Perhaps some curious would my person know;

I humbly answer, 'tis but so and so;

Not over tall, nor despicably low.

Black frowning brows my deep-sunk eyes o'ershade,
They were I fear for a physician made.
Foreseeing nature gave this anti-grace,
And mark'd me with a medical grimace,
In limbs proportion'd, body somewhat gross,
In humour various, affable, morose ;
The ladies servitor-in health a king;
Good natured, peevish, gay phantastic thing:
That like friend Horace, grey before his time,
Seek fame in loose-paced Prose, and fetter'd Rhime.
Whose highest wish's a meer absurdity;

Nothing to do, and learndly idle be:
Like to myself to have a Muse-bit friend,
My vain chimeras to review and mend.
The day to write, by night in fancy stray;
So, like true Poets dream my life away.

His Epitaph.

READER,

HERE lies the man that to his end,

Good Books, good Wine adored, the Fair-Sex and

his Friend.

THOMAS DENTON.

1777.

The pupil of Josiah Relph, and the first editor of his work.

The House of Superstition a Vision.

WHEN Sleep's all-soothing hand with fetters soft Ties down each sense, and lulls to balmy rest; The internal power, creative Fancy, oft

Broods o'er her treasures in the formful breast. Thus when no longer daily cares engage,

The busy mind pursues the darling theme; Hence angels whisper'd to the slumbering sage, And gods of old inspired the hero's dream; Hence as I slept, these images arose

To Fancy's eye, and join'd, this fairy scene compose.

As when fair morning dries her pearly tears,
The mountain lifts o'er mists its lofty head;
Thus new to sight a gothick dome appears
With the grey rust of rolling years o'erspread.
Here Superstition holds her dreary reign,
And her lip-labour'd orisons she plies

In tongue unknown, when morn bedews the plain,
Or evening skirts with gold the western skies;
To the dumb stock she bends, or sculptur'd wall,
And many a cross she makes, and many a bead
lets fall.

Near to the dome a magick pair reside

Prompt to deceive, and practised to confound; Here hood-winkt Ignorance is seen to bide Stretching in darksome cave along the ground. No object e'er awakes his stupid eyes,

Nor voice articulate arrests his ears,

Save when beneath the moon pale spectres rise,
And haunt his soul with visionary fears :
Or when hoarse winds incavern'd murmur round,
And babbling echo wakes, and iterates the sound.

Where boughs entwining form an artful shade, -And in faint glimmerings just admit the light, There Errour sits in borrow'd white array'd,

And in Truth's form deceives the transient sight,

A thousand glories wait her opening day,

Her beaming lustre when fair Truth imparts; Thus Error would pour forth a spurious ray,

And cheat the unpractised mind with mimic arts: She cleaves with magic wand the liquid skies, Bids airy forms appear, and scenes fantastick rise.

A porter deaf, decrepid, old, and blind
Sits at the gate, and lifts a liberal bowl
With wine of wonderous power to lull the mind,
And check each vigorous effort of the soul:
Whoe'er un'wares shall ply his thirsty lip,
And drink in gulps the luscious liquor down,
Shall hapless from the cup delusion sip,

And objects see in features not their own ;
Each way-worn traveller that hither came,
He laved with copious draughts, and Prejudice his

name.

Within a various race are seen to wonne,

Props of her age, and pillars of her state, Which erst were nurtured by the wither'd crone, And born to Tyranny, her griesly mate; The first appear'd in pomp of purple pride, With triple crown erect, and throned high; Two golden keys hang dangling by his side To lock or ope the portals of the sky;

Crouching and prostrate there, ah sight unmeet! The crowned head would bow, and lick his dusty feet.

With bended arm he on a book reclined,

Fast lock'd with iron clasps from vulgar eyes; Heaven's gracious gift to light the wandering mind, To lift fallen man, and guide him to the skies! A man no more, a God he would be thought, And 'mazed mortals blindly must obey: With slight of hand he lying wonders wrought, And near him loathsome heaps of reliques lay: Strange legends would he read, and figments dire Of Limbos' prison'd shades, and purgatory fire.

There meagre

Penance sat, in sackcloth clad, And to his breast close hugg'd the viper, Sin; Yet oft with brandish'd whip would gall, as mad, With voluntary stripes his shrivel'd skin. Counting large heaps of o'er-abounding good Of saints that dy'd within the church's pale; With gentler aspect there Indulgence stood, And to the needy culprit would retail;

There too, strange merchandize! he pardons sold, And treason would absolve, and murder purge with