The cold, cold dews of hastening death
Upon her pale face stand;

And quick and short her failing breath,
And tremulous her hand.

The cold, cold dews of hastening death,
The dim departing eye,

The quiv'ring hand, the short quick breath,
He view'd and did not die.

He saw her spirit mount in air,
Its kindred skies to seek!
His heart its anguish could not bear,
And yet it would not break.

The mournful Muse forbears to tell
How wretched ELDRED died:
She draws the Grecian * Painter's veil,
The vast distress to hide.

Yet Heaven's decrees are just and wise,
And man is born to bear :

Joy is the portion of the skies,
Beneath them, all is care.

Yet blame not Heav'n; 'tis erring man,
Who mars his own best joys;
Whose passions uncontroll'd, the plan
Of promis'd bliss destroys.

* In the celebrated Picture of the Sacrifice of IPHIGENIA, TIMANTHES having exhausted every image of grief in the bystanders, threw a veil over the face of the father, whose sorrow he was utterly unable to express. PLIN. Book Xxxv.

Had ELDRED paus'd before the blow,
His hand had never err'd;
What guilt, what complicated woe,
His soul had then been spar'd!

The deadliest wounds with which we bleed,
Our crimes inflict alone;

Man's mercies from God's hand proceed,
His miseries from his own.

THE PUPPET-SHOW:

A TALE.

A NOBLE Earl the name I

spare,

From reverence to the living heir
Lov'd pleasure; but, to speak the truth,
Not much refinement grac'd the youth.
The path of pleasure which he trod
Was somewhat new, and rather odd;
For, that he haunted park or play,
His house's archives do not say;
Or that more modish joys he felt,
And would in opera transports melt;
Or that he spent his morning's prime
In Bond-street bliss till dinner-time:
No treasur'd anecdotes record
Such pastimes pleas'd the youthful Lord.
One single taste historians mention,
A fact, unmingled with invention;
It was a taste you'll think, I fear,
Somewhat peculiar for a Peer,
Though the rude democratic pen
Pretends that Peers are only men.
Whatever town or country fair
Was advertis'd, my Lord was there.
'Twas not to purchase or to sell-
Why went he then? the Muse shall tell.

At fairs he never fail'd to find
The joy congenial to his mind.
This dear diversion would you know?
What was it? 'twas a Puppet-show!
Transported with the mimic art,
The wit of Punch enthrall'd his heart.
He went, each evening, just at six,
When Punch exhibited his tricks ;
And, not contented every night
To view this object of delight,

He gravely made the matter known,
He must and would have Punch his own;
For if, exclaims the noble Lord,
Such joys these transient views afford;
If I receive such keen delight
From a short visit every night,

'Tis fair to calculate what pleasure
Will spring from owning such a treasure.
I need not for amusements roam,
I shall have always Punch at home.
He rav'd, with this new fancy bit,
Of Punch's sense and Punch's wit.
Not more Narcissus long'd t' embrace
The watery mirror's shadowy face;
Not more Pygmalion long'd to claim
Th' unconscious object of his flame;
Than long'd th' enamour'd legislator
To purchase this delightful creature.
Each night he regularly sought him,
Nor did he rest till he had bought him,

Soon he accomplishes the measure,
And pays profusely for his treasure:

He bids them pack the precious thing,

So careful not to break a spring;

So anxious not to bruise a feature,

His own new coach must fetch the creature.
He safely brought the idol home,

And lodg'd beneath his splendid dome;
All obstacles at length surmounted,
My Lord on perfect pleasure counted.
If you have feelings, guess you may,
How glad he pass'd the live-long day.
His eating room he makes the station,
Of his new favourite's habitation.
"Convivial Punch!" he cried, "to-day

Thy genius shall have full display! “How shall I laugh to hear thy wit

"At supper nightly as I sit!

"Oh how delightful, as I dine,

"To hear some sallies, Punch, of thine!"

Next day, at table, as he sat, Impatient to begin the chat,

Punch was produc'd; but Punch, I trow,

Divested of his puppet-show,

Was nothing, was a thing of wires,

Whose sameness disappoints and tires.

Depriv'd of all extrinsic aid,

The empty idol was betray'd.

No artful hand to pull the springs,
And Punch no longer squeaks or sings.
Ah me! what horror seiz'd my Lord,
'Twas paint, 'twas show, 'twas pasted-board!
He marvell'd why the pleasant thing
Which could such crowds together bring,