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AUTUMNAL leaves apace do fade,
And Winter shows its hoary head,
With clouds and winds auftere :
Th' enameli'd how'r in earth is laid,
And lies conceal'd in Nature's bed,
Till Sol revolves the year.
The feather'd throng prepare for flight,
The woods no shelter yield at night ;
Unrob'd their bow'rs appear :
The sportsman views, with true delight,
The new-reap'd fields expose to fight
The haunts of tim'rous hare,
To town, my Lord, with eager haste
Repairs, and makes his dwelling place
At Arthur's or at White's :
Nor time her Ladyship doth waste,
But seeks the route the oft hath grac'd,
And fhone at whift whole nights.
The streets shall now with flambeaux blaze;
The gay resort to balls and plays,
And Winter's joys pofless;
While sons of mirth in roundelays,
At festive board their voices raise,
And Bacchus' pow'r confess.
The foldier now, from direful War,
Retires with honourable scar,
With Cælia to engage :
While she, more bright than morning star,
Poffefs'd with ev'ry grace and air,
Unequal War doth wage.
The Pluralist, with simp'ring cheek,
And stall-fed skin so smooth and sleek,
His tything circuit ends :
Tho' tythes he once a year doth seek,
His Curate preaches once a week,
But oft with poor amends :
The Rector touches all the pelf,
And Curate ftarves t'enrich himself,
God's word is Mammon made :
While he, a lazy pamper'd elf,
Scarce pulls a book from off the shelf:
His function is a trade,
The Doctor, just at death arrivd,
Fearing of fee to be depriv'd,
Ere ended is the farce ;
To finish recipe he striv'd,
That done, or live or die he's brib'd,
Alfur'd it is his last.
ON THE DEATH OF DR. ROBERT LEVET.
CONDEMN'D to Hope's delufive mine,
As on we toil from day to day,
By sudden blasts, or low decline,
Our social comforts drop away.
Well tried thro’many a varying year,.
See Levet to the grave descend;
Officious, innocent, fincere,
Of ev'ry friendless name the friend.-
Yet still he fills Affection's eye,
Obscurely wise, and coarsely kind;
Nor, letter'd Arrogance, deny
Thy praise to merit unrefin'd.
When fainting Nature callid for aid,
And hov'ring Death prepar'd the blow,
His vig'rous remedy display'd
The pow'r of Art without the show.
In Mis’ry's darkest caverns known,
His useful care was ever nigh;
Where hopeless Anguish pour'd his groang
And lonely Want retir'd to die.
No summons mock'd by chill delay,
No petty gain disdain'd by pride ;
The modest wants of ev'ry day,
The toil of ev'ry day supplied.
His virtues walk'd their narrow round,
Nor made a pause, nor left a void;
And sure th'Eternal Master found
His fingle talent well employ'd.
The busy day, the peaceful night,
Unfelt, uncounted, glided by ;
His frame was firm, his powers were bright,
Tho' now his eightieth year was nigh.
Then with no throbbing fiery pain,
No cold gradations of decay,
Death broke at once the vital chain,
And forc'd his soul the nearest way.
Of all the trinkets that the toilet grace, ,
The Pincushion deserves the highest place.
When balls or operas invite the fair,
How could she set her knots, or curl her hair,
Did not th' important pin each air supply,
Subduing stubborn plaits that stand awry?
The little pin still finds an useful place
In mobs, in lappets, and in Brussels lace :
The modest Pilgrim o'er the shoulders draws,
Or from the well-plac'd peeper gains applause ;
In every office it performs is blest,
Now to her eye is nearest, now her breast.
Others may to the milliner repair,
But Sylvia deigns not to he furnish'd there :
Cupid himself supplies her magazines,
And works his pointed arrows into pins:
No wonder ev'ry look fnou'd wound a heart,
Each Corkin that adorns her is a dart.