« ForrigeFortsett »
Suppose this gown a fuit of velvet, plain,
With a gold batton and this fan a cane z
My cap becomes a tye, moft wisely big;
Oh! no I had forgot a smart bag wigs
No physic bushes now are seen in town,
For all the signs, you know, are taken down,
Call me ticenciate-fellow-what you will
I'll feel yoor pulfes all, and prove my fill.
The pulses of the boxes first I'll feel,
And by their beating will their thoughts reveal,
(be acts the dočtor feeling a pulje,)
Languid and low-Wildman's old-fathion'd ftory
Was much too nervous, to be set before ye ;
For twelve long years a ténder wife forsaking,
Worn out with wand'ring, and, what's worse, with raking,
And then return he was not worth the taking.
As for the pulses of my friends above,
They thump for joy-when fpoufes kils and love,
Bless their young heartsá-what means this palpitation ?
Each miss's blood is now in agitation !
Each quick pulsation for Narciffa beats?
When the went off-they scarce could keep their feats,
When Lombard talk'd of bribes how lik'd yon
(to the pit.)
Some pulses in this houfe went-pat, pat, pat.
If this our night's prescription you have taken
Without wry faces, or your heads much fhaken ;
If you perceive fome character, and wit,
With plot and humour-quantum fufficit ;
Mixt up with sal volatile of facire:
Let ita quotidie nocti reparaturs
'Tis by our noftrums you are kept alive ;
Pursue the regimen of Doctor Clive,
A PASTOR PA L. - In the Modern Style,
Where glowing foliage on the surface play'd,
And golden roses fannd the filver breeze,
many a maze light echoing through the trees,
Paftora tun'd the tweetly-panting Atring,
And ruddy notės thus wak'd the Aartering fpring:
While from th' alternate margin of an oak,
A woodland Naiad thus meandering spoke,
The reed difports upon the founding thorn,
And Philomel falutes the noon-tide morn,
The buzzing bees, poetic from their hive,
In smooth alliteration seem alive ;
But ah! my virgin swain is chafter far
Than Cupid's painted Mafts, or fparrows are;
Sparrows, that perch, like Sappho's, on my lay,
Or hop in concert with the dancing day.
What found was that, which dawn'd a bleating hue,
And blush'd a ligh? Paftora, was it you?
Your votes, sweet maid, this proverb fill shall foil,
! The pot that's watch'd was never known to boil.'
Ah, no! whate'er thou art, or sigh, or word,
Or golden water fam'd, or talking bird ;
Source of my juy, or genius of my notes,
Or Ocean's landscape ftampt with lyric boats,
Ah, no! far hence thy aromatic strains
Recoil and beautify our vaylted plains.
Thy dazzling harmony affects me fo,
azure symmetry I figh-äh, no!
Ah, no! ah, no! the woods irradiate fing,
Ah, 'no!. ah, no! for joy the grottos ring;
E'en Heraclitus vocal tears would flow,
To hear thee murmur thy melodious No!
Thy voice, 'tis true, Paftora, gilds the sky,
But woods and grottos Autter in my eye,
When night pellucid warbles into day,
And morn fonorous floats upon the May,
With well-blown bugle through the wilds of air
I roam accordant, 'while the bounding hare
In covert claps her wings, to see me pass
Ethereal meadows of transparent grass.
Magnetic thunders now illume the air,
And fragrant music variegates the year,
Light trips the dolphin through cerulean woods,
And spotless tygers harmonize the floods
E'en Thetis smooths her brow, and laughs to see
Kind nature weep, in fymphony with me,
This young conundrum let me first propose;
It puzzles half our dainty belles and beaux.
What makes my lays, in blue-ey'd order shine
So far superior, when compar'd with thine ?
Expound me this, and I'll disclaim the prize,
Whose lustre blushes with Peruvian dyes.
When crowing foxes whistle in their dens,
Or radiant hornpipes dance to cocks and hens,
What makes fly Reynard and his cackling mate,
That fav'd the capitol, resign to fate?
But see, Aquarius fills his ample vase,
And Taurus-warbles to Vitruvian laws i
So, crab-like Cancer all her speed assumes,,
And Virgo, ftill a maid, elastic blooms.
My rose-lipt ewes in myftic wonder stand
To hear me fing, and court my conscious hand.
Adieu, my goats; for ne'er shall rural muse
Your philofophic beards to ftroke refusc,
Ar Ironical Eulogium on IGNORANCE. By Dr, CLANCY, OF
Durrow, in Ireland,
Quanto rectius eft le plape whil
K Nowledge, that woeful source of trife,
Deriv'd from Adam's fatal tree,
'To curfe his wretched progeny ;
Has made all true enjoyments less
Than what our fellow-brutes possess ;
Who by unerring instinct move,
And from its dictates never rove;
But always steadily pursue
What fimple nature bids them do.
This true assertion must surprise,
And shock the learned and the wise,
Who look on all with proud disdain,
That want the tuff that loads their brain,
And keeps them ever, by delusion,
In dark irregular confusion.
The fureft calm that can allay
The forms of life's tempestuous sea, 3
Is found in undifturb'd repofe,
Whence every just contentment flows:
Thus in the thoughtless, careless mind,
The seat of real bliss we find..
O Ignorance ! thou darling child Of nature, like thy parent mild; Thou precious gift, beftow'd at birth, To form our happiness on earth ; Involv'd in thee, we bid defiance To all the rocks and crags of science : In thy safe port fecure we sleep, While Learning ploughs the toilfome deep: Thy influ'nce makes the block head fcribble Conundrums quaint, and far-fetched quibble ; Makes Anti-Chriftian preach, And cow-boys Greek and Latin teach ; Physicians gravely mix a potion, That cures all ills by itopping motion ; The foggy lawyers make defence. Against all rules of common sense ; Dull magistrates on benches nod, And vainly hold the useless rod : Make statesmen loll in splendour, brewing Their master's and the nation's ruin,
From love, the choicest boon that Heay'a
Has by its kind indulgence givon,
Is ev'ry store of sweetness flown,
When secrets once are too well known ;
Thus, all the joys of life's Ahort trance
Confist in downright ignorance,
Knowledge! withdraw thy hated rays;
We love obfcurity and ease :
Extend thy glimm’ring light no more,
But let us yawn, and sleep, and snore :
Since not é'en Berkley's vifions faw
Th. intrinsic parts that form a ftraw;
Nor Newton, more than mortals wise,
Who fathom d earth, and feas, and kies,
Could ever truly understand
The essence of one grain of land.
By SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.
What dreary prospects round us rise : The naked hill, the leafless grove,
The hoary ground, the frowning skies?
Nor only thro' the wafted plain,
Stern winter, is thy force confefs' d; Still wider spreads thy horrid reign,
I feel thy power ufurp my breaft.
Enliv'ning hope and fond defire,
Resign the heart to spleen and care, Scarce frighted love maintains her fire,
And rapture faddens to despair.
In groundless hope, and causeless fear,
Unhappy man behold thy doom Still changing with the changeful year,
The llave of sunshine and of gloom.
Tird with vain joys, and false alarms,
With mental and corporeal ftrife, Snatch me, my Stella, to thy arms,
And screen me from the ills of life.