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, Speak her enthusiast keen in Fashion's train. White as the covered Alps, or wintry face Of snowy Lapland, her toupée upreared, Exhibits to the view a cumbrous mass

Of curls high nodding o'er her polished brow; From which redundant flows the Brussels' lace, With pendant ribbons, too, of various dye, Where all the colours in th' ethereal bow Unite, and blend, and tantalize the sight.

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,
That opens to receive the cheering ray
Of Phoebus beaming from the orient sky!
For sterling Beauty needs no faint essays,
Or colourings of art, to gild her more:—
She is all-perfect. And if Beauty fail,
Where are those ornaments, those rich attires,
Which can reflect a lustre on that face,
Where she with light innate disdains to shine?

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,
The banker hath his fortune lost,
Credit his instant need supplies,

And for a moment blinds our eyes:

So Delia, when her beauty's flown,
Trades on a bottom not her own,
And labours to escape detection,
By putting on a false complexion.

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,
Or else the Painter lies.

A TAVERN ELEGY.

FLED are the moments of delusive Mirth;
The fancied pleasure! paradise divine!
Hushed are the clamours that derive their birth
From generous floods of soul-reviving wine.

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,
And wake to sportive joy the lazy hours,
That to the languid senses hateful grew.

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