No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, To see each joy the sons of pleasure know,
Relax his pond'rous strength, and lean to hear; Extorted from his fellow-creature's woe.
The host himself no longer shall be found

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,
Careful to see the mantling bliss go round; There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;
Nor the coy maid, half willing to be prest, Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp
Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.

display, Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain, There the black gibbet glooms beside the way; These simple blessings of the lowly train; The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

Here, richly deck's, admits the gorgeous train; One native charm, than all the gloss of art; Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, Spontaneous joys, where nature has its play, The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare. The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway; Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy! Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,

Sure these denote one universal joy! Unen vied, unmolested, unconfin'd.

Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, Where the poor houseless shivering female lies: With all the freaks of wanton wealth array'd, She, once perhaps, in village plenty blest, In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain, Has wept at tales of innocence distrest; The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn; The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy?

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue, fled, Ye friends to truth, ye stalesmen, who survey Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay, And, pinch'd with cold, and shrinking from the 'Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand

show'r, Between a splendid and a happy land.

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, When idly first, ambitious of the town, And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound, Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train And rich men flock from all the world around. Do thy fair tribes participate her pain ? Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name E'en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, That leaves our useful product still the same. At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! Vot so the loss. The man of wealth and pride Ah, no. To distant climes, a dreary scene, Takes up a space that many poor supplied ; Where half the convex world intrudes between, Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds, Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds; Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe. The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Far diff'rent there from all that charm'd before, Has robb'd the neighb'ring fields of half their The various terrors of that horrid shore; growth;

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray His seat, where solitary sports are seen,

And fiercely shed intolerable day; Indignant spurns the cottage from the green; Those matted woods where birds forget to s.ng, Around the world each needful product flies : But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; For all the luxuries the world supplies :

Those pois'nous fields with rank luxuriance crown'd While thus the land, adorn'd for pleasure all, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around: In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake As some fair female, unadorn'd and plain, The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake; Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey, Slights ev'ry borrow'd charm that dress supplies, And savage men more murd'rous still than they ; Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, But when those charms are past, for charms are Mingling the ravag'd landscape with the skies. frail,

Far diff'rent these from ev'ry former scene, When time advances, and when lovers fail, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,

The breezy covert of the warbling grove, In all the glaring impotence of dress :

That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Thus fares the land, by luxury betray'd,

Good Heav'n! what sorrows gloom'd that part. In nature's simplest charms at first array'd;

ing day, But verging to decline, its splendors rise,

That call'd them from their native walks away: Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise ;

When the poor exiles, ev'ry pleasure past, While, scourg'd by farine, from the smiling land Hung round the bow'rs, and fondly look'd their The mournful peasant leads his humble band;

last, And while he sinks, without one arm to save, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain The country bloomsma garden and a grave! For seats like these beyond the western mair ;

Where, then, ah! where shall poverty reside, And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, To 'scape the pressure of contiguous pride ? Return'd and wept, and still return'd to wenu. If to some common's fenceless limits stray'd, The good old sire the first prepar'd to go He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade, To new-found worlds, and wept for others' para Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide, But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, And e'en the bare-worn common is denied. He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave

If to the city sped—What waits him there? His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, To see profusion that he must not share ;

The fond companion of his helpless years, To see ten thousand baneful arts combin'd

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;

And left a lover's for her father's arms.

“ Forbear, my son," the hermit cries,

“To tempt the dang'rous gloom; For yonder faithless phantom flies

To lure thee to thy doom.

“ Here to the houseless child of want

My door is open still; And though my portion is but scant,

I give it with good-will.

" Then turn to-night, and freely share

Whate'er my cell bestows; My rushy couch and frugal fare,

My blessing and repose.

“No flocks that range the valley free

To slaughter I condemn : Taught by that Pow'r that pilies me,

I learn to pity them:

“ But from the mountain's grassy side

A guiltless feast I bring; A scrip with herbs and fruits supplied,

And water from the spring.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
And bless'd the cot where ev'ry pleasure rose;
And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
And clasp'd them close, in sorrow doubly dear;
Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief
In all the silent manliness of grief.

O Luxury! thou curs'd by Heaven's decree,
How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee!
How do thy potions, with insidious joy,
Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy!
Kingdoms, by thee, to sickly greatness grown,
Boast of a florid vigor not their own:
At ev'ry draught more large and large they grow,
A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;
Till, sapp'd their strength, and ev'ry part unsound,
Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.

E'en now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; E'en now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anch'ring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with ev'ry gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes plac'd above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade! Unfit, in these degen’rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame, Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of ev'ry virtue, fare thee well; Farewell! and O! where'er thy voice be tried, On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side, Whether where equinoctial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, Still let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of th' inclement clime; Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain, Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain; Teach him that states, of native strength possest, Though very poor, may still be very blest; That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labor'd mole away; While self-dependent pow'r can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

“Then, pilgrim, turn, thy cares forego;

All earth-born cares are wrong: Man wants but little here below,

Nor wants that little long."

Soft as the dew from Heav'n descends,

His gentle accents fell;
The modest stranger lowly bends,

And follows to the cell.

Far in a wilderness obscure

The lonely mansion lay; A refuge to the neighboring poor,

And strangers led astray.

No stores beneath its humble thatch

Requir'd a master's care; The wicket, op'ning with a latch,

Receiv'd the harmless pair.

And now when busy crowds retire

To take their ev'ning rest, The hermit trimm'd his little fire,

And cheer'd his pensive guest:

And spread his vegetable store,

And gaily prest, and smil'd ; And, skill'd in legendary lore,

The ling'ring hours beguild.


Around in sympathetic mirth

Its tricks the kitten tries; The cricket chirrups in the hearth,

The crackling fagot flies. But nothing could a charm impart

To soothe the stranger's woe; For grief was heavy at his heart,

And lears began to flow.

A BALLAD. “Turn, gentle hermit of the dale,

And guide my lonely way, To where yon taper cheers the vale

With hospitable ray. “ For here forlorn and lost I tread,

With fainting steps and slow; Where wilds, immeasurably spread, Seem length'ning as I go."


His rising cares the hermit spied,

With answ'ring care opprest : "And whence, unhappy youth," he cried “ The sorrows of thy breast ?

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Our Will* shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavor; Still aiming at honor, yet fearing to roam, And Dickt with his pepper shall heighten the sa. The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home; vor:

Would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none; Our Cumberland'st sweet-bread its place shall What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his obtain ;

own. And Douglass is pudding, substantial and plain : Here lies honest Richard,* whose fate I must Our Garrick 'sll a salad; for in him we see

sigh at; Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:

Alas! that such frolic should now be so quiet: To make out the dinner, full certain I am What spirits were his! what wit and what whim, That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds** is lamb; Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb! That Hickey'stt a capon ; and, by the same rule, Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball! Magnanimous Goldsmith, a gooseberry fool. Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all! At a dinner so various, at such a repast,

In short, so provoking a devil was Dick, Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last ? | That we wish'd him full ten times a day at old Nick; Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able, But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein, Till all my companions sink under the table; As often we wish'd to have Dick back again. Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head, Here Cumberland lies, having'acted his parts, Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;

Here lies the good dean, reunited to earth, A flattering painter, who made it his care Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are. mirth;

His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, And Comedy wonders at being so fine : At least in six weeks I could not find them out; Like a tragedy queen he has dizen'd her out, Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud ; such,

| And coxcombs, alike in their failings, alone, We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much; Adopting his portraits, are pleas'd with their own Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, Say, where has our poet this malady caught? And to party gave up what was meant for mankind ; Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his Say, was it that vainly directing his view throat

To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, To persuade Tommy Townshend it to lend him a Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, vote ;

He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself? Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on re- Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, fining,

The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks : And thought of convincing, while they thought of Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking dicines, dining;

Come, and dance on the spot where your tyrant reThough equal to all things, for all things unfit;

clines : Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; When satire and censure encircled his throne ; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; 1 fear'd for your safety, I feard for my own : And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. But now he is gone, and we want a detector, In short, 'twas his fate, unemployd, or in place, Our Doddst shall be pious, our Kenricks I shall sir,

lecture; To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Macpherson ý write bombast, and call it a style; Here lies honest William, whose heart was a Our Townshend make speeches, and I shall compile; mint,

New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was

over, in't;

No countryman living their tricks to discover; The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, His conduct still right, with his argument wrong; And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the


Here lies David Garrick, describe him who can, * Mr. William Burke, Secretary to General Conway, An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man: and Member for Bedwin.

As an actor, confest without rival to shine; | Mr. Richard Burke, Collector of Grenada.

As a wit, if not first, in the very first line! I Mr. Richard Cumberland, author of the West-Indian, Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart, Fashionable Lover, The Brothers, and other dramatic The man had his failings—a dupe to his art. pieces.

& Dr. Donglas, Bishop of Salisbury, who no less distin. guished himself as a citizen of the world, than a sound * Mr. Richard Burke. This gentleman having slightly critic, in detecting several literary mistakes (or rather fractured one of his arms and legs, at different times, the forgeries) of his countrymen; particularly Lauder on! Doctor has rallied him on those accidente ne Milton, and Bower's History of the Popes.

retributive justice for breaking his jeyts upon other | David Garrick, Esq.

people. 97 Counsellor John Ridge, a gentleman belonging to the | The Rev. Dr. Dodd. Irish bar.

# Dr. Kenrick, who read lectures at the Devil Tavern, ** Sir Joshua Reynolds.

under the title of The School of Shakspeare. tt An eminent attorney.

§ James Macpherson, Esq. who, from the mere force of If Mr. T. Townshend, Member for Whitchurch. I his style, wrote down the first poet of all antiquity.

Like an ill-judging beauty, his colors he spread, Then what was his failing? come, tell it, and burn And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.

ye, On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting; He was, could he help it? a special attorney. 'Twas only that when he was off he was acting. Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, With no reason on earth to go out of his way, He has not left a wiser or better behind : He turn'd and he varied full ten times a day: His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand, Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick His manners were gentle, complying, and bland ; If they were not his own by finessing and trick: Still born to improve us in every part, He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack, His pencil our faces, his manners our heart : For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistle them To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering, back.

When they judg’d without skill he was still hard of Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,

hearing ; And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame; When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,

stuff, Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please. He shifted his trumpet,t and only took snuff. But let us be candid, and speak out our mind, If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind. Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,* and Woodfallst so grave,

STANZAS ON WOMAN. What a commerce was yours, while you got and

FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. you gave! How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray, While he was be-Roscius'd, and you were beprais'd! What charm can soothe her melancholy, But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

What art can wash her guilt away?
To act as an angel and mix with the skies :
Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill

The only art her guilt to cover,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will:

To hide her shame from ev'ry eye, Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and with love,

To give repentance to her lover, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

And wring his bosom-is, to die. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasant

And slander itself must allow him good-nature :
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper:

Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper. O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser!

Still importunate and vain,
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser:

To former joys recurring ever,
Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat ?

And turning all the past 10 pain;
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

Thou, like the world, th’ opprest oppressing, And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a soe. * Mr. Hugh Kelly, author of False Delicacy, A Word to the Wise, Clementina, School for Wives, &c. &c.

Sir Joshua Reynolds was so remarkably deaf as to be Mr. W. Woodfall, printer of the Morning Chronicle. (under the necessity of using an ear-trumpet in company

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