PITY: AN IMPROMPTU.

HAVE been robb'd, Sir-I pity your grief.
I've loft my poem-I pity the thief.

CONSOLATION.

THE HIGH-CROWN'D HAT: A PINDARIC

STORY.

BY ONE OF THE FAMILY.

[From the Oracle.]

LOOD pious reader, no offence I hope!

Go

Though a church-tale be mine, 't is not profane;

I fcorn to fatirize e'en Turk or Pope,

Or faints of Drury or of Warwick Lane.

Once, an old woman (as I've heard the story),
Refolving the 'd no more a heathen live,
Would of her piety example give,

So drefs'd herself for church, in all her glory.
"T was in the country-Reader, pray mark that—
Where feldom folks difguise their native faces;
Yet the old lady had a high-crown'd hat

She thought would mightily call forth her graces.
How old might be this venerable relic

The mufe not gueffes; but thus much can tell,
When Cromwell rul'd the roaft, with cant angelic,
Hats of that fort look'd very well,

Were quite the mode, and fince ten times I ween
In London have the tip-top fashion been;
But in the country, 't is another thing;

There people wear their clothes to keep them warm,
In ruffet brown, as fine as any King;
Though not quite fashionable, where's the harm?
Yet was this hat of drefs a blazing comet,

A prodigy indeed,

Whence did fuch terror-darting beams proceed,

That few came near, but pray'd deliverance from it.
Wits have fhort mem'ries, or I fhould have faid,
That honeft Gammer was not deeply read;
I 6

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In fact, she had not master'd A, B, C,
(Call'd Alphabet by fome, as much to feek
In their own language as in Greek,)
Nor held of literary door the key;
Yet, footh to fay,

She juft as able was to read as pray.
The church not occupies a ruftic's brain,

He goes just to be chriften'd, to be wed,
And thither carried by his friends when dead;
At other times he thinks attendance vain,
Nor goes five miles in house of pray❜r to fleep,
But naps it out at home, or counts his theep.
And our Old Lady had not feen the place

Since there the Prieft threw water in her face;
Nor what to do, when the to church was come,
Knew, fhe declar'd, no more than Pope of Rome!
Well, Sunday came; and, clad in all her beft,
Away to church fhe hied with lofty creft;
But fince old age must hobble, and not run,
Ere fhe got there was Litany begun.
As ftately down the aifle fhe made her way,
Her figure drew full many a ftaring eye;
And many a gaping mouth forgot to pray,
As the pafs'd by!

Nay, Piety itfelf would look afkance,
To fee this ftrange phenomenon advance.
Alternate with the Prieft, the pious crowd
With one accord twang'd out refponfes loud,.
Which our old Gammer heard with admiration,
But could not guefs what meant this exclamation;
For though fome bawl'd amain, and fome but mutter'd,
"Good Lord, deliver us," was all they utter'd.

At length the devil whifper'd in her ear,
'T was at her high-crown'd hat that all this noife
Was made by men and women, girls and boys,
And was an infult far too grofs to bear.
Now did fhe pass a buxom damfel by,
Who, raifing from her book a roguifh eye,
Pronounc'd" Good Lord deliver us," in a tone
Th' old woman thought might vex a very stone!

Anger

Anger betrays us from the paths of grace,
Nor pays refpect to perfons, time, or place;
So honeft Gammer, like with rage to burst,
Exclaims, "Indeed! your impudence be curft;
Good Lord deliver us! heigh? you giggling w
Did you ne'er fee a high crown'd hat before!"
Say, reader, art thou apt to take offence,
Quarrel, and fquabble or each flight pretence;
Fretful and jealous, thinking ev'ry tongue,
Which names thee not, yet ineans to do thee wrong?
Look at thyfelf-If fo, my ftory 's pat,

Thou 'rt the old woman in the high-crown'd hat.

LINES ADDRESSED TO R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ

ΟΝ THE NATIONAL INSTITUTE OF FRANCE ELECTING HAYDN IN PREFERENCE TO HIM.

ΤΗ

HOUGH dumb the lyre that Orpheus once infpir'd, By brutes e'en follow'd, and by all admir'd; Though great Apelles' far fam'd colours die, Colours that feem'd with Nature's tints to vie; Though the proud buft from Praxiteles' hand, Nor brafs, nor marble, can decay withstand; Though all the arts unrivall'd Athens gave, Temples, Pantheons, fhare one common graveYet Homer lives, whom ev'ry age admires, Undamp'd his genius, and unquench'd his fires :: So when poor Haydn feeks Oblivion's fhore, And his "Creation" is ne'er thought of more ; Thy works, oh Brinfley! fhall exalt thy fame, And crowded theatres admire thy name, Where Niagara rolls her foaming waves, And all the fhores the wild Atlantic lavesWhere Europe's standards never were unfurl'd, Through the wide regions of the western world;: When great Columbia's unfledg'd, rifing power Surpaffes Rome, in her meridian hourWhen Albion, fhipwreck'd by Corruption's gale Serves for a beacon, or “adorns a tale.”

HAYDN

'TIS

HAYDN AND ORPHEUS.

IS faid of old, when Orpheus thrum'd his lute, The flicks and ftones he mov'd to tell his fame: It may be true; for Haydn's German flute

In France has lately done the very fame.

BORE,

THE GAMES OF LIFE.

[From the Morning Herald.]

THE little Mifs at three years old
Plays with doll, and prattles:
But little Master, stout and bold,
Plays with drums and rattles.
The Boy, detefting mufty books,
Loves romping with the laffes:
And Mifs, grown older, ftudies looks,
And plays with looking-glaffes.
The Jolly Toper, fond of fun,

Plays with his friends at drinking:
The Sportfinan plays with dog and gun,
And Wife Men play at thinking.
The Beauty, full of haughty airs,
When young plays at tormenting;
But, wrinkled, turns to other cares,
And sports at last repenting.
Wretched from felf-created woe,
The Mifer's game is hoarding;
And when he meets his country's foe,
The Sailor plays at boarding.

The Alderman, with bloated face,
A Glutton plays at eating;
And fuch as long to have a place
In Parliament at treating.
We, ledger-bufied Merchants, take
A game at calculation;

And Minifters too often make
A plaything of the Nation.

With looks profound, and thoughtful mind,
Projectors play at scheming;

Till, worn with care, at last they find,

They 've all along been dreaming.

The Lover fad, and woful wan,
Plays day and night at fretting;
Whilft laughing at the filly man,
His Delia fports coquetting.
Cowards, with none but cowards nigh,
Are fond of gafconading;
And Courtiers fawn, and cringe, and lie,
And play at masquerading.

The Lounger plays at killing time,
The Soldier plays at flaying,
The Poet plays at making rhyme,
The Methodist at praying.

The Player plays for wealth and fame,

And thus all play together,

Till Death at last disturbs the game,
And stops the play for ever.

Greenwich.

A CATALOGUE RAISONNE'

H. P. O.

AT

THE

OF SOME OF THE PRINCIPAL CHARACTERS DUTCHESS OF BEDFORD'S MASQUERADE AT WOBURN ABBEY, ON TWELFTH NIGHT, JAN. 6, 1804.

[From the Morning Chronicle.]

WHAT a ftrange rabble-rout was collected together!

Two fcarcely alike, yet all birds of a feather! There were Turks without harams, if not without wives; Though horn'd with the crefcent, yet Chriftian their lives! Who, in Mahomet's spite, guzzled wine with their cake;— And Jews, who pay intereft much more than they take; Dull Wits, for ftale jokes who their memories were jogging; Sturdy Beggars, who never had met with a flogging; Pious Nuns, whofe fad tears had a mifchievous twinkle; Old Witches, without a grey hair or a wrinkle : A fweet little Girl, who foon chang'd to a Boy; A group of young Miffes, nor bashful nor coy,

Whofe