How do I laugh, when, with affected air, (Scarce able, thro' despite, to heep his chair, Whilst on his trembling lip pale anger speaks, And the chaf'd blood flies mounting to his cheeks)

He talks of Conscience, which good men secures From all those evil moments guilt endures, And seems to laugh at those who pay regard To the wild ravings of a frantic bard!

Satire, whilst envy and ill humour sway "The mind of man,must always make her way; "Nor to a bosom with discretion fraught

Is all her malice worth a single thought: "The Wise have not the will, nor Fools the "pow'r

"To stop her headstrong course; within the hour,

"Left to herself, she dies; opposing strife "Gives her fresh vigour, and prolongs her life. "All things her prey, and ev'ry man her aim, "I can no patent for exemption claim;

Nor would I wish to stop that harmless dart "Which plays around, but cannot wound my "heart:

"Tho' pointed at myself, be Satire free; "To her 'tis pleasure, and no pain to ine." Dissembling wretch! hence to the Stoic school,

And there amongst thy brethren play the fool; There unrebuk'd, these wild, vain doctrines preach:

Lives there a man, whom Satire cannot reach?
Lives there a man, who calmly can stand by,
And see his conscience ripp'd with steady eye?
When Satire flies abroad on Falsehood's wing,
Short is her life, and impotent her sting;
But, when to Truth allied, the wound she gives
Sinks deep, and to remotest ages lives.
When in the tomb thy pamper'd flesh shall rot,
And e'en by friends thy men'ry be forgot,
Still shalt thou live, recorded for thy crimes,
Live in her page, and stink to after-times.
Hast thou no feeling yet? Come throw off
pride,
[hide.
And own those passions which thou shalt not
S, who, from the moment of his birth,
Made human nature a reproach on earth;
Who never car'd, nor wish'd behind to stay,
When Folly, Vice, and Meanness, led the way,
Would blush, should he be told, by Truth and
Wit,

Those actions which he blush'd not to commit:
Men the most infamous are fond of fanie,
And those who fear not guilt, yet start at shame.
But whither runs my zeal, whose rapid force,
Turning the brain, bears Reason from her

And dar'd expose those slaves, who dar'd support A tyrant plan, and call'd themselves a Coun? Ah! what are Poets now? As slavish those Who deal in verse as those who deal in prose. Is there an Author, search the kingdom rouse, In whom true worth and real spirit's found? The slaves of Booksellers, or (doom'd by far To baser chains) vile pensioners of State? Some, dead to shame, and of those shackles proud

Which Honour scorns, for slav'ry roar alood; Others, half-palsied only, mutes become, And what makes Smollet write makes Johnson dumb.

Why turns yon' villain pale? why bends lis

make way

Into my breast, and flatter to betray:
Or, if those tricks are vain; if wholesome
Detects the frand, and points the villain
Bribe those who daily at my board are fed,
And make them take iny life who eat my br
On Authors for defence, for praise deperd
Pay him but well, and Murphy is thy fre
He, he shall ready stand with venal rhym
To varnish guilt and consecrate thy cricks
To make corruption in false colours shine.
And damn his own good name, to rescues

But if thy niggard hands their gifts withh
And Vice no longer rains down show'rs of
Expect no mercy; facts, well grounded, t
Murphy, if not rewarded, will impeach.
What tho' cach man of nice and juster thour-
Shunning his steps, decrees, by Honour fatis
He ne'er can be a friend who stoops so low
To be the base betrayer of a foe;
What tho', with thine together link'd, hisna
Must be with thine transmitted down to shar
To ev'ry manly feeling callous grown,
Rather than not blast thine, he 'll blast his or

To ope the fountain whence Sedition spring To slander Government, and libel Kings; With Freedom's name to serve a present bow Tho' horn and bred to arbitrary pow'r; To talk of William with insidious art, Whilst a vile Stuart 's lurking in his heart; And, whilst mean Envy rears her loathsam Flatt'ring the living, to abuse the dead, her

Where

Where is Shebbeare? O, let not foul reproach,
Travelling thither in a city coach,
The pill'ry dare to name;
the whole intent
Of that parade was fame, not punishment;
And that old, staunchWhig, Beardmore, stand-
Can in full court give that report the lie. [ing by,

With rude unnatʼral jargon to support,
Half Scotch, half English, a declining Court;
To make most glaring contraries unite,
And prove, bevond dispute, that black is white;
o make firm Honor tamely league with Shame,
Take Vice and Virtue differ but in name;
To

prove that chains and freedom are but one, That to be sav'd must mean to be undone, s there not Guthrie? Who, like him, can call Il opposites to proof, and conquer all? e calls forth living waters from the rock; e calls forth children from the barren stock; far beyond the springs of Nature led, akes women bring forth after they are dead; 2, on a curious, new, and happy plan, wedlock's sacred bands joins man to man; id, to complete the whole, most strange, but

true,

Some rare magic makes them fruitful too; hilst from their loius, in the due course of

So gentle, yet so brisk; so wond'rous sweet,
So fit to prattle at a lady's feet;

Who looks as he the Lord's rich vinevard trod,
And by his garb appears a man of God?
Trust not to looks, nor credit outward show;
The villain lurks beneath the cassock'd Beau;
That's an Informer; what avails the name?
Suffice it, that the wretch from Sodom came.

His tongue is deadly-from his presence run,
Unless thy rage would wish to be undone.
No ties can hold him, no affection bind,
And Fear alone restrains his coward mind.
Free him from that, no monster is so fell,
Nor is so sure a blood-hound found in hell.
His silken smiles, his hypocritic air,
His meek demeanour, plausible and fair,
Are only worn to pave Fraud's easier way,
And make gull'd Virtue fall a surer prey.
Attend his church-his plan of doctrine view,
The Preacher is a Christian, dull, but true;
But when the hallow'd hour of preaching's

d the life-blood run backward to her seat? st thou contrive, for some base private end, ne sclfish view, to hang a trusting friend, lure him on, e'en to his parting breath, I promise life to work him surer death? wn old in villany, and dead to grace,

in his heart, and Tyburn in his face: cold a Parson at thy elbow stands, v'ring damnation, and with open hands, e to betray his Saviour for reward,

o'er,

The plan of doctrine's never thought of more;
Christ is laid by neglected on the shelf,
And the vile priest is Gospel to himself.

And, whist he rails at blasphemy, blasphemes.

Are these the arts which Policy supplies? Are these the steps by which grave Church men rise?

Forbid it, Ileav'n! or, should it turn out so,
Let me, and mine, continue mean and low:
Such be their arts whom Interest controls;
Kidgell and I have free and honest souls?
We scorn preferment which is gain'd by Sin,
And will, tho' peor without, have peace within.

Me! me!-kill me! me, who bore him!
Spare the babe this bosom fed!
Ruffians from my cottage tore him,
Where he earn'd my daily bread.
Warrior, here, with rage unfeeling,
Here behold my white breast bare;
Dye it red, and plunge your steel in,
But my child, poor stripling, spare.
My age's solace!-for his father

Perish'd in the bloody field;
A babe he left me, which I'd rather
Than the gold the Indies yield.
Pledge of his love; and I did dearly
Love the father, in the child;
Slay us both, I beg sincerely;

On us both the earth be pil'd.
They sunk! but lo! a vision,

Cloud-clad ghosts unnumber'd rise; Pale, wan looks, that speak contrition; Blood-stain'd cheeks and hollow eyes, More in number than the ocean

Rolls the pebbles on its shore, See they come! and lo! a motion From a hand all red with gore! "Listen, listen, sons of sorrow, "Few and evil were your days; "To-day the cowslip buds, to-morrow "Low the scythe the cowslip lays. "We, like you, O! heed our warning, "Warriors were, all blythe and gay, "But we fell in life's bright morning, "Ere we knew the joys of day. "Sons of men, all doom'd to trouble, "Travelling quickly to the grave, Sheath the sword, for fame's a bubble; "Live to bless, Q live to save! "Life to be enjoy'd was given; "Such the will of him above; "Live and love, make earth a heaven, "God made men to live and love! "Hark! the skies with music ringing, "Silver sounds the concave fill; "Angels voices sweetly singing, "Peace on Earth, to men good-will."

Youth and beauty, lo! advance, Light and gay as love can be, Nimbly tripping in the dance, Clad in robes of Charity.

Babes and mothers lift the head,
Silk-clad trains of nymphs to see,
Beauty deals them daily bread,
Deck'd in silks of Charity.
Shiv'ring with the winter's wind,
Age, disease, and infancy,
In warm wool their cold limbs bind;
Silk's the dress of Charity.
Lovely ladies at the ball,

Lovelier still, if that can be,
Rob'd in silk, in Pleasure's hall,
Dance the dance of Charity.

§ 257. On the late Queen of France. Ir thy breast soft pity knows, O! drop a tear with me; Feel for the unexampled woes Of widow'd royalty.

Fallen, fallen, fallen from a throne! Lo! beauty, grandeur, power; Hark! 'tis a queen's, a mother's moan, From yonder dismal tower.

I hear her say, or seem to say, "Ye who listen to my story, "Learn how transient beauty's day, "How unstable human glory. "And when ye hear that I was frail, "O! think what now I bear, "Heed not the page of scandal's tale, "But blot it with a tear."

§ 258. Verses, by DR. GLYNN. TEASE me no more, nor think I care

Tho' monarchs bow at Kitty's shrine; Or powder'd coxcombs woo the fair, Since Kitty is no longer mine. Indifferent 'tis alike to me,

If my favourite dove be stole,
Whether its dainty feathers be
Pluck'd by the eagle or the owl.
not for me its blushing lips
The rose-bud opens, what care I
the od'rous liquid sips,
The king of bees, or butterfly?
Like me, the Indians of Peru,

Rich in mines of golden ore, Dejected, see the merchant's crew Transport it to a foreign shore. Seeks the slave despoil'd, to know, Whether his gold in shape of lace Shine on the coat of birth-day beau, Or wear the stamp of George's face?

The Lotos of Egypt; a Poem. By the Rev. T. MAURICE.

EMBLEM sublime of that primordial power

That brooded o'er the vast chaotic wave, Accept my duteous homage, holy flower,

As in thy favorite flood my limbs I lave. From Ethiopia's lofty mountains roll'd, Where Nile's proud stream thro' gladden'd' Egypt pours, fold,

In raptured strains thy praise was hymn'd of And still resounds on Ganges' faithful shores!

Within thy beauteous coral's full-blown bell Long since the immortals fix'd their fondabode; [dwell, There day's bright source, OSIRIS, loved to While by his side enamour'd Isis glow'd. Hence, not unconscious to his orient beam, At dawn's first blush thy radiant petals spread,

Drink deep the effulgence of the solar stream, And, as he mounts, still brighter glories shed.

When at the noon-tide height his fervid rays

In a bright deluge burst on CAIRO's plains, With what new lustre then thy beauties blaze,

Full of the God, and radiant with its fires! Brilliant thyself, in store of dazzling white

Thy sister plants more gaudy robes unfold; This flames in purple-that intensely bright,

Amid th' illumin'd waters burns in gold. To brave the tropics' fiery beam is thine,

Till in the distant west his splendours fade; Then too thy beauty and thy fire decline,

With morn to rise in lovelier charms array'd. Thus from Arabia borne, on golden wings,

The Phoenix on the sun's bright altar dies; But from his flaming bed, refulgent, springs, 'And cleaves, with bolder plume, the sapphire skies.

What mystic treasures in thy form conceal'd Perpetual transport to the sage supply; Where nature in her deep designs reveal'd, Awes wondering man, and charms th' exploring eye.

In thy prolific cup, and fertile seeds,

Are traced her grand regenerative powers; Life springing warm from loath'd putrescence breeds, [flowers. And lovelier gerins shoot forth and brighter Nor food to the enlighten'd mind alone, Substantial nutriment thy root bestow'd; In famine's vulture fangs did Egypt groan, From thy rich bounteous horn abundance flow'd.

Hence the immortal race in Thebes revered, Thy praise the theme of endless rapture made; Thy image on an hundred columns rear'd, And veil'd their altars with thine hallow'd

shade.

But