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Is coming to your homely cot,

To call you to a nobler lot;

I, Fortune, promise wealth and pow'r,

By way of matrimonial dow'r:
Preferment crowns the golden day,
When fair occasion leads the way."
Thus spake the frail, capricious dame,
When she that sent the message came.--
"From first invention's highest sphere,
I, queen of imag'ry, appear;
And throw myself at Reason's feet,
Upon a weighty point to treat.
You dwell alone, and are too grave;
You make yourself too much a slave;
Your shrewd deductions run a length,
'Till all your spirits waste their strength:
Your fav'rite logic is full close;
Your morals are to much a dose;
You ply your studies 'till you risk
Your senses you should be more brisk-
The doctors soon will find a flaw,
And lock you up in chains and straw.
But, if you are inclin'd to take
The gen'rous offer which I make,
I'll lead you from this hole and ditch,
To gay conception's top-most pitch;

To those bright plains, where crowd in swarms
The spirits of fantastic forms;
To planets populous with elves;
To natures still above themselves,
By soaring to the wond'rous height
Of notions, which they still create;
I'll bring you to the pearly cars,
By dragons drawn, above the stars;
To colours of Arabian glow;
And to the heart-dilating show
Of paintings, which surmount the life:
At once your tut'ress, and your wife."-
Soft, soft," (says Reason) "lovely friend;
Tho' to a parley I attend,

I cannot take thee for a mate;
I'm lost, if e'er I change my state.
But whensoe'er your raptures rise,
I'll try to come with my supplies;
To muster up my sober aid,
What time your lively pow'rs invade;
To act conjointly in the war
On dulness, whom we both abhor;
And ev'ry sally that you make,

I must be there, for conduct's sake;
Thy correspondent, thine ally;
Or any thing, but bind and tye-
But, ere this treaty be agreed,
Give ine thy wand and winged steed:
Take thou this compass and this rule,
That wit may cease to play the fool;
And that thy vot'ries who are born
For praise, may never sink to scorn."

Praise him, arch-angelic band,
Ye that in his presence stand;
Praise him, ye that watch and pray,
Michael's myriads in array.

Praise him, Sun at each extreme,
Orient streak, and western beam;
Moon and stars of mystic dance,
Silv'ring in the blue expanse.

Praise him, O ye heights that soar
Heav'n and Heav'n for evermore;
And ye streams of living rill
Higher yet and purer stil!.

Let them praise his glorious name,
From whose fruitful word they came;
And they first began to be
As he gave the great decree.
Their constituent parts he founds
For duration without bounds;
And their covenant has seal'd,
Which shall never be repeal'd.

Praise the Lord on earth's domains;
Praise, ye mutes, that sea contains;
They that on the surface leap,
And the dragons of the deep.

Batt'ring hail, and fires that glow,
Streaming vapours, plumy snow;
Wind and storm, his wrath incurr'd
Wing'd and pointed at his word.
Mountains of enormous scale,
Every hill and every vale;
Fruit trees of a thousand dies,
Cedars that perfume the skies!

Beasts that haunt the woodland maze,
Nibbling flocks and droves that graze;
Reptiles of amphibious breed,
Feather'd millions form'd for speed.

Kings, with Jesus for their guide,
Peopled regions far and wide;
Heroes of their country's cause,
Princes, judges of the laws.

Age and childhood, youth and maid,
To his name your praise be paid;
For his word is worth alone
Far above his crown and throne.

He shall dignify the crest

Of his people, rais'd and blest;
While we serve with praise and pray'rs,
All in Christ his saints and heirs.

NEW VERSION OF THE PSALMS.

PSALM CXLVIII.

HALLELUJAH! kneel and sing
Praises to the heav'nly King;
To the God supremely great,
Hallelujah in the height.

ODE TO LORD BARNARD,

ON HIS ACCESSION TO THAT TITLE.

Sis licet felix ubicunque mavis,
Et memor nostri.
HOR.

MELPOMENE, who charm'st the skies,

Queen of the lyre and lute, Say, shall my noble patron rise,

And thou, sweet Muse, be mute? Shall fame, to celebrate his praise, Her loudest, loftiest accents raise,

And all her silver trumps employ, And thou restrain thy tuneful hand, And thou an idle list'ner stand.

Amidst the general joy?

Forbid it, all ye powers above,
That human hearts can try,
Forbid if gratitude and love,

And every tender tye:

Was it not he, whose pious cares
Upheld me in my earliest years,

And cheer'd me from his ample store,

Who animated my designs,

In Roman and Athenian mines,

To search for learning's ore?

The royal hand, my lord, shall raise
To nobler heights thy name,

Who praises thee, shall meet with praise
Ennobled in thy fame.

A disposition form'd to please,
With dignity endear'd by ease,

And grandeur in good nature lost,
Have more of genuine desert,
Have more the merit of the heart,

Than arts and arms can boast.

Can I forget fair Raby's towers,
How awful and how great!
Can I forget such blissful bowers,
Such splendour in retreat!
Where me, ev'n me, an infant bard,
Cleveland 2 and Hope 3 indulgent heard.

(Then, Fame, I felt thy first alarms)
Ah, much lov'd pair!-tho' one is fled,
Still one compensates for the dead,
In merit and in charms.

O more than compensation, sure!
O blessings on thy life!
Long may the three-fold bliss endure,

In daughters, sons, and wife!
Hope, copyist of her mother's mind,
Is loveliest, liveliest of her kind,

Her soul with every virtue teems, By none in wit or worth outdone, With eyes, that shining on the Sun, Defy his brightest beams.

Hark! Charity's cherubic voice

Calls to her numerous poor,

And bids their languid hearts rejoice,
And points to Raby's door;
With open heart and open hands,
There, Hospitality-she stands,

A nymph, whom men and gods admire,
Daughter of heavenly Goodness she,
Her sister's Generosity,

And Honour is her sire.

What though, my lord, betwixt us lie

Full many an envious league,
Such vast extent of sea and sky,
As even the eye fatigue;

Though interposing Ocean raves,
And heaves his Heaven-assaulting waves,

His lordship's seat in the county of Durham. * Her late grace of Cleveland.

The honourable Mrs. Hope.

While on the shores the billows beat,
Yet still my grateful Muse is ree,
To tune her warmest strains to thee,
And lay them at thy feet.
Goodness is ever kindly prone

To feign what fate denies,
And others want of worth t'atone,
Finds in herself supplies:
Thus dignity itself restrains,
By condescension's silken reins,

While you the lowly Muse upraise; When such the theme, so mean the bard, Not to reject is to reward,

To pardon is to praise.

ODE TO LADY HARRIOT.
To Harriot all accomplish'd fair,
Begin, ye Nine, a grateful air;
Ye Graces, join her worth to tell,
And blazon what you can't excell.
Let Flora rifle all her bow'rs,
For fragrant shrubs, and painted flow'rs,
And, in her vernal robes array'd,
Present them to the noble maid.

Her breath shall give them new perfume,
Her blushes shall their dyes outbloom;
The lily now no more shall boast
Its whiteness, in her bosom lost.

See yon delicious woodbines rise
By oaks exalted to the skies,

So view in Harriot's matchless mind
Humility and greatness join'd.

To paint her dignity and ease,
Form'd to command, and form'd to please,
In wreaths expressive be there wove
The birds of Venus and of Jove.

There where th' immortal laurel grows,
And there, where blooms the crimson rose,
Be with this line the chaplet bound,
That beauty is with virtue crown'd.

ODE TO THE EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND,

ON HIS BEING APPOINTED LORD LIEUTENANT OF
IRELAND, PRESENTED ON THE BIRTH-DAY •
OF LORD WARKWORTH.

WHATE'ER distinguish'd patriots rise,
The times and manners to revise,
And drooping merit raise,
The song of triumph still pursues
Their footsteps, and the moral Muse
Dwells sweetly on their praise.

It is a task of true delight,
The ways of goodness to recite,
And all her works refin'd;
Though modest greatness under rate
Its lustre; 'tis as fix'd as fate,

Says truth with music join'd.

All hail to this auspicious morn,
When we, for gallant Warkworth born,
Our gratulations pay:

Though Virtue all the live-long year,
Refuse her eulogy to hear,

She must attend to day.

All hail to that transcendant fair,
That crown'd thy wishes with an heir,
And bless'd her native land:
Still shoots thy undegenerate line,
Like oak from oak, and pine from pine,
As goodly and as grand.

O how illustrious and divine
Were all the heroes of thy line,

'Gainst Rome's ambitious cheat! Born all these base insidious arts, Which work the most in weakest hearts, To dare and to defeat!

Live then in triumph o'er deceit,
That with new honours we may greet
The house of arms and arts,
"Till blest experience shall evince
How fairly you present that prince,
Who's sovereign of our hearts.
In pity to our sister isle

With sighs we lend thee for a while;
O be thou soon restor'd,
Tho' Stanhope, Hallifax were there,
We never had a man to spare

Our love could less afford.

THE SWEETS OF EVENING. THE Sweets of evening charm the mind,

Sick of the sultry day;

The body then no more confin'd,
But exercise with freedom join'd,

When Phoebus sheathes his ray.
While all-serene the summer Moon
Sends glances thro' the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon

With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,

And music, every sound

To lull the Sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose

With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by time

None half so sweet appear,

As those when thoughts themselves sublime,

And with superior natures chime

In fancy's highest sphere.

The parallel will own ;

O let our voice and hearts combine,
O let us, fellow warblers, join,
Our patroness to crown.

When heavy hung thy flagging wing,
When thou could'st neither move nor sing.
Of spirits void and rest ;

A lovely nymph her aid apply'd,
She gave the bliss to Heav'n allied,
And cur'd thee on her breast.
Me too the kind indulgent maid,
With gen'rous care and timely aid,
Restor❜d to mirth and health;
Then join'd to her, O may I prove
By friendship, gratitude and love,
The poverty of wealth.

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ODE TO A VIRGINIA NIGHTIN- And, great Longinus, hail to thine;

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Ye too, whose judgments ne'er could fail,
Hail Horace, and Quintilian hail;
And, dread of every Goth and Hun,
Hail Pope, and peerless Addison.

Alas! by different steps and ways
Our modern critics aim at praise,
And rashly in the learned arts,
They judge by prejudice and parts;

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For crampt by a contracted soul,

How shou'd they comprehend the whole? I know of many a deep-learn'd brother, Who weighs one science by another, And makes 'mongst bards poetic schism, Because he understands the prism; Thinks in acuteness he surpasses, From knowledge of the optic-glasses. There are some critics in the nation, Profoundly vers'd in gravitation; Who like the bulky and the great, And judge by quantity and weight. Some who're extremely skill'd in building, Judge by proportion, form, and gilding, And praise with a sagacious look The architecture of a book.

Soon as the hops arriv'd from Kent,
Forth to the quay the merchant went,
Went critically to explore

The merit of the hops on shore.
Close to a bag he took his standing,
And at a venture thrust his hand in;
Then, with the face of a physician,
Their colour scann'd and their condition;
He trusts his touch, his smell, his eyes,
The goods at once approves and buys.
Catchup, so dextrous, droll, and dry,
It happen'd Catchup there was by,
Who like Iago', arch on all,
Is nothing, if not critical.

He with a sneer and with a shrug,
With eye of hawk, and face of pug,
Cry'd; "Fellow, I admire thy fun,
Thou most judiciously hast done,
Who from one handful buyst ten ton.
Does it not enter in thy crown,
Some may be mouldy, some be brown ;
The vacancies with leaves supplied,

And some half pick'd and some half dry'd?"
The merchant, who Tom Catchup knew,
(A merchant and a scholar too)
Said, "What I've done is not absurd,
I know my chap and take his word.-
On thee, thou caviller at large,
I here retort thy random charge,
Who, in an hypercritic rage,
Judgest ten volumes by a page;
Whose wond'rous comprehensive view
Grasps more than Solomon e'er knew;
With every thing you claim alliance,
Art, trade, profession, calling, science;
You mete out all things by one rule,
And are an universal fool.
Though swoln with vanity and pride,
You're but one driv'ller multiplied,
A prig-that proves himself by starts,
As many dolts-as there are arts."

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Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division;
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,

These Kentish men-those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;
Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney.
Give prejudices to the wind,

And let's be patriots of mankind.
Bigots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.

A snub-nos'd dog to fat inclin'd
Of the true hogan mogau kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
"And whom have we got here, I beg,"
Quoth he, and lifted up his leg;
"An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:

By them my dames ne'er prove big-bellied,
For they, poor toads, are Farrinellied.
Well, of all dogs it stands confess'd,
Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
"Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has its failing."

"And who are you?" reply'd Van Trump, (Curling his tail upon his rump) "Vaunting the regions of distraction, The land of party and of faction. In all fair Europe, who but we, For national economy;

For wealth and peace, that have more charms,.
Than learned arts, or noisy arms?

You envy us our dancing bogs,
With all the music of the frogs;

Join'd to the Tretchscutz's boany loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune.
For poets, and the Muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine:
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting-now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.
'Tis true, as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise;

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Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t' ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty."
"Wrong are you both," rejoins a quail,
Confin'd within its wiry jail :

26 Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd And with the seasons, climates chang'd. Mankind is not so void of grace,

But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,

Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen ;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;

Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;
Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd:
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.-
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd it's head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow.
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to Heaven and Hartington.

FASHION AND NIGHT.

FABLE III.

Quam multa prava atque injusta fiunt moribus.

FASHION, a motley nymph of yore,
The Cyprian queen to Porteus bore:
Various herself in various climes,
She moulds the manners of the times;
And turns in every age or nation,
The chequer'd wheel of variegation;
True female that ne'er knew her will,
Still changing, tho' immortal still.
One day as the inconstant maid
Was careless on her sofa laid,
Sick of the Sun and tir'd with light,
She thus invok'd the gloomy Night:
"Come-these malignant rays destroy,
Thou screen of shame, and rise of joy.
Come from thy western ambuscade,
Queen of the rout and masquerade :
Nymph, without thee no cards advance,
Without thee halts the loit'ring dance;
Till thou approach, all, all's restraint,
Nor is it safe to game or paint;
The belles and beaux thy influence ask,
Put on the universal mask.

TERENT.

Let us invert, in thy disguise,
That odious nature, we despise."
She ceas'd-the sable mantled dame
With slow approach, and awful, came ;
And frowning with sarcastic sneer,
Reproach'd the female rioteer :
"That nature you abuse, my fair,
Was I created to repair,

And contrast with a friendly shade,

The pictures Heaven's rich pencil made; And with my sleep alluring dose,

To give laborious art repose;

To make both noise and action cease,
The queen of secresy and peace.
But thou a rebel, vile, and vain,
Usurp'st my lawful old domain;
My sceptre thou affect'st to sway,
And all the various hours are day;
With clamours of unreal joy,
My sister, Silence, you destroy;
The blazing lamp's unnatural light
My eye balls weary and affright;
But if I am allow'd one shade,
Which no intrusive eyes invade,
There all the atrocious imps of Hell,
Theft, Murder, and Pollution dwell:
Think then how much, thou toy of chance,
Thy praise is likely worth t' inhance ;
Blind thing that run'st without a guide,
Thou whirlpool in a rushing tide,
No more my fame with praise pollute,
Bnt damn me into some repute."

WHERE'S THE POKER?
FABLE IV.

THE poker lost, poor Susan storm'd,
And all the rites of rage perform'd;
As scolding, crying, swearing, sweating,
Abusing, fidgetting, and fretting.

Nothing but villainy, and thieving;
Good Heavens! what a world we live in?
If I don't find it in the morning,
I'll surely give my master warning,
He'd better far shut up his doors,
Than keep such good for nothing whores ;
For wheresoe'er their trade they drive,
We vartuous bodies cannot thrive."
Well may poor Susan grunt and groan;
Misfortunes never come alone,
But tread each other's heels in throngs,
For the next day she lost the tongs :
The salt box, cullender, and pot,
Soon shar'd the same untimely lot.
In vain she vails and wages spent

On new ones-for the new ones went.
There'd been, (she swore) some dev'l or witch in,
To rob or plunder all the kitchen.
One night she to her chamber crept ;
(Where for a month she had not slept;
Her master being, to her seeming,
A better playfellow than dreaming.)
Curse on the author of these wrongs,
In her own bed she found the tongs,
(Hang Thomas for an idle joker !)
In her own bed she found the poker;

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