My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite

dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come;
"For I knew it," he cry'd, "both eternally fail,
The one with his speeches, and t' other with Thrale;
But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party,
With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.
The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew,

They both of them merry, and authors like you;
The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge;
Some think he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge."
While thus he describ'd them by trade and by name,
They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came.
At the top a fry'd liver and bacon were seen,
At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen;
At the sides there were spinage and pudding made

hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty-was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what yex'd me most, was that d-'d Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles and his brogue:

And," madam," quoth he," may this bit be my poison, A prettier dinner I never set eyes on;

Pray a slice of your liver, tho' may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I'm ready to burst." "The tripe, quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all." "O-ho! quoth my friend, he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty"-" a pasty!" repeated the Jew; "I don't care if I keep a corner for❜t too." "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot; "Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."

"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cry'd out;
"We'll all keep a corner, was echo'd about."
While thus we resolv'd and the pasty delay'd,
With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid;
A visage so sad, and so pale with affright,
Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night;
But we quickly found out, for who could mistake her,
That she came with some terrible news from the baker:
And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven,
Had shut out the pasty on shutting his oven.
Sad Philomel thus-but let similies drop-
And now that I think on't the story may stop.
To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd,
To send such good verses to one of your taste;
You've got an odd something-a kind of discerning-
A relish a taste-sicken'd over by learning;
At least, it's your temper, as very well known,
That you think very slightly of all that's your own:
So perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss,
You may make a mistake and think slightly of this.

CUTHBERT SHAW.

MONODY,

To the Memory of a young Lady.

YET do I live! O how shall I sustain

This vast unutterable weight of woe?
This worse than hunger, poverty, or pain,
Or all the complicated ills below?
She, in whose life my hopes were treasur'd all,
Is gone-for ever fled-

My dearest Emma's dead;

These eyes, these tear-swoln eyes beheld her fall.
Ah, no-she lives on some far happier shore,
She lives-but, cruel thought! she lives for me no

more.

I, who the tedious absence of a day

Remov'd, would languish for my charmer's sight; Would chide the ling'ring moments for delay, And fondly blame the slow return of night; How, how shall I endure

(O misery past a cure!)

Hours, days, and years, successively to roll,
Nor ever more behold the comfort of my soul?

Was she not all my fondest wish could frame?
Did ever mind so much of heaven partake?
Did she not love me with the purest flame?
And give up friends and fortune for my sake?
Tho' mild as evening skies,

With downcast, streaming eyes,

Stood the stern frown of supercilious brows,

Deaf to their brutal threats, and faithful to her

Come then, some Muse, the saddest of the train
(No more your bard shall dwell on idle lays,)
Teach me each moving melancholy strain,
And, oh! discard the pageantry of phrase:
Ill suits the flowers of speech with woes like mine!
Thus, haply, as I paint

The source of my complaint,

My soul may own th' impassion'd line;

A flood of tears may gush to my relief,

And from my swelling heart discharge this load of grief.

Forbear, my fond officious friends, forbear

To wound my ears with the sad tales you tell; "How good she was, how gentle, and how fair!" In pity cease-alas! I know too well How in her sweet expressive face

Beam'd forth the beauties of her mind,

Yet heighten'd by exterior grace,

Of manners most engaging, most refin'd.

No piteous object could she see,

But her soft bosom shar'd the woe,

While smiles of affability

Endear'd whatever boon she might bestow.

Whate'er the emotions of her heart,

Still shone conspicuous in her eyes,

Stranger to every female art,

Alike to feign or to disguise :

And, oh! the boast how rare!
The secret in her faithful breast repos'd
She ne'er with lawless tongue disclos'd,

In secret silence lodg'd inviolate there.
Oh, feeble words-unable to express
Her matchless virtues, or my own distress.

Relentless death! that, steel'd to human woe, With murderous hands deals havock on mankind, Why (cruel!) strike this deprecated blow,

And leave such wretched multitudes behind?

Hark! groans come wing'd on every breeze!
The sons of grief prefer their ardent vow,
Oppress'd with sorrow, want, or dire disease,
And supplicate thy aid, as I do now:
'In vain-perverse, still on the unweeting head
'Tis thine thy vengeful darts to shed;
Hope's infant blossoms to destroy,
And drench in tears the face of joy.

But, oh! fell tyrant! yet expect the hour
When Virtue shall renounce thy power;
When thou no more shalt blot the face of day,
Nor mortals tremble at thy rigid sway.
Alas, the day! where'er I turn my eyes,
Some sad memento of my loss appears;
I fly the fatal house-suppress my sighs,
Resolv'd to dry my unàvailing tears:

But, ah! in vain-no change of time or place
The memory can efface

Of all that sweetness, that enchanting air,
Now lost; and nought remains but anguish and
despair.

Where were the delegates of heaven, oh, where!
Appointed Virtue's children safe to keep?

Had Innocence or Virtue been their care,
She had not died, nor had I liv'd to weep:
Mov'd by my tears, and by her patience mov'd,
To see her force the endearing smile,

My sorrows to beguile,

When Torture's keenest rage she prov'd;

Sure they had warded that untimely dart,

Which broke her thread of life, and rent a husband's

heart.

How shall I e'er forget that dreadful hour,
When, feeling Death's resistless power,

My hand she press'd wet with her falling tears,
And thus, in faltering accents, spoke her fears!

Ah, my lov'd lord, the transient scene is o'er,
And we must part, alas! to meet no more!