<< The one writes the Snarler; the other, the Scourge: "Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."

While thus he defcrib'd them by trade and by name, They enter'd; and dinner was ferv'd as they came : At the top a fry❜d liver and bacon was seen; At the bottom was tripe in a fwinging terrene; At the fides there was fpinage and pudding made hot; In the middle-a place, where the ven'son was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, 'tis my utter averfion ; And your bacon I hate, like a Turk, or a Perfian: But what vex'd me moft was that damn'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded fpeeches, and fmiles, and his brogue:

“ And, madam,” says he, " may this bit be my poifon, "If a prettier dinner I ever fet eyes on!

"Pray, a flice of your liver;-but may I be curft,'
"But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst !"
• Your tripe!' quoth the Jew, if the truth I may speak,
• I could eat of this tripe seven days in the week:
• I like thefe bere dinners, fo pretty and small;
• But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all.”
Oho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice;
"He's keeping a corner for fomething that's nice :
There's a party." A pafty !' returned the Scot
I don't care if I keep a corner for thot.'
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out:
We'll all keep q corner, was echoed about.

While thus we refolv'd, and the pasty delay'd,
With looks quite astonishing enter'd the maid
A vifage fo fad, and fo pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam, by drawing his curtains by night.

But too foon we found out (for who could mistake her?) That fhe came with fome terrible news from the baker; And fo it fell out for that negligent floven

Had fhut out the pasty on fhutting his oven.

your

Sad Philomel thus-but let fimilies drop; And now, that I think on't, the story may ftop. To be plain then, my lord, 'tis but labour misplac'd To fend fuch good verfes to one of tafte: You've got an odd fomething, a kind of discerning, A relish, a taste, ficken'd over by learning: At leaft 'tis your temper, 'tis very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own : So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amifs, You may make a mistake-and think flightly of this. DR. GOLDSMITH,

AN ELEGY WRITTEN ON THE PLAIN OF FONTENOY.'

CHII

HILL blows the blast, and twilight's dewy hand
Draws in the weft her dufky veil away;

A deeper fhadow fteals along the land,
And Nature mufes at the death of day.

Near this bleak waste no friendly manfion rears
Its walls, where mirth and focial joys refound;
But each fad object melts the foul to tears,
While horror treads the fçatter'd bones around.

As thus alone and comfortless I

roam,

Wet with the drizzling shower, I figh fincere ;
1 caft a fond look tow'rds my native home,
And think what valiant Britons perish'd here.

Yes, the time was, nor very far the date,
When carnage here her crimson toil began ;
When nations' ftandards wav'd in threat'ning flate,
And man the murd❜rer met the murd'rer man.

For war is murder, tho' the voice of kings
Has ftyl'd it juftice, ftyl'd it glory too;
Yet from worst motives fierce ambition springs,
And there, fix'd prejudice is all we view.

But fure 'tis Heaven's immutable decree,
For thousands every age in fight to fall;
Some natural cause prevails, we cannot see,
And that is fate which we ambition call.

O let th' aspiring warrior think with grief,
That, as produc'd by chymic art refin’d—
So glitt'ring conqueft from the laurel leaf
Extracts a genʼral poison for mankind.

Here let him wander at the midnight hour,
These morbid rains, thefe gelid gales to meet ;
And mourn, like me, the ravages of pow'r,
And feel, like me, that vict'ry is defeat !

Nor deem, ye vain! that e'er I mean to fwell
My feeble verfe with many a founding name :

Of fuch, the mercenary bard may tell,
And call fuch dreary defolation, fame.

The genuine muse removes the thin disguise,
That cheats the world, whene'er fhe deigns to fing;
And full as meritorious to her eyes

Seems the poor foldier, as the mighty king.

Alike I fhun in labour'd strain to show,

How Britain more than triumph'd tho' she fled,
Where Louis ftood, where stalk'd the column flow;
I turn from these, and dwell upon the dead.

Yet much my beating breast respects the brave ;
'Too well I love them, not to mourn their fate :
Why should they seek for greatness in the grave?
Their hearts are noble, and in life they're great.

Nor think 'tis but in war the brave excel,-
To valour ev'ry virtue is allied:

Here faithful friendship 'mid the battle fell,
And love, true love, in bitter anguish died.

Alas! the folemn flaughter I retrace,

That checks life's current circling thro' my veins,
Bath'd in moist forrow many a beauteous face,
And gave a grief, perhaps, that still remains.

I can no more-an agony too keen
Absorbs my fenfes, and my mind fübdues :

Hard were that heart, which here could beat serene,
Or the just tribute of a pang refuse.

But

But lo! thro' yonder opening clouds afar
Shoots the bright planet's fanguinary ray
That bears thy name, fictitious Lord of War!
And with red luftre guides my lonely way.

Then, Fontenoy, farewell! yet much I fear
(Wherever chance my course compels) to find
Difcord and blood:-the thrilling founds I hear,
The noise of battle ruftles in the wind.

From barb'rous Turkey to Britannia's shore
Oppofing int'refts into rage increase;
Deftruction rears her fceptre, tumults roar,
Ah! where fhall hapless man repofe in peace?

POETRY OF THE WORLD

TO DR. JOHNSON, SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS, AND
OTHER MEN OF GENIUS.

LATELY thought no man alive
Could e'er improve past forty-five,
And ventur'd to affert it.

The observation was not new,
But feem'd to me so just and true,

That none could controvert it.

"No, Sir," fays Johnfon, "'tis not fo; "That's your mistake; and I can fhew

"An