Shall wake the flumb'ring, buried grain,
From the cold earth's relenting breaft,
And Britain's ifle fhall bloom again,
In all its wonted verdure dreft:
Britain, to whom kind Heav'n's indulgent care
Has fix'd in temperate climes its stated goal,
Far from the burning zone's inclement air,
Far from th' eternal frofts which bind the pole.
Here dewy Spring exerts his genial powers,
Here Summer glows falubrious, not fevere:
Here copious Autumn fpreads his golden tores,
And Winter ftrengthens the returning year.
O with each bleffing may it rife,
Which Heaven can give, or mortals bear!
May each wing'd moment, as it flies,
Improve a joy, or eafe a care:
'Till Britain's grateful heart, aftonifh'd, bends
To that Almighty Power, from whom all good defcends,
The WITHERED ROSE: the laft Compofition of the late Mr. Cunningham, written by him a few Weeks before his Death, and intended, as he expreffed bimjelf to a Friend to whom he prefented it, as a true Image of bim elf, being then in a very poor State of Health,
WEET object of the zephyr's kifs,
Come, rofe, come courted to my bower:
Queen of the banks! the garden's bliss!
Come and abafh yon' tawdry flower.
Why call us to revokeless doom?
With grief the opening buds reply;
Not fuffered to extend our bloom,
Scarce born, alas! before we die!
Man having pafs'd appointed years,
Ours are but days-the fcene must close:
And when Fate's meffenger appears,
What is he but a WITHERED ROSE?
The INY MPH of TAURIS, an ELEGY.
Written on the Death of Mifs Anne Trelawney, Daughter of Sir Harry Trelawney, who died in Jamaica.
HOSE happy funs without a cloud defcend!
Who treads the wild of life, nor meets a thorn?
To grief is god-like Virtue doom'd to bend ;
The turtle eye of innocence to mourn.
A gentle nymph of Media's green domain,
Where Tauris lifts with pride her hundred tow'rs,
Far from the precincts of her native plain,
Breathes her last figh in 'Spahan's hapless bow'rs.
What fhepherds melt at Nora's facred tomb
At Nora's tomb, each nymph of 'Spahan fighs;
While fadly fweet along the liftening gloom,
On Sorrow's lyre the dirge complaining dies.
The band of white-rob'd virgins let me join,
And fcatter incenfe on the hallow'd ground;
Where waving mournful o'er the lonely fhrine,
The grove in filent horror glooms around.
Tho' far from Tauris thy fair reliques lie,
Thy gentle ghoft her grateful daughters mourn;
Her fons in forrow heave the fruitless figh,
And melt in vifions o'er thy diftant urn.
Tho' far from Media's once delightful plain,
In 'Spahan's valley fleeps the gentle maid;
No prowling Arab fhall thy tomb prophane,
Breathe on thy fhrine, and wound thy fhrinking fhade.
Far hence the demons of the troubled air,
Shall bid their thunders roll, the tempeft rave:
No livid light'nings through the grove fhall glare,
To blaft th' eternal bloom that decks thy grave.
Here fhall the rofe with fofteft fragrance fpring,
Heav'n's mildeft dews thy humble bed adorn ::
Hence fhall the fong fter mount on early wing,
And warble round thee ere he meets the morn.
Ah! here with woe a fifter's heart fhall heave,
A heart by all the Virtues lov'd in vain!
Pale, on her tears, fhall rife the star of eve,
And midnight hear her pity'd voice complain.
Here fhall the luftre of afcending morn,
That wakes to gladnefs all the world below,
In forrow find her o'er thy filent urn,
A melancholy monument of woe.
No beam of Mirth fhall deck her clouded eye:
No Smile, her paly cheek, but of Despair;
To life's laft fand her foul for THEE fhall figh,
For THEE her clofing lids fhall fhed the tear.
Whit heedlefs wanderer through the gloomy vale,
Neglects to spread the flow'ret o'er thy tomb;
From fuch may Fortune fnatch her fav'ring gale,
And demons blaft their hopes of brightest bloom.
Ah! ceafe to murmur to the midnight air,
Nor bid a drooping BROTHER hafte away;
Think on our lofs in THEE, thou hapless Fair,
And think how fhort is life, one little day!
Too foon fhall Ali join thy beck'ning ghoft,
Too foon his fate fhall make an empire bleed :
What virtues, ah! to Perfia's land are loft,
When fuch lie number'd with the filent dead!
Too foon fhall Fame th' illumin'd page difplay,
And fighing blend his facred name with thine,
Where beam the worthy with diftinguish'd day,
Where crown'd with glory glows thy ANCIENT LINE.
PROLOGUE to Dr. GOLDSMITH's new Comedy called SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER, or The MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.
Wrote by DAVID GARRICK, Esq.
Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.
XCUSE me, Sirs, I pray-I can't yet fpeak-
I'm crying now-and have been all the week!
'Tis not alone this mourning fuit, good mafters,
I've that within-for which there are no plaifters.
Pray, would you know the reafon why I'm crying-
The Comic Mufe, long fick, is now a dying!
And if he goes, my tears will never stop;
For as a play'r I can't fqueeze out one drop;
I am undone, that's all-fhall lofe my bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing-lofe my head.
When the fweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I fhall be chief mourners here.
VOL. XVI.
R
To her a mawkish drab of fpurious breed,
Who deals in fentimentals, will fucceed!
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents,
We can as fcon fpeak Greek as fentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What fhall we do?-If Comedy forfake us,
They'll turn us out, and no one elfe will take us.
But why can't I be moral--Let me try-
My heart thus preffing-fix't my face and eye-
With a fententious lock, that nothing means,
(Faces are barbers blocks-in moral fcenes)
Thus I begin All is not gold that glitters,
Pleasure feems fweet, but proves a glafs of bitters.
"When Ign'rance enters, Folly is at hand;
Learning is better far than houfe or land.
"Let not your virtue trip, who trips may ftumble,
"And virtue is not virtue if fhe tumble."
I give it up-Morals won't do for me;
To make you laugh I fhould play tragedy.
One hope remains, hearing the maid was ill,
A Doctor comes this night to fhew his skill.
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion,
He in five draughts prepar'd prefents a potion:
A kind of magic charm; for be affured,
If you will fwallow it, the maid is cured :-
But defperate the Doctor, and her cafe is,
If you reject the defe, and make wry faces!
This truth he boafts, will boat it while he lives,
No poifonous drugs are mix'd in what he gives.
Should he fucceed, you'll give him his degree,
If not, within he will receive no fee!
The college you, muft his preter.fions back,
Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.
EPILOGUE to the fame. By Dr. GOLDSMITH.
Spoken by Mrs. BULKLEY.
ELL, having ftoop'd to conquer with fuccefs,
And gain'd a husband without aid from drefs,
Still as a bar. maid, I could with it too,
As I have conquer'd him, to conquer you:
And let me fay, for all your refolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos'd to please,
"We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act fhews the fimple country maid,
Harmlefs and young, of ev'ry thing afraid;
Blushes when hir'd, and with unmeaning action,
I hopes as how to give you fatisfaction.
Her fecond act difplays a livelier fcene-
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and fcolds the waiters:
Next the fcene fhifts to town, and there the foars,
The chop-houfe toaft of ogling connoiffeurs.
On 'fquires and cits the there difplays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers hearts:
And as the fmiles, her triumphs to compleat,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth act fhews her wedded to the 'fquire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapfide;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till having loft in age the power to kill,
She fits all night at cards, and ogles at fpadille.
Such, thro' our lives, the eventful history-
The fifth and laft act ftill remains for me.
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns Female Barrifter, and pleads for Bayes.
NEW-YEAR ODE, To his most Excellent Majesty King BLA DUD of BATH.
LLUSTRIOUS Bladud, beft of kings,
Though thou can't make no gracious fpeeches,
Ty ftream the gift of healing brings,
In fpite of all the leagues of leeches.
When this bleft well one virtue more,
The grace of Helicon fhall give,
Thy grateful bard, though not before,
May learn to praife, who learns to live.
Here patriots, worn with wafting care
Of poor Britannia on the brink;
Here matron fage, and maiden fair,
And deifts here believe and drink.
The facred prelate here fufpends
His pious views of new tranflation,
And here the statesman condefcends
To fave himself to fink the nation.
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