Forlorn a rural bard complain'd,

All whom Augusta's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd.
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in homespun gray;
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,

The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd;
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

CHORUS.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,

Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,

Let all your echoes now deplore,

That she who formed your beauties is no more.

MAN Speaker.

First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,

Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

With many a tear and many a sigh between,

"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have bread,

Or how shall age support its feeble fire?

No lord will take me now, my vigor fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require;

Each grudging master keeps the laborer bare,

A sleek and idle race is all their care.
My noble mistress thought not so:
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, though constant, used to flow,

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

WOMAN Speaker.

In decent dress and coarsely clean,

The pious matron next was seen,

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, that holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
"And ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,
"What now remains for me?

Oh! where shall weeping want repair,
To ask for charity?

Too late in life for me to ask,

And shame prevents the deed,

And tardy, tardy are the times
To succor, should I need.

But all my wants, before I spoke,

Were to my Mistress known;

She still relieved, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,
My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long."

SONG-By a WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song;
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN Speaker.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maimed in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart;
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast.-
"Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow'd main;
But every danger fell before,

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,

And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

SONG. By a Man.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right;

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,

Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN Speaker.

In innocence and youth complaining,

Next appear'd a lovely maid,

Affliction o'er each feature reigning,

Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
Every glance that warms the soul,
In sweet succession charms the senses,
While pity harmoniz'd the whole.

"The garland of beauty" (tis this she would say),
"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away,

I'll not wear a garland until she return;
But alas! that return I never shall see,

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,

There promis'd a lover to come, but, ah me!

'Twas death,--'twas the death of my mistress that came. But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom;

On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

SONG.-By a WOMAN.-Pastorale.

With garlands of beauty the Queen of the May
No more will her crook on her temples adorn;
For who'd wear a garland when she is away,
When she is remov'd and shall never return.
On the grave of Augusta these garlands be plac'd,
We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;

And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.

CHORUS.

On the grave of Augusta this garland be plac'd,

We'll rifle the spring of its earliest bloom;
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
The tears of her country shall water her tomb.

LETTER,

IN PROSE AND VERSE, TO MRS. BUNBURY.

MADAM: I read your letter with all that allowance which critical candor could require, but after all find so much to object to, and so much to raise my indignation, that I cannot help giving it a serious answer. I am not so ignorant, Madam, as not to see there are many sarcasms contained in it, and solecisms also, (solecism is a word that comes from the town of Soleis in Attica among the Greeks, built by Solon, and applied as we use the word Kidderminster for curtains from a town also of that name; but this is learning you have no taste for.)-I say, Madam, there are sarcasms in it and solecisms also. But, not to seem an ill-natured critic, I'll take leave to quote your own words, and give you my remarks upon them as they occur. You begin as follows:

"I hope, my good Doctor, you soon will be here,
And your spring velvet coat very smart will appear,
To open our ball the first day in the year."

Pray, Madam, where did you ever find the epithet "good" applied to the title of Doctor? Had you called me learned Doctor, or grave Doctor, or noble Doctor, it might be allowable, because they belong to the profession. But, not to cavil at trifles, you talk of my spring velvet coat, and advise me to wear it the first day in the year, that is in the middle of winter;-a spring velvet in the middle of winter!!! That would be a solecism indeed;

* [Miss Catharine Horneck became, in August 1771, the wife of Henry Bunbury, Esq., celebrated for the powers of his pencil. An invitation from the lady, in a rhyming and jocular strain, to spend some time with them at their seat at Barton in Suffolk, brought from the Poet the above reply, which is now printed for the first time. It was written in 1772. See Life, ch. xxii.]