ON THE SAME. WHEN wit and genius meet their doom In all devouring flame, They tell us of the fate of Rome, And bid us fear the same. O'er MURRAY's loss the muses wept, They felt the rude alarm, Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept His sacred head from harm. There memory, like the bee that's fed From Flora's balmy store, The quintessence of all he read Had treasured up before. The lawless herd, with fury blind, Have done him cruel wrong; The flowers are gone-but still we find The honey on his tongue. THUS says the prophet of the Turk, There is a part in every swine No friend or follower of mine *It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity. May taste, whate'er his inclination, What joint the prophet had in mind. He meant not to forbid the head; And piously prefer the tail, Thus conscience freed from every clog, Mahometans eat up the hog. You laugh-'tis well-the tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world-the preacher cries. We do a multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards; And one, whatever you may say, Some love a concert, or a race; And others shooting, and the chase. Reviled and loved, renounced and followed, With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, ON THE DEATH OF LADY THROCKMORTON'S BULFINCH. YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red With tears o'er hapless favourites shed, O share Maria's grief! Her favourite, even in his cage, (What will not hunger's cruel rage?) Assassined by a thief. Where Rhenus strays his vines among, The egg was laid from which he sprung, And though by nature mute, Or only with a whistle blest, Well-taught he all the sounds express'd Of flagelet or flute. |