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Beneath the gibbet's self, perhaps is laid

Some heart once pregnant with infernal fire; Hands which the sword of Nero might have sway'd,

And midst the carnage tuned the’exulting lyre. Ambition to their eyes her ample page,

Rich with such monstrous crimes,did ne'er unrol; Chill Penury repress’d their native rage,

And froze the bloody current of their soul. Full many a youth fit for each horrid scene,

The dark and sooty flues of chimneys bear; Full many a rogue is born to cheat unseen,

And dies unhang'd for want of proper care. Some petty Chartres, that with dauntless breast

Each call of worth and honesty withstood, Some mute inglorious Wilmot here may rest, Some

guiltless of his -'s blood. The votes of venal senates to command,

The worthy man's opinion to despise ; To scatter mischief o'er a ruin'd land,

And read their curses in a nation's eyes, Their lot forbade, nor circumscribed alone

Their growing fortunes, but their crimes conForbade with libels to insult the throne, [fined;

And vilify the noblest of mankind. The struggling pangs of conscious guilt to hide,

To bid defiance to all sense of shame, Their country's toil and labours to deride,

And heap fresh fuel on sedition's flame; To such high crimes, such prodigies of vice,

Their vulgar wishes ne'er presumed to soar, Content on wheelbarrows to cog the dice,

Or pick a pocket'at the playhouse door.

Yet e'en these humble vices to correct,

Old Tyburn lifts his triple front on high; Bridewell, with bloody whips and fetters deck'd,

Frowns dreadful vengeance on the younger fry.

Their years, their names, their birth,and parentage, Though doubtful all, the Grub Street bard

supplies, Prints but what first debauch'd the tender age,

And with what words the ripen’d felon dies. For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey,

When to the dreadful tree of death consign'd, But yearns to think upon the fatal day

That first seduced to sin his pliant mind?

No soul so callous but remorse may sting,

No heart so hard but guilt may teach to sigh; Contrition forces heartfelt tears to spring,

And melts to tenderness the sternest eye.

For him, the master of the pilfering herd,

Whom certain punishment attends though late, If when his wretched carcass is interr’d,

Some curious person should inquire his fate ;

Haply some hoary headed thief may say,

Oft have I seen him with his lighted link Guide some unwary stranger cross the way,

And pick his pocket at the kennel's brink. There at the foot of yonder column stretch'd,

Where the Seven Dials are exalted high, He and his myrmidons for hours have watch'd,

And pour’d destruction on each passer by. VOL. V.


Hard by yon hill, where not a lamp appears,

Skulking in quest of booty he would wait; Now as a beggar shedding artful tears,

Now smiting with his crutch some hapless pate. One morn ( miss'd him at the accustom'd place,

The seven-faced pillar and the favorite wall; Another came, nor yet I saw his face,

The post, the crossings, were deserted all. At last, in dismal cart and sad array,

Backward up Holborn Hill I saw him mount, Here you may read, for you can read you say,

His Epitaph in the Ordinary's account.


HERE festering rests a quondam plague of earth,

To Virtue and to honest Shame unknown, Low Cunning on a dunghill gave him birth,

And Villany confess'd him for her own. Quick were his fingers, and his soul was dark,

In artful knavery lay all his hope; No pains he spared, and seldom miss'd the mark,

And gain'd from justice all he fear'd--a rope, If further you his villanies would know,

And genuine anecdotes desire to meet, Go read the story of his vice and woe,

Printed and sold by Simpson, near the Fleet.


The chapel bell, with bollow mournful sound,

Awakes the fellows, slumbering o'er their fires; Roused by the 'custom'd note, each stares around,

And sullen from the unfinish'd pipe retires. Now from the common hall's restriction free,

The sot's full bottles in quick order move, While gayer coxcombs sip their amorous tea, And barbers' daughters soothe with tales of

love. Through the still courts a solemn silence reigns,

Save where, the broken battlements among, The east wind murmurs through the shatter'd

panes, And hoarser ravens croak their evening song. Where groan yon shelves beneath their learned

weight, Heap piled on heap, and row succeeding rows, In peaceful pomp and undisturb'd retreat,

The labours of our ancestors repose. No longer sunk in ceaseless fruitless toil, The half-starved student o'er their leaves shall

pore ; For them no longer blaze the midnight oil,

Their sun is set, and sinks to rise no more: For them no more shall booksellers contend,

Or rubric posts their matchless worth proclaim: Beneath their weight no more the press shall bend, While common sense stands wondering at their


Oft did the Classics mourn their critic rage, While still they found each meaning but the

true; Oft did they heap with notes poor Ovid's page,

And give to Virgil words he never knew : Yet ere the partial voice of critic scorn

Condemn their memory, or their toils deride, Say, have not we had equal cause to mourn

A waste of words, and learning ill applied ? Can none remember?-Yes, I know all can

When readings against different readings jarr'd, While Bentley led the stern scholastic van,

And new editions with the old ones warr'd.Nor ye, who lightly o’er each work proceed,

Unmindful of the graver moral part, Contemn these works, if, as you run and read,

You find no trophies of the engraver's art. Can Bartolozzi's all enrapturing power

To heavy works the stamp of merit give? Could Grignion's art protract oblivion's hour,

Or bid the epic rage of Blackmore live? In this lone nook, with learned dust bestrew'd,

Where frequent cobwebs kindly form a shade, Some wondrous legend, fillid with death and

blood, Some monkish history, perhaps, is laid; With store of barbarous Latin at command, Though arm'd with puns, and jingling quibble's might,

[hand, Yet could not these soothe Time's remorseless

Or save their labours from eternal night.

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