Black crows have been thrown up, Three, Two, and

One;

And here, I find, all comes at last to None!
Did you fay nothing of a crow at all?.
Crow-crow-perhaps I might, now I recal
The matter o'er. And, pray Sir, what was't?
Why, I was horrid fick, and at the laft
I did throw up, and told my neighbour fo,
Something that was-as black, fir, as a crow.

C

Invocation to Harmony.

NELESTIAL harmony descend,
The wrinkled brow of care unbend,
Thy chearful voice let forrow hear,
And cease to drop the penfive tear;
Bid joy, extatic joy, impart
Its pleafing influence to the heart.
Defcend, celestial harmony,
Joy owes its sweetest charm to thee.

When love the bosom fills, 'tis thine
His pow'r to heighten and refine;
Thy thrilling warblings foft and flow,
Attun'd to melting paffion flow,
And bid the foul enraptur'd prove,
That mufic is the voice of love;
Defcend, celestial harmony,

Love owes its fweeteft charm to thee.

Enchanting power! 'tis thine to ftill
The ftorms that life's fad circle fill;
The burthen of our woes to ease,
And make our pleafures doubly please;
Each tender feeling to refine

Through life, enchanting power, 'tis thine;
Defcend, celeftial harmony,

Love owes its sweetest charm to thee.

BEDINGFIELD.

The Washing Week,

To Captain G. THOMPSON. Kew, May 25, 1765.

IN

N this, dear George, we both agree,
(You bred in camp, I bred at fea)
That cleanliness is oft

A curfed plague about a house,
And always met our juft abuse,
When boys with Mrs Croft.

But to the beggar and the king.
Clean linen's a reviving thing:

Yet thefe our plagues don't reach;
The beggar ftrips with jocund morn,
In fome quick ftream, and on the thorn
Spreads out his rags to bleach.

The king, great man, fends all his out,
Not caring for a fingle clout:

But what's more happy ftill,
He's not oblig'd to count the rags,
Nor ftuff 'em into canvas bags,
Oh! no-nor write the bill.

But Lord have mercy on us all!
When'er we wash, all hands must fall
To fomething or another;
For madam fcolds, and flies about,
Now up, now down, now in, now out,
Dabbling thro' wet and fmother.

This curfed time all comfort flies,
At fix fhe ftarts; come, Ned, come rise,
And get the lines hung out!
Yes, to be fure, (my dear) I cry,
I dare as well be hang'd as lie,
For fear my dove should pout.

Breakfast is got, and whipt away,
(Because the washers want their tea)
Before that I've half done :—
The doors all open-linen fpread,
The sky looks black,-come hither, Ned,
Shall we have rain or fun?

My dear, you need not be in pain,
It does not look, I think, like rain;
O! then we'll hang out more:
When lo! the words have hardly past,
But puff there comes a heavy blast,
And all must be rins'd o'er.

Then tenfold falls the peal on me;
You afs, to be ten years at fea,
See, fee the linen, do!-
I fneak away, to have a file,
Snug, while I hear her all the while,
Calling me black and blue.

From fuch unlucky ftorms of rain,
Nothing with me goes well again,.
The dinner comes-and cold:
The meat, I cry, of foap-fuds twangs,
Up madam gets, the door the bangs,
And re-begins to fcold.

But what still troubles more my mind,
Amidft fuch griefs at once to find
The washer, as the wrings,
Cracking fome jeft-then o'er the tub
Paufes awhile—and evry rub

With pleasure sweats and fings.

I hate, I must confefs, all dirt,
And truly love a well-wash'd shirt,lər
Yet once a month this reek,
Is more than flesh and blood can bear;
And him I hate-O make his share
A washing every week!

E. THOMPSON.

The Vanity of Wealth.

AN ODE.

O more thus brooding o'er yon heap,
With Avarice painful vigils keep;
Still unenjoy'd the present store,
Still endless fighs are breath'd for more.
O! quit the shadow, catch the prize,
Which not all India's treafure buys!
To purchase heaven-has gold the power?
Can gold remove the mortal hour?
In life can love be bought with gold?
Are friendship's pleasures to be fold?
No-all that's worth a wifh-a thought,
Fair Virtue gives unbrib'd, unbought.
Cease, then, on trash thy hopes to bind,
Let nobler views engage thy mind.

With science tread the wond'rous way,
Or learn the Mufes moral lay;
In focial hours indulge thy foul,

Where mirth and temp'rance mix the bowl:
To virtuous love refign thy breast,

And be by bleffing beauty-bleft.

Thus tafte the feaft by nature spread,
Ere youth and all its joys are fled;
Come taste with me the balm of life,
Secure from pomp, and wealth, and ftrife.
I boast whate'er for man was meant,
In health, and Stella, and content;
And fcorn! Oh! let that fcorn be thine!
Mere things of clay, that dig the mine.

DR JOHNSON.

GOD
Ꮐ

An Address to the Deity.

OD of my life! and author of my days!
Permit my feeble voice to lifp thy praise;
And trembling, take upon a mortal tongue
That hallow'd name to harps of Seraphs fung.
Yet here the brightest Seraphs could no more
Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore.
Worms, angels, men, in every different sphere
Are equal all, for all are nothing here.

All nature faints beneath the mighty name,
Which nature's works thro' all her parts proclaim.
I feel that name my inmoft thoughts controul,
And breathe an awful ftillnefs thro' my foul;
As by a charm the waves of grief fubfide,
Impetuous paffion stops her headlong tide:
At thy felt prefence all emotions ceafe,
And my hufh'd fpirit finds a fudden peace,
'Till every worldly thought within me dies,
And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes;
Till all my fenfe is loft in infinite,

And one vaft object fills my aching fight.

But foon, alas! this holy calm is broke;
My foul fubmits to wear her wonted yoke;
With fhackled pinions ftrives to foar in vain,
And mingles with the drofs of earth again.
But he, our gracious Master, kind as juft,
Knowing our frame, remembers man is duft.
His fpirit, ever brooding o'er our mind,
Sees the first wish to better hopes inclin'd;
Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim,
And fans the fmoaking flax into a flame.
His ears are open to the softeft

cry,

His grace defcends to meet the lifted eye;
He reads the language of a filent tear,
And fighs are incenfe from a heart fincere.
E e