• No gainful trade their industry can 'scape,

They fing, they dance, clean fhoes, or cure a clap: • All sciences a fafting Monfieur knows,

• And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes..

Ah! what avails it, that, from flav'ry far, • I drew the breath of life in English air; • Was early taught a Briton's right to prize, And lifp the tales of Henry's victories; If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain, • And flattery fubdues when arms are vain? • Studious to pleafe, and ready to fubmit,

The fupple Gaul was born a parafite:

Still to his int'reft true, where'er he goes, Wit, brav'ry, worth, his lavish tongue bestows; In ev'ry face a thousand graces fhine, From ev'ry tongue flows harmony divine. • These arts in vain our rugged natives try, Strain out with fault'ring diffidence a lye, • And gain a kick for aukward flattery.

Befides, with juftice, this discerning age

• Admires their wond'rous talents for the ftage':
Well may they venture on the mimick's art,
• Who play from morn to night a borrow'd pärt ;

• Practis'd their master's notions to embrace,

Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face;

With ev'ry wild abfurdity comply,

And view each object with another's eye;
To fhake with laughter ere the jeft they hear,

• To pour at will the counterfeited teàr,

And as their patron hints the cold or heat,
To shake in dog-days, in December sweat.
How, when competitors like these contend,
Can furly Virtue hope to fix a friend?
• Slaves that with serious impudence beguile,
And lye without a blush, without a smile;

}

• Exalt

• Exalt each trifle, ev'ry vice adore,

Your tafte in fauff, your judgment in a whore: • Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear • He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air?

For arts like these preferr'd, admir'd, carefs'd, They firft invade your table, then your breast; Explore your fecrets with infidious art,

Watch the weak hour, and ranfack all the heart; • Then foon your ill-plac'd confidence repay,

• Commence your lords, and govern-or betray.

By numbers here, from fhame or cenfure free, All crimes are fafe, but hated poverty:

This, only this, the rigid law pursues;
This, only this, provokes the fnarling Mufe.
• The sober trader, at a tatter'd `cloak,

• Wakes from his dream, and labours for a joke;
• With brisker air the filken courtiers gaze,
And turn the varied taunt a thousand ways.
Of all the griefs that harrafs the diftrefs'd;
• Sure the most bitter is a fcornful jeft;

Fate never wounds more deep the gen'rous heart,
'Than when a blockhead's infult points the dart!
• Has Heaven referv'd, in pity to the poor,
No pathlefs wafte or undiscover'd shore?
No fecret island in the boundless main;

• No peaceful defart yet unclaim'd by Spain? Quick let us rife, the happy feats explore, And bear Oppreffion's infolence no more.

This mournful truth is ev'ry where confefs'd; "Slow rifes worth, by poverty deprefs'd:" But here more flow, where all are flayes to gold, Where looks are merchandize, and smiles are fold; 'Where, won by bribes, by flatteries implor'd, "The groom retails the favours of his lord.

But hark! th' affrighted crowd's tumultuous cries ' Roll through the streets, and thunder to the skies:

• Rais'd from fome pleafing dream of wealth and pow'r, • Some pompous palace, or fome blissful bow'r,

Aghaft you ftart, and fcarce, with aching fight, • Sustain th' approaching fire's tremendous light; < Swift from pursuing horrors take your way, ⚫ And leave your little all to flames a prey; Then thro' the world a wretched vagrant roam, For where can starving merit find a home? In vain your mournful narrative disclose,

• While all neglect, and most insult your woes.

• Should Heav'n's juft bolts Orgilio's wealth confound,

And spread his flaming palace on the ground,

Swift o'er the land the difmal rumour flies,
And publick mournings pacify the skies;

• The laureat tribe in servile verse relate,
• How virtue wars with perfecuting fate;
• With well-feign'd gratitude the penfion'd band
• Refund the plunder of the beggar'd land.

• See! while he builds, the gaudy vafals come,
• And croud with fudden wealth the rifing dome;
The price of boroughs and of fouls restore,

• And raise his treasures higher than before.

• Now blefs'd with all the baubles of the great,

The polish'd marble, and the fhining plate,

Orgilio fees the golden pile afpire,

• And hopes from angry Heav'n another fire.
Couldst thou refign the park and play content,
For the fair banks of Severn or of Trent;
There mightft thou find fome elegant retreat,

• Some hireling fenator's deferted feat;

And stretch thy prospects o'er the smiling land,
For less than rent the dungeons of the Strand;

• There prune thy walks, fupport thy drooping flow'rs,

• Direct thy rivulets, and twine thy bow'rs;

And, while thy beds a cheap repa afford,

Defpife the dainties of a venal lord.

< There

There ev'ry bush with Nature's mufick rings,
There ev'ry breeze bears health upon it's wings;
On all thy hours fecurity fhall smile,

And blefs thy evening walk and morning toil.

Prepare for death, if here at night you roam,
And fign your will before you fup from home.
Some fiery fop, with new commiffion vain,
Who fleeps on brambles till he kills his man;
Some frolick drunkard, reeling from a feast,
• Provokes a broil, and ftabs you for a jeft.

Yet e'en thefe heroes, mifchievously gay,
• Lords of the street, and terrors of the way,
Flufh'd as they are with folly, youth and wine,
Their prudent infults to the poor confine;

Afar they mark the flambeau's bright approach, • And fhun the shining train, and golden coach. In vain, thefe dangers pafs'd, your doors you clofe, And hope the balmy bleflings of repose: • Cruel with guilt, and daring with despair, The midnight murd'rer burfts the faithlefs bar; Invades the facred hour of filent reft,

And plants, unseen, a dagger in your breast.

• Scarce can our fields, fuch crowds at Tyburn die,' With hemp the gallows and the fleet supply.

Propose your schemes, ye fenatorian band,

Whose ways and means fupport the finking land;
Left ropes be wanting in the tempting spring,
To rig another convoy for the king...

A fingle gaol, in Alfred's golden reign,
Could half the nation's criminals contain ;'
'Fair Juftice then, without conftraint ador'd,
Held high the fteady fcale, but deep'd the fword;
No fpies were paid, no fpecial juries known;

Blefs'd age! but, ah! how diff'rent from our own!

Much could I add, but fee the boat at hand, .

The tide retiring calls me from the land.

Farewel!-When youth, and health, and fortune spent, • Thou fly'ft for refuge to the wilds of Kent;

And tir'd, like me, with follies and with crimes,
In angry numbers warn'ft fucceeding times;

Then shall thy friend, nor thou refuse his aid,
Still foe to vice, forfake his Cambrian fhade

• In virtue's caufe once more exert his rage,

Thy fatire point, and animate thy page.'

ODE ΤΟ

EVENING.

I

BY MR. COLLINS.

Faught of oaten stop, or paftoral fong,

May hope, chafte Eve, to foothe thy modeft ear,
Like thy own folemn fprings,

Thy fprings and dying gales,,

O nymph referv'd, while now the bright-hair'd fun
Sits on yon western tent, whofe cloudy skirts
With brede etherial wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed;

Now air is hufh'd, fave where the weak-ey'd bat,
With short shrill fhrieks flits by on leathern wing,
Or where the beetle winds

His fmall but fullen horn,

As oft he rifes midft the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedlefs hum;

Now teach me, maid compos'd,

To breathe fome foften'd ftrain,

Whose numbers, ftealing through thy dark'ning vale,
May not unfeemly with it's ftillnefs fait,

As mufing flow, I hail

Thy genial lov'd return!

For