Thus fome are born, my fon,' he cries,

• With base impediments to rife,

And fome are born with none,

C

THE FABLE OF JOTHAM.

TO THE BOROUGH-HUNTERS.

BY RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, ESQ.

L

Jotham's fable of the trees is the oldeft that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made since that time.

JUDGES, CHAP.

ADDISON.

LD Plumb, who though blefs'd in his Kentish retreat,

Still thrives by his oilshop in Leadenhall Street,

With a Portugal merchant, a knight by creation,
From a borough in Cornwall receiv'd invitation.
Well affur'd of each vote, well equip'd from the Alley,
In quest of election-adventures they fally,

Tho' much they difcours'd, the long way to beguile,

Of the earthquakes, the Jews, and the change of the style,T

Of the Irifh, the ftocks, and the lott'ry committee,

They came filent and tir'd into Exeter city.

Some books, pr'ythee, landlord, to pafs a dull hour!)

• No nonsense of parfons, or methodists four ; No poetical stuff, a damn'd jingle of rhymes,

• But fome pamphlet that's new, and a touch on the times.?

O Lord!" fays mine hoft, you may hunt the town round, I queftion if any fuch thing can be found:

I never was afk'd for a book by a guest ;

And I'm fure I have all the great folk in the West.
None of these, to my knowledge, e'er call'd for a book.
But fee, Sir, th woman with fish, and the cook!

Here's the fatteft of carp; fhall we dress you a brace? • Would you have any foals, or a mullet or plaice?'

A place,' quoth the knight, we must have, to be fure, • But first let us fee that our borough's secure.

We'll talk of the place when we've settled the poll:
• They may drefs us for fupper the mullet and foal.
• But do you, my good landlord, look over your shelves,
For a book we must have, we're fo tir'd of ourselves.'
In troth, Sir, I ne'er had a book in my life,
But the prayer-book and bible I bought for my wife.'
• Well! the bible muft do: but why don't you take in
Some monthly collection-the new Magazine?'
The bible was brought, and laid out on the table,
And open'd at Jotham's most appofite fable.

Sir Freeport be an with this verfe, tho' no rhyme-
The trees of the forest went forth on a time,'
(To what purpose our candidates fcarce could expect,
For it was not, they found, to tranfplant-but ELECT ;)
To the olive and fig-tree their deputies came,

But by both were refus'd, and their anfwer the fame :

Quoth the olive, Shall I leave my fatnefs and oil

"For an unthankful office, a dignify'd toil ???

2

"Shall I leave, quoth the fig-tree," my sweetness and fruit,

44

To be envy'd or flav'd in so vain a pursuit !??

• Thus rebuff'd and furpriz'd they apply to the vine :

He anfwer'd," Shall I leave my grapes and my wine,

(Wine, the fovereign cordial of god and of man!)

"To be made or the tool or the head of a clan ??? At laft, as it always falls out in a fcramble,

The mob gave the cry for A bramble! a bramble!

"A bramble

"A bramble for ever!" O chance unexpected!

But bramble prevail'd, and was duly elected.'

O! ho!' quoth the knight, with a look moft profound,
• Now I fee there's fome good in good books to be found.
I wish I had read this fame bible before;.

Of long miles, at the least, 'twould have fav'd us fourfcore
You, Plumb, with your olives and oil might have ftaid,
And myself might have tarry'd my wines to unlade.
• What have merchants to do from their bufinefs to ramble!
Your electioneer-errant should still be a bramble."

Thus ended at once the wife comment on Jotham,
And our citizens jaunt to the borough of Gotham.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCON

AND EUPHORMIUS.

BY WILLIAM MELMOTH, ESQ.

EEM not, ye plaintive crew, that suffer wrong,

DE

Ne thou, O man! who deal'ft the tort, mifween
The equal gods, who Heaven's fky-manfions throng,
(Though viewlefs to the eyne they diftant sheen)
Spectators reckless of our actions been,
Turning the volumes of grave fages old,

Where auncient faws in fable may be seen,
This truth I fond in paynim tale enroll'd;
Which for enfample drad, my mufe fhall here unfold.

What time Arcadia's flow'ret vallies fam'd,
Pelafgus, firft of monarchs old, obey'd;

There wonn'd a wight, and Lycon was he,nam'd,
Unaw'd by confcience, of no gods afraid,

Ne

Ne juftice rul'd his heart, ne mercy fway'd. Some held him kin to that abhorred race,

Which heaven's high towers with mad emprize affay'd; And fome his cruel lynage did ytrace

From fell Erynnis join'd in Pluto's dire embrace.

But he, perdy, far other tale did feign,

And claim'd alliaunce with the Sifters nine;
And deem'd himself (what deems not pride fo vain!)
The peerless paragon of wit divine;

Vaunting that every foe fhould rue it's tine.
Right doughty wight! yet, footh, withouten fmart,
All powerlefs fell the lofel's fhafts malign:
'Tis Virtue's arm to wield Wit's heavenly dart,
Point it's keen barb with force, and fend it to the heart.

One only impe he had, Paftora hight,

Whose sweet amenaunce pleas'd each fhepherd's eye:
Yet pleas'd fhe not bafe Lycon's evil fprite,
Tho' blame in her not Malice moten spy,
Clear, without fpot, as fummer's cloudlefs fky.)
Hence poets feign'd, Lycëan Pan array'd

In Lycon's form, enflam'd with paffion high,

• Deceiv'd her mother in the covert glade,

• And from the ftol'n embrace yfprong the heavenly maid:"

Thus fabling they. Meanwhile, the damfel fair
A fhepherd youth remark'd, as o'er the plain
She deffly pac'd along so debonair ;

Seem'd fhe as one of Dian's chofen train.
Full many a fond excufe he knew to feign,
In fweet converfe to while with her the day,
Till love unwares his heedlefs heart did gain.
Nor dempt he, fimple wight, no mortal may
The blinded god, once harbour'd, when he lift, forefay.

Now

Now much he meditates if yet to speak,
And now refolves his paffion to conceal :
But fure,' quoth he, my feely heart will break,
• If aye I fmother what I aye must feel!'

At length, by hope embolden'd to reveal, The labouring fecret dropped from his tong.

Whiles frequent fingults check'd his falt'ring tale, In modeft wife her head Paftora hong:

For never maid more chafte infpired fhepherd's fong.

What needs me to recount, in long detail,
The tender parley which these lemans held?
How oft he vow'd his love her ne'er fhould fail;
How oft the stream from forth her eyne outwell'd,
Doubting if conftancy yet ever dwell'd

In heart of youthful wight. Suffice to know,
Each rifing doubt he in her bosom quell’d.
So parted they, more blithsome both, I trow:
For rankling love conceal'd, me feems, is deadly woe.

Eftfoons to Lycon fwift the youth did fare,

(Lagg'd ever youth when Cupid urg'd his way?)

And ftraight his gentle purpose did declare,

And footh the mount'naunce of his herds difplay;
Ne Lycon meant his fuiten to forefay :
Be thine, Paftora,' quoth the masker fly,

And twice two thousand sheep her dower shall
Beat then the lover's heart with joyaunce high;

Ne dempt that aught his blifs could now betray,. Ne guefs'd that foul deceit in Lycon's bofome lay.

So forth he yode to feek his reverend fire;
(The good Euphormius, fhepherds him did call)
How fweet Paftora did his bofome fire!

Her worth, her promis'd flocks, he tolden all.

pay."

· Ah!