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THE COURT OF DEATH.

A FABLE.

DEATH, on a solemn night of state,
In all his

pomp

of terror sate : Th’ attendants of his gloomy reign, Diseases dire, a ghastly train ! Crowd the vast court. With hollow tone, A voice thus thunder'd from the throne : “ This night our minister we name, Let every servant speak his claim; Merit shall bear this ebon wand." All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand.

Fever, with burning heat possest, Advanc'd, and for the wand addrest.

“ I to the weekly bills appeal, Let those express my fervent zeal ; On every slight occasion near, With violence I persevere."

Next Gout appears with limping pace, Pleads how he shifts from place to place; From head to foot how swift he flies, And every joint and sinew plies; Still working when he seems supprest,

most tenacious stubborn guest.

A haggard spectre from the crew Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due : “ 'Tis I who taint the sweetest joy, And in the shape of love destroy: My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face, Prove my pretension to the place."

Stone urg'd his over-growing force; And, next, Consumption's meagre corse, With feeble voice that scarce was heard, Broke with short coughs, his suit preferr'd : “ Let none object my lingering way, I gain, like Fabius, by delay; Fatigue and weaken every foe By long attack, secure, though slow.”

Plague represents his rapid power, Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hop'd the wand.
Now expectation hush'd the band;
When thus the monarch from the throne :

« Merit was ever modest known.
What, no physician speak his right!
None here ! but fees their toils requite !
Let then Intemperance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand.
You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest,
(Whom wary men, as foes, detest)
Forego your claim; no more pretend;
Intemperance is esteem'd a friend;
He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all."

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BARTON BOOTH.

DIED 1733.

An excellent man and an eminent actor.

SONG,

SWEET are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains
To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.

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True as the needle to the pole,

Or as the dial to the sun; Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whosé swelling tides obey the moon; From every

other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee.

The lamb the flowery thyme devours,

The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers

Of verdant spring her note renews ;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire,

Nature must change her beauteous faee, And vary

as the seasons rise; As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies : No change on love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring.

Devouring time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble tow'rs, and gates of brass,

In his rude march he levels low: But time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

Death only, with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart

To mingle with the bless'd above, Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain.

Love, and his sister fair, the soul,

Twin-born, from heav'n together came: Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their pame; Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, When time and death shall be no more.

GEORGE GRANVILLE,

LORD LANSDOWNE.

BORN 1667.--DIED 1735.

SONG.

Love is by fancy led about
From hope to fear, from joy to doubt

Whom we now an angel call,
Divinely grac'd in every feature,
Straight 's a deform'd, a perjur'd creature;

Love and hate are fancy all.

'Tis but as fancy shall present Objects of grief, or of content,

That the lover's blest, or dies : Visions of mighty pain, or pleasure, Imagin'd want, imagin'd treasure,

All in powerful fancy lies.

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