Greece! how I kindle at thy magic Name,
Feel all thy Warmth, and catch the kindred Flame.
Thy Scenes fublime, and awful Vifions rife,
In ancient Pride before my mufing Eyes.
Here Sparta's Sons in mute Attention hang,
While juft Lycurgus pours the mild Harangue,
There Xerxes' Hofts, all pale with deadly Fear,
Shrink at her fated * Hero's flashing Spear.
Here hung with many a Lyre of filver String,
The laureate Alleys of Iliffus fpring:
And lo, where wrapt in Beauty's heavenly Dream
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.
Yet ah! no more the Land of Arts and Arms,
Delights with Wisdom, or with Virtue warms.
Lo! the ftern Turk, with more than Vandal Rage,
Has blafted all the Wreaths of ancient Age :
No more her Groves by Fancy's Feet are trod,
Each Attic Grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxury's pleasing Bane
Seduc'd, she drags a barbarous foreign Chain.
Britannia watch! O trim thy withering Bays,
Remember thou haft rivall'd Grecia's Praise,
Great Nurfe of Works divine! Yet oh! beware
Left thou the fate of Greece, my Country, fhare.
Recall thy wonted Worth with conscious Pride,
Thou too haft seen a Solon in a Hyde;
Haft bade thine Edwards and thine Henry's rear】
Vith Spartan Fortitude the British spear;
A ke has feen thy Sons deserve the Meed
the moral or the martial Deed.
To the Pie-house Memory of NELL BATCHELOR, az Oxford Iye-Woman.
ERE deep in the Dub,
The mouldy old Cruft,
Of Nell Batchelor lately was fhoven ;
Who was fkill'd in the Arts
Of Pies, Puddings, and Tarts,
And knew ev'ry Ufe of the Oven.
When the liv'd long enough.
She made her last Puff,
A Puff by her Husband much prais'd;
Now here the doth lie,
And makes a dirt Pye,
In hopes that her Cruft will be rais'd.
CASTLE BARBER'S SOLILOQY.
Who with fuck Succefs-alas! till
The War came on—have (bav'd the Castle;
Who by the Nofe, with hand unshaken,
The boldeft Heroes oft have taken ;
In humble Strain, am doom'd to mourn
My Fortune chang'd, and State forlorn!
My Soap scarce ventures into Froth,
My Razors ruft in idle Cloth!
WISDOM! to you my Verfe appeals;
You fhare the Griefs your Barber feels:
Scare comes a Student once a whole Age,
To stock your defolated College.
Our Trade how ill in Army fuits!
This comes of picking up Recruits.
Loft is the Robber's Occupation,
No Robbing thrives-but of the Nation:
For hardy Necks no Rope is twisted,
And e'en the Hangman's felf is lifted.
* The Governor of Oxford Caftle.
Thy Publishers, O mighty Jacken!
With scarce a fcanty Coat their Backs on,
Warning to Youth no longer teach,
Nor live upon a Dying Specch.
In Caffock clad, for want of Breeches,
No more the Calle Chaplain preaches.
Oh! were cur Troops but safely landed,
And every Regiment difbanded!
They'd make, I truft, a new Campaign
On Henly's Hill, or Campsfield's Plain :
Detin'd at Home in peaceful State,
By me frefb-fbav'd to meet their Fate!
Regard ye Juftices of peace!
The CASTLE BARBER's piteous Cafe :
And kindly make fome fnug Addition,
To better his diftreft Condition.
Not that I mean, by fuch Expreffions,
To have your Worships at the Seffions,
Or would with vain Prefumption big,
Afpire to comb the Judge's Wig:
Far lefs ambituous Thoughts are mine,›
Far humbler Hopes my Views confine.
Then think not that I afk amifs ;
My fmall requeft is only this,
That I, by Leave of LEIGH or PARDO,
May with the CASTLE-bave BOCARDO.
Thus, as at Jefus oft I've heard,
Rough Servitors in Wales preferr'd,
The Joneses, Morgans, and Ap-Rices;
Keep Fiddles with their BENEFICES.
Iccí, beatis nunc Arabum invides
O you, my Friend, at laft are caught--
Where could you get fo flrange a Thought,
In Mind and Body found?
All meaner Studies you refign,
Your whole Ambition now to fhine
The Beau of the Beau-monde.
Say, gallant Youth, what well-known Name
Shall fpread the Triumphs of your Fame
Through all the Realms of Drury?
How will you ftrike the gaping Cit?
What Tavern fhall record your Wit?
What Watchman mourn your Fury?
What fprightly Imp of Gallic Breed
Shall have the Culture of your Head,
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