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THE EPITAPH.

TO HIS FRIEND IN TOWN.

FR Chigh waving groves,

But, oh! what tongue to Laura shall relate

Oh! none can bear the fight! The fad conclufion of her lover's fate!

Those lively eyes, which love inspir’d, Already the dire news has reach'd her ear; Which Cælia, too, so much admir'd, She flies to know the truth, half frantic with her Are clos'd in endless night.

fear! Loose and dishevell’d was her auburn hair,

If innocence demands a figh, Her zone ungirt, and all her bosom bare;

Ye gentle bofoms tell me why It's dazzling whiteness the deform'd with blows,

Not heav'd on Toby's grave? And round her wild, inquiring eyes, she throws!

When Cruelty's relentless hand At length she cafts them on the fable bier,

Did what malignity had plannid, And see the hapless youth extended there!

Not innocence could save! Clos'd were those charming eyes, which could

impart The softest passion to the virgin's heart; Lifeless those lips, which oft to hers were prest;

EPISTLE, And cold as adamant his bleeding breaft!

FROM A GENTLEMAN IN THE COUNTRY, That breast which feit for her the purest fire That beauty, youth, and virtue, could inspire! Awhile in ftupid sorrow fix'd she stands,

"ROM Whichwood's deep shades, and it's And on her ivory bosom folds her hands; But madness kindling, as the view'd the youth, Where Fancy, delighted, at liberty roves ; Henry, (she cry'd) I come to prove my truth! From the seats of sequester’dcontentmentandeafe, Then from her fide a ready dagger drew, Where rofy Hygeia wafts health in each breeze; Which in her own heart's blood she did embrue! Receive, my dear friend! these rude, rustic lays, All flew with one accord to aid the fair;

From, a muse unambitious of honours or praise. Who, bleeding, fell upon her lover's bier!

O could you,Philander, these gay groves among, Your help is vain! (the panting virgin cried;); With me catch the notes of the tweet feather'd And then, without a struggle, figh’d, and died!

throng, Still to their tomb the weeping maidens bring With ears full of rapture hear Philomel's strais, The earliest tribute of the blooming spring; And see the fleet hart bound along the smooth And still do Jersey's bards, in flowing verse,

plain; The mournful story of their loves rehearse; The town, and it's pleasures, with scorn you'd Bid melting virgios weep at Laura's name,

resign; And Henry's deeds transmit to lasting fame. To the waters of Lethe ambition consign;

Bid fame, wealth, and honours, the wretched at.

tend,

And vow,here, with quiet, life's vain dream to end. DEATH OF A FAVOURITE RABBIT.

O loft to each joy, who toil in the crowd,

Who cringe to the noble, or bow to the proud; APPY, O Toby! hadit thou been,

Who bustle along through life's peopled way, By tyrant man if never seen;!

And grasp at each phantom that shines in the day! That animal fuperb!

Who know not to feait on that heavenly repast, But, with the safety nature yields,

Which never can satiate, but charms to the last; Enjoy'd the pleafure of the fields,

The sweets that from peace and tranquillity flow, To crop the tender herb.

And the rest of the soul, which the poor only know;

The clear limpid breast, and the heart void of pain, There might'st thou skip, there spend a life, Which sinks at 110 lofs, and throbs for no gain. To care unknown, unknown to strife,

As I rest in the shade, or refresh at the rill, There fhun the greyhound's speed; Or Rowly afcend yon green-waving hill; But- unhappy!--in thy bloom,

As I hear the gay birds their lov’d descants repeat; Thou wert--alas! it was thy doom

And inhale rich perfume from each gale that I By schoolboy's band to bleed! Thy sportive days, alas ! were few,

I pity the splendid, the pompous, and great, Nor e'er barbarity they knew

In vengeance o'erhung with the trappings of state; Refrain from tears who can!

Too high to be happy, too proud to be bless’d, Thou ne'er knew'ft malice or deceit,

Whose days pass in folly, and nights without rest; But, ah! it was decreed by Fate,

Who never embrace the calm, tranquil hour, To find they were in man.

When pageantry yields to soft rapture it's power, Villains ingrate! whoe'er ye are,

And the soul in reflection darts through this dull View him, and shed one piteous tearg

scene, A little to redress!

Where passion and error so oft intervene. If this proposal is too much,

By falfhood and flattery let others aspire, Be forry that the deed is such;

In the climax of fortune, to rise a step higher; Ye surely can't do less!

For the shouts of the mob the patriot may toil,

The hero through foes may rush for the spoil, Now Toby, harmless Toby's dead,

Unenvied the poet his laurels may wear, See every rabbit droop it's head,

And Ambition still hug it's delofion and care:

THE

WRITTEN BY A SCHOOLBOY.

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JULY 6.

HAI

oft;

No with in my bosom e'er fonder shall rise, When your tear, and your verse, shall hallow my
Than to taste, undisturbid, the delights of the wise;

grave,
With prudence, and wisdom, and temperance, to And your friendship my memory religiously save;
roam,

Forget all my foibles, and say, with a fighAnd fix all my warmest attachments at home. O earth! on the borom that lov'd me light lie! Heaven spreads forth it's blessings as plenteous WHICHWOOD FOREST,

W.F.M,
as dew;
While our wants are our own, or but trivial and

few:
In ambition alone all our wretchedness lies,

ODE TO SOLITUDE,
And gloting on visions that dance round our eyes ; AIL! Solitude, the Muses friend!
In wildly departing from Nature's just plan,

To thee 1 itring the tuneful lyre;
And aiming at objects unsuited to man.

Do thou thy magic influence lend,
Can the pomp of attendance, the foppery of And wake devotion's hallow'd fire:
pride,

For thee I quit the noise of itrife,
The line of ancestors to monarchs allied,

And seek the humbler scenes of life;
'The titles of rank, or the whistlings of fame, To soar on Contemplation's wing,
Or soothe the torn bosom, or fanctify shame! And glow with rapture as I sing.
When the diadem'd head feels the ache of disease, See! Cynthia, empress of the night,
And the viands of luxury no longer can please; Emits a beam of glimmering light;
When the down of the cygnet no longer is foft, And, bursting through a sable cloud,
And fate from ii's watch-tower calls loudly and Proclaims in Reason's ear aloud,

While rolling round her destin'd sphere,
Then fay, my dear friend, would you envy the lot That God is acting every where:
Of the prince in his palace, or fwain in his cot? Self-pleas’d, the grateful theme I fondly join,
Where memory no pangs of compunction o’er- And hail the Author, and his Power, divine.'
cloud,

Oh! come, Reflection, heaven-born maid,
Nor conscience repeats every baseness aloud;

And all thy wonted power ditplay;
Where few are the dainties that lite must resign,

Point out where I have erring stray'd,
And the soul can repose in the mercies divine.

And lead me from the devious way!
As the rivers incessantly run to the sea,

Thus, taught by thee, unerring guide,
As the springs from their beds still strive to get

To thun the motley sons of pride;
free:

Whose minds have ever since their birth
So hastens each mortal to one common grave,

Kept level with their mother Earth;
The only pufleffion the richest can save;

Whose souls, confin'd to Folly's shrine,
Where the honour'd and mean together repose,

Can scarcely prove themselves divine,
And friends mingle duft with their once fellest

Till Death obliquely throws the dart,
foes.

And wounds the victims to the heart,
Since then, my Philander,we all know our fate,

Then, bursting from the tottering clay,
And life is but short, e'en when longest it's date;

Each gently wings itself away,
Learn early to live for yourself and your friends, And leaves behind a senseless, mouldering clod,
And taste ev'ry blessing that Providence lends.

To meet the vengeance of an angry God.
If you hunt after fame, or honours, or wealth,
And forfeit the joys of quiet and health;

Then, while Reflection's sober power
Or whether indifferent you fail down life's tide,

With me shall kindly deign to dwelt,
And only for natural cravings provide;

Be mine the task, each fleeting hour
Alike o'er our heads Time's last curtain shall close,

Some pleasing moral truth to tell;
And remembrance lose hold of it's pleasures or

And, wak'd from lite's fantastic dream,

Where mortals are not what they seem,
Come, then, and indulge your genius and taste,

(But, skill'd in fraudful guile and art,

Deceive the eye, to win the heart ;)
Nor longer your years in vain industry waste :
Bid your villa arise on yon gay funny fite,

Let me forsake the treacherous crowd,
Where each obje&t in nature conspires to delight;

The rich, the poor, the mean, the proud,
Where the sweet bird of eve shall woo you to rest,

To taste the sweets of Solitude,
And at morn blooming Pleasure enrapture your

Where seldom human ills intrude,
breast;

There mark where Virtue's sons have trod, Where the charms of bright Wisdom shall win all

And look through nature up to God;

Tili, rifing far above terrestrial toys,
And Philosophy pure her best treasures impart;

The raptur'd soul foresees eternal joys!
Where I, too, shall hail you my neighbour and And those, who by parental ties
friend,

Now check the Mule's flights in vain, And learn from your converse my failings to Will, when they mount th’ætherial skies, mend;

With rapture join the grateful Arain;
With studies congenial, and objects the same, But now, untaught in claffic lore,
Fast rivet affection's inviolate flame:

Above their reach the Muses foar :
Till ardent my hope, and my heart all resign'd,

A venal tribe! for pride, and wealth,
I leave this vain world, a better to find; They barter Eafe, Content, and Health;

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Seek pleasure in gay Folly's round,

From the dark, dreary grave, I'come,
Where nought but disappointment's found; In this dead hour of night;
Yet ftill deceive themselves with hope, While the pale moon, behind a cloud,
At random run, or blindly grope;

Conceals her borrow'd light;
And, toss'd on life's tempestuous fea,
Are never what they wish to be;

To soothe your troubled mind to reft,
Yet, ever anxious for the future day,

And banish your despair;
This, unimprov'd, steals unobserv'd away! Tu warn you death will soon approach,

And calm each anxious care.
But let me not at them repine;

Since, kindly, Heaven on me bestows No more let grief your bosom (well! A Genius ripening to divine,

No more of fate complain! A heart that with devotion glows;

But seek my grave, nor doubt to find
But, from another's feelings, learn

A balm for ev'ry pain.
The wrong to shụn, the right discern:
Grateful for Nature's frugal store,

Farewel, my love! I hence am call’d,
Below the rich, above the poor,

And dare no longer stay; Contented pass my future days,

For fee! the rosy morn appears, Nor think that God's are partial ways.

And ushers in the dayIf one enjoys a larger share

Then Emma sought her William's grave, Of blessings, while he's deftin'd here, 'Tis but that he the more may grant

Which oft she'd sat beside; To those who feel the hand of want:

And, falling on the green grass turf, This known, what farther can I wish to know !

By all regretted, died. Content's our greateft happiness below.

NORWICH, JULY 23 ALBERT In these delightful fylyan shades,

Where birds their evening carols (ing; SONNET FROM PETRARCH. And rising hills, and opening glades, Display the beauties of the spring;

LONE, and pensive, thro' deserted meads, Oft may I musing steal along, And join the sweet, melodious fong;

My eyes intent to fhun each path that leads While Zephyr's gentle, winnowing gale, Where printed sands the human footsteps show, Comes wafting fragrance from the vale; The mingling sweets promiscuous rise, No other refuge left but in despair, Perfuming Æther to the skies,

To thun the world's discernment I retire; And Nature to the senses yields

Since now in Pleasure's train no part I bear, Joys equal to the Elysian fields.

My outward mien betrays my inward fire! Here, Genius! ķere thy tribute raise,

Methinks, henceforth, the mountains, groves, And tune to Heaven thy vocal lays;

and plains, Here freely range, or court the shady bower,

And rivers, know my melancholy mind; And wait serenely for the changeful hour.

But only these, to all befide untold: JULY 8.

AMINTOR, And yet, what savage track unfought remains,

However rude, but love my haunts will find;

And he and I'alternate converse hold! WILLIAM AND EMMA.

JUNE 30:

QUINTILIAN.
THE village clock, with awful sound,
Had told the midnight hour;

PROLOGUE,
When hapless Emma weeping lay
Within a hawthorn bower.

TO A FRIEND IN NEED IS A FRIEND INDEID, Adown her cheeks, with sorrow pale,

WRITTEN BY DENNIS O'BRYEN, ISQ. Where once the roses grew,

SPOKEN BY MR. PALMER. Her fparkling tears in torrents flow'd,

N times long paft, ere Fashion's powerful sway And ham'd the silver dew.

earth, ber way, Her gentle bosom heav'd a figh,

A sober knight, who would be what he chose, Expreifive of her woe;

Bought, and long wore, a pair of worfted hofe. As thus, with mournful voice, the cried

Bút stockings must, like empires, feel disease, No joy can Emma know!

And time, that alters all things, alter'd these: When William told his tender tale,

From worsted they grew filk; for, with much art, And bade me ease his pain;

His fempstress darn'd with filk each broken part; Ah! why did I his ardent love,

Till, like old boroughs, they became derang'd, And vows fincere, disdain!

And e'en their very constitution chang'd. As thus, with grief oppress’d, she spoke,

Thus chang'd our manufacture of to-night; Fond William's ghoft appear’d;

First from the loom as Farce it saw the light,

Our weaver view'd the stuff with courteous eye, And, gazing on the drooping maid, It's purpose chus declar'd

And bade it be wrought up to Comedy;

(And,

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(And, when you see it's texture, may you find Pooh, pooh!(cries Citpup) this is all a lye! Threads like that weaver's fílk remain behind) Poets and painters will make free-Oh, tie! Dace on two legs it crept, then crawl'd on four, Poor souls! they love to bounce, and think they And now it limps on three, as once before.

rallyUnfix'd it's title, too, as well as frame,

Nothing but truth and honour in 'Change Alley!
For as it's figure chang’d, it chang'd it's name, Plump Margery at a monitrous premium went-
As fast as politicians change their friends, Prodigious interest - almost cent. per cent.
Or as all mankind change to gain their ends. I found her poor, not bleft with half a crown;

Poets there are, of generous soul, who grudge Stampt her my own, and brought her upon town
The town the trouble from their tafte to judge; Made her as fine as hands or gold could make
With pomps and pageants, and procefsions vie,

her-
To blind the sense, and glut the gaping eye; Built her a coach—a grand one!--in Long Acre!
As women hide in paint a wrinkled face, Margery's good fortunes all on me depend;
Or dwarfs wunceal deformities in lace.

I ruin'd her--and am her only friend.
Some, nobly trampling upon nature, draw

Happy the high-born fair, whose ample dower.
Such myftic monsters, ás no eye e'er saw; Pours in her wealthy lap a golden shower!
Or, scorning idle words, sublimely glow, While many a friend sincere, no doubtfus.
To trace mankind in jig and caree-Show;

rounds
Or teize with fripperies, till your reason shrugs, Her thousand charms--and hundred thousand
Like craw-fick ftomachs cramm'd with navleous

pounds.
drugs.

But she, who pines in want; whose early blooms
Fare how he may, our poet fought but this, Deceit would canker, or diftrefs consume;
To paint plain life precisely as it is;

Let jealou s fears her every Itep attend,
And all may trace the likeness, for you meet And mark the flatterer from the real friend!
The pictures, whence he drew, in every street. He who with gold would bribe her into vice,
Judge then with temper of our novice bard, Buys but her honodr at a dearer price;
For it's true wisdom not to be too hard.

Not generous, but prodigal and vain;
"The
poet,

like the statesman, when disgrac'd, A botom traitor! cruel, not humane!
Joins factious crowds, and roars to be replac'd. But he, whose virtuous hand her wants supplies
Damn'd bards at bards triumphant hiss and grin, And wipes the tears of anguish from her eyes;
As the out-statesman thunders at the in.

Who rears, o'ercharg'd with grief, her drooping
And each (sustain'd by kindred spirits near him) head,
Plagues you with Off--off-off! or Hear him! And summons Hymen to the genial bes;
-hear him!

Let love and gratitude his merits plead,
Yet do not think our bard would bribe your And lodge him in her heart a Friend Indeed!

choice;
He trusts that faireft judge, the public voice.
None should pursue a trade which is unfit;

FAVOURITE BALLAD,
And, of all quacks, the worst's a quack in wit.
Blame if he fail, applaud if he succeed;

SUNG BY MR.ARROWSMITH, AT VAUXHALL.
When you're moft juft, you then are Friends
Indeed!

THEN rouz'd by the trumpet's loud clan.

gor to arms,

Reluxant I quitted Eliza's bright charms; EPILOGUE.

Tho' honour commanded, yet I've fill'd my mind, WRITTEN BY GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ. Ah! how could I leave the dear charmer behind?

Yet the rage of the battle with courage I try d,

Surviv'd while the heroes fell taft on each side:
TOMAN, of all who feel the hour of need,
Wants most, most rarely finds, a Friend While the filver-ton'd trumpet Thrill founded to

Love stood my protector in all the alarms,
Indeed;
Doom'd in each sex, alas! by turns, to prove
Falleg hollow friendship, and insidious love.

Now olive-rob’d Peace kind advances again, Hogarth, on whom (sweet Humour's daļling And her bleffings dispenses wide over the plain; child!)

Return'd co Eliza, we join in the throng,
At once Minerva and Thalia (mild;

Where is heard the lott pipe, or the heart-lifting
Whose pencilrd satire vice and folly (mote,

fong.
Who many a comedy on canvas wrote;

Each rural amusement with rapture we try,
With coat tuck'd up, straw hat, and linen gown, While the beams of contentment are found in
Draws honest Margery just arriv'd in town:
With ruddy health and innocence the glows,

Love stood my protector in all the alarms,
Fresh as the morn, and blooming like the rose, While the filver-ton'd trumpet shrill founded to
In the inn yard a hag, who ready stands,
Lays on the harmless maid her harpy hands ; What mortal, like me, so transcendently bless’d,
Too well the beldame knows the treacherous art When clafp'd by the charmer, with joy, to her.
To tempt, and to corrupt, the female heart;

breaft!
Too foon to ruin she decoys her prey,

The laurel of conqueft I give to the wind; ! Then cafts her like a loathsome weed away. ?Tis nought, withvut love and honour combin'd.

But

COMPOSED BY MR. ARNE.

WHE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY.

W

arms.

each eye.

arms.

WHAT

SET TO MUSIC BY DR. ARNOLD,

S°Wom

But when thus united, how noble the name! 'Tis more than the blüh of the rofe in the What envy must wait on so happy a fame!

morning, Love stood my protector in all the alarms,

The white of the lily is not so adorning, When the filver-ton'd trumpet ihrill founded to All'accident proof, and all scrutiny scorning; arms !

"Tis eafe to the witty, and wit to the weak.

'Tis surely the girdle that Venus was bound with, THE AMAZON.

The graces,her handmaids, all proud, put it on;

'Tis surely the radiance Aurora is crown'd with, WRITTEN BY MR. OAKMAN.

Who, smiling, arises, and waits for the sun. COMPOSED BY MR. ARNE.

Oh! wear it, ye lafres, on every occasion; SONG BY MRS. KENNEDY, ÁT VAUXHALL.

'Tis the noblest reproof, 'tis the strongest per

suafion; THAT means this loud tumult, this con

'Twill keep, nay, 'twilt almost retrieve repustant alarm?

tation! fis the foe to the Amazons! arm, virgins, arm! And last, and look lovely, when beauty is gone. With the helmet of Virtue distinguish your brow, And the foes to our peace we shall quickly lay low. Vice and Folly their flags now display to full view,

THE BRITISH TAR. To conquer by prudence belongs now to you: WRITTEN BY MILES PETER ANDREWS, ESR lp the fair field of Fame, then, exert ev'ry charm, And let the loud trumpets found-Arm, virgins, arm!

SUNG BY MR.ARROWSMITH, AT VAUXHALL:

ONS of Ocean, fam'd in story, Rear the standard of Honour, the flag of our race,

Wont to wear the laureil'd brow; With the trophies we've won without blame or

Listen to your rising glory, disgrace ;

Growing honours wait you now; When proudly those lords of the world would

Think not servile adulation controul That charm of distinction, a woman's free soul;

Meanly marks my grateful fong, When we drove them inglorious away from the

All the praises of the nation

Given to you, to you belong; field,

And rival kingdoms send from far And by Prudence and Virtue compelld them to

Their plaudits to the British Tar. yield: Then rouze to the battle, exert ev'ry charm, 'Tis not now your valiant daringa While the trumpet, loud founding, cries--Arm, Courage you've for ages shewn; females, arm!

'Tis not now your mild forbearingan

Pity ever was your own; Thus the Amazons once, as by poets we're told,

'Tis your prince, fo lov'd, so plealing, In defence of their honour and conduct, were bold; Defied each vain coxcomb of powder and prate,

Spreads your fame thro' diftant lands,

And, the trident nobly seizing,
And nobly determind to be a free ftate:

Grasps it in his youthful hands;
Ye females of Britain, adopt the same plan, Proud to boast, in peace or war,
And thus prove the brightest examples to 'man; The virtues of the British Tar,
To those who are worthy display every charm,
But when others invade you, then arın, females, When the times were big with danger,
arm!

See your royal shipmate go,
And, to every fear a stranger,

Brave the fury of the foe:
ADVICE TO THE FAIR-SEX, Now when smiling Peace rejoices,
WRITTEN BY A LADY.

Greet him with a failor's arts;

Cheer his presence with your voices,
COMPOSED BY MR. HOOK.

Pay his service with your hearts;
SUNG BY MRS. KENNEDY, AT VAUXHALL.

And be, henceforth, your leading star,
E beauties, or such as would beauties be The gallant, royal, British Tar.

fam'd,
Lay patches, and washes, and painting, afide,
Go burn all the glafles that ever were frain'd,

IMPROMPTU.

HE virtuous Chamberlain maintains, A noftrum to cull from the toilet of reason,

When books or prints obscene he sees, "Tis easy, 'tis cheap, and 'tis ever in season, No blood lascivious fills his veins;

When art has in vain her cofineties applied. Good man! his fang froid's quite at ease. Good-nature, believe me,'s the smootheft of var- Nor can the most indecent prints nish,

Kindle with him such ardent blushes, Which ever bedimples the beautiful cheek; As when, in Heaven's own Book, he squints No time nor no tint can it's excellence tarnish, Atlittle Mojes in tbe rulles. It holds good fo lung, and it lies on so fleek.

H

YE

pride, TH

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