Full many an Elegy has mourn'd its fate, Here too perhaps, neglected now, may lie course, With new ideas to enlarge the mind, With useful lessons drawn from classic source, And each low triumph of the vulgar mind. -Their humbler science never soar'd so far; Yet were they not averse to noisy fame, Or shrank reluctant from her ruder blast, But still aspired to raise their sinking name, And fondly hoped that name might ever last. Hence each proud volume, to the wondering eye, Rivals the gaudy glare of Tyrrel's* urn; Where ships, wigs, Fame, and Neptune blended lie, And weeping cherubs for their bodies mourn. * Vide Admiral Tyrrel's monument, in Westminster Abbey. For who with rhymes e'er rack'd his weary brain, Perhaps e'en Timon hath not toil'd in vain, 'Oft have I seen him, from the dawn of day, E'en till the western sun went down the sky, Lounging his lazy listless hours away: 'Each morn he sought the cloister's cool retreat; Each morrow was the echo of to-day. ' Thus, free from cares, and children, noise and wife, [command, Pass'd his smooth moments; till, by Fate's A lethargy assail'd his harmless life, And check'd his course, and shook his loitering sand, 'Where Merton's towers in Gothic grandeur rise, THE EPITAPH. OF vice or virtue void, here rests a man, By no eccentric passion led astray, Not rash to blame, nor eager to commend, Seek not his faults-his merits-to explore, SIR J. H. MOORE. AYLESBURY RACES. A Ballad. O GEORGE*, I've been, I'll tell you where, To paint this charming, heavenly fair, And paint her well would ask whole chapters. * George Ellis, Esq. is probably here addressed. Fine creatures I've view'd many a one, By this sweet maid at Aylesbury Races. Lords, commoners alike she rules, Takes all who view her by surprise, Her foot-it was so wondrous small, And seem'd to sink it with the weight. And just above the spangled shoe, Where many an eye did often glance, Sweetly retiring from the view, And seen by stealth, and seen by chance; Two slender ankles peeping out, Stood like Love's heralds, to declare That all, within the petticoat, Was firm and full and round and fair. And then she dances-better far Than heart can think or tongue can tell; Nor Heinel, Banti, or Guimar E'er moved so gracefully, so well. So easy glide her beauteous limbs, She seems, as through the dance she skims, And there is lightning in her eye, Or bid the frozen heart catch fire. And zephyr on her lovely lips Has shed his choicest, sweetest roses, And there in breathing sweets reposes. And sparkling wit and steady sense Had I the treasures of the world, All the sun views, or the seas borrow, (Else may I to the devil be hurl'd) I'd lay them at her feet to-morrow. But as we bards reap only bays, Nor much of that, though nought grows on it, And if she deign one charming smile, But pity the dull squires, my neighbours. SIR J. H. MOORE. VOL. V. U U |