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TURN, gentle hermit of the dale, "And guide my lonely way "To where yon taper cheers the vale "With hospitable ray.

"For here forlorn and lost I tread,

"With fainting steps and slow; "Where wilds, immeasurably spread, "Seem length'ning as I go." "Forbear, my son," the hermit cries, "To tempt the dang'rous gloom; "For yonder phantom only flies "To lure thee to thy doom. "Here to the houseless child of want "My door is open still; "And, tho' my portion is but scant,

"I give it with good will.

"Then turn to-night, and freely share

"Whate'er my cell bestows; "My rushy couch and frugal fare,

"My blessing and repose. "No flocks that range the valley free

"To slaughter I condemn ; "Taught by that power that pities me, "I learn to pity them :

"But from the mountain's grassy side "A guiltless feast I bring; "A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied, "And water from the spring.

"Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego; All earth-born cares are wrong: "Man wants but little here below,

"Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from heaven descends,
His gentle accents fell:

The modest stranger lowly bends,
And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay;

A refuge to the neighb'ring poor,
And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch
Requir'd a master's care;
The wicket, op'uing with a latch,
Receiv'd the harmless pair.
And now, when busy crowds retire

To take their ev'ning rest,
The hermit trimm'd his little fire,
And cheer'd his pensive guest;

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily press'd and smil'd;
And, skill'd in legendary lore,
The ling'ring hours beguil'd.
Around in sympathetic mirth
Its tricks the kitten tries,
The cricket chirrups in the hearth,
The crackling faggot flies.
But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe;
For grief was heavy at his heart,

And tears began to flow.

His rising cares the hermit spied,
With answ'ring care oppress'd:
“And whence, uubappy youth," he cried,
"The sorrows of thy breast'
"From better habitations spurn'd,

"Reluctant dost thou rove?

"Or grieve for friendship unreturn'd, "Or unregarded love?

"Alas! the joys that fortune brings

"Are trifling and decay;

"And those who prize the paltry things

"More trifling still than they.
"And what is friendship but a name,
"A charm that lulls to sleep;
"A shade that follows wealth or fame,
"And leaves the wretch to weep?
"And love is still an emptier sound,
"The modern fair-one's jest;
"On earth unseen, or only found
"To warm the turtle's nest.

"For shame! fond youth, thy sorrows hush,
"And spurn the sex!" he said:
But, while he spoke, a rising blush
His love-lorn guest betray'd.
Surpris'd he sees new beauties rise,
Swift mantling to the view,
Like colours o'er the morning skies,
As bright, as transient too.
The bashful look, the rising breast,

Alternate spreads alarms;
The lovely stranger stands confest
A maid in all her charms.
And, "ah! forgive a stranger rude,
"A wretch forlorn," she cried,
"Whose feet unhallow'd thus intrude
"Where Heaven and you reside!

"But let a maid thy pity share,

"Whom love has taught to stray; "Who seeks for rest, but finds despair

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Companion of her way.

"My father liv'd beside the Tyne,

"A wealthy lord was be;

"And all his wealth was mark'd as mine, "He had but only me.

"To win me from his tender arms

"Unnumber'd suitors came; "Who prais'd me for imputed charms, "And felt, or feign'd a flame. "Each hour a mercenary crowd "With richest proffers strove ; "Among the rest young Edwin bow'd, "But never talk'd of love. "In humble, simplest habit clad, "No wealth or power bad he; "Wisdom and worth were all he had, "But these were all to me. "The blossom op'ning to the day, "The dews of Heaven refin'd, "Could nought of purity display "To emulate his mind.

"The dew, the blossoms of the tree,

"With charms inconstant shine; "Their charms were his, but, woe to me!

"Their constancy was mine.

"For still I tried each fickle art, "Importunate and vain ;

"And while his passion touch'd my heart, "I triumph'd in his pain;

"Till, quite dejected with my scorn,
"He left me to my pride;
"And sought a solitude forlorn
"In secret, where he died.

"But mine the sorrow, mine the fault!
"And well my life shall pay;
"I'll seek the solitude he sought,
"And stretch me where he lay!

"And there forlorn, despairing, hid,
"I'll lay me down and die;
"Twas so for me that Edwin did,

"And so for him will I!"

"Forbid it, Heaven!" the hermit cried, And clasp'd her to his breast: The wond'ring fair one turn'd to chide--'Twas Edwin's self that press'd. "Turn Angelina, ever dear,

"My charmer, turn to see "Thy own, thy long-lost Edwin here, "Restor'd to love and thee!

"Thus let me hold thee to my heart,

"And ev'ry care resign;

"And shall we never, never part, "My life my all that's mine? "No, never from this hour to part; "We'll live and love so true, "The sigh that rends thy constant heart "Shall break thy Edwin's too!"



Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wond'rous short,
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran,

Whene'er he went to pray.
A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad,

When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

|This dog and man at first were triends ;
But, when a pique began,

The dog to gain his private ends
Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,

To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad

To ev'ry Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That shew'd the rogues they ly'd ;
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that dy'd.



The title and nature of this Poem shew that it owed its birth to some preceding circumstances of festive uneniment, which from the wit of the company, and the very ingenious author's peculiar ouditie, were probably enlivenci by some strokes of humour. Tuis piece was only intended for the Docter's private amusement, and that of the particular friends who were its subject; and he unfortunately did not live to revise, or even finish it, in the manner which le intended. The public have, however, already shewn how much they were pleased with its appearance, even in its present state.

Or old, when Scarron his companions invited,,, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;

If our landlord * supplies us with beef and with fish,

Our Garrick's †† a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner full certain I am
That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds §§ is

Let each guest bring himself, and he brings That Hickey's a capon; and by the same

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Our Dean + shall be venison, just fresh from Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool:

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Till all my companions sink under the table;

And Dick with his pepper shall heighten Then with chaos and blunders encircling my

their savour;

Our Cumberland's sweet-bread its place shall obtain,

And Douglas ** is pudding substantial and plain;

*The master of the St. James's Coffee house, where the Doctor, and the friends he has characterized in this poem, held an occasional club.

† Dr. Barnard, Dean of Derry in Ireland, author of many ingenious pieces.

Mr. Edmund Burke, Member for Wendover, and one of the greatest orators in this kingdom.

Mr. William Burke, late Secretary to General Conway, and Member for Bedwin.

Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of Grenada, no less remarkable in the walks of wit and humour than his brother Edmund Burke is justly distinguished in all the branches of useful and polite literature.

Author of the West Indian, Fashionable Lover, the Brothers, and other dramatic pieces.

** Dr. Douglas, Canon of Windsor, an ingenious Scotch gentleman, who has no less distinguished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound critic, in detecting several literary mistakes, or rather forgeries, of his country

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Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, || But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, And to party gave up what was meant for


Tho' fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat

To persuade Tommy Townshend * to lend him

a vote:

Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,

As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his


The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;

A flattering painter who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they


And thought of convincing while they thought His gallants are all faultless, his women di

of dining;

Tho' equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit: For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedicut;

And too fond of the right to pursue the expe


In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, Sir,

To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a


Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,


And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.

His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud;

And coxcombs alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their


Say, where has our poet this malady caught, Or wherefore his characters thus without fault?

While the owner ne'er knew half the good that Say, was it that villainy directing his view

was in't

The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,

His conduct still light, with his argument


Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam, The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home:

Would you ask for his merits, alas! he had none;

What was good was spontaneous, his faults

were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh at,

Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet! What spirits were his, what wit and what whim,

Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb; t

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the bail,

Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old

* Mr. T. Townshend, Member for Whitechurch.

+Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly fractured one of his arms and legs at different times, the Doctor has rallied him on those accidents as a kind of retributive justice for breaking his jests upon other people.

To find out men's virtues, and finding them


Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks;

Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines,

Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant reclines.

When Satire and Censure encircled bis throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, or Kenricks shall lecture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style;

Our Townshend make speeches; and I shall compile;

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall

cross over,

No countryman living their tricks to discover: Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can?

An abridgement of all that was pleasant in man;

As an actor, confest without rival to shine,
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;

Yet with talents like these, and an excellent | Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and


The man has his failings, a dupe to bis art; Like an ill-judging beauty his colours he spread,

And be-plaster'd with rouge his own natural


On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting. 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting;

With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day; Tho' secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick

with love,

And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant


And slander itself must allow him good nature: He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper ;

Yet one fault he had; and that one was a thumper;

Perhaps you may ask if the man was a


I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser: If they were not his own by finessing and Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?


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His very worst foe can't accuse him of that."
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,
And so was too foolishly honest?-Ah no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and
burn ye,

He was, could he help it
Here Reynolds is laid:

a special attorney. and to tell you my

He was not left a wiser or better behind:
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and


Still born to improve us in every part,
His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
When they judg'd without skill he was still
hard of hearing;

When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios, and stuff,

He shifted his trumpet, and only took souff

Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company.


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