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!
Besides, in truth, I'm not prepared:
My thoughts on other matters go;
This is my wedding-day, you know."

What more he urged I have not heard,
His reasons could not well be stronger;
So death the poor delinquent spared,
And left to live a little longer.
Yet calling up a serious look,

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 fit you for your future station,
Three several warnings you shall have,
Before you're summoned to the grave;
Willing for once I'll quit my prey,

And grant a kind reprieve;
In hopes you'll have no more to say;
But, when I call again this way,

Well pleased the world will leave."
To these conditions both consented,
And parted perfectly contented.

What next the hero of our tale befell,
How long he lived, how wise, how well,
How roundly he pursued his course,
And smoked his pipe, and stroked his horse,
The willing muse shall tell :
He chaffered, then he bought and sold,
Nor once perceived his growing old,
Nor thought of Death as near:
His friends not false, his wife no shrew,
Many his gains, his children few,

"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."
"Nay, then," the spectre stern rejoined,
"These are unjustifiable yearnings;
If you are lame, and deaf, and blind,
You've had your Three sufficient Warn-
ings;

So come along, no more we'll part;"'
He said, and touched him with his dart.
And now Old Dodson, turning pale,
Yields to his fate-so ends my tale.

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,
And grandeur a magnificent abode.

(Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!)
Here craving for a morsel of their bread,
A pampered menial forced me from the door,
To seek a shelter in a humbler shed.

Oh! take me to your hospitable dome,

Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the
cold!

Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.

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,
The child of sorrow and of misery.

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 cattle died, and blighted was my corn.

My daughter-once the comfort of my age!
Lured by a villain from her native home,
Is cast, abandoned, on the world's wild stage,
And doomed in scanty poverty to roam.

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,
I'll tell how Peggy grieves me;
Though, thus I languish, thus complain,
Alas! she ne'er believes me.
My vows and sighs, like silent air,
Unheeded never move her;
At the bonny bush aboon Traquair,
'Twas there I first did love her.

That day she smiled, and made me glad,
No maid seem'd ever kinder;

I thought myself the luckiest lad,
So sweetly there to find her.

I tried to soothe my amorous flame
In words that I thought tender;

If more there pass'd, I'm not to blame,
I meant not to offend her.

Yet now she scornful flees the plain,
The fields we then frequented;
If e'er we meet, she shows disdain,
She looks as ne'er acquainted.
The bonny bush bloom'd fair in May,
Its sweets I'll aye remember;
But now her frowns make it decay,
It fades as in December.

Ye rural powers, who hear my strains,
Why thus should Peggy grieve me?
Oh! make her partner in my pains,
Then let her smiles relieve me.
If not, my love will turn despair,
My passion no more tender,

I'll leave the bush aboon Traquair,
To lonely wilds I'll wander.

Wm. Crawfurd.-Born 1700 (?), Died 1750 (?).

Tweed's murmurs should lull her to rest;
Kind nature indulging my bliss,
To relieve the soft pains of my breast,
I'd steal an ambrosial kiss.

'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.
Look where my dear Hamilla smiles,
Hamilla! heavenly charmer;
See how with all their arts and wiles
The Loves and Graces arm her.
A blush dwells glowing on her cheeks,
Fair seats of youthful pleasures :
There Love in smiling language speaks,
There spreads his rosy treasures.

O fairest maid, I own thy power,
I gaze, I sigh, and languish,
Yet ever, ever will adore,

And triumph in my anguish.
But ease, O charmer, ease my care,
And let my torments move thee;
As thou art fairest of the fair,

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,
The linnet, the lark, and the thrush,
The blackbird, and sweet-cooing dove,
With music enchant every bush.
Come, let us go forth to the mead,

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?
Does Mary not tend a few sheep?
Do they never carelessly stray,
While happily she lies asleep?

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!
Is it that youth paints every view too bright,
And, life advancing, fancy fades her light ?
Ah, no-nor yet is day so far declined,
Nor can time's creeping coldness reach the
mind.

"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!
I wonder, and retract a starting tear,
Gaze in attentive doubt-with anguish swell,
And o'er and o'er on each weigh'd object
dwell.

Then to the window rush, gay views invite,
And tempt idea to permit delight.
But unimpressive, all in sorrow drown'd,
One void forgetful desert glooms around.

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,
And draw thy silent curtain round my woes.
Yet hold-one tender pang revokes that
pray'r,

Still there remains one claim to tax my care.
Gone though she is, she left her soul behind,
In four dear transcripts of her copied mind.
They chain me down to life, new task supply,
And leave me not at leisure yet to die!
Busied for them I yet forego release,
And teach my wearied heart to wait for
peace.

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
To a small river, that full slow did glide,
As it uneath mote find its wat'ry path
For stones and rubbish, that did choak
its tide,

So lay the mouldering piles on every side,
Seem'd there a goodly city once had been,
Albeit now fallen were her royal pride,
Yet mote her ancient greatness still be

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,
With hieroglyphic sculptures all inwrought,
And Parian marbles, by Greek artists
taught

To counterfeit the forms of heroes old,
And set before the eye of sober thought
Lycurgus, Homer, and Alcides bold.

All these and many more that may not here be told.

There in the middest of a ruin'd pile,
That seem'd a theatre of circuit vast,
Where thousands might be seated, he ere-
while

Discover'd hath an uncouth trophy placed;
Seem'd a huge heap of stone together cast
In nice disorder and wild symmetry,
Urns, broken friezes, statues half defaced,
And pedestals with antique imagery
Emboss'd, and pillars huge of costly porphyry.

Aloft on this strange basis was ypight
With girlonds gay adorn'd a golden chair,
In which aye smiling with self-bred delight,
In careless pride reclin'd a lady fair,
And to soft music lent her idle ear;
The which with pleasure so did her enthral,
That for aught else she had but little
care,

For wealth, or fame, or honour feminal,
Or gentle love, sole king of pleasures natural.

Als by her side in richest robes array'd,
An eunuch sate, of visage pale and dead
Unseemly paramour for royal maid!
Yet him she courted oft and honour'd,
And oft would by her place in princely
sted,

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,
For she was vain of her great ancestry,
But vainer still of that prodigious store
Of arts and learning, which she vaunts to
lie

In the rich archives of her treasury.
These she to strangers oftentimes would
show,

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,
But men of base and vulgar industry,
Or such perdy as of them cozen'd be,
Mimes, fiddlers, pipers, eunuchs squeaking
fine,

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,
Which I must ne'er enjoy?
What are the blessings of the sight?
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wond'rous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make,
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake,

With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear

You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy;
Whilst thus I sing, I am a king,
Although a poor blind boy.
Colley Cibber.-Born 1671, Died 1757.