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The tainted Templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, though it makes him-spit.
Citronia vows it has an odious stink;

She will not smoke (ye gods!)—but she will drink:
And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, pipes are us'd by that vile creature Man :
Yet crowds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame:
Fame, of our actions universal spring,

For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke—every thing.

IMITATION V.-MR. POPE.

Solis ad ortus

Vanescit fumus.

LUCAN.

BLEST leaf! whose aromatic gales dispense
To templars modesty, to parsons sense:
So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's shrine,
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content, more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the wise and good.
Inspir'd by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister, beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critic owns thy genial aid,

While supperless he plies the piddling trade.

What though to love and soft delights a foe, By ladies hated, hated by the beau,

Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown, Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own. Come to thy poet, come with healing wings, And let me taste thee unexcis'd by kings.

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Boy! bring an ounce of Freeman's best,

And bid the vicar be my guest:

Let all be plac'd in manner due,
A pot wherein to spit or spew,

And London Journal, and Free-Briton,
Of use to light a pipe or

This village, unmolested yet
By troopers, shall be my retreat :
Who cannot flatter, bribe, betray;
Who cannot write or vote for * *
Far from the vermin of the town,
Here let me rather live, my own,
Doze o'er a pipe, whose vapour bland
In sweet oblivion lulls the land;
Of all which at Vienna passes,
** Brass is :

As ignorant as

And scorning rascals to caress,
Extol the days of good Queen Bess,

When first Tobacco blest our isle,
Then think of other queens-and smile.

Come, jovial pipe, and bring along
Midnight revelry and song;

The merry catch, the madrigal,
That echoes sweet in City Hall;
The parson's pun, the smutty tale
Of country justice o'er his ale.

I ask not what the French are doing,
Or Spain, to compass Britain's ruin:
Britons, if undone, can go

Where Tobacco loves to grow.

JOHN BYRO M.

BORN 1691.-DIED 1763.

JOHN BYROM was the son of a linen-draper at Manchester. He was born at Kersal, and was educated at Merchant Taylors' school, and at Cambridge. Dr. Bentley, the father of the Phoebe of his pastoral poem, procured him a fellowship at the University, which he was obliged, however, to vacate, as he declined to go into the church. He afterwards supported himself by teaching short-hand

writing in London, till, by the death of an elder brother, he inherited the family estate, and spent the close of his life in easy circumstances.

A PASTORAL.

My time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went ;
Ten thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
Sure never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
But now she is gone, and has left me behind,
What a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
When things were as fine as could possibly be,
I thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.

With such a companion to tend a few sheep, To rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep: I was so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay, My heart was as light as a feather all day, But now I so cross, and so peevish am grown ; So strangely uneasy as never was known. My fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd, And my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a pound.

The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along, And dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among ; Thou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there, 'Twas pleasure to look at, 'twas music to hear: But now she is absent, I walk by its side,

And still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;

Must you be so cheerful, while I go in pain? Peace there with your bubbling, and hear me complain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play, And Phœbe and I were as joyful as they;

How pleasant their sporting, how happy their time, When Spring, Love, and Beauty, were all in their

prime;

But now, in their frolics when by me they pass,
I fling at their fleeces an handful of grass;
Be still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad,
To see you so merry while I am so sad.

My dog I was ever well pleased to see Come wagging his tail to my fair one and me; And Phoebe was pleas'd too, and to my dog said, "Come hither, poor fellow ;" and patted his head. But now, when he's fawning, I with a sour look Cry" Sirrah;" and give him a blow with my crook: And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?

When walking with Phoebe, what sights have I

seen,

How fair was the flower, how fresh was the green! What a lovely appearance the trees and the shade, The corn fields and hedges, and ev'ry thing made! But now she has left me, though all are still there, They none of them now so delightful appear:

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