RECITATIVE.

Foremost, and leaning from her golden cloud,
The venerable Margaret fee-
Welcome, my noble fon, fhe cries aloud,
To this thy kindred train and me,
Pleas'd in thy lineaments to trace
A Tudor's fire, a Beaufort's grace!
AIR.

Thy liberal heart, thy judging eye
The flow'r unheeded fhall defcry,
And bid it round heav'n's altars fhed
The fragrance of its blufhing head,
Shall raise from earth the latent gem,
To glitter on the diadem!

RECITATIVE.

Lo Granta waits to lead her blooming band,
Not obvious, not obtrusive she;

No vulgar praife, no venal incenfe flings,
Nor dares with courtly tongue refin'd
Profane thy inborn royalty of mind;
She reveres herself and thee!

With modeft pride, to grace thy youthful brow
The laureat wreaths that Cecil wore fhe brings,
And to thy juft, thy gentle hand
Submits the fafces of her fway,

While fpirits blefs'd above, and men below
Join with glad voice the loud fymphonious lay!
GRAND CHORUS.
Thro' the wild waves as they roar,

With watchful eye, and dauntless mien,
Thy steady courfe of honour keep;
Nor fear the rocks, nor feek the fhore,-
The ftar of Brunswick shines ferene,
And gilds the horrors of the deep.

An EPISTLE, imitated from HORACE, to Lord COBHAM, by Mr. POPE.

INCEREST critic of my profe or rhyme,

Tell how thy pleafing Stowe employs thy time:

Say, Cobham, what amuses thy retreat;

Or fchemes of war, or ftratagems of state?
Or doft thou give the winds afar to blow
Each vexing thought and heart-devouring woe,
And fix thy mind alone on rural fcenes,
To turn the level'd lawns to liquid plains;
To raise the creeping rills from humble beds,
And force the latent fprings to lift their heads;

On watery columns capitals to rear,

That mix their flowing curls with upper

air?

Or doft thou, weary grown, thefe works neglect,
No temples, ftatues, obelisks, ere&t;

But meet the morning breeze from fragrant meads,
Or fhun the noon-tide ray in wholesome shades,
Or flowly walk along the mazy wood,
To meditate on all that's wife and good;
For nature, bountiful, in thee has join'd
A perfon pleafing with a worthy mind;
Not given the form alone, but means and art,
To draw the eye, or to allure the heart.
Poor were the praise in fortune to excel,

Yet want the means to ufe that fortune well.
While thus adorn'd, while thus with virtue crown'd,
At home in peace, abroad in arms renown'd;
Graceful in form, and winning in address,
While well you think what aptly you exprefs;
With health, with honour, with a fair eftate,
A table free, and elegantly neat ;

What can be added more to mortal blifs ?
What can he want who ftands poffeft of this?
What can the fondeft wishing mother more
Of Heav'n attentive for her fon implore?
And yet a happiness remains unknown,
Or to philofophy reveal'd alone,

A precept which, unpractis'd, renders vain
Thy flowing hopes, and pleasure turns to pain.
Should hope, or fear, thy heart alternate tear,
Or love, or hate, or rage, or anxious care,
Whatever paffions may thy mind infest,
(Where is that mind that paffions ne'er molest?)
Amidit the pangs of fuch inteftine strife,
Still think the present day the last of life;
Defer not 'till to-morrow to be wife,
To-morrow's fun to thee may never rife;
Or fhould to-morrow chance to chear the fight
With her enliv'ning and unlook'd for light,
How grateful will appear her dawning rays!
As favours unexpected doubly please.

Who thus can think, and who fuch thoughts purfues,
Content may keep his life, or calmly lofe:

All proof of this thou may'ft thyfelf receive,
When leifure from affairs will give thee leave,
Come, fee thy friend retir'd without regret,
Forgetting care, or trying to forget;
In eafy contemplation foothing time

With morals much, and now and then with rhyme;

Not

Not fo robust in body as in mind,

And always undejected, though declin'd;
Not wond'ring at the world's new wicked ways,
Compar'd with those of our forefathers days;
For virtue now is neither more or less,
And vice is only varied in the dress.
Believe it, men have ever been the fame,
And all the golden age is but a dream.

LOG

PROLOGUE to the ROMAN FATHER, afted at the Theatre at Bristol, on Friday, July 14, 1769.

For the FAMILY of the late Mr. POWELL.

Written by Mr. COLMAN. Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.

the art,

A fhort-liv'd anguifh feizes on the heart :
Tears, real tears he fheds, feels real pain,
But the dream vanish'd, he's himself again.
No fuch relief, alas! his bofom knows,
When the fad tear from home-felt forrow flows:
Paffions cling round the foul, do all we can-
He plays no part, and can't shake off the man.
Where'er I tread, where'er I turn my eyes,
Ι
Of my loft friend new images arife.

Can I forget that from our earliest age,
His talents known, I led him to the stage?
Can, I forget, this circle in my view,

His firft great pride-to be approv'd by you?
His foul, with ev'ry tender feeling bleft,
The holy flame of gratitude poffeft.

Soft as the stream yon facred fprings impart,
The milk of human kindness warm'd his heart.
Peace, peace be with him!-May the present stage
Contend, like him, your favour to engage!
May we, like him, deferve your kindness fhown,
Like him, with gratitude that kindness own!

So fhall our art pursue the noblest plan,

And each good actor prove an honest man,

RUBRILLA: TRUE BEAUTY.

By Dr. CLANCY, of Durrow in Ireland.
Cui flavant religas comam. HORAT.

W

HEN the weak brain imagin'd beauty warms,
The meanest Mopfey has ten thousand charms.
On her black head if fable horrors ftare;
Or deadly palenefs damps her languid hair;
Shrewd fimiles from jet and pearl are fought,
In all the wild extravagance of thought.

Not fo when fair Rubrilla's radiance bright
Shines to the eye, and cheers the ravish'd fight.
Her lovely hue a genial heat infpires,
And kindles love by ftrong refulgent fires.
Ting'd with etherial light her treffes flow;
With lively bloom and fprightly vigour glow.
High on her lofty front has nature fpread
A pleafing garland of delightful red:
Illuftrious red! magnificently bright,

By Newton found the strongest beam of light;
Prime of all colours !-on the monarch's throne
In robes majestic is it's luftre fhown.

Red are those blufhes which ferenely grace,
The modeft beauties of the virgin's face;.
Intrinfic particles of red compofe
The fanguine clove, and aromatic rofe:]
The ruby lip invites to balmy love,

And fportive Nereids haunt the coral grove.
Couch'd in red locks delighted Cupids lie;
Thence their keen darts and pointed arrows fly,
Such was the golden fleece which Jafon bore
In joyful triumph from the Colchian fhore.
Britain's red flag commands the fubje&t main;
In ev'ry heart Rubrilla's ftreamers reign.
Through feas of blood undaunted heroes fly,
And fteep their laurels in that glorious die.
Young Ammon redden'd at the Granic flood,
And bath'd in red victorious Granby flood.
A fiery beard foreboding comets trail,
And fine court ladies drag a fiery tail :
Tranflated to the ftarry realms on high,
Rubrilla's hair shall future Flamsteads spy :
There fhall the ram, and staring bull, admire
To fee that blaze which fet the world on fire.

The

The JUDICIOUS BACCHANAL.

HILE the bottle to humour, and focial delight,
The smallest affiftance can lend;

WH

While it happily keeps up the laugh of the night,
Or enlivens the mind of a friend;

O let me enjoy it, ye bountiful powers,
That time may deliciously pafs,

And should Care ever think to intrude on my hours,
Scare the haggard away witlr the glass.

But, instead of a rational feast of the sense,
Should Discord prefide o'er the bowl,
And folly, debate, or contention commence,
From too great an expansion of foul:

Should the man I efteem, or the friend of my breast,
In the ivy feel nought but the rod :
Should I make fweet religion a profligate jest,
And daringly sport with my God,

From my lips dafh the poison, O merciful fate,
Where the madness or blafphemy hung,
And let every accent, which virtue fhould hate,
Parch quick on my infamous tongue.

From my fight let the curfe be eternally driven,
Where my reafon fo fatally stray'd,

That no more I may offer an insult to heaven,
Or give man a cause to upbraid.

The TEA-SPOON. Occafioned by Dr. HILL's prescribing a Teas Spoonful of every Medicine to every Patient indifcriminately.

H

APPY Tea-fpoon, which can hit

Dr, Hill's unequall'd wit.

Patients young, and patients old;
Patients hot, and patients cold,
Patients tender, patients tough,
A Tea-fpoon full is juft enough.
If with tea you shake your frame,
Ör with drams your head inflame,
Or with beef your paunch o'er-ftuff,
A Tea-fpoon full is just enough.
If in court, with brief in hand,
Or at bar, you trembling ftand,
Take the dofe, fear no rebuff,
A Tea-fpoon full is just enough
VOL. XII.

R

What