NOON.

WRITTEN BY STEPHEN KEMBLE, ESQ.

NOW in the fouth the ardent god of day
Restrains the foaming courfers of his car;
And now the dial flaming with his ray,
Denotes the ruftic at his fimple fare.
He earns his food in the remoter scene;

In flaxen folds that fhame the lily's bloom,
His fun-burnt prattler rambles o'er the green,
To share the feast among the yellow broom.
'Contented Labour foon to work returns,

Her modeft thanks are borne above the skies; No poifon lurks within her delphen urnsThe dying groans from golden goblets rife. Now blooming damfels give the bubbling rill Their home-fpun vefts, and bleach them on the thorn; While the pert coxcomb poppies on the hill Nod their gay bells amid the waving corn. Now Vegetation through her countless hoft Feels in each fibre the creative power! Ecftatic Nature, in the tranfport loft,

Unfolds her odours to the fpangled shower, The bufy bee now rifles ev'ry sweet,

And ftores the luscious treasure for his hive; Now fwarming millions leave their dark retreat, And mountains, woods, and waters, are alive. And now the linnet on the poplar bough

Warbles in fofteft notes the song of love; The melting fair believes the pleafing vow

Take heed, ye nymphs, fly Cupid's in the grove! Down the parch'd cliffs now drive the bleating flocks, And seek the shelter of the spreading fhades; The fcorching heat, reflected from the rocks, Saps the kind moisture, and the herbage fades. The toiling peafant proftrate lays the grafs, And now exhaufted on his fcythe reclines; The fun-beam dancing on the wat❜ry glafs, Where, with a mimic beauty, Flora fhines.

The lufty bull now scours across the mead,
Stung by the hornet, bellowing out his pain;
And now the curfe pronounc'd on Adam's feed,
Drops from the ruftic's forehead fast as rain.
Yet, happy ruftic, low as is thy lot,

Still Joy and Peace, those nymphs of rofy hue,
With meek Content, live only in the cot

That shelters Labour from the evening's dew.

EPIGRAM

PIECE

ON OUR THEATRES ROYAL HAVING A NEW DD ON THE SAME EVENING AT EACH HOUSE*.

WHAT! two new dramas d--'d the self-same night!
The audience could not do it out of spite;

For had they been well charg'd with wit, perforce
Their pieces would have gone off well of courfe.

A VOLUNTEER.

ON A MODERN DRAMATIST.

NOT for the ftage his plays are fit,
But fuit the clofet," faid a wit:
"I ween

"The clofet!" said his friend;
The water-clofet 'tis you mean!"

IMPROMPTU.

HINT TO A MONO-DRAMATIST, HOW TO AVOID

DEA

DAMNATION.

EAR Mat, if again you should write for the stage,
Extinguish your madness and filence your rage:
Return to your nature; and, when you 're quite cool,
Be ftupidly flippant, or playfully dull;

It's the way to be fafe :-and the fecret is this,
When an audience all yawn, they're unable to hiss.

*The Three per Cents, and Scapin in Mafquerade.

Written about the time that the Captive was acted at Covent

Garden, March 22, 1803.

FITY;

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!

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 fhe'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 disguise 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 dress 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 short mem'ries, or I should have faid,
That honeft Gammer was not deeply read;

In fact, fhe 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 just 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 five miles in houfe of prayer to fleep,
goes
But naps it out at home, or counts his theep.
And our Old Lady had not seen 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 best,
Away to church fhe hied with lofty creft;
But fince old age must hobble, and not run,
Ere the got there was Litany begun.
As ftately down the aile fhe made her way,
Her figure drew full many a staring 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 guess 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 whisper'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 the pass a buxom damfel by,
Who, raising from her book a roguish eye,
Pronounc'd "Good Lord deliver us," in a tone
Th' old woman thought might vex a very one!

Ange

LINES ADDRESSED TO R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. 18г Anger betrays us from the paths of grace, Nor pays refpect to perfons, time, or place; So honest 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 on each flight pretence; Fretful and jealous, thinking ev'ry tongue, Which names thee not, yet means 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.

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

THOUGH 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 bust from Praxiteles' hand,
Nor brafs, nor marble, can decay withstand;
Though all the arts unrivall'd Athens gave,
Temples, Pantheons, fhare one common grave-
Yet 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 laves-
Where 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 hour-
When Albion, fhipwreck'd by Corruption's gale,
Serves for a beacon, or "adorns a tale."

HAYDN