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Could you but lose it, and some star arise
To guide me to the wifh'd-for precious prize,
I'd then unravel each alluring grace

My eye that rivets, but denies th' embrace;
And prove each feeming fally of caprice
Is but the coquetry of love's device:
Thus have we often feen fair Luna's ray
In fportive dalliance on a riv'let play,
Vexing the bofom of the murm'ring stream
With all the gambols of a chequer'd beam;
Till the inconftant winds her veil remov'd,
When all was brightness to the stream she lov'd.

THE CHOICE.

BY HENRY FOX COOPER.

MIRANDA, fair as op'ning day,
With eyes of heav'nly blue,

And lips as fweet as new-mown hay,
One morn tripp'd o'er the dew;
Her fteps towards the garden bent,
To view her fragrant flow'rs;
For thither led by young Content,
She'd pass fome pleasant hours.
That morn a beau was by her fide,
Who fought her heart to move;
But fhe, of innocence the pride,
Had never thought of love.
To mark the beauties, Nature's claim,
Was all her wish and care;
And thus, to turn his am'rous flame,
She spoke with sprightly air:
"Come! tell me whether you admire
Thefe charming flow'rs fo gay;
And which of them you'd moft defire,
Rofes or tulips, pray?

"Your rofes, Ma'am," the beau replied,
"Are charming to my eyes;
But then-" (poor Amorofo figh'd,).
"Your two-lips most I prize!"

H.

THE

THE following little Poem has lately been in circulation at Tunbridge Wells. It conveys a delicate compliment to the prefent father of English poetry, the juftice of which will hardly be difputed by thofe who have the advantage of knowing him. It is understood to be the joint compofition of Mrs. Riddell and Sir James Burges : rumour afcribes to the former the first three ftanzas, and the remainder to the latter.

WITH the Mufes and Nature once loit'ring, quoth Time, "Your skill you might better employ,

Than in idly contriving fuch works to fublime,

4

As one stroke of my fcythe can destroy."

"Peace, boafter! your laws," cried a Mufe, "you will find One pupil of ours can defy :

Your touch has improv❜d the rich stores of his mind,
Without quenching the fires of his eye."

"See, where CUMBERLAND files as our content he hears, And difplays, as a proof of this truth,

With the treasures of science and knowledge of years,

The spirit and graces of youth."

"Scoff on," Time replied; "the example you bring
As a proof of my pow'r may be fhewn:

The Mufes and Graces may boast of his Spring,
But his Winter I claim as my own.

"You, Nature! endow'd him with talents, 't is true,
And his mind by the Mufe was allur'd;

Yet 't was I who directed the fhoot as it grew,
And by me was his harvest matur’d.

"Of your gifts I allow you to fay what you will,
But here I affert my own claim;

I confefs you 're the guardians of Helicon's rill,
But I keep the 1 empie of Fame."

"Be content," cried Apollo," and hear what I fay;
Te may equally claim him as ours:

We

At his birth I illumin'd his foul with my ray;

You, each, have augmented his powers.

H 6

"To

"To make him immortal then let us unite,

And wide, like his worth, be his praise:
Set our Riddell at work his encomium to write,
Let her hand weave his Chaplet of Bays."

LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MR. JOHN KIRBY,

LATE KEEPER OF NEWGATE PRISON.

HENCE be the dictates of obtrufive mirth,
Far hence the levity of thoughtlefs fouls,

While to the manes of departed worth

The folemn knell of diffolution tolls.

To each flow found, that strikes the lift'ning ear,
The heart refponfive heaves the fad reply,
With fome kind act remembrance holds most dear,
And burdens each recital with a figh.

Though plac'd the scenes of wretchedness to scan,
(Too apt to harden the accustom❜d heart,)
Yet was he known the feeling friend of man,
And oft to mis'ry would a fmile impart.

His was the active charity, to footh

The guilty wretch his efforts could not fave :-
How few, like him, will have the wish to smooth
The paffage to an ignominious grave!

The haplefs fufferers, for crimes expell'd→→
Whofe every hope with liberty is gone,
Will ever blefs the gentle hand, that held
Power unabus'd—a thing almost unknown.

E'en in the fad receptacle of woe

Will tears of fympathy for once be shed,
Not for themselves-but for this public blow-
Tears-that can best embalm the honour'd dead.
F. L. M.

AN EXCUSE FOR PREJUDICE.

[From the General Evening Poft.]

WHEN prejudice fetters the judgment of man,
It impairs nice diftinctions of thought;

But the fentiment let us applaud when we can,
For 't is often from principle caught.

Foth

Both kindred and country are themes to extol,
Which a Cynic alone will deride:
'T is from principle Roger careffes his Moll,
Nay-is vain to announce her his bride;

For, perhaps, none except his fond felf will admit
That rotundity argues true grace,
Or a masculine beard for a female is fit,

Or that carbuncles mend a fair face.

This impulfe, methinks, is moft kindly ordain'd:
For if, guided by tafte, all were wife,
What rude favage clans to our fhores would be gain'd,
Their old native haunts to despise!

If feminine beauty to all were the fame,
What charms would our females difclofe!
But their want of true ornament fome would proclaim—
As a ring, or a bone-through the nose.

The Efquimaux prizes his dear native home,
The Hottentot too does the fame ;

And the former prefers his rude hut to the dome,
The latter his unction-to fame.

Aye, and proudly they vaunt their refpective delights,
Their fources of comfort and ease;

The one boafts his prowess in tomahawk fights,
The other his talent-to grease.

When national vigour in arms is the theme,

Let us look at our true British Tar:

That Frenchmen fhould threaten-to him is a dream,

And he's glum-that they keep off so far ;

"For," fays Jack, "if fo be that they start from their holes,
And fhew their lank jaws on the main,
We'll fo pepper their Frenchified foup-meagre fouls,
That they never shall flink home again!"

This prejudice furely is dear to us all,
For it ferves our proud land to uphold;
And never shall tyranny Britain appal,
Whilst her tars are fo ready and bold.
Carey Street.

LEANDER.

A PETER

A PETER-PINDARIC ODE.

BY OLD NICK.

S Joan, one eve, according to the plan
Of many Dames as wife as can be,
Trudg'd to a neighb'ring houfe-the Granby-
To fetch away her good old man;
She found him, as the story goes,
Sprawling in the street

With feet

In kennel, taking a comfortable doze.
"What, holla, John!" the Dame, now cries,
"You drunken beaft, arife!"

At the well-known voice, John op'd his eyes ;

But,

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He mumbled out, his teeth between,
"Put, put more clothes upon my feet,
And take (the moon fhone bright)

Take, take away the light."

THE LAST BOTTLE.

THE TOPING PUNSTER'S ADDRESS TO HIS LAST BOTTLE

OF PINE RUM.

BY OLD NICK.

Si quid adhuc ego fum, muneris omne tur eft.

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TRISTIUM lib. I. Eleg. VI.

GRIEVE to fee thee go so fast,
My warmest friend, my neareft, laft!
Rich fon of Sugar, Sweet'ning ftrife,
To me the greatest sweet of life:
No dry companion thou, but mellow,
And fure, of all, the rummeft fellow:

Oft,

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