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WRITTEN BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ; POET,
LAUREAT, AND PERFORMED AT ST. JAMES's on
Ye western gales, whose geniat breath
One verdant livery wears :
And dry the morning's tears.
alone. Why therefore, in yon dubious sky, With out-spread wing, and eager eye
On distant scenes intent,
Suspend some great event?
But strives to smooth'th' unruly flood
Your genuine powers exert';
And humanize the heart !
Propitious gales, Owing your way!
Whence temper'd freedom springs,
Bring peace upon your wings !
WRITTEN, OR RATHER SPOKEN, BY A GEN.
TLEMAN, AT COMING INTO A COFFEE
HOUSE, FROM THE ABOVE MUSICAL ENTER-
no more of the breezes-some wine and
tobacco, A plague on his weit, 'tis an arrant * firocco ; As I live the damn'd poet has brought 'em to
Then he talk'd, filly fellow, of tumult and war,
Time was, that a laureat sweetly would fing Of the virtue, or valour, or wit of the king. That time is no more, and we now cannot hear, Any praise of our monarch once in a year.
* A pestilential fouth-west wind.
“ A south-west blow on ye
Caliban, Tempeft, Sea. IV,
But has he forgot it, or has he not known, What his queen to the world of her bounty hath
shown? And how the great folk went to see it, and kiss it? What an op'ning there was, zounds how could
he miss it! Here's his majesty's health ; if his course he can
keep, he'll Be father, as well as be king of his people : For he shall beget him a nation of princes, When this shall be flain, to fubdue his provinces.
Here's health to the king; to his queen more
of her dues ; To his poet more wit to display his beit virtues ; To his council more wisdom (may heaven foon
send it) And freedom to those who have hearts to defend it.
Oft to these walls the pilgrim grey,
With labour'd travel worn; Has haften'd at the parting day,
And shelter'd till the morn.
The poor way farer, distant bound,
His feeble limbs less toil'd wou'd find,
Yet-leave his soul behind.
No longer echoes round the hall;
The strange romantic tale ;
The laugh o'er nut-brcwn ale.
Hope droops! whilft o'er each gothic room,
And pity mourns the ruin'd feat;
Here, fixes her retreat.
Back Aly reflection-truth severe !
Let fancy for a while,
To + WINNINGTON a smile.
+ The buss of Lord Pembroke and Mr. Winnington, the minister, in the parlour; remarkable for such countenanccs.