you'll hear What a dreadful disaster attended the peer: For whether some envious god had decreed That a Naiad should long to ennoble her breed ; Or whether his Lordship was charm'd to behold His face in the stream, like Narcissus of old; In handing old Lady Bumfidget and daughter, This obsequious Lord tumbled into the water; But a nymph of the flood brought him safe to the boat, And I left all the ladies a'cleaning his coat. Thus the feast was concluded, as far as I hear, To the great satisfaction of all that were there. 1026. THE THREE WARNINGS. The tree of deepest root is found Least willing still to quit the ground; 'Twas therefore said by ancient sages, That love of life increased with years So much, that in our latter stages, When pains grow sharp, and sickness rages, The greatest love of life appears. This great affection, to believe, Which all confess, but few perceive, If old assertions can't prevail, Be pleased to hear a modern tale. When sports went round, and all were gay, On neighbour Dodson's wedding-day, Death called aside the jocund groom With him into another room, And looking grave-" You must," says he, "Quit your sweet bride, and come with me." "With you! and quit my Susan's side? With you! the hapless husband cried; Young as I am, 'tis monstrous hard! What more he urged I have not heard, 66 His hour-glass trembled while he spokeNeighbour," he said, "farewell! no more Shall Death disturb your mirthful hour: And farther, to avoid all blame Of cruelty upon my name, To give you time for preparation, And grant a kind reprieve; Well pleased the world will leave." What next the hero of our tale befell, "This is a shocking tale, 'tis true; But still there's comfort left for you: Each strives your sadness to amuse; I warrant you hear all the news." "There's none," cries he; "and if there were, I'm grown so deaf, I could not hear." So come along, no more we'll part;"' Mrs. Thrale.-Born 1740, Died 1822. 1027.-THE BEGGAR. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. These tattered clothes my poverty bespeak, These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen'd years; And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek Has been the channel to a stream of tears. Yon house, erected on the rising ground, With tempting aspect drew me from my road, For plenty there a residence has found, (Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!) Oh! take me to your hospitable dome, Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the Short is my passage to the friendly tomb, Should I reveal the source of every grief, If soft humanity e'er touched your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind. relief, And tears of pity could not be repress'd. Heaven sends misfortunes-why should we repine ? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state you see: And your condition may be soon like mine, A little farm was my paternal lot, Then, like the lark, I sprightly hail'd the morn; But ah! oppression forced me from my cot; My daughter-once the comfort of my age! My tender wife-sweet soother of my care! Struck with sad anguish at the stern decree, Fell-lingering fell, a victim to despair, And left the world to wretchedness and me. Pity the sorrows of a poor old man! Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door, Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span, Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store. Thomas Moss.-About 1798. 1028. THE BUSH ABOON TRAQUAIR. Hear me, ye nymphs, and every swain, That day she smiled, and made me glad, I thought myself the luckiest lad, I tried to soothe my amorous flame If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame, Yet now she scornful flees the plain, Ye rural powers, who hear my strains, I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair, Wm. Crawfurd.-Born 1700 (?), Died 1750 (?). Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest; 'Tis she does the virgins excel, No beauty with her may compare : Love's graces around her do dwell; She's fairest where thousands are fair. Say, charmer, where do thy flocks stray, Oh! tell me at noon where they feed; Shall I seek them on smooth-winding Tay Or the pleasanter banks of the Tweed? Wm. Crawfurd.-Born 1700 (?), Died 1750 (?). 1030.-ON MRS. A. H., AT A CONCERT. O fairest maid, I own thy power, And triumph in my anguish. So I the dearest love thee. Wm. Crawfurd.—Born 1700 (?), Died 1750 (?). 1029.-TWEEDSIDE. What beauties does Flora disclose! How sweet are her smiles upon Tweed! Yet Mary's, still sweeter than those, Both nature and fancy exceed. Nor daisy, nor sweet-blushing rose, Not all the gay flowers of the field, Not Tweed gliding gently through those, Such beauty and pleasure does yield. The warblers are heard in the grove, Let us see how the primroses spring; We'll lodge in some village on Tweed, And love while the feather'd folks sing. How does my love pass the long day? 1031.-VERSES WRITTEN WHEN ALONE IN AN INN AT SOUTHAMPTON. Twenty lost years have stolen their hours away, Since in this inn, even in this room, I lay : How changed! what then was rapture, fire, and air, Seems now sad silence all and blank despair! "Tis that I miss the inspirer of that youth; Her, whose soft smile was love, whose soul was truth. Her, from whose pain I never wish'd relief, And for whose pleasure I could smile at grief. Prospects that, view'd with her, inspired before, Now seen without her can delight no more. Death snatch'd my joys, by cutting off her share, But left her griefs to multiply my care. Pensive and cold this room in each changed part I view, and, shock'd, from ev'ry object start: There hung the watch that, beating hours from day, Told its sweet owner's lessening life away. There her dear diamond taught the sash my name; 'Tis gone! frail image of love, life, and fame. That glass she dress'd at, keeps her form no more; Not one dear footstep tunes th' unconscious floor. There sat she-yet those chairs no sense retain, And busy recollection smarts in vain. Sullen and dim, what faded scenes are here! Then to the window rush, gay views invite, Oh life deceitful lure of lost desires! How short thy period, yet how fierce thy fires! Scarce can a passion start (we change so fast), Ere new lights strike us, and the old are past. Schemes following schemes, so long life's taste explore, That ere we learn to live, we live no more. Who then can think-yet sigh, to part with breath, Or shun the healing hand of friendly death? Guilt, penitence, and wrongs, and pain, and strife, Form the whole heap'd amount, thou flatterer, life! Is it for this, that toss'd 'twixt hope and fear, Peace, by new shipwrecks, numbers each new year? Oh take me, death! indulge desired repose, Still there remains one claim to tax my care. But when their day breaks broad, I welcome night, Smile at discharge from care, and shut out light. Aaron Hill.-Born 1685, Died 1750. 1032.-ALLEGORICAL DESCRIPTION OF VERTU. So on he passed, till he comen hath So lay the mouldering piles on every side, seen, Still from her ruins proved the world's imperial queen. For the rich spoil of all the continents, The boast of art and nature there was brought, Corinthian brass, Egyptian monuments, To counterfeit the forms of heroes old, All these and many more that may not here be told. There in the middest of a ruin'd pile, Discover'd hath an uncouth trophy placed; Aloft on this strange basis was ypight For wealth, or fame, or honour feminal, Als by her side in richest robes array'd, Though from the dregs of earth he springen were, And oft with regal crowns she deck'd his head, And oft, to soothe her vain and foolish ear, She bade him the great names of mighty Kesars bear. Thereto herself a pompous title bore, In the rich archives of her treasury. With grave demean and solemn vanity, Then proudly claim as to her merit due, The venerable praise and title of Vertù. Vertù she was yclept, and held her court With outward shows of pomp and majesty, To which natheless few others did resort, Painters and builders, sons of masonry, Who well could measure with the rule and line, And all the orders five right craftily define. But other skill of cunning architect, How to contrive the house for dwelling best, With self-sufficient scorn they wont neglect, As corresponding with their purpose least; And herein be they copied of the rest, Who aye pretending love of science fair, And generous purpose to adorn the breast With liberal arts, to Vertù's court repair, Yet nought but tunes and names and coins away do bear. For long, to visit her once-honour'd seat The studious sons of learning have forbore: Who whilom thither ran with pilgrim feet, Her venerable reliques to adore, And load their bosom with the sacred store, Whereof the world large treasure yet enjoys. But sithence she declined from wisdom's lore, They left her to display her pompous toys To virtuosi vain and wonder-gaping boys. Gilbert West.-Born 1706, Died 1755. 1033-SONG-THE BLIND BOY. O say what is that thing call'd light, You talk of wond'rous things you see, My day or night myself I make, With me 'twere always day. With heavy sighs I often hear You mourn my hapless woe; Then let not what I cannot have |