Imatges de pàgina
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No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate exteuds,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

In imitation of Dean Swift.
Logicians have but ill defin'd
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,
By ratiocipations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Ilomo est ratione proditum;
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erriug creature.
That instinct is a surer guide,
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride,
And that brute beasts are far before 'em,
Deus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
Al law his neighbour prosecute,
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery!
O'er plains they ramble upconlin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals and take their sport,
Nor koow who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest frieud, a foe;

They never importune his Grace,
Nor over cringe to men in place,
Nor undertake a dirty job,
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with lovective they ne'er go,
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each others' throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us la human shape;
Like man,

be imitates each fashion,
And malico is his ruling passion;
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Bebold him bumbly cringiog wait
Upon the minister of state ;
View him soon after to laferiors
Aping the condact of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in bis turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
Aud footmen, lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small,
Behave allko, for all ape all.

EPIGRAM ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

Sure't was by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.

BTANZAS
ON THR TAKING OF QURBRC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFB.
Amidst the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
0, Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour sled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes:
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

STANZAS,
Weeping, murmuring, complaining,

Lost to every gay delight;
Myra, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection?

Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,

She long had wanted cause of fear.

TO IRIS,

TIK GIFT.
IN BOW-STRERT, COTEXT-GARDEN.

Imitated from the French.
Say, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make

Expressive of my duty ?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize

The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give and let 'em;
If gems, or gold, impart a joy,

I'll give them -- when I get 'em.
I'll give — but not the full-blown rose,

Or rose-bud more in fashion;
Such short-liv'd ofl'rings but disclose

A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil :
I'll give thee - ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee - to the devil.

AN ELEGY

ON TAB GLORY OF IBR SBX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

Good people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word

From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,

And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,

Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,

With manners wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,

Unless when she was singing.
At church, in silks and satics new,

With hoop of monstrous size;

She never slumber'd in her pew,

But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,

By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has followed her, -

When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,

Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,

Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.

DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BED-CHAMBER. Where the Red Lion staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's bult, and Parson's black champaign, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug; A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread : The royal Game of Goose was there in view, And the Twelve Rules the royal martyr drew; The Seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face. The morn was cold, be views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire: With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d, And give crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney board; A night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night - a stocking all the day! Goldsmith.

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