptur'd bends—
Whilst on rejoicing Angels wings,
Her gratitude ascends.

“Thanks, thanks, all gracious Heav'n!—Oh, grant,
“This flood of joy I bear;
“Thy mercy sends me all I want,
“Henceforth I'll not despair.

“Is Anna then ordain'd to give
“Amintor liberty?
“For his lov'd sake I wish to live,
“For him well pleas'd wou'd die.”

To Providence the grateful tear
Bursts from her uprais'd eyes;

Nor hecatombs to Heav'n appear,
Such pleasing sacrifice.

How faint the richest diamonds show!
How languid all their fires!
To those in Beauty's eyes which glow,
When virtuous Joy inspires?

With transport wild, she eager flew
To make Amintor blest:
She saw Amintor—Thrilling view!
In shrouded garment drest.

Frantic that morn he rav'd—“I ne'er
“Shall Anna see again;”
He falls a prey to black Despair;
His heart-strings burst in twain.

The weakness which from Virtue grows,
Can Justice faulty deem?—
Such weakness Virtue only knows,
When Virtue's in extreme.

Let callous bosoms moralize,
And frigid rules lay down,
They feel not who are over-wise,
Or dart the Stoic frown.

Like Niobe a while she stands,
Then sinks upon the floor,
She lifts her eyes—She wrings her hands,
And never rises more.—

One such example here below,
(In heav'n let Virtue trust)
Does an hereafter plainly show;
God cannot be unjust.

On our Modern COMEDIES.

Shakespeare and Johnson, with the learned corps
Of poets, much admir'd in days of yore,
From Nature drew their characters like fools;
Our modern Play-wrights follow wiser rules:
Pictures from life they scorn to let you see;
Not Nature—but what Nature ought to be;
Your low-liv'd humour, wit, and such poor stuff,
In times of ignorance did well enough:—
In this refin'd, this novel-reading age,
They've banish'd all such nonsense from the stage;
No wonder Play-wrights swarm in those blest days,
Sermons, they find, are easier made than Plays.

DAMON and SYLVIA.

From forth the church, all-blithsome, gay,
The youthful Damon came,
Handing his Bride in trim array,
A fair and wealthy dame;
Whilst poor forsaken Sylvia stood,
Her lilly'd cheek devoid of blood.

“Oh, Damon, Damon, perjur'd youth,
“But for a moment stay,
“Are all your vows and boasted truth
“Like Gosmore blown away?—
“Give, give me back my heart again;—
“You cannot—for 'tis broke in twain.

“Did you not swear for Me alone
“Each vow to heav'n did rise?
“Did you not swear a Monarch's throne
“Without Me you'd despise?
“I, witless, thought you true as dove,
“And by my own weigh'd Damon's love.

“But Wealth, that bane of Constancy,
“Lur'd Damon's heart away,
“On swallow-wings false Riches fly—
“True Love can ne'er decay:
“Had I the world to give—you know,
“That world on Damon I'd bestow.

“Was there a pain touch'd Damon's breast,
“But Sylvia doubly knew?
“Was there a joy to make me blest,
“But took its rise from You?
“Was there a wish—(Why heaves this sigh?)—
“Of Damon's that I cou'd deny?

“Behold the face you once so prais'd,
“With grief how pale, how wan!—
“Those eyes, on which you so have gaz'd,
“How dim—how woe-begone!
“Cou'd you my inmost bosom bare,
“You'd Damon see—and black Despair.

“But hold—I came not to upbraid,
“I hither came to die;—
“Beneath the turf when Sylvia's laid,
“Give but one tender sigh;
“'Tis all I ask, 'tis all I want,
“Happy if this small boon you grant.”—

She said—and straight a dagger aim'd,
It quaff'd her bosom's gore;
That bosom which, with Love inflam'd,
Despair had pierc'd before;—
Inconstant Damon felt the blow,
And all his future days were woe.

WILLIAM and FANNY.

Bright was the morn, the landscape gay,
Onward young William rode;
Joyful the village to behold,
His Fanny's lov'd abode.

Unlike his former self he came,
In sure disguise array'd;
With unlook'd joy hoping to bless
His dear, his constant maid.

In warblings sweet from every spray,
The feather'd choir combine;
While Love and Hope in William's breast,
The happy concert join.

No magpye, no harsh raven's note,
Sinister bodings sound,
But thro' the air, Music and Love—
Blest omens!—float around.

The village opening to his view,
His fluttering pulse beat high,
Whilst tears, from Joy's rich fountain drawn,
Beam'd sparkling in his eye.

“Soon shall these eyes again, thank Heaven,
“Her angel form behold;
“Soon shall these wishing arms again,
“My lovely maid infold.”

He said; when lo, in sable guise,
From forth the church-yard way,
A silent train with downcast eyes,
Death's banners wide display.

The slow-tongu'd bell, with solemn toll,
A sad adieu exprest;
On ev'ry face a genuine grief,
Full deeply was imprest.

Fierce as the eagle William dar'd,
When Pride its crest uprear'd;
Yet melting William as the dove,
Whene'er Distress appear'd.

“To what kind soul are these sad rites,
“With mournful rev'rence paid?”
A grey-hair'd peasant rais'd his eyes,
And, sighing, thus he said:

“If e'er you've known Love's wond'rous pow'r,
“The pitying tear prepare,
“Yon grave contains the sweetest flow'r,
“E'er nipt by cold Despair.

“Not sportive lambkin on the down
“More lively was than she;
“Not lambkin ever cropt the green,
“From guileful thoughts more free.

“Not apple-blossoms in the spring,
“Cou'd with her beauties vie;

“More graceful than the doe her shape,
“Sense sparkled in her eye.

“Soft tho' her bosom, yet untouch'd
“By Love's all-pow'rful flame,
“Till a young swain, of peerless worth,
“From yon blue uplands came.

“The pride of swains sweet William was,
“Thus shepherds all agree;
“A youth so manly, gentle, brave,
“I ne'er again shall see.

“Each nymph beheld him with delight,
“Each swain with envious eyes;
“Ev'n Envy's self might stand excus'd,
“When Fanny was the prize.

“They saw, they lov'd—So sweet a pair
“Ne'er grac'd our wond'ring plain,
“He seem'd by heav'n for her design'd,
“She for her upland swain.

“Their parents, friends, with glad accord
“Did on their passion smile;
“But Fate with Cruelty high rais'd
“Their hopes—but to beguile.

“Ah, what is Happiness?—A fly
“With tinsel'd wings so gay:
“Sure of the prize, we stretch our hands,
“'Tis gone—'Tis lost for ay.

“Heading the needy highland clans,
“Onward, in threat'ning mood,
“Giant Rebellion came—to drench
“Our peaceful fields in blood.

“To save their country, Freedom's sons
“With gen'rous ardor flew;
“Never again, oh, may these eyes
“Such scenes of horror view.

“Young William's Lord, to whom both love
“And gratitude were bound,
“With William, foremost in his train,
“In Freedom's ranks were found.

“Conquest with laurels William crowns,
“His worth ev'n foes approve;
“But, ah!—tho' Conquest crowns his arms,
“Despair—awaits his love.

“A Squire, for large possessions fam'd,
“Saw Fanny and ador'd;
“For charms like her's might captivate
“The heart—ev'n of a Lord.

“He saw, and vows of ardent love,
“Impatiently he prest;
“Poor Fanny had no heart to give,
“'Twas lodg'd in William's breast.

“But cursed Av'rice, age's bane,
“Had froze her father's mind;

“She wept, she pray'd;—nor pray'rs nor tears
“Alas! cou'd pity find.

“To feeling deaf—by riches lur'd,
“He laid his strict command;
“He dragg'd her to the church;—he forc'd
“Her cold, her heartless hand.

“Wealth! what is wealth of Peace depriv'd?
“A glittering pois'nous toy;
“The night-shade's jetty shining fruit
“Allures, but to destroy.

“Scarce seven days gone, since Fanny wore
“The hated marriage chain;
“And but yestreen a broken heart,
“Freed Fanny from her pain.

“But, Stranger, sure those looks of your's,
“Unusual feelings speak;
“The bridle quits your trembling hands,
“The blood forsakes your cheek.—”

Down dropt poor William like a corse,
Upon the green-swaird laid;
By pitying peasants known, he's straight
To friendly roof convey'd.

Reviv'd, heart-rending sighs and groans,
A fix'd despair confess;
But madness—sad relief!—arrives
To lighten his distress.

When midnight came, from bed escap'd,
To Fanny's grave he flew;
There stretch'd, he Fanny call'd—and soon
To mis'ry bad adieu.

Cold as the lovely Fair within,
Next morn was William found;
Weeping, the village saw 'em laid
In the same hallow'd ground.

There nymphs and shepherds often meet,
To plight their vows so true,
And from a sympathy of soul,
Their grave with tears bedew.

The TWO KINGS.

A Fable.

Crossing the river Styx, with shoals
Of new-departed motley souls,
Old Charon look'd confounded black,
Lest with the load his boat shou'd crack;
Tho' souls, as souls, are lightsome freight,
Their sins oft prove a deadly weight,
And should their floating carriage fail 'em,
Not ev'n cork jackets wou'd avail 'em:
His boat chuck-full—such screaming rose
From nurses, misses, ladies, beaus,
That Charon rais'd his voice and swore,
While Echo answer'd from the shore,
“If they continu'd their damn'd tricks,
“He'd souse them every one in Styx,”
And ask'd 'em with a phiz most grim,
If they had ever learnt to swim:—
In short, he soon becalm'd the riot,
And made 'em tolerably quiet:
He trim'd his boat, and with a frown,
Damn'd 'em, and made 'em all sit down.

Order observ'd in some degree,
A ghost of high pomposity,
With courtly air and scornful look,
Thus to his brother shadows spoke:—
“Hence, reptiles, hence—your distance know—
“Due homage to a monarch show;
“Shall one of my illustrious birth,
“A king—a deity on earth,

“Be crowded thus with the Canaille,
“Fellows who stink of beef and ale?
“You, Charon, with that dirty face,
“Depend on't, you shall lose your place;
“My brother sovereign Pluto soon
“Shall make you smart for what you've done:—
“Reptiles, avaunt—at distance tend;
“Your touch, looks, manners, all offend.”

Old Charon grumbling in his maw,
Damn'd him, and bid him hold his jaw;—
Whilst one who, living,—from the stage,
Had often entertain'd the age,
With whim Cervantic in his face,
First bowing, thus address'd his grace:—
“All hail—great king, great monarch, hail!
“Frown not, I'm not of the Canaille;
“In me your brother Brentford view,
“I've been a king as well as you;
“Like you have worn a pageant crown,
“And aw'd the millions with a frown;
“Like you too, brother Phis. resign'd,
“And left my pageant crown behind:—
“But now—good Sir, be not offended—
“The curtain dropt, the farce is ended:
“Tho' fortune for the stage equipt us,
“Our wardrobe-keeper Death has stript us,
“And the rich robes on earth possest,
“Lie folded in the grave at rest:—
“Maugre the rank we living bore,
“Like these we're shadows now—no more;

“All, brothers all—at least in this,
“We're but Personæ Dramatis;
“Like them we're bound to Critic-hall,
“By critic rules to rise or fall;
“Where kings, lords, beggars, all must stand,
“And undistinguish'd hold the hand,
“While Justice Minos and his Jury
“('Tis true, good brother, I assure ye)
“Will hiss or clap, just as they find
“We've play'd the characters assign'd;
“Where birth and rank pass unregarded,
“And merit only is rewarded.”

He spoke—the monarch, sighing swore,
“He never heard such truths before.”

The PATRIOT SHEPHERD.

A Fable.

In days of yore, when beasts cou'd speak
As naturally as pigs squeak,
A flock of sheep, high-wool'd, rich, free,
Enthusiasts to Liberty,
Who claim'd a right, time immemorial,
Like other sheep-boroughs corporeal,
To choose a Shepherd to attend 'em,
And eke from injuries defend 'em,
Met on the downs in grave debate,
A Patriot Shepherd to create;
The sheep in those times, you're to note
Like Citizens cou'd give a vote:—
Among the peasants who laid claim,
To the Sheep-guardian patriot name,
One peasant far above the rest,
With tinsel virtues was possest;
For Liberty he bellow'd loud,
He tickled up the sheepish croud;
Like them he talk'd, and always strove
By sheepish tricks to shew his love:
The lady sheep he oft carest,
To please the ladies, laugh'd and drest;
He flatter'd hard—for sheep, like men,
Can swallow flatt'ry—now and then;
With them the downs wou'd often strole,
Nibble the grass, and drink the pool:

And more—to shew his gen'rous mind,
His gold was scatter'd like the wind;—
“Tho' ev'ry favor, and each treat is
“(He scorns a bribe) still given gratis;”—
So popular, none dare oppose,
He soon was chair'd, and Shepherd chose.

Too true the axiom we find,
Preferment warps the human mind;
No longer now with patriot zeal
He ba'ad aloud for Common weal;
No longer nibbled on the hill,
Nor longer, sheep-like, drank the rill:—
The fish was caught, the net thrown by,
Wove by that demon Bribery:
He talk'd of nothing but Obedience,
Of Shepherd's pow'r, and Sheep's Allegiance;
He fleec'd 'em without rhyme or reason,
Regardless of or time or season;
Drove them to market, and there sold
His free-born sheep, for king-stamp'd gold;
And when their Grievances they spoke,
He answer'd thus with sneering look:

“Those Fools who sell themselves for gain,
“Of Slav'ry never shou'd complain;—
“And give me leave, good sheep, to tell ye,
“I bought ye, and by G*d I'll sell ye.”

The Moral Sir?—I'm not inclin'd,
To hold a Mirror to the blind.

The TWO CANDLES.

A Fable.

Two Candles burning in a hall,
The one large-wick'd, the other small;
While Large-Wick cheerful blaz'd and bright,
The other scarce gave any light;
But in a corner on a shelf,
Just glimmer'd, as to please himself:—
Cries Small-Wick, sneering, to the other,
“You blaze away, my showy brother,
“But that superior light you boast,
“Must soon—so quick you burn—be lost;
“While, to self-preservation true,
“I shall out-live three such as you:”
Large-Wick, directed by the sound,
His dark-ey'd neighbour quickly found,
(Who else must have unnotic'd been,
And, as quite worthless, overseen)
And thus reply'd: “Thou gloomy aid
“To the dark Us'rer's baneful trade;
“Thou Darkness visible, scarce seen,
“Thou fit companion for the spleen;
“From thy poor gasconade desist,
“Your's is not life—you but exist;
“While I, the few short hours I know,
“In doing good my time bestow;
“Candles are destin'd to supply
“The want of day-shine in the sky;
“Like supplimental suns to light,
“And banish Darkness, Gloom, and Night;

“To lengthen life, and kindly shower
“That bliss of blisses, visual power:
“This, my few hours, I cheerful do,
“While such poor selfish things as you,
“Who hugger-mugger spend your rays,
“And have not soul to give a blaze,
“Are still unnotic'd by mankind,
“But when you leave a stink behind.”

The contest Susan heard, and took
Small-Wick from his sequester'd nook;
She thrust him in the kitchen fire,
Worthless—unheeded—to expire:
While Large-Wick, in the parlour grac'd,
And 'mid surrounding beauties plac'd,
A cheerful lustre boldly throws,
And to the last his spirit shows.

Souls are like Candle-Wicks—when small,
They scarce give any light at all:
When large—they're public blessings found,
And beam their cheerful blaze around:—
And if our lives, as sages show,
Are measur'd by the Good we do,
And not by days and months—I fear
Too many Small-Wicks will appear,
Whose lives—their palsied heads tho' grey,
Are shorter than a winter's day;
Who may be said with Truth's consistence,
Barely to know the Twilight of Existence.

The ASS and GOAT.

A Fable.

With horrid bray and dreadful roar,
Thus did an Ass his fate deplore,
His griefs while echoing hills reveal;
For Asses nothing can conceal;—
“These staring horns—(for horns he took
His ears when lobbing o'er a brook)
“Loudly to all the world proclaim
“Assina's falshood and my shame:
“My thirst I cannot quench when dry,
“But horns reflected meet my eye;
“Just o'er my brow erect they stand,
“And mark me cuckold thro' the land:
“Cou'd she, who all the livelong day
“Her charms and virtues heard me bray,
“She, for whose sake each shaggy maid,
“With cold disdain I still survey'd,
“Cou'd she her Dapple's brow disgrace,
“As tho' I were of two-legg'd race?
“I, than whom not a wiser Ass,
“Or fairer, ever mumbled grass;
“Have I not tenderest thistles brought?
“The youngest nettles, eager, sought?
“Rang'd all the plain to find a ditch,
“With weeds and frog-spawn over rich,
“Her hunger and her thirst to quench?
“And call'd her still my curl-hoof'd wench?—
“In that fair form can Falshood dwell?
“Can heav'n admit a guest from hell?
“Now by that black-stain'd mark I swear,
“Which on our backs we're doom'd to bear,

“Such dreadful wild revenge I'll take,
“Shall make her treach'rous bosom ake;
“I'll—(rat that Cuckoo's taunting note,
“I wish my horns were in his throat)—
“I'll do”—

A listning Goat replies,
“Thou fool!—but Asses ne'er were wise;
“What can your braying thus provoke?
“An Ass have horns! 'Tis all a joke:
“Had I been such a thing as you,
“I might have been unhappy too;
(To his own horns Sir Goat was blind,
They pointed, as they grew, behind)
“For many beasts, quite under-bred,
“Swear I have horns upon my head:
“Be wise, and learn of me this rule,
“A jealous pate betrays a fool.
“We Goats for sense are still rever'd,
“Our wisdom's pourtray'd in our beard.”

This sage advice Sir Dapple scorns;
He still mistakes his ears for horns;
Treats his friend's counsel with disdain,
Whisks round, and braying seeks the plain.
Ye wise Ones of the married class,
Learn of the Goat and not the Ass:—
Of horns who dream, are sure to find
No horns like those which gore the mind;—
Better were blindness than to see
Thro' the false medium of curst Jealousy.

FIDELIA.

The rolling year again brought on the day,
That snatch'd from Lucius half his soul away;
That day on which he mournful vigils kept,
And o'er Fidelia's tomb in anguish wept:
Fidelia gone! life is to him no more,
Than a lone walk upon a dreary shore.

Deep silence reign'd, the midnight hour was past,
And darkness o'er the globe her veil had cast;
In vain the peaceful bed invites to rest,—
No room for peace in woe-fraught Lucius' breast:
Sigh follows sigh, and groan responses groan,
Nor wonder, since from earth Fidelia's flown;
When sudden, quick as lightning, to his sight
(Darkness dispell'd) a Vision heavenly bright
Stands at his feet; the smiling form he knew,
And all Fidelia brightens to his view;
His pulses flutt'ring beat, he would have spoke,
But passions wild his half-form'd Accents choak;
When thus, in sounds which long had bless'd his ear
The Vision strives her Lucius' breast to cheer.

“Can sight of me, the lovely Phantom said,
“(And smiling spoke) in Lucius raise a dread?—
“At my approach pleasure was wont to rise,
“And speak a bosom'd welcome thro' your eyes;
“In Me the same Fidelia you view,
“As loving, gentle, friendly, and as true.

“That hour, that long-wish'd hour, which kindly gave
“My soul to heaven, my body to the grave;
“To hear the groans that rent your throbbing breast,
“My pulseless corpse close to your bosom prest;
“While fix'd on me alone you groan'd despair,
“My pitying soul, still hov'ring in the air,
“Almost reluctant flew to joys above,
“For Lucius shar'd with Heav'n Fidelia's love.

“Your sighs, your pray'rs, by me convey'd to heav'n,
“Once more to Earth Fidelia have given;
“The healing balm of lenient Hope to pour,
“And Peace, long banish'd, to your soul restore.

“Did Mortals know their Maker, they'd revere,
“All adoration, love, devoid of fear;
“That fear excepted, which with ardent glow
“From Gratitude's warm spring must constant flow,
“Lest they offend that pow'r by whom they move,
“Their Being's Author, Fountain of pure Love;
“No bug-bear tyrant thirsting after blood,
“But a kind Father, merciful and good.

“How then can man ungratefully presume
“To paint th' Almighty with a Demon's gloom?
“How can he impiously a tyrant call
“That God who into Being smil'd us all.
“How with a jaundic'd eye to Heaven impart
“A cheerless picture from a cheerless heart?
“Or with mean selfish views the world deceive,
“Or force with Threats weak vot'ries—to believe.

“When Death my Lucius from his chains shall free,
“And give him to immortal joys and me;—
“(Oh, let not Death my Lucius affright,
“Death is our Angel-guide to realms of light)
“With love seraphic shall Fidelia tend,
“And lead to raptures which shall never end;
“Thro' fields of Ether infinite to rove;
“New scenes of ever-varying bliss to prove;
“But what those joys, or from what fountains flow,
“Must ne'er, so Heav'n ordains, transpire below;—
“If known, mortals wou'd burst their chains of clay,
“And rush, unbidden, to the realms of day.

“Let Lucius then with resignation wait,
“Till Death to joys immortal shall translate;
“And when Heav'n calls to a celestial birth,
“And bids release from cares, from pain, and earth,
“Boldly launch forth: Fear nothing; hope the best;
“By me Heav'n thus commands—Hope and be blest.”

She smil'd, she wav'd her hand, and sudden Night
Conceal'd the lovely image from his sight:
Her words to peace his anxious soul restor'd,
And, kneeling, Heav'n with gratitude he strait ador'd.

On a ROBIN's Singing o'er FIDELIA's Grave in Marygate Church-Yard, York.

Still be the air: Unmov'd ev'n Zephyr's wing,
While the sweet Songster warbles forth his lays;
And hark!—Fidelia's dirge he plaintive sings,
The sacred Pile echoing forth her Praise.

That praise she well deserves:—All good and kind,
A soul devoid of cruelty or pride:
Not ev'n the Babes by You consign'd to fame,
More spotless liv'd, or less repining dy'd.

Hither the Warbler eyes with cautious gaze,
Oh, let not Fear suspend your grateful song;
Like you I wish to sing Fidelia's praise,
Who lov'd Fidelia ne'er can do you wrong.

To see the Feather'd Tribe encag'd, the sigh
Wou'd often heave; the tear humane wou'd start;
The pitying soul wou'd glance from forth her eye,
For Pity's dwelling was Fidelia's heart.

Hark! now again he swells his tuneful throat,
His sympathising soul with grief o'erflows,
Pity and love are warbled in each note;
Such melody's the soothing nurse of woes.

Sing on, nor snare or ruthless school-boy fear,
Her sacred reliques will from danger save;
Nor blasting Witch or Goblin dare appear
To shed their venom o'er Fidelia's grave.

Oft when the western sun has downward sped
To your soul-melting Lay wou'd she attend;
And when stern winter threaten'd, constant fed,
And to the red-breast mourners prov'd a friend.

Sweet tho' your song (why swells my throbbing breast
Why heaves the sigh? Why drops the heart-sprung tear?)
Her song than your's yet sweeter was confest,
The melting sound still vibrates on my ear.

Oh, may thy tuneful dirge, sweet Bird, each Eve,
With soothings kind my anguish'd bosom move;
So may thy heart, like mine, ne'er know to grieve,
Nor may'st thou mourn, like me, a widow'd love.

Each flow'r and sweet cull'd with thy nicest skill,
Strew o'er her grave; no baleful weed be seen;
But weeping Eve her richest dews distill,
And may the hallow'd turf be ever green.

And when no more this pulse shall know to beat,
When all Life's pow'rs their functions shall decline,
Oh may—(the flattering hope how soothing-sweet!)
O may my ashes be entomb'd with thine.

The Ruins of the Abbey adjoining the Church-Yard.

The Babes in the Wood.

DELIA and the GOLDFINCH.

“Mercy, dear Hawk!—the little flutt'rer spare,”
Cries Delia, on a daisied bank reclin'd;
“The pretty innocent Oh! do not tear,
“Nor thus pursue him with blood-hunger'd mind.

“See, how the tyrant downward darts the blow;—
“And see—the songster scapes by sidelong flight;—
“Now, now he's lost.—Now he eludes the foe;—
“And now the murd'rer strikes with all his might.”

She said—when lo! the destin'd Finch she spies,
Exhausted—by Despair and Danger prest,
Drop in the shelt'ring vale that tempting lies
Between the hillocks of her milky breast.

Nestling, his little bosom flutt'ring beats,
With the wild throbbings of tumultuous fear;
Her pulse responsive throb for throb repeats,
And Pity mixt with Joy calls forth a tear.

“Here, sweet Musician—safe may'st thou remain,
“In Me a friendly kind protector view;
“No Cruelty did e'er this bosom stain,
“To Love and gentlest Pity ever due.

“Here, sweet Musician, in this warm retreat
“Securely dwell, till Danger scud away;
“Then instant shall your wishes Freedom meet,
“To greet thy partner with thy tend'rest lay.

“Like this poor bird, my distant Lord may want,
“From savage Cruelty, a shelt'ring wing;
“Good Heav'n, in mercy that protection grant!
“And to these arms restor'd my Hero bring.

“Ah, why wou'd Celadon for Wars alarms
“And Honor's bubble, from his Delia rove?
“Why wou'd he quit these ever-faithful arms?—
“What's Wealth—What's Honor, when compar'd to Love?

“Fly, little Warbler—to some lonely mate
“A Celadon belov'd perhaps thou art:—
“Fly, little Warbler, e'er it is too late,
“And with thy song revive her drooping heart.”—

The Goldfinch freed, all gratitude, repays
Each Morn and Eve her kindness with a song;
The hills and groves resound fair Delia's praise;—
Delia—now Goddess of the Feather'd Throng.

OZA.

An Elegy.

Where York with pride her beauties, turret-crown'd,
Reflected views from Ouse's glassy stream,
Liv'd there a king, in ancient song renown'd,
Ebor yclep'd—fair Virtue's darling theme,
E'er haughty Rome, Freedom's detested bane,
Had o'er the prostrate world impos'd her galling chain.

First of the Fair that grac'd the courtly ring
Fair Oza shone, of every charm possest;
Gentle of soul, and lovely as the spring
When opening to the view; but in her breast
Love had a hopeless flame illum'd—which, veil'd
By Virgin Modesty, all wasteful lay conceal'd.

In soul a hero, yet with bosom fram'd
Of softest Mold, the Royal Ebor shone,
For every kingly grace and virtue fam'd,
Within each willing heart he rais'd his throne;
Nor wonder Oza's feeling pulse shou'd beat
For one, whom heaven's kind care had render'd all compleat.

To hunt the tushed Boar, the javelin send
With winged vengeance to the monster's heart,
His chief delight;—whilst thronging courtiers tend
In their lov'd Sov'reign's pleasures to take part:—
Foremost amid the throng appear'd the maid;
Ebor's each word and look sweet manna to her soul convey'd.

The post of Danger still was Ebor's view;—
Out rush'd a monster of the largest size,
To where fair Oza was he eager flew,—
Oza unhors'd—Death snatches at his prize;
When Ebor, quick as lightning aim'd the blow,
And with his saving arm transfix'd the monster low.

Unhappy Oza! more unhappy made
By Gratitude, now adding flame to fire;
Love singly had undone the ill-starr'd maid,
To Gratitude conjoin'd, it blaz'd still higher:
What can she do?—Urg'd by Despair and Love,
She flies for shelter to the hermit grove.

But when she heard that Palma's envied charms
(Palma, bright princess of Iern's domain)
Had Ebor circled in her wedded arms,
Madness enfever'd her unsettled brain;
Such tidings, to a soul like hers, must raise,
What erst was smother'd fire to a resistless blaze.

Dight in fantastic flow'rs thro' mead and grove,
Singing love ditties, devious would she stray;
Or mock the cooings of the turtle-dove,
Or with her sister lambkins harmless play:
Sometimes, close bosom'd by the circling wood,
Her eyes down-fix'd, a speechless statue stood.

Her vest unzon'd, her tresses all unbound,
On Ebor's dear lov'd-name she oft would call,
Whilst envious Echo mock'd the pleasing sound,
And sigh'd for Ebor from her airy hall;—

Poor Oza paints a rival in her mind,
And flies, but flies in vain, the rival Fair to find.

Upon the river's bank with cowslips spread,
Beneath a willow—Ebor all her theme,
She chanc'd, with wand'ring tir'd, to rest her head,
Her eager looks bent on the passing stream,
There as she lay reclin'd, wild Fancy drew,
Rising from forth the flood her Ebor full in view.

“See, see my Ebor smiles—he wafts me o'er,
“Drest like a bridegroom, to receive my hand”;
She said—and plung'd from off the flow'ry shore,—
“My Ebor stay—I soon shall reach the land:”
The amorous Tide encloses round the Fair,
And her soul upwards bubbling, mixes with the air.

Oft as the westward sun saw—arm in arm,
The Royal Lovers by the stream appear;
A thousand rising thoughts wou'd instant swarm,
And from their bosoms steal the kindly tear;
And public pity in remembrance gave
The hapless Virgin's name to her pellucid grave.

The River, formerly Oza; now call'd Ouse.

An EPISTLE to a FRIEND. On Trifling.

For want, good Sir, of something better,
I send you here a Trifling Letter.

The Man who's so amazing wise,
A little Trifling to despise,
Tho' for a Solomon he pass,
Is Trifle-better than an Ass,
That on dry prickly thistles mumbles,
And cheerless ever, brays and grumbles:
Without it, Life were a poor feast,
Where Man would sit a humdrum guest;
But Trifling, sportive, full of glee,
With Health to bear her company,
Enters;—at once dispels our gloom,
And kicks Spleen headlong from the room.

Trifling to Wisdom's near ally'd,
Altho' by Pedants 'tis deny'd;
And in Truth's maxims 'tis a rule,
The graver still the greater Fool:
Like Master Stephen , Sons of Folly
Are vastly giv'n to Melancholy.
And wise Men oft thro' Trifling's road,
Arrive at Wisdom's snug abode:
Aided by that, they Truths discern,
And Mankind's inmost Passions learn.

The greatest Men, relax'd and gay,
With Folly's bells can, laughing, play.

Cromwell, altho' he was no Fool,
Wou'd often romp like Boy at school;
And Prussia's King sometimes descends,
And blind-man-buffs it 'mong his Friends:
On Gravity when Monarchs trample,
Courtiers will follow their example;
No longer then their thoughts they stifle;
Men's souls are honest when they trifle,
Hypocrisy aside is thrown,
And for a time Truth fills the throne.

Scipio the wise, in days of yore,
Oft trifled on Cumea's shore;
With Lelius laugh'd, indulg'd his freaks,
And play'd (boy-like) at ducks and drakes:—
Great Julius Cæsar, as we read,
Was a true Buck of the first head;
And Bucks, I'm sure, must be allow'd
To van it in the Trifling Crowd.

Ev'n Solomon, the man most wise
That ever breath'd beneath the skies,
Had long thro' Pleasure's magic rov'd,
And all the joys of Trifling prov'd:—
When he had got his quantum suff,
Or rather more than was enough,
He wisely said—“That Life, alas!
“Was Vanitatum vanitas:”
But when he conquer'd mawky Spleen,
He wisely trifled on again;

And in old age, as records show,
He kept a large Seraglio;
And all the pleasures he found there
Were Trifling, we may safely swear.

May I aver, without offence,
Trifling's a thing of consequence?

Poets and grave Logicians own,
That all the world to Trifling's prone;
We see what crowds dispute and jar
On Politics, on Peace and War;
Or give a positive decision
On Patagonians, or Religion;
On Inward Grace, or Cock-lane Ghost,
On Nabobs, or some fav'rite Toast;
On Op'ras, or on Matter's Essence,
On Farces, or the Soul's Quintessence;
On Chatham, Bute, or Patriot Wilkes,
On Cookery—or Price of Silks;
On Faith, that anchor of salvation,
Or such-like Trifling disputation;
What are they all but Trifling Jokes?
(At least made so by Trifling Folks)—
And yet those Trifles give enjoyment,
By finding Trifling minds employment.

Your Graduates of Gresham College,
Maugre their gravity and knowledge,
Have lately to the world approv'd
How very much they Trifling lov'd;

For Trifles they can scold and prate,
And fight like Wives at Billinsgate:
Such Trifling we'd excuse—but when
They raise the death-denouncing Pen,
Pluck'd from the boding Raven's wing,
It then becomes a serious thing;
“In pops grim Death, th' arresting Serjeant,
“With—Sir, your most obedient Servant.”

Ev'n at St. Stephen's, some Folk say
That Trifling bears a mighty sway;
And yet I doubt the truth,—for who
A Trifling member ever knew?

Love, by experience, we find
Chief source of pleasure to mankind;
And Lovers' actions always prove,
Trifling's the very Soul of Love.

Women are call'd, in ridicule,
The Trifling Sex by ev'ry Fool:
But Fools destroy their Spleen's intent,
By paying them a compliment:
What gains our wonder and our praise?
Their thousand pretty Trifling ways:
By Trifling only they maintain
Their empire and despotic reign:
And Female Wit, which so surprizes,
From Trifling evermore arises.

But of all Triflers under Heaven,
Rhymesters are most to Trifling given;

They spin in Trifles their poor Brains,
And get but Trifles for their pains;
And what particularly shews 'em
Coxcombs, to every soul that knows them,
Is,—That they boast, with fronts of brass,
Favours from Misses of Parnass.
When ev'ry living mortal knows,
Each Muse is still an unpluck'd rose.

Rhymesters, howe'er, may boast their Use;—
The Trifling Nothings they produce,
Serve Triflers, on a rainy day,
To while an idle hour away.

The Gossip Press, for our repose,
With Trifles daily overflows;
And, Gossip-like, it still supplies,
For ev'ry Truth a thousand Lyes.

These few, in short, may serve as samples,
Among ten thousand like examples,
That Trifling is a real ingredient,
And to our happiness expedient.

But after all, good Sir, I deem
We should not use it in extreme:
'Tis but a seas'ning at the best,
And gives to life a pleasing zest;
But salt by mouthfuls taken, sure
No man of taste can well endure.

Thinking and Trifling help each other,
As friend helps friend, or brother brother:—

Ev'n as the human body tires,
And Sleep's recruiting balm requires,
Trifling the same effect produces,
And fits the soul for noblest uses:
In this the truest wisdom lies,
“Still to be Merry and be Wise.”

Excuse, my Patron and my Friend,
Those Trifling Cramboes which I send;
You're tir'd of Trifling by this Time,
And so I'll end my Trifling Rhyme.

With love to friends, I'm your most Fervent,
Obedient, Trifling, Humble Servant.

May 6—the day extremely fine;
Seventeen hundred sixty-nine.

A Character in Every Man in his Humour.

The FEMALE CLAIM.

A Tale.

Let women their own causes plead,
'Tis ten to one but they succeed.

For many years, with conq'ring sword
Tebald the brave, Spoletto's lord,
His valour 'gainst the Greeks had shwon,
And shook Emanuel on his throne;
Yet tho' with foes he strew'd the plain,
His Hydra foes start up again;
Surpriz'd, he found the more he slew,
His enemies more numerous grew:—
In order to their diminution,
He form'd the strangest resolution;
Throughout his camp he orders gave,
That ev'ry Grecian captive slave,
In battle for the future taken,
Shou'd without mercy be—Castraten,
(A kind of punishment, ye Fair,
Poor Abelard was doom'd to bear)
And in that order kindly sent,
By way of friendly compliment,
To the Greek Emp'ror, in whose grace
Castratos held the foremost place;
One pipe destroy'd, it was intended
The other thereby should be mended:
For all your naturalists own,
That when the bee becomes a drone,

Tho', stingless, he can work no more,
He humms far sweeter than before;
This Tebald boasted in his mirth,
Was killing foes before their birth;
The axe applying to a root,
Which cut, again would never shoot;
“Oxen were harmless beasts, he swore,
“But bulls enrag'd wou'd toss and gore;
“And Greeks, when of the neutral kind,
“No Hydra foes cou'd leave behind,
“Nor with that holy text comply,
“Which bids—Increase and multiply.”

Affairs for some time thus went on,
And many a captive was undone;
When one day (Tebald in his tent,
Among his lords in merriment)
A Grecian dame, whose lusty mate
Had by the cruel hand of Fate
Been captive made, and bid prepare
To lose—what Madam cou'd not spare,
Into the Gen'ral's presence broke,
And, kneeling, thus the Prince bespoke:

“Is Tebald's glory sunk so far,
“Against weak Woman to make war?
“And shall that sword, which in the field
“Has ever made his rivals yield,
“Which not by man can be withstood,
“Be poorly stain'd with woman's blood?—
“Heroes, and Tebald sure is one,
“To us have still protection shewn:

“A Cock counts all his brethren foes,
“But among Hens he peaceful crows;
“Tho' Bull gores Bull, yet still he scorns
“To plunge within the Cow his horns;
“Have mercy then, most potent Lord,
“Nor with our blood debase your sword.”

The Prince, amaz'd, accosts the Dame—
“Why brand'st thou, undeserv'd, my name?
“When was it ever known, he said,
“That female blood by me was shed?
“Or since the Amazonian race,
“(Of your soft sex the foul disgrace)
“Can it with justice be averr'd,
“That war with woman was declar'd?”

“What war more cruel, cries the Fair,
“Can Tebald 'gainst our sex declare?
“You rob our mates of what kind Heaven
“Has for our health and pleasure given;
“It gives us in our children, wealth;
“Your Lady knows it causes health;
“To that, my Lord, each wedded dame
“Pleads an exclusive lawful claim,
“And mutilating Nature's stem,
“Is mutilating Us, not Them:
“For goods and cattle I ne'er griev'd,
“Cattle and goods may be retriev'd,
“But woman,—once that comfort gone,
“Is irretrievably undone;
“For mercy then let Truth implore,
“Nor lay our murders at your door.”

Th' admiring chiefs, with loud applause
Back her request and plead her cause;
Ev'n Tebald's Princess, with each look
A feeling approbation spoke;
For shou'd the chance of War, she thinks,
(And at the thought she inward shrinks)
Throw Tebald in the captive's place,
Alas! how frightful her own case!—

“Your pray'r, quo' Tebald, shou'd I grant,
“With all and every thing you want;
“If on the hostile bloody plain,
“Once more your husband wear my chain,
“Say woman, what are you content
“Shou'd be the ingrate's punishment?”

“My Lord, the honest Dame replies,
“My husband has—legs, arms, and eyes;
“These are his own;—and if once more
“Ungrateful, he shou'd force your power,
“They're yours in right of Victory;
“Take them, my Lord, but rob not me.”

Tebald convinc'd admits her prayer,
Nor longer mutilates the Fair;
The army with a loud acclaim,
Hail the plain-spoken honest Dame:—
The chiefs with presents large reward her,
And thro' the camp in safety guard her;
Which done—with her beloved spouse
She arm in arm regains her house;
Not quite recover'd of her fright,
Till well convinc'd that All was right.

The WEDDED DOVES.

Venus observing that her Doves,
Diff'rent from all her changeful train,
Were over constant in their loves,
As born to wear the marriage chain;

For the joke's sake, one pair, she cry'd,
One wedded pair, shall grace my corps;
Hymen appear'd, the Doves were ty'd,
And the God's flow'ry chain they wore.

To see themselves so fine array'd,
With double joy they bill and coo;
But soon, alas, the roses fade,
And iron links now start to view.

Echo no more in soothing moan
Throughout the grove their loves confest,
But floods of gall, till now unknown,
Swell and embitter either breast.

When yok'd to draw the Goddess' carr,
They pull and strain a diff'rent way;
Venus is forc'd, so much they jarr,
Her visits all on foot to pay.

What can she do? Another pair
Of feather'd hobbies now are chose:—
What magic, Heav'n! does Hymen bear,
To make e'en loving Turtles foes!

In pity to their dismal state,
Thus to the Flutterers Venus cries,
“To qualify the pangs of hate,
“An English Peer and Peeress rise.

“In that eccentric situation,
“Freedom unbounded is possest;
“Hymen with them's a separation,
“A very slip-knot at the best.”—

She said:—And straight the change appear'd;
Now Hymen's pow'r they both defy;
Fashion's the Deity rever'd,
And Fashion lifts his Horns on high.

Unblushing—lo—they rove at ease,
The marriage vows no longer bind;
They kiss and wanton where they please,
Licentious as—“the bawdy wind.”—

But spite of Fashion's rainbow pow'rs,
Illusive all their pleasures prove:—
How different from those happy hours,
Unhymen'd when they wont to rove!

ALEXANDER the GREAT.

As Alexander (all the World subdu'd)
Amid a throng of circling courtiers stood,
“In Me, he cry'd, Great Ammon's offspring view,
“To mighty Jove my origin is due;
“Let favour'd monarchs swell young Ammon's train,
“My father's viceroy, god-like, here I reign;
“Whate'er I will's the will of mighty Jove,
“On Earth I rule, as he commands above.”
He spoke:—Adoring courtiers prostrate lay,
When a poor Crow whom chance had brought that way,
As high in air he o'er the monarch sped,
Croak'd loud disdain—and sh*t upon his head.

An EPIGRAM.

[Great Homer's thunder, old Anacreon's wit]

Great Homer's thunder, old Anacreon's wit,
The Mantuan's blaze, and all that Plato writ,
With Horace, and a thousand worthies more,
Whose pens immortaliz'd the days of yore,
Had now—(be humble, Genius, and be wise,
Nor dare ev'n Folly's offspring to despise)
Had now—in dark oblivion lain asleep,
But for Wit's truest friends—the Goose and Sheep.

Alluding to the Goose furnishing Quills, and the Sheep Parchment.

The Unfortunate Damsel's Resolution:

A SONG.

Near a beck-side, with willow fring'd,
The mournful Dolly lay;
And thus the Nymph was heard to sing,
Or rather heard to say.

“'Twas here, on this accursed spot,
“That Tummas of the mill,
“With speeches fine first stole my heart,
“And got his wicked will.

“A thousand sugar'd vows he swore,
“His Dolly he wou'd wed;
“Ah, Tummas, keep those vows, or give
“Me back my maiden-head.

“Upon this willow will I hang,
“In pure revenge and spite;
“And if the wretch dare lie alone,
“I'll haunt him ev'ry night;

“I'll shake his curtains—(but in truth
“His bed does curtains lack)
“And plague him, till the morning cock
“Obliges me to pack.

“Or thro' the church-yard shou'd he go
“By night—my ghost shall rise,
“And like a headless horse appear,
“With frightful saucer eyes:

“No fear the perjur'd man can hire
“(Too great will be the cost)
“Our book-learn'd Priest, in the Red Sea
“To lay my troubled ghost.—

“Upon this willow will I hang,
“Ev'n here beneath this tree;”
She said—and slipt her garters twain
From just above her knee.

The fatal noose poor Doll prepares,
Her lover springs the beck;
“Ah, Tummas, art thou there,” she cries,
And hangs—upon his neck.

From this example learn, ye swains,
Nor henceforth perjur'd prove,
For girls undone, are apt, you see,
To hang themselves for love.

EVE's LEGACY TO Her DAUGHTERS.

In Two Cantos.

CANTO I.

Eight centuries and some odd years,
(From Jewish Talmud as appears)
Eve had with Adam led a life
Of joy, of pain—of love and strife;
When in the socket Nature's flame
Expiring, hopeless lay the Dame;
Around her couch, a numerous brood
Of Daughters and Grand-daughters stood,
Maids, Widows, Wives;—Tho' giv'n to stray,
Eve had been careful to obey
That strict command sent from on high,
Which bids Encrease and Multiply:
She sigh'd,—she shook her palsied head,
And thus in feeble accents said:—

“An ear attentive, Daughters, lend,
And to my last advice attend,
The only Legacy that Eve
To her sweet Girls has pow'r to give:

But what in Eden erst befel,
By way of prologue let me tell;

Much may in Little be exprest,
Few words to me seem always best.

My Life, since first I tasted air,
Has been a Life of Toil and Care;
No sooner scoop'd from Adam's side,
At once his Daughter and his Bride,
But I was taught without delay,
That my First Duty was—Obey:—
So harsh a note, a sound so queer,
At first struck oddly on my ear:—
“All things on earth, my Goodman said,
“Were for his use and pleasure made,
“And I, it seems, among the rest,
“But born to stoop to his behest;—
“My province (he averr'd) was home,
“Whilst lordly Man at will might roam,
“Nor should a faithful Wife appear
“Abroad, unlicens'd by her Dear.”
Thus in the groves whilst he was walking,
With Angels gossiping and talking,
My hours, insipidly content,
No pleasure known, at home were spent;
My sole employ to cull the fruit
Which best his appetite would suit;
Or to prepare a fragrant bed
Of choicest flow'rs to lay his head,
Of which he thought it was but fair
To let his Bedmaker have share.

One day, my toil domestic done,
I stole abroad at setting sun

To take the Air;—Serene the Sky,
The Wind a gentle lullaby
Just breath'd, as sinking down to rest,
The Birds their ev'ning hymn addrest;
The Beasts their wanton frolics play'd,
Thirstless of gore, along the glade;
The painted Flow'rs beneath my feet
Sent forth a fragrance more than sweet;
The breaking Clouds a roseate hue
Presented to th' enraptured view;
Gently adown the slopy Hills
Reflecting shone the murm'ring Rills,
And Music with her sweetest sound
Re-echo'd praise to Heaven around,
Whilst Angels hov'ring on the wing,
The Concert join'd in airy ring.

A deep impression on my mind
This farewel scene has left behind;
Such scenes we no where now can boast,
With paradise—such scenes are lost.

With devious step I mov'd along,
And, cheerful, join'd the grateful song;
When Destiny—or God knows what—
Brought me to that sequester'd spot
Where Wisdom's Tree majestic grew,
Loaded with fruit of golden hue;
I, playful, with the mountain cat,
Beneath its spreading branches sat,

Not in the least, as God's my guide,
Suspecting what wou'd soon betide;
When, all amazement and surprize!
Another Adam met my eyes,
But far surpassing my Good Man,
As to the Raven is the Swan;
Tripping He came along the road,
His looks a passion strait avow'd,
He smil'd, he ogled, and he bow'd;
Bow'd with an air and such a grace,
As flush'd the blood into my face;
His tresses on his shoulders spread,
A wreath of flow'rs adorn'd his head,
His face—in short no modern Beau
Cou'd half so fair and lovely show;
I wou'd have fled, but 'twas in vain,
What Nymph could fly so sweet a Swain?
He seiz'd my hand, and with a tongue,
Where more than angel sweetness hung,
Thus spoke ------

“Fairest of creatures Heav'n e'er made,
“In whom all beauty is display'd,
“Perfection's Self! For Heav'n in You
“Blazon'd the utmost Heav'n could do,
(And sooth to say, no Female since
Had to like honour such pretence,
For Eve was then, beyond compare,
Of all her Daughters the most fair;)
“Did you, he smiling cry'd, but know
“The raptures which from Knowledge flow,

“Upon the fruit divine you'd feast,
“And be a Cherubim at least.—
“Can Knowledge be a crime, fair Eve?
“Such doctrine Truth forbids believe;
“'Tis all a trick, my worthy Madam,
“Contriv'd for his own ends by Adam;
“Here many a time, or I'm a sinner,
“While you're at home, preparing dinner,
“Slyly he steals—I've seen him do't—
“To smuggle the Forbidden Fruit;
“Nor fear to die—'tis all a cheat,
“Unhurt you see me safely eat.”—

He said, and from the loaded tree
(Whose arching boughs with fragrancy
And golden apples spread around,
Kissing the wide-encircled ground)
Fearless of Death, or future pain,
He pull'd—he eat—and eat again:—
Amaz'd I saw him still survive,
And scarce my senses could believe;
For Adam oft with anxious look,
And dreadful threat'ning, thus had spoke;
“Whene'er the Fruit Forbid you taste,
“That hour, O Eve, shall be your last.”
His eyes now shone with heav'nly fire,
Which mortal food cou'd ne'er inspire;
He look'd so kind, such wonders told,
I cou'd, in truth, no longer hold;
I thought 'twas hard—'twas wond'rous hard,
From Knowledge Eve should be debarr'd,

Whilst Adam, like a greedy elf,
Monopoliz'd the Fruit himself.—
The Prohibition too to eat,
Made me more eager for the treat.
Now tell me, Daughters, which of you
Wou'd not have done, or would not do
The very same?—These words scarce spoke,
An universal chorus broke
Instant, from each bright Miss and Dame,
“Indeed, Mamma, you're not to blame,
“We all had done the very same.”—

Who cou'd suspect so sweet a Youth,
So angel-like, devoid of truth?
In masquerade he came—Ye Fair,
Of masquerading sparks beware:
I stretch'd my hand, but fell along,
Sure omen I was doing wrong;
A cackling hen, with furious cries,
Peck'd at her husband's comb and eyes;
Three times I sneez'd—and stranger yet,
The sun seem'd bloody as it set.

Yet maugre all these Omens sent,
An apple from the tree I rent,
And eat—when, like a rapid flame,
The passions shot thro' all my frame;
Adam forgot, I glowing ey'd
The Youth, and wish'd to be his bride,
When a loud clap of thunder strait
(Dire signal of my fallen state)

Arous'd me:—At the awful sound
Th' impostor Fiend dropt to the ground,
And lo! to my affrighted eyes,
Chang'd to a Snake of monstrous size,
Or Serpent rather, that with glare
Terrific rais'd like quills my hair;
He breath'd forth flames, and blackest smoke
From his infernal nostrils broke;
Beneath the bushes strait he fled
Hissing, to hide his frightful head;
I scream'd, and quick as light'ning flew,
Instant the noise my Husband drew,
Who missing me—(a case uncommon)
Was searching round for his lost Woman,
His flutt'ring pulse beating alarm,
As if foreboding future harm;
Trembling I told the dismal tale,
He, like a ghost, all wan and pale,
Poor soul! a while, as rooted, stood
A speechless, senseless stick of wood;—
At length with a heart-rending sigh,
And darting up to heav'n his eye,
“Death is your doom, unhappy Eve,
“Depriv'd of you I cannot live;
“No second Eve my heart can move,
“My soul disdains another love.”
Thus said, he pluck'd the fatal tree,
And join'd to mine his destiny:
What from that hour to this befell,
Your very catechiz can tell.

'Twas then from the broad fig-leaf's shade,
A decent covering first I made

To veil, what now we're taught to hide
Unseen, untouch'd till made a bride;
Nor peacock could more pride express,
Than I in my new-fangled dress;—
With most becoming happy taste
The leaves I planted round my waist,
And instant from my Fall became
A flaunting, jaunting, dressy Dame.

But ah, I find my strength decay,
My eyes begin to shut out day,
Brief, my dear Children, let me be,
In giving my last Legacy:—

Few words to Me seem always best,
Much may in Little be exprest.

Can a Fragrance be sweeter than sweet? Scriblerius.

Is not this false Grammar? Scriblerius.

CANTO II.

“Ye budding Virgins not full blown,
Who scarce a Century have known,
Whose little hearts now flutt'ring beat,
For what you barely guess at yet;
Yet nature-taught, can send Love's dart
Up to the feather in Man's heart,
To victory ere you pretend,
First learn this lesson,—To Defend.

When Nature first begins a riot,
And naughty Man disturbs your quiet,
Assume the mask—seem tim'rous, shy,
And what you wish, pretend to fly;
This seeming coolness will enflame,
And make Men eager for the Game:
The Hen, when by her Mate gallanted,
Screams, tho' indulg'd with what she wanted;
The dappled Hind her Stag denies,
And, but to be o'ertaken, flies;
Thus Maidens not averse to billing,
To draw Men on should seem unwilling,
For Men, believe me, in their natures
Are contradictory strange creatures;
An easy conquest they disdain,
Pleasure must be enhanc'd with pain:
Yet fly not with so quick a pace,
To leave 'em distant in the race,
But dodge and double like a hare,
Till they are netted in the snare,

Then to their prowess seem to yield,
Yourselves the victors in the field.

Ye Wives, who've more experience got,
And know for certain—what is what,—
Whose Curiosity appeas'd,
Are with the thirst of ruling seiz'd,
Wou'd ye despotic pow'r attain,
Various the paths your wish to gain;
For Gudgeons, Trout, and Tyrant Pike,
At baits of diff'rent colours strike.

Love, to enslave some Husbands hearts,
Must use a thousand little arts,
Whilst Fear, with all his spaniel train,
Must others bend to wear the chain:
By Love or Fear we fix our throne,
Let not Indifference once be shewn;
From bed and board that snow-broth banish,
Or, rainbow-like, your pow'r will vanish.

When Misers, who should never wed,
Or take aught else save Gold to bed,
Usurp the Husband's honor'd name,
Let wild Profusion guide each Dame;—
When at the sacred altar ty'd,
The Husband worships his fair Bride,
And with his worldly goods endows
(And fit he shou'd) his Lawful Spouse:

Shall Man then, with rebellious might,
Deprive his Sov'reign of her Right?
No—let the Miser Earth-worm see
His All is yours by Heav'n's decree;—
Teaze him at least, till he advance
His Dear a separate maintenance,
And if that fail, try every art
('Tis just)—to break his reptile heart,
And give him back to that vile Earth,
From whence his Gold and He took birth.

If sulkiness your Mates display,
To teaze such teazers still be gay;
Nor when Sir Mule is in the pet,
Your features by his visage set;
Laugh, dance and sing, and with disdain
Treat all his arts to give you pain:—
If humor'd, he will grow past bearing,
Whene'er he sulks—take you an airing.

Shou'd Heav'n a husband, fraught with sense,
In kindness to your share dispense,
His knowledge, wit, and parts admire,
You fool him to his heart's Desire,
(The wisest Men, or they're bely'd,
Have, maugre Wisdom, their blind side)
Tickle the trout, he's in your hand,
Seem to obey, and you command:—
Who figure first in Wisdom's Schools,
Are Women's most distinguish'd fools.

When drest in winning smiles or tears,
Beauty omnipotent appears;
Distress will often much avail,
When other artifices fail;
If to their passions you apply,
What heart of Feeling can deny?—
But blocks with pebbled hearts demand
Corrosive med'cines from your hand.

Or shou'd it prove your hapless fate,
To meet with an inconstant mate,
One who his bosom'd wife will leave,
That wife to whom Heav'n bids him cleave,
If, spite of Justice, he will ramble,
You too abroad can frisk and amble;
For 'tis but fitting Men receive
A kind return for what they give.

Shou'd Jealousy, that baleful guest,
Begin to squint in Hubby's breast,
Where from a gnat of pigmy size,
She causes giant hydras rise,
(Not but that Women, by the bye,
Are sometimes giv'n to tread awry;
At least this wonder I've been told,
The Lover young, the Husband old)
To clear her fame, each cunning elf
Shou'd rear the jealous flag herself;
A few well-season'd accusations,
With fits, tears, swoonings, objurgations,
Will stagger Goodman's cheated sense,
(His thoughts employ'd in self-defence)

And Cunning, with her Lynx's eye,
Shall hoodwink peering Jealousy.

To rule in every age and station
Is Female Universal Passion;
Divided pow'r is all a joke,
Or We or They must bear the yoke;
Then let dull Man the harness wear,
Whilst Woman drives as charioteer:
“For Husbands born to be control'd,
“Stoop to the forward and the bold.”

To knowledge and superior sense,
Vain Man's assum'd pre-eminence;
'Twas I, who first of Wisdom's treat,
Fearless of Death, durst boldly eat;
One single apple would not do,
To shew my prowess I eat two;
Not so your Grandpappa, for he
Scarce tasted the Forbidden Tree;
All which consider'd it must follow,
In knowledge Females beat 'em hollow:—

Our flutt'ring souls restraint despise,
We're demi-tenants of the skies;
Angels in every sense, had heaven
But angel-wings for flutt'ring given;
We then had birds of passage flown,
And made the universe our own;

Like Swallows, thro' each varied sphere
Playfully darted here and there,
Whilst earth-chain'd Man, from his low station,
Had humbly paid us adoration.

In body too as well as mind
Our angel sex is more refin'd;
Man, a meer earth-worm, owes his birth
To a poor dirty clod of earth,
Whilst Woman, better bred, 'tis known
Had for her sire good flesh and bone.

With what servility they bend,
And on the Fair One's nod attend!
To lure us down to their embraces,
They call us Goddesses and Graces;
But when we once so far demean us,
As to remove the bar between us,
When to their level Females stoop,
The things wou'd ride us cock o' hoop;
Ungrateful wretches! to forget
How infinite to Us their debt!
To Us,—by gracious Heav'n appointed
Their queens, and sovereigns anointed.

Few words to Me seem always best,
Much may in Little be exprest.

Shou'd petty altercations rise,
Which Contradiction still supplies,
Little avails the wrong or right,
Glamor, not Reason, wins the fight;

Let not the hostile trumpet cease,
'Till they petition for a peace;
Cautious again to face your rattle,
Wisely they'll shun the field of battle:
The Cock from dunghill once well beat,
Never provokes a fresh defeat;
But trembling sees his conqu'ring foe,
Clap his exulting wings and crow.

But when no longer they contend,
And at your feet for mercy bend,
When humbly they avow obedience,
And to their sov'reigns swear allegiance,
For their past crimes pay tribute due,
And what we will consent we do;
Let mercy to the slaves be shewn,
Mercy shou'd grace the female throne;
Tho' slaves—consider they are Men,
Smile on the Creatures—now and then.

These Recipes, to one 'tis ten,
At first will disagree with Men;
But Men, like Horses, may be broke
By perseverance, to the yoke;
Forc'd in their teeth's despite submit,
If wives prove jockies, to the bit.—

Ye Widows,—but to you as vain
Advice, as to the sea is rain;
To such I only beg to say,
Indulge, my girls, while yet ye may;

Old age brings on, with hurrying pace,
The hours of abstinence and grace.

A thousand things, alas, remain,
To teach, relate, advise, explain,
But ah, too late—for chilly Death—
I feel the scoundrel—stops my breath.

Adieu—farewel—my precepts scan—
And be as virtuous—as you can.”—

With talking spent, life on her tongue
(Its dernier lodgment) fault'ring hung:
Few words are always best, she cry'd,
She cou'd no more, but instant dy'd.

Her weeping Daughters—all distress—
Flew—to bespeak their Mourning Dress.

I am glad to know our Marriage Ceremony is of such Antiquity as to have been used in Eve's Days:—I shall have a greater Veneration for it than ever. Scriblerius.

Separate Maintenances too, it seems, are Antediluvian. Scriblerius.

Waller has stolen this Couplet from Eves and has made it his own, by changing the Word Husbands into Women. Scriblerius.

EVE's EPITAPH.

Beneath this stone, now peaceful and at rest,
Lies Eve, the first of mothers and the best;
A wife so meek, so loving, and so true,
Time ne'er again to Time's last hour shall view;
Her children and her husband all her care,
For them, more than herself, her daily pray'r:
No idle Curiosity possest
The spotless mansion of her Angel-breast;
Free from all pride, her tongue was never known
To falshood, malice, or to slander prone,
But softest music on each accent hung,
To calm her husband's soul, when anguish-stung;
Her form was beauty's self, thro' which refin'd
Shone, like a jewel chrystal-clos'd, her mind;
“Grace was in all her steps, heav'n in her eye,
“And all her soul was love and dignity.”
To count her numerous virtues were as vain,
As count the stars in yon ethereal plain:
'Ere nine short Centuries below were given,
Too good for earth, her soul was snatch'd to heav'n.—
Poor weeping Adam, to her honor'd shade,
Has caus'd this monument to be display'd,
As an Example to succeeding times,
That Truth shou'd reign in monumental Rhimes.

TIRESIAS.

As with his Sister Wife in chat
Over a bowl, Heav'n's Monarch sat,
A strange dispute between 'em rose,
How it began no Mortal knows,
Whether or Man or Woman most
In Love can greater Pleasures boast;
Juno averr'd, nay swore it too,
That Men the greatest Pleasure knew,
Whilst Jove, with due submission, prov'd
Women were happiest when they lov'd:
They wrangled, laugh'd, and long disputed,
Nor He nor She would be confuted.—
After much eloquence display'd,
Two flowing bowls of wine were laid
(Not such as France or Spain produces,
But Nectar, Prime of heav'nly juices)
That each was right; for even Gods
Can sport, and give or take the odds,
Tho' Jove this wise precaution takes,
His Statesmen ne'er are gambling Rakes;
Nor was his Treas'rer ever known
To Cards, or Dice, or Racing prone.—

This altercation, so facetious,
Who's to decide?—None but Tiresias;
An honest Priest of Delphos' shrine,
Belov'd by Phœbus and the Nine.

Tiresias had, by strange fatality,
Figur'd away in either quality,
And had, by turns, in days of yore,
Both petticoats and breeches wore,
With each peculiar bagatelle
Annex'd to Sir or Madamoiselle;
Then who so fitting to decide?
Since, Snail-like, he'd been doubly try'd.

Rais'd to Olymp. alarm'd and scar'd,
Tiresias like a ninny star'd,
Nor cou'd a syllable deliver;
Struck with amazement thro' his liver,
'Till Madam Juno, to relieve him,
A glass of sparkling Nectar gave him,
Clear as the Lymph of Hypocrene,
A certain Nostrum for the Spleen,
Which in an instant bronz'd his face,
As he had been of heav'nly race:
“Come, t'other glass, Dame Juno cries,
“I see it sparkling in your eyes;
“And now, my good Tiresias, tell us
“Whether we Ladies or the Fellows
“Quaff of Love's Joys the greatest potion,
“When at his shrine we pay devotion?”—
When double-charg'd, with great precision
Tiresias utter'd his opinion;
Tho' somewhat circumstantial rather,
Like a true Orthodox-bred Father.—

“With all due rev'rence, may it please
Your High and Sacred Majesties,
The question you propose, tho' odd,
I'll tell the Truth, so help me God;
I've been admitted, 'tis most certain,
On either side behind the Curtain;
Your question is, if right my guess is,
Which Sex the greatest Bliss possesses,
And which, were I my choice to win,
I should prefer to figure in.

“A word or two may I presume,
'Ere to the grand affair I come.

“Some years ago—perhaps a score—
It may be less, it may be more—
As thro' a grove I took my way,
Two Snakes in sportive dalliance lay;
I thoughtlesly, to spoil their wooing,
Not as I would be done to doing,
With my long staff, this same I hold,
Forc'd 'em to quit their am'rous fold;
When lo! the Winds began to growl,
The Sky to low'r, the Thunder rowl,
And to my great surprize—Lord bless me!
I found a wond'rous change possess me;
My spirits flutt'ring seem'd to fly,
As just awak'd, beyond the sky;
No longer now a humdrum Ninny,
I thought Old Nick had got within me,
Nor cou'd I at the reason guess,
Till bed-time, going to undress,

The Secret then stood full in view,
By Instinct to the glass I flew,
There ev'ry Female Mark and Grace
Star'd me reflected in the face;
I found—what yet had happ'd to no Man,
I found myself transform'd to Woman.

“New moulded in the Mint of Nature,
I now became a diff'rent creature;
Intenser ev'ry passion glow'd,
But chiefly more intense I lov'd;
A brother Priest my heart beguil'd,—
Frail was my sex—I prov'd with child;
To him a lovely babe I bare,
As like its dad as it cou'd stare;
For your assistance loud I bawl'd,
You kindly came, and Master squall'd;
The rogue still lives, and often shames me,
For to this hour Mamma he names me;
And when th' affair was public known,
They laugh'd, and christen'd me Pope Joan

“To guard from farther defamation,
I fix'd with Priestesses my station,
And there what various scenes befell,
Not twenty years would serve to tell;
Such plotting, and such air-built schemes,
Such holy mock'ry!—such wild dreams!
And Man, dear Man, the only game,
At which we one and all took aim,

Not ev'n your Majesties, who know
All things above, and most below,
With all your knowledge cou'd find out,
So quickly veers the vane about.

“Years sev'n compleat, just to a day,
On Pleasure's wings skudded away;
Three children in the time I bore,
(I shou'd have mention'd that before)
When in the fields I chanc'd to spy
Two Snakes in act as formerly;
I with my staff—O fatal blunder!
Unrighteously put 'em asunder:
Quick, in a moment's fleeting span,
I saw myself re-chang'd to Man;
From flutt'ring in the air, I found
My spirits crawling on the ground;
What cou'd I do? I curst my fate,
And wish'd—but ah, 'twas now too late;—
Back to the Sisterhood I went,
Where after some weeks strangely spent,
Quite cloy'd, and jaded with my feast,
I chang'd my garb—and turn'd to Priest.”

“More matter with less art, good friend,
“And of your preachment make an end,
“Cries Juno—Those same bowls of wine,
“Whose are they? Jupiter's or mine?”

“But one word more, indulge me, Madam,
I'll be as mute as now is Adam;

We Speakers, to prevent confusion,
Move step by step to a Conclusion,
Dissect and wiredraw Common sense,
'Ere we bring forth our Inference.”

“The question is—Which Sex can most
In Love the greatest Pleasure boast?
Dear Sir and Madam, I'm a Saracen
If there admits the least comparison:
Women in twenty years live more
Than Bearded Mortals in threescore;
Man's life is but a wint'ry day;
Woman's—A blue-sky'd First of May;
Up to the moon their spirits fly,
To feast on joys of lunacy;
But Man, too flegmatic and sad,
Wants sense sufficient to run mad.—

“The Female Heart may be compar'd
To a sweet violin, prepar'd
And ready tun'd—for Passion's hand
To bow and finger at command;
Each fibre is a trembling string,
Whence music floats on feeling wing;
Variety in wanton strains,
There ever new and changeful reigns,
Whilst roving Fancy still essays
Her flight in voluntary lays;
Whereas, like Belfry Chimes, Man's Heart
Can but a few dull strains impart.

“Woman has ever been defin'd
The Porcelain Clay of Human Kind,
And in that Porcelain, 'tis suppos'd,
A Soul superior is inclos'd;
But Man, as Records all declare,
Is form'd of coarsest Earthen-Ware:—
This Truth admitted, where's the wonder
Our Sex to Women shou'd knock under;
For Heav'n, All-wise, fit lodgment suits
To Souls of Women, Men, and Brutes;—
But this, great Rulers of the Sky,
You know, at least, as well as I.”

“Thou chatt'ring wretch! thou meer old woman!
“Thou heteroclite thing! Thou no man!
“For surely such a gossip-tale
“Cou'd never come from tongue of Male,
“Cries Juno, (who from the beginning
“Smoak'd there were odds against her winning)
“Zoons! Blockhead, cease your tedious lecture;
“Tell us at once—Whose is the Nectar?

Tiresias, frighten'd to behold
Heaven's Empress swear like Wapping Scold,
Low bowing, vow'd sincere repentance,
Then strok'd his beard, and thus gave Sentence.

“Since you abide by my opinion,
Justice unwarp'd shall give decision;
I know not how the wager's laid,
So hope that neither will upbraid,

And thus pronounce—(Tho' sooth to say,
Were you to change your sex one day,
Were Juno Jove—and Jove but Juno,
As much as I can tell you'd soon know:
But in one word—for entre nous,
I hate two words when one will do)
By Jove and Phœbus' Shrine I swear,
Our phlegm-soul'd sex can ne'er compare
In Love's Deliciæ with the Fair;
Nor can ------”

“Foul offspring of a lying race,”
Cries Juno, dashing in his face
A glass of Nectar—By the bye
Madam had almost bung'd her eye—
“Take that, and henceforth blind as Mole
“Throughout the world like beggar strole;
“Your lying verdict makes me lose
“Two bowls of most delicious booze:—
“Thou fool!—In matrimonial strife
“To back a husband 'gainst his wife!—
“Remember, Blockhead, the Old Song,
“A Wife is never in the Wrong.”

More she had said, but drowsy grown,
Fast as a Dormouse she dropt down:—
How cruel! how unchristian like!
And in a Goddess too—to strike
With blindness a poor Country Rector,
Because, forsooth, she lost her Nectar;

But Contradiction—there's the thing—
Fix'd in her heart the bearded sting.

Poor Jove, rejoic'd to find her quiet,
Nor further danger of a riot,
Thus to Tiresias, whispering spake,
Lest Madam with the noise should wake;—
“Oh, tis a Vixen—and her thunder,
“Spite of my teeth, makes me knock under;
“This might teach mortals, had they wit,
“To their wives Logic to submit;
“For Junos cast in mortal mold,
“Can sometimes drink, and sometimes scold:—
“No God can alter or revoke
“A sentence by another spoke;
“Yet tho' in body you are blind,
“Doubly illum'd shall be your mind:—
“Henceforth the gift be thine to see
“The secrets of futurity;
“So shall due reverence be paid
“By every widow, wife, and maid,
“Who curious to foreknow their fate,
“Shall cross your hand at any rate,
“Shall Juno's Shrines neglect, to follow
“The Fortune-Teller of Apollo;—
“This will give Madam a damn'd rub,
“For she's as proud as Beelzebub;
“'Twill gore her heart with Envy's stings,
“And fret her guts to fiddle-strings;

“Nor shall she from this very hour,
“To hurt you have the smallest pow'r.”—

Tiresias to the Earth convey'd,
Follow'd the fortune-telling trade;
Led by a dog he stroll'd about,
Resolving every lawful doubt;
And from each corner of the land,
To know their doom and cross his hand,
Females in crowds posted away,
Whilst Juno's Shrines neglected lay;
He by their follies soon grew rich,
And bad proud Madam—kiss his br---ch.

Tho' with Tiresias dy'd the Patent
Of prying into wonders latent;
Yet from that æra to this time,
Pretenders swarm in ev'ry clime,
To whom the Fair, all eager, fly
On wings of Curiosity;
They think there can be no great hurt in
Taking a peep behind Fate's curtain,
To see what Spouses, and how many,
(A single One's not worth a penny)
What Riches, and how large a Breed
By gracious Heaven is decreed;—
On this each modern Tiresias,
With jargon laughable, tho' specious,
A mist before them snugly throws,
Then blinds and leads them by the nose,
Squeezes their purses, and in lieu
The rainbow Hope presents to view;

Pleas'd with the Phantom, they pursue it,
Till Gudgeon-like, too late they rue it.—

All this, if Chronicles say true,
To Juno's drunken pranks is due.

Vide Ovid Metam, Lib. 3.

It may perhaps be thought impertinent to inform the Reader that each Snail is of both Sexes. Scriblerius.

Lucina fer Opem. Terence.

What a terrible Anachronism!—When Pope Joan lived so many Centuries after Tiresias. Scriblerius.

Another Anachronism, as bad as that of Pope Joan:—But in short there is no End of them. Scriblerius.

We don't read of any such Order among the Heathen Priests. Scriblerius.

Juno was Goddess of Marriage, and Patroness of Women in general. Scriblerius.

A SONG.

The blushing Rose and Lilly fair,
Had long a mutual passion known:—
Hymen's invok'd—the lovely pair
His magic wreath unites in one.

Their beauties blended thus in love,
Shine with a more than heav'nly grace;
And now they fly bright Venus' grove,
To shine in brighter Kitty's face.

WOMAN.

An Elegy.

Ah, why with every charm is Woman grac'd?
Why strongest feelings to our lot assign'd?
Like Pageants why aloft by Flatt'ry plac'd?
Is it to make our Chains more galling bind?

With hearts to give, and souls to taste delight,
Of Love and all the gentler passions fram'd,
Soft as young Pity, cheerful as the Light,
Why at our Peace is Man's fell dagger aim'd?

If we are weak, 'tis for our fouls are kind,
We ne'er suspect a guile our hearts disdain;—
If we are frail—our passions like the wind—
From Us why crave what Manhood can't attain?

In Childhood, when by Wisdom bent with Care,
The supple twig to Virtue should incline,
Merit, we're taught, consists in being fair,
Our study—Dress alone wherein to shine.

From school, that cloister'd cell, when we are freed.
Where Ignorance with birchen Pride bears sway,
To bonds more harsh our servile lot's decreed,
A jealous Sire or Guardian to obey.

There each unguarded word, each harmless look,
(The cheerful blood then dancing in our veins)
Dark Calumny within her venom'd book,
The leaves of snake-skin form'd, makes foul with stains.

As children painted butterflies pursue,
Which caught, with cruelty they soon destroy,
Our fated sex thus men enraptur'd view,
When won, our ruin all their boast—their joy.

At Hymen's shrine shou'd they announce their flame,
Where mutual vows a mutual flame attest,
Unwarp'd fidelity from Us they claim,
Of their own vows they, scornful, make a jest.

Falshood from Us, tho' to our Lordlins due,
In all its blackest dies is blazon'd forth;
Falshood from Them—(how few, alas, are True!)
The partial Tyrants colour o'er with Worth.

Forbid to taste what Learning's banquet shows,
Or quaff the streams that Wisdom's fount supplies,
Yet for those very wants themselves impose,
The tyrant Sex our hapless Sex despise.

No Sex bright, Genius boasts: In Us it beams
With equal glow if nourish'd at the roots;
Fed by the All-inspiring Muses stream,
Above the heavens the Female Laurel shoots.

Of ev'ry kind the Male protects his Mate,
Whether on earth, in air, or in the main,
Whilst Woman—Ah, how wretched Woman's fate!
In her Protector meets her direst bane.

Of joy our little portion's but a gleam,
A flash of sunshine in a wint'ry day;

That gone, we wake from our bewitching dream,
And all around is darkness and dismay.

Unhappy Sex! tho' here depriv'd of rest,
Some future state shall full reward extend,
Where we with Freedom's Manna shall be blest,
And ev'ry Lover prove a constant Friend.

An EPIGRAM.

[If Wit be what our Wits have said in mirth]

If Wit be what our Wits have said in mirth,
“A quick Conception, and an easy Birth,”
No more their feeble claim let Men avow,
Wit's sprightly wreath must grace the Female brow.

ABUSE and FLATTERY.

Like Hail, that strikes with force, yet leaves no wound,
But harmless falls, and wastes upon the ground;
Abuse, when undeserv'd, we safe abide,
Her Arrows conscious Virtue turns aside:
But ah!—like Rain that gently falling, cleaves,
While the drench'd garb the dang'rous guest receives;
Flatt'ry, soft stealing, easy entrance finds,
And proves the bane of unsuspecting minds:
To the Soul's core the Phantom steals unknown,
Health flies, and Fever fills the vacant throne;
Entranc'd a while we skim a Fairy coast,
Nor from th' illusion wake, 'till we are lost.

100

The MAY-SPRIG.

A Song.

A Sprig with earliest blossoms gay,
I gather'd from the fragrant May,
To deck fair Cloe's sweeter breast,
In lillies rob'd, where Cupids nest.

Eager a while the gift she ey'd,
Then cast it on the ground and sigh'd;
The crystal tears adown her cheek
Where patience smil'd, her feelings speak.

“Oh, Damon, Damon,” cry'd the Fair,
“Behold your sex's emblem there:
“Tho' flatt'ring to the sense it shows,—
“Beneath—the Thorn unfriendly grows.

“Like this fair flow'r, May's boasted sweet,
“Love does the witless Virgin cheat;
“We lodge the traitor at our heart,
“But feel too soon the rankling smart.”

She said—Remembrance, all unkind,
Gave treach'rous Thyrsis to her mind;
My heart now throbb'd with friendly pain,
Nor cou'd the social tear refrain.

101

MAY-MORN.

A Pastoral.

The Sun just peeping o'er the hills was seen,
The Birds all caroll'd, and the Air was sheen;
Garlands, of Daffodils and Tulips made,
With Cowslips, gather'd from the unforc'd glade,
O'er ev'ry cottage door, in trim so gay,
Spoke a glad welcome to the wish'd-for May:
Dight in their gayest cloaths, each Shepherd Swain
And Village Nymph trip'd o'er the green-swerd plain;
While Cupid made such havock among hearts,
His full-stor'd quiver scarce supply'd him darts:
In ev'ry breast Joy revell'd this glad morn,
Save Deborah's;—She, hapless maid, forlorn,
With eyes brimful, beneath a Yew reclin'd
Sat,—dulling with her sighs the passing wind;
When Margery, light tripping o'er the grass,
Stop'd short; and (wond'ring) thus accosts the Lass.

Margery.
Am I awake? Is't Deborah I see
With blubber'd cheeks?—Quite lost her wonted glee?
What, Deb?—That erst so frolicksome was seen,
The blithest maid that danc'd upon the green!
Up, up, for shame, nor longer dowley fret,
Around the pole the Lads and Girls are met;
Blind Giles his fiddle scrapes in notes so sweet,
You'd think, for sure, he witch'd their puppet feet:
Have you forgot this is the First of May?
When dight in their new robes the fields look gay:

102

On ev'ry hedge the scented Blossoms spring,
The Birds their sweetest Carols joyous sing;
The Cuckow, dumb 'till now, this Morn essays
In mellow notes his summer song to raise;
Up, up, for shame, and to the sports repair,
Our Sweethearts both, believe me, Girl, are there:
Whence comes this change?—What sad misfortune, say,
Can cause those tears, and looks of wild dismay?

Deborah.
Ah, hapless Maid!—when you my griefs shall hear,
Too soon, alas, you'll answer tear for tear;
Tummas, the lad to whom I gave my heart,
Tummas and I for ay must henceforth part;
He and thy Sweetheart Hodge both listed are,
And now to fight with Frenchmen must prepare.

Margery.
My Roger Listed! Margery's undone,
With Roger every Joy and Comfort's flown;
Was it for this such sugar'd words you spoke,
When the bent six-pence lovingly we broke?—
Was it for this I've oft-times been foretold,
That blest with Roger's love I should grow old?
Nor Sieve or Sheers I'll henceforth e'er believe,
Nor shall St. Agnes' Fast again deceive;
Nor credit more a six-pence put in Ruth,
(Strange! that the Bible thus should tell untruth!)

103

For all my hopes—woe's me! are overblown,
Since Sweetheart Roger for a Soldier's gone.

Deborah.
The bride-cake which I got when Farmer Hale
Married the buxom Widow of the dale,
Beneath my bolster plac'd in kerchief white,
I dreamt of nought but Tummas all the night:
I thought—but Margery, you oft have known,
And well my dreams may guess at by your own:—
Nor dreams or bride-cake henceforth I'll believe,
For dreams and bride-cake both alike deceive.

Margery.
The dew, which I this morn with so much care
Gather'd from yon green field to make me fair,
I'll fling away—Nor henceforth, well I ween,
This blubber'd face ought else save tears shall clean;
For what avails a comely face to boast,
Since all I prize, ah me! in Roger's lost.

Deborah.
When Tummas cut his hand—upon the wound,
To stop the blood, a cobweb straight I bound;
Next day he told me I had heal'd the smart,
And, smiling, wish'd me heal his bleeding heart;
I blush'd—he kiss'd me;—and with sugar'd words,
And tongue as soft and smooth as unbroke curds,
He made me plight my troth; and on a book
Swear to be his: The oath we jointly took:
He swore my True Love he would live and die;—
Are lovers true—who from their True Loves fly?

104

Margery.
Last April-tide—(I little thought so soon
Last April-tide, to part with my dear loon)
Like Roger none such matchless wit cou'd show,
Or make so many April fools, I trow.

Deborah.
A few days gone, (how tender Tummas' breast!)
From a rude lad he sav'd a Linnet's nest;
He swore, and swore aloud—“It was a shame
To murder birds of any sort but Game:”
How can a heart, so tender and so good,
Then make a Trade of shedding Christian blood?

Margery.
In Wrestling no one lad can Hodge excell;
At Cudgels too he always bore the bell;
And but last Wake, when a rude fellow swore
He'd have a kiss, and my lac'd kerchief tore,
I scream'd:—Hodge flew like lightning to my aid,
And at his feet the brute was quickly laid.

Deborah.
In Dancing who with Tummas cou'd compare?
Or foot it on the green with such an air?
At Church too none so loud the Psalms cou'd sing!
He shak'd and quaver'd so he made all ring:
And then to hear him chaunt Bold Robin Hood,
Or Marg'ret's grimly ghost, what hours I've stood!—
I cou'd not stir—I was all ears and eyes;
Dame might scold on—I told her twenty lyes:—
And when he whistled, Margery, I swear
Nor flutes nor black-birds cou'd with him compare.

105

Margery.
A Swallow's nest, which for five summers stood
The nursery of many a callow brood,
Just o'er my casement—where the jessamine
And honey-suckle rival sweets entwine;
(Where Swallows build, good fortune still is known)
Last Easter Day,—Woe's me!—came tumbling down;
The bird return'd from foreign parts yestreen,
And seem'd to pass the spot and mourn I ween,
And now its nest builds elsewhere—as if struck,
My window was the dwelling of ill-luck.

Deborah.
The other night—to think on't makes me weep,
When cocks, hens, pigs, and christians were asleep;
Into our barn the crafty Reynard stole,
He made his way thro' yonder tiny hole;
The hens, all flutt'ring with a piteous cry
Proclaim'd aloud the murd'rous fox was nigh;
Wak'd with the noise, I started in my smock,
And scream'd aloud—“My cock? My ginger cock!”
I came too late—my ginger cock was gone;—
“My cock!” I cry'd—and fell into a swoon:
Crafty the fox, the Serjeant craftier far,
Who in his clutches thus can Tummas bear:
Another Ginger I may get again,
But never, never get so sweet a Swain.

Margery.
No more shall bees to flow'ry meads resort,
Nor with their willing mates cock-sparrows sport;

106

No more in the Red Sea shall Ghosts be laid,
Or midnight Fairies pinch the slattern Maid;
The Gipsy's hand no more shall Maidens cross,
Or more the coffee-dish shall trembling toss,
The lambs shall cease to bleat, the cocks to crow,
When tears for my poor Roger cease to flow.

Deborah.

Sooner the heavy ox shall flit thro' air,
Sooner with turtles rav'nous kites shall pair,
The hog shall sing in soft melodious notes,
And nightingales shall, gruntling, stretch their throats;
Sooner the 'Squire his rent when due refuse,
Or smallest sheaves, in tithing, Parsons chuse;
Sooner than—Break, thou stubborn heart in twain,
Sleeping or waking I forget my Swain.

Thus wail'd the Maids, when on the plain appear'd
Tummas and Roger, whom the 'Squire had clear'd,
The welcome sight at once dispell'd their fears,
Kisses and May-day fare dried up their tears,
The Swains their wishes had, the longing Maidens theirs.

'Tis a Custom among Country Girls to put the Bible under their Pillows at Night, with Six-pence clapt in the Book of Ruth, in order to dream of the Man destin'd to be their Husbands.

107

The PEDLAR and RASHER of BACON.

A Tale.

“What on a fast-day, thou vile glutton!
“Thou infidel! to feast on mutton!—
“Nothing can save you from the birch,
“But Off'rings made to Mother Church;
“Else holy candle, book and bell,
“Shall sign your Mittimus to Hell.”—
Thus having threaten'd poor Lay Sinner,
Sir Priest sits down to a flesh dinner;
And after shipping his own cargo,
On others guts lays strict embargo.

A Pedlar hungry, tir'd, and cold,
Who many a mile that day had stroll'd,
Came to a Peasant's friendly hut,
Where he had often stuff'd his gut;—
“How fare you, Pedlar?—Faith, so, so;
“I'm dev'lish hungry, you must know:
“Some good fat collops I cou'd eat;”—
“Sure, quo' the Peasant, you forget
“The Holy Church enjoins, to-day
“That we must fast, confess and pray;”
(You're to observe the scene was Spain,
Where Priests and Saints despotic reign)
“Two or three Onions are the Tote
“That journey'd this day down my throat;
“Nor have I now one morsel left,
“Of ev'ry eatable bereft,

108

“Save yonder Bacon Flitch, and such
“No Christian sure wou'd dare to touch:”
The Pedlar cast a longing eye,
He begg'd—he swore most bitterly,
“A savoury Rasher on the coal,
“Was what he long'd for from his soul;
“That windows shut, and doors well barr'd
“'Gainst Priests and Saints wou'd snugly guard;
“And after all, if he was caught,
“An Absolution might be bought.”

The tim'rous Peasant long deny'd,
At length thro' pity he comply'd;
And having from the pork-side taken
A good large sliver of fat Bacon,
“I wash my hands of all, he cries,
“At your own door the trespass lies;
“But if our Priest shou'd find you out,
“By th' Mass he'll make a woundy rout;
“Such Pennance he'll inflict—you'll wish
“Your Bacon slice had been a Fish.”

The Pedlar soon his Rasher dress'd,
His looks a joyous heart express'd;
And to his mouth without delaying,
The savoury morsel quick conveying,
Just at the instant, a loud clap
Of thunder—Lord have mercy!—slap—
Came like a bold intruding guest,
To interrupt him in his feast:
The Pedlar judging that, no doubt,
The Rasher caus'd this fearful rout,

109

And that the Saints, with half an eye
Had seen him smuggling from their sky,
The morsel, cause of all this din,
Which mouth had open'd to take in,
He drops amaz'd;—and with a look,
Which Grief and Rage, and Hunger spoke,
And dashing down both meat and platter,
Exclaims—“Zoons, here's a noise and clatter
“About a footy Bacon slice;
“You Saints above are dev'lish nice:—
“There—now I hope you'll be quite easy,
“The devil's in't if this won't please ye;
“Tho' by the bye 'tis plaguy hard;—
“You wou'd not like yourselves to be thus serv'd.”

Let Christians hence on Fast-days learn
Their Hunger's Tide to stem;
For Saints, sly Rogues! can us discern,
When we see nought of them.

110

On Mrs. B---'s safe Delivery of a Daughter.

1766.

As Jove on high Olymp. was quaffing
Nectar, and 'mong his Godlings laughing;
(For Gods and Godlings now and then
Can laugh and drink as well as Men)
Petitions 'gainst the trap-door—thump—
As if from cannon shot, came—plump;
And with such force, that Jove amaz'd
Order'd the trap-door to be rais'd: —
Which done;—without the least decorum,
Pray'rs jostling pray'rs, burst in before 'em;
And with such noise,—Jove 'gan to stare,
And thought all Billinsgate was there;
For Mortals, in their pray'rs, 'tis said,
Are often strangely underbred,
Nor to the Gods that Rev'rence shew,
That's due from clay-built folks below:—
Some pray'd for Fame, and some for Health,
Some for a Wench—some pray'd for Wealth;
Thro' fear of Hell some Wretches pray'd,
Some pray'd—for praying was their Trade;
For Wives some pray'd—but well-a-day!
More pray'd—to take their Wives away;
Some pray'd for this, and some for that,
And many—for they knew not what:
But what struck Jove more than the rest,
Were some short pray'rs so warmly prest,

111

They spoke the Suppliants quite sincere,
Which made Jove kindly lend an ear;
For Jove (sly rogue!) knows—from the tongue
Or from the heart, if pray'rs are sprung.

“Great Jove, the Suppliants loud exclaim,
“Kindly assist the pregnant Dame,
“Guard Bellamira from disaster,
“And safely guide—or Miss or Master:
“No common cause demands our pray'r,
“In Bellamira thousands spare.”

This and much more his Godship heard,
From many Suppliants preferr'd;
But none more clam'rous seem'd than one,
An odd droll-looking Simpleton,
Who Jove in blund'ring terms addrest;
He own'd—This was his first request,
And swore, if Jove wou'd kindly save her,
He ne'er wou'd ask another favour.
Jove smil'd, and casting down an eye,
Scrub on his marrow-bones did spy;
Which plain as sun at noon-day, spoke
Th' affair to Scrub had been no joke.

But what Jove thought was most observant,
Ev'n her own Spouse in pray'r was fervent;
For Husbands seldom now-a-day,
For their Wives Preservation pray;—
He long to Peace had been a stranger,
Joyless, his dearest Bell. in danger;

112

And wou'd have sacrific'd his life,
Unfashion'd thing! to save his Wife:
Jove smil'd, and thought it somewhat strange,
(For Jove himself is giv'n to change)
That Mortals should the Gods excell,
And from their betters bear the bell;
For be it spoken to Jove's shame,
Nor he, nor any of his name,
To Dinmow Flitch cou'd e'er lay claim.

To Constancy a perfect stranger,
Jove in his heart's an errant Ranger;
In snug disguise he often quits
Olymp. to feast on Mortal bits;
And Flesh and Blood prefers, by th' bye,
To all the Beauties of the Sky;
For which Dame Juno scolds and hectors,
And pays him off with curtain lectures.

Yet Jove himself, tho' Buck compleat,
As e'er frequented Russel-street,
To Mortals has forbid such jokes—
And threatens all your naughty folks,
If they'll not mend and say their pray'rs,
Old Nick shall carry 'em down stairs—
Hard case! that Jove shou'd Laws ordain,
Which Jove himself treats with disdain:
But Laws were made to rule the Throng,
Your Gods and Kings are never wrong.

“My Friends, quo' Jove, stroaking his face,
“In troth this is no common case;

113

“Thousands, you see, in sad contrition,
“For yon good Wife i'th' Straw petition;
“And viva voce all aver,
“Their Happiness depends on her:
“The knocker ty'd, the straw thick spread,
“The Nurses hobbling round the bed,
“The throbbing breast, the tearful eye,
“Speak grim-fac'd Danger to be nigh:
“Then fly this instant;—downward speed,
“To aid her in this hour of need;
“In B---'s shape, Lucina, shew
“All that Obstetric art can do;
“You, Phœbus, quick to H--- repair,
“Assume your brother C---'s air,
“And Med'cine's utmost skill impart,
“To sooth her pains, and cheer her heart;
“And, Pallas, see your friendly aid
“In E---'s lovely form convey'd,
“In sweet discourse your med'cine pour'd,
“Will soften what must be endur'd:—
“While I, her lov'd Lord's tender breast,
“With Hope's sweet Balsam calm to rest.

“And now, hear Fate—hear Destiny;—
“By Styx I swear—'Tis Jove's decree—
“Soon shall a Cherub see the light,
“As Venus from the ocean bright;
“And with a wonder-working smile,
“Her fondling Mother's pangs beguile:
“Her welfare shall be Heav'n's own care,
“As Father wife, as Mother fair;

114

“Like both in one, replete with Spirit,
“Good-nature, Wit—in short, all Merit.

“The Parents' virtues to requite,
“Wing'd be their days with true Delight;
“Health shall her choicest blessings shed,
“The Loves shall crown their genial bed;
“Fortune with smiles shall still befriend 'em,
“And—Heav'n's best gift—Content attend 'em;
“Blessing and blest, they long shall shew
“Example to mankind below,
“That Happiness is Virtue's prize,
“And, to be good, is to be wise.

“And when Death summons, as all must,
“From whence they came, return to dust,
“One single grave, one friendly mold,
“In union shall their clay infold;
“Their souls as one shall still unite,
“And endless feast in realms of light;
“On earth their virtues too survive,
“And in their lovely offspring live.”—

Jove spoke, and awful gave the nod,
While Fate submissive own'd the God.

See the Story of Menippus in the Spectator, No. 391—In which Prayers are said to enter Heaven thro' a Trap-Door, occasionally opened and shut as Jupiter happens to be in the Humour.

115

GODWIN and LUCY.

The midnight bell had freedom knoll'd
To Ghosts, an hour or more,
When black Despair to Lucy's tomb
The youthful Godwin bore.

Scarce sixteen springs the lovely maid
Had seen bedeck the plains;
Scarce twice ten summer suns had warm'd
The blood in Godwin's veins.

All gentle she as is the dove,
Not Beauty's self more fair;
In manly virtues with the youth,
No youth might then compare.

Her cruel sire—hard was his heart!—
Upon their passion frown'd;
Poor Lucy pin'd, and soon she lay,
In shrouded vestment bound.

Can Parents Being give, yet rend
Their Children's hearts in twain?
Of Parent Heav'n, ye Parents learn,
There Love and Mercy reign.

The cloister'd Aisle sad Godwin seeks,
Where Lucy breathless lay;
The cloister'd Aisle aloud repeats
Poor Godwin's sad dismay.

116

Mid crouds of gliding pale-ey'd Ghosts,
Fearless he pass'd along;
The screech-owl tunes his boding throat,
To hail the airy throng.

A darklin cloud of bluish gleam,
Inwraps each sheeted sprite;
Save Godwin's, sure no breast had then
But thrill'd with cold affright.

On him their hollow eyes they fix,
They shake their heads and groan;
And tears—cou'd airy Beings weep—
Their feelings had made known.

“Why thus, with pitying looks, a wretch,
“Like Godwin do you view?—
“A few short moments more, and I
“Shall be as one of you.

“My journey's end is Lucy's tomb,
“There by her clay-cold side
“I'll breathe my last, in death at least
“Lucy shall be my bride.”

Wide yawn'd the tomb: At this dread hour
A slave with cautious tread,
And impious heart had hither stol'n
To rob the sacred dead.

Rich trinkets—Godwin's valu'd gifts
Were in her coffin laid;

117

To have 'em there interr'd—the last
Request poor Lucy made.

Alarm'd, and cheated of his prey,
The Robber wing'd his flight;
From Godwin's wild revenge conceal'd
By the dark veil of Night.

From the Hell-nurtur'd thirst of gain,
Cannot the sacred grave,
Or the more sacred clay within
Nor Heaven's dread vengeance save!—

To touch the icy corps!—to view
What soon we all must be!—
Hard is the heart, where gleams no ray
Of soft Humanity.

He saw his Lucy, all bestrew'd
With flow'rs of fragrant breath,
Sweet tho' each flow'r—how faint to that
Sweet Lilly—cropt by Death.

In shrouded vestment—awful—rob'd,
She still on Godwin smil'd;
“Ah, cruel Sire, whose flinty heart
“Cou'd murder such a child!

“Cou'd you that face, where Heav'n was seen,
“All ghastly now behold?
“That breast, whose pulse for you beat warm,
“Now motionless and cold?

118

“Those eyes, which like the orient sun,
“All mild, yet heav'nly bright,
“Cou'd you—Oh, cou'd you see 'em set
“And hid in endless night?

“Those lips, whence truth and sweetness flow'd,
“Cou'd you, without a groan,
“Here view—and, like your flinty heart,
“Not straight congeal to stone?”

Trembling he knelt—Where Lucy's corps
For worms a banquet lay;
He prest her lips—but felt 'em not
Cold as the lifeless clay.

Her ling'ring soul, by Love detain'd,
Still flutter'd round her heart,
Loath from that spot, where Godwin's form
Was graven, to depart.

Surpriz'd, again her lips he prest,
To life renew'd she wakes;
Amazement wild from forth her lips
In half-form'd accents breaks.

“Where am I?”—“Here in Godwin's arms,”
The youth enraptur'd cries,
And to a place of safety straight
Snatches his new-wak'd prize.

Low at her wond'ring Parent's feet,
Next morning Lucy kneels;

119

And Godwin's constancy and love,
With tears of joy reveals.

“Oh, Mercy, Mercy! honor'd Sire,
“Heal your poor Lucy's woes;—
“Nor let again the dark cold tomb,
“Your shrouded child inclose.”—

Hanging on Lucy's neck, her Sire
Repentant now appears;
Eager he clasps her—sobs his joy,
And pardon begs with tears.—

“May Time grow old, ere the dark tomb
“Again my child inclose;
“Godwin is your's, and you are his,
“Then banish all your woes.

“All good, all duteous as thou art,
“How cou'd I prove unkind?—
“How to your tears and pray'rs be deaf
“As is the passing wind!

“Had not kind Mercy to these arms,
“Once more my Lucy giv'n,
“Conscience, and stinging black Remorse,
“My hard, hard heart had riven.”—

He bent his knee, he rais'd his eye,
To Heav'n in grateful pray'r;
And to the shrine enraptur'd waits
The happy, destin'd pair.—

120

The hoary Priest, who but yestreen
Lucy's sad Requiem sigh'd;
With tears of joy his blessing pours
On Lucy—now a Bride.

Scarce had the sun one circling course
Thro' the horizon sped,
Ere Lucy deep intomb'd it saw,
And in her bridal Bed.

On seeing a LAW BOOK bound in uncoloured Calf, and white Edges.

With unstain'd Edges, and in spotless Calf,
A Law Book bound must make a Stoic laugh;
For in that striking emblem you may see,
Not what Law is, but what the Law should be:
A Law Book thus in the Law Livery drest,
Is like a Jesuit in a Layman's vest;
'Tis like a Strumpet cloath'd in spotless White;
'Tis like a bitter Apple, fair to sight;
'Tis like a simple Quaker, plain and neat,
That with his Yeas and Noes is sure to cheat;
'Tis like a Pirate, that false colours shews,
Or Hecla's flames conceal'd in virgin snows;
'Tis like—in short, 'tis like Dan Milton's Sin,
All fair without, but monst'rous foul within.

121

The LAMENTATION of a MOUSE in a Trap.

“Unhappy Maid! within this wiry cave,
“Death's certain summons doom'd, alas, to wait!
“Shall curst Grimalkin's guts prove Muzzy's grave;
“So young!—In Pleasure's Spring to meet my fate?

“Those jet-bead eyes, that fir'd Beholders' hearts,
“This velvet skin, small ears, and needle claws!
“Those whiskers, (often stil'd Love's keenest darts)
“Must they be crush'd within a Murderer's jaws?

“Was it for this, with daintiest morsels fed,
“From the scoop'd cheese, or bacon's tasteful side,
“Mamma with tenderness her Muzzy bred,
“Clasp'd me, and call'd me still her Little Pride?

“Oft wou'd she cry—“My dear, my best-lov'd care,
“Touch not your prey, 'till well the place you scan;
“Grimalkin!—Of that monster, oh beware!—
“And that more savage two-legg'd monster Man.”

“I—wretched I—unheedful of her love,
“My duty's forfeit now untimely pay;
“Be warn'd by me, nor thus rebellious prove,
“Ye Mice!—but ah!—your Parents' lore obey.

122

“To poor Papa had this sad hour been giv'n,
“How wou'd the sight his tender bosom wound!
“But poor Papa—(such the high will of Heav'n!)
“Last April-day was in a cream-bowl drown'd.

“Where now those gay coquettish breezes?—where?
“That erst so many youthful hearts have won?
“In swarms to Muzzy's hole wont to repair,
“And swear her beauties far outshone the sun.

“They call'd me Goddess:—Said, “My frown or smile
“Cou'd save or doom to Death the nibbling breed;”
“Ye mortal Goddesses of Albion's Isle,
“Oh! think—Ev'n Goddess Muzzy's doom'd to bleed.

“And must I die? No more Squeakero's strain
“(Squeakero! loveliest youth of youthful Mice!)
“Shall flatt'ring homage pay—in hopes to gain
“That heart, whose worth he swore was past all price.

“His lengthen'd tail!—but, ah, that tail no more,
“Nor hero's form again shall bless my sight;
“His wit, which set the table on a roar,
“Poor Muzzy's soul shall ne'er again delight.

“How oft, Squeakero, have you vow'd—“No pow'r
“On earth from your embrace shou'd Muzzy tear;”
“Let not Grimalkin's spiked jaws devour,
“But from this horrid cave your Muzzy bear.

123

“Methinks the fell devourer I espy,
“With eyes, like fiery suns, that flash forth dread;
“And tail, like threat'ning comet, rais'd on high,
“And giant paw, prepar'd to strike me dead.

“No Parent, Lover, Friend, at that sad hour,
“On Lightning's wings to fly with vengeful aid!
“And can ye—can ye let the Fiend devour,
“Ah me!—your Darling—your poor Little Maid?

“Squeakero! Parent! Friends!—like Lightning fly,
“Bring armies—quick—tear, rend this hated jail:
“No Parent, Lover, Friend, alas, is nigh—
“Nor cou'd whole Armies in this case avail.

“Ah no! Mamma!—Squeakero! come not near,
“Lest your fond hearts should break to see me thus:
“To your wise precepts had I lent an ear,
“Poor Muzzy had not fallen a prey to Puss.

“The Bait, which but a few short minutes past
“So tempting,—now how hateful to mine eyes!
“Repentance oft attends a liquorish taste;
“From Muzzy's fate, learn, Maidens, to be wise.

“A certain Judgment (such Heav'n's wise decree)
“Attends the Wretch who not a Parent hears;
“But hark—the dreadful latch is rais'd—and see—
“Have mercy, Heav'n!—a Two-legg'd Fiend “appears.”

124

She said—and, trembling, sweeps the wires;—when, lo!
Murd'rous Grimalkin, darting baleful fires,
Enters the room:—All Nature feels the blow;
Poor Muzzy squeaks—and with a nip expires.

EPIGRAM.

[A coxcombly Youth, upon Pleasure intent]

A coxcombly Youth, upon Pleasure intent,
To Bedlam, that scene of strange oddities, went;
The Wards he all rang'd—many questions propos'd—
And his want both of Sense and of Feeling expos'd:
Observing a Lunatic, great as a King,
Yet blithe as a Frenchman, cut capers and sing,
I should like, cries Sir Puppy, among ye to dwell,
Do you think, honest Friend, you cou'd spare Me a cell?
“Poor Fool,” cries the Madman, “you're out of your wits,
“The Seat this of Genius—no Lodging for Cits:—
“This Palace was built, as a compliment due,
“For Madmen like Me, not dull Blockheads like You.”

125

The last Speech and Dying Words of Willy, a Pet-Lamb, who was executed by the Hands of a common Butcher, for gnawing, tearing, and murdering one of Miss ------ lac'd Ruffles.

(Quis talia fando, temperet è Lachrymis?)

“And must I die? Must your poor Willy bleed?
“For one poor witless fault my life resign?
“Forgive your little lambkin, and indeed
“Henceforth on Ruffles never will I dine.

“With my wild gambols pleas'd, can you forget
“How oft the fleeting hour you've smil'd away?
“Kiss'd me, and call'd me your nown little Pet,
“And vow'd my breath was sweet as new-mown hay.

“Have you forgot how oft-times by your side
“Fearless along the plain I joyous sped?—
“Have you forgot with what a conscious pride
“I baa'd, whene'er you patted Willy's head?

“When Cupid bark'd; with Envy stung and Spite,
“To you I ran to save me from my foe;
“You, instant, banish'd Cupid from your sight,
“And kissing, call'd me your sweet Willio.

“On your lov'd knee, my head I oft have laid,
“Proud from your hand to take my tasteful food;
“Favours from others were in vain display'd,
“No sweets, save from your hand, I counted good.

126

“At morn, when from your bed undress'd you sprung,
“Have you not clasp'd me in your snowy arms?
“While I, all rapture, lick'd you with my tongue,
“Nor once disclos'd the secret of your charms.

“Let Innocence and Love for Mercy plead;
“For Mercy on my marrow-bones I fall;
“Tho' some few errors to my share's decreed,
“Look in my face, and you'll forget 'em all.

“Can black Revenge lodge in so fair a breast?
“Can such a trifle warp an Angel's mind?
“How must each sighing Lover prove distrest,
“To find such fickleness and beauty join'd!

“Bak'd in my blood—convuls'd in every part,
“Quiv'ring in death cou'd you poor Willy view?
“And from my breast torn forth my little heart,
“That heart whose latest throbbings beat for You.

“Cou'd you behold my mangled carcass rise,
“Smoaking upon your board to tempt the taste;
“The tear, I'm sure, wou'd strait empearl your eyes;
“You cou'd not on your murder'd Willy feast.

“If I must die—Oh, grant this last request,
“Let sorm of gloves my little lamb-skin grace;
“Then shall poor Willy ev'n in Death be blest,
“To think your dear-lov'd arms he shall embrace.

“And from the wool that curls o'er Willy's skin,
“Wou'd you two snowy, posied garters make;

127

“This favour too, dear Lady, let me win,
“Wear 'em, ah, wear 'em for poor Willy's sake.

“Each day and night when these remains appear,
“Shou'd to your mem'ry rise my hapless shade,
“And your relenting heart give one kind tear,
“My suff'rings will be more than overpaid.

“But see—the murd'rer whets his bloody knife,
“Eager he grins, as ready for the blow:—
“If nothing can atone but Willy's Life,
“Ah, let my Lady's Hand the stroke bestow.”

Distant, and deaf to Willy's plaintive moan,
Madam, enchamber'd, o'er her Ruffle stood;
The Butcher plung'd his knife;—and with a groan
Poor Willy's Life came rushing in a flood.

EPIGRAM.

[Four hours Volusius spent the other day]

Four hours Volusius spent the other day
With three grave learned Fellows of our College,
And when he left 'em, thus was heard to say,
“Oh, the amazing Ignorance of Knowledge.”

128

The TWIN-SISTERS.

Fair Chastity of lilly hue,
And Modesty like blushing rose
New-blown and steep'd in morning dew,
In Clara happily repose.

All-graceful o'er the Fair One's cheeks,
The emblem Lilly shines reveal'd,
While Modesty retirement seeks
In beds of roses deep conceal'd.

With brazen front loud Impudence,
(Of empty Noise and Folly sprung)
From his foul battery of Offence,
Planted on Wit-woud's Magpye-Tongue,

Attacks fair Chastity—in phrase
Thro' which the Coxcomb fully glares;
Such phrase the coward soul betrays,
When aim'd at helpless Maidens' ears.

Poor Chastity alarm'd, for aid
Strait calls upon her Twin-born Friend;
With rosy ensigns quick display'd,
Her Sister's blushing powers attend.

United, they confound the foe;
They come, they see, they overcome:
They hurl, like lightning, overthrow,
And strike (amazement!) Wit-wou'd dumb.

129

In chains their Captive they confine,
And to th' applauding world proclaim,
The rude Invader they consign
To the opprobrious cave of Shame.

Alluding to Cæsar's Veni, Vidi, Vici.

EPIGRAM.

[Two Singers of late in contention were warm]

Two Singers of late in contention were warm,
Which most, when they tun'd up their windpipes, cou'd charm;
To a Master of Music they jointly apply'd
This often-contested affair to decide;—
They quaver'd—they shak'd—and such graces were shown,
That each took't for granted the prize was his own:—
“Indeed, my good Friend, cries the Judge to the First,
“Of all earthly Singers, I think You're the Worst:—
“But as for you, Friend,” (turning round to the other)
“You can't sing at all—so must yield to your Brother.

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REFLECTIONS.

Thou Cherub with a smiling face,
Religion! child of heaven'ly grace,
What Demons, wrapt in horrid gloom,
Thy name blasphemously assume!

Thro' jaundic'd eyes Enthusiasts see
The image of the Deity;
A Portrait false, held up to view
By a designing impious crew:
But no Tartuffe or strolling widgeon
Shall be my cat'rer in Religion;
By Reason's chart for Truth I'll steer,
Nor Gorgons or Chimæras fear.

In spight of Whitfield and of Rome,
I'll laugh at Superstition's gloom;
For modes of Faith will ne'er dispute,
Nor damn a Man for his surtout;
Deist or Atheist let 'em call me,
And with Cathedral pellets mawl me,
Threaten with brimstone, fire, and hell,
My cry is—Vive la Bagatelle.

Our heav'nly Father never fram'd
Children elected to be damn'd;
Wou'd earthly Parent thus decree?
Can God?—the thought were Blasphemy;
But knaves and fools paint the Almighty
A Mumbo Jumbo, to affright ye.

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When nerves relax'd are weather-shaken,
Spleen for Religion's oft mistaken;
Then comes Despair with Stygian frown,
Impelling fools to hang or drown:
But true Religion soothes the breast,
And makes her willing vot'ries blest;
Conducts them with a chearful air,
And banishes the fiend Despair.

Happy the Man, whose feeling Breast
Hails soft Benevolence a Guest!—
Grant, Heaven, I never may forget
From Man to Man that social debt,
And not to one poor spot confine
Good-will, which like the Sun should shine
On all;—nor hurl Heaven's Bolts below,
But leave to Heav'n the Heart to know;
For this I hold Religion's Test,
“Who most resembles God, worships God best.”

Oh, Charity, thou Heav'n-born maid,
In garb of purest white array'd,
Within whose eyes, suffus'd with tears,
Pity, in smiles adorn'd, appears;
Who as thou deal'st thy balmy store,
Thy wish to bless increases more;
Thy feeling beams into my heart,
With all thy heav'nly influence dart;
For what were life by thee unblest?
A gloomy Twilight at the best.

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Nor should Benevolence alone,
A debt from Man to Man be shown,
The tenants of the field and air,
Birds, beasts, and insects claim a share;
To them, as brethren of the dust,
Man shou'd be merciful and just,
Nor e'er destroy but where he must;
Not, tyrant-like, destruction deal,
But still remember All can feel;
Some pity, ev'n in death shou'd show,
And lightning-like direct the blow:—
What Spleen must in that bosom reign,
That can delight in giving pain!—

Self-evident Two Axioms—clear
As the Sun's blaze at noon appear;—
That there's a God all good, all wise,
Who frailty views with Mercy's eyes,
Author of Life, our Parent, Friend,
Without Beginning, Time, or End,
All Nature speaks:—In this mankind
(And but in this)—are of one mind:
From hence a second Axiom springs,
Which Hope presents on angel-wings,
If God there is, as God must be,
It speaks Man's Immortality;
For cou'd the Author of our state
A Thinking Essence e'er create,
Into Existence but to peep,
Then—sink into eternal sleep?

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The thought were impious and profane,
'Twere Heav'n's High Wisdom to arraign;
'Twere Vice triumphant to enthrone,
Whilst Virtue at her feet lies prone.

Full well has Wisdom's Bard exprest,
“Man never is, but to be blest;”
For God wou'd never Hope emplant,
And not Hope's Fruit Enjoyment grant.

Infants when born; what are we more
Than Children when we Death explore?
The longest Lives but flit away
Papilios of an April day,
Whose motley Minutes, changeful, show
Joy's Sunshine, and the Rain of Woe;
Like Meteors into Life we start,
“As shadows come, and straight depart;—
Ere we acquire the art to live,
Our farewel summons we receive,
And a like helpless infant race,
For a few days supplies our place;
Blest proof!—Great moral certainty
Of a more ripe futurity!
Where Manhood's bloom we shall attain;—
Wisdom can ne'er create in vain.

But while we sport on this side Styx,
Children should ne'er play naughty tricks,
Or fitting 'tis correction due
For disobedience should ensue;—

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Such as a Parent would confer,
But not an Executioner.

From Earth escap'd, whether again
We shall resurge in forms of Men,
With Organs which we then might spare,
Or flutter, Sylphid-like, in air;
Or whether to some Star assign'd
With senses diff'ring from mankind;
Or whether Immaterials—free
To range Creation's boundary
We shall exist, little avails,
Justice Supreme the rest conceals;
That we shall Be's a truth confest,
To Pow'r Almighty leave the rest.

Where Myst'ry shows his juggling Face,
Banish'd Religion flies the place;
And Miracles are Slight of Hand,
Which Fools admire, not understand.

All Zealots diff'ring tho' in name,
Are but in fact the very same;
Like trav'lers, who at setting out
Take back to back a diff'rent rout,
Yet in a circle wand'ring—soon
Meet face to face in unison;
In one point thus they all agree,
To damn each other heartily.

Enthusiasts a Postulatum
Loudly demand, on which si datum,

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A Superstructure they upraise,
More puzzling than Dedalian Maze;
Shou'd you their Postulate disown,
Their Pandemonium tumbles down.

Tho' charitable, kind, sincere,
Tho' moist your eye with Pity's tear,
Tho' social Virtue shines confest,
And warms the mansion of your breast,
Should you some Tenet disbelieve
Which honest Reason can't conceive,
That saving Nostrum shou'd you lack,
To flames eternal you must pack:—
This Creed by zealot knaves is fram'd;
Who doubts—undoubtedly is damn'd.—

Whether with Bible or with Beads,
Or Orthodox denouncing Creeds
Enthusiasm wings—the fiend
Bloodshed and Murder still attend;
'Tis he who in th'Assassin's hand,
Fixes the dagger and the brand;
Whose fav'rite doctrine is—Compel;
Who aims at Heav'n by serving Hell:—
Happy the Realm where Civil Law
The bloody Monster keeps in awe,
In social bonds makes Man unite,
Nor suffers fools to scrat and bite.

Implicit Faith can ne'er be given
As a Command from Parent Heaven,

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The same dull argument may do,
For Pagan, Christian, Turk, or Jew;
It proves—no matter how absurd—
The Alcoran God's Holy Word,
The Pope infallible,—nay more
Proves him an Antiquated Whore:
Implicit Faith! 'Tis Falshoood's Fence
'Gainst the attacks of Common Sense;
The trite stale trick of coz'ning Knaves,
To make their cred'lous Followers Slaves;
To make Fools fancy they believe,
And their own Consciences deceive:
Reason discarded, straight the soul,
All darklin, grovels like a mole;—
(Thus snuffling Jack, with custard fed,
'Gainst post and pillar run his head,
Abusing Heav'n with impious lies,
Because the blockhead shut his eyes:)—
Endarken'd thus, no wonder we
For Faith shou'd hail Credulity.

Our earliest Faith we shou'd, if wise,
Most critically analyse;
For with our Mother's Milk too oft
We take in Error's pois'nous Draught;
And Habit, partial, warps the Mind,
And makes to Truth and Reason blind.

That fear which God commands Man know,
From Gratitude's fair Spring must flow,
Lest by our actions we offend
Our God, Preserver, Father, Friend,

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And not that servile fear which frights,
With brimstone, flames, and horned sprites,
Or such as in the culprit cart,
The wretch feels-rankling at his heart.

The Heav'ns above, the Earth below
One great benign Creator show;
Blest Revelation! unconfin'd,
And legible to all Mankind;
Not given to a petted Few,
But shed on All, like Heav'n's rich Dew:—
Who partial paint the Pow'r supreme,
Our Universal Sire blaspheme.

To sublunary Kings abodes,
How many hundred diff'rent roads!
And shall We (partial) judge, but One
Must Worlds conduct to Heaven's high throne?

With sweet Benevolence our guide,
On future bliss we may confide;
May, unabsolv'd, attend our fate,
And Death's grand summons smiling wait;
On Heav'n's just mercy fix reliance,
And set Old Nick at bold defiance.

See Swift's Tale of the Tub.

138

The ROBIN's Complaint to CLOE.

A Song.

“Within a wiry prison pent,
“Far from my constant Mate,
“O think—with pity think, dear Maid,
“How wretched is my fate:
“Of me depriv'd, perhaps ev'n now,
“For grief she yields her breath;
“And Oh!—I feel, depriv'd of her,
“I soon shall bow to Death.

“If in a Nunn'ry's gloomy walls
“From Lovers' Joys debarr'd,
“Like me coop'd up—indeed you'd think
“Your fate was wond'rous hard;
“Then as you wish yourself to taste
“Love's Joys, and Liberty,
“Have Mercy on your little Bird,
“And kindly set me free.”—

Thus in a narrow Cage confin'd,
A Robin sweetly grieves;
Cloe relents, and to her Bird
Immediate Freedom gives:
The God of Love rewards the Fair,
He fires her fav'rite Swain;
He gives her all Love's Bliss to know,
Free from Love's bitter Pain.

139

On hearing that Mrs. M---, of the Y--- Theatre was dead.

To shew th'admiring world what pow'r divine,
When Music, Beauty, Feeling, all combine,
Cecilia from the star-pav'd realms above,
In M****'s form inspir'd Mankind with Love;—
Alas! her stay how short! th' angelic choir,
Ardent, Cecilia's wish'd return desire:
The Saint the heav'nly mandate straight obeys,
And, smiling, Heav'n regain'd, to sing Jehovah's Praise.

On hearing the above contradicted.

In Mercy to Mankind, relenting Heav'n
Cecilia to our pray'rs has longer giv'n;
Death aim'd the stroke, but quickly dropt the dart,
And Pity, for the first time, touch'd his heart.

140

The PATRIOTS.

In seventeen hundred forty five
When black Rebellion was alive,
And with a Giant stride came forth
From her bleak Den the stormy North,
Jack, who by Creditors unkind
Had long in Prison been confin'd,
At Window Barrs, half starv'd, half bare
Standing, to breathe the wholesome air,
Who shou'd pass by in martial Geer
But swagg'ring Tom the Grenadier:—
“Hollo—now Thomas, what's the Crack?”
“Why, worse than bad enough, Friend Jack;
“They say—(damn him)—the young Pretender
“Bids fair to be our Faith's Defender;
“And Rebels now are brim with hope,
“To bring in Charley and the Pope.”
Quo' Jack, with lengthen'd rueful Face,
“Good Heav'n forbid:—If that's the case,
“Our Liberty's for ever gone,
“And poor Old England quite undone:”—
“Our Liberty,” cries Tom,—“what's worse,
“A thousand times a greater Curse,
“If the Pretender mounts the Throne,
“Damme—Our dear Religion's gone.

Thus Jack in Jail exclaims and fears
Freedom will be abolish'd;
While swagg'ring Tom, Soldier-like, swears
The Church will be demolish'd.

141

On Mr. P---'s Marriage with Miss H---.

“May Heav'n this boon in mercy grant,
“'Tis all I wish, 'tis all I want,
“A youthful Bride to grace my bed,
“In Honour's strictest precepts bred;
“Sweet-temper'd, gentle as a Dove,
“'Till now an alien to love;
“With beauty to direct the dart,
“And virtue to secure my heart,
“Above coquetting, blest with sense,
“Whose ev'ry look is eloquence;
“From pride and scandal always free,
“And from disgustful prudery;
“In habit neat, in person clean,
“A stranger to corroding Spleen;
“A voice to charm my soul to rest,
“Whene'er by worldly cares opprest;
“No fiery Zealot in Religion,
“A soul despising Superstition;
“Whose sense directs her how to blend
“The wife, the lover, and the friend:—
“In ev'ry shape above disguise,
“Her soul depictur'd in her eyes;
“A fortune easy and secure,
“Tho' that should be my smallest lure:—
“Ent'ring my doors, I'd have her meet me
“With smiles—and still with welcomes greet me:—
“Wou'd Jove in pity hear my pray'r,
“And bless my days with such a Fair,

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“I'd never quit so rich a treasure,
“To roam abroad in search of pleasure;
“But use my ev'ry pow'r and art,
“To win and to preserve her heart.”

Thus P--- pray'd; and father Jove
Heard ev'ry syllable above.

Quo' Jove—“A modest, droll quelque Chose,
“He'll nought for want of asking lose;
“Suppose for once the whim I try,
“And with the Youth's address comply;
“He's been a loose young spark, I'm sure,
“Who knows but this may work a cure;
“He don't want sense; he may amend;
“'Tis a long lane that knows no end:—
“Here, Hymen, take your torch and fly,
“Quick, in the twinkling of an eye,
“Fly to Miss H---, of Y---k,
“You'll find her busy at her work;
“She don't, like other ladies, kill
“Her time in Scandal or Quadrille,
“Or reading paltry dull Romances,
“To fill her brain with foolish fancies:
“Tho' full of cheerfulness and spirit,
“She scorns to misemploy her merit;
“In useful sort her hours she spends,
“In working, chatting with her friends,
“Or reading, where she's sure to find
“A banquet worthy of her mind;
“In walking, or at church in pray'r,
“(She's not asham'd of going there)

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“Present her as a gift from Jove;
“And you my little God of Love,
“Just at the instant take him slap—
“As you know how—beneath left pap,
“And on the Fair, with twanging bow,
“The self-same compliment bestow.

“But should the Youth ungrateful prove,
“And cease to Cherish and to Love,
“Tell him—with punishments I'll teaze him,
“A thousand pains and aches shall seize him;
“And in Terrorem to bad spouses,
“I'll burn his pictures, books, and houses;
“Nay, worse than all—the blessing giv'n
“I'll re-assume, and snatch to Heav'n:—
“But hold, I'm rather too severe,
“To threaten thus, ere faults appear;
“For Gratitude with Sense and Truth,
“Have ever harbour'd in the Youth;
“And Honour, cement to the whole,
“Is rooted in his inmost soul:—
“Tell him, in short, he may depend
“On Jove—if constant—as his friend.”

The message giv'n—quick from the sky
To Y---k the winged couriers fly;
And to the wishing Youth convey
The yielding Maid (like fragrant May
Blushing, when doom'd her glowing charms
To her belov'd Zephyrus' arms)
Kneeling, the blessing he receives,
And scarce his ravish'd sight believes:—

144

Cupid, sly Rogue!—with barbed darts,
Transfixes both the Lovers hearts,
The Gordian knot while Hymen frames,
His torch ne'er sent forth brighter flames;
Nor has it since been trimm'd, they say,
But livelier burns each flitting Day;
And Jove upon his honour swears,
(I mean, 'pon honour he declares)
He ne'er a happier Couple knew,
More kind—more loving—and more true.

WIT and RICHES.

The Man who store of Wealth can boast,
In Wit will ever rule the roast,
His claim who dare dispute?
Plutus can purchase Wit, 'tis true,
Can Phœbus purchase Riches too?
Truth blushes—and is mute.

145

EDWARD and CLARA.

“Haste, Edward, haste—Oh, quickly haste,
“Like Lightning speed away;
“And to where Love and Safety dwell,
“Thy Clara swift convey.

“Nor darksome Night, or Forest drear,
“Can frightful thoughts inspire,
“Since from a hated Lover freed,
“And an unfeeling Sire.

“The sacred Rites, the fatal Pomp,
“Proclaim my destin'd doom;
“But sooner shall to-morrow's sun
“Behold me in my tomb.

“Cou'd Parent see his kneeling Child,
“And not incline an ear?
“Not ev'n the Vulture will the heart
“Of his own offspring tear.

“What's Mercia's haughty Lord to me?
“I scorn a pageant crown;
“While in my Edward's heart I reign,
“On Monarchs I look down.

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“Have I a Parent lost?—My Friends,
“My Kindred all unkind?
“Ah no!—all these, and much, much more,
“In Edward I shall find.

“What tho' I boast a Thane my Sire,
“Thou'rt not of low degree:
“But what's, compar'd to Worth like thine,
“A Tinfel Ancestry?

“Come, Edward, come; far from this scene
“Of danger we'll remove;
“To stay is Death: 'Tis worse than Death,
“Depriv'd of what we love.

“Haste, Edward, haste—thy Clara calls;
“Oh, whence this long delay?
“Alas! I fear—Thou wert not wont
“Thus to prolong thy stay.”

She said—and lo, a voice was heard,
Not Thunder more cou'd wound:
“O Heaven!” she cry'd—for well she knew
Her Father's awful sound.

“Degen'rate wretch! think not unknown
“Thy purpos'd scheme,” he cry'd;
“Pursu'd, o'erta'en, thy low-born choice
“Has for Presumption dy'd.”—

Her eyes she rais'd:—Poor Edward lay,
With many a wound defac'd;
She scream'd—and falling on the Bier,
His bleeding corps embrac'd.

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No short-liv'd eloquence of tears
Her inward conflicts show,
But in her eye, all wild, appears
Unutterable woe.

“Unfeeling, barb'rous, cruel Sire!
“We never more will part;”
She drew a dagger from her zone,
She pierc'd her faithful heart.

United now in one pure stream,
The crimson channels flow;
And, conscious of their blended fate,
Blush with a richer glow.

An only Child destroy'd—the Thane
Repentance feels too late;
And an unpity'd broken heart,
Soon gives him to his fate.

Clara, Daughter of Earl Witgulph, being enamoured of Edward, a young Gentleman of inferior Rank and Fortune, made her Escape into a neighbouring Forest, (where she had appointed to meet Edward) in order to avoid a Marriage with Edred Earl or Mercia, to whom her Father had determined to sacrifice her the next Day.

148

DESMOND and ETHELINDA.

Smooth as a mirror was the deep,
Save Zephyr, all the Winds asleep;
Their nests the gentle Halcyons build,
Their shells the merry Tritons wield,
And deep reflected mid the glassy waves,
The orient Sun his radiant mildness laves.

Their barge prepar'd to take the air,
Young Desmond and his new-wed Care,
Fair Ethelinda—(dear as light
Each to the other's raptur'd sight)
Launch from the vassal shore—nor since the flood
A Pair more loving—kind—in Fame's bright volume stood.

His arm around her waist entwin'd,
His head upon her breast reclin'd,
While she in smiles, her soul confest
Of all Elysium possest;
Thron'd in their bosoms joys unclouded reign;—
But human joys, alas!—how short! how vain!

With flutt'ring wings, fanning soft gales,
The Sylphs and Sylphids swell the sails;
Fix'd seems the barge, and from the eye,
The chalky cliffs receding fly;
All Nature in her happiest dress appears,
And Love, sweet pilot, the rich vessel steers.

149

Quick shifts the scene—the Winds arise,
And Tempests low'ring veil the skies;
The Waves new-wak'd, with all their rage
'Gainst Heav'n an impious war engage,
And Fear, not for himself, but lovely Bride,
Now first made Desmond's blood in fluttering currents glide.

Eager for shore each nerve they strain
The wish'd-for blessing to regain;
His Ethelinda Desmond cheers,
And strives to soothe her curdling fears;
When Fate comes thund'ring on a mountain wave,
And the barge found'ring plunges to its grave.

Their cries amid the foamy roar
Are lost—some sink, some make for shore:
Distinction now no longer known,
All thought employ'd on Self alone,
Save Desmond—he, all wildness and despair,
But for his Ethelinda knows or pain or care.

With one arm to his manly breast,
The senseless Fair he eager prest,
And with the other nobly braves
(Calling on Heav'n) the whelming waves:
Ah, senseless waves!—a prize so rich before
Within your wide domain you never—never bore.

Now hurry'd high on Neptune's mound,
Now bury'd in his deep profound,

150

Still Desmond close the Fair enfolds,
In her his All—his Life he holds:—
Midway to shore a vessel moor'd he 'spies,
And thro' the wat'ry Chaos struggling bears his prize.

The goal of safety near at hand,
Endeck'd the pitying Seamen stand;
They heave the friendly rope—they cry
“One moment more, and Fate defy.”—
When, ah! the Youth quite spent, and void of breath,
Sinks—and his Ethelinda clasps in wat'ry death.

“Where then was Heav'n? no succour lend!
“No saving gracious arm extend!”—
Cease, impious Mortal, nor presume
Thus to arraign Almighty Doom:—
That Pow'r above, which cannot judge amiss,
Snatch'd 'em, for Earth too good, to endless Bliss.

151

IN SESE VOLVITUR ANNUS.

“With sprightly mien and visage bland,
“In order first, throughout the land,
“Spring trips it, and where'er she treads,
“With sweets revives the sickly meads;
“Strews flowers as she sports along,
“And blossom'd sprays resound the song;
“The fields with daisies now are spread,
“And ev'ry tree's a nuptial bed,
“While Man, Beasts, Birds, and Fish combine,
“In praise of genial Valentine:—
“Playful as Kid, amid her train,
“Is seen the Village Maid and Swain;
“The Loves and Graces at her sight,
“Whom Winter's chill had put to flight,
“From Heav'n accompanied by Mirth,
“Again revisit Spring and Earth;
“And Nature, with a gladsome eye,
“Beholds her Darling passing by.

“Next, with that majesty and pride
“By which Heav'n's Queen is dignified,
“Summer succeeds—whose pow'rful sway,
“Earth, Seas, and kindling Air obey:
“The Sun from Cancer darts his rays,
“And pours an all-commanding blaze;
“Impregns with life the fruitful Earth,
“And all Creation bursts to birth:
“Upon her Left, with glowing face,
“Heat slowly moves:—With gentle pace

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“Zephyr upon her right is seen,
“Compress'd by whom, the melting Queen
“Produc'd fair Health, a lovely boy
“Whom all admire, yet few enjoy.

“She passes on—and in her rear,
“Autumn, sheaf-crown'd, behold appear;
“In garment drest of motley hue,
“His aspect grave, yet pleasing too;
“And Plenty with a buxom face,
“And Cheerfulness with smiling grace,
“Dance hand in hand; and o'er the plains,
“Trip to Euphrosine's light strains;
“While Ceres-blest, the Reaper-throng
“The Chorus joins of Nature's song:
“Their treasur'd wealth the fields display
“In stacks, straw-bonnetted, of hay;
“And sheaves like marshall'd armies stand,
“Embattled o'er the stubble land;
“Memento blest, that God to'adore,
“Who guards from hostile rage our shore:
“With echoing horns the hills resound,
“The hare flies o'er the shaven ground,
“The loaded waggons strip the fields,
“The circling flail the Thresher wields,
“The Peasant fills the flowing bowl,
“While Pleasantry inspires each soul,
“O'er harvest suppers gay presides,
“And, mirthful, shakes his lusty sides;
“And Spleen, self-banish'd, takes her flight,
“Conceal'd in darkness, gloom, and night.

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“From the bleak North, in sables drest,
“Crawls Winter last—with age opprest;
“Blear-ey'd—his back ybent like bow,
“His bald head deeply cap'd in snow;
“With shrunk-in cheeks—and frightful beard
“Of isicles;—his voice is heard
“In howling tempests—and his train
“Compos'd of fogs, winds, snow, and rain;
“With scanty light obliquely given
“From the remotest part of Heaven;
“His wrinkled Visage, Looks severe,
“Strike Nature with a chilly fear;
“Languid her pulse and spirits beat,
“And frighted to her heart retreat:
“Where'er he moves, wild Horror reigns,
“He spreads destruction thro' the plains,
“'Till Hope once more on Cherub-wing
“Points the return of youthful Spring;
“At whose approach the Tyrant flies
“To cheerless Patagonian skies;
“While, as before, in order due,
“The passing Seasons we review.

“Thus Nature annual life resumes,
“And with fresh youth and beauty blooms;
“But all the changes Mortals know,
“From one poor single round must flow;
“For wounded once by Winter's sting,
“Man never hails return of Spring.”

Beneath a spreading shade reclin'd,
Thus Lucius sung with pensive mind;

154

When blest with Music's sweetest lay,
A heav'nly Voice was heard to say;
“Can Man, ungrateful, thus despair,
“Man, who is Heav'n's peculiar care?
“Reason and Revelation show,
“That Man, Heaven-favour'd Man, shall know
“Another Spring above the skies,
“There Phœnix-like again to rise,
“Where gloomy Winter never comes,
“But Spring unfading always blooms;
“And He who Virtue's mount can climb,
“Defiance bids to murd'ring Time:
“The Seasons that in Orbits run,
“The Earth, and Heav'n's great eye, the Sun,
“Yon azure Vault, and starry Host,
“Shall fade—again in Chaos lost:
“Ev'n Time itself shall be no more,
“Whilst Virtue shall immortal soar;
“The Stream of Virtue never dies,
“Which God's eternal Fount supplies.”

155

The WIT's PROGRESS.

Your Genealogists decide,
That Wit to Folly's near ally'd;
Whence 'tis observ'd, that Sense and Wit,
In friendly union seldom hit.

At Macro's birth each gossip cries,
“She sees Wit sparkle in his eyes;”
Ev'n at the breast his wit amazes,
And Nurse is lavish of her praises;
Whether he laughs, or cries, or crows,
Uncommon wit her baby shows:
But one thing makes poor Nursy grieve,
“She fears he'as too much wit to live.”

At School he learning quickly gains,
Yet seldom what he gets retains:
Mischief is Macro's chief delight,
Mischief he studies day and night;
But even in those boyish days,
His breeches' tenant often pays
For Master Macro's witty ways;
Sure prologue to the many woes
His ripen'd wit must yet disclose.

At College each raw youth is smit
With Macro's humour, whim, and wit;
By which his vanity's increast;
He thinks himself a Swift at least;
But Macro's so amazing quick,
To One Thing he can never stick:

156

Meer Superficials suffice;
Macro's too witty to be wise:
Of each Preceptor and grave Soph
His wit is sure to make a scoff;
With him each Fellow's an Old Miss,
Of Masculini Generis:
From Locke or Newton see him run,
With pleasure to enjoy a pun;
And all the sense of Aristotle
Is a mere trifle to a bottle;
This soon brings on the Art of Drinking,
To which succeeds the Want of Thinking,
For when Wit owns the Bottle's sway,
Poor Wit's in a consumptive way:
He drinks, he games, he wenches, swears,
And a most glorious Buck appears.

Expell'd from College, Macro soon
Among the Bedford Wits is known;
Here Wit is current sure to pass,
If fix'd with an alloy of brass:
Now like his brother Wits he dreams
Of Glory and Pactolean streams;
But consequences soon declare
'Tis building castles in the air;
For Wit's an hungry entertainment,
It seldom brings us food or raiment:
He writes and spins his cobweb brains,
Small his renown, but less his gains;
His slip-shod Billinsgate-sprung Muse
Is perfect mistress of abuse:
He libels, and our modest Bard
Receives a Cudgel for reward;

157

His little patrimony flies,
His Wit brings in but poor supplies;
At length in want of board and bed,
He hackney Scribbler turns for bread;
Hunger and ragged Want assail,
And his last lodging is a Jail:
Despis'd by All, and All despising,
Not the least spark of Hope arising;
Like a True Wit he ends his pains,
And foolishly blows out his brains.

Have you not in a darksome night
A Meteor seen, with rapid flight
Dart thro' the Sky—while Blockheads swear,
The glitt'ring Nothing is a Star:
Ended its unsubstantial fires,
In some foul ditch it soon expires.

158

Written in a Company where DETRACTION engrossed the Conversation.

Sweet to the scent's the smelling briar,
Yet touch'd it gives us pain;
The streamlet we so much admire,
Is oft distain'd with rain:

The painting that delights the eye,
To shades its beauty owes;
On the same shrub conjoin'd we spy
The thorn and blushing rose.

No Mortal ever yet was made
From Imperfection free;
Angels themselves have some small shade;—
Heav'n wills it thus should be.

Mercy to others failings show,
As you wou'd be forgiv'n;
The best man's lot, alas, were Woe,
Were Mercy not in Heaven.

159

EMIRA.

An Elegy.

Emira having quitted her Friends and Family for Love of Marcus, who had flattered her to her Undoing, is deserted by him.—Her Infant which she suckled lies dead before her, due to the Effects of Grief on her Constitution.

Fix'd like a statue pale Emira stands,
Her eyes all horror, o'er her breathless child;
When, as new-wak'd, she clasps her trembling hands,
And eager thus exclaims in accents wild.

“Welcome, Despair, here all your plagues unfold,
“Nor comfort Heav'n can give, or I receive;
“Does Justice her red thunderbolt with-hold,
“And let in safety the Destroyer live?

“Come, Marcus, false Ingrate, Oh, hither come;
“This fatal scene, this barb'rous deed is thine:—
“Inhuman Marcus! view thy Infant's doom,
“And then—Oh cruel!—cruel!—feast on mine.

“To hopeless Misery a destin'd prey,
“Eager I call on Death, the wretches friend;
“But Death, like Marcus, scornful turns away;—
“Nor Death, nor deafer Marcus pity lend.

“Was it because my heart was all your own?
“Was it because your vows were all believ'd?
“Was it for thousand partial favors shown?
“Was it for this Emira was deceiv'd?

160

“Did I not quit a Parent's tender wing?
“Did I not Fortune's flatt'ring glare despise?
“Did I not scorn Fame's blasting venom'd sting?
“In pity all—to your Hyena cries.

“Oh, with what Syren Flatt'ry did you swear
“The heav'ns should change e'er you would faithless prove:
“I, for I wish'd it true, inclin'd mine ear,
“I thought—fond Maid! Truth ever link'd to Love.

“What was my crime that you shou'd spurn me off?
“What done, that Hate should glare from forth your eye?
“By friends deserted, to the world a scoff,
“Can you, unpitying, see Emira die?

“That Wealth, my thoughtless headlong Love bestow'd—
“Had I the world to give, it had been thine—
“Now lavish'd mid a Janus Harlot Crew,
“Whilst in the dreary cave of Want I pine.

“Cou'd you behold me beg that bread I gave,
“Assorted with a beggar servile crew?
“Ragged, and to the beadle's lash a slave?—
“Cou'd you?—You cou'd—the sight remorseless view.

161

“What beast, even of the fellest fiercest kind,
“But licks the hand from which it food receives?
“But Man, destroyer Man, more fierce we find,
“Marcus stabs her who Wealth, Love, Honor gives.

“Lo! where the clay-cold Cherubim is laid,
“All angel sweetness smiling on her brow;
“You ne'er by cruel Man will be deceiv'd,
“You ne'er your Mother's wretchedness will know.

“Your little heart will now avoid the snares,
“By artful Man for Virgin Pity wove,
“And all those quick-sands treach'rous Love prepares;
“Man's Hate is far less dang'rous than his Love.

“Gazing on You my woes were oft beguil'd,
“My sorrows oft suspended in a kiss;
“Ev'n in the pangs of Death you lovely smil'd,
“Cheer'd with the prospect of approaching bliss.

“But Sickness writhes my aking heart around,
“No more Life's pow'rs their active functions show:
“Grant Heav'n, my poor repenting soul be found
“Worthy, sweet Innocent, with thine to go.”—

More she had said, but Death with friendly stroke
Brought her relief:—A pitying look she cast
Upon her child:—Her heart-strings kindly broke:—
She dropt—and with a sigh she breath'd her last.

162

The RUSSETING and RED-STREAK CRAB.

A Fable.

“Betsy, (cries fond Mamma) come here,
“And taste this Russeting, my dear:—
“'Tis most delicious, juicy, sweet;
“Indulge, and thank me for my treat.”—
Betsy a red-streak Crab espying
Near Russeting on table lying,
With nose turn'd up, the little elf
Exclaims—“I'll cater for my self
“Mamma—This Red-streak shall be mine,
“It looks so tempting, gay, and fine;
“The Russet give to Sister Nancy,
“Such fruit may suit her vulgar fancy;
“'Tis ugly—plain—and I detest
“Or man or apple meanly drest.”—
In vain Mamma wou'd Betsy govern,
Betsy's too selfish, proud, and stubborn;
And tho' she hears Mamma alledge
Red-streak wou'd set her teeth on edge;
Ev'n tho' Mamma lays strict command
That she wou'd stop her eager hand,
Yet still our little Eve, with eyes
All-longing, views the beau-skinn'd prize,
Snatches her Crab—elopes away—
O'er-joy'd to get her wish'd-for prey.

Most Females this opinion hold,
Be they or young or be they old,

163

E'er since an Apple first was eat,
That fruit forbidden is most sweet.

The Red-streak seiz'd, poor Betsy finds
There's no dependence upon Rhinds:—
'Tis crabbed—hard—and what of late
She long'd for, now provokes her hate:—
Her looks a mind chagrin'd display,
She throws the treach'rous fruit away,
And, sighing, wishes with a tear,
To kind Mamma she'ad lent an ear.

Her Sister, who as Misses shou'd,
Honor'd her Parents and was good,
The Russet takes with thankful glee,
And, smiling, feasts deliciously:—
“Thank ye, Mamma, she cries, I see
“You best can tell what's fit for me.”

My pretty Misses, pray be wise,
And trust not wholly to your eyes;
Nor Parents' tenderness abuse,
They best know how your Fruit to chuse:—
At least this compliment is due
From You to Them—from Them to You;
Parents shou'd ne'er with tyrant will,
Force down your throat the Bitter Pill;
Nor You—ungratefully deceive,
And snatch the Fruit without their leave.

164

PLUMB-PUDDING.

A Fable.

Two Boys at Christmas Dinner plac'd,
The board a large Plumb-Pudding grac'd;
Their plates well heap'd they glad survey,
But each indulg'd a diff'rent way:
Jack, who was greedy of the plumbs,
First pick'd them out, then lick'd his thumbs;
He eat, and said—“'Twas special good:”
His plumbs devour'd—The remnant food
Quite plain, now prov'd a worthless store;
He tasted, but cou'd eat no more;
The sweets had spoil'd his relish quite,
Pudding unplumb'd gives no delight;
And to acquire more plumbs unable,
Hungry, he crying left the table.

With much more caution Dick proceeds,
And on the plumbless portion feeds;
His feast determin'd to conclude
With plumbs, that rich, delicious food;
But when the plain was swallow'd, Dick
Had eat so much, he was quite sick;
His appetite, alas, was flown,
And ev'n for plumbs his relish gone:
Like Tantalus he view'd his store—
And cry'd—for he cou'd hold no more;
And what he'd sav'd with miser care,
A better appetite must heir.

165

He who his plumbs unmix'd destroys,
Will soon regret his short-liv'd joys;
While He who keeps 'em for the last,
Too late will mourn a blunted taste:
Then let us take the plain with sweet,
And like good boys our pudding eat,
Just as 'tis cut us from above,
Nor Prodigals or Misers prove.

EPIGRAM.

[With folded hands and lifted eyes]

With folded hands and lifted eyes,
“Have mercy, Heav'n,” the Parson cries;
“And on our sun-burnt, thirsty plains,
“Thy blessings send in genial rains.”
The Sermon ended, and the Pray'rs,
Sir Cassock to be gone prepares;
When with a look, brighten'd in smiles,
“Thank Heav'n! it rains,” cries Farmer Giles:
“Rains! quo' the Parson,—Sure you joke;
“Rains!—Heav'n forbid—I han't my Cloak!”

166

The MOLE and the WEASEL.

A Fable.

With dirty head above his hole,
To see the world, up starts a Mole,
Wondrous, you'll say, his visual strength,
He saw at least, his nose's length,
And from the vigour of his eyes,
Fancies himself amazing wise.

“How bright the day, he cries—the sun
“How glorious in the horizon!
(The day was gloomy by the bye,
The sun cloud-prison'd in the sky)
“What prospects all around me rise!
(Tho' scarce three blades of grass he spies)
“'Tis glaring falshood—envious spight,
“To say, we Moles are dull of sight;
“I'll make the tour, he cries, and then
“Return—and from their dirty den
“Invite my friends, the world to view,
“As other four-legg'd gentry do.”—

Thus said, the Blockhead onward crawls,
When loud a friendly Weasel bawls;
“Zounds! are you blind?—Do you not dread
“The Hawk now hov'ring o'er your head?
“This instant burrow—quick as thought—
“Or, by St. Patrick, you'll be caught:”—
Sir Mole, now grown most wond'rous vain,
Answer'd the Weasel with disdain;—

167

“Good Friend, to your own footsteps look,
“Nor counsel give to wiser folk;
“As Your's, at least, my eyes are keen;—
“Were danger near, 'twere quickly seen:—
“To drop the gentleman I'm loath;
“Pray keep your wind to cool your broath.”

More he had said, but further talk
Was ended by the butcher Hawk,
Who, swooping, in his talons bore,
And limb from limb the blockhead tore.

None are more obstinate than those,
Who can't see farther than their nose;
And Moles are of that stupid kind,
They don't perceive that they are blind.

168

RIGHT-HAND and LEFT.

A Fable.

The Right-Hand,—'twas but t'other day,
Thus to the Left was heard to say:
“If some folks knew themselves, 'twere well,
“Give 'em an inch, they'll take an ell;
“'Twou'd be with manners more consistent,
“If, Sir, you kept a little distant;
“Tho' now and then I condescend
“To use you as a menial friend,
“Kindly to clasp, embrace, and shake ye,
“When frosty seasons chilly make ye;
“Because, forsooth, I sometimes stoop,
“You seem to ride quite cock o' hoop;
“And dare, tho' so much underbred,
“Equal with me to hold your head:—
“If to your proper use apply'd,
“You're only fit to wipe b---e,
“Or some such servile work—whilst I
“The noblest scenes of art supply:
“By me his Wonders Genius shows
“By me the mimic canvas glows;
“And what the Sister Nine indite,
“Were lost, if I, Sir, did not write:
“'Tis I who Wisdom's Truths explain,
“I'm premier Midwife to the brain;
“Lovers by me their pains reveal,
“The cards I shuffle, cut and deal:
“But what's superior to the rest,
“What makes me most supremely blest,

169

“The Fair I'm licens'd to approach,
“To touch, and lead 'em to their coach;
“Thus blest, 'tis I, Sir, can impart
“Raptures most trilling to the heart;
“While you, with aukwardness disguis'd,
“Are to a proverb ev'n, despis'd:
“So good Sinister, judge the sequel,
“You're not to think yourself my equal.”

Sinister, cool and free from passion,
Thus answer'd Dexter his Relation.

“Good Brother—for say what you will,
“You're only my Twin-brother still;—
“What's all this mighty fuss about?
“You quite forget yourself, I doubt;—
“In ev'ry thing you undertake,
“What a fine figure you must make
“By me unaided, worthy Sir!
“You'd look as strange as one-ear'd Cur:
“You know in quibbling I delight,
“You're sometimes Wrong, tho' always Right:
“In every monument of Art
“I never fail to bear a part;
“The Muses' bus'ness I cou'd do
“Upon a pinch, as well as you;
“And with the Fair the Hand that gives
“The heart, and mutually receives,
“Or Right or Left, 'tis all the same;
“Such trifles burning hearts disclaim:—
“One plea you must admit as true,
“I'm nearer to the heart than you:

170

“In Dancing too—nay, never stare,—
“Right hand and Left my worth declare;
“And Hoyle himself, without my aid,
“Wou'd find Quadrille an aukward trade.

“Those great advantages you boast,
“Are accidental at the most;
“To Education they are due,
“Not to intrinsic worth in you:
“With equal talents born, had I
“Been taught my talents to apply,
“You had not call'd me your Inferior,
“But, envious, found me your Superior;
“For Envy in that breast must dwell,
“That with Pride's meanness thus can swell.

“What's yours, Chance might have made another's,
“Tho' Right and Left we still are Brothers.”

How sweeter far the garden rose,
To that which on the hedges grows!
How diff'rent Afric's tawny race,
From those who Europe's climates grace!
Tho' Nature the foundation lays,
Art must the superstructure raise;
And the Criterion of each station,
Proceeds alone from Education.

171

The BEAR and GARDINER.

A Fable.

In the Days of Old Pilpay there flourish'd a Bear
Good-natur'd and gentle, and quite debonnair;
Tho' shaggy his form, yet his soul was polite,
And to live among men was Sir Bruin's delight:
This Bear had a heart which to friendship inclin'd,
In Adam he found a warm friend to his mind,
Orestes and Pylades were not more kind:—
A gard'ner was Adam, extremely well known,
For friendship with Bruin in country and town;
Whenever friend Adam you saw, you might swear
His four-legged brother wou'd shortly appear;
Or if good Sir Bruin you any time spy'd,
The Gard'ner was always observ'd by his side;
They fed at one table—nay further 'tis said,
(Tho' that's somewhat doubtful) both lay in one bed.
With toiling o'ercome, in the shade as one day
Poor Adam a snoring most happily lay,
Friend Bruin sat squat on his bum to attend him,
Lest during his sleep man or beast shou'd offend him:
Our centinel had not long watch'd, when in scorn,
A monst'rous huge Flesh-Fly came sounding his horn:
In circles he wing'd round friend Adam his flight,
And lur'd by sweet vapours, he fain wou'd alight;
On Adam's moist forehead he settled—and then—
When beat off he flew—to his forehead again;
He buzz'd so, and teaz'd so, and still was so loud,
That Bruin in vengeance destruction avow'd;

172

And cunningly watching he saw him alight,
To feast on the lips of his friend as in spite:
“Oh, ho, quo' friend Bruin, I have you, my dear,
“You soundly shall pay, by the lord, for your cheer;”
And sending, full drive, a large stone at the foe,
He crush'd him at once with a Death-dealing blow;
And just as he shouted to see the Fly dead,
He saw all poor Adam's teeth drop from his head.

Admit it as a certain rule;
Friendship is dang'rous from a Fool.

173

HABIT.

A Tale.

Stephen, a youth of Eton school,
Somewhat inclin'd to ridicule,
Had great delight in Taking off,
And making stuttering Jack his scoff:
Jack when oblig'd, poor lad, to speak
Sesquipedalian Heathen Greek,
In Stephen, pitiless—unkind—
A mocking bird was sure to find,
That with a most sarcastic glee
Echo'd his class-mate to a T,
Whilst laughter from the school-boy train,
Made Stephen not a little vain:

In Oratory tho' deficient,
Jack had of wisdom share sufficient,
And to the Taker off thus spoke,—
“Too long, my Friend, Iv'e been your joke:
“Henceforth my ev'ry nerve I'll strain,
“To mimic You and chatter plain;
“'Twill then be tit for tat, good Stephen,
“And scores paid off, we shall be even:”—

Firm to his point Jack perseveres,
And maugre Stephen's jokes and sneers,
His words, which erst like crowds too thick
In narrow passage us'd to stick,
He wisely now made one by one
Unelbow'd gently to jogg on;

174

Watchful of ev'ry thing he says,
Each syllable distinctly weighs,
And finds among his Axioms plenty,
None equal to Festina lente;
Each phrase, when by himself, repeats
A thousand times, and toils and sweats
'Till Habit gives an unhitch'd ease,
(His task grows lighter by degrees)
And Jack now speaks with fluent tongue,
Free as Miss—all day long,
While Stephen to his sorrow finds,
That Use like second Nature binds;
And by long aping wiser Jack,
Stutters whene'er he opes his clack.

To Habit since so much is due,
Good Reader, or in Me, or You,
With caution let us point it's course,
Ere it acquire too great a force:
At first when of a pigmy size,
It's stealing influence we despise,
But shortly to a giant grown,
It fills, despotic, Nature's throne.

Both Soul and Body own its reign,
We may be virtuous, or speak plain.

175

The SWINE and ERMINE.

A Fable.

“Thou filthy beast, thou worse then vermine,
(Thus to a Swine exclaims an Ermine)
Avaunt—at proper distance know
The diff'rence 'twixt a Clown and Beau:
A Swine! There is not in all Nature
So dirty, underbred a creature:
How can mankind such neighbours bear?
You poison and pollute the air.”

“Thou gawdy Trifle”—with disdain
Retorts the Swine, “thy pride refrain;
Such finnikin spruce Things as you
With just contempt and scorn I view:
Let Man our diff'rent worth decide,
His judgment soon shall quell your pride;
We and our numerous tasteful breed,
Thousands and thousands daily feed:
And what to Man's more quicken'd sense
Wou'd otherwise give great offence,
By Us of coarser palates taken
As food, becomes good pork and bacon:
Concocted thro' our chymic veins,
It yields both nourishment and gains;
And ev'ry swine may boast, good Sir,
He's Nature's useful Scavanger:
The holy Priest will take our part,
Sir Hugh loves tithe-pig from his heart;—

176

Riches we give and sustenance,
While all your boasted excellence
Is—with that worthless skin of thine,
To make your brother Coxcombs shine.”

Judge not of worth by splendid show,
A Clown's more useful than a Beau.

EPIGRAM. (On a Miser.)

Scriptures declare, the Poor in Spirit
Will certain Happiness inherit;
If so, of Heav'n Friend Gobbo's sure,
For he's in Spirit—wond'rous Poor.

177

ALEXANDER and COURTIER.

When Philip's Son, with conq'ring sword,
Had taught mankind to hail him lord,
And Argumentum Baculinum
Prov'd, plain as pikestaff, Jus Divinum,
Each sycophant, to make his court,
Assum'd the monarch's martial port;
Meer Butterflies! who strove in vain
The Eagle's Soarings to attain:—
Among these flutt'ring things was known
A constant dangler near the throne,
Who not content the warlike gait
Of his high lord to imitate,
Caught, like a blockhead, at each shade
That in their monarch was pourtray'd:
At superficials coxcombs aim,
Or light or shade—to them the same.

Dame Fortune, in a frolic mood,
On Alexander had bestow'd
A neck ybent, which fairly sped
On shoulder left his royal head:—
Our cypher Lordlin whose weak mind
For noble deeds was ne'er design'd,
By way of flatt'ring compliment
His empty head on shoulder bent,
With curve far greater of the two;—
Thus wou'd-be mimics always do.

The watchful king with curious eye
Soon mark'd the servile butterfly,

178

And, smiling, thus the Fop addrest—
“In sooth, my Lord, I'm much distrest,
“To see that lovely form and mien
“Which erst might tempt bright Beauty's queen,
“By that wry Neck disgrac'd:—We'll prove
“Your Doctor, and the blot remove:
“On rugged forms like mine alone
“Such blemishes be ever shown;”—
So saying, to sinister side
A royal Cuff he straight apply'd,
Which like electric conjuration,
To the spectators admiration,
Laid poor Sir Fopling on the floor,
And work'd a speedy lasting cure:
Oh, sacred Touch! Oh Touch most civil!
To cure—hey presto—the King's Evil.

Wou'd you resemble those whom you admire,
Shun their Defects, and to their Worth aspire.

179

The CRITIC and BARD.

A Fable.

A critic with a phiz severe,
The quintessence of Cynic sneer,
Spleen's genuine Offspring, Wond'rous Wise,
A Cuckoo in an Owl's disguise;
To while away his vacant Time,
Takes up, perchance, a Book of Rhyme,
Whether the Work of Dryden, Gay,
Or Pope, we can't exactly say;
He reads, and with a half-pleas'd Sneer,
Exclaims—“Good Heav'n, what stuff is here!
“Your Poets make their meadows laugh,
“Their spears and swords the life-blood quaff;
“The list'ning Moon stoop from her sphere,
“Some Lover's madrigal to hear;
“While Sylphs and Fairies—which still worse is,—
“(Fit entertainment for old nurses)
“Fill idle brains with foolish fancies,
“Ev'n worse than ---'s damn'd Romances:
“One common Sentiment in prose,
“Is worth a thousand books like those.”

He spake, and to his great surprize,
The Poet's Shade confronts his Eyes:—
“Shall groveling Pedants Laws impose,
“And unwing Rhyme to walk like Prose?
“Shall Earth-bound Lumps of Phlegm aspire,
“Eyeless, to guide bright Sons of Fire?

180

“As well might Owls thro' blaze of noon,
“Guide Jove's own bird to hail the Sun:
“The Plastic Sisters can with ease
“Inspire, create, whene'er they please;
“With Life can fields, trees, floods endue,
“Ev'n all things—save such Clods as you.

“The Muses' temple high in air,
“Was never form'd by rule or square;
“Inspired by the Genial Nine,
“Wild Fancy drew the plan divine;
“And while they sung their heav'nly strain,
“To Music rose the magic Fane.

“Be humble, Wretch, thy spleen controul,
“For know—you're but a Critic Mole;
“And Moles, when Phœbus shines most bright,
“Are bury'd in the darkest night.”

So said, the Bard, frowning disdain,
Re-melted into air again:
Th'unfeeling Critic, undismay'd,
Scarce understood one word was said;
But like his brethren of all Four,
Thought on—as he had thought before.

181

The LION and WASP.

A Fable.

A lion, whose blood-thirsty reign
Bespoke him Nero of the plain;
Who judg'd the sole intent of pow'r
Was to destroy and to devour;
Who knew no law but tyrant Will,
Still prompt to ravage, fleece, and kill,
Thus proudly roars—“With Jove I vie,
“I rule the Earth, he rules the Sky;
“His Thunder makes the Heavens quake,
“My Roaring makes the Forests shake;
“Death ever waits my kingly sway,
“While four-legg'd crouching slaves obey;
“They breathe but by my courtesy,
“And the whole world was made for Me;—
“Britannia's Monarch I disdain,
“Who rules by Love a willing plain;
“Like fam'd Morocco's Prince I move,
“By Fear I govern, not by Love,
“My Sceptre's summit bears no Dove.”

Thus vaunts the Grand Monarque: Around
His servile Courtiers lick the ground,
When with a careless air and grace,
A buzzing Wasp flies near the place,
Skims thro' the air, nor bends the wing
In homage to the mighty King;—
Incens'd, his shagg-rob'd Majesty,
With vengeful tail erected high,

182

The Insect tumbles to the Earth,
And spoils his Music and his Mirth:—
“Shall a mean worthless Insect dare
“Unbidden, in our Sight appear?
“When low-bred Creatures thus presume,
“Death, certain Death shall be their doom.”

Tho' stunn'd at first—with venom'd spite
The Wasp soon wings his circling flight;
He vows revenge, and on his foe,
With sting high-brandish'd aims the blow:
“Tyrant (he cries) what cou'd provoke
“Without a cause, thy barb'rous stroke?
“From want of food can it proceed?
“Lions on Insects never feed:—
“The reason's plain, thy cruel breast
“Is with a human soul possest;
“'Twas wantonness provok'd the deed,
“To please your pride, ev'n Wasps must bleed;
“But, Tyrant, take before I die
“An injur'd Wasp's last legacy:”
So said, he darts with rapid wing
The nostrils of the shaggy King,
To the extremest verge ascends,
There all his waspish venom spends,
And near the brain's monastic cell
He pours his macerating spell:
The Tyrant roars, and o'er the plain,
Drives wild in all the hell of pain;
The forests tremble with his cries,
Quick to his brain the venom flies,
And raging mad, he tears, blasphemes, and dies.

183

Thus bubble Pride and Cruelty,
Those pageant Tyrants of an hour,
Are often forc'd to bend the knee,
Ev'n to a paltry Insect's power.

CLEORA.

Bid all Mankind bow to One sov'reign Lord,
And never more unsheathe the vengeful Sword;
On Greenland's coast bid Indian Spices bloom,
The Owl confront the Sun with Eagle Plume;
Bid yonder floating Sea aloft in Air
Higher uprise, and skim the Lunar Sphere;
Bid Time, at thy command, obedient stay,
Count all those Motes that in the Sun-beams play,
With eager Haste the fading Rainbow seize,
Or with your Finger stop the tide-swoln Seas:
Wild with Desire, a motley Cloud embrace,
And stamp it with a numerous living Race;
Bid the launch'd Thunder like an Earth-worm creep,
Or drag reflected Dian from the Deep:
All this you sooner may effect, than find
The Meteor Changes of Cleora's Mind:
Tir'd with my search, the bubble I give o'er,
Yet wish —
Again to dream on Hope's delusive shore.

An Allusion to Ixion's Amour with a Cloud.

184

BUT.

A Fable.

Envy , a Spectre, frightful, thin,
The darling progeny of Sin;
(Her Sire, as ancient Poets tell,
The lowest, meanest Fiend of Hell;)
A bleer-ey'd Hagg, whose only food
Is human hearts and human blood;
And in her mouth, instead of tongue,
Ten thousand pointed arrows hung:—
Long had this pestilential foe
Peopled King Satan's realms below,
When his black Highness, as in duty
Bound to her goodness and her beauty,
Pour'd favours multiplied upon her,
Made her a Maid or Hagg of Honor;
And order'd Pride, his King at Arms,
(No stranger to Miss Envy's charms)
To make her out an Ancestry,
Long as a Welshman's pedigree;
And spite of Truth and Virtue prove,
If possible, she sprung from Jove.—
This, Herald-like, Pride soon effected,
Nor was her Coat of Arms neglected:
The Shield was sable; the Device,
Two Toads, two Snakes, and ditto Lice;
Three Vipers gnawing at her breast,
Serv'd Madam Envy for her Crest;
In short, the Blaze and the whole Coat,
The Fair One's mighty worth denote:—

185

The Fair One!—Let not that perplex,
Females are all of the Fair Sex;
And be they olive, dingy, brown,
They're Fair Ones call'd throughout the town.

The Arms made out, some small dispute
Arose, What Motto best wou'd suit;
Quoth Envy, grinning out a smile,
Which spoke her spleen, and eke her guile,
“My Motto, good friend Pride, shall be
“Three fav'rite Letters, B, U, T.—
“By Hell and all the Fiends below,
“To But, that syllable, I owe
“More hellish joys—nay stare not, Pride,
“Than to all other words beside;
“Search the whole Dictionary round,
“No word so envious can be found;
“Aided by But, I dare commend,
“And stab beneath the veil of Friend:
“With Praise Suspicion I disarm,
“And then comes But with hellish charm,
“And rankles in the inmost core,
“Pois'ning the Praise was giv'n before;—
“Thus Poison's best in Sweets conceal'd,
“Thus Falshood's hid beneath Truth's shield.

“No word like But my spite conveys,
“But be my Motto—But my Praise.”

Dear ------, my best, my worthiest Friend,
To you I dedicate this Fable;
Goodness like yours it can't offend,
Your Heart's so very—veritable.

186

Miss NANCY.

A Fable.

The doating Parents grieve and fret,
Lest Death shou'd snatch their fav'rite Pet,
Miss Nancy, by devouring Sweets,
Was grown as pale as her own sheets;
Have 'em she wou'd—What Nurse wou'd chuse
So sweet a Baby to refuse?
For tho' a Prodigy of Wit,
Miss had not seen four Twelvemonths yet;
To Death almost indulg'd, old Mentor
Their grave Physician, quick was sent for;
He came, he saw, and instant brib'd,
Bitters and Gruel were prescrib'd;
But how, alas, shall Miss be brought
To swallow such a nauseous Draught?
If Physic call'd, Experience shows,
Miss wou'd turn up her little Nose:—
Tho' very young, the Chit observ'd
Mamma with Tea was duly serv'd;
And oft she whimp'ring cry'd—“'Twas hard
“Nancy of Tea shou'd be debarr'd:”—
The hint Mamma with prudence takes,
In Tea-Pot the Prescription makes,
The healthful viand serves to Nancy,
This straightway tickles Miss's fancy;
The Apparatus all declares
'Twas Tea on which she proudly fares;
And tho' her Face she sometimes screw'd,
She vow'd—“Twas most immensely good;”
And Milk, tho' sugar'd, henceforth scorning,
She drinks her Med'cine Tea each Morning;

187

Takes her disgustful Mess with Glee,
Because Mamma sirnames it Tea.

Let not grown Wisdom, with a smile,
Miss Nancy's childish Folly blame,
For few now breathe in Britain's Isle,
But what are cheated with a Name.

JOHN and SALLY.

Within a Bracelet's circle John appears,
Which on her Arm his loving Spousy wears;
John, in return, his Sally's Portrait shews
Dependant from his Watch where'er he goes;
With equal truth their passion they impart,
Both Arm and Fob are distant from the Heart.

EPIGRAM.

[“I ne'er cou'd keep within due bounds,”]

“I ne'er cou'd keep within due bounds,”
You often said when bent to rail;
How your're mistaken, Jack?—for zounds!
I'm close confin'd within a Jail.

188

A MODERN SYLLABUB.

O muse, inspirer of those placid Lays
That charm in modern Novels, Odes, and Plays,
Whose gently-soothing Opiates should be read
By sleep-imploring patients in their bed,
Give to thy vot'ries fashion-warbled strains,
In lulling lullabies to lull the brains,
Of pretty Misses, and of Miss-like Swains.

The Moon majestic moves her bright career,
While Darkness from her presence shrinks for fear;
Unrival'd now she journeys Heav'n's vast plain,
The subject Stars and Planets form her train,
Her globose front now bares—of beauty proud,
Now, chastely peeps from forth a fleecy cloud;
Whilst Silence tiptoe'd, cautious, seems to creep,
All Nature's feather'd tenants sunk in sleep,
Save Philomela —On the sharpen'd thorn
Her bosom pillow'd till returning morn,
In plaintive trills to Dian swells her song,
How plunder'd of her virtue and her tongue;
The pitying Goddess listens to her moan,
And dewy tears sheds from her silver throne;
For, Goddess tho', her pow'r can ne'er restore
The rose when pluck'd, to what it was before:
Echo still love-sick for her fribblish Swain,
Repeats each warble to the list'ning plain;

189

The Rivulet in prattling concert floats,
The Grove remurmurs to the various notes;
And Zephyr wafting a piano breeze
In softest music whispers thro' the trees.

The Village clock had knell'd the midnight sound,
And shrouded Phantoms burst the sacred ground,
Beneath a druid oak when low-reclin'd,
Strephon, woe-bosom'd, sighing to the wind,
Pour'd forth in chastest strains the chastest love,
Melting and soft as notes of cooing Dove.

“Oh, Lindamira, quintessence of all
That Man can virtuous, fair, and lovely call,
Sweet as the sweetest flowers that grace the Spring,
Soft as the Down new drop'd from Angel's wing;
Comet of beauty, fountain of desire,
Who, cold yourself, can set the world on fire,
(Thus thro' an icy medium Phœbus' rays,
Collected to a point, bids Nature blaze)
Not rosy-finger'd May by Flora drest,
Not Venus to her wishes Av'rice blest,
Breathes half those sweets, nor half the beauty shows,
On Lindamira's cheeks that blushing glows:
Some smiling rays of pitying comfort shed,
'Tis yours to save or mark me with the dead.—
Witness, thou Moon, who oft hast heard my moan,
Witness, ye Stars, who twinkle round her throne,
Witness, ye echoing Hills, ye leafy Groves,
And—if awake—witness ye Turtle Doves,
No Fair, save Lindamira, e'er possest,
Nor shall—the faithful mansion of my breast.”

190

He said, when lo! across the dewy mead,
A Nymph appear'd with silent cautious tread;
As she advanc'd, a Goddess seem'd to move,
Onward she came, and sought the neighb'ring grove;
His Lindamira's form now shone confest,
Her garments loose, and more than half undrest;
Beneath a cloud the Moon withdrew, to shun
The sight of charms superior to her own;
No Stars, save her bright eyes, cou'd Strephon spy,
Her eyes eclips'd the twinklers of the sky;
To meet her steps each amorous flowret rose,
And with new-tinted lustre livelier glows;
The Lark, sweet herald of the Morn, awakes,
And for the East th'approaching Fair mistakes;
Young Zephyr with his luscious banquet blest,
Feasts on her coral lips, and lillied breast,
And trembling ghosts to church-yards speed away,
Scar'd at the sudden burst of hated day.

Strephon, amazement all, to see the Fair
Thus brave the perils of the midnight air,
Exclaims—“Am I awake, Almighty Power!
Can Lindamira, at this dang'rous hour
To midnight damps expose her Angel breast,
A stranger to her pillow and to rest?
Can Love—But hold, Delusion, nor thus cheat
My fluttering bosom with a hope so sweet:—
Can she for me!—Heav'n, how the thought inspires,
And with a more than transport wildly fires!—
I'll fly, and breathe such raptures, that her heart
Shall in her blush announce a mutual smart;

191

I'll instant at her feet—But hold, fond Youth,
Lest while you, plaintive, pour your passion's truth,
You wound those feelings which her bosom guide,
And strike a dagger in her virtue's pride!—
For ah, what tales wou'd Envy's snakes proclaim,
To stain with Falshood Lindamira's name,
Shou'd it be whisper'd that the midnight plain
Saw at her feet an am'rous sighing swain!
Forbid it, Delicacy, spotless Saint,
Whose charms, all wond'rous, modern Novels paint;
Forbid it, Chastity, whom Hermits hoar,
And Beaus, and Josephs, and Old Maids adore;
Shall I, who --- Drama so admire,
Ee'r give a loose to sensual desire?
I, who with Lollius' soothing music blest,
Have oft, in Pain's despight, been lull'd to rest,
(Thus Nurses on Hibernia's coast are said
With opiate notes to lull the aking head)
Shall I not curb my passion with a rein,
And tho' my heart shou'd break, my love restrain?
I will—Temptation's pow'r I thus defy,
And, flying, gain a glorious victory;
Some distant hour my spotless hopes may crown,
When, Honor-sanction'd, I my Love dare own.”

Ended his Plaint, poor Strephon stole away,
Trusting the fortune of some future day;
Whilst virtuous Lindamira sought the grove,
To meet a Swain—less delicate in Love.

A young Lady, who was ravish'd by her Brother Tereus, and afterwards, as Ovid relates, chang'd into a Nightingale. Scriblerius.

A Nymph whose Love was slighted by a Lady-like Gentleman call'd Narcissus. Scriblerius.

192

The SPLEEN.

Ask Plumbo, what's the dreadful cause,
That he's so gloomy seen,
Plumbo brings out with labour'd pause,
He's tortur'd with the Spleen.

But Dulness and the Spleen, my Friend,
In nature differ wide;
Dulness and Folly kindred blend,
While Wit to Spleen's ally'd.

The Man who with the Spleen's possest,
Is like an April day;
This hour by mirky clouds opprest,
The next serenely gay.

Not so the Man, within whose skull,
Dulness bears sov'reign rule;
Like a November day he's dull,
A semper idem fool.

193

The METAMORPHOSIS.

A Northern Tale.

Near to where Tyne his blessings sheds,
Enriching, as he flows, the meads,
There liv'd a Monk, in days of yore,
(Northumbria's Crown when Cenulph wore)
Of life severe, and spotless fame,
Good Father Roger was his name;
This holy Monk, much giv'n to pray'r,
Was greatly follow'd by the Fair,
Who still on ev'ry slight transgression,
To Roger flew to make Confession;
Ladies in ev'ry age, we find
To Holy Men are much inclin'd:—
A truer Saint Hibernia's shore,
To grace her annals, never bore;
(Hibernia! fam'd beyond the Nile,
Of Holy Saints the holy Isle;
Nor does her present pious Race
Its Holy Ancestry disgrace)
Of form athletic, yet as mild
And harmless as a new-born child:
The good man, somehow, had the art
To ease each female tender heart;

194

Whate'er his penance, still content,
They, all submission, underwent.

The lovely Emma, fairest seen,
'Mong Maids of Honor to the Queen,
Seem'd chief in his good graces blest,
Emma each day her sins confest;
“Each day? Yes, Sir, each day;—the Fair
For a long reck'ning did not care:
She thought it still the safest way,
As she went on, her debts to pay;
She chose not, like your heedless folk,
To get o'er deep in Satan's book,
Lest the black bill should be too large
For a poor Maiden to discharge,
And bring Old Nick, spite of her Honor,
To lay arresting hands upon her:—
Your Maids of Honor in those days
(So legends tell us) had strange ways;
They put on queer religious airs,
Frequented church, and said their pray'rs;
At least old Writers thus record,
I own I scarce can take their word,
Considering how politer far,
Our modern Maids of Honour are:
But Satan, that ill-natur'd sprite,
Who owes your godly folks a spite,
Had manag'd matters so, that Emma
Was brought into an odd dilemma;
The Monk's instructions, (strange to tell)
Began to make the Maiden swell;

195

Her health was turn'd quite turvey-topsey,
She seem'd far gone in Nature's Dropsy.

'Tis a known Axiom in the schools,
That Love's the paradise of Fools;
A paradise, in which is plac'd
A Tree, bewitching to the taste,
(The Tree of Knowledge) which produces
A fruit replete with pois'nous juices;
This tempts poor Maidens to their cost;
They pluck—and—Paradise is Lost;
No longer happiness dwells there,
'Tis all repentance—all despair.

Poor Emma's tell-tale looks betray,
That Emma's form'd of yielding clay;
The Queen enrag'd, insists on knowing
To what this strange misfortune's owing;
Whilst Emma, almost drown'd in tears,
With penitential look declares,
(The more to fix her resolution,
Roger had promis'd absolution,
Which made her gulp the lye as free
As tho' it were a dish of tea)
“That Father Bede, who long had strove
“By thousand arts to win her love,
“As on her couch one day she slept,
“Stole in, and”—here, poor soul! she wept,
Nor more cou'd speak!—Each Maid of Honor
Disdainfully look'd down upon her;
For virtuous Dames in this agree,
No crime's like loss of Chastity;

196

That gone, like a struck deer they fly her,
And think it dang'rous to come nigh her.

“But who's this Bede,” the Reader cries,
“The butt of these same horrid lyes?”
A Secular, and one of those
Whom Monks avow'd Religion's foes;
And who, tho' hitherto unwed,
Stranger to joys of Marriage Bed,
Yet held it neither sin nor shame
For Priests to take a wedded dame;
While Monks, for self-denial fam'd,
Against such sensual crimes exclaim'd;
With holy Candle, Book, and Bell,
Damning all married Priests to Hell;
Priests, who the Papal Pow'r deny'd too,
For which Old Nick wou'd thrash their hide too.

No wonder Monks shou'd think it good
To shed so vile a sinner's blood;
If just the end which is desir'd,
No matter by what means acquir'd.

Altho' the Monks to Satan gave him,
And swore not all the Saints cou'd save him,
Yet with the body of the nation,
Bede stood aloft in reputation;
He taught the natives to explore
The sea for fish, the land for ore;

197

'Twas he who first the secret found
Of digging fewel from the ground.
Hence riches, trade, and many a blessing
Their children's children now possessing;
He taught them with a magic net
The luscious Salmon to beset,
With many other useful arts,
Which justly won the people's hearts.

But all his merit was forgot,
And hid by this unlucky blot;
A Maid of Honor to deflower!
'Twas an affront to Sov'reign power;
The Queen declar'd, “She did not know
“How far his impudence might go;
“And that she thought 'twas monstrous hard
“To take a Lady off her guard:
“Had she herself been sleeping caught,
“(She trembles at the very thought)
“Ev'n Majesty she was not sure
“In such a case wou'd be secure.”
Thus prejudic'd, to the good King
She so describ'd this Nasty Thing,
That in his justice he decreed,
The Culprit for his crimes shou'd bleed:
“What die?”—as bad—may Heav'n forefend,
And guard us all from the like End;
The blushing Muse cannot for shame,
In words direct the thing proclaim;
It was, in fine, the punishment
Heloise's Lover underwent.

198

Such was the Monarch's resolution,
The time too fix'd for execution,
The storm was loud, the waves ran high,
The charge direct—vain all reply.

Of Honor's gem altho' bereft,
Emma had still some goodness left;
'Tis true Logicians often paint
Each Woman as a Fiend or Saint;
Whereas a Man is a mix'd creature,
They say—of het'rogeneous nature;
But all those cobweb airy fancies
Are little better than romances;
For Woman, like meer Man, is still
Neither completely good or ill;
A hodge-podge, olio, or podrade,
Of many various compounds made;
A mixture form'd of cold and hot,
Of sweet and sour—in short—what not;—
Some strong ingredient, 'tis confest,
Still to the palate gives the zest;
Yet not so pow'rful, but we find
Other ingredients are combin'd.

There is not in all Nature's plan
So strange a paradox as Man;
Man with himself eternal jars,
And wages barb'rous civil wars:—
Now Reason—Passion now presides,
Whilst diff'rent limbs take diff'rent sides;
Against the monarch Head, we find
Beneath the girdle what's confin'd,

199

In bold rebellion often rises,
And the wise Sov'reign's pow'r despises;
And Amphisbœna-like, 'tis said,
We've then at either end an Head:
When that's the case, we seldom know
To which Head we shou'd homage show;
And therefore follow that of course,
Which pulls us with the greater force:
Poor Emma, when she first was sinner,
Had Amphisbœna struggling in her.

I know digressions often teaze,
But still they give the Writer ease;
Wherefore that Writer surely wise is,
That pelts you with each thought that rises.

Nor Vice nor Virtue, 'tis most plain,
In Emma bore despotic reign;
At first she put on a good face,
And told her tale with artful grace;
But Conscience soon—unmanner'd guest!
Kick'd up a dust within her breast,
And fill'd both waking thoughts and dreams
With brimstone, hell, and burning flames;
With forked prongs, by horned Fiends
Apply'd to Sinners' hinder ends;
(A frightful case!—No Lady, sure,
Such application cou'd endure)
And all that horrid apparatus
With which some say the Devil treats us,

200

When we to visit him think fit,
And take up lodgings in his pit.

No wonder guilt-bred fumes like these
Shou'd pull down Madam on her knees,
To count her beads in woeful plight,
And cross herself from morn to night:—
In one of these despairing strains,
When fear quite oversets the brains,
At midnight hour when Fiends prepare
To take a Fresco in our air,
As on her marrow-bones she prest,
Weeping, and beating her white breast,
A Crow long tam'd, whose gutt'ral tone
Had oft diverted Will and John,
By Chance or Providence convey'd
To Madam's chamber, witless, stray'd,
Where snug as thief under the bed,
The bird conceal'd its negro head;
And at the juncture when the Dame
(Her thoughts brimful of fire and flame)
Address'd her Patron Saint of Wood,
Out pops the Crow, and croaking stood:
“Have mercy, Heav'n—What's this I view,
“'Tis Satan's self—'tis Satan's hue!—
“Guard me from pitchforks and from hell:”
Croak, quo' the Crow—she scream'd—she fell:
The servants fly, and on the ground,
Speechless the frighted Fair was found;
Reviv'd, she raves—“Protect and save me,
“Let not yon ugly Satan have me;

201

“His saucer eyes and frightful tone”—
Another croak—and down she's gone.
The servants see the droll mistake,
And quick to life their Lady wake:
She straightway calls out for a Priest,
To whom her sins are soon confest;
On Roger's wiles she throws the blame
Of all her crimes—and all her shame;
And hopes it is not yet too late
To hinder Bede's unhappy fate.

The Queen, of this great change inform'd,
Against the Monk now loudly storm'd;
The King in justice too decreed,
That Bede shou'd instantly be freed,
And that the compliment design'd
For Him, to Roger be assign'd.—

No sooner order'd than 'twas done,
And—whip—his Sanctity is gone;
For after being Abelarded,
And from the court with shame discarded,
His crime appear'd so very black,
Each Dame, now scornful, turn'd her back;
For from a Confessor dissected,
No comfort, sure, can be expected.

When birds fly, or when vessels sail,
They're always guided from the tail,
And Casuists say this is the case,
In gen'ral, with the human race:

202

The rudder lost, what follows then?—
Ruin to ships, to birds, and men.

And now, no longer Fortune's sport,
In triumph Bede was brought to court,
Where having humbly on his knee
Due homage paid to majesty,
He then, in gratitude as bound,
To Heav'n fell prostrate on the ground,
That graciously had heard his pray'rs,
And rescu'd him from monkish snares;
Nor was his croaking Friend forgot,
A leading actor in the plot,
Who, at her Majesty's request,
Shew'd her fine shapes among the rest:
“May Heav'n's best benison,” he cries,
(With tears of raptures in his eyes)
“For ever and for ever fall
“On King, Queen, Emma—Crow—and all.”

So said; when wonderful—but hold,
'Twere necessary you were told,
That in the records of that age,
Miracles crowd in ev'ry page;
Tho' now-a-days, I know not why,
Nor Miracles or Saints we spy;—
In short—a Miracle uncommon—
Up starts the Crow—a lovely Woman;
Young, blooming, handsome, debonnair,
And what's still stranger, wond'rous Fair.
To please Pygmalion, as 'tis said,
A Marble melted to a Maid;

203

And surely, if a Heathen cou'd
Inspire a Stone with flesh and blood,
We need shew little admiration
At Madam Croaker's transformation.

With wonder struck, whilst all around
In silence gaz'd, a voice profound,
Melodious as a seraph Sound,
Was heard:—
“Accept, O Bede, the gift Heav'n sends,
“The best of Wives, and best of Friends;
“Of ev'ry female charm possest,
“With ev'ry social virtue blest;
“Nor yet despise her for her birth,
“What are ye all but Sons of Earth?
“That origin cannot be mean,
“Where Heav'n's immediate hand is seen;
“And that the miracle here shown,
“To future times be handed down,
“A lasting monument of favor,
“Your offspring to distinguish ever,
“A Spice of Mother's gutt'ral tone,
“To Time's remotest ages known
“By name of Burr—shall mark their tongue,
“And proudly trumpet whence they sprung;
“A rough, bold accent, free from art,
“True Emblem of an honest Heart,
“A mark by which mankind shall trace
“Your num'rous, warlike, envied Race;
“Whose Deeds, not Words, their Fame shall spread,
“And Britain's Foes their Valor dread.”

204

The Priest with rapture Heav'n obey'd,
And wed the lovely, new-form'd Maid;
The Monarch, generous and kind,
To Bede and to his Heirs consign'd
That fertile track which Tyne surveys,
As his broad stream he proud displays;
Where Riches flow with ev'ry tide,
And Trade and Liberty preside:—
Here first he plann'd that envy'd seat,
By Industry now form'd so great,
Yclep'd Newcastle;—where the Priest
To an old age liv'd highly blest
With his Fair Spouse:—And 'tis agreed
She brought the Parson such a Breed
(Parsons, we know, are in their natures
Beyond most men, prolific creatures)
Of little Bedes—that all around
The Parson's prowess made resound.

'Tis thought this same prolific pow'r
Remains among them to this hour;
A num'rous Race, who still inherit
Their Mother's Burr and Father's Merit;
And which distinguishes the Breed
Of Mother Crow and Father Bede.

The Story is taken from an old Record found in a Religious House, on its Dissolution in the Reign of Henry VIII. and is now in the Possession of an eminent Antiquarian not far from Newcastle.

It was not 'till some Centuries after, that the Pope's Authority was established in England, and Celibacy in general injoined the Clergy.

Amphisbœna is a Serpent, said to have a Head at each End.

The Bede mention'd in the above is not the same with the Venerable Bede, who liv'd rather earlier than the Hero of our Tale.

205

On Miss ------ fanning herself.

Panting with heat from Sol's unnerving rays,
A Fan unfurl'd the lovely Nymph displays;
The flutt'ring toy awakes the dormant breeze,
And to her throbbing breast gives cooly ease:
The waving Tucker, wind-impell'd—(Oh Heav'n!
Wou'd to my lot that bliss supreme were given!)
Playfully wanton, now with kisses greets
Those lilly-cover'd Hills of breathing sweets;
Now flowing back to the charm'd gazer shows
A fairer Heav'n than ev'n Elysium knows;
The heaving Mounds alternate fall and rise,
Darting bewitching poison to our eyes;
While Cupid laughing, from his slopy vale,
Pours flaming arrows thick as storms of hail;
Above the Battery of her Stays now peeps,
Flackers his wings—then downward, nestling, creeps
To purling streams, and consecrated groves,
The hallow'd birth-place of his Mother's doves;
Where lies, conceal'd from vulgar eyes, Love's seat,
His Sans Souci, his favourite Retreat.

In mercy, heav'nly Maid, our pains redress,
And kindly give us more, or show us less.

206

An ENCOMIUM.

[Mortal was never yet so grac'd]

Mortal was never yet so grac'd
With partial blessings from the skies,
As Draco;—rich in ev'ry taste
That Men of real worth—Despise.

A Youth more lovely, more polite,
More witty, graceful, more refin'd,
Or one more form'd to give delight,
Was never seen—In his own Mind.

“Study thyself,”—(thus Sages write)
“In Wisdom's lore if you'd surpass:”
Draco each morning, noon, and night,
Studies Himself—Within the Glass.

His learning, his amazing knowledge,
Impartial Judges must confess
Unequall'd ev'n by Heads of College,
In that most noble science—Dress.

Some silly folk who know him not
Aver, he's got an empty skull;
Can emptiness then be the lot
Of one who—Of himself's brimful?

His Courage in the open field,
Was never doubted day or night;
Nor was he ever known to yield,
For well 'tis known—He dares not fight.

207

Whene'er the lovely Swain draws near,
The Ladies all around him flock:
At sight of him they glad appear,
For he's their favourite—Laughing Stock.

So very amorous the Youth,
Still making love, still ogling, sighing,
Observe him, and you'd swear, in sooth,
He cannot live—unless he's dying.

But should a Fair One equal die,
And face to face our Youth assail;
Gods! with what eagerness he'd fly—
Backwards—like Cur with shrunk-in tail.

Proceed, dear Youth—Dear Youth, proceed,
To other Youths example show;
And let 'em in your actions read,
Not what they shou'd, but shou'd not do.

208

Written on a blank Leaf of SHAKESPEARE.

Oh, Shakespeare! Shakespeare! How thy Magic charms!
Now wakes to rage, and now as quick disarms;
Sooths, pierces, melts;—hurries our souls away,
Leaving untenanted our shells of clay.
Those worlds which Alexander wish'd in vain
With murd'ring lawless conquest to obtain,
Thy more victorious Pen (that magic wand!)
Charms from their Spheres to hail thy great command:
Elves, Witches, Demons start up at thy call;
You naturalize, what was unnatural.

A single Page of thine delineates more
Than Volumes from a modern Play-wright's store:
Our language is too weak to make thee known,
You form a richer language of your own,
Shakesperian all!—You charm us, whilst around
We tread Parnassian consecrated ground.

In a fine phrenzy rolling, your keen eye
Pierces the depth of vast profundity;
Quicker than Jove's own lightning rapid flies,
And at your plastic touch new Beings rise:
What worlds are by thy wond'rous Fiat made!
Thou Great Creator! I had almost said.

The Critic's pigmy basis you despise,
All Nature is the Base on which you rise;
To others as superior your Quill,
As Atlas to the Mole-constructed hill:

209

Like Larks at best They skim our nether skies,
Whilst Eagle Shakespeare to Heav'n's Summit flies,
Perches Jove's Sceptre, waits his awful Nod,
Or grasps the dreadful Thunder of the God.

If it be true what Critics oft have said,
That Admiration is of Folly bred,
Grant Heav'n, that Folly's paths I still attend,
And wear her Liv'ry to my Being's end.

To Mr. W---, on his Edition of Shakespeare.

When Shakespeare's tow'ring Genius
Up to the Heav'ns wou'd shoot,
You pull him from his Pegasus,
And make him walk on Foot.

210

The MONK and JEW.

A Tale.

To make new Converts truly blest,
A Recipe—Probatum est.—

Stern Winter clad in frost and snow,
Had now forbad the streams to flow,
And skaited peasants swiftly glide
Like swallows, o'er the slippery tide;
When Mordecai (upon whose face
The Synagogue you plain might trace)
Fortune with smiles deceitful bore
To a curst hole, but late skinn'd o'er,
Down plumps the Jew, but in a trico
Rising, he caught the unbroke ice;
He gasp'd—he yell'd a hideous cry,
No friendly hand, alas, was nigh,
Save a poor Monk, who quickly ran
To snatch from Death the drowning Man;
But when the holy Father saw
A limb of the Mosaic law,
His hand outstretch'd he quick withdrew,
“For Heav'n's sake help”—exclaims the Jew;
“Turn Christian first,” the Father cries,
“I'm froze to death”—the Jew replies;
“Froze! quo' the Monk—too soon you'll know
“There's Fire enough for Jews below;
“Renounce your unbelieving Crew,
“And help is near”—“I do—I do:”

211

“Damn all your Brethren Great and Small,”
“With all my heart—Oh, damn 'em all:
“Now help me out”—“There's something more,
“Salute this Cross, and Christ adore;”
“There, there—I Christ adore.”—“'Tis well,
“Thus arm'd, defiance bid to Hell;
“And yet—another thing remains
“To guard against eternal pains;
“Do you our Papal Father hold
“Heav'n's Vicar?—And believe all told
“By Holy Church?”—I do by G*d,
“One moment more I'm food for Cod;—
“Drag, drag me out—I freeze—I die,”
“Your peace, my Friend, is made on High;
“Full Absolution here I give;
“Saint Peter will your Soul receive:—
“Wash'd clean from sin, and duly shriven,
“New Converts always go to Heaven;
“No hour for death so fit as this;
“Thus—thus—I launch you into bliss:”

So said—the Father in a trice
His Convert launch'd beneath the ice.

212

FEMALE CURIOSITY.

A Tale.

While yet the World was in its Teens,
(Of Centuries, the Poet means)
By Jove commission'd from above,
Strait to the earth flew Death and Love,
As mutual benefits design'd
To shed their blessings on Mankind:—
Love like a fair Adonis shone,
Nor Death appear'd that Skeleton
Which modern Painters falsely shew him,
(To judge from them you'd scarcely know him)
His face, tho' somewhat pale and thin,
Was smiling, and devoid of grin;
He was, in air, shape, voice, and feature,
A decent, unforbidding creature:
A bow and arrows either bore,
Both welcome guests at ev'ry door;—
Death was commission'd to set free
Old palsied Age from Misery;
And Love his arrows to employ
In dealing that inchanting joy,
Without which Heav'n would tasteless prove;—
For what were Heav'n, unbless'd with Love?
Love's pow'r the Young and Fair obey,
Whilst Age hail'd Death's obliging sway;
Each courted as Man's guardian Friend,
Tho' widely different their end.—

213

For some time matters smoothly went,
Happy the Young—the Old content:
When Death and Love travelling together,
The Ev'ning dark, stormy the weather,
Quick to a neighb'ring Farm they sped,
They crav'd a supper and a bed:
The honest Farmer and his Dame,
He Camus call'd—Demea her name,
With hospitality sincere,
A welcome gave, and wholesome cheer:—
The Guests, to entertain the Peasant,
Crack'd jokes, told tales, and stories pleasant;
Talk'd scandal, and abus'd the Great,
Pity'd the Poor, reform'd the State;
They chatted, drank, and laugh'd, 'till tir'd,
Shook hands, and then to bed retir'd.

But our good Dame, who, by the bye,
Had some small Curiosity,
Observ'd the Quivers which each Guest
With care conceal'd beneath his vest;
She wonder'd what they could contain,
She thought, re-thought—she rack'd her brain;
And when her Guests, all weary, slept,
She snugly to their chamber crept,
Their Quivers seiz'd, and strait withdrew,
Impatient the contents to view;
She emptied 'em upon the floor,
Eagerly turn'd 'em o'er and o'er,
The variegated feathers eyes
With admiration and surprize;

214

But fearing lest her Guests should wake,
And umbrage at her peeping take,
Hurrying—poor Demea so commix'd 'em,
When in the Quivers she refix'd 'em,
That many of Love's Darts convey'd,
Into Death's fatal Quiver stray'd;
And, vice versa, Death's were found
Among Love's Arrows to abound;
Which prov'd the source of such mistakes,
Such unaccountable, strange freaks,
That by this accident so scurvy,
All Nature seem'd turn'd topsey turvey.—
Death's Arrows twang'd from Cupid's Bow,
Now breathless laid Love's Vot'ries low;
And Cupid's Darts, from Death's fell Quiver,
Now for the first time pierc'd the liver
Of ill-starr'd Age, who loud complains
Of fires shot thro' his shrivell'd veins:—
Hence we behold the wrinkled Dame,
With youthful airs avow her flame;
Or Square-Toes like a Coxcomb cry,
“If Cloe proves unkind, I die.”—
In short, since this curst blund'ring Æra,
Man's Happiness is all Chimera.

Oh, Female Curiosity!
Great Source of Man's Felicity!
How very much to thee we owe,
Let Mother Eve and Demea show:—
What endless Blessings flow from thee,
Oh, Female Curiosity!

215

The PUPPET-SHOW.

A Tale.

At Skipton Wake, where once a year,
With sports and pastime and good cheer,
The Lads and Lasses blithe regale,
And feast on cheese-cakes, tarts, and ale;
(Wakes! the old Midwives constant Friend,
Where frolic Love and Joys attend;
Where mad-cap pranks Dame Nature shows,
And Maidens their green-sickness lose)
Roger to shew his taste polite,
Mun visit Punch forsooth one night:
Here, undisturb'd by Critic rules,
And hemm'd by droves of neighbour fools,
The music, coarse-daub'd scenes, and light,
Cheaply afford our Hodge delight:
At Punch's smut which he thought wit,
His cudden sides were like to split;
And at each joke, his lanthorn jaws
Extended wide, roar loud applause;
Or when Distress, with awkward mien,
From some fair wooden nymph or queen,
With tragic handkerchief appears,
Roger could scarce refrain from tears;
The Gothic Story with our Clown,
As Gospel Truth goes glibly down:—
Not Quixotte's self was more deceiv'd,
When Melisandra's fate he griev'd,
And of the squeaking pigmy crew,
His vengeful sword whole squadrons slew:—

216

The Curtain dropt, the Drama ended,
The motley audience homeward tended,
Clowns, Nurses, Children, all well pleas'd,
And of their long-stor'd farthings eas'd;
While some more curious than the rest,
Behind the curtain rudely prest:—
On seeing this, our Roger too,
To ease his longings needs must go;
With fear and diffidence he enters,
And scarce to look about him ventures;
Here dangling on a pin were seen
A purpled king, or tinsel'd queen;
Here Punch with sceptred princes tumbled,
Here priests with Beelzebub lay jumbled;
Here sidelong hanging by a wire,
A chop-fallen hero, prince, or 'squire;
With such mock grandeur thus surrounded,
Poor Hodge, alas! was quite confounded;—
Twirling his hat, he scrapes and bows,
And his extent of breeding shews;
The rest, at Hodge's droll mistake,
Laugh 'till their sides and midriffs ake;
“Sure, never yet was seen,” cries one,
“Such a besotted simpleton;
“Were you not blind, you might behold
“'Tis tinsel this you take for gold;
“And what you fancy flesh and blood,
“Is naught save frippery rags and wood,
“That cannot speak, look, move, or stand,
“But owe all to the artist's hand,
“Who fix'd on high, lordly presides,
“And with a wire each action guides.”

217

Roger on this seem'd quite amaz'd,
He gap'd, he scrat his head, he gaz'd,
While gybes from ev'ry side accost him,
And laughing boobies coarsely roast him;
Each judging of his own great wit,
By neighbour Hodge's want of it.
“Nay, haw'd ye, haw'd ye, where's the wonder
“That I,” quo' Hodge, “should make this blunder?
“Sine, as a many do report,
“In London—nay some say, at Court—
“There's nought more common than to see
“The beaver doff'd and bended knee,
“To strutting wooden-headed beaus,
“With empty sobs and tinsel cloaths;
“Who, puppet like, ne'er speak or move,
“But as they're wire-led from above;
“And like these folk aside are thrown,
“As useless Logs—the work once done.”

218

Written on the GRAVE of a beautiful young LADY.

Deeply interr'd beneath this sod is
A piece of Dirt, once call'd a Goddess;
Cou'd you the Goddess now survey,
You'd turn disgustfully away:
Here Putrefaction's Brood appears,
And the proud Maggot domineers;
Those Eyes, than Phœbus' beams more bright,
Now darker than the darkest night!
Those Cheeks where Nature's pencil drew
Teints fair as Saints, unbodied, view;
Those Lips, that Neck, that Angel Form!
A cottage for the bat'ning worm.

How near to Beauty's 'witching pride
Is foul Deformity ally'd!
From Putrefaction's fertile bed
The Rose uprears his fragrant head;
From the same parent dunghill too,
The fetid Henbane starts to view;
All earthly things beneath the skies,
From Putrefaction's source arise;
A while they flourish and are vain,
And then to Dirt revert again;
Ev'n Beauty, quick in its decay,
Is but a Crust of mould'ring Clay.

What changes Nature's Monades wear!
Now Fair is Foul—now Foul is Fair:

219

The Reliques of a sordid Clown
May rise again, and wear a Crown;
And he who myriads commands,
May—“Whistle o'er the furrow'd lands.”

Death spreads a feast, where all are fed;
“Death furnishes our daily bread.”
A while we feast upon our brothers,
And soon are serv'd a dish for others.

Ye Mortal Goddesses, be wise,
Beauty just shews itself and dies;
Hither, O hither come—and see
What ev'ry Goddess soon must be.

220

From LUCIO, in Bedlam, to FULVIA

In this short Interval that Reason knows,
When sad remembrance but augments my woes,
This clotted straw—ah me!—the only bed
Where wretchedness like mine can lay its head;
These plaister'd walls, spread o'er with nauseous stains,
Barr'd windows, cobweb'd roofs, and iron chains,
The only objects that present to view—
Are these returns for Love like Lucio's due?
Cou'd Fulvia thus—For pity hold, my Brain,
'Till I have stabb'd th'Adultress thro' each vein.

Yes, Syren, yes, if black Ingratitude,
(That rankest Fiend of Hell's detested brood,
That pestilential prop of Satan's throne,
In whom all vices are compriz'd in one,
Legion of Sin! in Smiles delusive drest,
Whose loathsome Cell's the grand Deceiver's breast)
Has not already stamp'd you more than Fiend,
These lines shall your polluted heart-strings rend,
Shall make ye groan, nay howl in sad despair,
While Hell's remotest damn'd shall, trembling hear.

Have you forgot the day—you never can,
When like a sick'ning lilly, pale and wan,
You droop'd, e'er yet your bloom was full reveal'd,
In your heart's core Love's hopeless flame conceal'd?
Your weeping friends attending round your bed,
And Death with dart high threat'ning o'er your head,

221

The fatal secret from your lips they drew,
You sigh'd, and wish'd from Lucio an Adieu;
No sound from forth your lips save Lucio came,
Your fault'ring voice still dwelt on Lucio's name:
Your Parents, doubtful, trembling, begg'd my aid,
To save, if possible, their darling Maid;
From me one smile, they urg'd, but one kind word,
Might Hope recall, and lenient balm afford;
Unnotic'd to that instant Fulvia's flame,
A stranger to your beauty—rank—ev'n name;
Fortune had plac'd Me in a sphere above
That humbler walk, where You was wont to move;
Yet, pitying, quick I flew at their request,
And whisper'd comfort to your anguish'd breast;
Pity first op'd the portal of my heart,
When Love, triumphant entering, fill'd each part,
Possess'd me all, enchain'd my very soul,
And, Reason banish'd, sway'd without controul:
I sooth'd, caress'd, recall'd your flitting life,
Nay more, ungrateful, hail'd you Lucio's Wife;
Before the sacred Altar seal'd my vows,
And thought me happy in so fair a spouse;—
Her throne deserted Health once more resum'd,
Your dying features with a glow relum'd:—
What vows, with tears enrich'd, from Fulvia flew!
“How grateful, kind, how loving, and how true!
“My Saviour! my Preserver!” was your cry,
The speaking moisture starting from your eye,
“To you my life—yet more—my love is due;—
“I owe 'em all—and much, much more to you;”—
Whilst I, unhappy, ev'ry vow believ'd,
I read you in myself, and was deceiv'd.

222

Ah! why will tears adown my furrow'd cheek,
Spite of disdain and rage, my weakness speak?
Why with a soul so feeling was I curst?
Why with soft Pity's milky streamlet nurst?
Had Lucio's heart been callous as your own,
Fulvia had dy'd unlov'd, unwept, unknown.

Was there a wish—Oh, let your heart declare,
If still that mark of humankind you bear—
Was there a wish, but lightning-like I flew,
Nor, till your wish enjoy'd, Contentment knew?
Was there a thought of mine but teem'd with love?
Joy was not Joy, did Fulvia not approve:
Pass'd there a day, an hour throughout the year
But brought new proofs my passion how sincere?
And when disease threw o'er your charms a shade,
Unnerv'd your soul, and made your roses fade,
Did I not weary Heav'n with constant pray'r,
And tend you with a more than Nurse's care?
Whilst You—Oh Heav'n! in angel softness drest,
Seem'd to repose your soul in Lucio's breast;—
Upon Delusion's happy shore I stray'd,
'Till Chance, in one curst hour, my golden hopes betray'd.

Unus'd to absence from your Syren Charms,
And dragg'd by hated Bus'ness from your arms
A few sad days—how heavy then my heart!—
From Love—from Fulvia destin'd to depart,
I, wistful, bad Adieu:—Your ev'ry look,
Your glist'ning eye—your broken accents spoke,
They spoke—yes, Dalilah, they spoke Despair;
But ah! each word, each look, how insincere!—

223

Hanging upon my neck, how did you pray
From Fulvia short would be her Lucio's stay!
How did you sigh!—How did your bosom heave!
And to my trembling lips your kisses cleave!
How often call your Lucio back!—Again
Your Lucio to your panting bosom strain!
Again, with lips close prest, (that balmy seat
Where, veil'd in roses, lurks the Fiend Deceit)
How beg, if Fulvia e'er your love possest,
Quick my return to ease her widow'd breast;
Ev'n to the last how did your eyes pursue,
And ev'ry straining look, pronounce Adieu,
'Till distance hid me from your aking view.

Oh, Woman! Woman! All your tears, your sighs,
Your vows—what are they but hyena lies?—
The curling smoke that as it mounts dissolves,
More stable than your love, more fix'd than your resolves.

Each tedious hour of absence was a year,
And in return alone did Hope appear:—
Ah, flattering smiling Hope, thus to deceive!
Ah, foolish Man, Hope's Lurements to believe!—
When free, with eager Extacy I flew,
Lightsome as air, to fancy'd Bliss and You:
Love bore me on his wings, as if to show
How far his joys transcend all joys below;
But hurl'd from thence, with such dire force I fell,
I burst earth's bounds, and plung'd to deepest hell.

'Twas early Morn, Night's Shadows newly fled,
When to my Fulvia's chamber quick I sped,

224

A master-key a ready entrance gave,
And all was silent as the mirky grave,
My swelling pulse in quicker currents flow'd,
My bosom with unusual transports glow'd,
To think what joy in Fulvia wou'd appear,
To see her “Bosom's Lord,” her Lucio near;
To hear her in soft dreams perhaps repeat
Her Lucio's name, in accents Angel-sweet:—
Your curtain drawn, on tiptoe soft I stole,
Love, Hope, and Fancy sporting in my soul;
I look'd and saw—the thought awakes my pain—
Stabs my poor heart, and fires my heated brain,
I saw—my Slave clasp'd in your warm embrace,
While Pleasure slumb'ring glow'd around your face;
Upon your arm, which o'er his neck was thrown—
A bracelet rich with eastern jewels shone,
Which but a few days gone, with sportive pride,
And thousand kisses on your wrist I ty'd;
No other use for treasur'd store I knew,
Bewitching Sorc'ress! but to pleasure You;—
I stiffen'd; clammy chilness stopt each pore,
I scream'd, and lifeless dropt upon the floor.

Oh, had it pleas'd kind Heav'n, of sense depriv'd,
I ne'er to curst Remembrance had reviv'd,
But Fulvia, Love, Ingratitude forgot,
The friendly Grave had been my happy Lot,
I then had peaceful sunk thro' Death to Rest—
From Life, from Thought releas'd, is to be blest;—
But now no common misery's my share,
Ev'n Fiends are strangers to the pangs I bear:—
Far as Love's Joys all other Joys excell,
Love's Torments distant throw the Pains of hell.

225

By Friends officious dragg'd to hated Light,
I heard of the Adult'rers hasty flight,
Heard, that with jewels and with treasure fraught,
Heedless of Lucio, whom they lifeless thought,
For safety to some unknown distance flew;—
But ah! you cannot fly from Heav'n's all-searching view.

Madness ensu'd, while Reason fled her Throne,
And but by Intervals now faintly known;
Shut out from air and from the cheerful day,
(Wou'd I were shrouded a cold lump of clay!)
No Friend to share my Griefs, or soothe my Care,
My sole Companions Madness and Despair,
When maddest, happiest—Mem'ry then in vain,
Lost in a lab'rinth, darts the venom'd pain,
Ev'n Death, half scar'd to hear my uncouth cries,
At distance grins, and friendly aid denies.—

Oh, Fulvia!—but I pray not heav'n to pour
Upon your guilty head the vengeful shower,
May you repent, and may—the pray'r how vain!
Sweet Mercy's Fount were gracious Heav'n to drain,
'Twou'd not suffice to wash away your stain.—

In ev'ry corner of my Cell is view'd
The stabbing marks of your Ingratitude;
For painted roof this den—For downy bed
This beggar straw! no Hope!—All Comfort fled!
While from the neighb'ring Cells, each shriek and groan,
In sounding their despair, proclaims my own;
And menial wretches, wolf-soul'd, thro' my grate
Sport with my ravings and deride my fate;

226

Ev'n midnight Owls and Dogs (more kind than they)
My shrieks with shrieks, and howls with howls repay:
Nay more, a Wretch beneath my notice late,
With lash erect, now tyrant of my fate,
With barb'rous phrase, and yet more barb'rous hand,
And blows—ev'n blows enforcing his command:—
Can it be justice, Heav'n, on me to pour
Of mis'ry such a complicated store?—
'Tis Justice—and your wise decree I own,
My crime was Love to Hell's worst offspring shown,
To Fulvia—At the very sound Fiends grin,
Half-pleas'd to find themselves outdone in sin.

Cou'd you, O Fulvia, cou'd you view those eyes,
That gloated on you with such extacies,
Now rolling fierce, with frightful wildness strain'd,
And in their blood-ring'd sockets scarce contain'd?
Cou'd you behold those lips, to your's when join'd,
On which our flutt'ring souls you swore entwin'd,
Cou'd you behold 'em quiv'ring, sordid, pale,
Frothing wild rage, my gnashing teeth reveal?
Those hands you oft with tears of love bedew'd,
Tearing my shaggy beard, and stain'd in blood?
Cou'd you these lines—this farewell, last Adieu—
Hell dormant in your bosom—careless view?—
The Helen smiles, with scorn she skims 'em o'er,
Then gloating, clasps her dirt-sprung Paramour;—
Seize her, Infernals, drag her quick below,
Heap on her all your quintessence of Woe;

227

They seize her—See! her tender limbs they tear—
Her yell—her dreadful screamings rend my ear;—
And lo!—her heart is marble—and her veins
Spout forth th'ungrateful Adder's inky stains:—
She still is Fulvia—Spare her, and on me
Turn all your vengeance—Set poor Fulvia free;
See!—See! she shuns me, and with mangled charms
For shelter flies to her base Minion's arms;—
This to the Villain's heart ------

[OMITTED]

(Desunt Cætera.)

Persons of all Ranks, till within these few Years, were, on paying a Trifle, occasionally admitted into the long Gallery at Bedlam, where they often made a cruel use of this indulgence.

[Not all the Beauties fancied Rapture feigns]

Not all the Beauties fancied Rapture feigns,
Of Grove-clad Hills, and Flow'r enamell'd plains,
Of Crystal Streams, and Amaranthine Bowers,
Ambrosial Fruits, and soft-refreshing Showers,
Not Music's Warblings, or a Zephyr'd Sky,
Nor variegated Scenes to feast the Eye,
Form'd the glad Eden of the Primal Pair;
Where dwells True Love all Paradise is there:—
But ah! when banish'd Innocence and Love,
No longer please, Hill, Dale, or tuneful Grove;
To Be torments—all Nature wears a Gloom,
And fell Despair and Hate the Reins assume;
No more with Heav'n's First Joys our Bosoms swell;
What erst was Paradise becomes a Hell.

228

The FISHERMAN.

A Fable.

Unknowing and unknown to Fame,
An honest Clown—Dorus his name,
With fraudful line and baited hook,
Near the sea shore his station took,
In hopes the cravings to supply
Of a large helpless family:
But Fortune, who her favor sheds
Seldom upon deserving heads,
On Dorus glanc'd with scornful spite;
No prize—not ev'n a single bite.
Tir'd with ill luck he now despairs,
And for a hungry home prepares;
When, to his joy and great surprize,
He feels a fish of monstrous size,
(So flatters smiling Hope)—when, lo—
Fortune again appears his Foe;
He drags on shore with cautious pull—
A Fish?—Ah no—a Human Skull;
A ghastly and forbidding Treat,
Improper food for him to eat:
What can he do?—Shall he again
Commit his capture to the main?
But here Humanity prevails,
And Piety his heart assails:
“Who knows, cries Dorus with a sigh,
(A heart-sprung tear in either eye)
“But this might once a Portion be
“Of some poor Spouse or Sire like me;

229

“On whose endeavours a large brood
“of Little Ones might hang for food;
“Shipwreck'd perhaps in sight of land,
“Or murder'd by some villain's hand;
“My Duty and my Feelings too
“Strongly evince what I should do;
“The Kindness which to him I show,
“Perhaps to others I may owe.”

So said, away the Skull he bears,
And in the woods a grave prepares:
He digs—his heart dilates with pleasure
To find a heav'n-sent golden Treasure;—
A Treasure to his utmost wishes,
Superior to ten thousand Fishes,
With which he, joyous, marches home,
The Skull bequeathing in its room.

Those Hearts that with Humanity distend,
In Providence are sure to meet a Friend;
And the same Love we to our Brethren show,
Our Heav'nly Father will on us bestow.

230

The PEASANT and MASTIFF.

A Fable.

Where Nile, the King of Floods, bestows
His genial blessings as he flows,
A widow'd Peasant, who with care
Foster'd a darling Infant Heir,
The only Offspring of a Wife,
Dearer, when living, than his life,
His cottage left at early day;
The Babe in cradle sleeping lay;
His fav'rite Dog too left behind,
His Child and House's Guard design'd;—
Ended his bus'ness, soon the Swain
Returns to his lov'd charge again;
He lifts the latch—his little cot
No other bar or fence had got—
His Dog with conscious sound and tail
(In Dogs can Treachery prevail!)
Joy more than usual expresses,
Twisting his form with fond caresses;
But, Oh, how great was his surprize!
All smear'd with blood the Dog he spies;
His frightful jaws, distain'd with gore,
Suspicious marks of murder bore;
The frighted Parent looks around,
No little Darling's to be found;
The cradle overturn'd—the rest
By fear and wild despair was guest;
The Infant's fate each object shews,
The Murd'rer in his Dog he views;

231

He rag'd, his hair he wildly tore,
And with a hatchet which he bore,
Dealing a blow revengeful, strait
Consign'd the Mastiff to his fate;
Then headlong to the cradle flies,
Which rais'd (amazement all!) he spies
His smiling treasure on the floor,
Asleep, unwounded and secure;
And not far distant from the child,
A monst'rous Serpent, newly kill'd,
Mangled and bloody, which 'twas plain
The faithful murder'd Dog had slain—
Slain in his Baby's dear defence,
To save from death its innocence;
And in the fray, so says the Fable,
Were overset—both Child and Cradle.

If to the Moral you attend,
You'll ne'er unheard condemn your Friend.

232

EARTH, AIR, and WATER.

A Fable.

You ask me, Jack, without disguise,
(First hinting I am wond'rous wise)
What are my thoughts of Nan?—While she
The same inquires concerning thee:
To wedlock both I know inclin'd,
Yet both, I know, are passion-blind;—
That you're a Miser, Jack, she knows not,
That she's Extravagant she shows not;
That you're a Brute she can't behold,
Nor you, that she's an errant Scold:
She dreams not you'll be soon in jail,
Nor you, that Miss is—something frail:
In short, the match, if match it prove,
Will be a match of Hate—not Love:—
Where passions, humors, age agree
Wedlock's celestial harmony;
Where these are wanting, 'tis a curse,
'Tis Hell—if possible, 'tis worse.—
You ask me for Advice, I give it;
And yet I know you'll not receive it;
I know, what here I write you'll show her,
I know your weakness won't forego her;
I know full well you'll both unite,
And pelt me with your keenest spite:—
Yet ere you make your dread attack,
List to a Fable, simple Jack.

233

Fire, Earth, and Water, neighbours three,
In union long had wont agree;—
You're to observe tho' by the bye,
That Earth had most prudentially
'Twixt Fire and Water fix'd his station,
To guard 'gainst future altercation,
And by his wisdom and great care,
He kept his neighbours on the square;—
For tho' in nature differing wide,
They liv'd in peace, whilst Earth was guide,
'Till Love, who warms the coldest heart,
Pierc'd fair Miss Water with a dart,
And breathing strong on Fire his sighs,
Blew the Youth's flame above the skies.—
To Earth the Lovers both apply,
They held his prudence wond'rous high,
In Hymen's bonds if 'twere not right,
Like virtuous lovers to unite;
Earth, all amazement and surprize,
Thus to the Bedlam Pair replies;—
“You're sure distracted, or 'tis plain,
“The thought cou'd ne'er infect your brain;
“Shou'd you in union ever meet,
“Your mutual ruin were compleat:—
“Between You fix'd my situation,
“'Till now has prov'd your preservation;
“But shou'd you wed—sure as a gun
“You'll both be utterly undone:—
“You might as well—'tis all a jest—
“Think of uniting East and West.”

234

This sage advice the Lovers heard,
But, Lovers-like, their own preferr'd:
By Passion fool'd, they wed, they kiss;
Ruin takes place of fancy'd bliss;
Such chaos, uproar, and vexation,
All Hell seem'd broke from its foundation;
Not Phaeton, from chariot tumbling,
The world on fire—the Gods all grumbling,
Made greater Tintemar and rattling,
Than this new wedded pair in battling;
She boil'd with rage, he roar'd with pain,
She quench'd, he roar'd, she quench'd again;
No friendly Earth to heal their strife—
'Tis dang'rous parting Man and Wife—
'Till pitying Death with friendly stroke,
Finish'd their Beings in a Smoke.

235

The ORIGIN of a METHODIST.

A Song, set to a very melancholy Tune.

A madman, knave, and motley fool,
Downward once took their way;
To Satan brought, he ey'd 'em cool,
And thus was heard to say.—

“A thought just strikes my royal pate,
“That these Three blended well,
“Wou'd make a Fiend as truly great
“As any Fiend in Hell.”

He fang'd 'em up with eager speed,
He blended, 'em in haste,
Just as a pastry cook wou'd knead
A parcel of puff-paste.

Of Zealot Pride he added store,
To make the mass ferment;
Of dark Hypocrisy yet more,
And Temper Violent.

When finish'd—on his face a gloom
He stamp'd, with black Despair;
Sure mark which Fiends—such is their doom,
Must ever—ever wear.

“Hence, hence, (cries Satan) hence to Earth,
“With winged vengeance fly,
“Sworn foe to chearfulness and mirth,
“Reason and Truth defy.

236

“Let Fear the hellish agent prove
“To awe the vulgar crew;
“And paint the pow'r that rules above,
“In my infernal hue.

“The sheep's Obstetrix first proclaim,
“Yourself, to aid New Birth;
“Then blind, and by the nose lead tame,
“Those chosen sheep on earth.

“Tell 'em, for You that Heaven keeps
“His boundless vast domain;
“And all his other children steeps
“In everlasting pain.

“Their hides fleece well, and grunt and groan,
“As your poor soul were sick;
“And give all Worship but your own,
“A Present to Old Nick

“Against good Works, Hell's dreaded bane,
“Faith's zealot battery play;
“Good Works destroy'd, we soon shall reign,
“And all mankind obey.

“By Melancholy's road allure
“To Suicide, mankind;
“For few the torments can endure
“Of a despairing mind.

“Against the Stage, our greatest foe,
“With noise unceasing bawl;

237

“For 'tis as sure as Hell's below,
“Or that, or we must fall.

“Veil'd in Religion's Mask—aloud
“Preach Hell and endless pain;
“And when you've poison'd all the crowd,
“Return to Hell again.”

So said—Old Nick with horrid grin,
His Janus-darling kist;
Dubb'd him—Ambassador from Sin,
And hail'd him—Methodist.

238

A New HYMN by a Preacher of the Word, in Imitation of ---'s Inimitable Hymns.

Thy Faith, O Lord, in blessings shower,
That Sinners may thy Saints believe;
For were it not for Faith's strong power,
In faith thy Servants cou'd not live.

Careless of all that Satan can,
Armies of Fiends we will not fear,
While General W---d leads the Van,
And General W---y guards our Rear.

And for these Sinners who dare go
To see a Play—their eyes put out;
And at Assemblies, Mercy show,
In giving all who dance—the Gout.

As Forte let our Groans be strong,
Our Sighs Piano—dismal—sad;
Allegro is the Devil's Song,
True Saints shou'd mourn—Fiends will be glad.

Full well we know that Sion's keys,
The keys of Sion's Mount are given
To us—to let in whom we please,
Thro' the strait Turnpike-gate of Heaven:

Where faithful Travellers of course
Must pay the Turnpike as they pass;
A good round sum for ev'ry Horse,
And eke for ev'ry Mule and Ass.

239

The DEVIL DISAPPOINTED.

When Satan first heard of the Popish Invasion,
And Priestcraft and Slavery threaten'd the Nation,
He order'd Ignatius and Lewis le Grand,
With Bonner and Peters to wait his command:
They, cringing and licking his hoofs, soon appear,
While Nick smiling ghastly, cries out with a sneer,
“Here, Scoundrels, here's news will make you look gay,
“All Europe must shortly acknowledge my sway;
“Young Charley bids fair for the Throne of Great-Britain,
“Which if he but once has the fortune to sit on,
“From these darksome regions below I'll remove,
“And jointly with him rule Old England above:
“From whipping and flogging a while I release ye,
“And what, I am certain, still better will please ye,
“With Heretic Blood you may now stuff and gorge,
“Drink Popery's Health, and Confusion to George:
“Rantum Scantum, ye Dogs, away and rejoice,
“And make Hell resound with your hollowing and noise:”
Soon said and soon done:—Away they are flown,
And quick thro' all Hell the glad Tidings made known;
On which such strange rackets and shoutings did follow,
The Devil himself could scarce hear his own holloo:—

240

Popes, Pickpockets, Jesuits, bald-pated Friars,
Whores, Cardinals, Highwaymen, Abbots, and Lyars,
Commix'd sans distinction, all bellow'd their zeal
For George's confusion, and Hell's common-weal.
Some weeks thus elaps'd, when a Courier came quick,
(The soul of a Jesuit) post—to Old Nick;
To the Presence when brought, he was order'd to tell
All he knew 'till his happy admission in Hell;
“What news his good Viceroy, the Pope, had sent greeting,
“With whom in a short time he hop'd for a Meeting:
“Tho' Lying of all things his Highness admir'd,
“The Truth, and nought else, at this time he requir'd.”
The Jesuit on this most submissively shew'd,
That speaking the Truth was quite out of his Road;
But to please his black Highness for once he wou'd try
To tell what had happen'd without the least Lye:—
With Charles's landing at Skie he began,
Told Edin's surrender, and fam'd Preston-Pan:
On taking Carlisle and the Lancashire rout,
Nick chuckled for joy, and Hell set up a shout;
But soon as Prince William was nam'd, our young Mars,
Their horns were drawn in, and each Fiend hung an A*se:—
“That ill-boding name,” cries Old Nick in a fright,
“Brings fresh to my mind that damn'd year Eighty-Eight:”

241

But Lord! when he heard what strange work had been brewing,
How all their wise schemes had brought on their own ruin;
How William had conquer'd, and Charley had fled,
Poor Devil he chang'd to the colour of Lead:
He blasphem'd, and damning the tongue that had told him,
Flew raging about so, that Hell cou'd scarce hold him;
Whilst all his toad-eating and hoof-licking crew,
Like sheep-biters sneaking, to corners withdrew:
“Are all my great hopes,” roars Old Belzy, blown over?
“Destroy'd by this Heretic House of Hanover?
“Shall Pop'ry and Slav'ry no more rear their head,
“And over Old England my influence spread?—
“No more like myself Papal Bulls roar aloud?
“Nor Jesuits, like Mountebanks, play on the crowd?
“Shall Smithfield Burnt-Off'rings no more shew my sway,
“Nor Britons to power despotic give way?
“In spite of my arts and my best Ally France,
“Shall Freedom and Trade still in England advance?
“Religion still flourish, and over the Main,
“With glory unmatch'd, British Navies still reign?
“Shall Brunswick, whom next to my Maker I hate,
“Still govern mankind, and my projects defeat?
“Zoons, Brimstone and Fury! I vow and declare it,
“Flesh and Blood—nay the Devil himself cannot bear it.”
So saying, half-spent, to his dungeon he crept,
Got drunk with French Brandy;—roar'd, grumbled, and slept.

1746.

Edina; Edinburgh so call'd.

242

The DIFFERENT MEDIUMS.

Ned with his comrade Dick disputes
What Simile the aptest suits,
In striking colours to declare
The various passions of the Fair.

“No Simile so very pat
“To me appears, as that of—Cat,”
Cries Ned: “Tho' thousand proofs arise,
“A few, I fancy, may suffice.

“Women, when young, are frisky, gay,
“Quite kittenish, and full of play;
“When riper grown—in Love or Wit
“Like Cats they're apt to scrat and spit.

“By ancient Bards it has been said,
“A Cat was turn'd into a Maid:
“May we not from that fountain trace
“Our modern skittish, cattish race?

“The fierceness of a Cat is seen
“Whene'er you raise a Woman's spleen;
“This hour she purrs in friendly note,
“The next she fastens on your throat:
“Still in extremes, like Cats they shew,
“Whether they scrat, or purr, or mew.

“'Tis thought that Cats have got nine lives:
“Some husbands think so of their wives.

243

“Blasphemer, hold—(cries Dick) for shame!
“Nor thus the Angel-sex defame:
“If aught beneath high Heav'n can bear
“To stand as Emblem to the Fair,
“The Dove—the Turtle Dove alone,
“Must in that favour'd light be shewn.

“How sweetly Women bill and coo!
“How loving, tender, and how true!
“No gall finds room within their breast,
“There Turtle Love erects his nest;
“Ev'n when they most displeas'd appear,
“The Turtle's plaintive moan we hear.

“When dire Misfortune's baleful smart,
“Has flutter'd little Tommy's heart,
“In his lov'd Mate he constant finds
“A sov'reign balm for wounded minds;
“She curves, and with encircling wings
“Looks, cooes, and acts such tender things,
“Grief's banish'd—and the conscious Grove,
“Re-murmurs with their mutual love:—
“With Dove-like sweetness thus the Fair
“Guards Man against the Fiend Despair:
“She smiles, she speaks, and each caress
“She mixes with such tenderness,
“Misfortune's darts no more annoy,
“But all is Love, and rapt'rous Joy.

“In Patience nothing can compare
“With Turtle Doves—except the Fair.

244

“Pray, what are Venus and her Doves,
“But Emblems of their Charms and Loves?

“Why are the Virtues sex'd as Fair?
“Women than Men more virtuous are.

“In short, in ev'ry thing they do,
“Whether they murmur, bill or coo,
“Women are Turtles, galless, kind, and true.

Ned laugh'd aloud; then sighing said,
“You're single, Dick—but I am wed.”

Thro' different Mediums to Men's eyes,
How widely different things appear!
While Juggler Prejudice supplies
The different Spectacles we wear.

245

The STROLLING HERO.

Of Kings and Queens a buskin'd Troop
On foot—Can Kings thus lowly stoop!—
In quest of food and fame,
To where the Tyne reflecting shows,
Gateshead's proud buildings, as its flows,
From Scotia's borders came.

But Gateshead's Sons, a tasteless breed,
Regardless of those Kings from Tweed,
No friendly homage pay;
Without their Subjects' aid, alas,
Ev'n Monarchs of the highest class
Can neither sing nor say.

Arm link'd in arm, with hideous glare,
Comes Poverty with fell Despair,
And stares 'em in the face;
Great Hamlet soon for want of bail,
Is seiz'd, and hurry'd to a jail,
Unparallel'd disgrace!—

Horatio, Hamlet's Friend sincere,
Hearing the tidings, drops a tear,
And to the prison flies;
The Partner of his Prince's bed,
With two poor Babes, half-cloath'd, worse fed,
He there, heart-stung, espies.

246

“Let banish'd Hope, on pinion fleet,
“Within your soul resume her seat,
“I come to set you free;
“To Me it small avails what Lot,
“Nor Queen or Princelins have I got
“To wail my destiny.

“To serve my Country and my King,
“I'll strait enlist—'twill succour bring
“To set my Prince at large;”—
Hamlet with tears conjures his stay,
In vain—Horatio wings away
To gain his Friend's discharge.

Instant he lists—nor joy admits,
Till durance frightful Hamlet quits,
With gratitude opprest;—
What Conq'ror ever yet was known,
In whom the Hero brighter shone,
Than in Horatio's breast?—

Learn, Grandeur, hence, no more to scorn
Brethren, at humble distance born;—
Wide shoots fair Virtue's stem:—
Nor Title, Rank, or Wealth bestows
True Honor—in the bosom glows
Alone—that prizeless Gem.

Separated from Newcastle as Southwark from London, and where the Incident here told, really happened about nine or ten Years since,

247

The DECEIVERS DECEIVED.

Damon , a Youth in Surry bred,
Arch, whimmy, gay, to London came,
And took it in his shandy head,
Disguis'd, to figure as a Dame.

Cynthia, as shandy full as He,
A manly martial garb put on,
And, Yorkshire bred, with soul of glee,
A buckish, smart-drest Ranger shone.

They met, and with each other struck,
The same droll scheme each Rattle laid,
He—Cynthia thought a brother Buck,
She—Damon thought a sister Maid.

Deceivers both, and both deceiv'd,
An Assignation follow'd strait;
A Bagnio snug the guests receiv'd,
Fit scene for friendly Tête-à-Tête.

The bed prepar'd, the roguish pair,
Full of the cheat they aim'd to play,
Quick to the dernier spot repair,
Where, laughing, both the wantons lay.

But when poor Cynthia found the truth,
What fears her flutt'ring soul possest!
Whilst all enraptur'd was the Youth,
With unexpected treasures blest.

248

The Morn arriv'd, so pleas'd were both,
They instant to the Altar sped,
Where, happy, they exchang'd their troth,
And, Hands and Hearts united, wed.

And Cynthia blest the happy day,
When first a youthful Buck she shone;
Nor Damon less, when wildly gay,
He Magic Petticoats put on.

Yet oh! be cautious how ye're found,
Ye Maiden's fair, in garb of Buck;
For 'tis to one a thousand pound,
Ye stumble not on Cynthia's luck.

249

PHILLIS.

A Cramboad.

Thus my Head to Heart said,
“Zoons, what is the matter,
“You jump so, and thump so,
“And make such a clatter?”
“I'm wounded, confounded,
“And struck with a Dart,
“From the eyes of fair Phillis,”
Replies my fond Heart.

“A slap, near Left Pap
“They gave as in spite,
“That a Hole, which no soul
“Cou'd perceive, made outright;
“There Cupid—quite stupid,
“His Bellows strait pops in,
“And rais'd—flame that blaz'd
“Like that—Vulcan Shop's in.”

“No wonder you thunder,
“And swell so with grief;
“If wise, shun those eyes,
“And seek elsewhere relief.”
“Poh, a F---t,” cries my Heart,
“My flame I'll ne'er smother;
“From her, I'd prefer
“Death, to Life with another.

250

“So witty, so pretty,
“Her sense so refin'd;
“Her mein, like Jove's Queen,
“And such goodness of mind;
“On her breast, that soft nest,
“Wou'd to Heav'n 'twere my home;
“Doubly blest, there I'd rest,
“Nor henceforward wou'd roam.”

So said, away fled
My poor Heart in despair,
And sighing, kept trying
To soften the Fair:
She bouncing, and flouncing,
Show'd nought but disdain;
While shiv'ring, and quiv'ring,
My poor Heart was slain.

At most, like a Ghost,
Now I wander about,
While Phillis, her will is,
To jeer, sneer, and flout:
Tho' I talk, eat, and walk,
And on roast beef regale;
Tho' I laugh, sing and quaff—
Yet I'm dead as door nail.

251

EPIGRAMS, &c.

[From feasting on Garrick how often we find]

From feasting on Garrick how often we find
Fools feast upon Harlequin more to their mind!
Thus Flies, 'tis observ'd, from a taste as absurd,
On Honey first feed;—then—indulge on a T---d.

[Enthusiasts, Lutherans, and Monks]

Enthusiasts, Lutherans, and Monks,
Jews, Syndics, Calvinists, and Punks,
Voltaire an Atheist call;
Whilst he, unhurt, in placid mood,
To prove himself a Christian good,
Kindly forgives them all.

On Two remarkable Orators, who exhibited Lectures of Elocution alternately the same Night at ------ Theatre.

While Fatuus-like a Madman rants and raves,
And sleeping Spectres rouses from their graves;
Crassus, with dull, unvaried, Nurse-like strain,
Most kindly Lullabies them back again.

On seeing Bufo in the Character of Young Bevil.

A puff'd-up Painter, so says Ancient Story,
Aim'd to pourtray an Angel in full glory;
After much toil bestow'd on what he drew,
A special Devil stood expos'd to view:—
Thus Bufo, in his Portrait of Young Bevil,
Transform'd Steele's Christian Hero to a Devil.

252

On a Physician and Man-Midwife.

Physician and Man-Midwife join'd in One!
both Life and Death his power unbounded own;
This Hand to Life inducts us from the Womb;
The other gives us, Pill-struck, to the Tomb.

[To please Pygmalion, Heav'n inspir'd with Life]

To please Pygmalion, Heav'n inspir'd with Life
A Tongueless Stone, of which he made a Wife;
Wou'd Heav'n, all-gracious, hear Asino's moan,
His Wife—her Tongue at least—wou'd soon be Stone.

On seeing the Picture of Justice over the Judge's Seat.

While P**e, with brow severe, and formal saw,
From the Learn'd Bench expounds the Mystic Law;
See Justice o'er his Head as Symbol stand,
The Sword and well-pois'd Scale in either hand;
But P**e, to prove the Goddess a meer Farce,
Unmanner'd Brute!—towards her turns his A*se.

On an odd temper'd Gentleman.

“Never was Man like Macro blest,
“So lov'd, so honor'd, so carest,
“Rich too in worldly pelf:”—
“Indeed, Friend Will, you're much mista'en,
“A Trifle gives him endless pain,
“That Trifle is—Himself.”

253

Written in a Blank Leaf of The Œconomy of Human Life.

Collected in this little Book you see
Wisdom's whole Treasure in Epitome;
Were Angels to turn Authors and indite,
Folios or Quartos they wou'd never write.

Epitaph on Mrs. ------

The Heart that felt for others Woe,
That warm'd with Virtue's sacred Glow,
Is Cold—Clay-cold:—No more her Eyes
Virtue's pure Fount with Tears supplies:
All Cold and silent too that Tongue
Where soft Persuasion ever hung;
Those Lips, where Sweetness still repos'd,
Truth's Portals—now are ever closs'd;
The Mother!—may to bless Mankind,
Children unborn such Mothers find!—
The tender Wife!—but Words are weak,
The Husband's Tears her Worth must speak—
Here lies:—
Be humble, Mortals, learn your Doom,
To this Cold Bed we all must come:
Since Virtue's Favourite lies here,
'Twere Virtue now to shed a Tear.

254

Epitaph on an Honest Poor Farmer.

Let not the Great indulge a scornful Frown,
When told—“Here lies, what was, an honest Clown:”
Tho' humble, yet his Pride was often seen;
He scorn'd, tho' low, to stoop to what was mean:
To Virtue if Reward above be given,
This Clown on Earth, Ennobled is in Heaven.

On a favourite Actor.

Farewell Horror, Rage, and Love,
Farewell all the Soul can move;
Farewell Humor, Wit, and Joke,
Here Nature's Looking-Glass lies broke.

On ------

With Safety Truth may now appear;
Her greatest Foe lies buried here.

Written over a Burial Vault.

One common Boast attends King, Clown, and Hero,
Contain'd in these few Words—Sum, Fui, Ero.

255

The TRIPLE ALLIANCE.

As Phœbus seated on high Pindus' Brow,
Beam'd forth his blessings on the world below;
While round his Throne the tuneful Sisters play,
And Wit and Music hail the God of Day,
Folly with grinning Face, and vacant Head,
And Vice, to Joy and Feeling ever dead,
With black Hypocrisy, their fav'rite Child,
(By some the Spleen, some Superstition stil'd)
Cringing approach'd the Throne, and thus they spoke:—
“Your Justice, mighty Phœbus, we invoke;
“Shall Satire, Wit, and Humor—menial Things!
“Who can't like Us, a lineage boast from Kings,
“Shall They from the curst Stage their Arrows send,
“And True Religion impiously offend?
“Say is it fitting We shou'd bend the knee
“And dread Thalia and Melpomene?
“The Stage destroy'd, we shou'd no more complain,
“But Mankind own our Universal Reign.”

With brow contracted, and disdainful eye,
Melpomene advanc'd to make reply,
When with a sprightly archness in her look,
Thalia thus the kindred Pests bespoke;
“Sweet Madam Vice, from whom we pluck the veil,
“And shew the World what you wou'd fain conceal;
“And goodman Folly, whose chaotic rule,
“Mankind wou'd own, but for my Ridicule;

256

“And Thou, Hypocrisy, of Sense the shame,
“Who impiously usurp'st Religion's name,
“Tho' differing wide, as Guinea's sooty train
“From those fair Nymphs who grace Britannia's Plain;
“The Muses' Looking-glass shall show ye bare,
“Not as Ye wou'd appear, but as Ye are;
“Stript of disguise, your souls we will display,
“And hunt ye as the wildest beasts of prey;
“And tho', while Men have Passions, so says Fate,
“We can't a certain lasting Cure create,
“We'll still, with Virtue's aid, your pow'r assail,
“And make ye feel the force of Tickle-Tail.”

So said, her Lash she rear'd, and at the sight,
The Fiends, trembling with rage and venom'd spite,
Vanish'd like Fiends, conceal'd in shades of Night.

Let bloated Envy gnaw the bloody File,
The Muses and their Priests at Envy smile;
Unwounded still the Instrument remains,
'Tis Envy's blood the crimson'd File distains.

257

The CONTEST.

A Vision.

Last night, as musing on my bed I lay,
And mimic Fancy rul'd with boundless sway,
Sleep gently lull'd my faculties to Rest,
And Fairy Mab with Magic charm'd my breast;
Methought I stood near Helicon's fam'd stream—
(Critics, observe—all this was but a Dream:)
Where Tragedy, with slow and stately pace,
And keen-ey'd Comedy, with smiling Grace,
Two Sister Muses—seem'd in warm debate,
Who best deserv'd Pre-eminence of State.

“With Jove's own Bird the short-wing'd Wren might vie,
“And perch on Heav'n's high Palace in the Sky
“(Exclaims Melpomene) as You with Me
“Contest presume in Rank and Dignity:
“Courts, Heroes, Kings—my Verse sublime require,
“You distant gaze—nor dare so high aspire:
“Ev'n in the inmost Chambers of the Soul,
“The fiercest Passions own my vast controul;
“While You in lightsome strains, with tickling smart,
“Play round the head, but seldom touch the heart:
“In a superior Orbit, lo! I shine;—
“Think not, vain Girl, your Merit equals mine.”

“Cloud-hawling Sister, quit your high Abode,
“And, if you can, descend to Reason's road,”

258

Cries Comedy, (and curtsey'd as she spoke)
“My Laughter, not my Anger you provoke:
“Our Stations Father Jove fix'd here below,
“In Virtue's cause to combat ev'ry Foe;
“Our Mirrors to erect, and teach mankind
“Self-knowledge in the portrait of the mind;
“Vice to unmask, and Folly to expose,
“And shew them, as from Hell they naked rose:
“Your province Vice,—mine Folly,—our success
“The different Aspects of our foes confess:
“Courts, you avow, is your peculiar sphere—
“What mighty wonders has your glass wrought there?
“Are Kings and pension'd Courtiers more inclin'd
“To Virtue, than the rest of humankind?
“Ah, Sister! if mankind I justly read,
“Courts are unfriendly soils for Virtue's seed—
“Ev'n there—when Rainbow-Folly meets your eyes,
“Abash'd, the Coward veils in Wisdom's guise;
“While bare-fac'd Vice with frontlet glares of brass,
“Nor blushes at her portrait in the glass.
“'Tis mine, with this keen lash of Ridicule,
“Tickling to probe each Folly-govern'd Fool;
“To no one Sphere confin'd, I hunt my game,
“Or country, city, court—to me the same:
“Equal with you, thro' the blue vaulted sky
“On sounding pinions at my will I fly;
“Yet never soar so high, to Reason true,
“But Land-mark Nature still I keep in view:—
“Your vain Pre-eminence, sweet Girl, resign,
“If any—that Pre-eminence is mine.”

259

All this sly Opera heard, and with a Trill
Which Echo answer'd from Parnassus Hill,
Her claim preferr'd:—“In vain your pow'rs ye boast;
“Know, Sisters, that 'tis Opera rules the roast:
“Mortals by me possest, now laugh, now cry,
“Expire, revive—and all—they know not why:
“On Music's wings my Votaries are caught
“To Heav'n, freed from the galling chain of thought.
“That Music's charms can soothe the savage beast,
“Among your favourite Britons stands confest;
“Let your own Fanes, Drury and Covent tell,
“Whether or You or Opera bears the bell:
“The mountain-nurtur'd Swiss, whose callous souls
“Not all Your Pathos or Your Wit controuls,
“To Me submissive humblest homage pay,
“And live or die obedient to my sway;
“And what my influence proves beyond compare,
“Castratos now are Fav'rites of the Fair.”

Melpomene, with looks of cold disdain,
(Looks which yet more than words her thoughts explain)
Just glanc'd contempt, nor deign'd to make reply;
When thus, with mirth replete, brisk Comedy
Retorts:—“Thou mere Vacuity! Thou Thing of Air!
“In Merit shall Sol fa with us compare!

260

“Hence, and thy distance know, and thank kind Heav'n,
“If in our Train an humble lot is giv'n:
“At best, the outward Flourish you dispense
“To deck and ornament Dramatic Sense;
“Shall Truth and Nature, like a frothy Beau,
“Fix all their Merit in vain empty Show?”—

More she had said, but Phœbus from his throne,
Thus stopt debate, and Jove's high will made known;
“Sisters, for shame! your ill-judg'd Strife forbear,
“Muse against Muse is most unnatural war: —
“To combat Giant Vice, to mend the heart,
“To draw forth Virtue's tears—and joys impart,
“Which none but Good and Feeling Souls can know,
“Be Yours, Melpomene:—While Folly's Foe
“Thalia stands confest; and Heart and Head
“Frees from those weeds, too apt to overspread
“The human soil: Oft-times the richest ground
“Will, if neglected, most in weeds abound:
“Large and alike extensive either field,
“Equal the mutual benefits they yield;
“Equal be then your Rank:—'Tis Jove's decree,
“Henceforth ye live in kindred Amity,
“Nor either claim unjust Precedency.

“By Sense prepar'd to raise the Soul on high
“To Heav'n, upon the wings of Harmony,
“Opera, that task be Yours: But, Unprepar'd
“By Sense, in vain the Strain delusive's heard;

261

“For Music, void of Sense, to all intent,
“Is but a Sweetmeat without Nourishment.
“Your Province is to see your pleasing Aid,
“Dependent, at your Sisters' Call display'd:
“Aided by You, they sooner shall controul,
“And pour the Balm of Virtue in the Soul;
“But for the Lead—to that drop all pretence,
“Sound still must yield Precedency to Sense:
“They never in the Vanguard shou'd appear,
“Whose station's fix'd by Heaven in the Rear:
“Friends all! henceforth like Brethren kindly love,
“And Heav'n and Earth the Union will approve.”—

To Jove's Award the Sisters lowly bow'd,
And close embracing, mutual friendship vow'd;
Link'd like the Graces hand in hand they sped—
The Watchman call'd the hour—the Vision fled.

Interdum Vocem tollit Comœdia,

As a striking Instance of the Power of Music, the Swiss, who are not a People of the quickest Sensation, are said to have at this Time a Tune, which, when play'd upon their Fifes, inspires them with such a Desire of revisiting their native Country, that if prevented they languish and die of Grief. This Tune is therefore, under severe Penalties, forbid to be play'd by the Swiss Regiments in foreign Service, as it would infallibly cause them to desert.

Dunce against Dunce is most unnatural War. Pope.

262

PROLOGUE Spoken by Mr. W---n on opening the Theatre under the Sanction of his Majesty's Patent.

Too long the Muse an Alien had been deem'd;
By Stealth alone on York her influence beam'd;
Her wings curtail'd—by Law forbad to roam,
And proud Augusta doom'd her partial Home;
Scorning restraint, yet driven to submit,
And forc'd, alas! to smuggle Sense and Wit;
But still the Muse was lawless and disguis'd,
Hated by Fools—or worse—by Fools despis'd;—
York's ancient Genius griev'd the sight to view,
His Pride, his Honor rous'd, like lightning flew—
Indignant flew—and kneeling at the Throne,
To Britain's Sov'reign made his sorrows known:—
Ebor's complaint our Sov'reign soon redrest;—
Our Sovereign reigns—to make his Subjects blest:
The Muse exulting clapp'd her magic wings,
And, after bending to the best of Kings,
Swell'd her prophetic raptures, whilst around
Ebor's exulting Vales re-echoed the glad sound.

“On these bright plains belov'd by ev'ry Muse,
“Which Phœbus daily blesses as he views,
“The Sister Muses, patroniz'd by Laws,
“Shall pour their Magic in fair Virtue's cause;
“Their Mirror and their Lash aloft shall rear,
“While Vice and Folly cringe with coward fear;
“And York, as second in Britannia's Isle,
“Shall with Augusta share their genial smile.

263

“Nor shall the grateful Muse forget what's due,
“To King, to Laws, to Country, and—to You.
“Henceforth each circling year, on this glad day,
“Cithæron's Groves shall swell the festive lay,
“And ev'ry Flow'r and Sweet Parnassus yields,
“The Muse will plant in Ebor's smiling fields,
“Garlands of which, compos'd from Taste's rich bed,
“She'll weave in wreaths to grace each Patron's head.”

Long have I wish'd for, what with joy I see,
The Thespian Muse once more at liberty:
My little All I ventur'd in her cause,
And the reward I wish—is—your Applause;
On your known Candor chearful I depend,
And hope a Sanction from each gen'rous Friend.

264

An EPILOGUE.

[Actors are grown religious now-a-days]

Actors are grown religious now-a-days,
And Epilogues are Graces after Plays:
I hope our Opera prov'd a decent Treat,
And Grace, you know, shou'd follow after Meat.

Quite tir'd with singing, cou'd I but prevail,
Instead of Epilogue, you'd hear a Tale?—
Thank ye, I read your looks; content they seem;
A Tale I'll give, and Music be my Theme.

Springing from Earth, a Lark had new begun
To hail with Mattins the uprising Sun,
When a huge Boar, just tumbling from his Sty,
Thus grunted to the Warbler of the Sky:
“Zoons! what a hideous noise! that screaming note!
“I wish Old Nick was dancing down your throat;
“You see Me wallow quiet in my dung,
“I eat my puddings, and I hold my tongue:
“Why can't you live like me?—Cram and be wise;
“In cramming—ugh!—the greatest pleasure lies.”

The Lark his Music for a moment ceas'd,
And thus address'd the long-ear'd grunting beast:
“Peace, growling Wretch! unfeeling of those joys,
“Which Thou and Savages like Thee call noise:
“Thoughtless of Earth, I warbling upward rove,
“Tow'rds Heav'n, the seat of Music and of Love:

265

“Or if, perchance, my eyes to Earth I bend,
“My Carrols for a moment I suspend;
“Pitying, I view the half-enliven'd Throng,
“To Music callous, and the thrilling song:
“'Tis a sixth Sense, by kind indulgent Heaven
“To favour'd Man and feather'd Songsters given:
“Where Music's felt, we taste the bliss of Gods;
“Without it Larks, like Boars, were breathing Clods:
“Roll in your filth; grunt on—nor dare decry
“Beings superior—Tenants of the Sky.”

So said, the little Warbler upwards sprung,
And left the carping Boar in filth and dung;
While the gross Savage, from his kindred Mud
Stood gaping, nor one Warble understood.

Tho' Boars, sometimes, the human Form disgrace,
Such, never yet, thank Heav'n, were seen within this place.

266

An EPILOGUE Spoken by Mrs. ---, after playing the Character of Lady Brute.

As Criminal on Gibbet high suspended,
A dreadful warning-piece to All's intended,
Just so—poor Lady Brute's unhappy fate
Seems to proclaim—Beware the Married State.

But judge not, Ladies, that a wedded life
Is a perpetual fund of hate and strife;
When Hymen smiles, his joys are next divine,
Friendship and Love their sweetest flowers entwine:
Believe me—for of both I've stood the Test,
A single life is but half life at best.

Some Sir John Brutes, I own, are to be found,
But, Heav'n be prais'd, those Monsters don't abound;
Yet when to such in wedlock we are given,
Are we not kind to send the Brutes to Heaven?

Search the world thro', in general you'll find,
That Marriage is a draught of the mix'd kind,
A Cordial bitter-sweet, a pleasing Pain;
An April-day, now sunshine and now rain;
A League Defensive—and—alas, too true—
It (sometimes) proves a League Offensive too:
'Tis, in the Jockeys' phrase, a Give-and-Take,
Where each some small allowances shou'd make.

267

The Matrimonial Tree all Tastes can suit;
It yields at once both sweet and acid fruit:
The Sweet—too luscious—oft-times is amended,
When with a little Dash of Acid blended:
And sure the Acid were a sad repast,
Did not the blended Sweet correct the taste:
With genuine Spirits mix'd in Hymen's Bowl,
A pleasing draught they make to glad the soul.

But oh, this caution let me beg you'd take—
Be sparing of the Acid for Love's Sake;
A little Acid gives a pleasing Zest,
But Much—the Cholic breeds, and don't digest.

From Sir John's fate learn, Husbands, to be wise;
Govern you may, but ne'er shou'd tyrannize:
If you wou'd have Us Honour and Obey,
To Love and Cherish is your wisest way.

268

An EPILOGUE Spoken by Mrs. P. in the Character of Hypolita, in She Wou'd or She Wou'd Not.

There's something surely in this dress inspires,
And with unusual glee and courage fires;
For thus accout'red—rat me—Who's afraid
Of blust'ring Blood or Buck, or ev'n Cockade?
For a cool Thrust if any are inclin'd,
Let 'em approach—in Me their Man they'll find:
Their Man I say—More Title I can show
To Man—than many a puny, trifling Beau.

Were it a rule—a rule by all agreed,
That none shou'd pass for Men, but Men indeed,
How, mighty Sirs, would your large numbers dwindle,
And Swords be chang'd to Distaff and to Spindle?

At public Places with my Opera Glass,
I cou'd shine out a Buck of the First Class:
“A fine Piece that, my Lord—a damn'd fine Face;
“She's quite the Thing—Bon Soir—A Girl's the Case:
“A Bagnio and a Supper:—She's my own:—
“She has me in her Eye—Tres humb.—I'm gone.”

[Sings, Love and Wine give ye Gods, or take back, &c.]

Suppose, in time of War, a Female band,
Shou'd, for the honor of their native land,
In Regimental Uniforms appear,
(Come, come, good Sirs, you need not laugh and sneer)

269

A British Amazonian Band, if led
By Major General P***** at their head,
Not Prussia's King, the Hero of the age,
With Us, brave as he is, wou'd dare engage.

And at Reviews, there we shou'd doubly shine;
When drest and powder'd we shou'd look divine:
How graceful to the fife shou'd we advance!
Keep time—and Step by Step—half march—half dance: [Hums a minuet Tune, and takes 'em off in their marching.]

We'd charge, prime, cock, discharge, recharge—then shoulder;
And like Militia Men look bold—nay bolder:
Now to the Right—Now to the Left—and then—
We're quicker in our Motions far—than Men.

If, my good Female Friends, with me you'll join,
And a Petition to this purpose sign;
The Parliament now sits;—in Y*** fair City,
We could of Heroines—tho' brave yet pretty,
A Regiment raise:—Perhaps, as a reward,
The King may chuse Us for his Body Guard;
And if he shou'd—(may Heav'n's best love attend him!)
We'd proudly lay our Lives down to defend him.

270

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Master Billy Powell, a Child in his fifth Year.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the other day
My Aunty question'd me, if I cou'd play;
Not like the little-Boys of my own age,
But like a Man—act parts upon this Stage:
Lord, Aunty, said I, I can act or sing,
Can play a Hero, Lover, or a King;
With plume of feathers on my head, I'd strut,
And look as fierce as King of Lilliput:
Both W---n and F---m I'd excell,
At least, I think, I cou'd do full as well:—
Your Heroes are not always six foot high,
Garrick's a little Man, and so am I:
In Richard I cou'd cry, with thund'ring force—
A Horse—a Horse—my Kingdom for a Horse;
In Romeo dash against the flinty stones;—
Careful, however, that I break no bones;
Rave like Othello in my Jealous Fit,
Nay—on a pinch, I cou'd a Rape commit:—
And in your Comic Parts, you soon shou'd see
O---m and R---n both yield to me;
I'd try in Justice Woodcock, that old Cat,
To make Rosetta do—You all know what:
And then in Scrub!— [Laughs]
—Oh, Lord! I'd make you split—
About my Lady's Water—and the Jesuit.

271

Now Gentlemen and Ladies—That's ill bred;—
Ladies and Gentlemen, I shou'd have said—
If you encourage my fine growing Spirit,
You'll soon find out that I'm a Lad of Merit;
And if you'd make my little Heart rejoice,
You'll all unite in one applauding Voice.

272

A PROLOGUE, Spoken at the Opening the New Theatre in Hull, October 3, 1768.

To check the Growth of Folly o'er the Mind,
To banish Vice and to reform Mankind,
The Muse descended from her native Skies,
And bad—her fav'rite Gift—the Stage arise:
In Greece and Italy, those happy Climes,
For Arts and Wisdom known to latest Times,
Her Mirror with Success the Muse display'd,
And Virtue's Precepts happily convey'd.—
But when with Gothic Ignorance o'erspread,
Fair Liberty and Learning droop'd their Head,
With them the Muse to Heav'n resum'd her Flight,
And all was Darkness and Chaotic Night;
Her Banners Superstition wide display'd,
And Ignorance with leaden Sceptre sway'd.—
Some Ages past, bright Liberty again,
With Learning, Truth, and Science in her Train,
From Heav'n returning, beam'd her sunny Head,
And Superstition's Night-Owls trembling fled;
Then, Nature's Boast, great Shakespeare, and a Throng
Of Heav'n-inspir'd pour'd forth th' inchanting Song;
And all that Italy and Greece cou'd boast,
Were doubly shed on Britain's happy Coast.

“In HULL, that favour'd Soil whence Marvel sprung,
“Where, Heav'n-inspir'd, her native Mason sung,”

273

Thus to her Levites did the Muse declare,
(We Players, be it known, her Levites are)
“In this lov'd Spot, she cry'd, a Temple raise
“Sacred to Phoebus, and the Muses Lays;
“With Elegance and Splendor let it shine,
“The Stage my Altar, and each Scene a Shrine;
“Here oft the Muse shall bid each Passion rise,
“Whilst every feeling Breast shall sympathise;
“Here Tragedy in all her Pomp of Woe,
“Shall teach the gen'rous heart-sprung Tear to flow;
“Here Comedy shall use her utmost Art
“To banish Rainbow-Folly from the Heart;—
“By Proxy cur'd, Men shall grow cheaply wise,
“And their own Faults, in others stamp'd, despise.”—

Obedient to the Muses high Commands,
Behold the rising Temple graceful stands;
Our Manager no Merit claims as due;
The Pow'r to raise the Temple—sprung from You:—
The many, many Favours you have shown,
Grateful he owns, and will for ever own:—
If this Attempt to Please, your Sanction gains,
He's more than overpaid for all his Pains.

274

An EPILOGUE, By Araminta, in the Confederacy.

Our Poet, tho' for Wit and Humor fam'd,
For want of Moral has been sometimes blam'd;
Unjustly sure: The Characters he paints,
I own, resemble Sinners more than Saints:
But Sinners shou'd be brought upon the Stage,
(For such there are, ev'n in this Blessed Age)
Or how shou'd We, so Virtuous and so Good,
Learn to avoid the Snares of Flesh and Blood:
Vice here expos'd, as Vice, is fully shown;
Old Nick, by his Club-Foot is always known.

Ye naughty Husbands, and ye naughty Wives,
From what ye've seen, learn to amend your Lives;
But chief, ye Gripes and Moneytraps—for You
Our Moral Bard his Moral Lesson drew:
Be Generous; nor abroad for Pleasure roam,
Hunt not for Game which you may start at Home;
Consider—Wives forsaken can with Ease
Repay you—Tit for Tat—whene'er they please;
Whilst You intrigue Abroad, devoid of Grace,
A Cicesbey may fill your vacant Place:
For loving Wives take it extremely ill,
When Husbands smuggle Grist to a strange Mill.

When in the Matrimonial Knot we're bound,
The Obligation Mutual should be found;
For Bills of Rights our Lordly Mates contend,
We too have Rights and Charters to defend;

275

On slow Petitions They their Hopes may build,
We'll boldly dare our Rulers to the Field;
Where Face to Face, shou'd they our Prowess try,
Poor Souls! we'd cool their Courage presently.—
Let us at least an equal pow'r maintain,
And like King Will and Mary jointly reign.

Ye mighty Sirs, who aim at sov'reign Sway,
And think poor Wives are born but to Obey,
If you wou'd have us true to Honor's Race,
Be you our Guides—we'll follow in the Chace:
Dare not, yourselves, on Marriage Vows to trample,
We'll do our best—to follow your Example.

276

A FRAGMENT.

[In that strange Soil where Affectation rules]

In that strange Soil where Affectation rules,
That sickly Paradise of sick-brain'd Fools,
Where Bibliops, a num'rous clam'rous Corps,
As Scullers ply to waft you to the Shore,
Where Nurses, Beaus, and Misses eager post,
To doze away their Hours on Folly's coast,
Thither, by Fancy wing'd, quick let me fly,
To taste the Comforts of a Lullaby.

Soon as you enter the enchanted Ground,
A few soft Notes from ev'ry Quarter sound,
Most delicate—most virtuous—most refin'd—
With Phrases from the Gallic Shore purloin'd,
Mellifluous Sounds, devoid of all Offence,
Join'd to a strange Vacuity of Sense,
Which from Tautology's dull Parrot Tongue
From Morn to Night are either said or sung;
The ravish'd Hearers think 'em all divine,
Yawn forth their Praises, and to Sleep incline;
Whilst Ignorance in Rainbow Colours drest,
With frothy Syllabub crams ev'ry Guest.

In Ribbons drest and Furbelows, the Muse
Bedizen'd like an Harlot from the Stews,
(The Muse! rather a Shade that dare assume
The Muse's Name without one heav'nly Plume)
As Maid of Honor on the Queen attends,
And to the lowest Flatt'ry condescends.

277

Of fancy'd Bards, and Grub-streets of each Class,
Is form'd a strange, an Heteroclite Mass;
Some unimpassion'd in dull florid Lays
(Soft opiate Nothings) hum their Monarch's Praise;
Others, a Novel-scribbling trifling Throng,
Strew Poppies as their Sov'reign moves along;
Whilst Music, void of Nature, proud of Art,
“Plays round the Head, but touches not the Heart.”

Within the Palace, Folly-Castle hight,
Where Truth ne'er rays her pure celestial Light,
But thro' a Rainbow Medium to the Gaze,
Her short-liv'd Visions Falshood still displays,
Of either Sex a motley Crew attend,
And at their Sov'reign's Levee constant bend;
Foremost in Rank and Favour ------ [OMITTED]

Desunt Cætera.

278

Miss SALLY and the RED-BREAST.

Banish'd by Winter's churlish Sway,
The feather'd Songsters fly,
Nor longer from each waving Spray,
Resounds sweet Melody.

A little Robin, hunger-pin'd,
Wing'd on to W--- Seat,
Where Hospitality refin'd
Has fix'd her lov'd Retreat.

The Window open, in he flew,
Miss Sally ey'd her Guest;
Not Robin's Self more Sweetness knew,
Or a more spotless Breast.

A Cake, well-plumb'd, fair Sally eat,
Playful, upon her Stool;
Her little Heart with wishes beat,
To kiss the Red-breast Fool.

With cautious Hop and Look askance
The Stranger ey'd the Room,
Till Sally's Smiles taught him advance,
And pick the scatter'd Crumb.

Embolden'd now he comes more near,
And feasts beneath her Feet;
From Looks so kind what can he fear,
Or from a Voice so sweet.

279

That “Fate oft gilds his baited Snare,”
Wise was the Man who said;
A Cat fierce springing from a Chair,
Mark'd Robin with the Dead.

Miss Sally scream'd; the gushing Tide
Pour'd down her Angel-cheek;
Her little Bosom heav'd;—She sigh'd,
As tho' her Heart wou'd break.

Banish'd for ever from her sight,
Grimalkin's doom'd to fly;
Nor fav'rite Doll can now delight,
Or stop the rising Sigh.

When Pearl-ey'd Pity and soft Love
With Infant Beauty join,
Such Virtues must, when ripen'd, prove
A Being all Divine.

280

On WIT and HUMOR.

(To Miss B---n.)

'Twixt Wit and Humor, pretty Miss,
The Diff'rence, I opine, is this,
Bright as the Sun, and light as Air,
Is Wit, a spritely meteor Fair,
The Daughter of gay-skirted Iris,
Phœbus, that flashy God, her Sire is:
Humor, an arch young Wag, all Glee,
First-born of Miss Euphrosine
By Phœbus eke;—In Masquerade
He so bewitch'd the tempting Maid,
That she resign'd her unzon'd Charms,
All joyous, to his rakish Arms.

Half-Sister She, and He Half-Brother,
They're oft mista'en for one another;
And yet—however near ally'd,
In many Things they differ wide.

Wit, like a Sweet-Meat at Repast,
Gives a delicious pungent Taste;
Humor, a standing Dish more plain,
Invites with—Cut and come again;
The one a British Roast-Beef Treat,
The other Cayenne to the Meat;
Depriv'd of their enliv'ning Aid,
In vain Thalia's Feast's display'd,
Zestless each Dish, the Bev'rage queer,
And spiritless as dead Small-Beer,
While all the Guests are yawning seen,
Infected with November Spleen.

281

Wit—like Jove's Lightning from the Skies,
Strikes with delightful wild surprize;
Humor—a cheerful lasting Blaze
O'er laughing Fields and Meads displays;
With Phiz Cervantic holds a Glass,
Where Nature's flitting Objects pass;—
Wit's Flash—to the congenial Mind
Alone, presents her Scenes refin'd.

On Humor Laughter joyous waits,
And Health and Cheerfulness creates,
But Wit, tho' Smiles her Visage beam,
Of coarser Joy knows no Extreme.

Humor on Character depends,
Depriv'd of that his being ends;
Whereas from Peer, Priest, Clown or Cit,
What's Wit in One, in All is Wit.

Humor, in fine, like Stays must fit
The Body which he aims to hit;
Whilst pliant Wit, like outside Cloak,
Fits you a thousand diff'rent Folk:—

Humor and Wit's chief Recreation
Their fav'rite Hunt is Affectation;
Tho' Vice obliquely to the Heart,
They sometimes pierce with stinging Dart;
Both tickle when they give the Wound,
Both Cordial Bitter-Sweets are found;
A Janus Mask they sometimes wear
And stiff-lac'd Prudes and Blockheads scare,
Who Fribble-like, Oh fy! exclaim,
And think all double Things a Shame;
With such, trite Sentiment is Taste,
And want of Wit and Humor—Chaste.

282

Sometimes like Swiss they fight for Pay,
And Vice's dark Commands obey;
When thus their Talents they misplace,
Their Sire condemns 'em to Disgrace,
Their Arrows blunts, or backward wings
To their own Hearts the barbed Stings.

Thalia oftentimes invokes
Wit's Flash, and Master Humor's Jokes;
But coy, they seldom Succour lend,
And but by Fits and Starts attend.

In Congreve, Butler, Wicherley,
Than Humor far more Wit we see;
In Fielding, Addison, Moliere,
Than Wit more Humor does appear;
Sometimes so lovingly they join,
They seem like Man and Wife—but One;
Thus Shakespear, Swift, and Sterne are found
With equal Portions to abound.

This certain Rule we may admit,
Where Humor is, oft flashes Wit;
And where Wit strikes us, not far distant
Humor attends as Wit's Assistant;
For Sister-like and loving Brother,
They're vastly fond of one another.

Living Example wou'd you find,
Where Wit and Humor are combin'd,
Search not our modern Bards among,
Their Sans Souci's fair B---n's Tongue.

283

The LARK and MAGPIES:

(On hearing a Friend decry'd by some Wou'd-be's.)

Among the Brilliants of Mankind,
How many Wou'd-be Wits we find!
Pert dull and loud, to Censure prone,
With no Ideas of their own?
Without a Smile who Sterne read o'er,
At Miller's Jests yet loudly roar;
Unfeeling of true Attic Glee,
Who think all Sociability,
Consists in Noise and Ribaldry.

A Lark whose Trillings were inspir'd,
By ev'ry Bird of Taste admir'd,
Who oft his Visits to Parnass
Upwing'd, a pleasing Hour to pass,
And where in Hippocrene's Rill,
He sometimes dipt his little Bill,
And then in sweet Arcadian Strains,
Warbled of Hills, Dales, Groves and Plains;
Was by the Million little known,
Because retir'd he liv'd alone.

A Corps of Magpies who had plac'd
Themselves upon the Throne of Taste,
Sent Seignior Lark an Invitation,
Just to partake a slight Collation,
Where none but Magpies blythe and hearty,
They told him—were to grace the Party.

284

He came—he hail'd the Wou'd-be Crew,
Around the Room loud Nonsense flew;
At their own Jests they dully laugh,
The wittiest he who most can quaff;
The Lark, a modest well-bred Bird,
Cou'd scarce thrust in a single Word;
Whene'er he spoke, no Ear inclin'd,
His Wit was rather too refin'd;
The choicest Spirit he, who most
Cou'd lie, or give the lewdest Toast,
And murd'ring Female Reputation,
Seem'd their most fav'rite Recreation;
Some, Gossip Tales made wond'rous long,
Some, bellow'd out a witless Song,
While some their Prowess loud resound,
And wield their airy Fauchions round,
Thus bully Cravens bear, 'tis said,
The largest Cock's-Combs on their Head.

In Critical Detachments some
Get into Corners of the Room;
As Arbiters of Sense and Song,
They analys'd the feather'd Throng;—
With Them, “the Linnet's Note's too low,
“The Finch, a fribblish, tuneless Beau,
“The Thrush, a downright noisy Screamer,
“The Red-breast, a dull sleepy Dreamer,
“The Nightingale, a Bird whose Lay
“Wou'd pass unnotic'd in the Day;
“In short, no Fowl that wings the Air,”
They said, “with Magpies cou'd compare;”—
They drank, disputed, chatter'd, swore,
And brainless Folly kept the Door.

285

The Lark, with Indignation fir'd,
Soon made his Congé, and retir'd.

With Critic Shrug and scornful Eye,
When gone, the Mags their Guest decry;
“What this a Songster!—Ev'n the Owl,
“Seems not a more insipid Fowl;
“Amid our Humor, Mirth and Wit,
“Did ye not mark him humdrum sit?
“To Cradle since I bad Adieu,
“So dull a Bird I never knew;
“Nay, what compleatly mark'd him Dunce,
“He pass'd the Bottle more than once;
“And then for Music!—may I die
“If there's one Note of Melody;
“He makes a furious Noise, tis true,
“So does the Thrush and Blackbird too:—
“Critics I hate, who Cur-like bark,
“But—Heav'n be prais'd! I'm not a Lark.”

A Wit 'mong Fools will ever pass
(Fools still are purblind) for an Ass.

286

On a ROBIN's singing near my Window in Autumn.

On yonder Tree with warbling Note
The little Red-breast swells his Throat,
In Silence while the feather'd Throng,
List to his more melodious Song;
Did not the Sun the Truth reveal,
You'd swear it was the Nightingale.

Autumn's sweet Bird! From Woods and Groves,
His Summer Haunts, he now removes,
To Man for friendly Shelter flies;
A Pittance Robin's Meed supplies;
Our warmest Love he well repays,
All grateful, with his melting Lays.

Upon my Window's Ledge each Day,
The scatter'd Crumb shall court your Stay;
Or shou'd the Cold's unfriendly Spell
Within my Sash your Flight impell;
A plenteous Welcome shall be shown,
And boundless Freedom still your own.

Fidelia erst wou'd raptur'd bend,
And to your soothing Lay attend;
Her Soul in tuneful Softness drest,
Congenial Harmony exprest,
Sing on, while list'ning to your Strain,
Entranc'd—I view her Charms again.

Few Birds, if any but the Robin, are heard to sing towards the Middle or Close of Autumn.

287

CUPID's DECISION.

The Bench my Lord Chief Cupid grac'd,
A full-coif'd learned Judge, I wiss;
Poor Strephon at the Bar was plac'd,
For robbing Celia of a Kiss.

The Charge well prov'd, the Culprit cast,
With Willes's Air and Murray's Tongue
My Lord this dreadful Sentence past,
Around while mute Attention hung.

“The Court decrees for Crimes like this,
“Since Lawful Kissing won't content ye,
“The Culprit for each ravish'd Kiss,
“Shou'd Retribution make of Twenty.”—

Strephon to meet his Sentence flew,
When, kneeling, thus the blushing Maid;
“My Lord, I beg, if such my Due,
“The Debt in Private may be paid.”

An Abbreviation us'd by Lawyers for Lord Chief Justice.

288

On reading some EASTERN TALES, lately published.

These Eastern Tales so prettily exprest,
(Effusions from the Goose-quills of the West)
Those frigid Nothings speak their mud-sprung birth,
Their Parents mole-ey'd Gnomes, incor'd with earth,
While Hawksworth's Eagle Genius soars on high,
Wings to the Eastern chambers of the Sky,
There the enraptur'd Bard the God inspires,
And with his Oriental Magic fires;
His Pow'r, Sprites, Demons, Genii, all confess;—
He paints—and Fancy wears her richest dress:—
The Talisman his Pen that charms at will,
Not Salomon cou'd use it with more skill:
Invention glows—while Virtue guides each line;
We read—we feel the magic all divine.—
Ye paltry Scribblers hide your feeble rays,
Hawksworth alone can pour the Eastern blaze.

Author of the Adventurer, Almoran and Hamet, &c. &c.

289

The WREATH.

Near the Castalian Fount the God of Day
Met Shakespear warbling a melodious Lay,
More trilling sweet than all the labour'd notes,
Gallia can boast refin'd thro' artful throats;
Upon the Poet's Brow no Laurel shone,
Yet blithsome as the Lark he journey'd on;
The God stop'd short, amazement in his look,
And, eager, thus his favourite Bard bespoke:—
“What sacrilegious Wretch has stripp'd thy Brow?
“Quick on the Fiend my vengeance let me show.”
Smiling the Bard replies—“The Laurel Crown
“From my own Brow I took—nay never frown—
“And on my darling Garrick's Head have plac'd
“Those Honors, by the Actor not disgrac'd.”—
The God grew calm, and instant thus replies,
“Your Garrick well deserves the hallow'd Prize;
“And you, my other Self, wear this:”—So said,
With his own Wreath he crown'd the Poet's Head.

290

The FAIRY VISIT.

Near Bootham Walk, where City Belles and Beaus
On Sundays flock, to show themselves—and Cloaths,
At that still Hour when thro' Heav'n's concave Space,
The Moon had, cloudless, journey'd half her Race,
When Midnight Chimes to Spectres Freedom hail'd,
And Sleep's dark Mantle half Creation veil'd,
Upon a neighb'ring Green with Daisies spread,
Where May with lavish Hand her Fragrance shed,
Instant as Polar Lightning start to View,
The Fairy Sov'reign and her subject Crew;
Erect the Queen, superior to the rest,
Her Look, Mien, Garb a Royal Worth confest;
Her Robe, the Down of unfledg'd Doves supply'd,
Wove in the Moon and in the Rainbow dy'd;
The shining Drops that in her Ear-rings play'd,
Of Tears from virtuous Lucreece' Eyes were made,
Which Chastity with icy Fingers froze,
Memento of her Honor, Truth, and Woes;
A Moth's Meal-silver'd Wing a Fan bestow'd,
To cool her Beauties when her Visage glow'd;
Her Crown a Topaz, powder'd from the Sky
With sparkling Treasures of the Galaxy:
Of finest Gosmore was her Linen made,
Her Chariot by six Humming Birds convey'd,
Not such as in Columbus' Climes are bred,
But fledg'd on Pindus, and by Fancy fed;

291

Her Coachman Thought, who swifter far cou'd fly
Than all the winged Mer'crys in the Sky;
And threescore Fays, to guard her, Launces bore,
Which fierce Grimalkins erst as Whiskers wore,
Guards more for Dignity than Service known,
A Guard each Subject to secure her Throne.

Upon a Hillock, Cowslip-fring'd, reclin'd,
Where the Moon-Beams a partial Entrance find,
Bona,—while Smiles benevolent her Face
Play'd round—beheld her sportive subject Race;
In mazy Tanglings some trip o'er the Plain,
And foot it to the Cornpipe's lively Strain;
In martial Tournaments some take Delight,
On Insect Coursers waging harmless Fight;
Arm lock'd in Arm here faithful Lovers rove,
(No Hearts, than Fays, more soft, or fram'd for Love)
Others the Glowworm's fiery Torch display,
While Ray-fond Moths around uninjur'd play;
Some from the Bees comb'd Store, or Clover sweet,
And Heav'n-still'd Dew indulge a nectar'd Treat,
While to the Lunar Orbit some advance,
And round the Moon a circling Halloo dance.

To see her Train thus innocently blest,
Bona indulg'd the Patriot in her Breast,
When flitting thro' the Air, before their Queen,
Two Maids of Honor bend with graceful Mien,
Totty, than whom no Fay was more belov'd,
And Quick, for try'd Fidelity approv'd;
When Bona thus —

292

“To yonder Mansion (where a lovely Train
Of budding Virgins own a Matron's Reign,
Whom, Lustrums flown, her Pupils will revere,
And H---sl---e when nam'd, the grateful Tear
Shall drop)—I sent you Lessons to impart,
And plant, in Dreams, fair Virtue round the Heart;
We Fays our nightly Visits gladly pay,
To rouse young Maids when Passions warp astray,
And win 'em back to Honor's radiant Way;—
Say, what is done?—The Matron and the Fair
Young beauteous Bevy, trusted to her Care,
Have long (Her Goodness claims it) been possest
Of a warm Place within our Royal Breast.”

With lowly Rev'rence Totty bent the Knee,
And thus bespoke her gracious Majesty.

Totty.

To yonder favor'd Dome I trip'd,
And thro' the Key-hole nimbly skip'd,
All silent was the bedded House,
Silent as the Tread of Mouse,
Save where House-Maid Bridget keeps
Her snoring Orgies as she sleeps,
And from the Cricket's slender Throat,
A shrill unvaried cheerful Note;
In ev'ry Room all neat and clean,
Nor Dust or dangling Cobweb seen,
A Tester—Elfin Tribute due—
I dropt in Housewife Bridget's Shoe;

293

To Lucy's Chamber then I sped,
And perch'd upon the Fair One's Bed,
The little Nymph in Sleep compos'd
Like a smiling Cherub doz'd;
On her Toilet, standing nigh,
Was laid a wingless Butterfly,
That Lucy the preceding Day,
Had caught, destroy'd, and thrown away;
To wake that Feeling in her Breast,
Which want of Thought alone supprest,
(For, oh, within her dwells a Mind
As Turtle soft, as Pity kind)
To place the Deed in proper View,
To her Mind's Eye this Scene I drew.

Fancy again the Spot renew'd,
Where the Papilio first she view'd,
Struck with its Rainbow Wings, the Fair
From Flow'r to Flow'r with watchful Care
Eager pursu'd, 'till with a Blow
The wish'd-for Prize she levell'd low;
The prison'd Flutterer now she views,
Enraptur'd with its brilliant Hues,
When with a plaintive piteous Moan,
Its Griefs the Insect thus made known.

“Ah, gentle Maid, your Looks bespeak
A Bosom merciful and meek,
What Crime to me, alas, is laid,
That thus a Captive I am made?
From Flow'r to Flow'r I harmless flew,
Their Sweets my Food—my Drink the Dew;

294

In you my Fancy strong display'd
A bright Papilio Sister-Maid;
Fearless of Injury or Wound,
As you pursu'd I flutter'd round,
'Till from that Angel Hand a Blow
Like Lightning came and laid me low:—
Cou'd Cruelty impel the Deed?
From Want of Thought it must proceed;
For Cruelty in one so kind,
So gentle, ne'er can Dwelling find.

“We Insects feel—in sooth we do,
Pain's Pungency as keen as You;
The Loss of Leg or mottled Wings
To Us Sensation painful brings,
And gives as racking an Alarm,
As Loss to You of Leg or Arm.”

“To see a Chick or Sparrow slain,
Your feeling Bosom throbs with Pain;
The Sight of Blood, or Tragic Tale,
Can Lilly-spread your Cheek with Pale;
Why to Papilios deny'd
That Pity, shown to all beside?

“'Twas Beauty caus'd my hapless Fate,
What Woes does Beauty not create!)—
Think, think, dear Nymph, how soon, alas,
What's mine may prove your destin'd Case:
Beauty! th'alluring fav'rite Game,
At which destructive Men take Aim;
You the Papilios they pursue,
Ensnare, and wantonly undo,

295

When gain'd, the Treasure they despise,
And languish for some newer Prize:—
Then, as you hope yourself to find
A Fate more fortunate and kind,
Such Mercy to your Flutt'rer show,
From Heav'n as you wou'd wish to know.”—

Young Lucy heav'd a pitying Sigh,
And freed the Captive Butterfly;
She wak'd:—Her Eyes soft Pity dew'd,
Her Sighs repentant Feeling shew'd;
And that the Lesson may remain,
Fix'd in the Volume of her Brain,
Resolv'd she is with Speed to trace
Upon her Sampler's various Face
A Butterfly of richest Hue,
Her Feelings daily to renew.

Quick.

While fair Miss Totty, thus employ'd,
Pleasure's exalted Feast enjoy'd
In doing Good—Thro' Charlotte's Sash
I darted like Electric Flash:—
My little Fav'rite there I found
Half-bedded, in a Sleep profound;
Within so sweet a Girl, I thought,
'Twere Pity shou'd reside one Fault;
Gaming I knew, that Legion Pest,
Was taking Root within her Breast:—
To stop its Progress, I apply'd
The following Dose of useful Pride.

296

She thought herself a Woman grown,
Her destin'd Fortune all her own;
With Clara Tête-à-Tête she sat,
To spend an Hour at Cards and Chat,
(Clara, a little Rival Fair,
Whom Charlotte ey'd with jealous Air)
A thousand Arts she try'd in vain,
Miss Clara's wish'd-for Purse to drain,
(For pretty Charlotte, by the Bye,
At Cards is rather over fly)
Yet Fortune, cruel, seem'd to frown;—
Her dernier Guinea's mortgag'd down:
That gone, of Hope's last Glimpse bereft,
By Friends unpitying, friendless left,
What can she do?—An empty Purse?—
She's now compell'd—Heart-rending Curse!
From Clara's Charity to crave
A Sustenance as menial Slave;
Her Equal once, yet Clara now
Ey'd her with supercilious Brow,
And if she deign'd or Smile or Nod,
'Twas Honor done to servile Clod:—
Despair attacks Miss Charlotte hard,
How did she curse the Name of Card!
But ah! too late—for to her Cost
She finds how soon that Wealth is lost,
Well-manag'd, which with sunny Rays
Had Comfort beam'd on all her Days;
She calls on Death to ease her Pain,
She calls on Death, but calls in vain;
At length she trembling wakes—how blest!
To find a Dream had thus distrest;

297

Then joyful cries—Thanks, gracious Heav'n!
Thanks for this kindly Warning given;
I see my Folly and my Shame,
From this Night never will I game,
But shun that Fiend who smiles at first,
To make us more compleatly curst.

Totty.
From Room to Room, from Fair to Fair
We sped,—and with a friendly Care,
'Gainst Idleness, Pride, Envy, Lies,
And all those Vices apt to rise,
When Passion unexperienc'd steers,
We whisper'd Lessons in their Ears;—
To their young Minds such Scenes display'd,
We hope will wake each thoughtless Maid,
And guide to Honor, Peace, and Truth;—
Virtue shou'd ay be sown in Youth.

Bona.

Well have ye done, my Fays:—But lo! a Ray
From Phœbus' Carr peeps o'er yon Eastern Way;
Assemble all—your Queen will lead you on
Far to the Westward from the garish Sun,
In distant Climes to sport the Hours away,
And by the Moon's ensilver'd Beams to play.

Hence, my merry Sprites, away,
Thro' the Welkin sport and play,
Fiends at our Approach thro' Fear,
Skulk as Phœbus' Self were near;

298

Ravens black and shrieking Owls,
Hide within their pitchy Holes:
Hark! The Hornet Trumpet sounds;—
Hence, o'er yon wide liquid Bounds,
Where Diana views with Pride
Her Charms within the Mirror Tide,
Whilst the Seamen on their Watch
(Shipmates hammock'd 'neath the Hatch)
Thwart the Moon's Orb as we glide,
Westward think the Cloudings ride;
O'er green Neptune's briny Flood,
And his Scale-arm'd Tritons scud
To Savannahs smooth—where soon
We shall orgye to the Moon;
And to other Nymphs in Dreams,
Breathe fair Virtue's pleasing Themes;
Task delightful! Angel Food!
Thus to feast in doing Good:—
Sleep's Recruit we not implore,
Wasted Spirits to restore;
Sleep! for Earth-shell'd Sons intended,
Beings daily to be mended;
Ever wakeful, ever gay,
Let us cheerful sport and play,
Hence, my merry Sprites away.

FINIS.