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Many a neighbour, many a friend,
Deform’d with wounds, invok'd their end :
All screaming, omen'd notes of woe,
Gainst man our unrelenting foe :
These eyes beheld my pretty brood,
Flutt'ring in their guiltless blood :
While trembling on the shatter'd tree,
At length the gun invaded me;
But way ward Fate, severely kind,
Refus'd the death, I wish'd to find :
Oh! farewel pleasure ; peace, farewel,
And with the gory raven dwell.
Was it for this I Thun'd retreat,
And fix'd near man my social seat!
For this destroy'd the infect train,
That eat onseen the infant grain!
For this, with many an honest note,
Issuing from my artless throat,
I chear'd my lady, lift'ning near,
Working in her elbow chair!'
A luckless husband from your bosom torn :
No longer blame a father's treach'rous heart;
Blameless yourself, and innocent of art
Fav’rite of Heav'n! in early life remov'd!
With angels live, and love, and be belov'd!
With angels feel what fate deny'd you here !
Bliss; endless, as the friend's and husband's tear;
In all yout virtues may the world agree!
Your failings-bury'd in the grave, and me.
PROLOGUE to the ENGLISH MERCHANT.
EACH year how many
English visit France,
To learn the language, and to learn to dance !
Twixt Dover cliffs and Calais, in July,
Observe how thick the birds of paffage fly!
Fair-weather fops in swarms, fresh-water failors,
Cooks, mantua-makers, milliners and taylors,
Our-bard, too, made a trip ; and Nand'rers say,
Brought home, among some more run goods, a play :
Here! on this quay, prepar'd t’unload his cargo,
If on the freight you lay not an embargo.
“ What, am I branded for a smuggler?" cries
Our little Bayes, with anger in his eyes.
“ No, English poets, English merchants made,
“ To the whole world of letters fairly trade :
6. With the rich stores of ancient Rome and Greece,
“ Imported duty free, may fill their piece :
6 Or, like Columbus, cross th' Atlantic ocean,
" And fet Peru and Mexico in motion;
“ Turn Cherokees and Catabaws to shape ;
“ Or sail for wit and humour to the Cape.'
Is there a weaver here from Spital Fields?
To his award our author fairly yields.
The pattern, he allows, is not quite new,
And he imports the raw materials too.
Come whence they will, from Lyons, Genoa, Rome,
'Tis English filks when wrought in English loom.
Silks! he recants; and owns, with lowly mind,
His manufacture is a coarser kind.
Be it drab, drugget, flannel, doyly, frieze,
Rug, or whatever winter- wear you please,
So it have leave to rank in any class,
Pronounce it English Stuff, and let it pass!
To Sir Godfrey Kneller, by the late Dr. Geakic.
CHILE meaner artists labour hard to trace
The outward form and features of a face,
Your magic pencil, Kneller, takes the soul,
And when you paint the man, you paint him whole.
By e Person of Quality.
OUR half-round Circus by mere chance was right,
Your rounded Circus is a bee-hive quite ;
All grace is vanith'd, all proportion loft,
Space has confin'd you, and good fortune croft;
Plac'd on a hill, tó a fine prospect bare,
At three sharp crannies enters all your air :
Henceforth build crescents, blamelessly be dull,
But never build again a moon at full.
ODE for bis MAJESTY's Birth Day, June 4, 1767.
RIEND to the poor !—for fore, o king,
Friend to the poor ; to thee we fing,
To thee our annual offerings bring,
And bend at mercy's shrine.
In vain had nature deign d to smile
Propitious on her fav’rite ille
Emerging from the main :
In vain the genial source of day
Selected each indulgent ray
For Britain's fertile plain:
In vain yon bright furrounding skies
Bade all their clouds in volumes rise,
Their foft'ring dews diftill'd :
In vain the wide and teeming earth »
Gave all her buried treasures birth,
And crown'd the laughing field :
For lo! fome fiend, in evil hour,
Affuming famine's horrid mien,
Diffus'd her petrifying power
O'er thoughtless plenty's feftive bower,
And blasted every green.
Stroog panic terrors fhook the land :
Th’ obdurate breast, the griping hand
Were almoft taught to Tpáre ;
For loud misrule, the fcourge of crimes,
Mix'd with the madness of the times,
And rous'd a rustic war.
Whilft real want, with figh fincere,
At home, in silence, dropp'd the tear,
Or rais'd th' imploring eye,
Foul riot's sons in torrents came,
And dar'd ufurp thy awful name,
Thrice facred misery!
Then GEORGE arose. His feeling heart
Inspir'd the nation's better part
With virtues like its own :
His power controul'd the insatiate train
Whose avarice grafp'd at private gain
Regardless of a people's groan.
Like Inows beneath the all-chearing ray
The rebel crowds diffolv'd away :
And justice, tho' the sword fhe drew,
Glanc'd lightly o'er th' offending crew,
And scarce selected, to avenge her woes,
A single viâim from a koft of foes.
Yes, mercy triumph d ; mercy fhone confeft,
In her own nobleft fphere, a monarch's breaft,
Forcibly mild did mercy shine
Like the sweet month in which we pay
Our annual vows at mercy's shrine,
And hail our monarch's natal day.
On Mr, GARRIC K's Pixure by a Buft of Shakespeare. By Dr.
H-rr-gt--n of Bath,
"HE soul's chief virtues are in fymbols thewn,
By wisdom's bird is fage Minerva known;
Idalian turtles fpeak love's gentle fire,
The muse is mark'd by, Phæbus' golden lyre:
Art may express yon venerable buft,
And form each feature to resemblance juft ;
But Nature pleas'd--with choicest tints design'd,
Thee! happy fymbol of her Shakespeare's mind.
Taken from the Bagatelles.
NDU'D with all that could adorn,
Or bless the first and faireft born!
A soul! that looks fuperior down,
Let giddy fortune fmile or frown;
With age's wisdom-not her years,
Stella, all excellence appears;
Then, who can blame me, if I blend
The name of Lover with the Friend?
Like Noah's dove, my bufy breast
Has rov'd to find a place of reft !
Some faithful bofom, to repose,
And hush, the family of woes.
Then, do I dream ! or, have I found
The fair and hospitable ground?
Ah ! quit your fex's rules, and lend
A Lover's wishes to the Friend.
Absence I try'd, but try'd in vain!
It hcals not, but upbraids my pain ;
For thee ! I'd bear the reaper's toil ;
For thee! consume the midnight oil ;
Then, to your judgment, wou'd I owe
All that I read, and write, and know;
Can those who wish, like me, pretend
the Lover and the Friend!
Come, then! and let us dare to prove
Disinterested sweets of love;
For, gen'rous love no dwelling finds,
In poor and mercenary minds :
Laugh at life's idle flutt'ring things ;
Look down with pity upon kings;
Careless! who like, or discommend,
Bleft in the Lover and the Friend!
Oh! come, and we'll together hafte,
O'er life's uncomfortable waste :
Bear the sharp thorn, to find the rose,
And smile at transitory woes;
Keep the bright goal of hope in view,
Nor, look behind, as others do ;
'Till death, and only death shall end
At once the Lover and the Friend.
Spoken by SAMUEL FOOTE, Eja:
And fuppofed to be written by D-G, Esq.
"HIS night we add some heroes to our store,
Who never were, as heroes, seen before ;
No blustering Romans, Trojans, Greeks fh all rage,
No Knights, arm'd cap a pee, fall crow'd our stage ;
Nor shall out Henrys, Edwards take the field,
Opposing sword to sword, and hield to field ;
With other instrument our troop appears ;
Needles to thimbles shall, and sheers to Theers ;
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded taylors are to heroes warm'd ;
And, Nip-shod, side to war.-No lions' glare,
No eye-balls flashing fire, shall make you stare :
Each outside shall belie the stuff within;
A Roman spirit in each taylor's skin :-
A taylor-legg’d Pompey, Caflius, shall you see,
And the ninth.part of Brutus strut in me!