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But, oh! what tongue to Laura shall relate
The fad conclufion of her lover's fate!
Already the dire news has reach'd her ear;
She flies to know the truth, half frantic with her
fear!

Loofe and dishevell'd was her auburn hair,
Her zone ungirt, and all her bosom bare;
It's dazzling whiteness the deform'd with blows,
And round her wild, inquiring eyes, the throws!
At length fhe cafts them on the fable bier,
And fees the hapless youth extended there!
Clos'd were those charming eyes, which could
impart

The fofteft paffion to the virgin's heart;
Lifelefs thofe lips, which oft to hers were preft;
And cold as adamant his bleeding breast!
That breaft which feit for her the purest fire
That beauty, youth, and virtue, could inspire!
Awhile in ftupid forrow fix'd fhe ftands,
And on her ivory bosom folds her hands;
But madness kindling, as the view'd the youth-
Henry, (the cry'd) I come to prove my truth!
Then from her fide a ready dagger drew,
Which in her own heart's blood fhe did embrue!
All flew with one accord to aid the fair;
Who, bleeding, fell upon her lover's bier!-
Your help is vain! (the panting virgin cried;)
And then, without a struggle, figh'd, and died!
Still to their tomb the weeping maidens bring
The earliest tribute of the blooming spring;
And ftill do Jerfey's bards, in flowing verfe,
The mournful ftory of their loves rehearse;
Bid melting virgins weep at Laura's name,
And Henry's deeds transmit to lasting fame.

THE

DEATH OF A FAVOURITE RABBIT.
WRITTEN BY A SCHOOLBOY.
TAPPY, O Toby! hadft thou been,
By tyrant
man if never feen;
That animal fuperb!

HA

But, with the fafety nature yields,
Enjoy'd the pleasure of the fields,

Το crop the tender herb.

There might'st thou fkip, there fpend a life, To care unknown, unknown to ftrife,

There fhun the greyhound's speed; But-O unhappy!--in thy bloom, Thou wert-alas! it was thy doom

By schoolboy's hand to bleed! Thy fportive days, alas! were few, Nor e'er barbarity they knew-

Refrain from tears who can! Thou ne'er knew'ft malice or deceit, But, ah! it was decreed by Fate,

To find they were in man.
Villains ingrate! whoe'er ye are,
View him, and fhed one piteous tear,
A little to redrefs!

If this propofal is too much,
Be forry that the deed is fuch;
Ye furely can't do lefs!

Now Toby, harmless Toby's dead,
See every rabbit droop it's head,

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FROM A GENTLEMAN IN THE COUNTRY, TO HIS FRIEND IN TOWN.

ROM Whichwood's deep fhades, and it's
high waving groves,

Where Fancy, delighted, at liberty roves;
From the feats of fequefter'd contentment andeafe,
Where rofy Hygeia wafts health in each breeze;
Receive, my dear friend! thefe rude, ruftic lays,
From, a mufe unambitious of honours or praise.

O could you, Philander, these gay groves among, With me catch the notes of the tweet feather'd throng,

With ears full of rapture hear Philomel's strain, And fee the fleet hart bound along the smooth plain;

The town, and it's pleafures, with scorn you'd refign;

To the waters of Lethe ambition confign;
Bid fame, wealth, and honours, the wretched at-

tend,

And vow,here,with quiet, life's vain dream to end. O loft to each joy, who toil in the crowd, Who cringe to the noble, or bow to the proud; Who bustle along through life's peopled way, And grafp at each phantom that shines in the day! Who know not to feast on that heavenly repaft, Which never can fatiate, but charms to the laft; The fweets that from peace and tranquillity flow, And the rest of the foul, which the poor only know; The clear limpid breaft, and the heart void of pain, Which finks at no lefs, and throbs for no gain.

As I reft in the fhade, or refresh at the rill," Or flowly afcend yon green-waving hill; As I hear the gay birds their lov'd defcants repeat, And inhale rich perfume from each gale that I

meet:

I pity the fplendid, the pompous, and great,
In vengeance o'erhung with the trappings of ftate;
Too high to be happy, too proud to be bless'd,
Whofe days pafs in folly, and nights without reft;
Who never embrace the calm, tranquil hour,
When pageantry yields to foft rapture it's power,
And the foul in reflection darts through this dull
fcene,

Where paffion and error fo oft intervene.

By falfhood and flattery let others aspire, In the climax of fortune, to rife a step higher; For the fhouts of the mob the patriot may toil, The hero through foes may rufh for the fpoil, Unenvied the poet his laurels may wear, And Ambition still hug it's delufion and care:

No

No wish in my bofom e'er fonder shall rife, Than to tafte, undisturb'd, the delights of the wife; With prudence, and wisdom, and temperance, to

roam,

And fix all my warmeft attachments at home. Heaven fpreads forth it's bleffings as plenteous as dew;

While our wants are our own, or but trivial and few:

In ambition alone all our wretchedness lies,
And gloting on vifions that dance round our eyes;
In wildly departing from Nature's just plan,
And aiming at objects unfuited to man.

Can the pomp of attendance, the foppery of
pride,

The line of ancestors to monarchs allied,
'The titles of rank, or the whiftlings of fame,
Or foothe the torn bofom, or fanctify shame!
When the diadem'd head feels the ache of disease,
And the viands of luxury no longer can please;
When the down of the cygnet no longer is foft,
And fate from it's watch-tower calls loudly and
oft;

Then fay, my dear friend, would you envy the lot
Of the prince in his palace, or fwain in his cot?
Where memory no pangs of compunction o'er-
cloud,

Nor confcience repeats every bafenefs aloud;
Where few are the dainties that life muft refign,
And the foul can repofe in the mercies divine.
As the rivers inceffantly run to the fea,
As the fprings from their beds ftill strive to get
free:

So haftens each mortal to one common grave,
The only poffeffion the richest can fave;
Where the honour'd and mean together repose,
And friends mingle duft with their once felleft
foes.

Since, then, my Philander, we all know our fate,
And life is but fhort, e'en when longest it's date;
Learn early to live for yourself and your friends,
And tafte ev'ry bleffing that Providence lends..
If you hunt after fame, or honours, or wealth,
And forfeit the joys of quiet and health;
Or whether indifferent you fail down life's tide,
And only for natural cravings provide;
Alike o'er our heads Time's laft curtain shall close,
And remembrance lofe hold of it's pleasures or

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When your tear, and your verse, shall hallow my

grave,

And your friendship my memory religiously save;
Forget all my foibles, and fay, with a figh-
O earth! on the bofom that lov'd me light lie!
WHICHWOOD FOREST,
W.F.M,

JULY 6.

HALI

ODE TO SOLITUDE, "AIL! Solitude, the Mufes friend! To thee I ring the tuneful lyre; Do thou thy magic influence lend, And wake devotion's hallow'd fire: For thee I quit the noise of strife, And feek the humbler fcenes of life; To foar on Contemplation's wing, And glow with rapture as I fing. See! Cynthia, emprefs of the night, Emits a beam of glimmering light; And, bursting through a fable cloud, Proclaims in Reafon's ear aloud, While rolling round her deftin'd sphere, That God is acting every where: Self-pleas'd, the grateful theme I fondly join, And hail the Author, and his Power, divine. Oh! come, Reflection, heaven-born maid,

And all thy wonted power display; Point out where I have erring stray'd,

And lead me from the devious way! Thus, taught by thee, unerring guide, To fhun the motley fons of pride; Whofe minds have ever fince their birth Kept level with their mother Earth; Whofe fouls, confin'd to Folly's fhrine, Can fcarcely prove themfelves divine, Till Death obliquely throws the dart, And wounds the victims to the heart, Then, bursting from the tottering clay, Each gently wings itself away, And leaves behind a fenfelefs, mouldering clad, To meet the vengeance of an angry God. Then, while Reflection's fober power With me fhall kindly deign to dwell, Be mine the task, each fleeting hour

Some pleafing moral truth to tell; And, wak'd from life's fantastic dream, Where mortals are not what they feem, (But, fkill'd in fraudful guile and art, Deceive the eye, to win the heart;) Let me forfake the treacherous crowd, The rich, the poor, the mean, the proud, To taste the sweets of Solitude, Where seldom human ills intrude, There mark where Virtue's fons have trod, And look through nature up to God; Tili, rifing far above terreftrial toys, The raptur'd foul foresees eternal joys! And those, who by parental ties

Now check the Mufe's flights in vain, Will, when they mount th' ætherial fkies, With rapture join the grateful ftrain; But now, untaught in claffic lore, Above their reach the Mufes foar: A venal tribe! for pride, and wealth, They barter Eafe, Content, and Health; G 2

Seek

Seek pleasure in gay Folly's round,
Where nought but difappointment's found;
Yet ftill deceive themselves with hope,
At random run, or blindly grope;
And, tofs'd on life's tempeftuous fea,
Are never what they wish to be;
Yet, ever anxious for the future day,
This, unimprov'd, steals unobserv'd away!
But let me not at them repine;

Since, kindly, Heaven on me bestows
A Genius ripening to divine,

A heart that with devotion glows;
But, from another's feelings, learn
The wrong to fhun, the right difcern:"
Grateful for Nature's frugal ftore,
Below the rich, above the poor,
Contented pafs my future days,
Nor think that God's are partial ways.
If one enjoys a larger share

Of bleffings, while he's deftin'd here,
"Tis but that he the more may grant
To thofe who feel the hand of want:
This known, what farther can I wish to know!
Content's our greatest happiness below.

In these delightful fylvan fhades,

Where birds their evening carols fing; And rifing hills, and opening glades, Difplay the beauties of the fpring; Oft may I mufing steal along, And join the sweet, melodious fong; While Zephyr's gentle, winnowing gale, Comes wafting fragrance from the vale; The mingling fweets promifcuous rife, Perfuming Æther to the skies, And Nature to the fenfes yields Joys equal to the Elyfian fields. Here, Genius! here thy tribute raise, And tune to Heaven thy vocal lays; Here freely range, or court the fhady bower, And wait ferenely for the changeful hour. JULY 8. AMINTOR

WILLIAM AND EMMA.

THE

HE village clock, with awful found, Had told the midnight hour; When hapless Emma weeping lay

Within a hawthorn bower.

Adown her cheeks, with forrow pale,
Where once the roses grew,
Her fparkling tears in torrents flow'd,
And fham'd the filver dew.

Her gentle bofom heav'd a figh,
Expreffive of her woe;

As thus, with mournful voice, she cried-
No joy can Emma know!

When William told his tender tale,
And bade me eafe his pain;
Ah! why did I his ardent love,
And vows fincere, difdain!

As thus, with grief opprefs'd, the fpoke,
Fond William's ghoft appear'd;
And, gazing on the drooping maid,
It's purpose thus declar'd-

From the dark, dreary grave, I come,

In this dead hour of night; While the pale moon, behind a cloud, Conceals her borrow'd light;

To foothe your troubled mind to reft, And banish your despair;

To warn you death will foon approach,
And calm each anxious care.

No more let grief your bofom fwell!
No more of fate complain!

But feek my grave, nor doubt to find
A balm for ev'ry pain.

Farewel, my love! I hence am call'd,
And dare no longer ftay;

For fee! the rofy morn appears,
And ushers in the day-

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SONNET FROM PETRARCH.

ALONE, and penfive, thro', defeated meads!

Slowly, with meafur'd ftep, I wandering go, My eyes intent to fhun each path that leads Where printed fands the human footsteps show, No other refuge left but in despair,

To fhun the world's difcernment I retire; Since now in Pleasure's train no part I bear, My outward mien betrays my inward fire! Methinks, henceforth, the mountains, groves, and plains,

And rivers, know my melancholy mind; But only thefe, to all befide untold: And yet, what favage track unfought remains, However rude, but love my haunts will find And he and I alternate converse hold! JUNE 30. QUINTILIAN

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A fober knight, who would be what he chose, Bought, and long wore, a pair of worfted hofe. But ftockings muft, like empires, feel disease, And time, that alters all things, alter'd these. From worsted they grew filk; for, with much art, His fempftrefs darn'd with filk each broken parti Till, like old boroughs, they became derang'd, And e'en their very conftitution chang'd.

Thus chang'd our manufacture of to-night; Firft from the loom as Farce it faw the light, Our weaver view'd the ftuff with courteous eye, And bade it be wrought up to Comedy;

(And,

(And, when you fee it's texture, may you find
Threads like that weaver's filk remain behind)
Once on two legs it crept, then crawl'd on four,
And now it limps on three, as once before.
Unfix'd it's title, too, as well as frame,
For as it's figure chang'd, it chang'd it's name,
As faft as politicians change their friends,
Or as all mankind change to gain their ends.

Poets there are, of generous foul, who grudge
The town the trouble from their tafte to judge;
With pomps and pageants, and proceffions vie,
To blind the fenfe, and glut the gaping eye;
As women hide in paint a wrinkled face,
Or dwarfs conceal deformities in lace.
Some, nobly trampling upon nature, draw
Such mystic monfters, ás no eye e'er saw;
Or, fcorning idle words, fublimely glow,
To trace mankind in jig and raree-show;
Or teize with fripperies, till your reason shrugs,
Like craw-fick ftomachs cramm'd with nauteous
drugs.

Fare how he may, our poet fought but this, To paint plain life precifely as it is;

And all may trace the likeness, for you meet
The pictures, whence he drew, in every street.
Judge then with temper of our novice bard,
For it's true wisdom not to be too hard.
"The poet, like the statesman, when disgrac'd,
Joins factious crowds, and roars to be replac'd.
Damn'd bards at bards triumphant hifs and grin,
As the out-ftatefman thunders at the in.

And each (sustain'd by kindred spirits near him) Plagues you with Off-off-off! or-Hear him! -hear him!

Yet do not think our bard would bribe your
choice;

He trufts that fairest judge, the public voice.
None fhould purfue a trade which is unfit;
And, of all quacks, the worft's a quack in wit.
Blame if he fail, applaud if he fucceed;
When you're moft juft, you then are Friends
Indeed!

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child!)

At once Minerva and Thalia fmil'd;
Whose pencill'd fatire vice and folly smote,
Who many a comedy on canvas wrote;
With coat tuck'd up, ftraw hat, and linen gown,
Draws honeft Margery just arriv'd in town:
With ruddy health and innocence the glows,
Fresh as the morn, and blooming like the rofe,
In the inn yard a hag, who ready stands,
Lays on the harmless maid her harpy hands;
Too well the beldame knows the treacherous art
To tempt, and to corrupt, the female heart;
Too foon to ruin the decoys her prey,
Then cafts her like a loathfome weed away.?

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Built her a coach-a grand onel-in Long Acre!
Margery's good fortunes all on me depend;
I ruin'd her and am her only friend.

Happy the high-born fair, whose ample dower Pours in her wealthy lap a golden shower! While many a friend-fincere, no doubt-surrounds

Her thousand charms-and hundred thousand pounds.

But fhe, who pines in want; whofe early bloom
Deceit would canker, or diftrefs confume;
Let jealous fears her every step attend,
And mark the flatterer from the real friend!
He who with gold would bribe her into vice,
Buys but her honour at a dearer price;
Not generous, but prodigal and vain;
A bolom traitor! cruel, not humane!
But he, whofe virtuous hand her wants fupplies,
And wipes the tears of anguish from her eyes;
Who rears, o'ercharg'd with grief, her drooping
head,

And fummons Hymen to the genial bed;
Let love and gratitude his merits plead,
And lodge him in her heart a Friend Indeed!

FAVOURITE BALLAD,

COMPOSED BY MR. ARNE.

SUNG BY MR.ARROWSMITH, AT VAUXHALL. rouz'd by the trumpet's loud clangor to arms,

WHEN

Reluctant I quitted Eliza's bright charms;
Tho' honour commanded, yet I've fill'd my mind,
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 fide:
Love ftood my protector in all the alarms,
While the filver-ton'd trumpet shrill founded to

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controul

That charm of diftinction, a woman's free foul; When we drove them inglorious away from the field,

And by Prudence and Virtue compell'd them to yield:

Then rouze to the battle, exert ev'ry charm, While the trumpet, loud founding, cries-Arm, females, arm!

Thus the Amazons once, as by poets we're told,
In defence of their honour and conduct, were bold;
Defied each vain coxcomb of powder and prate,
And nobly determin'd to be a free ftate:
Ye females of Britain, adopt the fame plan,
And thus prove the brightest examples to 'man;
To those who are worthy difplay every charm,
But when others invade you, then arm, females,
arm!

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'Tis more than the blush of the rofe in the

morning,

The white of the lily is not fo adorning, All accident proof, and all fcrutiny scorning; "Tis eafe to the witty, and wit to the weak. 'Tis furely the girdle that Venus was bound with, The graces, her handmaids, all proud, put it on; 'Tis furely the radiance Aurora is crown'd with, Who, fmiling, arifes, and waits for the fun. Oh! wear it, ye laffes, on every occafion; 'Tis the nobleft reproof, 'tis the strongest perfuafion;

"Twill keep, nay, 'twill almoft retrieve reputation!

And last, and look lovely, when beauty is gone.

THE BRITISH TAR.

WRITTEN BY MILES PETER ANDREWS, ESQ.
SET TO MUSIC BY DR. ARNOLD,

SUNG BY MR.ARROWSMITH, AT VAUXHALL
ONS of Ocean, fam'd in story,
Wont to wear the laurell'd brow;
Liften to your rifing glory,

SONS

Growing honours wait you now; Think not fervile adulation

Meanly marks my grateful fong, All the praises of the nation

Given to you, to you belong; And rival kingdoms fend from far Their plaudits to the British Tar. 'Tis not now your valiant daring

Courage you've for ages fhewn; 'Tis not now your mild forbearing

Pity ever was your own; 'Tis your prince, fo lov'd, fo pleasing, Spreads your fame thro' diftant lands, And, the trident nobly feizing,

Grafps it in his youthful hands; Proud to boast, in peace or war, The virtues of the British Tar..

When the times were big with danger,

See your royal fhipmate go,
And, to every fear a ftranger,

Brave the fury of the foe:
Now when fmiling Peace rejoices,

Greet him with a failor's arts;
Cheer his prefence with your voices,

Pay his fervice with your hearts; And be, henceforth, your leading ftar, The gallant, royal, British Tar.

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IMPROMPTU.

HE virtuous Chamberlain maintains, When books or prints obfcene he fees, No blood lafcivious fills his veins;

Good man! his fang froid's quite at ease. Nor can the most indecent prints

Kindle with him fuch ardent blushes, As when, in Heaven's own Book, he squints At-little Mofes in the rushes.

H

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