Damp'd, like wet blankets, its afpiring flame, And the glad stars refponfive tun'd their choirs To follow thofe who lighted her to church. Then Halifax, my Lord, as you do yet, And Heav'n, nay even man repaid him well. THE late Lord E-g-e was not only a man of pleasure, but of fine parts, great knowledge, and original wit. In him we have the most affecting example, how health, fame, ambition, every thing, are drawn into that most deftructive of all whirlpoolsgaming. No man was ever more calculated by nature to serve the public, and charm fociety-I fhall leave the fhades of this picture unfinished, as, perhaps, they were not wholly owing to his own indiscretion, but his F's rigor. To give an idea of his light, eafy vein of wit and poetry, we shall pre sent the reader with the following fable, well known to be written by him, and never published before. FABLE OF THE ASS, NIGHTINGALE, AND KID. BY THE LATE LORD E -Trabit fua quemq; voluptas. ONCE on a time it came to pass, Let's have a tune-ay, come, let's stop, F4 SEATED SEATED one day in a warm bofom of hills, covered with evergreens, with a final trout ftream running through the middle, 1 reflected on the fafhion of Englishmen repairing to Nice, in Piedmont, for the establishment of health, as arifing more from the love of change in general, than to answer any falutary purposes. The accounts of the remarkable inclemency of the season at that place, and the death of two men of confequence, gave rife to the following lines. ODE TO HEALTH. WRITTEN MARCH 10, 1775. IN vain ye feek the warmer sky, Where Var rolls down her Alpine tide, And flow'rs unfold their varied dye, In earlier fragrance by its fide: Yet whom a length of well-fpent years deprefs, Dowdeswell in vain invok'd the maid, Or on the hill, or milder dale; But found her not amid the glade, A river that lifes in the Aips, and runs by Nice. There There-but fuch lofs what time will fee fupplied!! Britons, your trueft, firmeft patriot genius died.. For lo! with wreath fantastic crown'd, She treads this folitary scene; And lightly trips thefe woodlands round, Glides gently down the murmuring stream below, blow. From youth, thee, ruftic nymph, I woo'd, And faw thee wanton on the thorn. Far more, the humble fhrub and poorer cell, Thou lov'ft than in th' intemp'rate air of courts to dwell. But tho' thy influence benigni To me produce unclouded days, Yet true Contentment is not mine, Unless you claim my Laura's praise, And bid her blood with livelier impulfe flow, From grief the refcues the opprefs'd, Of virtuous indigence and care. Thus from corroding fear and want fet free, She bids them Heav'n address-then facrifice to thee. AN EPIGRAM ON A CERTAIN LADY'S COMING INTO THE ROOM BY MR. POTTER. CHASTE Dian's crefcent on her front difplay'd, BY |