O worthy emulation! to excel In trifles such as these: how truly great! Unworthy of the peevish blubbering boy, Crushed in his childhood by the fondling nurse, Who, for some favourite bawble, frets and pines. Amongst the proud attendants of this shrine, The wealthy, young, and gay Clarinda, draws From poorer objects the astonished eye. Her looks, her dress, and her affected mein, Of curls high nodding o'er her polished brow; Nature! to thee alone, not Fashion's pomp, Does Beauty owe her all-commanding eye. From the green bosom of the watery main, Arrayed by thee, majestic Venus rose, With waving ringlets carelessly diffused, Floating luxuriant o'er the restless surge. What Rubens then, with his enlivening hand, Could paint the bright vermilion of her cheek, Pure as the roseate portal of the east, Britons! beware of Fashion's luring wiles: On either hand, chief guardians of her power, And sole dictators of her fickle voice, Folly and dull Effeminacy reign; Whose blackest magic and unhallowed spells The Roman ardour checked; their strength decayed, And all their glory scattered to the winds. Tremble, O Albion! for the voice of Fate Seems ready to decree thy after fall. By pride, by luxury, what fatal ills, Unheeded, have approached thy mortal frame! How many foreign weeds their heads have reared In thy fair garden! Hasten, ere their strength And baneful vegetation taint the soil, To root out rank disease, which soon must spread, If no blessed antidote will purge away Fashion's proud minions from our sea-girt isle. ON THE DEATH OF MR THOMAS LANCASHIRE, Comedian. ALAS, poor Tom! how oft, with merry heart, Have we beheld thee play the Sexton's part? Each comic heart must now be grieved to see The Sexton's dreary part performed on thee. ON SEEING A LADY PAINT HERSELF. WHEN, by some misadventure crossed, And for a moment blinds our eyes: So Delia, when her beauty's flown, EXTEMPORE, On seeing Stanzas addressed to MRS HARTLEY, Comedian, wherein she is described as resembling MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS. HARTLEY resembles Scotland's Queen, Some bard enraptured cries; A flattering bard he is, I ween, A TAVERN ELEGY. FLED are the moments of delusive Mirth; Still night and silence now succeed their noise; The erring tides of passion rage no more; But all is peaceful as the ocean's voice When breezeless waters kiss the silent shore. Here stood the juice, whose care-controlling powers Could every human misery subdue, Attracted by the magic of the bowl, Around the swelling brim in full array The glasses circled, as the planets roll And hail with borrowed light the god of day. Y |