Round and round go the cards, while I inwardly damn I lay down my stake, apparently cool, While the harpies about me all pocket the pool; 66 Pray what does Miss Horneck? Take courage, come, do." "Who-I? Let me see, sir; why, I must pass too." Mr. Bunbury frets, and I fret like the devil, To see them so cowardly, lucky, and civil; Yet still I sit snug, and continue to sigh on, Till made by my losses as bold as a lion, I venture at all; while my avarice regards The whole pool as my own. Come, give me five cards." "Well done," cry the ladies; "ah! doctor, that's goodThe pool's very rich. Ah, the doctor is loo'd." 66 Thus foil'd in my courage, on all sides perplex'd, I ask for advice from the lady that's next. 66 Pray, ma'am, be so good as to give your advice; "Don't you think the best way is to venture for 't twice ?" 66 But pray who have they pilfer'd ?" "A doctor, I hear." "What, that solemn-faced, odd-looking man that stands near ?" "The same." "What a pity! How does it surprise one, 66 "The younger the worse," I return him again; "It shows that their habits are all dyed in grain." "But then they're so handsome; one's bosom it grieves." "What signifies handsome when people are thieves ?" "But where is your justice? their cases are hard." "What signifies justice? I want the reward.” There's the parish of Edmonton offers forty pounds-there's the parish of St. Leonard, Shoreditch, offers forty poundsthere's the parish of Tyburn offers forty pounds: I shall have all that if I convict them. "But consider their case: it may yet be your own; And see how they kneel: is your heart made of stone ?" For ten pounds in hand, and ten pounds to be spent. I challenge you all to answer this. I tell you, you cannot: it cuts deep. But now for the rest of the letter; and nextbut I want room-so I believe I shall battle the rest out at Barton some day next week. I don't value you all! Henry, the second son of Sir William Bunbury, bart., was celebrated as an amateur artist. His lady was Miss Catherine Horneck. Her sister Mary was afterwards the wife of General Gwyn, one of the equerries of George III. Barton was the family seat of the Bunburys. THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS: SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES. This composition was not known to be Goldsmith's until several years after his death. It is said to have been written by desire of Lord Clare, as a tribute to the memory of his patron and mistress, Augusta, the relict of Frederick, Prince of Wales, and mother of George III. The princess died at Carlton House on the 8th of February, 1772; and this piece, which was written and composed in two days, was recited and sung at Mrs. Cornely's rooms in Soho-square, a very fashionable resort at the time, on the evening of the 20th of February. The music was adapted by Signor Vento. The speakers and singers were Mr. Lee, Mr. Champness, Mr. Dine, Mrs. Bellamy and Miss Jameson, besides choruses. Overture.-A solemn dirge. ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise, Chorus. When truth and virtue reach the skies, MAN speaker. The praise attending pomp and power, Are but the trappings of an hour Mere transitory things! The base bestow them; but the good agree But when to pomp and power are join'd When titles are the smallest claim When wealth, and rank, and noble blood But aid the power of doing good Then all their trophies last; and flattery turns to fame Bless'd spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, How hast thou left mankind for heaven! Alas! they never had thy hate; A thousand gifts would fortune send; A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end: Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood, Song.-By a MAN.-Affettuoso. In the hope of being bless'd. Every added pang she suffers, WOMAN speaker. Yet, ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate- Nor did the cruel ravagers design To finish all their efforts at a blow; But, mischievously slow, They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine. With unavailing grief, Death's growing power, And trembled as he frown'd. As helpless friends who view from shore The inevitable loss. Relentless tyrant, at thy call How do the good, the virtuous fall! Song.-By a MAN.-Basso.-Staccato.-Spiritoso. Fall, round me fall, ye little things; MAN speaker. Yet let that wisdom, urg'd by her example, When they have journey'd through a world of cares, Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables, May oft distract us with their sad solemnity: The preparation is the executioner. Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, And is a terror only at a distance; For as the line of life conducts me on To death's great court, the prospect seems more fair. |