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But ah! when Fate or Chance the texture rends,
She finds with fighs," the liv'd along the line."

The fondeft look that e'er pourtrayed the mind,
The richeft blifs that fympathy e'er gave,
Full dearly purchas'd, will the mourner find,
Who tends the bed of pain, or decks the grave,

From ills like thefe, from forrows of her own,
E'en virtues felf no kind repofe can know;
Too oft with conteft faint and cheerless grown,
She hopes not reft or happiness below;

Fixed on thofe realms, where no wild paffion fires,
Where no keen forrow in the heart delays,
No fickening want to folitude retires,

Nor pain on the shrunk frame refiftless preys

But whither have my thoughts unbidden ftray'd,
Where fled the dreams that did my fenfes fold,
Ah mirth, while fcarce my vows to thee were paid,
Is the gleam o'er, and is my heart grown cold?

Enchantress fair! to gain one happy hour

Like me, if e'er another fuppliant bend, Unceafing let thy wand its influence pour, For if thy votary think-thy vifions end.

ODE for his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY.

BY HENRY JAMES PYE, Esa. POET-LAUREAT.

I.

WHILE the frowning Lord of Arms

A Shall yield to gentler powers the plain,

Lo! Britain greets the milder charms
Of Cytherea's reign.

Mute is the trumpet's brazen throat,
And the sweet flute's melodious note
Floats on the foft ambrofial gale;
The fportive Loves and Graces round,
Beating with jocund step the ground,

Th' aufpicious nuptials hail!

The Mufes ceafe to weave the wreath of war,

But hang their roseate flowers on Hymen's golden car!

When

II.

When o'er Creation's blotted face
Drear Night her fable banner rears,
And veils fair Nature's vernal grace,

Encircled round by doubts and fears,
Thro' darkfome mists and chilling dews
His path the wanderer's foot purfues,
Till, fhining clear in Orient ikies,
He views the ftar of Venus rife,
And joys to fee the genial power,
Bright harbinger of morning's hour!

And now a flood of radiance ftreams
From young Aurora's blushing beams,
Till rob'd in gorgeous ftate, the orb of day
Spreads o'er the laughing earth his full refulgent ray !

III.

Bleft be the omen - royal pair!

O may the hymeneal rite,

That joins the valiant and the fair,

Shed on the nations round its placid light!

Her fertile plain tho' Albion fee

From favage devaftation free,

Tho' with triumphant fail fhe reign
Sole Emprefs of the fubject main,

She longs to bid the thunders fleep
Which thake the regions of the deep,

That crowding nations far and wide,
Borne peaceful o'er the ambient tide,
May fhare the bleflings that endear the day

Which gave a Patriot King a patriot race to sway!

SATIRICAL ADVICE to YOUNG POETS panting after CELEBRITY.

[Extracted from Mr. FAWCETT'S ART OF POETRY, according to the latest Improvements, by Sir SIMON SWAN, Baronet.]

W

WOULD'ST thou the SENTIMENTAL tribes engage,
To hang enchanted o'er thy magic page;
Although thy fecret foul fhould dance and fing,
Blithe as the birds whofe notes falute the fpring;
Though at thy fide mirth's fportful goddef's ftands,
Along with Nature thouts and claps her hands,
And, breathing all her deity, fupplies
Jefts to thy lips, and laughter to thine eyes;
Although, the merrieft of the Mufe's fons,
Thou fing the livelieft catch to Oxford's gowns!

Or dance at Bais, gayeft of the gay;
Yet, when you write, let forrows fhade the lay
Still, in your fong, a deep dejection wear;
Difmifs each fmile, and pour the tuneful tear:
Appear fome wretch, whom cruel ftars pursue,
Whom Peace and Joy have bad a long adieu:
As deep Despair had breath'd it, let the ftrain,
In each fmooth line, harmoniously complain."

Learn next, if ears POLITE you burn to ga'n, What canon muft direct th' obedient ftrain.

Let Fancy all her loftier flights forbear,
And each minuter beauty make her care.
The courtly reader's finely structur'd eye
Sees only coarseness in fublimity:

And, all too weak e'en Beauty's form to gaze,
Let's fairy Prettiness ufurp her praife.

Like a trim garden fhould thy song appear,
Nought great or bold must find admillion there:
No forefts fwell, no mountains pierce the iky,
No giant-fcenes imprefs with awe the eye,
But little flowers in nicest order grow,
O'er neat parterres, a blooming rareeshow!
And flatteft plots of shorteft grafs be feen,
Smooth as the velvet's fur each downy green;
Where Toil has all her proofs of patience thown,
How oft her hand the level plain has mown,
And dragg'd her lumbering roller up and down.

Paffion be fure avoid: no gentle ear

The fhock of aught so boisterous knows to bear.
Would't thou the truly polifh'd reader please,
Let him perufe you at his utmost case.
No burfts of ecstasy must break his reft;
Rude is the mufe that agitates his breast:
His placid foul let all your lays compofe;
Oh! ne'er fo roughly ufe him, as to roufe!
One peaceful tenour muft the numbers keep,
And fweetly lull him into claffic fleep,
Stirr'd by no gufts, let all the unruffled lay,
In eafy flow, purfue its quiet way:
Soft, foothing thoughts ferenely roll along,
In glib and elegantly languid fong:

Ne'er muft the headlong ftream impetuous pour,
Ne'er with the torrent's thundering fury roar;
But fmooth as lakes the gloffy numbers glide,
Without one wrinkle in the polish'd tide.

Would'st

Would'st thou to a yet prouder fummit raife
The foft renown of unimpaffion'd lays,
Bid the bold frenfy of BURKE's ireful page,
Lull'd in thy mollient rhimes, forget to rage!
With notes, whofe magic rivals Orpheus fame,
His vigorous rhetoric's tiger-fiercenefs tame!
Their fnakes foft hiffing, let the Furies wear,
In thy meek verfe, a mild and lamb-like air!
There, let the dogs of war attune their throat,
And bark for blood, with small and puppy note!
Like Bottom, child of Shakespear's mirthful art,
Like gentle Bottom, play the lion's part!
And, left the found the ladies' hearts fhould quail,
Roar like "a fucking dove," or warbling nightingale!

If thy bold mufe be bent to lend some zeft
To ftrains that lull the flumber-loving breaft,
Ambitious ftill to prove, how fweetly chimes
Phrenetic zeal with calm and harmless rhimes,
A furious war let wild, polemic Rage

With all the letter'd friends of Freedom wage:
And with a schoolboy's hand, and bigot's fire,
Strike the deep grumblings of thine angry lyre!
In lowlieft verfe, that humbly creeps along,
Nor once afpires to fight, a reptile fong;
Such groveling, fpringlefs, unexulting lines,
As court a modeft fame in magazines;
Emit a copious tide of rank abufe:
With venom arm thy wing-unfurnish'd muse:
Give to the worm of wit the ferpent's gall,
And let it hifs, and bite, as well as crawl.
Ten thoufands deem, no quill can e'er fupply
So fweet an eloquence as calumny !

No grace, like foul 'reproach, adorns a page;
And party, far exceeds poetic rage!

Then be the bays, that round thy brows are worn,

A wreath of poppies mixt with prickly thorn!
As artful cooks compofe a favoury difh,
By fauce's aid, of taftelefs eggs and fish,
Strong cenfure feasons thus infipid lays,
Pricks the dull tafte, and fpurs it into praife!
Thou, in this Lent of fong, a verfe prepare,
In acrids rich, of genial flavours fpare:
With rancour's fpice, the mental palate hit,
A feaft of fcandal 'midft a faft of wit.
And (for long rhimes fatigue a coffive brain)
Of fmall dimenfion be the meager ftrain;
While ampleft notes, with fwelling drapery,
Drefs the lean fong, and plumper size supply:

Let

Let Greek and Latin, proudly scatter'd there,
In learned pomp, to charm the schools, appear;
That e'en thy foes may own, in anger's fpite,
Thou haft a power to read, if not to write.
Laft, as the mafter-stroke to win thee fame,
In cloud and darkness veil thine awful name!
That thou, like shrouded Junius, may'ft be fought,
Proclaim, like Junius, none fhall find thee out!
Though in all elfe unlike, with him defy,
And, by defying, draw, the curious eye!
Thus may a homely Mufe, that lufts to gain
The Public's love, with "cheeks of forry grain,"
Force fome small notice of her, if the try
This wily trick of letter'd coquetry.

So, void of beauty's lure, the ruftic maid
Pierces, compell'd to fhifts, the thicket's fhade:
And, to provoke the swains to amorous chase,
Tells them they ne'er fhall find her hiding-place.
Thus, though thy page erect no lofty rhime,"
At least thy perfon may become fublime.
Sublimity, as critic pens have thown,

Of folemn fhadows loves to frame her throne:
What moves but laughter, when to view unveil'd,
Oft strikes with awe, or wonder, while conceal'd:
Screen'd by the wainscot, e'en a scratching moufe
May spread alarm throughout á coward house:
E'en flambering, eastern kings have pass'd for great,
Lolling, invifible, in pillow'd ftate:

And, thus, in thee fhall grand effect be found,
Wrapt with the majefty of mystery round.

LODGINGS FOR SINGLE GENTLEMEN.

[From COLMAN'S NIGHT-GOWN AND SLIPPERS, or TALES IN VERSE.]

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has e'er been in London, that overgrown place, Has feen " Lodgings to let" ftare him full in the face,

Some are good, and let dearly; while fome, 'tis well known,

Are fo dear, and fo bad, they are best let alone.

Will Waddle, whofe temper was ftudious, and lonely,
Hited lodgings that took Single Gentlemen, only;
But Will was fo fat he appear'd like a ton;
Or like two Single Gentleinen roll'd into One.

He entered his rooms; and to bed he retreated,
But, all the night long, he felt fever'd and heated;

Derry down.

1797.

N

And,

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