A priest whose sanctimonious face

So 'tis not difficult to say Became a sermon, or a grace,

Wbich box the dolthead took away. Could take an orthodox repast,

The next, as sensible as me, And left the knighted loin the last;

Desir'd the pebbled one, d'ye see. To fasting very little bent,

The other, having scratch'd his head, He'd pray indeed till breath was spent.

Consider'd tho' the third was lead, Shrill was his treble as a cat,

'Twas metal still surpassing stone, His organs being chok'd with fat;

So claim'd the leaden box his own. In college quite as graceful seen

Now to unclose they all prepare, As Camplin or the lazy dean,

And hope alternate laughs at fear. (Who sold the ancient cross to Hoare

The golden case does ashes hold, For one church dinner, nothing more,

The leaden shines with sparkling gold, The dean who sleeping on the book

But in the outcast stone they see Dreams he is swearing at his cook.)

A jewel, ---such pray fancy me.This animated hill of oil

“Sir," quoth the dean, “ I truly say Was to another dean the foi).

You tell a tale a pretty way; "They seem'd two beasts of different kind,

But the conclusion to allow Contra in politics and mind,

'Fore gad, I scarcely can tell how. The only sympathy they knew,

A jewel! Fancy must be strong They both lov'd turtle a-la-stew.

To think you keep your water long. The dean was empty, thin and long,

I preach, thank gracious Heaven! as clear As Fowler's back or head or song.

As any pulpit stander here, He met the rector in the street,

But may the devil claw my face, Sinking a canal with his feet.

If e'er I pray'd for pufling grace, “Sir,' quoth the dean, with solemn nod,

To be a mountain, and to carry “You are a minister of God;

Such a vile heap-I'd rather marry! And, as I apprehend, should be

Each day to sweat three gallons full About such holy works as me.

And span a furlong on my scull. But, cry your mercy, at a feast

Lost to the melting joys of loveYou only show yourself a priest,

Not to be borne like justice move." No sermon politic you preach,

And here the dean was running on, No doctrine damnable you teach.

Thro' half a couplet having gone; Did not we few maintain the fight,

Quoth rector peevish, “I sha'nt stay Myst’ry might sink and all be light.

To throw my precious time away. From house to house your appetite

The gen'rous Burgum having sent In daily sojourn paints ye right.

A ticket as a compliment, Nor lies true orthodox you carry,

I think myself in duty bound You hardly ever hang or marry.

Six pounds of turtle to confound.” Good Mr. Rector, let me tell ye

“That man you mention," answers dean, You've too much tallow in this belly.

“ Creates in priests of sense the spleen; Fast, and repent of ev'ry sin,

His soul's as open as his hand, And grow, like me, upright and thin;

Virtue distrest may both conímand; Be active, and assist your mother,

That ragged Virtue is a whore, And then I'll own ye for a brother."

I always beat her from iny door, “Sir," quoth the rector in a huff,

But Burgum gives, and giving shows “True, you're diminutive enougb,

His honour leads him by the nose. And let me tell ye, Mr. Dean,

Ah! how unlike the church divine, You are as worthless too as lean;

Whose feeble lights on mountains shine, This mountain strutting to my face

And being plac'd so near the sky, Is an undoubted sign of grace.

Are lost to every juman eye. Grace, tho' you ne'er on turtle sup,

His luminaries shine around Will like a bladder blow you up,

Like stars in the cimmerian ground.” A tun of claret swells your case

“Invidious slanderer!" quoth priest, Less than a single ounce of grace."

“O may I never scent a feast, “ You're wrong," the bursting dean reply'd, If thy curst conscience is as pure * Your logic's on the rough cast side;

As underlings in Whitefield's cure. The minor's right, the major falls,

The church, as thy display has shown, Weak as his modern honour's walls.

Is turn'd a bawd to lustful town; A spreading trunk, with rotten skin,

But what against the church you're said Shows very little's kept within;

Shall soon fall heavy on your head. But when the casket's neat, not large,

Is Burgum's virtue then a fault? We guess th’importance of the charge."

Ven’son and Heaven forbid the thought? “Sir," quoth the rector, “ I've a story

He gives, and never eyes retum; Luite apropos to lay before ye.

O may paste altars to him burn! A sage philosopher to try

But whilst I talk with worthless you, What pupil saw with reason's eye,

Perhaps the dinner waits — adlieu." Prepar'd three boxes, gold, lead, stone,

This said, the rector trudg'd alons And bid three youngsters claim each one,

As heavy as Fowlerian song. The first, a Bristol merchant's heir,

The hollow dean with fairy feet, Lov'd pelf above the charming fair;

Stept lightly thro' the dirty street,

At last, arriv'd at destin'd place,

Who with the soul the body gains, The bulky doctor squeaks the grace.

And shares Love's pleasures, not his pairza “ Lord bless the many-flavour'd meat,

Who holds his charmer's reputation And grant us strength enough to eat!

Above a tavern veneration, May all and every mother's son

And when a love repast he makes, Be drunk before the dinner's done.

Not even prying Fame partakes. When we give thanks for dining well, oh!

Who looks above a prostitute, he May each grunt ont in ritornello."

Thinks love the only price of beauty, Amen! resounds to distant tide,

And she that can be basely sold, And weapous clang ou every side,

Is much beneath or love or gold. The oily river burns around,

Who thinks the almost dearest part And gnashing teeth make doleful sound.

In all the body is the heart: Now is the busy president

Without it rapture cannot rise, lu his own fated element,

Nor pleasures wanton in the eyes, In every look and action great,

The sacred joy of love is dead, His presence doubly fills the plate.

Witness the sleeping marriage bed. Nobly invited to the feast,

This is the picture of a rake, They all contribute gold at least.

Show it the ladies-Wont it take? The duke and president collected,

A buck's a beast of th’ other side,
Alike beloved, alike respected.cnetun

And real but in hoofs and hide.
To nature and the passions dead,
A brothel is his house and bed;

To fan the fame of warm desire (This poem immediately follows the other. It And after wanton in the fire,

has no title, and is written upon the same pa- He thinks a labour, and his parts
per, a whole sheet, folded into four columns. Were not design'd to conquer hearts.
The line “Alike beloved, alike respected,” ends Serene with bottle, pox, and whore,
one column, with a little scrawl at the end; He's happy, and requires no more,
the next begins thus.]

The girls of virtue when he views,

Dead to all converse but the stews, Say, Baker, if experience hoar

Silent as death, he's nought to say, Has yet unbolted wisdom's door,

But sheepish steals himself away. What is this phantom of the mind,

This is a buck to life display'd, 'This love, when sifted and rein'd?

A character to charın each maid. When the poor lover fancy-frighted

Now prithee, friend, a choice to make, Is with shadowy joys delighted,

Wouidst choose the buck before the rake? A frown shall throw him in despair;

The buck as brutal as the name A smile shall brighten up his air.

Envenoms every charmer's fame. Jealous without a seeming cause

And tho' he never touch'd her hand From Natt'ring smiles he misery draws;

Protests he had her at command, Again without his reason's aid,

The rake in gratitude for pleasure
His bosom's still, the Devil's laid.

Keeps reputation dear as treasure.
If this is love, my callous heart
Has never felt the rankling dart.
Oft have I seen the wounded swain,

[After these asterisks, follows without title.] Upon the rack of pleasing pain,

but Hudibrastics may be found Full of his flame, upon his tongue

To tire ye with repeated sound, The quivering declaration hung,

So changing for a Shandeyan style
When, lost to courage, sense and reason,

I ask your favour and your smile.
He talk'd of weather and the season.
Such tremors never coward me,
I'm tattering, impudent and free,
Unmov'd by frowns and low'ring eyes,

'Tis smiles I only ask and prize,
And when the smile is freely given,

[This poem is taken from the Town and Country You're in the highway road to Heaven.

Magazine for February, 1770.] These coward lovers seldom find

Why blooms the radiance of the morning sky? That whining makes the ladies kind. They laugh at silly silent swains

Why springs the beauties of the season round! Who're fit for nothing but their chains.

Why buds the blossom with the glossy die? 'Tis an efirontcry, and tongue

Ah! why does nature beautify the ground? On very oily hinges hung,

Whilst softly floating on the Zephyr's wing, Must win the blooming inelting fair

The melting accents of the thrushes rise; And show the joys of Heaven here.

And all the heav'nly music of the spring, A rake, I take it, is a creature

Steal on the sense, and harmonize the skies Who winds thro' all the folds of nature. Who sees the passions, and can tell

When the rack'd soul is not attun'd to joy, How the soft beating heart shall swell,

When sorrow an internal monarch reigns; Who when he ravishes the joy,

In vain the choristers their powers employ, Defies the torments of the boy.

'Tis hateful music, and discordant strains,

The velvet mantle of the skirted mead,

Invoking the propitious skies, The rich varieties of Flora's pride,

The green-sod altar let us rise; Till the full bosom is froin trouble freed,

Let holy incense smoke. Disgusts the eye, and bids the big tear glide. And if we pour the sparkling wine

Siveet gentle peace may still be inine;
Once, ere the gold-hair'd Sun shot the new ray,

This dreadful chain be broke.
Through the grey twilight of the dubious morn,
To woudlands, lawns, an:l hills, I took my way,

And listen'd to the echoes of the horn;

D. B.

[blocks in formation]

The following two translations from Horace

were made by Chatterton, from Watson's literal version; a book which his friend Mr. Ed

TO MISS HOYLAND. ward Gardner lent him for the express purpose; and from which gentleman the editor received [From the original, in the possession of Mr. them.]


YES! I am caught, my melting soul
To Venus bends without controul,

I pour th'empassioned sigh.
Ye Gods! what throbs my bosom more,
Responsive to the glance of love,

Tbat beams from Stella's eye.

o how divinely fair that face,
And what a sweet resistless grace

On every feature dwells;
And on those features all the wbile,
Toe softness of each frequent smile,

Her sweet good nature tells.

Go, gentle Muse! and to my fair-one say,
My ardent passion mocks the feeble lay;
That love's pure flame my panting breast inspires,
And friendship warms me with her chaster fires.
Yes, more my fond esteem, my matchless love,
Than the soft turtle's cooing in the grove;
More than the lark delights to mount the sky,
Then sinking on the green-sward soft to lie;
More than the bird of eve at close of day
To pour in solemn solitude her lay; [note,
More than grave Camplin' with his deep-ton'd
To mouth the sacred service got by rote;
More than sage Catcott ? does his storm of rain,
Sprung from th' abyss of his eccentric brain,
Or than his wild-antique, and sputt'ring brother
Loves in his ale-house chair to drink and puther;

O Love! I'm thine, no more I sing
Heroic deeds-the sounding string

Forgets its wonted strains;
For ought but love the lyre's unstrung,
Love meits and trembles on my tongue

And thrills in every vein.
NOL, xy.

1 John Camplin, M. A. preceptor of Bristol.

The reverend Mr. Catcott wrote a buok on the deluge.


More than soft Lewis 3, that sweet pretty thing, Beneath a willow's solitary shade,
Loves in the pulpit to display his ring;

Two weeping virgins on its bank were laid; More than frail mortals love a brother sinner, And while the tea s dropp'd fast from either eye, And more than Bristol aldermen their dinner, The dimpled waters broke in circles by: (When full four pounds of the well-fattend Well skill'd to aim the dart, or guide the car, haunch

Their absent lovers join'd the civil war. n twenty mouthfuls fill the greedy paunch.) Where two proud houses' sought Britannia's If these true strains can thy dear bosoin move,

throne, Let thy soft blushes speak a inutual love;

Their int’rest different, but their views were one. But if thy purpose settles in disdain,

While frequent sighs the fault'ring accents broke, Speak my dread fate, and bless thy fav’rite swain. To Juga thus young Eleanora spoke.

D. B.

Juga! this my sad complaint attend,

And join in sympathy your hapless friend;

Curst be the quarrel, curse the dread alarms,

That tears sir Robert from my constant arms, ON MR. WILLIAM SMITH'.

To fight for York. O free from every stain!

May Ebor's ? rose her ancient white retain; (From the original in the British Museum.]

But fancy ranging far without controul, Ascend my Muse on sorrow's sable plume,

With horrours worse than death o'ercomes my soul. Let the soft number meet the swelling sigh;

Methinks I see him gasping on the ground, With laureater chaplets deck the tomb,

The life-warm blood stil rusbing from the wound: The bloodstaind tomb where Smith and comfort Cold, pale, and weak, upon the plain he lies, lie.

Assist him, Heav'o! assist him, or he dies!


I lov'd him with a brother's ardent love,

Beyond the love which tenderest brothers bear;
Tho' savage kindred bosoms cannot move,

In sorrow's walks, and woe's deserted seats, Friendship shall deck his urn and pay the tear.

In pensive melancholy's dark retreats, Despised, an alien to thy father's breast,

At morn, or eve, when chilling blasts descend, Thy ready services repaid with hate;

Incessant mourners we our griefs will blend.

As wither'd oaks their frost-nip'd arms entwine, By brother, father, sisters, all distrest, They push'd thee on to death, they urged thy fate. I'll pour my tears, and thou shalt mingle thine:

Unlit for joy, like ruin'd tow'rs we'll lay, Ye callous breasted brutes in human form, W:ere erst the foot of joy was wont to stray. Have you not often boldly wish'd bim dead? Ainidst whose deseit walls and mould'ring cells, He's gone, ere yet his fire of man was warm,

Pale giant fear, with screaming horrour dwells; O may bis crying blood be on your head ?! Where oft the dismal gloom of night is broke,

By boding owls, and ravens' fun'ral croak.
The deep-mouth'd op'ning pack, the winding


No more shall wake to joy the blushing morn:

In haunted groves I'll trace the loneliest way, MODERNISED BY S. W. A.

To hide my sorrows from the face of day;

Or thro' the church-way path forlorn I'll go, (From the Town and Country Magazine for June

With restless ghosts, companions of my woe. 1769.]

When the pale Moon scarce sheds her wonteil Where Rudborn's waves in clear meanders flow,

light, While skies reflected in its bosom glow;

But faintly ylimmers thro' the murky night,

Fantastic fairies form the vain array 3 Mr. Lewis was a dissenting preacher of note, of happiness that flies th' approach of day: then in Bristol. Chatterton calls him in one of Then if the blood of life, congeald and froze, bis letters a “ pulpit fop."

No more within sir Robert's bosom glows, | Happily inistaken, having since heard, from Frantic I'll clasp his clay devoid of breath, goorl auth rity, it is Peter,

And racking thought shall torture worse than 2 Three other poems, aser bed by Dr. Glynn to

death. Chatterton, are preserved in the British Museum; but they are so destitute of sense, and exbibit such flagrant violations of metre, that it is impos. O fairest stream! who with thy glassy wave sible they should have been the compositions of These flow'ry meads on either hand dost lare; Chatterton. Notice is taken of these poems, that Perhaps with thee our champions' bodies glide, they might not in any shape hereafter be pub- And heroes' blood augments thy fatal tide: Jished as genuine. There is this further evi-Perhaps--but come, my gentle Juga, haste! dence against them, that they are not in Chatter- Nor anxious hours in vain surmises waste: ton's hand-writing. Their titles are,

Let's seek our heroes o'er the bloody plain, 1. On Mercy.

Perhaps to meet with doubled bliss again :
2. Love and Beauty, a Dialogue.
3. To a Young Lady.

" York and Lancaster. 2 York.


If not, to them despairing let us go, [below. Distracted then, with hasty steps they go, And join their shades 'midst constant ghosts To where ere while they told the tale of woe:

This said, like two fair trees whose leafy store 'There band in hand they view'd the stream awhile, The east has blighted, or the lightning tore; Each gently sigh'd, and forc'd a parting smile: Or as two clouds, o'ercharg'd with wintry show'rs, Then plung d beneath the stream, the parting When in the sky the howling tempest low'rs, Slowly they mov'd.-But Death's remorseless dart Receiv'd th' afflicted pair, and prov'd a friendly They found had pierc'd each darling hero's heart.



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