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His Observations on the History of St. George were printed in the fifth volume of the Archaeologia, in answer, not only to Byrom, but to Dr. Pettingal, who, in 1760, expressed his unbelief in St. George, by a dissertation on the equestrian figure worn by the knights of the garter; Mr. Pegge is supposed to have refuted both. The controversy was, however, revived at a much later period (1795) by Mr. Milner of Winchester, who, in answer to the assertions of Gibbon, the historian, has supported the reality of the person of St. George, with much ingenuity.

It only remains to be noticed that The Lancashire Dialect, printed in Byrom's works, is here omitted as unintelligible to readers in general, and one or two other pieces are likewise rejected, which are offensively tinctured with political prejudices long and deservedly forgotten. Our poet's verses On buying the Picture of F. Malebranche, a pleasing jeu d'esprit, is now added from Mr. Nichols' Collection of Fugitive Poetry.

Byrom's devotional pieces are entirely preserved. Those composed on the collects, and on subjects connected with the great festivals of our church, will not, I think, suffer much by a comparison with those of Watts, but it must be confessed that Cowper, in our own times, has given a peculiar and elegant simplicity to this species of poetry which none of his predecessors attained.

PREFACE

TO THE EDITION PUBLISHED IN 1773 IN TWO VOLUMES OCTAVO.

THE publication of the following sheets is in compliance with the request of many of Mr. Byrom's friends, who were much pleased with some of his poetical compositions which had casually circulated in his life-time. Much might here be said of the author's learned and poetical talents; but it does not seem to be the business of an editor to endeavour to anticipate the reader's judgment.-By it's own intrinsic worth, and the candid opinion of the public, the following work is left to stand or fall.

A deference due to the public may however make it necessary to assure them, that the poems here presented are the genuine production of Mr. Byrom. They are carefully transcribed from his own manuscripts; but as many of them were written rather for private, than for public perusal, it is hoped that all favourable allowance will be made for small inaccuracies.

The reader may be surprised perhaps to find in these volumes so many learned and critical questions discussed in verse.-This is indeed a singularity almost peculiar to our author: but he had so accustomed himself to the language of poetry, that he always found it the easiest way of expressing his sentiments upon all occasions. He himself used to give this reason to his friends for treating such subjects in so uncommon a method; and it is presumed, that if they are not found deficient in other respects, the novelty of the manner will be rather a recommendation than otherwise.

At a time when party disputes are so happily subsided, it may seem to want an apology, that in the following collection some few pieces are inserted, which appear to be tinctured with a party spirit'. A small attention however will convince the warmest partizan, that what Mr. Byrom has written of this cast was intended to soften the asperity, and prevent the mischiefs of an over-heated zeal. Since this was the author's chief motive for writing, it is imagined no other apology will be necessary for the publication of such pieces.

The great truths of Christianity had made, from his earliest years, a deep impression upon the author's mind; and as it was his manner to commit his sentiments of every kind to verse, so he had a peculiar pleasure in employing his pen upon serious subjects.-To the purposes of instruction, and the interests of virtue, all his abilities were ever made subservient. This will appear, more particularly, from the second volume of the following sheets, in which it was thought proper to select such pieces as treat on subjects of a deeper and more important nature. The reader, it is not doubted, will be pleased to find that the author's natural talent for wit and humour has so often given place to something more solid and substantial.

Some of these are omitted in the present edition. C.

POEMS

OF

JOHN BYROM.

A PASTORAL.

RITTEN BY THE AUTHOR, WHEN A STUDENT AT
TRINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE, AND FIRST
PRINTED IN THE EIGHTH VOLUME OF THE
SPECTATOR.

Y time, O ye Muses, was happily spent,
When Phoebe went with me wherever I went;
en thousand sweet pleasures I felt in my breast:
re never fond shepherd like Colin was blest!
ut now she is gone, and has left me behind,
hat a marvellous change on a sudden I find!
Then things were as fine as could possibly be,
thought 'twas the Spring; but alas! it was she.
With such a companion to tend a few sheep,
> rise up and play, or to lie down and sleep:
vás so good-humour'd, so cheerful and gay,
y heart was as light as a feather all day,
at now I so cross, and so peevish am grown;
strangely uneasy, as never was known.
y fair one is gone, and my joys are all drown'd,
d my heart-I am sure it weighs more than a
pound.

The fountain, that wont to run sweetly along,
d dance to soft murmurs the pebbles among;
ou know'st, little Cupid, if Phoebe was there,
was pleasure to look at, 't was music to hear:
now she is absent, I walk by its side,
d still, as it murmurs, do nothing but chide;
st you be so cheerful, while I go in pain?
ce there with your bubbling, and hear me com-
plain.

My lambkins around me would oftentimes play,
d Phoebe and I were as joyful as they,
pleasant their sporting, how happy their
time,

en Spring, Love, and Beauty were all in their
prime;

now, in their frolics when by me they pass, ng at their fleeces an handful of grass;

still then, I cry, for it makes me quite mad, you so merry while I am so sad.

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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:
Be as dull as his master, when Phoebe's away?
And I'll give him another; for why should not Tray

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, tho' all are still there,
They none of them now so delightful appear:
'Twas nought but the magic, I find, of her eyes,
Made so many beautiful prospects arise.

Sweet music went with us both all the wood
thro'.

The lark, linnet, throstle, and nightingale too;
Winds over us whisper'd, flocks by us did bleat,
And chirp went the grasshopper under our feet.
But now she is absent, tho' still they sing on,
The woods are but lonely, the melody's gone:
Her voice in the consort, as now I have found,
Gave ev'ry thing else its agreeable sound.

Rose, what is become of thy delicate hue?
And where is the violet's beautiful blue?
Does ought of its sweetness the blossom beguile?
That meadow, those daisies, why do they not
smile?

And made yourselves fine for--a place in her
Ah! rivals, I see what it was that you drest,
You put on your colours to pleasure her eye,
breast:
To be pluck'd by her hand, on her bosom to die.

How slowly Time creeps, till my Phoebe return!
While amidst the soft Zephyr's cool breezes I burn;
Methinks if I knew whereabouts he would tread,
I could breathe on his wings, and 'twould melt
down the lead.

Fly swifter, ye minutes, bring hither my dear,
And rest so much longer for't when she is here.
Ah Colin! old Time is full of delay,
[say.
Nor will budge one foot faster for all thou canst

Will no pitying pow'r, that hears me complain, Or cure my disquiet, or soften my pain?

To be cur'd, thou must, Colin, thy passion remove;
But what swain is so silly to live without love?
No, deity, bid the dear nymph to return,
For ne'er was poor shepherd so sadly forlorn.
Ah! what shall I do? I shall die with despair;
Take heed, all ye swains, how ye part with your
fair.

A DESCRIPTION OF TUNBRIDGE,

IN A LETTER TO P. M. ESQ.

DEAR Peter, whose friendship I value much more,
Than bards their own verses, or misers their store;
Your books, and your bus'ness, and ev'ry thing
else,

Lay aside for a while, and come down to the Wells:
The country so pleasant! the weather so fine!
A world of fair ladies! and delicate wine!
The proposal, I fancy, you'll hardly reject,
Then hear, if you come, what you are to expect.

Some sev'n or eight mile off, to give you the meeting,

Barbers, dippers, and so forth, we send to you greeting.

Soon as they set eyes on you, off flies the hat, Does your honour want this, does your honour want that?

That being a stranger, by this apparatus [at us. You may see our good manners, before you come Now this, please your honour, is what we call Tooting,

A trick in your custom to get the first footing.

Conducted by these civil gen'men to town You put up your horse, for rhyme sake at the Crown: [word My landlord bids welcome, and gives you his For the best entertainment the house can afford: You taste which is better, his white, or his red, Bespeak a good supper, good room, and good bed: In short- -just as travellers do when they light,

So, to fill up the stanza—I wish you good night.

But then the next morning, when Phoebus appears, cheers, And with his bright beams our glad hemisphere You rise, dress, get shav'd, and away to the walks, The pride of the place, of which ev'ry one talks: There I would suppose you a drinking the waters, Didn't I know that you come not for any such matters;

But to see the fine ladies in their dishabille,
A dress that's sometimes the most studied to kill.

The ladies you see, ay, and ladies as fair,
As charming, and bright as you'll see any where:
You eye, and examine the beautiful throng,
As o'er the clean walks they pass lovely along;
And if any, by chance, looks a little demurer,
You fancy, like ev'ry young fop, you could cure
her:

Till from some pretty nymph a deep wound you receive,

And yourself want the cure, which you thought you could give.

Not so wounded howe'er, as to make you forget, That your honour this morn has not breakfasted yet;

So to Morley's you go, look about, and sit down; Then comes the young lass for your honour's half

crown;

She brings out the book, you look wisely upon her "What's the meaning of this?""To subscribe. please your honour:"

[ye

So you write, as your betters have all done before 'Tis a custom, and so there's an end of the story

And now, all this while, it is forty to one But some friend or other you've happen'd upon: You all go to church, upon hearing the bell, tell Whether out of devotion-yourselves best car From thence to the tavern to toast pretty Nancy Th' aforesaid bright nymph, that had smitten yo fancy;

[mands Where wine and good victuals attend your com And wheatears, far better than French ortolans.

Then, after you've din'd, take a view of o ground,

[roun

And observe the fine mountains that compass And, if you could walk a mile after your eating There's some comical rocks, that are worth co templating;

You may, if you please, for their oddness an make,

[o' Peak Compare 'em let's see to the De'el's A They're one like the other, except that the wond Does here lie above ground, and there it lies unde

To the walks, about seven, you trace back yo way,

[day Where the Sun marches off, and the ladies mal What crowding of charms! gods! or rather go desses!

[and dress

What beauties are here! what bright looks, an In the room of the waters had Helicon sprung, And the nymphs of the place by old poets be sung, [reas To invite the gods hither they would have ha And Jove had descended each night in the seas If with things here below we compare things high,

The walks are like yonder bright path in the s Where heavenly bodies in such clusters mingle, 'Tis impossible, sir, to describe 'em all single: But if ever you saw that sweet creature Miss KIf ever you saw her, I say, let me tell ye, Descriptions are needless; for surely to you, No beauty, no graces, can ever be new.

But when to their gaming the ladies withdraw Those beautics are fled, which when walking

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