For 'Buxom Joan' he sung the doubtful strife, How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

To louder strains he raised his voice, to tell
What woful wars in Chevy Chase' befell,
When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn;
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!'

Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crowned,
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps,
By future bards be wailed in doleful dumps.

All in the land of Essex' next he chaunts,
How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants:
How the grave brother stood on bank so green-
Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seized with a religious qualm,
And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm.
He sung of Taffy Welsh' and 'Sawney Scot,'
'Lilly-bullero' and the Irish Trot.'

Why should I tell of Bateman' or of 'Shore,'
Or Wantley's Dragon' slain by valiant Moore,
'The Bower of Rosamond,' or 'Robin Hood,'
And how the grass now grows where Troy town stood?'
His carols ceased: the listening maids and swains
Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains.
Sudden he rose, and, as he reels along,
Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song.
The damsels laughing fly; the giddy clown
Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown;

The power that guards the drunk his sleep attends,
Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.

[Walking the Streets of London.]

[From Trivia."]

Through winter streets to steer your course aright,
How to walk clean by day, and safe by night;
How jostling crowds with prudence to decline,
When to assert the wall, and when resign,
I sing; thou, Trivia, goddess, aid my song,
Through spacious streets conduct thy bard along;
By thee transported, I securely stay
Where winding alleys lead the doubtful way;
The silent court and opening square explore,
And long perplexing lanes untrod before.
To pave thy realm, and smooth the broken ways,
Earth from her womb a flinty tribute pays;
For thee the sturdy pavior thumps the ground,
Whilst every stroke his labouring lungs resound;
For thee the scavenger bids kennels glide
Within their bounds, and heaps of dirt subside.
My youthful bosom burns with thirst of fame,
From the great theme to build a glorious name;
To tread in paths to ancient bards unknown,
And bind my temples with a civic crown:
But more my country's love demands my lays;
My country's be the profit, mine the praise!

When the black youth at chosen stands rejoice,
And clean your shoes' resounds from every voice;
When late their miry sides stage-coaches show,
And their stiff horses through the town move slow;
When all the Mall in leafy ruin lies,
And damsels first renew their oyster cries;
Then let the prudent walker shoes provide,
Not of the Spanish or Morocco hide;

The wooden heel may raise the dancer's bound,
And with the scalloped top his step be crowned:
Let firm, well-hammered soles protect thy feet
Through freezing snows, and rains, and soaking sleet.
Should the big last extend the shoe too wide,
Each stone will wrench the unwary step aside;
The sudden turn may stretch the swelling vein,
Thy cracking joint unhinge, or ankle sprain;
And, when too short the modish shoes are worn,
You'll judge the seasons by your shooting corn.
Nor should it prove thy less important care,
To choose a proper coat for winter's wear.

Now in thy trunk thy D'Oily habit fold,
The silken drugget ill can fence the cold;
The frieze's spongy nap is soaked with rain,
And showers soon drench the camblet's cockled grain;
True Witney broadcloth, with its shag unshorn,
Unpierced is in the lasting tempest worn:
Be this the horseman's fence, for who would wear
Amid the town the spoils of Russia's bear?
Within the roquelaure's clasp thy hands are pent,
Hands, that, stretched forth, invading harms prevent.
Let the looped bavaroy the fop embrace,
Or his deep cloak bespattered o'er with lace.
That garment best the winter's rage defends,
Whose ample form without one plait depends;
By various names? in various counties known,
Yet held in all the true surtout alone;

Be thine of kersey firm, though small the cost,
Then brave unwet the rain, unchilled the frost.

If the strong cane support thy walking hand,
Chairmen no longer shall the wall command;
Even sturdy carmen shall thy nod obey,
And rattling coaches stop to make thee way:
This shall direct thy cautious tread aright,
Though not one glaring lamp enliven night.
Let beaux their canes, with amber tipt, produce;
Be theirs for empty show, but thine for use.
In gilded chariots while they loll at ease,
And lazily insure a life's disease;

While softer chairs the tawdry load convey
To court, to White's,3 assemblies, or the play;
Rosy-complexioned Health thy steps attends,
And exercise thy lasting youth defends.
Imprudent men Heaven's choicest gifts profane:
Thus some beneath their arm support the cane;
The dirty point oft checks the careless pace,
And miry spots the clean cravat disgrace.
Oh! may I never such misfortune meet!
May no such vicious walkers crowd the street!
May Providence o'ershade me with her wings,
While the bold Muse experienced danger sings!

Song.

Sweet woman is like the fair flower in its lustre,
Which in the garden enamels the ground;
Near it the bees, in play, flutter and cluster,
And gaudy butterflies frolic around.

But when once plucked, 'tis no longer alluring,
To Covent-Garden 'tis sent (as yet sweet),
There fades, and shrinks, and grows past all enduring,
Rots, stinks, and dies, and is trod under feet.

[The Poet and the Rose.]

[From the Fables."]

I hate the man who builds his name
On ruins of another's fame:
Thus prudes, by characters o erthrown,
Imagine that they raise their own;
Thus scribblers, covetous of praise,
Think slander can transplant the bays.
Beauties and bards have equal pride,
With both all rivals are decried:
Who praises Lesbia's eyes and feature,
Must call her sister' awkward creature?
For the kind flattery's sure to charm,
When we some other nymph disarm.
As in the cool of early day
A poet sought the sweets of May,
The garden's fragrant breath ascends,
And every stalk with odour bends;
A rose he plucked, he gazed, admired,
Thus singing, as the muse inspired-

1 A town in Oxfordshire.

2 A Joseph, wrap-rascal, &c.

3 A chocolate-house in St James's Street.

'Go, Rose, my Chloe's bosom grace;

How happy should I prove, Might I supply that envied place

With never-fading love!

There, Phenix-like, beneath her eye,
Involved in fragrance, burn and die.

Know, hapless flower! that thou shalt find
More fragrant roses there:

I see thy withering head reclined

With envy and despair!

One common fate we both must prove;
You die with envy, I with love."

'Spare your comparisons,' replied An angry Rose, who grew beside.

"Of all mankind, you should not flout us;
What can a poet do without us?
In every love-song roses bloom;
We lend you colour and perfume.
Does it to Chloe's charms conduce,
To found her praise on our abuse?
Must we, to flatter her, be made
To wither, envy, pine, and fade?'

The Court of Death.

Death, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terror sate:
The attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train!

Crowd the vast court. With hollow tone,
A voice thus thundered from the throne:
This night our minister we name,
Let every servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand.'

All, at the word, stretched forth their hand.
Fever, with burning heat possessed,
Advanced, and for the wand addressed:
'I to the weekly bills appeal,
Let those express my fervent zeal;
On every slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere.'

Next Gout appears with limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place;
From head to foot how swift he flies,
And every joint and sinew plies;
Still working when he seems supprest,
A most tenacious stubborn guest.

A haggard spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due:
"Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of love destroy.
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face,
Prove my pretension to the place.'

Stone urged his overgrowing force;
And, next, Consumption's meagre corse,
With feeble voice that scarce was heard,
Broke with short coughs, his suit preferred:
Let none object my lingering way;
I gain, Like Fabius, by delay;
Fatigue and weaken every foe
By long attack, secure, though slow.'
Plague represents his rapid power,
Who thinned a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand. Now expectation hushed the band, When thus the monarch from the throne: 'Merit was ever modest known. What, no physician speak his right! None here! but fees their toils requite. Let then Intemperance take the wand, Who fills with gold their zealous hand. You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest (Whom wary men as foes detest), Forego your claim. No more pretend; Intemperance is esteemed a friend;

He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all.'

The Hare and Many Friends.
Friendship, like love, is but a name,
Unless to one you stint the flame.
The child, whom many fathers share,
Hath seldom known a father's care.
'Tis thus in friendship; who depend
On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare, who in a civil way,
Complied with everything, like GAY,
Was known by all the bestial train,
Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain.
Her care was never to offend,
And every creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn,
To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn,
Behind she hears the hunter's cries,
And from the deep-mouthed thunder flies:
She starts, she stops, she pants for breath;
She hears the near advance of death;
She doubles, to mislead the hound,
And measures back her mazy round;
Till, fainting in the public way,
Half dead with fear she gasping lay;
What transport in her bosom grew,
When first the Horse appeared in view!
Let me, says she, your back ascend,
And owe my safety to a friend.
You know my feet betray my flight,
To friendship every burden's light.
The Horse replied: Poor honest Puss,
It grieves my heart to see thee thus;
Be comforted, relief is near,
For all your friends are in the rear.

She next the stately Bull implored,
And thus replied the mighty lord:
Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence; a favourite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But see, the Goat is just behind.

The Goat remarked her pulse was high,
Her languid head, her heavy eye;
My back, says he, may do you harm,
The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.

The Sheep was feeble, and complained His sides a load of wool sustained: Said he was slow, confessed his fears, For hounds eat sheep as well as hares. She now the trotting Calf addressed, To save from death a friend distressed. Shall I, says he, of tender age, In this important care engage! Older and abler passed you by; How strong are those, how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then. You know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu! For, see, the hounds are just in view!

The Lion, the Tiger, and the Traveller. Accept, young prince, the moral lay, And in these tales mankind survey;

With early virtues piant your breast,
The specious arts of vice detest.

Princes, like beauties, from their youth
Are strangers to the voice of truth;
Learn to contemn all praise betimes,
For flattery is the nurse of crimes:
Friendship by sweet reproof is shown
(A virtue never near a throne);
In courts such freedom must offend,
There none presumes to be a friend.
To those of your exalted station,
Each courtier is a dedication.
Must I, too, flatter like the rest,
And turn my morals to a jest!

The muse disdains to steal from those
Who thrive in courts by fulsome prose.
But shall I hide your real praise,
Or tell you what a nation says?
They in your infant bosom trace
The virtues of your royal race;
In the fair dawning of your mind
Discern you generous, mild, and kind:
They see you grieve to hear distress,
And pant already to redress.
Go on, the height of good attain,
Nor let a nation hope in vain ;
For hence we justly may presage
The virtues of a riper age.

True courage shall your bosom fire,
And future actions own your sire.
Cowards are cruel, but the brave
and delight to save.

Love mercy,

A Tiger, roaming for his prey, Sprung on a Traveller in the way; The prostrate game a Lion spies, And on the greedy tyrant flies; With mingled roar resounds the wood, Their teeth, their claws, distil with blood; Till, vanquished by the Lion's strength, The spotted foe extends his length. The man besought the shaggy lord, And on his knees for life implored; His life the generous hero gave. Together walking to his cave, The Lion thus bespoke his guest:

What hardy beast shall dare contest

My matchless strength? You saw the fight,
And must attest my power and right.
Forced to forego their native home,
My starving slaves at distance roam;
Within these woods I reign alone;
The boundless forest is my own.
Bears, wolves, and all the savage brood,
Have dyed the regal den with blood.
These carcasses on either hand,
Those bones that whiten all the land,
My former deeds and triumphs tell,
Beneath these jaws what numbers fell.

True, says the man, the strength I saw
Might well the brutal nation awe:
But shall a monarch, brave like you,
Place glory in so false a view?
Robbers invade their neighbour's right.
Be loved; let justice bound your might.
Mean are ambitious heroes' boasts

Of wasted lands and slaughtered hosts.
Pirates their power by murders gain:
Wise kings by love and mercy reign.
To me your clemency hath shown
The virtue worthy of a throne.
Heaven gives you power above the rest,
Like Heaven, to succour the distrest.

The case is plain, the monarch said;
False glory hath my youth misled;
For beasts of prey, a servile train,
Have been the flatterers of my reign.

You reason well. Yet tell me, friend,
Did ever you in courts attend?
For all my fawning rogues agree,
That human heroes rule like me.

Sweet William's Farewell to Black-Eyed Susan.
All in the downs the fleet was moored,
The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came aboard,
Oh! where shall I my true love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me truc,
If my sweet William sails among the crew?
William, who high upon the yard

Rocked with the billow to and fro,
Soon as her well-known voice he heard,

He sighed, and cast his eyes below:

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.

So sweet the lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear),
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.
O! Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain;
Let me kiss off that falling tear;

We only part to meet again.

Change as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee. Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind; They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find:

Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright, Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white.

Thus every beauteous object that I view,
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.

Though battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn;

Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.
The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard ;

They kissed, she sighed, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land, Adieu! she cries, and waved her lily hand.

A Ballad.

[From the 'What-d'ye-call-it ?"] 'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind,

A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look;

Her head was crowned with willows,
That trembled o'er the brook.
Twelve months are gone and over,
And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas!
Cease, cease thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

The merchant robbed of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure,
To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,
But none that loves you so.
How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain;
Why then, beneath the water,
Should hideous rocks remain?
No eyes the rocks discover

That lurk beneath the deep,
To wreck the wandering lover,
And leave the maid to weep.
All melancholy lying,

Thus wailed she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear.

When o'er the white wave stooping His floating corpse she spied,

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bowed her head, and died.

THOMAS PARNELL.

Another friend of Pope and Swift, and one of the popular authors of that period, was THOMAS PARNELL (1679-1718). His father possessed considerable estates in Ireland, but was descended of an English family long settled at Congleton, in Cheshire. The poet was born and educated in Dublin,

Thomas Parnell.

went into sacred orders, and was appointed archdeacon of Clogher, to which was afterwards added, through the influence of Swift, the vicarage of Finglass, in the diocese of Dublin, worth £400 a-year. Parnell, like Swift, disliked Ireland, and seems to have considered his situation there a cheerless and irksome banishment. As permanent residence at their livings was not then insisted upon on the part of the clergy, Parnell lived chiefly in London. He married a young lady of beauty and merit, Miss Anne Minchen, who died a few years after their union. His grief for her loss preyed upon his spirits (which had always been unequal), and hurried him into intemperance. He died on the 18th of October, 1718, at Chester, on his way to Ireland.

Parnell was an accomplished scholar and a delight-
ful companion. His life was written by Goldsmith,
who was proud of his distinguished countryman,
considering him the last of the great school that had
modelled itself upon the ancients. Parnell's works
are of a miscellaneous nature-translations, songs,
hymns, epistles, &c. His most celebrated piece is
the Hermit, familiar to most readers from their in-
fancy. Pope pronounced it to be very good,' and
its sweetness of diction and picturesque solemnity
of style must always please. His Night Piece on
Death was indirectly preferred by Goldsmith to
Gray's celebrated Elegy; but few men of taste or
feeling will subscribe to such an opinion. In the
'Night Piece,' Parnell meditates among the tombs.
Tired with poring over the pages of schoolmen and
sages, he sallies out at midnight to the churchyard-
How deep yon azure dyes the sky!
Where orbs of gold unnumbered lie;
While through their ranks, in silver pride,
The nether crescent seems to glide.

The slumbering breeze forgets to breathe,
The lake is smooth and clear beneath,
Where once again the spangled show
Descends to meet our eyes below.
The grounds, which on the right aspire,
In dimness from the view retire:
The left presents a place of graves,
Whose wall the silent water laves.
That steeple guides thy doubtful sight
Among the livid gleams of night.
There pass, with melancholy state,
By all the solemn heaps of fate,
And think, as softly sad you tread
Above the venerable dead,

'Time was, like thee, they life possessed,
And time shall be that thou shalt rest.'

Those with bending osier bound,

That nameless heave the crumbled ground,

Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where toil and poverty repose.

The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel's slender help to fame
(Which, ere our set of friends decay,
Their frequent steps may wear away),
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.
The marble tombs that rise on high,

Whose dead in vaulted arches lic,

Whose pillars swell with sculptured stones,

Arms, angels, epitaphs, and bones;

These all the poor remains of state,

Adorn the rich, or praise the great;

Who, while on earth in fame they live,

Are senseless of the fame they give.

The Hermit.

Far in a wild, unknown to public view,
From youth to age a reverend hermit grew;
The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell,
His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;
Remote from men, with God he passed his days,
Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise.
A life so sacred, such serene repose,
Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose-
That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey;
This sprung some doubt of Providence's sway;
His hopes no more a certain prospect boast,
And all the tenor of his soul is lost.
So, when a smooth expanse receives impressed
Calm nature's image on its watery breast,
Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow,
And skies beneath with answering colours glow;
But, if a stone the gentle sea divide,
Swift ruffling circles curl on every side,