Orgilio sees the golden pile aspire,

And hopes from angry Heaven another fire.

"Couldst thou resign the park and play content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent,
There mightst thou find some elegant retreat,
Some hireling senator's deserted seat;

And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;
There prune thy walks, support thy drooping flowers,
Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bowers;
And, while thy beds a cheap repast afford,
Despise the dainties of a venal lord:
There every bush with nature's music rings,
There every breeze bears health upon its wings;
On all thy hours security shall smile,
And bless thine evening walk and morning toil.

Prepare for death, if here at night you roam;
And sign your will before you sup from home.
Some fiery fop, with new commission vain,
Who sleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
Some frolic drunkard, reeling from a feast,
Provokes a broil, and stabs you for a jest.

'Yet ev❜n these heroes, mischievously gay,
Lords of the street, and terrors of the way;
Flush'd as they are with folly, youth, and wine,
Their prudent insults to the poor confine;
Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach,
And shun the shining train, and golden coach.

"In vain these dangers past, your doors you close,
And hope the balmy blessings of repose:
Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair,
The midnight murderer bursts the faithless bar;
Invades the sacred hour of silent rest,
And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

'Scarce can our fields, such crowds at Tyburn

die,

With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.
Propose your schemes, ye senatorian band,
Whose ways and means 7 support the sinking land;
Lest ropes be wanting in the tempting spring
To rig another convoy for the king 8.

A single jail, in Alfred's golden reign,
Could half the nation's criminals contain;
Fair Justice then, without constraint adored,
Held high the steady scale, but sheathed the sword;
No spies were paid, no special juries known;
Bless'd age! but ah! how different from our own!
'Much could I add,-but see the boat at hand,
The tide, retiring, calls me from the land :
Farewell!-When youth, and health, and fortune
spent,

Thou fliest for refuge to the wilds of Kent;
And tired like me with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'st succeeding times;
Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forsake his Cambrian shade;
In virtue's cause once more exert his rage,
Thy satire point, and animate thy page.'

7 A technical term in parliament for raising money. 8 The nation was then discontented at the repeated visits made by George the Second to Hanover.

FRIENDSHIP.

FRIENDSHIP, peculiar boon of Heaven,
The noble mind's delight and pride,
To men and angels only given,
To all the lower world denied.

While love, unknown among the bless'd,
Parent of thousand wild desires,
The savage and the human breast
Torments alike with raging fires.

With bright, but oft destructive gleam,
Alike o'er all his lightnings fly;
Thy lambent glories only beam
Around the favourites of the sky.

Thy gentle flows of guiltless joys
On fools and villains ne'er descend;
In vain for thee the tyraut sighs,
And hugs a flatterer for a friend.

Directress of the brave and just,

O guide us through life's darksome way! And let the tortures of mistrust

On selfish bosoms only prey.

Nor shall thine ardors cease to glow,

When souls to peaceful climes remove;

What raised our virtue here below

Shall aid our happiness above.

THE YOUNG AUTHOR.

WHEN first the peasant, long inclined to roam,
Forsakes his rural sports and peaceful home,
Pleased with the scene the smiling ocean yields,
He scorns the verdant meads and flowery fields;
Then dances jocund o'er the watery way,
While the breeze whispers, and the streamers play :
Unbounded prospects in his bosom roll,
And future millions lift his rising soul;
In blissful dreams he digs the golden mine,
And raptured sees the new-found ruby shine.
Joys insincere! thick clouds invade the skies,
Loud roar the billows, high the waves arise;
Sickening with fear, he longs to view the shore,
And vows to trust the faithless deep no more.
So the Young Author, panting after fame,
And the long honours of a lasting name,
Intrusts his happiness to human kind,
More false, more cruel, than the seas or wind.
'Toil on, dull crowd,' in ecstasies he cries,
For wealth or title, perishable prize;
While I those transitory blessings scorn,
Secure of praise from ages yet unborn.'-
This thought once form'd, all counsel comes too late,
He flies to press, and hurries on his fate;
Swiftly he sees the imagined laurels spread,
And feels the unfading wreath surround his head.
Warn'd by another's fate, vain youth, be wise,
Those dreams were Settle's once, and Ogilby's!1

1 Settle was city poet, and Ogilby a neglected translator of Homer and Virgil.

D

The pamphlet spreads, incessant hisses rise,
To some retreat the baffled writer flies;
Where no sour critics snarl, no sneers molest,
Safe from the tart lampoon, and stinging jest ;
There begs of Heaven a less distinguish'd lot,
Glad to be hid, and proud to be forgot.

ON THE

DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET.

CONDEMN'D to Hope's delusive mine,

As on we toil from day to day, By sudden blasts or slow decline, Our social comforts drop away.

Well tried through many a varying year,
See Levet to the grave descend,
Officious, innocent, sincere,

Of every friendless name the friend.

Yet still he fills affection's eye,

Obscurely wise and coarsely kind;

Nor, letter'd arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefined.

When fainting Nature call'd for aid,

And hovering Death prepared the blow,

His vigorous remedy display'd

The power of art without the show.