O Wolfe, to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead; Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

EPITAPH

ON

DR. PARNELL.

THIS tomb inscrib'd to gentle Parnell's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;

And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,

The transitory breath of fame below:

More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPITAPH

HE

ON

EDWARD PURDON *.

ERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's back;

He led such a damnable life in this world,

I don't think he'll wish to come back.

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,

MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

GOOD people all, with one accord,

Lament for Madam Blaize,

Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

This gentleman was educated at Trinity-college, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Vol. taire's Henriade.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor,-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways,-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew,-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her,
When she has walk'd before.

But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all:
The doctors found, when she was dead,-
Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament, in sorrow sore,

For Kent-street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more,➡ She had not died to-day.

A SONNET.

WE EEPING, murmuring, complaining,

Lost to every gay delight;

Mira, too sincere for feigning,

Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Mira follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

FROM THE

ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

SONG.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way:

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.

MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,

To former joys, recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain!

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe!
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

A PROLOGUE,

Written and spoken by

THE POET LABERIUS,

A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CESAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

WHA

Preserved by Macrobius *.

WHAT! no way left to slun th' inglorious stage, And save from infamy my sinking age! Scarce half-alive, oppress'd with many a year, What in the name of dotage drives me here? A time there was, when glory was my guide, Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside. Unaw'd by power, and unappall'd by fear, With honest thrift, I held my honour dear: But this vile hour disperses all my store, And all my hoard of honour is no more; For ah! too partial to my life's decline, Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine; Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys, Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.

*This translation was first printed in one of our author's earliest works, The Present State of Learn ing in Europe.' 12mo, 1759.