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And then sail back, amid the cannon's roar, --
As safe, as sage, as when he left the shore.

Such is thy pow'r, O Goddess of the song,
Come then and guide my careless pen along; 504
Yet keep it in the bounds of sense and verse,
Nor, like Mac-Homer, make me gabble Erse.
No, let the flow of these spontaneous rhymes
So truly touch the temper of the times,
That he who runs may read; while well he
knows

550. I write in metre, what he thinks in prose; So shall my song, undisciplin’d by art, Find a sure patron in each English heart. If this it's fate, let all the frippery things » Be-plac'd, be-penfion'd, and be-ftarr'd by Kings, 6o: Frown on the page, and with fastidious eye, Like old young Fannius, call it blafphemy..

The noble per

Verse 52. Nor like Mac- Homer.) See; if the reader thinks it worth while, a late translation of the Iliad.

Verse 62. Like old young Fannius.) sonage here alluded to, being asked to read the Heroic Epif-' tle, said, “ No, it was as bad as blasphemy."

Ibid. Fannius.) Before I sent the MS to the press, I discovered, that an accidental blot had made all but the first syllable of this name illegible. I was doubtful,' therefore, whether to print it Fannius or Fannia. After much deliberation, I thought it best to use the masculine termination. If I have done wrong, I ask pardon, not only of the Author, but the Lady:

The Editor.

Let

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Let these prefer a levee's harmless talk,
Be alk'd how often, and how far they walk,
Proud of a single word, nor hope for more, 65
Tho' Jenkinson is blest with many a score ;
For other ears my honest number found,
With other praise those numbers shall be crown'd,
Praise that shall spread, no pow'r can make it less,
While Britain boasts the bulwark of her press. 70
Yes, sons of freedom ! yes, to whom I pay,
Warm from the heart, this tributary lay;
That lay shall live, tho' Court and Grub-street

figh,
Your young Marcellus was not born to die.
The Muse shall nurse him up to man's estate, 75
And break the black asperity of fate-
Admit him then your candidate for fame,
Pleas'd if in your review he read his name,
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 strange-
So when o'er Crane-Court's philosophic Gods,
The Jove-like majesty of Pringle nods,
If e'er he chance to wake on Newton's chair, 85.
He " wonders how the devil he came there."

Verse 76. And break the black asperity of fate.)

« Si qua fata aspera rumpas, 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 strength 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, 95 Against that people lift their rebel voice, And basely crouching for their paltry pay, Vote the best birthright of her sons away, Permit a nation's in-born wealth to fly In mean, unkinzly prodigality; Nor, e'er they give, ask how the sums were spento So quickly squander'd, tho' so lately lent If this they dare, the thunder of his song, Rolling in deep-ton'd energy along, Shall strike, with Truth's dead bolt, each misa creant's name,

105 Who, dead to duty, senseless e’en to shame, Betray'd his country. Yes, ye faithless crew, His Muse's vengeance shall your crimes pursue, Stretch you on satire's rack, and bid you

lie Fit garbage for the hell-hound, Infamy.

100

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ODE YO MR. PINCHBECK, UPON HIS NEWLY-INVENTED PATENT CANDLE-SNUFFERS. BY MALCOLM M'GRE. GOR, ESQ; AUTHOR OF THE HEROIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM CHAMBERS, AND THE HEROIC POSTSCRIPT I

Quousque ergo fruftrà pascemus 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 best King's Friend,

These lyric lines to view ;
O! may they prompt thee, e'er too late,
To snuff the candle of the state,
That burns a little blue.

It

| A D V ERTI SEM EN T.

Ever since my first publication, the curiosity, not to say anxiety, of the world concerning my name, has been so great, that it has frequently given me pain to conceal what the world will now see it was not possible in my power to discover,

In short, I had no name, till the royal favour lately reftored my very antient and honourable clan to its priftine title and honours. I was therefore in the same deplorable case with a certain nameless lady, whom I have long had the honour to call my neighbour, and who, 1 fincerely hope, will:

foong

It once had got a stately wick,
When in its patent candlestick

The Revolution put it :
As white as wax we saw it shine
Thro' two whole lengths of BRUNSWICK's line, -

Till B fira dar'd to smut it.

III.

Since then--but wherefore tell the tale ?
Enough, that now it burneth pale,

And sorely wastes its tallow:
Nay, if thy poet rightly weens,
(Tho' little skill'd.in ways and means)

Its Save-all is but shallow.

foon, by the fame favour, be restored to that title, which, upon my honour, I believe, she has erroneously, and not in. tentionally forfeited.

I have only to add, that now, when the public is in possession of my real name, it will not, I hope, suffer any national prejudice to prevent it from receiving this my first lyrical attempt with its former caudour. But I must needs say, that if this Ode does not sell as well as Mr. CUMBERLAND's, I shall be apt to impute it, not to any inferiority of lyrical ordonance, but merely to its having been written by a s Scotchman.

Knightsbridge, May 6th, 1776.

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