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WRITTEN BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ; POET,

LAUREAT, AND PERFORMED AT ST. JAMES's on
THE FOURTH OF JUNE, 1776, BY HIS MAJESTY'S
BAND OF MUSICIANS.

1

Ye western gales, whose geniat breath
Unbinds the glebe, 'till all beneath

One verdant livery wears :
You footh the fultry heáts of noon,
Add softnefs to the setting fun,

And dry the morning's tears.
This is your season, lovely gales,
Thro' Æther now your power prevails;
And our dilated breasts shall own
The joys which flow from you

alone. Why therefore, in yon dubious sky, With out-spread wing, and eager eye

On distant scenes intent,
“ Sits expectation in the air.".
Why do alternate hope and fear

Suspend some great event?
Can Britain fail ?--the thought'were yain;
The powerful empress of the main

But

But strives to smooth'th' unruly flood
And dreads a conqueft ftain'd with Blood.
While yet, ye winds, your breezy balm
Thro' nature spreads a general calm,
While yet a pause fell discord knows;
Catch the soft moment of repose,

Your genuine powers exert';
To pity melt th' obdurate mind,
Teach every bosom to be kind,

And humanize the heart !

Propitious gales, Owing your way!
And whilst we hail that rightful sway

Whence temper'd freedom springs,
The bliss we feel to future times
Extend, and from your native climes

Bring peace upon your wings !

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WRITTEN, OR RATHER SPOKEN, BY A GEN.

TLEMAN, AT COMING INTO A COFFEE

HOUSE, FROM THE ABOVE MUSICAL ENTER-
TAINMENT.

SAY

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

gether,
To warble of winds and to sing of the weather.

Then he talk'd, filly fellow, of tumult and war,
And he set expectation aloft in the air,
Like a witch on her broom looking out of the

north,
To see if the storm she had rais'd was gone forth,

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.

But

* A pestilential fouth-west wind.

“ A south-west blow on ye
And blister you all o'er "

Caliban, Tempeft, Sea. IV,

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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.

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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

The poor way farer, distant bound,
Pacing the frequent-haunted ground,

His feeble limbs less toil'd wou'd find,
Refresh'd, he'd number thro' the night,
With pray’rs, depart at early light,

Yet-leave his soul behind.

No longer echoes round the hall;

The strange romantic tale ;
Nor mirth provokes, nor triping ball,

The laugh o'er nut-brcwn ale.

Hope droops! whilft o'er each gothic room,
Pale melancholy spreads a gloom,

And pity mourns the ruin'd feat;
Old hospitality is filed,
And northern Famine in his stead,

Here, fixes her retreat.

Back Aly reflection-truth severe !

Let fancy for a while,
To + Pembroke lend a scornful sneer,

To + WINNINGTON a smile.

Behold!

+ The buss of Lord Pembroke and Mr. Winnington, the minister, in the parlour; remarkable for such countenanccs.

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