ELEGIAC BALLA D.

Where now is that fun of repofe,
That once us'd to fmile on this breaft,
On the more that fo genially rofe,
And at eve set so kindly in rest?
Alas! all withdrawn from my fight,
On the morning no longer it beams;
And instead of contentment at night,
Spreads horror alone in my dreams.
O Belmour! why e'er did i hear

What I knew must be death to believe?
Or drink up a strain with my ear,

When I faw it was meant to deceive?
To whom, tell me now, can I speak,

That will not reproach and exclaim?
And read through the blush on this cheek,
That guilt is the parent of fhame?
In vain the dark grove do I try,
Sóme refpite from cenfure to find;
But, Oh! from a world I may fly,

66

Yet cannot escape from my mind!
In the thickeft recefs of the fhade,
My confcience cries,
What a wretch a fond father is made,
What a mother is plung'd in despair.”

Flavia, fee there,

The Zephyr's most innocent gale

Now feems at my conduct to roar;
And the Stream, as it winds through the dale,
Says, "Flavia is fpotlefs no more.'
At church, in the moment of pray'r,
Remorfe lifts her terrible rod,
And harrows my foul with despair,
Tho' I kneel at the throne of my God.
'Tis juft; and I cannot upbraid,

For Belmour fwells in my eye;
And this bofom, tho' bafely betray'd,
yet
Still heaves with too tender a figh!
In fpite of Religion's pure breath,
The fofteft ideas will rife;
And I doat to distraction and death,
While I labour to hate and defpife.
Come, grave, then, thou best of reliefs,
Regardless of feafon or time,

At once give an end to my griefs,

4

And Lethe to wash o'er my crime.
Yet ceafe not, ye tears, ftill to flow
From the fount of contrition or love;
So th' excess of my forrows below
May purchase my pardon above.

To a young LADY, on fecing her dance.
H! may you walk, as years advance,
Smooth and creet, as now you dance;
May you on each important ftage,
From bloomy youth to hoary age,
Afert your claim to Merit's prize,
And, as at prefent, charm our eyes:
Obfervant of Decorum's laws,
And moving with the fame applaufe,

May you through Life's perplexing maze
Direct your steps with equal praife;
With regularity and grace;
Its intricate meanders trace,
From the true figure never fwerve,
And time in ev'ry step obferve;
Give ear to Harmony and Reafon,
Nor make one motion out of season !
Thus will Life's current smoothly flow,
And pour forth every blifs below;
Till Nature's failing ebb fhall bring
Death with his dart,-but not his fting!

The BACHELOR's last fift.
Ome, fweet fifteen; come. thirty five;

your

Con

Come, widows, of a social vein,
Who live in hope to try again;
Come, honour'd madani; come, plain goody;
Of afpect, fallow, pale, or ruddy;
(With me, good fenfe, good wit, good nature,
Will well fupply defect of feature):
Come, all, and listen to my cry;
A bachelor! ah, muft I die?
No longer I my cares diffemble,
At thirty-five, believe, I tremble.
And here expect a bill of fare,
Which charity is with'd to fpare:

Of temper,-chearful, kind, and pliant ;
Of conftitution, firm and hearty,
I love my country, laugh at party;
Not quite a dwarf, tho' far from giant;
Of wit, none think they lack their shares
Of features, almost,- regular;

Of worldly means,-enough for one;
No pedant, nor to books unknown ;
Not deftitute of figns of grace,

Can fhew at church a thoughtful face;
All forms of cruelty deteft,

And hate the rancour of a jeft;

Am pleas'd, when Merit finds its meed,
Nor envy, if a knave fucceed;
Mammon I feek not, nor refufe,
Which pride and ignorance abuse;
Peace, competence, be still in fight,
Three meals a-day, found fleep at night:

Thefe, ladies, are my chief pretenfions,
Which ponder well, I hate inventions :
Let (pride and coquetry apart)
Each proper female afk her heart;
Should that incline, may her fair hand
Her humble fervant's fate command.
A defponding Bachelor.

On the late additional window-tax.

GOD gave us light, and bade that lightt❤

roll

Round the wide globe, and reach from pole

to pole:

Our gloomy statefman, more afraid of day,
Bids darkness rife, and taxes every ray.

A

LETTER

to Mr H---- R

D---M, written at fea, in January 1763, by Mr ---T P.---N, when on a voyage from Leith for London, in his way to the Eaft Indies.

What future blifs he gives not thee to know,
But gives that hope to be thy blessing now.

Pope.
Hou dear companion of my happier days,
Still art thou partial to thy P----n's lays?
fer once more the verfes that I fend,
ad overlook the poet in the friend.
To thee, while moving for a foreign fhore,
thee who, hapless, I may fee no more,
ould not the Mufe aflume a mournful ftrain,
me fong of forrow, or the plaint of pain?
thence, far hence, may all fuch fubjects be,
nifh'd from D----m, M-----ll, and from me.
ill may gay Mirth attend us as the thone

happier days, tho' thofe dear days are gone; ill may fhe chear us, ftill the hours beguile, nd prompt the hearty laugh, or harmlefs fmile. What tho' our fates deny us now the bliss To play backgammon, or to pore at chefs? While letters fly, and pen and paper's free, ftill may laugh with you, and you with me. Ceme, then, my fancy, ftretch thy wings, and foar ;

Fut fettle for a while on India's fhore.

You jeft, my friend: Here's Lucia !—Why this laughter?

"At your mistake, Sir: That is Lucia's daugh-
ter,"

Of this enough. Come, Col'nel, are you ready?
I long prodigiously to fce your Lady.-
The chariot's at the door ;- we take our feat :-
And, what's the distance, pray, to your eflate?
"It is not many miles beyond the height:
The roads are good; we'll make it out to night."

We now arrive. See little Jack huzza,
And run to tell his brother, Here's Papa!
The mother comes, and is well pleas'd to hear
Her husband tell her, "Here is Bob, my dear."
Gods! with what joy fhall I your Betly view,
And thank kind Heaven, my friend, for bless-
ing you."

A

CONTRAST.

From GOTHAM, Book 3. by C. Churchill.

HE villager, born humbly, and bred hard,
Content his wealth, and Poverty his guard,
In action simply juft, in confcience clear,
By guilt untainted, undisturb'd by fear,
His means but feanty, and his wants but few,
Labour his bus'nefs, and his pleasure too,
Enjoys more comforts in a fingle hour,

Than ages give the wretch condemn'd to pow'r.
Call'd up by health, he rifes with the day,
I'm moderate ;-only till And goes to work as if he went to play,

Twelve thousand pounds.

you back again."

"Then hafte

By this time Fortune's grown a wench of spirit,
And learn'd to send her gifts to men of merit ;
For my twelve thousand is, you know, my
due; -

And you, my friend, have got a regiment too.
A regiment is not all "What more? A

mate?"

You've that already, Sir. A fnug eftate.
Thus far is well. "Agreed." Then, Mufe,

proceed :

I leave the Indies, and for Britain speed.
My wealth and I are wafted o'er the main,
And now, thank God, I'm fairly home again.
Here would my fond imagination fhew
(As Milton's angel made our parent view)
The ftrange viciffitudes of future years,
And fee, my friend, how alter'd all appears.-
At laft, the angry waves with vengeance ftrike,
And down is fallen the far-incroaching dike •.
Names too are chang'd, and looks, and ways
of life :

The maid is metamorphos'd to the wife;
The fifter to the aunt; and aunts fcarce fee
To hold their nieces children on their knee.
I walk the street inquiring for a score
Of former beauties."Beauties now no more."
The wall of an inclofure, which extended fo
far upon the fea-fhore, as fometimes, at high water,
to deprive travellers of a road they had formerly been
accustomed to use.]

Whiffling off toils, one half of which might

make

The ftouteft Atlas of a palace quake ;
'Gainft heat and cold, which make us cowards
faint,

Harden'd by constant ufe, without complaint
He bears, what we should think it death to bear
Short are his meals, and homely is his fare;
His thirft he flakes at fome pure neighb'ring
brook,

Nor asks for fauce, where appetite stands cook,
When the dews fall, and when the fun retires
Behind the mountains, when the village tires,
Which, wakened all at once, fpeak supper nigh,
At distance catch, and fix his longing eye,
Homeward he hies, and with his manly brood
Ofraw-bon'd cubs, enjoys that clean coarte food,
Which, feafon'd with good-humour, his fond
bride

'Gainft his return is happy to provide.
Then free from care, and free trom thought he

creeps

Into his ftraw, and till the morning fleeps.

Not fo the King; with anxious cares opprefs'd
His bofom labours, and admits not rest.
A glorious wretch, he sweats beneath the weight
Of majesty, and gives up eafe for ftate.
Ev'n when his fmiles, which by the fools of
pride

Are treafur'd and preferv'd, from fide to fide
Fly round the court; ev'n when compell d by

form

Me feems moft calm, his foul is in a storm! 30 a

Care, like a fpectre, feen by him alone,
With all her neft of vipers, round his throne
By day crawls full in view: when night bids
Леер,

Sweet nurfe of Nature, o'er the fenfes creep;
When Mifery herself no more complains,
And flaves, if poflible, forget their chains;
Tho' his fenfe weakens, tho' his eye grows dim,
That reft which comes to all, comes not to him:
Ev'n at that hour, Care, tyrant Care forbids
The dew of fleep to fall upon his lids;
From night to night he watches at his bed;
Now, as one mop'd, fits brooding o'er his head;
Anon fhe starts, and borne on raven's wings,
Croaks forth aloud,- Sleep was not made for
kings.

With sportive thunder would confound the whole,

Nor fpare e'en mighty Churchill's patriot soul.

Think not, miftaken bard, I am thy foe;
I neither know thee, nor can wish to know;
Reflected in thy works thy mind I view,
And grieve to find them of a fable hue:
Strong beams of genius gild the Stygian gloom,
And Fancy webs there in her finest loom;
Expreffion well arrays her verbal band,
And Judgment leads them with a master hand;
While Janus-fronted Int'reft flily waves
A flaming banner to all party-flaves;
Whofe gaudy hieroglyphics catch the eye,
A poor fantastic fhade of Liberty.
This patchwork medley, blending right and

wrong,

Character of CHURCHILL; from a poem called An impious, moral, foothing, fneering fong,
The GENERAL.

Oneft may Churchill be, for aught I know,
Some lines defcribe him, and 1 with him fo.
Let him enjoy his profit and his praife,
In thefe fo politic and gen'rous days:
Le him fuccefsfully pursue his plan,
An prey upon the tendereft part of man ;
Blufhlefs, remorfelefs, and without controul,
Plunder th' immediate jewel of the foul:
Let him, Humanity quite thrown afide,
Indulge his fpleen, his int'reft, or his pride:
Let him in fcandal wade thro' thick and thin,
To praife each out, and cenfure every in:
Let him, to please a croud of knaves and fools,
Paint monarchs, or their minifters, as tools:
Let him, ftill more to prostitute the Mufe,
A neighb'ring nation by the lump abuse:
Let him, in boundless rage, pronounce the lot
Of blackeft infamy to ev'ry Scot:
Let him, like human kind's imperial foe,
With to behead them at a fingle blow:
Let him, if not content to rail at home,
O'er the fubmiffive world's wide limits roam;
Fit to engage a single foe or hoft,
Ready to fight a nabob or a ghoft;
From clime to clime Malevolence transfer,
Diftinguish'd Nature's executioner.
All this, as gracious Heav'n in mercy fends,
Plagues to perplex us for peculiar ends,
With patience will we bear;

but let him

paufe,-
Nor longer dare in raging Party's caufe,
(Party! of whom it may be juftly faid,
Behold a monster without heart or head,
By Madness, Av'rice, Pride, and Jealoufy,
Ingender'd on the fnake-lock'd fifters three,)
While tyrant Satire waves her fanguine rod,
So oft to trifle with an awful God;
That God, whofe fervice, to become a wit,
The rev'rend bard most piously hath quit;

And why Oh reafon moft divine!
His narrow income could not purchase wine;
That God, who, were he cruel to this earth,
As men to men, for profit are, or mirth,
• Caligula.

That fhews the tortur'd Mufe in various state,
Now bred at court,- now fresh from Billing

gate,

May cheat the fenfible, or charm the rude,
May feal or thunder thro' the multitude.

For my poor part, by various paflions wrought,
I praife the numbers while I damn the thought;
I weep to fee fuch flights of golden darts,
With deadly poifon tipp'd to rankle hearts;
And while the lovely fnake like verfe 1 fcan,
Praise crowns the bard, while cenfure marks the

man.

The ART of PRINTING. A POEM

[Dublin, Aug. 11. On Tuesday, when the Lord Mayor, Recorder, Aldermen, and She riffs, attended by twenty-two corporations, per ambulated the liberties and franchises of the city, according to triennial custom, the follow ing poem was printed in a carriage belonging to the company of Stationers, (which moved in the proceffion), and was dispersed among the fpectators.]

HAil, myftic Art! which mẹn like angels

taught,

To fpeak to eyes, and paint unbodied thought!
Tho' deaf and dumb, bless'd skill, reliev'd by

thee,

We fee, we hear, we touch the head and heart,
We make one fenfe perform the task of three.
And take or give what each but yields in part.
With the hard laws of distance we difpenfe,
And, without found, apart, commune in feafe;
View, tho' confin'd, nay, rule this earthly ball,
And travel o'er the wide expanded All.
Dead letters thus with living notions fraught,
Prove to the foul the telescopes of thought;
To mortal life a deathlefs witness give,
And bid all deeds and titles laft and live;
In fcanty Life, Eternity we taste,
View the first ages, and inform the laft;
Arts, Hift'ry, Laws, we purchafe with a look,
And keep, like FATE, all NATURE ina
BOOK

the refolutions lately taken by the diet of convocation in Poland, to the prejudice of the privileges of the Proteftants, will not be carried into execution.