And here my simile unites;
For in a modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,
His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t'observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand,
By classic authors termed caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses:
To wit, most wond'rously endued,
No poppy-water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,
Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore;
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.
Now to apply, begin we then :—
His wand's a modern author's pen;
The serpents round about it twined
Denote him of the reptile kind,
Denote the rage with which he writes,
His frothy slaver, venom'd bites;
An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike, too, both conduce to sleep;
This difference only, as the god

Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript; Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;

Well! what of that? out with it—stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,
Being each as great a thief as he.
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance:
Our modern bards! why, what a pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

GOOD people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,

And if you find it wondrous short-
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man,

Of whom the world might say, That still a godly race he ran—

Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had,
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad-
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,

As many dogs there be,

Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.
But soon a wonder came to light,

That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite-
The dog it was that died.

WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking,
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of
thinking.

Well! since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got

my cue:

you, you.

The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em:
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up
the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing-but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;

Who frowns and talks and swears, with round parade, Looking, as who should say, dam'me! who's afraid? Strip but this vizor off, and, sure I am, [Mimicking. You'll find his lionship a very lamb.

Yon politician, famous in debate,

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,

He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run? [black!
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

EPILOGUE*

TO THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.
Spoken by Mrs. Bulkley.

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend
For epilogues and prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down:
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teased each rhyming friend to help him out.
An epilogue! things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it:
"Young man," cries one, (a bard laid up in clover,)
"Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try."
"What I! dear Sir," the doctor interposes;
"What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no, I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go ask your manager"- Who, me! Your pardon,
Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden."
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing a way,
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise:

He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
"To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,"
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natured Man.

EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
* See p. 48.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,

A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ. Spoken by Mr. Quick, in the Character of a Sailor.

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:
[Upper Gallery.
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've
seen 'em-
[Pil.
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in
[Balconies.
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound- [Stage.
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground.

'em

[Tasting them.

[her,

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
O, there the people are best keep my distance;
Our Captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;
Our ship's well-stored ;-in yonder creek we've laid
His Honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure; lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What! no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

AN EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

[far,

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he ;-but I affirm, the Stage-
At least, in many things, I think I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree:
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down;
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses:
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art, her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.

The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored-
As "Dam'me, Sir!" and, "Sir, I wear a sword!"
Here lesson'd for awhile, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment:-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone:-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS,

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius. In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was composed in a period of time equally short.

OVERTURE. A solemn Dirge.

Air.-Trio.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,

And waken every note of woe!

When truth and virtue reach the skies, "Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to Kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour

Mere transitory things:

The base bestow them; but the good agree To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are join'd

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim; When wealth, and rank, and noble blood, But aid the power of doing good;

[to fame.

Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb;

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!
E'en now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!
Alas! they never had thy hate;

Unmoved, in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;

In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:

Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!

SONG. BY A MAN.
Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying,

In the hopes of being blest.

Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,
And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate-
Death, with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow;
But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defaced the shrine.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round
Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross,-
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG.-BY A MAN.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!

If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
MAN SPEAKER.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity:
The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance;

For as the line of life conducts me on

[fair.

To Death's great court, the prospect seems more "Tis Nature's kind retreat, that's always open To take us in when we have drain'd the cup

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat,
Where, all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline;

Where, wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And, ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest;
May peace, that claim'd while here thy warmest
May blissful, endless peace be thine above! [love,

SONG.-BY A WOMAN.

Lovely, lasting Peace, below,
Comforter of ev'ry woe,

Heav'nly born, and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely, lasting Peace, appear;
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Our vows are heard! long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies;
Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and silent sorrow dwell:
Want pass'd for merit at her door,

Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor,-,
Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And, oh! for this, while sculpture decks thy shrine,
And art exhausts profusion round,

The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come a pilgrim grey,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay;
And calm Religion shall repair,

To dwell a weeping hermit there.

Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship shall agree

To blend their virtues while they think of thee.

Air.-Chorus.

Let us-let all the world agree,

To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

OVERTURE.-Pastorale.

MAN SPEAKER.

[stream

FAST by that shore where Thames' translucent
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest;
Where sculptured elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place;
While, sweetly blending, still are seen,
The wavy lawn, the sloping green;

While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene:-
There, sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn a rural band complain'd,
All whom Augusta's bounty fed,

All whom her clemency sustain'd.
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in homespun grey,
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd,--
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And as they view the towers of Kew,

Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

CHORUS.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,

That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

MAN SPEAKER.

First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,

With many a tear, and many a sigh between:
"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes have
Or how shall age support its feeble fire? [bread,
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,

Nor can my strength perform what they require; Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare, A sleek and idle race is all their care. My noble mistress thought not so:

Her bounty, like the morning dew, Unseen, though constant, used to flow,

And, as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew."

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In decent dress, and coarsely clean,

The pious matron next was seen,

Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
Augusta's care had well supplied.
"And, ah!" she cries, all woe-begone,
"What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity!

Too late in life for me to ask,

And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.

But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my Mistress known;

She still relieved, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless,

My morning prayer, my evening song;
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long."

SONG.-BY A WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
MAN SPEAKER.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangled, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart;

Mute for awhile, and sullenly distress'd,

At last the impetuous sorrow fired his breast:"Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain, And wild the tempest howling

Along the billow'd main;

But every danger felt before

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay
Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,

And lay my body where my limbs were lost."

SONG. BY A MAN.

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right;
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In innocence and youth complaining, Next appear'd a lovely maid; Affliction, o'er each feature reigning, Kindly came in beauty's aid; Every grace that grief dispenses,

Every glance that warms the soul, In sweet succession charms the senses, While pity harmonized the whole.

"The garland of beauty," 'tis thus she would say, "No more shall my crook or my temples adorn: I'll not wear a garland-Augusta's away,

I'll not wear a garland until she return; But, alas! that return I never shall see: [claim, The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proThere promised a lover to come-but, ah me! 'Twas Death-'twas the death of my mistress that came.

But ever, for ever, her image shall last,

I'll strip all the spring of its earliest bloom; On her graveshall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb."

WELL, having stoop'd to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, composed to please;
"We have our exits and our entrances."
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid;
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action,
"I hopes as how to give you satisfaction."
Her second act displays a livelier scene,-
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the
waiters.

Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs:
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts;
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
E'en common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;

Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro!
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro:
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinelle of Cheapside:
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,

Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such through our lives the eventful history-
The fifth and last act still remains for me:
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.