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Stella's eyes,
and air, and face,
Charm with undiminish'd grace.
If on her we fee ditplay'd
Pendant gems, and rich brocade;
If her chintz with lef expence
Flows in eafy negligence;

Still the lights the confcious flame,
Still her charms appear the fame;
If the strikes the vocal ftrings,
If the's filent, fpeaks, or fings,
If the fit, or if the move,
Still we love, and still approve.

Vain the cafual, tranfient glance,
Which alone can pleafe by chauce,
Beauty which depends on art,
Changing with the changing art,
Which demands the toilet's aid,
and rich brocade.
I thofe charms alone can prize
Which from conftant nature rife,
Which nor circunftance nor drefs
E'er can make or more or lefs.


The Vanity of Wealth.
NO more, thus brooding o'er von heap,
With Avarice poinful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the prefent ftore,
Still endless fighs are breath'd for more.
O quit the fhadow, catch the prize
Which not all India's treasure buys!
To purchafe heaven has gold the pow'r ?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life can love be bought with gold?
Are friendthip's pleasures to be fold?
No-all that's worth a wifh, a thought,
Fair virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought.
Ceafe then on trafh thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With feience tread the wondrous way,
Or learn the Mufes' moral lay;
In focial hours indulge thy foul,
Where mirth and temperance mix the bowl;
To virtuous love refign thy breaft,
And be, by bleffing beauty, bleft.

Thus taste the feaft by nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come tafte with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and strife.
I boaft whate'er for man was meant,
In health, and Stella, and content;
And fcorn (0 let that fcorn be thine!)
Mere things of clay that dig the mine.

To Mifs

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To LYCE, an elderly Lady.
YE nymphs whom starry rays invest,
By flattering poets given,
Who thine by lavifh lovers drest
In all the pomp of heaven;
Engrofs not all the beams on high
Which gild a lover's lays;
But, as your fifter of the fky,
Let Lyce share the praife.
Her filver locks difplay the moon,
Her brows a cloudy fhow;
Strip'd rainbows round her eyes are feen,
And fhow'rs from either flow.

Her teeth the night with darkncfs dyes,
She's ftarr'd with pimples o'er;
Her tongue like nimble lightning plies,
And can with thunder roar.
But fome Zelinda, while I fing,

Denies my Lyce fhines;
And all the pens of Cupid's wing
Attack my gentle lines.

Yet fpite of fair Zelinda's eye,
And all her bards exprefs,
My Lyce makes as good a sky,
And I but flatter lefs.

Epitaph on Sir Thomas Hanmer. Dr. JOHNSON.
THOU who furvey ft thefe walls with case


Paufe at this tomb where HANMER's afhes les
His various worth through varied life attend,
And learn his virtues while thou mourn 'it his ead.

His force of genius burn'a in early youth
With thirit of knowledge, and with love of truth,
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd ev'ry car, and gain'd on ev'ry heart.

Thus early wife, th endanger'd realm to and
His country call'd him from the ftudious thade;
In life's firit bloom his public toils began,
At once commenc'd the fenator and man.

In business dext'rous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the fate;
In every fpeech perfuafive wildom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Sufpended faction ceas'd from rage and frife,
To hear his eloquence, and praife his life.

Refiftlefs merit fix'd the Senate's choice,
Dr. JOHNSON. Who hail'd him Speaker with united voice.
Illuftrious age! how bright thy glories thone,
When HANMER fill'd the chair-and ANNE the

on her giving the Author a
Gold and Silk Net-work Purje of her own weav-
HOUGH gold and filk their charms unite
To make thy curious web delight,
In vain the varied work would thine
If wrought by any hand but thine,
Thy hand that knows the fubtler art
To weave thofe nets that catch the heart.
Spread out by me, the roving coin
Thy nets may catch, but not confine;


Then when dark arts obfcur'd each fierce de


When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of fat,
The Moderator firmly mild appear'd,
Beleld with love, with veneration heard.


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.

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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.

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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

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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

mic Art

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,
Whate'er adorns the flately-ftoried hail :

Can drefs the Graces in their attic pall:
Bid the green landscape's vernal beauty bloom;
And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wall.

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:
Can aught my pipe to reach thine ear effay?
No, bard divine! For many a care beguil'd
By the fweet magic of thy foothing lay,
For many a raptur'd thought, and vifion wild,
To thee this ftrain of gratitude I pay.


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.
Though join'd by magic fkill, with many a rime,
The Druid frame unhonour'd falls a prey
To the flow vengeance of the wizard Time,
And fade the British characters away;
Yet Spenfer's page, that chants in verfe fublime
Thofe chiefs, fhall live unconfcious of decay.

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 :
Where fit my mufe to lifp her notes begun!

While pentive memory traces back the round
Which fills the varied interval between,
Much pleasure, more of forrow, marks the fcene.
Sweet native stream! thofe fkies and funs fo pure
No more return, to cheer my evening road!

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.

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YOUNG Slouch the farmer had a jolly wife,
That knew all the conveniences of life,
Whofe diligence and cleanliness fupplied
The wit which Nature had to him denied:
But then he had a tongue that would be heard,
And make a better man than Slouch afcard.
This made cenforious perfons of the town

Say, Slouch could hardly call his foul his own;

For, if he went abroad too much, she'd use
To give him flippers, and lock up his fees.
Talking he lov'd, and ne'er was more afflicted
Than when he was disturb'd or contradicted;
Yet still into his story she would break
With-"'Tis not fo; pray give me leave ta


His friends thought this was a tyrannic rule,
Not diff ring much from calling of him foot;
Told him he must exert himself, and be
In fact the master of his family.

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


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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—

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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,
The priest had order'd peas into their fhoes:
A noftrum famous in old Popish times
For purifying fouls that ftunk with crimes;
A fort of apoftolic falt,

That Popith parfons for its pow'rs exalt
For keeping fouls of finners fweet,
Juft as our kitchen falt keeps meat.

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:
One of the finners gallop'd on
Light as a bullet from a gun;

The other limp'd as if he had been shot.
ONE faw the VIRGIN foon-peccavi cried—
Had his foul whitewath'd alt fo clever;
Then home again he nimbly hied,

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:
"No! to the Devil my finful foul must go,
"For damme if I ha'nt loft ev'ry toe.

"But, brother finner, do explain
"How 'tis that you are not in pain;

"What Pow'R hath work'd a wonder for your

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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,
And proudly to himfelf in whifpers faid,

"This rafcal ftole the razors, I fuppofe."
"No matter if the fellow be a knave;
"Provided that the razors Shave,

"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.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Juft like a hedger cutting furze :
'Twas a vile razor!-then the rest he tried-
All were impoftors-"Ah!" Hodge figh'd,

"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.
His MUZZLE, form'd of oppofition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lofe its ruff;

Hodge, in a paffion, ftretch'd his angry jaws,
So kept it-laughing at the fteel and fuds:
Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile CHEAT that fold the goods.
"Razors !-a damn'd, confounded dog!—
"Not fit to fcrape a hog !”




Hodge fought the fellow, found him, and begun- | With teeth and claws his fkin he tore,
"Prhaps, Mafter Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun, And ftuff'd himself with human gore.
"That people flay themselves out of their At laft, in manners to excel,
Untrufs'd a point, fome authors tell.
But now what rhetoric could affuage
The furious squire, stark mad with rage?
Impatient at the foul difgrace
From infect of fo mean a race,
And plotting vengeance on his foe,
With double fift he aims a blow:
The nimble fly efcap'd by flight,
And skipp'd from this unequal fight.
Th' impending ftroke with all its weight
Fell on his own beloved pate.

"You rafcal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
"Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a fcrubbing,
"With razors just like oyfter knives.
"Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave,
"To cry up razors that can't have."
"Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a

"As for the razors you have bought,
"Upon my foul I never thought
"That they would shave.”

"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,
"Dum poenas odio per vim feftinat inult."


Thus much he gain'd by this adventurous deed,
He foul'd his fingers, and he broke his head.

Let fenates hence learn to preferve their ftate,"
And fcorn the fool, below their grave debate,
Who by th' unequal ftrife grows popular and

Let him buz on, with fenfelefs rant defy
The wife, the good; yet ftill 'tis but a fly.
With puny foes the toil's not worth the coft,
Where nothing can be gain'd, much may be loft:
Let cranes and pigmies in mock-war engage,
A prey beneath the gen'rous eagle's rage.
True honour o'er the clouds fublimely wings;

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
Reveng'd each flight was put upon her,
Upon a mountain's top one day
Expos'd to Sol's meridian ray,

He fum'd, he rav'd, he curs'd, he swore,
Exhal'd a fea at ev'ry pore;
At laft, fuch infults to evade,
Sought the next tree's protecting fhade;
Where as he lay diffolv'd in fweat,
And wip'd off many a rivulet,
Off in a pet the beaver flies,
And flaxen wig, time's beat disguise,
By which, folks of maturer ages

Vie with fimooth beaux, and ladies pages:
Though 'twas a fecret rarely known,
Ill-natur'd age had cropp'd his crown,
Grubb'd all the covert up, and now
A large fmooth plain extends his brow.
Thus as he lay with numkul bare,
And courted the refreshing air,
New perfecutions still appear,
A noify fly offends his car.
Alas! what man of parts and fenfa
Could bear fuch vile impertinence ?
Yet, fo difcourtcous is our fate,
Fools always buz about the great.
This infect now, whose active spite
Teas'd him with never-ccafing bite,
With fo much judgment play'd his part,
He had him both in tierce and quart:
In vain with open hands he tries
To guard his cars, his nofe, his eyes;
For now at laft, familiar grown,

He perch'd upon his worship's crewn,

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