« PreviousContinue »
Still the lights the confcious flame,
Vain the cafual, tranfient glance,
The Vanity of Wealth.
With feience tread the wondrous way,
Thus taste the feaft by nature spread,
To LYCE, an elderly Lady.
Her teeth the night with darkncfs dyes,
Denies my Lyce fhines;
Yet fpite of fair Zelinda's eye,
Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer. Dr. JOHNSON.
Paufe at this tomb where HANMER's afhes les
His force of genius burn'a in early youth
Thus early wife, th endanger'd realm to and
In business dext'rous, weighty in debate,
Refiftlefs merit fix'd the Senate's choice,
on her giving the Author a
Then when dark arts obfcur'd each fierce de
When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of fat,
This task perform'd, he fought no gainful poft, Nor with'd to glitter at his country's coit; Strict on the right he fix'd his ftead:aft eye, With temperate zeal, and wife anxiety; Nor e'er from Virtue's paths was lur'd afide, To pluck the flow'rs of pleasure or of pride. Her gifts de pis'd, Corruption bluth'd and fled; And Fame pursued him where Conviction led.
Age call'd at length his active mind to rest, With honours fated, and with cares oppreft; To letter'd cafe retir'd, and honeft mirth, To rural grandeur and domestic worth: Delighted fill to please mankiud, or mend, The patriot's fire yet fparkled in the friend. Calm Confcience then his former life furvey'd, And recollected toils endear'd the fhade; Till Nature call'd him to the general doom, And Virtue's forrow dignified his tomb.
Written at Wynflade in Hampfire. WYNSLADE, thy beech-capt hills, with waving grain
Mantled, thy chequer'd views of wood and lawn, Whilom could charm, or when the gradual dawn
'Gan the grey mift with orient purple ftain, Or Evening glimmer'd o'er the folded train : Her faireft landkips whence my Mufe has drawn,
Too free with fervile courtly phrafe to fawn, Too weak to try the buikin's fately ftrain. Yet now no more thy flopes of beech and corn, Nor views invite, fince he far diftant ftrays With whom I trac'd their fweets at eve and morn,
From Albion far, to cull Hefperian bays; In this alone they pleafe, howe'er forlorn, That ftill they can recal thofe happier days.
Young Health, a dryad-maid in vefture green, Or like the foreft's filver-quiver'd queen, On airy uplands met the piercing gale; And, ere its earliest echo fhock the vale, Watching the hunter's joyous horn was seen. But fince, gay-thron'd in fiery chariot fheen, Summer has imote each daify-dappled dale; She to the cave retires, high-arch'd beneath
Written at Stonehenge.
THOU noblefi monument of Albion's ifle! Whether, by Merlin's aid, from Scythia's fhore
To Amber's fatal plain Pendragon bore, Huge frame of giant hands, the mighty pile, Tentomb his Britons flain by Hengift's guile":
Or Druid priefs, fprinkled with human gore, Taught mid thy mały maze their mystic lore: Or Danith chiefs, enrich'd with lavage spoil, To Victory's idol vatt, an unhewn thrine,
Rear'd the rude Reap, or, in thy hallow'd round, Repole the kings of Brutus' genuine line; Or here thote kings in folemn ftate were crown'd:
Studious to trace thy wondrous origin,
We mufe on many an ancient tale renown'd.
Written after facing Wilton-Houfe. FROM Pembroke's princely dome, where mi
Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bow'rs, Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, And breathing forms from the nude marble start, How to life's humbler one can i de art?
My breath all glowing from thoid gorgeous tow'rs,
In my low cell how cheat the fullen hours? Vain the complaint: for fancy can impart (To Fate fuperior, and to Fortune's doom)
She, mid the dungeon's folitary gloom,
Can drefs the Graces in their attic pall:
To Mr. Gray.
The fount that laves proud Ifis' tow'red brim:NOT that her blooms are niark'd with beauty's
And now all glad the temperate air to breathe, While cooling drops difiil from arches dim, Binding her dewy locks with fedgy wreath, She fits amid the quire of Naiads trim.
Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale's Monafticon. DEEM not devoid of elegance the fage,
By Fancy's genuine feelings unbeguil'd,
My ruftic Mufe her votive chaplet brings; Unfeen, unheard, O Gray, to thee the fings! While flowly-pacing through the church-yard
At curfew-time, beneath the dark-green yew, Thy pentive genius ftrikes the moral firings; Or, borne fublime on Infpiration's wings, Hears Cambria's bards devote the dreadful clue
One of the bardish traditions about Stonehenge.
Of Edward's race, with murthers foul defil'd:
WHILE fummer-funs o'er the gay profpect
Through Surry's verdant fcenes where Epfom fpreads,
'Mid intermingling elms, her flow'ry meads; And Hafcombe's hill, in tow'ring groves array'd, Rear'd its romantic fteep-with mind ferene
I journey'd blythe. Full penfive I return'd; For now my breaft with hopeless paífion burn'd: Wet with hoar mifts appear'd the gaudy fcene
Which late in careless indolence I pats'd;
And Autumn all around thofe hues had caft Where paft delight my recent grief might trace.
Sad change! that Nature a congenial gloom Should wear, when moft, my cheerless mood to chafe,
I with'd her green attire, and wonted bloom!
On King Arthur's Round Table at Winchefter. W HERE Venta's Norman castle ftill uprears Its rafter'd hall, that o'er the gray fofs, And scatter'd flinty fragments, clad in mofs, On yonder steep in naked ftate appears; High-hung remains, the pride of warlike years,
Old Arthur's Board: on the capacious round Some British pen has fketch'd the names renown'd,
In marks obfcure, of his immortal peers.
To the River Lodon.
AH! what a weary race my feet have run, Since first I trod thy banks with alders crown'd,
And thought my way was all through fairy ground,
Bencath thy azure fky, and golden fun :
While pentive memory traces back the round
Yet frill one joy remains, that not obfcure Nor ufeleis all my vacant days have flow'd, From youth's gay dawn to manhood's prime
Nor with the Mufe's laurel unbeftow'd.
YOUNG Slouch the farmer had a jolly wife,
Say, Slouch could hardly call his foul his own;
For, if he went abroad too much, she'd use
His friends thought this was a tyrannic rule,
He faid, "That the next Tuesday noon would "fhew
"Whether he were the lord at home or no; "When their good company he would entreat "To well-brew'd ale, and clean if homely
Then Checfe was brought. Says Slouch-"This | “ Excuse me, Virgin Mary, that I swear
"e'en fhall roll;
“ I'm fure 'tis hard enough to make a Bowl: "This is Skim-milk, and therefore it shall "And this, becaufe 'tis Suffolk, follow roo. But now Sue's patience did begin to wafte; Nor longer could diflimulation laft. "Pray let me rife," fays Sue," my dear; I'll find "A Cheefe perhaps may be to Lovy's mind." Then in an entry ftanding clofe, where he Alone, and none of all his friends, might fee; And brandishing a cudgel he had felt, And far enough on this occafion smelt—
The PILGRIMS and the PEAS. A true Story. PETER PINDAR. A BRACE of finners, for no good, Were order'd to the Virgin Mary's fhrine, Who at Loretto dwelt, in wax, ftone, wood,
And in a fair white wig look'd wondrous fine. Fifty long miles had thofe fad rogues to travel With fomething in their fhoes much worfe than gravel;
In fhort, their toes fo gentle to amuse,
That Popith parfons for its pow'rs exalt
The knaves fet off on the fame day,
Peas in their fhoes, to go and pray;
But very diff'rent was their speed, I wot:
The other limp'd as if he had been shot.
Made fit with faints above to live for ever. In coming back, however, let me fay, He met his brother rogue, about half way, Hobblingwithoutstretch'd bum and bending knees, Damning the fouls and bodies of the peas; His eyes in tears, his checks and brows in fweat, Deep fympathizing with his groaning feet. "How now," the light-toed, whitewalh'd pilgrim
"You lazy lubber:"
"Odds curie it!" cried the other, " 'tis no joke: My fect, once hard as any rock, "Are now as foft as blubber.
"As for Loretto, I shall not get there:
"But, brother finner, do explain
"What Pow'R hath work'd a wonder for your
A Country Bumpkin and Razor-feller. PETER PINDAR. FELLOW in a market town, Moft mufical, cried razors up and down, And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence; Which certainly feem'd woundrous cheap, And for the money quite a heap,
As ev'ry man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heardPoor Hodge-who fuffer'd by a broad black beard, That feem'd a fhoe-bruth ftuck beneath his
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
"This rafcal ftole the razors, I fuppofe."
"It certainly will be a monftrous prize :" So home the clown with his good fortune went, Smiling in heart and foul content,
And quickly foap'd himfelf to ears and eyes.
"I with my eighteen pence within my purfe." In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces, He cut, and dug, and winc'd, and itamp'd, and
fwore : Brought blood, and danc'd, blafphem'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er.
Hodge, in a paffion, ftretch'd his angry jaws,
Hodge fought the fellow, found him, and begun- | With teeth and claws his fkin he tore,
"You rafcal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
"As for the razors you have bought,
"Not think they'd fhave!" quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; "What were they made for then, you dog?" he
"Made!" quoth the fellow, with a fimile to feil."
The Bald-pated Welfbman, and the Fly.
"Qui non mederabitur irae,
"Infectum volet effe, dolor quod fuaferit et mens,
Thus much he gain'd by this adventurous deed,
Let fenates hence learn to preferve their ftate,"
Let him buz on, with fenfelefs rant defy
SQUIRE of Wales, whofe blood ran higher Young Ammon fcorns to run with less than kings,
Than that of any other fquire,
Hafty and hot; whole peevith honour
He fum'd, he rav'd, he curs'd, he swore,
Vie with fimooth beaux, and ladies pages:
He perch'd upon his worship's crewn,