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A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come-a pilgrim gray,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay!
And calm Religion shall repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree

To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

AIR-CHORUS POMPOSO.

Let us-let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

MAN SPEAKER.

FAST by that shore where Thames' translucent stream
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,

He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptured elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;
While, sweetly blending, still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green;

While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene:
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural band complained,
All whom AUGUSTA'S bounty fed,

All whom her clemency sustained;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun gray,
The military boy, the orphaned maid,
The shattered veteran now first dismayed,-
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And, as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress-now no more-and weep.
CHORUS AFFETUOSO, LARGO.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,

That she who formed your beauties is no more.

MAN SPEAKER.

First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had formed the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

With many a tear, and many a sigh between:

"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread, Or how shall age support its feeble fire?

No lord will take me now, my vigor fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require: Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare,

A sleek and idle race is all their care.

My noble mistress thought not so:

Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, used to flow,

And as my strength decayed, her bounty grew."

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasped in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn ;
That decent dress, this holy gnide,
Augusta's cares had well supplied.
"And, ah!" she cries, all wobegone,
"What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity?

Too late in life for me to ask,

And shame prevents the deed, And tardy, tardy are the times To succor should I need.

But all my wants, before I spoke,

Were to my mistress known;

She still relieved, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,

My morning prayer, my evening song,
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that can not last me long."

SONG. BY A WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'l bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN SPEAKER.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarred, mangled, maimed in every part,
Lopped of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In naught entire-except his heart:
Mute for a while, and sullenly distrest,

At last th' impetuous sorrow fired his breast: "Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain, And wide the tempest howling

Along the billowed main :
But every danger felt before,

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay
Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

SONG. BY A MAN.-BASSO SPIRITUOSO.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurelled field,
To do thy memory right:

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish th' avenging fight.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appeared a lovely maid;
Affliction, o'er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid:
Every grace that grief dispenses,

Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charms the senses,
While Pity harmonized the whole.

"The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say, "No more shall my crook or my temples adorn; I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away

I'll not wear a garland until she return. But, alas! that return I never shall see :

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclain There promised a lover to come-but, ah me! 'Twas death-'twas the death of my mistress that came But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom; On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be ca**, And the new-blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb

SONG. BY A WOMAN.-PASTORALE.

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook or her temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is removed and shall never return?
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be placed,
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new-blossomed thorn shall whiten her tomb

CHORUS. ALTRO MODO.

On the grave of Augusta this garland be placed,
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her tomb.

WEEPING.

WEEPING, marmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight,

Myra too sincere for feigning,

Fears the approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection, Or dim thy beauty with a tear? Had Myra followed my direction, She long had wanted cause of fear.

THE HAUNCH OF VENISON.

A 1OETICAL EPISTLE TO LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or fatter
Ne'er ranged in a forest, or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regret-
ting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating:

I had thoughts, in my chamber to place it in view,
To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû;
As in some Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show;
But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.
But hold-let me pause-do n't I hear you pronounce,
This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce?
Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try,
By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

But, my lord, it's no bounce: I protest, in my turn,
It's a truth, and your lordship may ask Mr. Burn.†
To go on with my tale: as I gazed on the haunch,
I thought of a friend that was trusty and staunch,
So I cut it, and sent it to Reynolds undrest,
To paint it, or eat it, just as he liked best.

Of the neck and the breast I had next to dispose-
"T was a neck and a breast that might rival Monroe's:
But in parting with these I was puzzed again,

With the how, and the who, and the where, and the when.
There's H-d, and C-y, and H-rth, and H-ff,
I think they love venison-I know they love beef;
There's my countryman, Higgins-oh, let him alone
For making a blunder, or picking a bone:
But, hang it, to poets who seldom can eat,
Your very good mutton's a very good treat;
Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,
It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.
While thus I debated, in revery centred,

An acquaintance-a friend, as he called himself-entered;
An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he,

And he smiled as he looked at the venison and me,-
What have we got here ?-Why, this is good eating!
Your own, I suppose-or is it in waiting?"
"Why, whose should it be?" cried I, with a flounce,
"I get these things often”—but that was a bounce:
"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,
Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case, then," cried he, very gay,
I am glad I have taken this house in my way:
To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me;
No words-I insist on 't-precisely at three;

We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there:
My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.

And, now that I think on 't, as I am a sinner,

We wanted this venison to make out a dinner.

What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
Here, porter-this venison with me to Mile-end:
No stirring, I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"
Thus, snatching his hat, he brushed off like the wind,
And the porter and eatables followed behind.

Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,
And nobody with me at sea but myself?"
Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,
Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty,
Were things that I never disliked in my life,
Though clogged with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.
So next day, in due splendor to make my approach,
I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach.
When come to the place where we all were to dine,
¡A chair-lumbered closet, just twelve feet by nine,)
My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb
With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale :§

The description of the dinner party in this poem is imitated from Bodeau's fourth Satire. Boileau himself took the hint from Horace, L., Sat. 8, which has also been imitated by Regnier, Sat. 10.

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But no matter, I'll warrant we 'll make up the party
With two fuil as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew:
They're both of them merry, and authors like you:
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."
While thus he described them, by trade and by name,
They entered, and dinner was served as they came.

At the top a fried liver and bacon were seen i
At the bottom, was tripe in a swinging tureen:
At the sides, there was spinach, and pudding made hot;
In the middle, a place where the pasty-was not.
Now, my lord, as for tripe, it 's my utter aversion,
And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian;
So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound,
While the bacon and liver went merrily round:
But what vexed me most was that d-d Scottish rogue,
With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,
And, "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,
A prettier dinner I never set eyes on:

Pray, a slice of your liver, though, may I be curst,
But I've eat of your tripe till I 'm ready to burst."
"The tripe!" quoth the Jew with his chocolate cheek,
"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:

I like these here dinners, so pretty and small;
But your friend there, the Doctor, eats nothing at all.”
"O ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,
He's keeping a corner for something that's nice:
There's a pasty."-" A pasty!" repeated the Jew,
"I don't care if I keep a corner for 't too."
"What the deil mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot,
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We'll all keep a corner," was echoed about.
While thus we resolved, and the pasty delayed,
With looks that quite petrified, entered the maid:
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Waked Priam, in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out-for who could mistake her?..
That she came with some terrible news from the baker;
And so it fell out; for that negligent sloven
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similes drop-
And now that I think on 't, the story may stop.

To be plain, my good lord, it's but labor misplaced,
To send such good verses to one of your taste:
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning,
A relish a taste-sickened over by learning;
At least it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.

THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATION.

A TALE.

SECLUDED from domestic strife,
Jack Book-worm led a college life;
A fellowship at twenty-five

Made him the happiest man alive;
He drank his glass, and cracked his joke,
And freshmen wondered as he spoke.

Such pleasures, unalloyed with care,
Could any accident impair?
Could Cupid's shaft at length transfix
Our swain, arrived at thirty-six ?

Oh, had the archer ne'er come down
To ravage in a country town!
Or Flavia been content to stop
At triumphs in a Fleet street shop!
Oh, had her eyes forgot to blaze!
Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze!
Oh! but let exclamation cease,
Her presence banished all his peace;
So with decorum all things carried,
Miss frowned, and blushed, and then was-married
Need we expose to vulgar sight
The raptures of the bridal night?
Neel we intrude on hallowed ground,
Or draw the curtains closed around?

Let it suffice that each had charms:
He clasped a goddess in his arms;
And though she felt his usage rough,
Yet in a man 'twas well enough.

The honeymoon like lightning flew,
The second brought its transports too;
A third, a fourth, were not amiss,
The fifth was friendship mixed with bliss:
But, when a twelvemonth passed away,
Jack found his goddess made of clay;
Found half the charms that decked her face
Arose from powder, shreds, or lace;
But still the worst remained behind-
That very face had robbed her mind.

Skilled in no other arts was she,
But dressing, patching, repartee;
And, just as humor rose or fell,
By turns a slattern or a belle.

"Tis true she dressed with modern grace,
Half-naked, at a ball or race;
But when at home, at board or bed,
Five greasy nightcaps wrapped her head.
Could so much beauty condescend
To be a dull domestic friend?
Could any curtain-lectures bring
To decency so fine a thing!

In short, by night, 'twas fits or fretting;
By day, 'twas gadding or coquetting.
Fond to be seen, she kept a bevy
Of powdered coxcombs at her levee ;

The squire and captain took their stations,
And twenty other near relations:
Jack sucked his pipe, and often broke
A sigh in suffocating smoke;
While all their hours were passed between
Insulting repartee and spleen.

Thus, as her faults each day were known,
He thinks her features coarser grown;
He fancies every vice she shows,
Or thins her lip, or points her nose:
Whenever rage or envy rise,

How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!
He knows not how, but so it is,
Her face is grown a knowing phiz;
And, though her fops are wondrous civil,
He thinks her ugly as the devil.

Now, to perplex the ravelled noose,
As each a different way pursues,
While sullen or loquacious strife
Promised to hold them on for life,
That dire disease, whose ruthless power
- Withers the beauty's transient flower-
Lo! the small-pox with horrid glare,
Levelled its terrors at the fair;
And, rifting every youthful grace,
Left but the remnant of a face.

The glass grown hateful to her sight,
Reflected now a perfect fright:
Each former art she vainly tries
To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The squire himself was seen to yield,
And e'en the captain quit the field.

Poor madam, now condemned to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old :
With modesty her cheeks are died,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good nature every day:
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,

Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT
LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind:
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But le them prove it if they can.
Wise aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione preditum;

But for my soul I can not credit them;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature;
That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;
And that brute beasts are far before 'em-
Deus est anima bru orum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbor prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery?
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court:
They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob,t
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confessed, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shade;
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract,
And footmen, lords and dukes can act,
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

A NEW SIMILE.

IN THE MANNER OF SWIFT.
LONG had I sought in vain to find
A likeness for the scribbling kind-
The modern scribbling kind, who write
In wit, and sense, and nature's spite-
Till reading-I forget what day on-
A chapter out of Tooke's Pantheon,
I think I met with something there
To suit my purpose to a hair.
But let us not proceed too furious,-
First please to turn to god Mercurius;
You'll find him pictured at full length,
In book the second, page the tenth:

This happy imitation was adopted by his Dublin publisher, as genuine poem of Swift, and as such it has reen reprinted in aro Even Sir Wa ter Scott has serted it without any remark in h edition of Swit's Works

every edition of the Dean's works.

† Su Robert Walpole.

The stress of all my proofs on him I lay, And now proceed we to our simile.

Imprimis, pray observe his hat,
Wings upon either side-mark that.
Well! what is it from thence we gather?
Why, these denote a brain of feather.
A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed:
A just comparison-proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse,
Wings grow again from both his shoes;
Designed, no doubt their part to bear,
And waft his godship through the air:
And here my simile unites;
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe to observe his hand,
Filled with a snake-encircled wand,
By classic authors termed caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses:
To wit, most wondrously endued,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore;
Add, too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now, to apply, begin we then :-
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined
Denote him of the reptile kind,

Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venomed bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript,
Yet grant a word by way of postscript.
Moreover, Mercury had a failing;

Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he.
But e'en this deity's existence

Shall lend my simile assistance:

Our modern bards! why, what a pox,

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

A PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN
KNIGHT, WHOM CESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
WHAT! no way left to shun the inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppressed with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by power, and unappalled by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honor dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honor is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cesar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame:
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honor ends.

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH,

STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

SURE 'twas by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;
"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters:
Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces-
As I hope to be saved!-without thinking on asses."

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle PARNELL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,

That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confessed his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent hin genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poets in the skies.

LINES.

E'EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew,
The budding rose its infant bloom display;
When first its virgin teints unfold to view,

It shrinks and scarcely trusts the blaze of day:

So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,

Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek; I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame, Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE."

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explor
The distant climates and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling:
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;

Yet ere he lands he's ordered me before,

To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seer 'n
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em.
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

Oh, there the people are-best keep my distance:

Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance;

Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid m His honor is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure: lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far. Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back and order up a sample.

A tragedy, written by Joseph Cradock, Esq., a;d acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden, 1772.

THE GIFT.

TO IRIS, IN BOW STREET COVENT Garden.

SAY. cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,

Say, would the angry fair one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give-and let 'em : If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'H give-but not the full-blown rose,
Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion-

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil,-

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid!—
I'll give thee-to the Devil!

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.
Good people all, of every sort,

Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short,
It can not hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,
When'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes:
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog to gain his private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.
Around from all the neighboring streets
The wondering neighbors ran,
And swore the dog had lost its wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seemed both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,

That showed the rogues they lied:
The man recovered of the bite-
The dog it was that died.

ON THE DEATH OF WOLFE.

MIDST the clamor of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of wo

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, While thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;

Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane:
There, in a lonely room, fron bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretched beneath a rag;

A window, patened with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly showed the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The numid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William showed his lamp-black face
The inorn was cold; he views with keen desire

The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five cracked tea-cups dressed the chimney-board;
A night cap decked his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the da

AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

GOOD people all, with one accord
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-

Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never followed wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.
At church in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her-
When she has walked before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found; when she was dead-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,

For Kent street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more→
She had not died to-day.

STANZAS ON WOMAN. WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can sooth her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?
AH me! when shall I marry me?
Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me.

Offers to love, but means to decerve me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover
She that gives all to the false one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

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