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He swore by Gad it was an odd thing,
And look'd much like a taylor's bodkin.
His pride was hurt by this expression,
Thinking they knew his fire's profession;
Sheathing his sword he sneak'd away,
And drove for Glo'fter that same day:
There soon he found new cause for grief,
For dining on some fine roast beef,
One ask'd him which he did prefer,
Some cabbage or a cucumber.
The purse-proud coxcomb took the hint,
Thought it severe reflection meant;
His stomach turn'd, he could not eat,
So made an ungenteel retreat:
Next day left Glo'ster in great wrath,
And bade his coachman drive to Bath.
There he suspected fresh abuse,
Because the dinner was roast goose;
And that he might no more be jeerd,
Next day to Exeter he steerd,
There with some bucks he drank about,
Until he fear'd they'd found him out;
His glass not filld as was the rule,
They said 'twas not a thimble full:
The name of thimble was enough,
He paid his reck’ning and went off.
He then to Plymouth took a trip,
And put up at the royal ship;
Which then was kept by Caleb Snip.
The host by name was often callid,
At which his guest was so much galld,
That soon to Cambridge he removid,
There too he unsuccessful prov'd:
For though he fillid his glass or cup,
He did not always drink it up.
The scholars mark'd how he behavid, .
And said a remnant should be sav'd.
The name of remnant galld him so,
That he resolv'd to York to go :
There fill'd his bumper to the top,
And always fairly drank it up :
“ Well done, (says Jack, a buck of York,)
“ You go thro' stitch, Sir, with your work."

}

The name of fitch was such reproach,
He
rang

the bell and call'd his coach.
But ere he went, inquiries made,
By what strange means they knew his trade :
* You put the cap, on and it fits,”
(Reply'd one of the Yorkshire wits ;)
« Our words, in common acceptation,
“Could not find out your occupation;
'Twas you yourself gave us the clue,
“ To find out both your trade and you.
“ Vain coxcombs and fantastic beaux,
“ In every place themselves expose ;
“ They travel far at vast expence,
" To shew their wealth and want of sense ;
“ But take this for a standing rule,
There's no disguise can screen a fool.

STANZAS,

BY MISS ELIZA RYVES.

A past,

In pity she turn’d to behold, How it shiver'd and shrunk from the merciless blaft,

Then fell all benumb’d with the cold.

She rais'd it, and touch'd by the innocent's fate,

It's soft form to her bosom lhe preft;
But the tender relief was afforded too late,

It bleated, and dy'd on her breast.
The moralift then, as the corse she resign'd,

And weeping, fpring-flow'rs o'er it laid:
Thus mus’d, “ So it fares with the delicate mind,

“ To the tempests of fortune betray’d. “ Too tender, like thee, the rude shock to sustain,

“And deny'd the relief which would save ; “ 'Tis lost, and when pity and kindness are vain,

“ Thus we dress the poor sufferer's grave.”

SONNET. TO SLEEP.

BY CHARLOTTE SMITH.

Сом

TOME, balmy Sleep! tir’d nature's soft resort !

On these fad temples all thy poppies shed; And bid gay dreams, from Morpheus’airy court,

Float in light vision round my aching head ! Secure of all thy blessings, partial pow'r!

On his hard bed the peasant throws him down; And the poor sea boy, in the rudest hour,

Enjoys thee more than he who wears a crown. Clasp?d in her faithful shepherd's guardian arms,

Well may the village girl sweet slumbers prove; And they, O gentle Sleep!-still taste thy charms,

Who wake to labour, liberty, and love. But still thy opiate aid doft thou deny, To calm the anxious breast, to close the streaming eye.

AN ELEGY.

BY THE SAME.

ᎠᎴ

ARK gath’ring clouds involve the threat'ning skies,

• The lea heaves, conscious of th’impending gloom, Deep hollow murmurs from the cliffs arise ;

They come—the Spirits of the Tempest come ! • Oh! may such terrors mark th' approaching night,

*As reign’d on that these streaming eyes deplore ! • Flash, ye red fires of heav'n, with fatal light,

And with conflicting winds, ye waters, roar ! Loud, and more loud, ye foaming billows, burst!

Ye warring elements, more fiercely rave ! • Till the wide waves o’erwhelm the spot accurst,

Where ruthless Av’rice finds a quiet grave !' Thus with clasp'd hands, wild looks, and streaming hair,

While shrieks of horror broke her trembling speech,

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Á wretched maid--the victim of despair,

Survey'd the threat’ning storm and desart beach. Then to the tomb, where now the father slept,

Whose rugged nature bade her sorrows flow, Frantic she turn'd—and beat her breast and wept,

Invoking vengeance on the dust below. Lo! rising there above each humbler heap,

Yon cypher'd stones his name and wealth relate, Who gave

his son-remorseless—to the deep, • While I, his living victim, curse my fate. Oh!

my

loft love! no tomb is plac'd for thee, That may to strangers' eyes thy worth impart; • Thou hast no grave, but in the stormy sea,

• And no memorial, but this breaking heart. • Forth to the world, a widow'd wand'rer driv'n,

• I pour to winds and waves th’ unheeded tear, Try with vain efforts to submit to heav'n,

• And fruitless call on him," who cannot hear!" O might I fondly clasp him once again,

• While o’er my head th' infuriate billows pour, • Forget in death this agonizing pain,

• And feel his father's cruelty no more! • Part, raging waters, part, and shew beneath,

In your dread caves, his pale and mangled form, • Now, while the demons of despair and death

• Ride on the blast, and urge the howling storm! • Lo! by the lightning's momentary blaze,

• I see him rise the whit’ning waves above, • No longer such as when in happier days

• He gave th'enchanted hours to me and love. • Such, as when daring the enchafed sea,

And courting dang’rous toil, he often said, • That ev'ry peril one soft smile from me,

• One figh of speechless tenderness o’erpaid. • But dead, disfigur’d, while between the roar

• Of the loud wave his accents pierce mine ear, · And seem to say—Ah! wretch, delay no more,

• But come, unhappy mourner, meet me here.

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Yet, pow'rful fancy, bid the phantom stay,

Still let me hear him!—Tis already past; • Along the waves his shadow glides away;

• I lose his voice amidst the deafʼning blaft. • Ah! wild illusion, born of frantic pain,

• He hears not, comes not from his war'ry bed; • My tears, my anguilh, my despair are vain,

• 'Th' insatiate ocean gives not up its dead. "'Tis not his voice! Hark! the deep thunders roll;

• Upheaves the ground; the rocky barriers fail; Approach, ye horrors that delight my soul,

• Despair, and Death, and Desolation, hail!' The ocean hears—th'embodied waters come,

Rise o'er the land, and with resistless sweep Tear from its base the proud aggressor's tomb,

And bear the injur'd to eternal sleep!

SONNET. TO A POOR BOY.

BY MR. ANDERSON.

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For I have learn'd to feel another's woe; Yes, my heart pants to make thy forrow less,

And dry the tear which mis’ry bids to flow. Ye, whom nor cold nor pining hunger press,

Nor frowning POVERTY's sad anguish know: What boots it, though you shine like insects gay,

The vain unthinking parasites of pow'r? How oft doth Syren Vice lead you aftray?

How oft embitter pleasure’s gayest hour ? Tho' never thou enjoy'st the plenteous meal!

Tho’ ratter'd thy coarse weeds—yet, poor forlorn! Sooner thy keenest sorrows would I feel, Than be the Son of WEALTH that mocks thy woes

with scorn.

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