XVII.

And thrice he call'd on Margaret's name,
And thrice he wept full fore:

Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,
And word fpoke never more!

N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called "The Knight of the burning Pestle," old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verfes:

When it was grown to dark midnight,
And all were fast asleep,

In came Margaret's grimly ghoft,

And ftood at William's feet.

This was, probably, the beginning of fome ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; .and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. Thefe lines, naked of ornament, and fimple as they are, ftruck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of. formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many ago. MALLET. An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.

EPITAPH, on Mr. AIKMAN, and his only Son: who were both interred in the fame grave.

D

EAR to the wife and good, difprais'd by none,

Here fleep in peace the father and the fon.

By virtue, as by nature, clofe ally'd,

The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine, ̈,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.
Thé fon, fair-rifing, knew too fhort a date;
But oh, how more fevere the parent's fate!
He faw him torn, untimely, from his fide,
Felt all a father's anguifh, wept, and dy'd!

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

THIS humble grave though no proud ftructures grace,

Yet Truth and Goodness fanctify the place:
Yet blameless Virtue, that adorn'd thy bloom,
Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb.
O scap'd from life! O safe on that calm shore,
Where fin, and pain, and passion are no more!
What never wealth could buy, nor power decree,
Regard and Pity, wait fincere on thee:
Lo! foft Remembrance drops a pious tear;
And holy Friendship ftands a mourner here.

SONG,

SONG.

T

To a SCOTCH TUNE.

THE BIRKS OF ENDERMAY.

I.

HE fmiling morn, the breathing spring,
Invite the tuneful birds to fing:

And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the univerfal lay.

Let us, Amanda, timely wife,
Like them improve the hour that flies;
And, in soft raptures, waste the day,
Among the shades of Endermay.

II.

For foon the winter of the year,
And age, life's winter, will appear:
At this, thy living bloom must fade;
As that will ftrip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er;
The feather'd fongfters love no more:
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the fhades of Endermay!

OF

OF VERBAL CRITICISM.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE Ift AND 2d EDITIONS. AS the defign of the following poem is to rally the abufe of Verbal Criticism, the author could not, without manifeft partiality, overlook the Editor of Mil. ton, and the Reftorer of Shakespeare. With regard to the latter, he has read over the many and ample fpecimens with which that Scholiaft has already obliged the publick and of thefe, and these only, he pretends to give his opinion. But, whatever he may think of the Critic, not bearing the leaft ill-will to the Man, he deferred printing thefe verfes, though written feveral months ago, till he heard that the fubfcription for a new edition of Shakespeare was closed. He begs leave to add likewife, that this poem was undertaken and written entirely without the knowledge of the Gentleman to whom it is addreffed. Only as it is a public teftimony of his. inviolable efteem for Mr. Pope, on that account, particularly, he wishes, may not be judged to increase the number of mean performances, with which the town is almost daily pestered.

A

MONG the numerous fools, by fate defign'd

Oft todisturb, and oft divert, mankind,

The Reading Coxcomb is of special note,
By rule a Poet, and a Judge by rote:

Grave son of idle Industry and Pride,

Whom learning but perverts, and books mifguide.
O fam'd for judging, as for writing well,
That rarest science, where so few excel;

Whofe

Whofe life, feverely fcann'd, tranfcends thy lays,
For wit fupreme is but thy second praise :

'Tis thine, O Pope, who chufe the better part,
To tell how falfe, how vain, the Scholiaft's art,
Which nor to tafte, nor genius has pretence,
And, if 'tis learning, is not common sense.
In error obftinate, in wrangling loud,
For trifles eager, pofitive, and proud;
Deep in the darkness of dull authors bred,
With all their refuse lumber'd in his head,
What every dunce from every dunghill drew
Of literary offals, old or new,

ΤΟ

Forth steps at laft the felf-applauding wight,
Of points and letters, chaff and straws, to write:
Sagely refolv'd to fwell each bulky piece
With venerable toys, from Rome and Greece;
How oft, in Homer, Paris curl'd his hair;
If Ariftotle's cap were round or square;
If in the cave, were Dido first was sped,
To Tyre fhe turn'd her heels, to Troy her head.
Such the choice anecdotes, profound and vain,
That ftore a Bentley's and a Burman's brain :
Hence, Plato quoted, or the Stagyrite,
To prove that flame afcends, and fnow is white :
Hence, much hard ftudy, without fenfe or breeding,
And all the grave impertinence of reading.
If Shakespeare fays, the noon-day fun is bright,
His Scholiaft will remark, it then was light;
Turn Caxton, Winkin, each old Goth and Hun,
To rectify the reading of a pun.

15

20

25

Thus