A DOCTOR there is of so humble a grace, Then sure you will say he's deficient in brain; A Distich written by Mr. Cowper, at the Request of a Gentleman who importuned him to write something in his Pocket Album. I WERE indeed indifferent to fame, Grudging two lines t'immortalize my name. swer. Conscience. THE Chartreux wants the warning of a bell Lines sent to Mr. Cosway, while Lady C. Paw- COSWAY, my Cath'rine sits to you: An old Gentleman of the name of Page, finding IF that from Glove you take the letter G, ANSWER. To an unfortunate Beauty. SAY, lovely maid, with downcast eye, Bespeak a breast o'erwhelm'd with woe; Too often blest, thy beauties slight; And leave those thrones of love and truth, That lip, and bosom of delight? What though to other nymphs he flies, And feigns the fond, impassion'd tear, Breathes all the eloquence of sighs That treach'rous won thy artless ear? Let not those nymphs thy anguish move, For whom his heart may seem to pine! That heart shall ne'er be blest by love, Whose guilt can force a pang from thine. On seeing a Dog asleep near his Master. Thy peaceful hours that sweetly flow, Man's call'd thy lord-affliction's heir! And thou art slave to none. And blest with him to rove! Oh! that my heart, like thine, could taste On a Waiter, once at Arthur's, and a Fellowservant of his there, both since Members of Parliament, and the last a Nabob. WHEN Bob M-ck-th, with upper servant's pride, "Here, sirrah, clean my shoes," to Rumb-d He humbly answer'd, "Yea, Bob:" Would stoutly answer, "Nay, Bob." To rob the nation two contractors come, rogue in spirits, or the rogue in grain. Verses written by a Gentleman on finding an Urn. | Accurs'd be the merciless band, TRIFLING mortal, tell me why Thou hast disturb'd my urn; To know what letters spelt my name And all that thou shalt be. Nor will the sparkling atoms show Vain search if here the source thou'dst know, The mould will yield no evidence Learn then the vanity of birth; Condition, honors, name, Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things And leave that grov'ling pride to kings, Let virtue be thy radiant guide, And raise thy ashes glorified, The Negro's Complaint. WIDE Over the tremulous sea Breath'd soft on the bosom of night. And pour'd forth his sorrowful tale; His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale. Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne! Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come. From the thicket the man-hunter sprung, My cries echo'd loud through the air; There was fury and wrath on his tongue, He was deaf to the shrieks of despair. Who his love could from Maratan tear; And blasted this impotent hand, That was sever'd from all I held dear. Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow, Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart, And still may the arrows of woe Drink deep of the stream of my heart! But hark! on the silence of night My Adila's accents I hear, And mournful beneath the wan light I see her lov'd image appear! Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, As the mist that hangs light on the wave; And fondly her lover she chides, That lingers so long from the grave. "O Maratan, haste thee!" she cries, "Here the reign of oppression is o'er, The tyrant is robb'd of his prize, And Adila sorrows no more." Now, sinking amidst the dim ray, She beckons, and I must pursue. And rush to the realms of the brave. Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louisa Hanway. O THOU, to whom fair Genius homage paid, Whom science courted, and the Muses lov'd: Whose mind the hand of Innocence array'd, Pure as that form which Envy's self approv'd: Accept these tributary drops-these sighs! (Remembrance still will on thy virtues dwell) [skies, Tho' nought could check thy progress to the The soul must cherish hers it lov'd so well. For thou wert all ambition could desire, Endow'd with all that nature could impart Warm was thy breast with Friendship's sacres fire, And form'd for sentiment thy gentle heart. Near thy blest shade the pensive Muse shall stray, Led by the pallid moon's uncertain light,. Sad tribute to thy peerless worth to pay, And to thy tomb soft Sympathy invite. Lamenting Memory, too, shall linger there, And cull sweet flow'rs to deck thy holy shrine: For thee indulge the deep-drawn sigh sincere, And o'er thy ashes shall with pity pine. Yet check'd should be those tears thy friends may shed, That grief, which thy fond parents' peace de decree, That Power which seal'd th' apparent harsh | Though Greece in shining temples heretofore Who ev'ry feeling of thy heart could know, Judg'd what thy pangs from future ills might be, And snatch'd thee early from a world of woe. On an unfortunate Beauty. ANON. The rudeness of the winter's night? Poor wretch!-you sigh, you would unfold You lov'd, believ'd, and were undone. None listen to your tale, but I? Alas! a pittance scant, I fear, Is all the joy I can bestow; One moment from a life of woe. WHEN Chloe's picture was to Chloe shown, My sickly spouse with many a sigh POLLIO must needs to penitence excite; For see, his scarves are rich, and gloves are white. Behold his notes display'd, his body rais'd: The force and reasoning of his wig and band: What Locke or Clarke asserts, good scripture all. THUS with kind words Sir Edward cheer'd Dear Dick! thou on my friendship mayst dehis friend: pend : I know thy fortune is but very scant; His word he kept-in want he ne'er would see him. WHEN men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more. On the Offering made by King James I. at a grave Comedy, called the Marriage of Arts. AT Christ-Church Marriage, play'd before the king, Lest these learn'd mates should want an offering, The king himself did offer-what, I pray? A Country Parson's Answer to a young Lady who sent her Compliments on the Ten of Hearts. YOUR Compliments, dear lady, pray forbear; Old English services are more sincere : You send ten hearts, the tithe is only mine; Give me but one, and burn the other nine. By Dr. DONNE. I AM unable, yonder beggar cries, To stand or go. If he says true, he lies. MOORE always smiles whenever he recites; He smiles, you think, approving what he writes. And yet in this no vanity is shown; A modest man may like what's not his own. To a Writer of long Epitaphs. FRIEND, in your Epitaphs I'm griev'd One half will never be believ'd, To Mr. Thomson, who had procured the Author a Benefit Night. DENNIS. REFLECTING on thy worth, methinks I find Thy various Seasons in their Author's mind. Spring opes her blossoms various as thy muse And, like thy soft compassion, sheds her dews. Summer's hot drought in thy expression glows, And o'er each page a tawny ripeness throws. Autumn's rich fruits th' instructed reader gains, Who tastes the meaning purpose of thy strains. Winter-but that no semblance takes from thee: That hoary season yields a type of me. To Mr. Pope. WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page While wayward pens thy works assail, These times though many a friend bewail, But when the world's loud praise is thine, When none shall rail, and ev'ry lay |