Full many an Elegy has mourn'd its fate,
Beneath some pasty cabin'd, cribb'd, confined;
Full many an Ode has soar'd in lofty state,
Fix'd to a kite, and quivering in the wind.

Here too perhaps, neglected now, may lie
The rude memorial of some ancient song,
Whose martial strains and rugged minstrelsy
Once waked to rapture every listening throng.
To trace fair Science through each wildering

course,

With new ideas to enlarge the mind,

With useful lessons drawn from classic source,
At once to polish and instruct mankind;
Their times forbade: nor yet alone repress'd
Their opening fancy; but alike confined
The senseless ribaldry, the scurvy jest,

And each low triumph of the vulgar mind.

-Their humbler science never soar'd so far;
In studious trifles pleased to waste their time,
Or wage with common sense eternal war,
In never ending clink of monkish rhyme.

Yet were they not averse to noisy fame,

Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, But still aspired to raise their sinking name, And fondly hoped that name might ever last. Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye, Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's* urn; Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie, And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn. * Vide Admiral Tyrrel's monument, in Westminster Abbey.

For who with rhymes e'er rack'd his weary brain,
Or spent in search of epithets his days,
But from his lengthen'd labours hoped to gain
Some present profit or some future praise?
Though folly's self inspire each dead-born strain,
Still flattery prompts some blockhead to com-
mend;

Perhaps e'en Timon hath not toil'd in vain,
Perhaps e'en Timon hath as dull a friend.
For thee, whose Muse with many an uncouth rhyme
Dost in these lines neglected worth bewail,
If chance (unknowing how to kill the time)
Some kindred idler should inquire thy tale;
Haply some ancient Fellow may reply-

'Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, E'en till the western sun went down the sky, Lounging his lazy listless hours away:

'Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat;
At noon at Tom's he caught the daily lie,
Or from his window looking o'er the street
Would gaze upon the travellers passing by;
At night, encircled with a kindred band,
In smoke and ale roll'd their dull lives away;
True as the college clock's unvarying hand,

Each morrow was the echo of to-day.

' Thus, free from cares, and children, noise and wife, [command, Pass'd his smooth moments; till, by Fate's A lethargy assail'd his harmless life,

And check'd his course, and shook his loitering sand,

'Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise,
And shed around each soph a deeper gloom,
Beneath the centre aisle interr'd he lies,
With these few lines engraved upon his tomb-'

THE EPITAPH.

OF vice or virtue void, here rests a man,
By Prudence taught each rude excess to shun;
Nor Love nor Pity marr'd his sober plan,
And Dulness claim'd him for her favourite son.

By no eccentric passion led astray,

Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend,
Calmly through life he steer'd his quiet way,
Nor made an enemy, nor gain'd a friend.

Seek not his faults-his merits-to explore,
But quickly drop this uninstructive tale :
His works-his faults-his merits-are no more,
Sunk in the gloom of dark oblivion's veil.

SIR J. H. MOORE.

AYLESBURY RACES.

A Ballad.

O GEORGE*, I've been, I'll tell you where,
But first prepare yourself for raptures;

To paint this charming, heavenly fair,

And paint her well would ask whole chapters.

* George Ellis, Esq. is probably here addressed.

Fine creatures I've view'd many a one,
With lovely shapes and angel faces,
But I have seen them all outdone

By this sweet maid at Aylesbury Races. Lords, commoners alike she rules,

Takes all who view her by surprise,
Makes e'en the wisest look like fools,
Nay, more, makes foxhunters look wise.
Her shape-'tis elegance and ease,
Unspoil'd by art or modern dress,
But gently tapering by degrees,
And finely, beautifully less.

Her foot-it was so wondrous small,
So thin, so round, so slim, so neat,
The buckle fairly hid it all,

And seem'd to sink it with the weight.

And just above the spangled shoe,

Where many an eye did often glance, Sweetly retiring from the view,

And seen by stealth, and seen by chance;

Two slender ankles peeping out,

Stood like Love's heralds, to declare

That all, within the petticoat,

Was firm and full and round and fair.

And then she dances-better far

Than heart can think or tongue can tell;

Nor Heinel, Banti, or Guimar

E'er moved so gracefully, so well.

So easy glide her beauteous limbs,
True as the echo to the sound,

She seems, as through the dance she skims,
To tread on air and scorn the ground.

And there is lightning in her eye,
One glance alone might well inspire
The clay cold breast of apathy,

Or bid the frozen heart catch fire.

And zephyr on her lovely lips

Has shed his choicest, sweetest roses,
And there his heavenly nectar sips,

And there in breathing sweets reposes.
And there's such music when she speaks,
You may believe me, when I tell ye,
I'd rather hear her than the squeaks
Or far famed squalls of Gabrielli :

And sparkling wit and steady sense
In that fair form with beauty vie,
But tinged with virgin diffidence
And the soft blush of modesty.

Had I the treasures of the world,

All the sun views, or the seas borrow, (Else may I to the devil be hurl'd) I'd lay them at her feet to-morrow.

But as we bards reap only bays,

Nor much of that, though nought grows on it,
I'll beat my brains to sound her praise,
And hammer them into a sonnet.

And if she deign one charming smile,
The bless'd reward of all my labours,
I'll never grudge my pains or toil,

But pity the dull squires, my neighbours.

SIR J. H. MOORE.

VOL. V.

U U