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(Sworn foes to everything that's

witty,)

That, with a black infernal train,
Make cruel inroads in my brain,
And daily threaten to drive thence
My little garrison of sense:
The fierce banditti which I mean,
Are gloomy thoughts led on by
Spleen.

Then there's another reason yet,
Which is, that I may fairly quit
The debt which justly became due
The moment when I heard from you:
And you might grumble, crony mine,
If paid in any other coin;
Since twenty sheets of lead, God
knows,

(I would say twenty sheets of prose,) Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much

As one of gold, and yours was such.
Thus the preliminaries settled,
I fairly find myself pitch-kettled ;*
And cannot see, though few see
better,

How I shall hammer out a letter.

First, for a thought-since all agree

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A thought-I have it-let me see'Tis gone again plague on't! I thought

I had it but I have it not.
D me Gurton thus, and Hodge
her son,

That useful thing, her needle, gone,
Rake well the cinders, sweep the floor,
And sift the dust behind the door;
While eager Hodge beholds the prize
In old grimalkin's glaring eyes;
And Gammer finds it on her knees
In every shining straw she sees.
This simile were apt enough,
But I've another, critic-proof.
The virtuoso thus at noon,
Broiling beneath a July sun,
The gilded butterfly pursues

O'er hedge and ditch, through gaps and mews,

And after many a vain essay
To captivate the tempting prey,
Gives him at length the lucky pat,
And has him safe beneath his hat;
Then lifts it gently from the ground;
But ah! 'tis lost as soon as found;
Culprit his liberty regains;

Flits out of sight and mocks his pains,

The sense was dark, 'twas therefore fit
With simile to illustrate it;
But as too much obscures the sight,
As often as too little light,
We have our similes cut short,
For matters of more grave import.
That Matthew's numbers run with

ease

Each man of common sense agrees; All men of common sense allow, That Robert's lines are easy too; Where then the preference shall we place,

Or how do justice in this case?
Matthew (says Fame) with endless
pains
[strains,
Smoothed and refined the meanest
Nor suffer'd one ill-chosen rhyme
To escape him at the idlest time;
And thus o'er all a lustre cast,
That while the language lives shall
last,

An't please your ladyship (quoth I,—
For 'tis my business to reply ;)
Sure so much labour, so much toil,
Bespeak at last a stubborn soil.
Theirs be the laurel-wreath decreed,
Who both write well and write full
speed;

Who throw their Helicon about
As freely as a conduit spout.
Friend Robert, thus like chien sçavant,
Lets fall a poem en passant,
Nor needs his genuine ore refine;
'Tis ready polish'd from the mine.

* A slang word for puzzled.

THE CERTAINTY OF DEATH.

MORTALS! around your destined heads
Thick fly the shafts of Death,
And lo! the savage spoiler spreads
A thousand toils beneath.

In vain we trifle with our fate;
Try every art in vain;

At best we but prolong the date,
And lengthen out our pain.

Fondly we think all danger fled,
For Death is ever nigh;
Outstrips our unavailing speed,
Or meets us as we fly.

Thus the wreck'd mariner may strive
Some desert shore to gain,
Secure of life, if he survive

The fury of the main.

But there, to famine doom'd a prey
Finds the mistaken wretch
He but escaped the troubled sea,
To perish on the beach,

Since then in vain we strive to guard
Our frailty from the foe,

Lord, let me live not unprepared
To meet the fatal blow!

A COMPARISON.

THE lapse of time and rivers is the same,
Both speed their journey with a restless stream;
The silent pace with which they steal away,

No wealth can bribe, no prayers persuade to stay;
Alike irrevocable both when past,

And a wide ocean swallows both at last.

Though each resemble each in every part,

A difference strikes at length the musing heart; Streams never flow in vain; where streams abound How laughs the land with various plenty crowned! But time, that should enrich the nobler mind, Neglected, leaves a dreary waste behind.

THE STREAM.

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG LADY.

SWEET stream, that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid!
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world's gay busy throng,
With gentle yet prevailing force,
Intent upon her destined course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blessed where'er she goes;
Pure-bosomed as that watery glass,
And heaven reflected in her face!

A SONG.

THE sparkling eye, the mantling cheek,
The polished front, the snowy neck,
How seldom we behold in one!
Glossy locks, and brow serene,
Venus' smiles, Diana's mien,

All meet in you, and you alone.

Beauty, like other powers, maintains
Her empire, and by union reigns;

Each single feature faintly warms:
But where at once we view displayed
Unblemished grace, the perfect maid

Our eyes, our ears, our heart alarms.

So when on earth the god of day
Obliquely sheds his tempered ray,

Through convex orbs the beams transmit,
The beams that gently warmed before,
Collected, gently warm no more,

But glow with more prevailing heat.

SONG.

No more shall hapless Celia's ears
Be flattered with the cries
Of lovers drowned in floods of tears,
Or murdered by her eyes;

No serenade to break her rest,

Nor songs her slumbers to molest,

With my fa, la, la.

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The fragrant flowers that once would bloom
And flourish in her hair,

Since she no longer breathes perfume

Their odours to repair,

Must fade, alas! and wither now,

As placed on any common brow,

With my fa, la, la.

Her lip, so winning and so meek,
No longer has its charms;

As well she might by whistling seek
To lure us to her arms;
Affected once, 'tis real now,

As her forsaken gums may show,

With my fa, la, la.

The down that on her chin so smooth
So lovely once appeared,

That, too, has left her with her youth,
Or sprouts into a beard;

As fields, so green when newly sown,
With stubble stiff are overgrown,

With my fa, la, la.

Then, Celia, leave your apish tricks,
And change your girlish airs,
For ombre, snuff, and politics,

Those joys that suit your years;

No patches can lost youth recall,

Nor whitewash prop a tumbling wall,
With my fa, la, lì.

A SONG.

On the green margin of the brook
Despairing Phyllida reclined,
Whilst every sigh and every look
Declared the anguish of her mind.

"Am I less lovely then? (she cries,
And in the waves her form surveyed ;)
yes, I see my languid eyes,

Oh

My faded cheek, my colour fled:

These eyes no more like lightning pierced,
These cheeks grew pale, when Damon first
His Phyllida betrayed.

23

"The rose he in his bosom wore,

How oft upon my breast was seen!
And when I kissed the drooping flower
'Behold,' he cried, 'it blooms again!'
The wreaths that bound my braided hair,
Himself next day was proud to wear
At church, or on the green."

While thus sad Phyllida lamented,
Chance brought unlucky Thyrsis on;
Unwillingly the nymph consented,
But Damon first the cheat begun.
She wiped the fallen tears away,

Then sighed and blushed, as who should say,
"Ah! Thyrsis, I am won."

ADDRESS TO MISS MACARTNEY,

66

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AFTERWARDS MRS. GREVILLE, ON READING HER PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE."

1762.

AND dwells there in a female heart, | With lenient balm may Oberon hence

By bounteous Heaven design'd

The choicest raptures to impart,

To feel the most refined;

To fairy-land be driven,

With every herb that blunts the sense
Mankind received from Heaven.

Dwells there a wish in such a breast "Oh, if my Sovereign Author please,

Its nature to forego,

To smother in ignoble rest

At once both bliss and woe ?

Far be the thought, and far the strain,

Which breathes the low desire, How sweet soe'er the verse complain, Though Phoebus string the lyre.

Come then, fair maid, (in nature wise,)

Who, knowing them, can tell
From generous sympathy what joys
The glowing bosom swell;

In justice to the various powers
Of pleasing, which you share,
Join me, amid your silent hours,
To form the better prayer.

Far be it from my fate,
To live unblest in torpid ease,
And slumber on in state;

"Each tender tie of life defied,

Whence social pleasures spring; Unmoved with all the world beside, A solitary thing."

Some Alpine mountain wrapt in snow,

Thus braves the whirling blast, Eternal winter doomed to know, No genial spring to taste;

In vain warm suns their influence
shed,

The zephyrs sport in vain,
He rears unchanged his barren head,
Whilst beauty decks the plain.

* The prayer was addressed to Oberon, King of the Fairies.

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