And

you,

whose tears incessant flow

For words departed, lost below,

Is nothing left behind?

Your bosoms have been taught to know
The world had something to bestow,
Will you forsake your kind?

And let not aught may here invite,
Howe'er luxurious on the sight,
Prevail your steps to stay:
Nor can Devotion's specious plea,
Nor loftier soul'd Philosophy,
Excuse a long delay.

At whose command the tempests roll-
Opposing passions tear the soul,
And good from evil bring:

At whose command the rain descends

The breast of Charity distends,

And love and friendship spring.

Tho' love be false, and friends deceive,
Tho' death bercave you, do not grieve;
Pursue the Maker's plan—

A little while, and care shall cease:

This world was never made for

peace,

BUT MAN WAS MADE FOR MAN!

English Chronicle.

ODE TO A GRIZZLE WIG.

BY A GENTLEMAN WHO JUST LEFT OFF HIS BOB.

ALL hail! ye curls, that rang'd in rev'rend row, With snowy pomp my conscious shoulders hide; That fall beneath in venerable flow,

And crown my brows above with feathery pride!

High on your summit, Wisdom's mimic'd air
Sits thron'd, with Pedantry her solemn sire,
And in her net of awe-diffusing hair,

Entangles fools, and bids the crowd admire.

O'er every lock, that floats in full display,
Sage Ignorance her gloom scholastic throws;
And stamps o'er all my visage, once so gay,
Unmeaning Gravity's serene repose.

Can thus large wigs our reverence engage?
Have barbers thus the power to blind our eyes?
Is science thus conferr'd on every sage

By Bayliss, Blenkinsop, and lofty Wise?*

But thou, farewell, my Bob! whose thin wove thatch, Was stor❜d with quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, That love to live within the one-curl'd scratch,

With fun, and all the family of smiles.

* Peruke-makers in Oxford.

Safe in thy privilege, near Isis' brook,

Whole afternoons at Wolvercote I quaff'd; At eve my careless round in High-street took, And call'd at Jolly's for the casual draught.

No more the wherry feels my stroke so true;
At skittles in a grizzle can I play?
Woodstock, farewell! and Wallingford, adieu!
Where many a scheme reliev'd the lingering day.

Such were the joys that once Hillario crown'd,
Ere grave preferment came my peace to rob :
Such are the less ambitious pleasures found
Beneath the liceat of an humble Bob.

English Chronicle.

VERSES

Sent by Thomson, with the first edition of the Seasons, to Miss Young, so often celebrated by the appellation of Amanda.

ACCEPT, dear Nymph, a tribute due

To sacred Friendship, and to you;
But with it take what breath'd the whole,
Oh! take to thine the Poet's soul.

If Fancy here her power displays,
Or if a heart exalts these lays,
You fairest in that fancy shine,
And all that heart is fondly thine.

EXTEMPORE.

Occasioned by reading an account of a Lady having been fined at Barnsley Sessions in two guineas, and bound over to keep the peace a twelve-month, for cutting off the Tail of a Lawyer.

66

AT Barnsley Juries loud I'll rail,”

Said

"for years to come

Two guineas for a Lawyer's tail!
His head's not worth the sum.

Tho' in the end it may be found
A bargain not too dear,
For with the fine my wife is bound
To keep the peace a YEAR!!!

"Should she do that-no more I'll croak,

But spouse each year shall have her joke,

And dock a Lawyer's TAIL."

English Chronicle.

TO A REDBREAST.

LITTLE bird, with bosom red,
Welcome to my humble shed!
Courtly domes of high degree
Have no room for thee and me;
Pride and pleasure's fickle throng
Nothing mind a simple song.
Daily near my table steal,
While I pick my scanty meal,
Doubt not, little though there be,
But I'll cast a crumb to thee;
Well rewarded if I spy

Pleasure in thy glancing eye;
See thee, when thou'st eat thy fill,
Plume thy breast, and wipe thy bill.
Come, my feather'd friend, again,
Well thou know'st the broken pane,
Ask of me thy daily store;
Go not near Avaro's door:

Once within his iron hall,
Woful end shall thee befall:
Savage -He would soon divest
Of its rosy plumes thy breast;
Then, with solitary joy,

Eat thee, bones and all, my boy!
Mr. Langhorne.