THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

THE ADVENTURES OF

YOUNG WHIPSTITCH.

A TALE.

London Taylor (as 'tis faid,)

By buckram, canvas, tape, and thread,
Sleeve linings, pockets, filk, and twist,
And all the long expenfive lift,

With which their uncouth bills abound,
Though rarely in the garment found;
By thefe and other arts in trade,
Had foon a pretty fortune made;
And did what few had ever done,
Left thirty thousand to his fon.

}

The fon, a gay young fwagg'ring blade,
Abhorr'd the very name of trade,
And left reflection fhould be thrown
On him, refolv'd to leave the town,
And travel where he was not known.
In gilded coach and liv'ries gay,
To Oxford firft he took his way;
There beaux and belles his tafte admire,
His equipage and rich attire;
But nothing was fo much ador'd
As his fine filver hilted fword;

Though fhort and small, 'twas vaftly neat,
The fight was deem'd a perfect treat.
Beau Banter begg'd to have a look,
But when the fword in hand he took,

He (wore by Gad it was an odd thing,
And look'd much like a taylor's bodkin.
His pride was hurt by this expreffion,
Thinking they knew his fire's profeffion;
Sheathing his fword he sneak'd away,
And drove for Glo'fter that fame day.
There foon he found new caufe for grief,
For dining on fome fine roast beef,
One afk'd him which he did prefer,
Some cabbage or a cucumber.

The purfe-proud coxcomb took the hint,
Thought it fevere reflection meant;
His ftomach turn'd, he could not eat,
So made an ungenteel retreat:
Next day left Glo'fter in great wrath,
And bade his coachman drive to Bath.
There he fufpected fresh abuse,
Because the dinner was roaft goose;
And that he might no more be jeer'd,
Next day to Exeter he steer'd,

There with fome bucks he drank about,
Until he fear'd they'd found him out;
His glass not fill'd as was the rule,
They faid 'twas not a thimble full:
The name of thimble was enough,
He paid his reck'ning and went off.
He then to Plymouth took a trip,
And put up at the royal fhip,
Which then was kept by Caleb Snip.
The hoft by name was often call'd,
At which his gueft was so much gall'd,
That foon to Cambridge he remov'd,
There too he unsuccessful prov'd:
For though he fill'd his glass or cup,
He did not always drink it up.
The scholars mark'd how he behav'd,.
And faid a remnant should be fav'd.
The name of remnant gall'd him so,
That he refolv'd to York to go:
There fill'd his bumper to the top,
And always fairly drank it up :

}

"Well done, (fays Jack, a buck of York,) "You go thro' ftitch, Sir, with your work."

The name of flitch was fuch reproach, the bell and call'd his coach. But ere he went, inquiries made,

He rang

By what ftrange means they knew his trade:
You put the cap on and it fits,"
(Reply'd one of the Yorkshire wits ;)
"Our words, in common acceptation,
"Could not find out your occupation;
"'Twas you yourself gave us the clue,
“To find out both your trade and you.
"Vain coxcombs and fantastic beaux,
"In every place themselves expose;
"They travel far at vast expence,
"To fhew their wealth and want of fenfe;
"But take this for a standing rule,
"There's no difguife can fcreen a fool."

STANZAS.

BY MISS ELIZA RYVES.

A New-fallen lamb, as mild Emmeline paft,

In pity fhe turn'd to behold,

How it fhiver'd and shrunk from the merciless blaft, Then fell all benumb'd with the cold.

She rais'd it, and touch'd by the innocent's fate,
It's foft form to her bofom the prest ;
But the tender relief was afforded too late,
It bleated, and dy'd on her breaft.

The moralift then, as the corfe fhe refign'd,
And weeping, fpring-flow'rs o'er it laid:
Thus mus'd, "So it fares with the delicate mind,
"To the tempefts of fortune betray'd.

"Too tender, like thee, the rude fhock to fuftain,
"And deny'd the relief which would fave;
""Tis loft, and when pity and kindness are vain,
"Thus we dress the poor fufferer's grave."

SONNET. TO SLEEP.

BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.

NOME, balmy Sleep! tir'd nature's soft refort!
all thy poppies fhed;

And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus' airy court,
Float in light vifion round my aching head!
Secure of all thy bleffings, partial pow'r!

On his hard bed the peasant throws him down;
And the poor fea boy, in the rudeft hour,

Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clafp'd in her faithful fhepherd's guardian arms, Well may the village girl fweet flumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep!-ftill tafte thy charms, Who wake to labour, liberty, and love.

But ftill thy opiate aid doft thou deny,

To calm the anxious breast, to close the ftreaming eye.

AN ELEGY.

BY THE SAME.

ARK gath'ring clouds involve the threat'ning skies, of th'

Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arife;

They come—the Spirits of the Tempest come!

Oh! may fuch terrors mark th' approaching night,
As reign'd on that these ftreaming eyes deplore!
Flash, ye red fires of heav'n, with fatal light,
'And with conflicting winds, ye waters, roar !

Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows, burft!
'Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave!
'Till the wide waves o'erwhelm the spot accurft,

Where ruthless Av'rice finds a quiet grave!'

Thus with clafp'd hands, wild looks, and ftreaming hair, While fhrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,

Á wretched maid-the victim of despair, Survey'd the threat'ning ftorm and defart beach. Then to the tomb, where now the father flept, Whofe rugged nature bade her forrows flow, Frantic fhe turn'd—and beat her breast and wept, Invoking vengeance on the dust below.

'Lo! rifing there above each humbler heap, 'Yon cypher'd ftones his name and wealth relate, 'Who gave his fon-remorfelefs-to the deep, ‹ While I, his living victim, curse my fate. 'Oh! my loft love! no tomb is plac'd for thee, That may to ftrangers' eyes thy worth impart; Thou haft no grave, but in the ftormy fea, 'And no memorial, but this breaking heart. 'Forth to the world, a widow'd wand'rer driv'n,

I pour to winds and waves th' unheeded tear, Try with vain efforts to fubmit to heav'n, And fruitlefs call on him-" who cannot hear!"

'O might I fondly clafp him once again, While o'er my head th' infuriate billows pour, Forget in death this agonizing pain,

And feel his father's cruelty no more!

'Part, raging waters, part, and fhew beneath, In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form, Now, while the demons of despair and death Ride on the blaft, and urge the howling storm! Lo! by the light'ning's momentary blaze, 'I fee him rife the whit'ning waves above, 'No longer fuch as when in happier days 'He gave th' enchanted hours-to me and love. Such, as when daring the enchafed sea, And courting dang'rous toil, he often said, • That ev'ry peril one soft smile from me, One figh of fpeechlefs tenderness o'erpaid. But dead, disfigur'd, while between the roar

Of the loud wave his accents pierce mine ear, And seem to fay-Ah! wretch, delay no more, 'But come, unhappy mourner, meet me here.