Let these prefer a levee's harmless talk,
Be ask'd how often, and how far they walk,
Proud of a fingle word, nor hope for more,
Tho' Jenkinson is bleft with many a score;
For other ears my honest number found,
With other praise those numbers fhall be crown'd,
Praise that shall spread, no pow'r can make it less,
While Britain boasts the bulwark of her press.
Yes, fons of Freedom! yes, to whom I pay,
Warm from the heart, this tributary lay;

65

That lay shall live, tho' Court and Grub-street figh,
Your young Marcellus was not born to die.
The mufe fhall nurfe him up to man's estate,
And break the black afperity of fate-
Admit him then your candidate for fame,
Pleas'd if in your review he read his name.

70

75

Tho' not with Mason and with Goldsmith put,
Yet cheek by jowl with Garrick, Colman, Foote, 80
But if with higher Bards that name you range,

His modesty must think your judgment ftrange-
So when o'er Crane-Court's philofophic Gods,
The Jove-like majefty of Pringle nods,

If e'er he chance to wake on Newton's chair,
He "wonders how the devil he came there."

Verse 76. And break the black afperity of fate.]
"Si qua fata afpera rumpas,

ðz

Tu Marcellus eris."

VIRG.

What

Whate'er his fame or fate, on this depend→→→
He is, and means to be, his country's friend.
'Tis but to try his ftrength that now he sports
With Chinese gardens, and with Chinese courts: 90
But if that country claim a graver strain,

If real danger threat fair Freedom's reign,
If hireling P**rs, in prostitution bold,
Sell her as cheaply as themselves they fold;
Or they, who honour'd by the People's choice,
Against that People lift their rebel voice,
And bafely crouching for their paltry pay,
Vote the best birthright of her fons away,
Permit a nation's in-born wealth to fly
In mean, unkingly prodigality;

Nor, e'er they give, ask how the fums were spent,
So quickly fquander'd, tho' fo lately lent

If this they dare, the thunder of his fong,

Rolling in deep-ton'd energy along,

95

100

Shall strike, with Truth's dead bolt, each mifcreant's

name,

Who, dead to duty, fenfelefs e'en to fhame,
Betray'd his country. Yes, ye faithlefs crew,
His mufe's vengeance shall your crimes pursue,
Stretch you on Satire's rack, and bid you lie
Fit garbage for the hell-hound, Infamy.

105

ODE TO MR. PINCHBECK, UPON HIS NEWLY IN VENTED PATENT CANDLE SNUFFERS. BY MAL

COLM M'GREGOR, ESQ; AUTHOR OF THE HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, AND THE HEROIC POSTSCRIPT.

Quoufque ergo fruftrà pafcemus ignigenum iftum ?

Apuleii Met. Lib. 7. Why should a Patent be granted to this Candle-Snuffer in vain ?

I.

ILLUSTRIOUS Pinchbeck! condescend,
Thou well-belov'd, and beft King's-Friend,
These lyric lines to view;

O may they prompt thee, ere too late,
To fouff the candle of the state,

That burns a little blue.

II. It

ADVERTISEMENT.

Ever fince my first publication, the curiofity, not to say anxiety, of the world concerning my name, has been fo great, that it has frequently given me pain to conceal what the world will now fee it was not poffible in my power to discover.

In fhort, I had no name, till the royal favour lately restored my very antient and honourable clan to its priftine title and honours. I was therefore in the fame deplorable cafe with a certain nameless lady, whom I have long had the honour to call my neighbour, and who, I fincerely hope, will foon, by the fame favour, be restored to

that

IV.

Come then, ingenious artist, come
And put thy finger and thy thumb
Into each polifh'd handle;

On thee alone our hopes depend,

Thy King's, and eke thy Country's friend,
To trim Old England's candle.

V.

But first we pray, for its relief,
Pluck from its wick each Tory thief,
It elfe muft quickly rue it ;

*While N- and M- fputter there,
Thou'lt ne'er prevent, with all thy care,

The melting of the fuet.

VI.

There's Twitcher too, that old he-witch,
Sticks in its bole as black as pitch,

* These initials, like thofe in the Banns of Marriage publishcd between N, and M. may be fill'd up at the reader's plea

fure.

Vide Common Prayer Book.

+ And