Poems.

]> Poems.Cassan, Sarah (Mears), Mrs.Charlotte Payne,creation of electronic text.Electronic edition93KbBritish Women Romantic Poets ProjectShields Library, University of California, Davis, California 956162002CassMPoems

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Davis British Women Romantic Poets Series103Nancy Kushigian,General EditorCharlotte Payne,Managing EditorPoemsCassan, Sarah (Mears), Mrs Printed by G. SidneyLondon, 1806[This text was scanned from its original in the Shields Library Kohler Collection, University of California, Davis. Kohler ID no. ISuppl:187. Another copy available on microfilm as Kohler ISuppl:187mf.]

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POEMS.POEMS.BY MRS. CASSAN,WIDOW OF STEPHEN CASSAN, ESQ. BARRISTER AT LAW,LATE OF BENGAL.London.PRINTED BY G. SIDNEY, NORTHUMBERLAND STREET, STRAND.1806.CONTENTS.ON seeing Mrs. * * * *, at a Ball . . . . . 1A Dinner Conversation, on board an East Indiaman . . . . . 5Lullaby . . . . . 17On Indiana's being addressed by a gentleman, in favor of his friend . . . . . 21To Lieutenant S. on his passion for Miss * * * * . . . . . 22To Doctor * * * * on his leaving Bengal . . . . . 26On Mrs. Sandiford of Barbadoes . . . . . 27To Mr. Howe, of Fitzroy square . . . . . 29To Mrs. ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐, explaining the cause of a fright . . . . . 30The Rev. Mr. ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ and Delia . . . . . 32Fragment from the second book of Kings . . . . . 33Transcription of some lines from a newspaper . . . . . 35Impromptu in reply . . . . . 37Versification of part of the fourteenth chapter of Job . . . . . 38To an Old Maid . . . . . 38To Mr. Bebb, of the East India Direction . . . . . 39Clarinda's account of her physician's visit . . . . . 40To Lady Chambers, fearing her to be offended . . . . . 41Versification of part of the twenty‐fourth chapter of Ecclesiasticus . . . . . 42Parody on Lord Lyttelton's "Heavy Hours" . . . . . 43To a Lorie, on seeing it caressed by ———, . . . . . . 45To Farmer Goose . . . . . 46Versification of part of the fifteenth chapter of Matthew . . . . . 47On the Death of a Canary Bird . . . . . 49On Mrs. Sibbald . . . . . 50On seeing the paintings of Mr. Kirkby . . . . . 51Parody on some verses of Mrs. Rowe . . . . . 52A Lover's mistake . . . . . 54Versification of part of the eighteenth chapter of Matthew . . . . . 55On the Countess of Derby . . . . . 58To Mr. Cole, on his declaration of love . . . . . 60To the Rev. Mr. ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ late of Bath Easton . . . . . 61To Corydon; a Fragment . . . . . 63On the Countess of Derby . . . . . 64Translation from the French of Mirabeau . . . . . 64To a captive Bird . . . . . 65To Miss D——, on seeing her surrounded by Beaux, at a Play . . . . . 66Clarinda in doubt . . . . . 68On Lady Chambers' appearing at Willis's Rooms . . . . . 71Paraphrase on the Parable of the Sower . . . . . 72The Poet in Distress . . . . . 76To a Gentleman, who was in the habit of decrying his Friends . . . . . 80Fable of the Lynx and Mole . . . . . 81Claudius's Refusal . . . . . 83To Colin . . . . . 86Apology for some Verses . . . . . 87To a friend, with a Pillow . . . . . 88Mock‐heroick Version of Don Quixote . . . . . 89Song, "Fairest Spot" . . . . . 91On being asked what I thought true happiness to consist in . . . . . 93Fragment, from Virgil . . . . . 94POEMS.ON SEEING MRS. * * * * AT A BALL.THRICE twenty years have roll'd awaySince Flavia first beheld the day;Yet Flavia thinks she still is fair,And young, and fresh, and debonaire.At each new ball behold the dame,(Though the last night has made her lame,)On lightly‐limping toe advanceTo lead the gay and airy dance;Smiling rich love, like Beauty's Queen,When on a sign‐post painting seen;Like Venus, too, in loose attireShe comes to raise unholy fire;—Cobweb attire, thro' which we seeHogarth's own lines of symmetry,If these are any where declar'dTo be in carrots, cut and par'd.Down her bare bosom careless hangLocks, such as poet never sang;Even old Homer could not sayHow beautiful, how thin and grey.Her cheeks are like the blushless rose,Which sparing in the hedge‐row grows,(When sprinkled with a little dust,It bears a light and brownish crust.)Her teeth, with what shall I compare?With pearls, for yell'wish pearls there are;Her lips, how shall I tell their hue?It seems a blended black and blue;No coral of such colour's seen,No lip so sweet, so dried, so lean;Not e'en Apelles' pencil viesWith the dimm'd lustre of her eyes;Which, blinking, say they could destroy,Like Helena's, another Troy.But, for her reputation's sakeNo step impure this dame would take:Highly she rev'rences decorum,Which oft' she preaches o'er her jorum;*And would not, though to fetes she goes,And balls, and masks, and raree‐shows,For millions have it understood,E'en that she'd change her widowhood;Much less a single wish conceal,That modesty should not reveal.'Tis but to please her various friends,That thus she daily condescendsTo mingle with the festive throng,In merry dance, or jocund song.Mirth finds no entrance in her breastWhich Melancholy's home's confess'd.—So sayeth she, but well I ween,Her roguish looks and wanton mienBespeak a heart that pants to prove,At sixty, the Delights of Love.* This Lady used to drink largely of a vulgar mixture called Mug.A DINNER CONVERSATION,On Board an East‐Indiaman, in the Channel, Versified.Persons.[List of Characters in two columns in original text. Ed.] CAPTAIN MACKINNARD.MR. BLUSTROUS,MR. SMOOTHFACE, ␣␣␣␣␣} Officers.MR. SCRIBBLER, Purser.MR. O'CALLAGAN, Surgeon.MRS. HARMLESS,MRS. RHYMER, ␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣␣} Passengers.SERVANTS.Captain Mackinnard.I really thought we should not dine to‐day;The devil's in the commodore, I say;He's always sure to spoil some meal or otherWith his ridiculous continual pother.—Sheep's‐head, or soup,—which shall I help you to?(To Mrs. H.)Mrs. Harmless.I'll thank you for a little of the stew.Captain Mackinnard.Pray, Mr. Scribbler, what was that you saidAbout a feather, and the top‐mast‐head?Do tell it to the ladies; they may guess:I cannot solve your reedle, I confess.Mr. Scribbler.Ladies, pray could you Tommy Blustrous bringDown on the feather of a goose's wing,From off this good ship's main‐top‐gallant‐head?I could with ease, though he were cast in lead!Mrs. Harmless.The riddle's too profound for me to guess.Mr. O'Callagan.He, he, he, 'tis very deep, I must confess:He means, that he could bring us down a feather;—Down and the feather grow, you know, together.Mr. Blustrous.Hae, Scrib, what's that about a goose's wing?Mr. Scribbler.Tom, shall I help you to some black‐pudding?Mr. Blustrous.Hang me, but that's a very pleasant way,Putting us off with pies and puddings, hae?Captain Mackinnard.Is Mrs. H. to‐day for beer, or wine?I should have ask'd when we began to dine.Mrs. Harmless.I'll drink a little sherry, if you please;The beer, this weather, really makes one freeze.Mr. Blustrous.I say, Scrib, give us one of those small pies:Why, hang you, what's the matter with your eyes?(To a servant.)Servant.Nothing at all, Sir.Mr. Blustrous.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ Come, give me some beer;—"Nothing at all!" why, hang you, how you leer!Mr. O'Callagan.Can any of you say, what 'twas in Eden,(His Paradise) first father Adam set in?Mr. Scribbler.Perhaps it was potatoes—in a row.Mr. O'Callagan.What, would you think, now, if it was his toe?He set his toe in—Mr. Scribbler.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ Ah, that's plain enough.Mr. Blustrous.I say, Scrib, give us a pie, and end this stuff.Captain Mackinnard.What, Mrs. Rhymer, would you chuse to drink?Mrs. Rhymer.Madeira, if you please. No—spruce, I think.Captain Mackinnard.Here, fellow, bring two glasses of spruce‐beer.(To a servant.)Hae! what the devil, are we going to veer?I wish the commodore would mind his hand;We're now just in the course that we should stand.Pray, Mrs. Rhymer, let me ask a favor;But, cut the pork first, Scribbler.Mr. Scribbler.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ What a savour! We'd better send it, Sir, away, I think? Captain Mackinnard. Away? How deelicate! Why, does it stink?Mr. Scribbler. You'll find, I fear, it has a mauvais gout.Captain Mackinnard.Oh pray, then, send it to the Cook, pray do;And let him boil it for to‐morrow's broth,With pease it will be nothing worse, in troth.Now, Mrs. Rhymer, what I want is this,That you'd let Scribbler mind his business;And not be sending him your scraps of rhymes:My cabin‐door is open at all times!What with your College‐dumplings, and your writing,With Scribbler, and the Cook, I'm always fighting.Mrs. Rhymer.Sir, I don't understand you, I protest.Mr. O'Callagan.Hae, Scribbler, happy man, to be so bless'd;Oh happy, happy man, that I were you!Captain Mackinnard.Ah, spare him, Doctor; pray, in pity do.Mr. Scribbler.Come, Doctor, tell me, (from your jokes to fly)Why is our Captain like the Ministry? ␣␣␣␣␣(Aside.) Mr. O'Callagan.Faith that's as plain as any thing can be,Because he changes sides so frequently. ␣␣␣␣␣(Aside.)Mr. Blustrous.Scribbler has always something good at hand;His wit, like Sol, is never at a stand.Mr. Scribbler.A happy simile; but, good folks, prayStop, or I shall be toût à fait accablé,The ladies' compliments and yours are such.———Mr. O'Callagan.Oh, to be sure they hurt you very much!Faith, and you swallow them with wond'rous ease.Mr. Scribbler.Ah! look at little Anne* in her chemise.Captain Mackinnard.Had you not better say at once her smock?It would not more our deelicacy shock:I hate all affectation as the deevil,And would avoid it as the greatest evil.Mr. Scribbler.All decency he might, in truth, have said;Offer him now, I pray you, some pig's head;See how he'll twist, and turn, and paw't about;You might suppose himself a brother snout.(Aside to Mr. O'Callagan.)Mr. Blustrous.Bring me the pork. ␣␣␣␣␣(To a servant.)Servant, (holding to him a knife and fork.)‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ Here, Sir, a knife and fork.Mr. Blustrous."A knife and fork!" You beast, I said the pork. Mr. Scribbler.Pray, Mrs. Rhymer, will you eat some cheese? Mrs. Rhymer.No, thank you.—Yes, a little, if you please.Captain Mackinnard.Dear, Mrs. R. you never know your mind.Why, Scribbler, don't you pare away the rind?Do learn, man, prithee do, to be more civil. Mr. Blustrous.What are you doing there, hae? Why, what the devil,You're all a going mad I b'lieve. Some platesWhen you can see, you stupid leather‐pates.(To the servants at the side‐table.)Captain Mackinnard.Think, Smoothface, what I heard on board the Rose,A thing that really no one would suppose. Mr. Smoothface.Yes, Sir.Captain Mackinnard.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ I mean, Matilda Polhill's maid,Or servant, I more properly had said;She's likely to lie‐in before we anchor.Mr. O'Callagan.I'm much deceiv'd, if that is not a spanker.(Aside to Mr. Scribbler.) Mr. Smoothface.Yes, Sir.—Captain Mackinnard.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ She looks so en‐bon‐point, and so——(Smoothface opens his mouth, and stares.) So en‐bon‐point—in such good case, you know. Mr. Smoothface.In bad case, Sir, I think.Captain Mackinnard.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ Perhaps you're right;A glass of wine, Smoothface? Shall it be red or white? Mr. Smoothface.Just which you please, Sir. Captain Mackinnard.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ White, then, let it be;Two glasses of Madeira presently.(To the servants.)I admire that waistcoat, Smoothface,Pray, is it Manchester or kerseymere?What did it cost you, Smoothface?Mr. Smoothface.‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ I don't know, Sir;I had it, Sir, from Foppington, your brother;I think it was to four gold mohurs it came;I paid him that, last voyage, for some o' the same;That is, the piece. I've two, and this one on,I did not mean, Sir, four gold mohurs for one.Captain Mackinnard.Upon my word, it was a wond'rous prize!Mr. Smoothface.Yes, Sir, I think so; oh, Sir, mind your eyes;There's a large spider, Sir, about your head.Captain Mackinnard.(Bruising it against his face.)There, in a meenute then, the fellow's dead;I've squeez'd aboot my face, I b'lieve, his broth;Here, go into my cabbin for a cloth; ␣␣␣␣␣(To a servant.)And a little water, if you please; in truthSome of the deevil's gone into my mooth:Give me a glass of wine to wash him down: ␣␣␣␣␣ (To a servant.)Here's, Curse the French,—‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ (All.) And bless old England's crown. (They drink.) Captain Mackinnard.Hae, Blustrous, sure the Commodore is veering;Do go on deck, and see how we are steering;This Commodore of our's is always wrong,Hang him, I say. ␣␣␣␣␣ (Goes out.)‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ (All.) And hang our ci‐devant.* * Mrs. Harmless's Daughter. * Captain Mackinnard was Commodore in the beginning of the voyage, but superseded by a senior Commander.LULLABY,Supposed to be sung by a Lady, who seemed to wish that her Niece shouldcaptivate the husband of her friend.To the tune of "O my Kitten."COME cease, my sweet Dolly, your whimp'ring,And cease, my sweet Dolly, my deary,Sure such a maiden as you areCan never have reason to feary.Diddidy, diddidy, diddidy.Yes, it shall soon have its lovey,And all that its heart can desire O,If we can get his vain wife awayWe'll set the world all on fire O.Diddidy, &c. &c. How she contrives to outdo usI cannot conceive for my life, O,Or how our Irish lad thought himOf making this sauce‐box his wife, O,Diddidy, &c. &c. Go, with your ugly white bosom,And go with your plaintive blue eyes, O,Put your fine locks in a close‐cap,And stifle, my lady, your sighs, O,Diddidy, &c. &c. If you suppose they will move us,Indeed, and we'll soon undeceive you;All you can do shall not tempt usFrom urging your deary to leave you.Diddidy, &c. &c. Go, with your own nasty coral lips,Come not to frighten my deary;Shew not your even white teeth 'tween them,Come not, I say, come not near me.Diddidy, &c. &c.Go, you bold woman, I say;Get away with your ugly arch'd brows, O,Shew not your face here, I pray;Get you gone, with your frightful high nose, O,Diddidy, &c. &c. They may talk of your fine flow of spirits,Why, we never can hear you laugh out, O;See what my Dolly inherits,Who makes such a pother, and rout, O,Diddidy, &c. &c. See, how my Dolly will giggle,And tumble and romp with the men, O,Tumble, and tumble, and tumble,And tumble them over again, O,Diddidy, &c. &c. Look at my Dolly's sweet Irish legs,And her round back and square shoulders;Are they not likely to carryThe hearts of admiring beholders?Diddidy, &c. &c. Dol, your grey eyes, if you use them right,More than her blue ones can do, O,And your thick waist, if you screw it tight,May be a small one to view, O.Diddidy, &c. &c. Then your strong eye‐brows so charming are,With a nose large at the end, O,And your two holes in your cheeks, my dear,Is there aught in you to mend, O,Diddidy, &c. &c. Come, cease then your whimp'ring, my lifey,He must yield at last to your charms, O,We'll make him despise his own wifey,And fly to my Dolly's fond arms, O.Diddidy, &c. &c. But, if all should not do, deary,If Dolly can't have its own laddy,Still, there is no reason to feary,We've young Flashpan, and his old Daddy.Diddidy, &c. &c. ON INDIANA'sBeing addressed by a Gentleman in favor of his friend.WHEN Prig for his friend Bumpkin paidCourt to a little Indian maid,She cried, 'I promis'd, when at school,'That I would never wed a fool;'But, for yourself, if you should plead,'Perhaps you better might succeed:'I luckily ne'er gave my word'That I'd reject the monkey herd.'TO Lieutenant S———,On his passion for Miss ————HEARING that you wish to marry the sweetJenny, but are in doubt of being able(Having only a lieutenancy and very little money)To put a clean cloth ev'ry day on your table;And that you are under some hesitation on accountOf your eyes,Being able to see only with one, and their notExactly matching in colour or size,I take the liberty to offer my thoughts on theOccasion,Which, I dare say, will determine you to ask herWithout farther deliberation:It is certainly a great pity your eyes do notMatch;And I wonder you don't wear, over the blindOne, a green patch;But never mind your eyes when your legsAre so stout;A stout leg's what most folks make a greatPother about.—Tho', on recollection, I'm not quite sure, thatYours would prove so good,Your walk's so stiff, it is not dear to me, but,You've broke the bones and put in a piece of wood.However, they are well enough for use; andYour shoulders are broad enoughTo carry the sweet Jenny where the roads Are rough;When, her two or thee thousand gold guineasExpended,You've not got wherewith to have the BuggyMended.Then if you should not be able to seeCompany, your education has been so good,That, in retirement, it will prove, to the sweetJenny, the most delicious food;It will amply atone for ev'ry want orDeficiency,And be a charming solace, to her, in ev'ryExigency. You may amuse her with the secrets of allYour old friends;Acquaint her with the beginnings of yourAmours and the ends.Tell her the pretty stories of Thumb andThe Giant‐killer;Shewing her, that the one was a little fellow,And the other a blood‐spillerAnd thus you may beguile the time, withA few kisses sweet,When you happen to be so unlucky as toHave nothing to eat;And any day that good luck sends you a bit or two,You may down on your knees and blessYour stars that you've something better to do;So I advise you, if you wish to marry the sweetJenny, to make haste,And get her to name an early day for theWedding‐feast:Tho' she might like to have a little moreOf her conquests said,She must be in some fear at forty, ofDying an old Maid;And being in this awkward predicament,And not having many lovers to choose,It is very likely she may consent toBeing fasten'd with you in the noose.TO DOCTOR * * * *, ON HIS LEAVING BENGAL.FAREWEL to ev'ning lectures;* ah, farewel;Adieu, adieu, ingenious Doctor L———.Who now shall teach us that the ice will thaw,Or how to ken an ally from a taw?To make pomatum, or an air‐balloon?Alas, good Doctor, wherefore go so soon!One other course, before you leave us, give;(And to the ground, our thanks you shall receive.)At least, one lecture on electric matter,And half a one, dear Sir, on making batter.* Philosophical.ON MRS. SANDIFORD, —— OF BARBADOES.SAYS pretty Chloe, t'other day,'You men are surely blind;'How is it, Strephron, prithee say,'My charms want power to bind?'If wit and beauty fail to move,'On what am I to rest?'By what strange means secure your love?'With sway o'er hearts be bless'd?'Strephon replied,—"I know a Dame,"Nor wit nor beauty styled,"Whose conquests grace the rolls of fame"——(Chloe, indignant, smiled.)"Her greatest pride's to draw a smile"In mis'ry's pallid face;"Or sickness of its cares beguile,"And ev'ry sorrow chase."Each Virtue's her's;—by these she gains"That pow'r which you desire"——'I thank you, Strephon, for your pains,'The picture I admire.''But, 'tis the work of some pert elf'To spite me.' "On my word,"Not so; 'tis drawn by Truth herself;—"The Dame is Sandiford."TO MR. HOWE, OF FITZROY SQUARE.Written in September, 1804.How shall I thank you for your care?Words are too often insincere!How to be silent can I dare?You'd think me not oblig'd, I fear.By words, or silence, tell me nowHow best to thank yon, my friend HOWE?TOMrs. – – – – – – ,Explaining the cause of a Fright, in a drive near Hertford, with Mr. Wyatt J——e.YOU ask, my dear Madam, that I may inditeThe cause of our truly ridiculous fright.'Twas this—When a few hundred yards from your doorWe met my Lord D. in his landau and four;And Sir Wyatt, in making a most humble bow,At once lost his hat, and drove over a sow;—The poor squeaking animal dragg'd from our sight;The whip handed back, and himself set upright,We were, not without fear, moving forward againWhen two horsemen came galloping out of the laneThat leads to Colegreen (they were both of the gown,And two of the very first bucks in the town);They would pass on each side, though the road was so narrow(Not a carriage‐length more than the hop of a sparrow)And had Jehu not tightly our PEGASUS rein'd,And a central line most minutely maintain'd,The parsons, their horses, and all of us might,Heav'n knows, have been left in a terrible plight;But by guiding with infinite caution the beast,And not moving to right, or to left, in the least,We escap'd all misfortune, and boldly got through.Oh, the wonderful skill of Sir Wyatt Jehu!Say no more of your Cowpers or Townsends*,—don't stare,For Sir Wyatt's the man that can drive to a hair.* The late Earl of Cowper, and Lord John Townsend,—both then at Hertford.The Reverend Mr. – – – – – –, and Delia.'TIME on swiftest pinions flies,'Clericus to Delia cries;'Let's enjoy the fleeting hour,'While it yet is in our pow'r;'Taste of ev'ry bliss we may,'Sing and dance, and laugh, and play;'Live to love, each care lay by,'For we know not when we die.'Lovely Delia quick replies," 'Time irreparably flies;'"Let us then improve each hour"While it yet is in our pow'r;"Looking on our lives with shame,"Let us turn to Jesus' name,"To the blessed Gospel fly,"For we know not when we die."Fragment,FROM THE SECOND BOOK OF KINGS.THUS spoke the king:— 'Presume you to complain'Of grievous burdens in my father's reign?'Hence, Vassals!—If your former yoke was sore,'Rehoboam shall chastise you ten times more;'Scorpions, instead of whips, shall grieve your bones,'Till the whole land re‐echo groans on groans.'Your infants from their mothers' breasts I'll tear,'And leave them to the beating tempest bare,'To fowls carniv'rous, or to beasts of prey.'Or if they yet behold a lengthen'd day,'It shall be only to delight me more,'With pains encreas'd from pleasures known before.'The Virgin to the ruffian's grasp shall yield;'No lover near from rude attempts to shield'The trembling fair; your youths untimely slain,'Or doom'd to work in fetters on the main;'And far from Love's soft voice, in dark despair,'Shall beat their bosoms, and shall tear their hair!'–␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ – ␣␣ – ␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣␣␣␣ – ␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ – – ␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ –␣␣ – TranscriptionOf some Lines from a Newspaper of the 16th February, 1804, addressed to MR. KEMBLE, on seeing him in the character of King Henry the Fourth, and signed "RAZOR."The Author of this attack is unknown. The Lines are inserted, that the reply may be understood."WHEN Bolingbroke (weaken'd by sickness and age)"Lectur'd Hal, he spoke feebly, no doubt;"But, when Shakespeare brought forward this scene on the stage,"He meant that the King should speak out."His precepts so wise, and his maxims so clear,"In pauses and whispers you smother;"Do you think 'tis not fit that the audience should hear"All that passes 'twixt you and your brother?"We know that you stick very close to costume;"But here close to character too:"For, 'cause you are sick i' the Jerus'lem room,"You put on the face of a Jew."At your mantle so fine, and your chin so besmear'd,"We laugh when we ought to look grave;"Either give all the rest of your actors a beard,"Or else (please your Majesty) shave!Impromptu in Reply.Mr. Razor, you really, to me, seem just fitFor a Barber's assistant; so prayNever venture in print such display of your wit,But, shave chins;—"whilst the sun shines make hay."And let Kemble alone;—who, in every part,His lov'd Shakespeare expresses so well,That could NATURE come forth as a judge of their art,E'en herself which to choose could not tell.VERSIFICATIONOF PART OF THE FOURTEENTH CHAPTER OF JOB.OH, that thou would'st from this confusion saveMy sinking soul, or hide me in the grave;Or let me in some secret place be cast,Until the period of thy wrath is past,Appoint me a set time to wait on thee,And when its limits end, remember me!To an Old Maid.You cry, Lucinda, that you hate the sex,The vile male creatures—form'd but to perplex.No wonder that you should, if it be trueThat "hate breeds hate," for all the sex hate you!To Mr. Bebb,Of the East India Direction."The heart that feels another's woe,"From heav'n its origin doth shew."'TIS thine, oh, gen'rous Bebb, to feelEach mortal's sorrows, and to heal!No wretch forlorn or lost appearsBut thy kind hand in bounty rears;No widow's tears are dropp'd in vain,No orphan breathes its artless strainUnpitied, where thou art.—All blessThy goodness, and their love confess;All voices, in one peal, combineTo own thy origin divine!CLARINDA's ACCOUNTOf her Physician's Visit.I sent for my Doctor.—"Dear Doctor," said I,"I fain for my case would a remedy try;"Perhaps you may find out the cause of my pain,"Which to conquer, alas, I have struggl'd in vain!" 'What symptoms attend your disorder?' he said, 'It seems to be only a cold in the head.'Then feeling my pulse he look'd grave, and ask'd why'He should hear at so trifling a matter, a sigh?'"I sigh," I replied, "without knowing at what;"But tell me, dear Sir, if relief can be got;"Indeed it is not of a cold I complain,"I fear that a fever is lodg'd in my brain;"My strength is quite gone, and my spirits are fled,"In short, I am only half‐living, half‐dead."The good Doctor paus'd——the door open'd, and whoShould enter but Colin——long lost to my view:The fever, the languor, the pains I endur'd,At this happy arrival were instantly cur'd;And the Doctor perceiving me not quite half‐dead,Took his leave, with a very arch shake of the head.TO LADY CHAMBERS, FEARING HER TO BE OFFENDED.A face so heav'nly sure can never beThe index of a mind of cruelty:Shew then, fair CHAMBERS, that your mind and faceAre equally the prototype of grace!VersificationOFPart of the 24th Chap. of Ecclesiasticus.Wisdom, 'mongst men desirous to reside,Search'd ev'ry place and people, far and wide,To find where she most fitly might remain;Like Jacob's tabernacles none could please,And Sion's holy hill, in theseShe fix'd her dwelling and began her reign.Here flourish'd, spreading out her branches wide,Shedding delicious fruit on ev'ry side,Fruit that no mortal, tasting, could refrainFrom quick returning to the tree, to seizeOn countless stores, his longing to appease;But here insatiate ever we remain.Such are fair Wisdom's depths; so vast—profound—That in her still we want, while we abound!ParodyOn Lord Lyttelton's "Heavy Hours."THE smiling hours are almost past,That join my love and me;My tearful eyes must turn at lastFrom all they joy to see.But how, my Strephon, will you partFrom her you've lov'd so well?Will no remembrance touch your heart,Your tongue no sorrows tell?Will not a sigh nor look declareYour wishes still the same,To chase each life‐corroding careMy fears or doubts would frame?Yes, Strephon, yes, you will, I ween,When shortly we shall part,Less trying make the destin'd scene,And cheer my drooping heart.But if the dream, which sooths my my mind,Should false and groundless prove,If I am doom'd at last to findThat you can laugh at love;All I of Heav'n desire is this,(For this alone I sue)To die, while yet I taste the blissTo think my Strephon true.TO A LORIE,On seeing it caressed by ———.Ah, happy Bird, teach me thy art,That I may touch his heart,And be caress'd like thee!Say how thou camest to be prestSo closely to his breast;So fondly seated on his knee;How did'st thou of the balmy dewThat dwells upon his lip,Tell me, Ah, tell me, true,Presume to sip?Ah, happy Bird, teach me thy art,That I may touch his heart,And be caress'd like thee!Else there's no hope for me,And I must fly to death, from misery.TOFarmer Goose.Written at the request of a friend, whose Goslings had strayed into Farmer G's grounds, and were detained there.I am told, Farmer Goose, that my goslings have stray'dThrough your broken‐down fences; but know,Though they're roasted, and eaten, I must be repaid,As the Law about Fences will shew.VersificationOf Part of the 15th Chap. of Matthew.'HAVE mercy on me, Lord,' the woman cries,'Most grievously diseased my daughter lies:'Oh, Lord, thou son of David, hear my plaint,''E're, by a devil torn, my daughter faint.'Our Lord, in silence, stood:—his servants* say,'She cryeth after us, send her away,'Lord, we beseech thee.' JESUS then replied,"Know ye not Israel's sheep I'm sent to guide?"Israel's lost sheep!" Again the woman came,Saying, 'Lord help me; praised be thy name.'"It is not meet," he said, "to cast the bread"To dogs with which the children should be fed."'Truth, Lord, yet of the crumbs the dogs do eat'Which fall from table at their Master's feet.' ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ "Great is thy faith, oh, Woman:—unto thee,"E'en be it as thou wilt; thy daughter, see,"(Freed from the evil spirit's tort'ring pow'r)"Revives, and is made whole this very hour."* The Apostles.ON THE Death of a Canary Bird.THY song, sweet little warbler, now is o'er;Thy liquid note shall charm our ear no more:Thy life is past—thy debt to nature paid,And thou, for ever, in the grave art laid.Not so with man—he dies to live again,In bliss extreme, or in extremest pain:His earthly vessel to the dust consign'd,To heav'n, or hell, escapes his unclogg'd mind;Where or with saints or devils he must live,Till call'd, at last, the long account to give—When, in reviving clay, he shall appear,The final sentence of his GOD to hear;—To be received in robes of light, in heav'n,Or to the pit of damned angels driv'n.ON MRS SIBBALD."I'D give worlds to discover," said Damon, one day,To Palemon, "the charming retreat"Of good‐nature, good sense, affability—say,"Where their dwelling I 'm likely to meet?"I have search'd ev'ry place, but I no where can find"Any woman that pleases, in all things, my mind."For a moment reflecting, Palemon replied,'I believe I can point out the place—'In a house not far off, doth Serena reside—'In whose bosom lives every grace.'They together went forth, and were presently seenIn a Harley‐Street mansion—'tis number nineteen.ONSEEING THE PAINTINGS OF MR. KIRKBY,OF ARGYLL STREET.ART, with some critics, went to viewThe other day, a friend or twoAt Kirkby's house—'Good heav'ns,' cried one,'How wretchedly this portrait's done!'"There's not a line of beauty here!"Remarked another with a sneer'No, nor a touch of mine,' said Art,'Can I observe, in any part;'How dares this mushroom raise his head;'Are Hoppner, Lawrence, Beechey, dead?'NATURE, who heard the ill‐aimed satire,Came forward, to set right the matter;"This 'mushroom,' is my child," she cried,"My happiest work, my greatest pride;"In less'ning him you hurt my name—"Nature, and Kirkby, are the same."PARODYON SOME VERSES OF MRS. ROWE; FROM THE CANTICLES.TO FASHION."Come, my beloved, let us visit the haunts of the gay, let us dwell in their palaces."Thou object of my constant care,And of my warmest love,Come, let us to thy courts repair,And all their pleasures prove.Where laugh, and song, and revelry,And frolic mirth abound,Let me, oh goddess, join with thee,And tread each charming round.There, far from dull and silent joys,To thee alone, I'll live;Tasting more pleasure in thy smiles,Than all things else can give.All my desire, ‐ ‐ ‐ ‐ my earnest pray'rIs e'er to dwell with thee;To thee, and festive mirth, each hourShall dedicated be.A LOVER'S MISTAKE.An apple‐blossom once I thoughtThe seeming modest Chloe's face,So beautifully red and white did meet;But now I find the dye was bought(Sad alteration of the case)At Bayley's perfume shop in Cockspur street.To those who like made faces IWith pleasure yield this lady Fair,Or Lady Rosy, which they please to name her,The fool or fop may henceforth sigh;And make this lovely thing his care:I'd rather wed a shrew, and try to tame her.VERSIFICATIONOFPart of the 18th chap. of Matthew.A certain king, desirous to accountWith all his household servants, and the amountOf ev'ry debt to learn, begins with one,Who, through ten thousand talents quick had run,Unable to refund the trust,—His LordTo sell his substance gave immediate word,His wife, his children, and himself withal!The servant then, "Lord, on my knees I fall,"Imploring mercy, yet a little stay"And ev'ry talent faithfully I'll pay: 'The king, with pity mov'd, thus spoke: "Be free;"Depart in peace; thy debt's forgiven thee!"Releas'd, at once the bounty he forgets,With fiend‐like spite his fellow man besets,And seizes, as a rav'nous wolf his prey,Vocif'rating, "The pence thou ow'st me, pay;"Th' affrighted man before him prostrate falls,And on his mercy loud for pity calls;Begs patience, yet a little longer stay,And promises each penny to repay:But he, ungrateful, cruel, and unjust,Relentless heard, and into prison thrustHis suppliant fellow servant, there to dwellUntil the utmost farthing he could tell.From man to man the matter quickly run,And last, the king is told of what was done;The culprit, then, he summon'd to appear;And now his awful sentence dooms to hear:To him his Lord; "So soon dost thou forget"That I forgave the all thy weighty debt,"Because thou asked'st me, and should'st not thou,"On thy poor fellow servant's lowly bow, "Have had compassion on him, e'en as I"Had pity upon thee! hence, monster, fly,"And tort'ring devils shall thy steps pursue"Until thou payest me my utmost due."ONTHE COUNTESS OF DERBY.TO trace fair DERBY'S charms what pen shall try,(What pencil paints the colours of the sky?)A sea‐born Venus' form with features mild,And smiling winning graces, might be styl'dA portrait; but how very faint to shewThat heav'nly mind where purest virtues glow!Where learning, wit, and wisdom, are combin'dWith clearest judgment and a taste refin'd:Poets in vain, each Muse might court to bringHer limpid draughts from the Piërian spring;"The warmest fancy in the finest dress"Of language" could not DERBY'S charms express:Too daring the attempt: let then my layThis truth alone to DERBY'S ear convey,That heav'n, by special mandate, sent her here,"From ev'ry eye, to wipe off ev'ry tear."TOMR. COLE,ON HIS DECLARATION OF LOVE.'TIS nothing odd that thou should'st burn, poor Coal;And to a cinder thou may'st burn, for me;To ashes,—and, by MOLLY, shovell'd be,E'en through a grating into the dust‐hole.But 'twould be very odd were I to findWarmth from thy fire to animate my soul;If it were twenty times as fierce, poor COLE!'Twould be, to me, but as the northern wind.TO THE REVEREND MR. – – – – – –, LATE OF BATH EASTON,AS FROM HIS PARISHIONERS.REV'REND Sir, we conceive it our duty to say,That we really were shock'd at your sermon, to‐day;And, unless in your preachments you very much mend,We can not, in conscience, church‐service attend.You painted Religion as such a sweet creature,So graceful in shape, and so beauteous in feature,Describ'd, in such tints, her profusion of charmsThat the old stupid clerk could have flown to her arms.E'en an anchorite could not have heard you, unmov'd;And, though sworn to devotion, Love's vot'ry had prov'd.Your warm picture the embers in Simberkin's heart,Quick rekindled to flame, that consum'd ev'ry part;And there's poor little Clodpoll, who never, till now,Dream'd of love, is bewitch'd by brown Mog, of the plough;Who, unluckily threw (while you spoke) a sweet smileFrom the bench, where she sat, that is plac'd in the aisle.Then your verses* we thought very strange for a sermon,And to half who were present were high Dutch, or German;And, the story† you told, all the parish agree,Would just suit Mrs. Chatterbox, over her tea.—To be brief, rev'rend Sir, 'twas resolv'd, at the door,That this once‐thronged church we would visit no more,Till a change in your way should be striking throughout,And you seem to know something of what you're about.* From Pope's Eloisa.†Of an Old Lady's distribution of her trinkets.TO CORYDON.A FRAGMENT.AS the lost mariner, with anxious eye,Scans the horizon, and the doubtful skyMistaking for some distant friendly shore,Braves the rough waves, and thinks his troubles o'er;Strains ev'ry nerve the promis'd rest to gain,But finds, at last, his hopes and labour vain;—So I, immers'd in sorrows' darksome night,Beheld a picture of returning light;In distance soften'd all my cares appear'd,And smiling loves in front their faces rear'd;But ah! at my approach, the colours fade;And the bright vision sinks in thickest shade!ON THE COUNTESS OF DERBY.In town or country prithee, VERUS, shew,Says SPEC, the fairest of the dames you know?VERUS replies; "In rure or in urbe"I know no star that shines so bright as—DERBY."TRANSLATION FROM THE FRENCH OF MIRABEAU."Gabriel à Sophié."IN joy I'm lost when to my heartThat heav'nly form I press;The sweets those coral lips impartE'en Gods could faintly guess: Yet would I these without a sigh resign,To call thy soul, my lovely SOPHY, mine.TO ACAPTIVE BIRD.WHEN wont to range the fragrant groves and fields,And taste the teeming sweets that nature yields,Softly to warble forth love's tender taleOn sunny hillock or in shady dale,And gaily strain thy downy little throatTo charm us with thy liquid melting, note—The song of gladness! Oh, inhuman joy!To make thee captive, and such bliss destroy!Sweet plaintive songster, could I set thee free,And give thee back dear smiling liberty,On airy wing thou quick should'st mount the sky:But, ah, a stranger, whither would'st thou fly?Thy once fond friends would chase thee through the air,And for their nests thy pretty feathers tear;To peck and scoff, whole tribes of birds would hie,And thou, poor flutt'rer, in an hour would'st die.TO MISS D.ON SEEING HER SURROUNDED BY BEAUX AT A PLAY.THE Gods, FLIRTILLA, at thy birthBestow'd thee not a charm,To melt the gen'rous soul to love,Or e'en to liking warm.No grace, no beauty, did they lend,No touching smile impart;Yet, from young Love, thou'st some way gotA never‐erring dart.(Or how could'st thou such conquests makeAs t'other night I saw?How with that form and face contriveSuch crouds of beaux to draw?)Perhaps 'twas gain'd by fraud or stealthWhen he was half asleep;And thou hast left the waking boyHis arrow lost to weep.If 'twas by neither art obtain'd,Then verily I swearThou should'st be burned for a witch,For doing such mischief here.And if the cheat thou did'st commitThe Loves should all assemble,And make thee give the weapon backOr at their mandates tremble:For 'twere an insult to Love's court,And they should publiclyExample of all fair ones makeWho thus their pow'r defy.CLARINDA, IN DOUBT.ON COLIN'S return, now CLARINDA, said I, You may bid from this moment adieuTo sorrow, for COLIN, dear COLIN, is nigh,Who still loves, and lives only for you.But stay; 'who still loves!' did he ever of loveEven utter a sentence in joke?Ah no, you too sure in an error will prove,On the subject he never once spoke.Thus hope and fear struggl'd by turns in my breast,But the victory neither could gain;So what did I do? I e'en went and confess'dTo himself all my pleasure and pain.With amazement he look'd, for till then he'd not heardOf the tale which I foolishly told,That himself before worlds, in my heart was preferr'd,And, perhaps, thought me rather too bold.(Yet, where was the harm to declare such a love?Next to heav'n, I rev'rence his name:'Tis prudes, only prudes, could the flame disapprove,And the owning it reckon a shame.)No, he thought not so, or he never had press'dWith such warmth this poor form to his heart;Nor kiss'd me, when (leaving me late to my rest)Time told him 'twas fit to depart.The soft gentle pressure still thrills through my veins,And his kisses still glow on my cheek;But I'm yet undetermin'd if hope or fear reigns,And am farther than ever to seek.Ah, COLIN, this doubt is much worse than despair—It is more than I long can endure;—Say, at once, for CLARINDA you have not a care,And to death let me look for a cure.ON LADY CHAMBERS'SAPPEARING AT WILLIS'S ROOMS.THE question, t' other night, aroseAt Willis's, whose eyes the brightest shone?Some thought, 'twas N's,—others, 'twas O's;But, positively, they could fix on none.In dubious scale the matter hung,When CHAMBERS came to shew at once her right.The name throughout the circle rung– – –For, from fair CHAMBERS' eyes beams heav'n's own light.PARAPHRASE ON THE PARABLE OF THE SOWER.13TH CHAP. MATHEW, 19TH VERSE.THE blessed word of God to all is giv'n,Descending, in soft genial show'rs, from heav'n,But falls in diff'rent soils. Hence comes it, then,That we perceive its diff'rent growth in men.Some quite neglect the sense, and only hearA sound of something on their listless ear,Which, as it enters, passes quick away;So shut they out the beams of op'ning day.Then is the time for Satan, who with wiles Detestable, and horrid treach'rous smiles,Leads on the heedless wretch, till conquer'd quite,Too late, from hell, he owns the glorious light.This is the seed that falls by the way‐side,Which the inhabitants of air divide.VERSE THE 20th AND 21st.Others, with joy, receive th' enliv'ning word,And, for a time, embrace our dying lord,As the fond mother folds within her armsThe first‐born of her love in infant charms;But, if severe affliction haply comes,If storms, or light'nings, blast their smiling homes,If friends perfidious or ungrateful prove,And wintry hate succeeds their spring of love,If death's stern pow'r some tender tie shall seize,Or fate bring on themselves some dire disease,Or persecution for the word of God,They shrink, unable to sustain the rod,And doubt if God is gracious, thus to showSo little pity for his world below;—And this is what we find in stony ground,Which, wanting depth of earth, no root has foundIt quickly springs, but quickly dies away,Scorch'd by the sun's intense meridian ray.VERSE 22.Some men again there are, who would attend,If av'rice did not all their pow'r suspend;But, lost in wordly cares, they never heedThat living death must dying life succeed;—Here we observe what's scatter'd amongst briers,And chok'd by fierce insatiable desires.VERSE 23.Those who the word in spirit understand,And bless, howe'er severe, the chast'ning hand;Which, in its bounty, scourges ev'ry son,Have made their calling sure, the battle won,Escap'd the subtle serpent's strongest force,And may, undauntedly, pursue their course;—And here the seed prolific we behold,Which bears, and brings forth fruit an hundred fold.THE POET IN DISTRESS.SOME glowing lines on sun‐set I would write,Or moon‐light, but, by JOVE, I can't indite:The MUSE has left me friendless and alone,And back to PINDUS' MOUNT, alas, has flown;Not e'en a drop of Helicon she'll send,So I by Walker's* aid each line must end.Oh, my poor brain, I want a rhyme for 'view;'Let's see the book then—ah, the æther's blue.Thank you, friend Walker, thank you, that will do.And now another I must find for 'light';The very thing,—the galaxy is white.The moon in clouded majesty must rise,And flash astonishment to mortal eyes.No, that wont do—flash cannot be the word,'Twould answer well enough for HECTOR'S sword;But the moon's light is mild. Then let me see,Shed,—beam,—why what the devil must it be?To shed astonishment would seem most sad;And beam astonishment, in truth, as bad:Well, let it rest—with LUNA I'll have doneTill I've describ'd the glorious western sun.E'en so it should be, for by rule you know,The horse before the cart must ever go;Though sure enough the moon is seen by day;But I'm describing night—What shall I say?See, rich and various colours gild the sky—Oh what a dunder‐head,—oh fie,—oh fie!How can a colour gild that is not gold?'Twere better said—the various tints behold:Purple, and saffron, and the glowing red,Thrown o'er the æthereal blue near ocean's bed;Curtains with fringe of gold,—the scene now glows,—I'm out again—I wish the piece was prose.'The scene now glows' is horrible; but howCan I cut off that expletive, that 'now?'Hold, hold, 'tis not an expletive—how stupid!It makes the sense more full, I swear by cupid;It marks the time;—"Old time on pinions flies;"Who made that line was author of no lies;For without pinions what the de'el can fly?Yes, poets' fancies, to the very sky,And air‐balloons, and Frenchmen to, pardie,May bound from their flotillas in the sea,If BRITAIN'S pow'rful shores they rashly dare,[This and the following two lines are connected by a large brace in the right margin of the original printed edition.]And, by our cannon, whiz through upper air.But to my subject, I've no time to spare:The scene now glows, all nature glows around,The shadow lengthens on th' enamell'd ground;And PHILOMEL'S soft notes through woods resound.Poor poet, sure thy brains are iron bound!Too surely so—So sun, set from my sight,And I'll return to my fair queen of night:('Twere well, indeed, if friendly night would spreadHer sable mantle o'er my tortur'd head.)Sweet silver moon! would I could write like MILTON;But, he's beyond my reach, had I a stilt on;Fair lovely orb! beam on me a faint light,That something of thy splendor I may write;'Tis vain to urge the MUSES, or APOLLO,They're flown away, and I can never follow;In brightness whilst thou walk'st through hosts of stars(As Irish ladies pass in jaunting cars)Impart a little to a wretched wightWho's lost in darkness!—No; why then, good night.Since neither sun, nor moon, nor stars will lend,Nor any muse, a pittance to a friend,I will no longer here my vigils keep,But court old Somnus, god of balmy sleep.* Rhyming Dictionary.TO A GENTLEMANWho was in the habit of decrying his friends after having extolled them.SO very warm in virtue's cause,So very apt to find out flaws,E'en in the fairest characters, dear Laddy,'Tis strange that you have never foundYourself to stand on miry ground;Take care you do not tumble in, poor PADDY!Another hint just let me give;And mind it, PADDY, while you live;Know well your friends before you recommend them:And, when you've blaz'd their merits round,Don't dash the good folks to the ground,And in a minute to the devil send them.FABLEOF THE LYNX AND MOLE,VERSIFIED.BENEATH a tree, in an umbrageous wood,Whetting his teeth, and waiting for his food,(Some hapless prey) a Lynx, reclin'd, espied,Half‐buried in a hillock, by his side,An inert mole, who yet itself had fram'dThis little shelter. "Sure," the Lynx exclaim'd,"To thee, great JUPITER is most unkind,"Thus all thy powers in living death to bind;"Holding from thee the cheering light of heav'n,"To all creation else so freely giv'n."I pity thee, poor wretch; 'twere service shewn,"Most sure, to give thee death at once." 'I own,'Replied the MOLE, 'your kindnesses are great,'But I am quite contented with my state;'I ask not sight to live within the earth,'Nor better pow'rs; and at m' ignoble birth'I grieve not;—for 'tis JUPITER directs'In wisdom, and in wisdom all protects.'He best the proper distribution knows'Of ev'ry gift his providence bestows.:' 'Tis true; indeed, I want your piercing eyes,'But I've an ear which well this want supplies——'Hark, for a proof, I now am warn'd to fly,'By a small whizzing noise I hear on high,'Thus I escape the danger of this spot.'So saying, in his little earthy cotHe slunk;—while from a hunter's arm, a dartPierc'd the quick‐sighted taunter to the heart.CLAUDIUS's REFUSAL.'NOW that old captious LOVEGAIN'S dead,"Cries JULIA, 'CLAUDIUS, we may wed;'No obstacle can damp our bliss,'No friends condemn the lawful kiss.'"Excuse me, JULIA," he replies," 'Tis time that we should both grow wise."What, would you have me play the boy,"And risk my honor for a toy?"A brittle toy! ah, who could say"I should possess it for a day?"An hour might rob me of your heart,"And fix in mine eternal smart;"An hour might on my temples place"The signals of our joint disgrace."If, JULIA, you had never prov'd"So careless, I should still have lov'd;"Have sought you for my gentle bride,"And flown from all the world beside"To your soft bosom, there to place"My hopes of happiness and grace."Perhaps you'll say 'no law could bind" 'Your heart to him who prov'd unkind;''Not only so, but most unjust,'Who could betray a public trust;'Defraud his wife, his children, friends,'Adopt all means to gain his ends.'" 'Tis true, no law could force your love;"But must you, then, the wanton prove?"Because your husband was to blame"Are you to lose all sense of shame?"Who will your children's morals guard,"While you play so unsafe a card?"How would you like to be their scorn?"To hear them wish they'd ne'er been born"To wretchedness, to shame, disgrace;"Which still must run through all their race?"Think, JULIA, then, 'e're 'tis too late,"Think of this miserable state!"And if true pleasures you would know,"Practise the virtues whence they flow;—"These pleasures only can endure,"And future peace and bliss secure."TO COLIN.After a long absence, urging his return.THE object you are heedlessly pursuingAn Ignis fatuus is, and tempts to ruin;Turn then 'e're by this floating lure you perish;Turn to the hapless fair you vow'd to cherish;Safe back the little Loves will gaily lead you,And honor, virtue, friendship, truth, all speed you.APOLOGYFor some verses which appeared in print, reflecting on the conduct of theContractors for Pack‐saddles for a certain Army.WE hereby confess that our verses were writ,(And with shame to ourselves) in a splenetic fit,But not with the smallest intent to derideA council where wisdom and justice preside;If offence we have giv'n, we pardon implore,And promise to err in like manner no more.We earnestly hope the pack‐saddles mayn't pinch;But, at all events, trust that your worships won't wince,As a part of the weight will be soon off your backs,And you'll have but the saddles without any packs.** It was presumed, that the money overcharged would be ordered to be refunded.TO A FRIEND, WITH A PILLOW.BE ev'ry care, and ev'ry woe,Here sweetly lull'd to rest;And may each joy that mortals know,In dreams possess thy breast.May gentle spirits guard thy bed,And, in their heav'nly love,Lead thee, by some unerring thread,The real bliss to prove.MOCK‐HEROICK VERSIONOF DON QUIXOTE.A FRAGMENT.WHILE lofty bards of ancient battles sing;Be mine th' attempt, on less‐aspiring wing,Not much assisted by the MUSE, to writeThe exploits of LA MANCHA'S famous knight:What thund'ring foes the warrior DON o'ercame,And what his chubby Squire, of punning fame;Firm with accounts of most heroick deeds,Of flaming errant‐knights on flaming steeds,His home no longer could afford him rest;MARS had with carnage fill'd his throbbing breast:Down therefore from its shelf with haste was tornThe armour which his ancestry had worn;This armour, that for ages had lain byMouldy and rusty, with much industryThe Knight new furbish'd; and with lance and shield,And helmet mended, sallied to the field;Mounted on Rozinanté, so he nam'dHis broken‐winded horse, half blind and lam'd.– ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ –␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ –␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – ␣ ␣ – SONG."FAIREST SPOT."Written in October, 1804, and set to Music.FAIREST Spot of all creation,Happiest we can light on;Ev'ry other of the nationYields the palm to BRIGHTON.Steynes and walks, sans ostentation,BRITAIN'S PRINCE treads light on,View'd with love and admirationBy the world of BRIGHTON.Condescending from his station,Here his favors light onThe very poorest of the nationFate has plac'd at BRIGHTON.Here no foreign foes' invasionE'er could bring a fright on;E'en our belles, without persuasion,Would join the lists at BRIGHTON.'Spite of Frenchmen's affectationTo attempt to light onSUSSEX' coast, we keep our station,And are gay at BRIGHTON.Strangers still to consternation,We would bravely fight on,Could FRANCE itself (by conjuration)Be floated o'er to BRIGHTON.ON BEING ASKED WHAT I THOUGHT TRUE HAPPINESS TO CONSIST IN.VAIN is the search for Happiness on earth,Unless we trace the spring that gives it birth;Drink of the living water from the well,And in the tents of fair Religion dwell.RELIGION calms the troubles of the soul;And brings the passions under due controul;Makes smooth the rugged paths of life we tread,And forms, of sharpest thorns, a downy bed.FRAGMENT FROM VIRGIL,Book the First, line the Hundred and Twentieth.MEANWHILE a craggy rock ÆNEAS scales,And scans th' horizon, if perchance the sailsOf CAPYS or ANTHEUS he may spy;Or CAICUS' high deck should meet his eye:His eye, alas, no Phrygian bark beholds;But o'er the grassy valley as it rolls,Three stately stags appear upon the shore;Eager he takes the bow ACHATES bore,And first the leaders scatters, bearing highTheir thickly‐branching horns, then quickly flyThe close‐embodied herd; (now through the wood,With winged arrows bent on death pursu'd;)Nor ceases he, till sev'n huge deer are slain,The number of his vessels on the main:Then seeks the port, and 'mongst his frends he sharesIn equal parts the spoil, and wine preparesWhich good ACESTES sent, in ample store,On board the ships, from the Trinacrian shore;And thus their spirits cheers with soft essay:"My fellow suff'rers, sink not in dismay,"Severer ills than these have been our fate,"To these, too, JOVE will grant a happy date:"When SYLLA'S coasts we have, regardless, tried,"And the inhuman CYCLOPS' rage defied,"Let us not shrink—the day will surely come"When we shall find again a peaceful home;—"In Latium we shall yet recount, with joy,"Our present woes,—and there rebuild our TROY."Thus spoke, in smiles, the chief, though ill at rest,For grief, immeasurable, fill'd his breast.The Trojans now, in haste, the meal prepare,Their bleeding victims are at once laid bare;Stripp'd from the ribs the reeking hides are seen,And all the vitals are expos'd within;Some into parts divide the flesh, with care,And spit the quiv'ring limbs, and fires prepare,While others place in order on the shore,The brazen cauldrons to contain their store.Then rang'd along the grass, they freely dine,On fattest ven'son, and delicious wine:The tables clear'd, 'twixt hope and fear they speak,Dubious, if 'mongst the living they may seekTheir lost companions, or if Jove ordainsTh' unanswer'd VALE,* end of all their pains.* 'VALE.' This is an allusion to the ancient custom of calling upon the dead, which was the last ceremony performed in funeral obsequies, as appears from several passages in the Æneid. After the body was interred, the friends three times called aloud upon the deceased by his name, and after thrice repeating the word Vale, as the last farewel, they departed.FINIS.