His breast is open to your eye;'
Approach, Urania, mark, and try.
This bosom needs no thought to hide
This virtue dares our search abide.

"The sacred fountains to secure Of Justice, undisturb'd and pure

From hopes or fears, from fraud or force,
To ruffle or to stain their course;
That these may flow serene and free,
The Law must independent be:
Her ministers, as in my sight,
And mine alone, dispensing right;
Of piercing eye, of judgment clear,
As honour, just, as truth, sincere,
With temper, firm, with spirit, sage,
The Mansfields of each future age.

"And this prime blessing is to spring
From youth in purple! from a king!
Who, true to his imperial trust,
His greatness founds in being just;
Prepares, like yon ascending Sun,
His glorious race with joy to run,
And, where his gracious eye appears,'
To bless the world he lights and cheers!
"Such worth with equal voice to sing,
Urania, strike thy boldest string;
And Truth, whose voice alone is praise,
That here inspires, shall guide the lays.
Begin! awake his gentle ear

With sounds that monarchs rarely hear.
He merits, let him know our love,
And you record, what I approve."

She ended: and the heaven-born maid,
With soft surprise, his form survey'd.
She saw what chastity of thought
Within his stainless bosom wrought;
Then fix'd on earth her sober eye,
And, pausing, offer'd this reply.

"Nor pomp of song, nor paint of art,
Such truths should to the world impart.
My task is but, in simple verse,
These promis'd wonders to rehearse :
And when on these our verse we raise,
The plainest is the noblest praise.

"Yet more; a virtuous doubt remains:
Would such a prince permit my strains?
Deserving, but still shunning fame,
The homage due he might disclaim.
A prince, who rules, to save, mankind,
His praise would, in their virtue, find;
Would deem their strict regard to laws,
Their faith and worth, his best applause.
Then, Britons, your just tribute bring,
In deeds, to emulate your king;
In virtues, to redeem your age
From venal views and party-rage.
On his example safely rest;
He calls, he courts you to be blest;
As friends, as brethren, to unite
In one firm league of just and right.
"My part is last; if Britain yet
A lover boasts of truth and wit,
To him these grateful lays to send,
The monarch's and the Muse's friend;
And whose fair name, in sacred rhymes,
My voice may give to latest times."

She said; and, after thinking o'er The men in place near half a score, To strike at once all scandal mute, The goddess found, and fix'd on Bute.

TO THE

AUTHOR OF THE PRECEDING POEM.

BY S. J. ESQ.

"WELL-now, I think, we shall be wiser,"
Cries Grub, who reads the Advertiser,
"Here's Truth in Rhyme-a glorious treat!
It surely must abuse the great;
Perhaps the king;-without dispute
"Twill fall most devilish hard on Bute."
Thrice he reviews his parting shilling,
At last resolves, though much unwilling,
To break all rules imbib'd in youth,
And give it up for Rhyme and Truth:

He reads-he frowns-" Why, what's the matter?
Damn it-here's neither sense, nor satyr-

Here, take it, boy, there's nothing in't:
Such fellows!-to pretend to print!"

Blame not, good cit, the poet's rhymes,
The fault's not his, but in the times:
The times, in which a monarch reigns,
Form'd to make happy Britain's plains;
To stop in their destructive course,
Domestic frenzy, foreign force,

To bid war, faction, party cease,
And bless the weary'd world with peace.
The times in which is seen, strange sight!
A court both virtuous and polite,
Where merit best can recommend
And science finds a constant friend.

How then should Satyr dare to sport
With such a king, and such a court,
While Truth looks on with rigid eye,
And tells her, every line 's a lie?

THE DISCOVERY:

UPON READING SOME VERSES, WRITTEN BY A YOUNG LADY AT A BOARDING school, september, 1760.

APOLLO lately sent to know,

If he had any sons below:

For, by the trash he long had seen
In male and female magazine,
A hundred quires not worth a groat,
The race must be extinct, he thought.
His messenger to court repairs;
Walks softly with the crowd up stairs:
But when he had his errand told,
The courtiers sneer'd, both young and old.
Augustus knit his royal brow,

And bade him let Apollo know it,
That from his infancy till now,

He lov'd nor poetry nor poet.
His next adventure was the Park,
When it grew fashionably dark:
There beauties, boobies, strumpets, rakes,
Talk much of commerce, whist, and stakes;
Who tips the wink, who drops the card:
But not one word of verse or bard.

The stage, Apollo's old domain,
Where his true sons were wont to reign,
His courier now past frowning by:
Ye modern Durfeys, tell us why.
Slow, to the city last he went:
There, all was prose, of cent per cent.

There, alley-omnium, script, and bonus,
(Latin, for which a Muse would stone us,
Yet honest Gideon's classic style)
Made our poor Nuncio stare and smile.

And now the clock had struck eleven:
The messenger must back to Heaven;
But, just as he his wings had ty'd,
Look'd up Queen-Square, the north-east side.
A blooming creature there be found,
With pen and ink, and books around,
Alone, and writing by a taper:

He read unseen, then stole her paper.
It much amus'd him on his way;
And reaching Heaven by break of day,
He show'd Apollo what he stole.
The god perus'd, and lik'd the whole :
Then, calling for his pocket-book,
Some right celestial vellum took;
And what he with a sun-beam there
Writ down, the Muse thus copies fair:
"If I no men my sons must call,
Here's one fair daughter worth them all:
Mark then the sacred words that follow,
Sophia's mine"—so sign'd

VERSES,

APOLLO,

WRITTEN FOR, AND GIVEN IN PRINT TO, A BEGGar.

O MERCY, Heaven's first attribute,
Whose care embraces man and brute!
Behold me, where I shivering stand;
Bid gentle Pity stretch her hand
To want and age, disease and pain,
That all in one sad object reign.
Still feeling bad, still fearing worse,
Existence is to me a curse:
Yet, how to close this weary eye?
By my own hand I dare not die:
And Death, the friend of human woes,
Who brings the last and sound repose;
Death does at dreadful distance keep,
And leaves one wretch to wake and weep!

THE REWARD:

OR,

APOLLO'S ACKNOWLEGMENTS TO CHARLES

STANHOPE.

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LVII.

APOLLO, from the southern sky,
O'er London lately glanc'd his eye.
Just such a glance our courtiers throw
At suitors whom they shun to know:

Or have you mark'd the averted mien,
The chest erect, the freezing look,

Of Bumbo, when a bard is seen
Charg'd with his dedication-book?
But gods are never in the wrong:
What then displeas'd the power of song?
The case was this: where noble arts
Once flourish'd, as our fathers tell us,

He now can find, for men of parts,
None but rich blockheads and mere fellows;
Since drums, and dice, and dissipation
Have chas'd all taste from all the nation.

For is there, now, one table spread, Where Sense and Science may be fed? Where, with a smile on every face, Invited Merit takes his place?

These thoughts put Phoebus in the spleen,
(For gods, like men, can feel chagrin)
And left him on the point to shroud
His head in one eternal cloud;
When, lo! his all-discerning eye
Chanc'd one remaining friend to spy,
Just crept abroad, as is his way,
To bask him in the noon-tide ray.

This Phoebus noting, call'd aloud
To every interposing cloud;
And bade their gather'd mists ascend,
That he might warm his good old friend:
Then, as his chariot roll'd along,
Tun'd to his lyre this grateful song.

"With talents, such as God has given
To common mortals, six in seven;
Who yet have titles, ribbons, pay,
And govern whom they should obey;
With no more frailties than are found
In thousand others, count them round;
With much good will, instead of parts,
Express'd for artists and for arts;
Who smiles if you have smartly spoke;
Or nods applause to his own joke;
This bearded child, this grey-hair'd boy,
Still plays with life, as with a toy;
Still keeps amusement full in view:
Wise? Now and then-but oftener new;
His coach, this hour, at Watson's door;
The next, in waiting on a whore.

Whene'er the welcome tidings ran
Of monster strange, or stranger man,
A Selkirke from his desert-isle,
Or Alligator from the Nile;
He saw the monster in its shrine,
And had the man, next day, to dine.
Or was it an hermaphrodite ?
You found him in a two-fold hurry ;

Neglecting, for this he-she-sight,
The single charms of Fanny Murray,
Gathering, from suburb and from city,
Who were, who would be, wise or witty;
The full-wigg'd sons of pills and potions;
The bags, of maggot and new notions;
The sage, of microscopic eye,

Who reads him lectures on a fly;
Grave antiquaries, with their flams;
And poets, squirting epigrams:

With some few lords of those that think,
And dip, at times, their pen in ink :

Nay, ladies too, of diverse fame,
Who are, and are not, of the game.

For he has look'd the world around,
And pleasure, in each quarter, found.
Now young, now old, now grave, now gay,
He sinks from life by soft decay;
And sees at hand, without affright,
Th' inevitable hour of night."

But here, some pillar of the state,
Whose life is one long dull debate,
Some pedant of the sable gown,
Who spares no failings, but his own,
Set up at once their deep-mouth'd hollow:
"Is this a subject for Apollo!
What! can the god of wit and verse
Such trifles in our ears rehearse?"

"Know, puppies, this man's easy life,
Serene from cares, unvex'd with strife,
Was oft employ'd in doing good;
A science you ne'er understood:
And charity, ye sons of Pride,
A multitude of faults will hide.
, I, at his board, more sense have found,
Than at a hundred dinners round.
Taste, learning, mirth, my western eye
Could often, there, collected spy:
And I have gone well pleas'd to bed,
Revolving what was sung or said.

"And he, who entertain'd them all
With much good liquor, strong and small;
With food in plenty, and a welcome,
Which would become my lord of Melcombe',
Whose soups and sauces duly season'd,
Whose wit well tim'd, and sense well reason'd,
Give Burgundy a brighter stain,

And add new flavour to Champagne-
Shall this man to the grave descend,
Unown'd, unhonour'd as my friend?
No: by my deity I swear,
Nor shall the vow be lost in air;

While you, and millions such as you,
Are sunk for ever from my view,
And lost in kindred-darkness lie,
This good old man shall never die:
No matter where I place his name,
His love of learning shall be fame."

TYBURN:

TO THE

MARINE SOCIETY,

ADVERTISEMENT.

It has been, all examples show it,
The privilege of every poet,

From ancient down through modern time,
To bid dead matter live in rhyme;

With wit enliven senseless rocks;
Draw repartee from wooden blocks;
Make buzzards senators of note,

And rooks harangue, that geese may vote.
These moral fictions, first design'd

To mend and mortify mankind,
Old Esop, as our children know,
Taught twice ten hundred years ago.
His fly, upon the chariot wheel,
Could all a statesman's merit feel;
And, to its own importance just,
Exclaim, with Bufo, "What a dust!"
His horse-dung, when the flood ran high,
In Colon's air and accent cry,
While tumbling down the turbid stream,
"Lord love us, how we apples swim !"
But further instances to cite,
Would tire the hearers' patience quite.
No: what their numbers and their worth,
How these admire, while those hold forth,
From Hyde-Park on to Clerkenwell,
Let clubs, let coffee-houses tell;

Where England, through the world renown'd,
In all its wisdom may be found:
While I, for ornament and use,

An orator of wood produce.

Why should the gentle reader stare? Are wooden orators so rare ? Saint Stephen's Chapel, Rufus' Hall, That hears them in the pleader bawl, That hears them in the patriot thunder, Can tell if such things are a wonder. So can Saint Dunstan's in the West, When good Romaine harangues his best, And tells his staring congregation, That sober sense is sure damnation; That Newton's guilt was worse than treason For using, what God gave him, reason. "A pox of all this prefacing!" Smart Balbus cries: "come, name the thing That such there are we all agree: What is this wood?" Why-Tyburn-tree.

Here then this reverend oak harangue; Who makes men do so, ere they hang.

Patibulum loquitur.

"Each thing whatever, when aggriev'd, Of right complains, to be reliev'd. When rogues so rais'd the price of wheat, That few folks could afford to eat, (Just as, when doctors' fees run high, Few patients can afford to die) The poor durst into murmurs break; For losers must have leave to speak: Then, from reproaching, fell to mawling Each neighbour-rogue they found forestalling. As these again, their knaves and setters, Durst vent complaints against their betters Whose only crime was in defeating Their scheme of growing rich by cheating: So, shall not I my wrongs relate, An injur'd minister of state?

Feel and resent! what wonder then
It should be felt by British men,
When France, insulting, durst invade
Their clearest property of trade?
For which both nations, at the bar
Of that supreme tribunal, war,
To show their reasons have agreed,
And lawyers, by ten thousands, fee'd;
Who now, for legal quirks and puns,
Plead with the rhetoric of great guns;
And each his client's cause maintains,
By knocking out th' opponent's brains:
While Europe all-but we adjourn
This wise digression, and return.

"Your rules and statutes have undone me:
My surest cards begin to shun me
My native subjects dare rebel,
Those who were born for me and Hell:
And, but for you, the scoundrel-line
Had, every mother's son, died mine.
A race unnumber'd as unknown,
Whom town or suburb calls her own;
Of vagrant love the various spawn,
From rags and filth, from lace and lawn,
Sons of Fleet-ditch, of bulks, of benches,
Where peer and porter meet their wenches,
For neither health nor shame can wean us,
From mixing with the midnight Venus.

"Nor let my cits be here forgot:
They know to sin, as well as sot.
When Night demure walks forth, array'd
In her thin negligée of shade,
Late risen from their long regale
Of beef and beer, and bawdy tale,
Abroad the common-council sally,
To poach for game in lane or alley;
This gets a son, whose first essay
Will filch his father's till away;
A daughter that, who may retire,
Some few years hence, with her own sire:
And, while his hand is in her placket,
The filial virtue picks his pocket.
Change-alley, too, is grown so nice,
A broker dares refine on vice:

With lord-like scorn of marriage-vows,
In her own arms he cuckolds spouse;
For young and fresh while he would wish her,
His loose thought glows with Kitty Fisher;
Or, after nobler quarry running,
Profanely paints her out a Gunning.

"Now these, of each degree and sort,
At Wapping dropp'd, perhaps at court,
Bred up for me, to swear and lie,
To laugh at Hell, and Heaven defy;
These, Tyburn's regimental train,
Who risk their necks to spread my reign,
From age to age, by right divine,
Hereditary rogues, were mine:
And each, by discipline severe,
Improv'd beyond all shame and fear,
From guilt to guilt advancing daily,
My constant friend, the good Old-Bailey,
To me made over, late or soon;
I think, at latest, once a noon:
But, by your interloping care,
Not one in ten shall be my share.

"Ere 'tis too late your errour see,
You foes to Britain, and to me.
To me: agreed-But to the nation;
I prove it thus by demonstration.

"First, that there is much good in ill, My great apostle Mandevile

Has made most clear. Read, if you please, His moral fable of the bees.

Our reverend clergy next will own,

Were all men good, their trade were gone;

That were it not for useful vice,

Their learned pains would bear no price:
Nay, we should quickly bid defiance
To their demonstrated alliance.

"Next, kingdoms are compos'd, we know, Of individuals, Jack and Joe.

Now these, our sovereign lords, the rabble,
For ever prone to growl and squabble,
The monstrous many-headed beast,
Whom we must not offend, but feast,
Like Cerberus, should have their sop:
And what is that, but trussing up?
How happy were their hearts, and gay,
At each return of hanging-day?
To see Page swinging they admire,
Beyond ev'n Madox on his wire!
No baiting of a bull or bear,
To Perry dangling in the air!

And then, the being drunk a week,

For joy, some Sheppard would not squeak!
But now that those good times are o'er,
How will they mutiny and roar!
Your scheme absurd of sober rules
Will sink the race of men to mules;

For ever drudging, sweating, broiling,
For ever for the public toiling:

Hard masters! who, just when they need 'em,
With a few thistles deign to feed 'em.

"Yet more-for it is seldom known

That fault or folly stands alone-
You next debauch their infant-mind
With fumes of honourable wind;
Which must beget, in heads untry'd,
That worst of human vices, pride.
All who my humble paths forsake,
Will reckon, each, to be a Blake;
There, on the deck, with arms a-kimbo,
Already struts the future Bembow;
By you bred up to take delight in
No earthly things but oaths and fighting.
These sturdy sons of blood and blows,
By pulling Mounsieur by the nose,
By making kicks and cuffs the fashion,
Will put all Europe in a passion.
The grand alliance, now quadruple,
Will pay us home, 'jusqu'au centuple:'
So the French king was heard to cry-
And can a king of Frenchmen lie?

"These, and more mischiefs I foresee
From fondling brats of base degree.
As mushrooms that on dunghills rise,
The kindred-weeds beneath despise;
So these their fellows will contemn,
Who, in revenge, will rage at them:
For, through each rank, what more offends,
Than to behold the rise of friends?
Still when our equals grow too great,
We may applaud, but we must hate.
Then, will it be endur'd, when John
Has put my hempen ribbon on,

2 As these are all persons of note, and well known to our readers, we think any more particular mention of them unnecessary. Mallet.