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Not long liv'd the Baron; and none fince that time
To inhabit the caftle prefume;

For chronicles tell, that, by order fublime,
There Imogine fuffers the pain of her crime,
And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,
When mortals in flumber are bound,
Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,
Appear in the hall with the skeleton-knight,
And fhriek as he whirls her around!

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from the grave,
Dancing round them the fpectres are feen:
Their liquor is blood; and this horrible ftave
They howl,-" To the health of Alonzo the Brave,
And his confort, the falfe Imogine!"

A BALLAD.

BY ROBERT BURNS. Tune, Humours of Glen. HEIR groves o' fweet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, Where bright beaming fummers exalt the perfume; Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan,

TH

With the burn ftealing under the lang yellow broom:
Far dearer to me yon humble broom-bowers,

Where the blue bell and gowan lurk lowly unfeen;
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers,
A lift'ning the linnet, aft wanders my Jean.
Tho' rich is the breeze, in their gay funny valleys,
And cauld Caledonia's blaft on the wave;

Their fweet-fcented woodlands that fkirt the proud palace,
What are they?—the haunt o' the tyrant and flave!
The flave's fpicy forefts, and gold-bubbling fountains,
The brave Caledonian views wi' difdain;

He wanders as free as the wind on his mountains,

Save love's willing fetters,―the chains of his Jean.

MODERN NOVELS. (Infcribed to the Author of the Monk)
From my Night-Gown and Slippers. BY G. COLEMAN.

OM, Dick, and Will, were little known to fame

TOM,

No Matter :

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Held a debate!-On politics, no doubt.
Not fo; they car'd not who was in,
Not of a pin,

Nor who was out.

All their discourse on modern poets ran,
For in the mufes was their fole delight.
They talk'd of fuch, and fuch, and fuch a man;

Of those who could and those who could not write.

It cost them very little pains

To count the modern poets who had brains;
'Twas a small difficulty:-'twasn't
They were fo few.

But to caft up the scores of men
Who wield a stump they call a pen,
Lord! they had much to do!
They were fo many.

any,

Buoy'd on a fea of fancy, genius rifes,
And, like the rare Leviathan, furprizes:
But the fmall fry of fcribblers!-tiny fouls!-
They wriggle through the mud in fhoals.
It would have rais'd a fmile to fee the faces
They made, and the ridiculous grimaces,

At many an author as they overhaul'd him,
They gave no quarter to a calf,

Blown up with puff and paragraph;

But if they found him bad, they maul'd him. On modern dramatifts they fell

Pounce vi& armis-tooth and nail-pell mell.

They call'd them carpenters and smugglers;

Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,

And knocking them together like deal boards; and jugglers Who all the town's attention fix

By making-Plays? No, fir, by making tricks.

The verfifiers-Heav'n defend us!

They play'd the very devil with their rhimes:
They hop'd Apollo a new fet would fend us;
And then invidiously enough,

Plac'd modifh verfe, which they call'd stuff,
Against the writings of the elder times.

To fay the truth, a modern verfifier

Clap'd check by jowl

With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,

Would look damn'd fcurvily, upon my foul!

For novels, fhould their critic hints fucceed,

The Miffes might fare better when they took 'em;

But it would fare extremely ill indeed

With gentle Meffieurs Bell and Hookham.

"A novel now," fays Will," is nothing more
"Than an old caftie-and a creaking door-

"A diftant hovel

"Clanking of chains-a gallery-a light-
"Old armour-and a phantom all in white-
"And there's a novel."

"Scourge me fuch catch-penny inditers

“Ổut of the land," quoth Will, rousing in paffion,
"And fye upon the readers of fuch writers,
"Who bring them into fashion!"

Will rofe in declamation, "'Tis the bane,"
Says he," of youth, 'tis the perdition:
"It fills a giddy female brain

"With vice, romance, luft, terror, pain,
"With fuperftition.

"Were I a paftor in a boarding-school,

"I'd quafh fuch books in toto; if I cou'dn't,
Let me but catch one Mifs that broke my rule,
"I'd flog her foundly, damme if I wou'dn't."
William, 'tis plain, was getting in a rage;

But Thomas drily faid, for he was cool,
"I think no gentleman would mend the age
"By flogging ladies at a boarding-school."
Dick knock'd the afhes from his pipe,
And faid, friend Will,

"You give the novels a fair wipe;

"But still,

"While you, my friend, with paffion run 'em down,
"They're in the hands of all the town.

"The reafon's plain," proceeded Dick,

"And fimply thus:

"Taste overglutted, grows deprav'd and fick,

"And needs a ftimulus.

"Time was, when honest Fielding writ

Tales full of nature, character, and wit,

"Were reckon❜d moft delicious, boil'd and roaft;
"But ftomachs are fo cloy'd with novel-feeding,
"Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,

"And want that ftrong provocative,-a ghoft;
"Or, to come nearer,

"And put the cafe a little clearer :-
"Minds, juft like bodies, fuffer enervation

"By too much ufe;

"And fink into a state of relaxation

"With long abuse.

"Now a romance with reading-debauchees,

"Roufes their torpid pow'rs when nature fails

"And all these legendary tales

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"Are to a worn-out mind-cantharides.

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" But

"But how to cure the evil? You will fay,
"My recipe is laughing it away.

"Lay bare the weak farrago of those men
"Who fabricate fuch vifionary schemes,
their pen,

"As if the night-mare rode upon

"And troubl'd all their ink with hideous dreams.

"For instance, when a folemn ghoft stalks in,

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LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN : — A Tak. From the fame.

'HO has e'er been in London, that overgrown place,

WH Has feen Lodgings to Let ftare him full in the face.

Some are good, and let dearly; while fome, 'tis well known,
Are fo dear and fo bad, they are best let alone.

Derry down.

Will Waddle, whofe temper was studious and lonely,
Hired lodgings that took fingle gentlemen only;
But Will was fo fat he appear'd like a ton ;-
Or like two fingle gentlemen roll'd into one.

He enter'd his rooms; and to bed he retreated,
But, all the night long, he felt fever'd and heated;
And, though heavy to weigh, as a score of fat fleep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to fleep.

Next night 'twas the fame;-and the next;-and the next;
He perfpir'd like an ox; he was nervous and vex'd.
Week pafs'd after week; till, by weekly fucceffion,
His weakly condition was paft all expreílion.

In fix months his acquaintance began much to doubt him;
For his fkin, "like a lady's loofe gown," hung about him.
He fent for a Doctor; and cry'd, like a ninny,

"I have loft many pounds-make me well-there's a guinea.” The Doctor look'd wife :" a flow fever," he said: Prefcrib'd fudorifics, and going to bed.-

Sudorifics in bed," exclaim'd Will," are humbugs;"
"I've enough of them there, without paying for drugs."

Will kick'd out the Doctor :-but when ill indeed,
L'en difmifling the Doctor don't always fucceed;
So, calling his hoft, he faid, " Sir, do you know,

.

I'm the fat fiugle gentleman, fix months ago?”

"Look'e

"Look'e, landlord, I think," argu'd Will, with a grin,
"That with honeft intentions you first took me in;'
"But from the first night (and to fay it I'm bold)
"I have been fo damn'd hot, that I'm fure I caught cold."
Quoth the landlord, Till now, I ne'er had a difpute;
"I've let lodgings ten years ;-I'm a baker to boot.
In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no floven;
And your bed is immediately-over my oven.'

"The oven!!!" fays Will. Says the hoft, why this paffion?
In that excellent bed dy'd three people of fashion.

Why fo crufty, good Sir?" "Zounds!" cries Will in a taking,
Who wou'd'nt be crufty with half a year's baking!"

Will paid for his rooms. Cry'd the hoft, with a fneer,
"Well, I fee you've been going away half a year:"

'Friend, we can't well agree'" yet no quarrel," Will faid;
"For one man may die where another makes bread."

ON THE LOVE OF OUR COUNTRY. A Poem by the Dean of Waterford, which obtained the late Chancellor's Prize at Oxford fome Years fince; the Original never appeared in Print but in an interpolated State.—From the Ġentleman's Magazine.

E fouls illuftrious, who, in days of yore,

YE

With peerless might the British target bore;
Who, clad in wolf-fkin, from the scythed car,
Frown'd on the iron brow of mailed war,
And dar'd your rudely-painted limbs oppofe
To Chalybean fteel, and Roman foes!
And ye of later age, tho' not lefs fame
In tilt and tournament, the princely game
Of Arthur's barons, wont by hardiest sport
To claim the fairest guerdon of the court,―
Say, holy fhades, did e'er your gen'rous blood
Roll through your nobler fons in quicker flood
Than late *, when George bade gird on ev'ry thigh
The myrtle-braided fword of Liberty?
Say, when the high-born Druid's magic strain
Rous'd on old Mona's top a female train
To madness, and with more than mortal rage,
Bade them like furies in the fight engage;
Frantic when each unbound her bristling hair,

And shook a flaming torch, and yell'd in wild despair;

*Thefe lines were written foon after an installation at Windfor

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