this kind of burlesque must not only keep up the pomp and dignity of the style, but an artful sneer should appear through the whole work; and every man will judge, that it is no easy matter to blend together the Hero and the Harlequin.

If any person should want a key to this poem, his curiosity should be gratified: I shall, in plain words, tell him, "It is a satire against the luxury, the pride, the wantonness, and quarrelsome temper of the middling sort of people." As these are the proper and genuine cause of that bare-faced knavery, and almost universal poverty, which reign without control in every place; and as to these we owe our many bankrupt farmers, our trade decayed, and lands uncultivated; the author has reason to hope that no honest man, who loves his country, will think this short reproof out of season. For, perhaps, this merry way of bantering men into virtue, may have a better effect, than the most serious admonitions; since many, who are proud to be thought immoral, are not very fond of being ridiculous.

HOBBINOL.

CANTO I.

ARGUMENT.

Proposition.-Invocation addressed to Mr. John Philips, author of the Cider Poem and Splendid Shilling.-Description of the Vale of Evesham.-The seat of Hobbinol; Hobbinol a great man in his village, seated in his wicker smoking his pipe, has one only son.-Young Hobbinol's education, bred up with Ganderetta his near relation.-Young Hobbinol and Ganderetta chosen king and queen of May.-Her dress and attendants.-The Maygames. Twangdillo the fidler, his character.-The dancing. Ganderetta's extraordinary performance.-Bagpipes good music in the Highlands.-Milonides master of the ring, disciplines the mob; proclaims the several prizes. -His speech.-Pastorel takes up the belt.-His character, his heroic figure, his confidence.-Hobbinol, by permission of Ganderetta, accepts the challenge, vaults into the ring. His honourable behaviour, escapes a scowering.-Ganderetta's agony.-Pastorel foiled.-Ganderetta not a little pleased.

WHAT old Menalcas at his feast reveal'd,
I sing; strange feats of antient prowess, deeds
Of high renown, while all his listening guests
With eager joy receiv'd the pleasing tale.

O thou! who late on Vaga's flowery banks
Slumbering secure, with Stirom 2 well bedew'd,
Fallacious cask, in sacred dreams wert taught

1 Mr. John Philips, author of Cider.

2 Strong Herefordshire Cider.

By ancient seers, and Merlin prophet old,
To raise ignoble themes with strains sublime,
Be thou my guide! while I thy track pursue
With wing unequal, through the wide expanse
Adventurous range, and emulate thy flights.

In that rich vale 3, where with Dobunian 4 fields
Cornavian borders meet, far fam'd of old
For Montfort's hapless fate, undaunted earl;
Where from her fruitful urn Avona pours
Her kindly torrent on the thirsty glebe,
And pillages the hills to' enrich the plains;
On whose luxuriant banks flowers of all hues
Start up spontaneous; and the teeming soil
With hasty shoots prevents its owner's pray'r:
The pamper'd wanton steer, of the sharp axe
Regardless, that o'er his devoted head
Hangs menacing, crops his delicious bane,
Nor knows the price is life; with envious eye
His labouring yoke-fellow beholds his plight,
And deems him blest, while on his languid neck
In solemn sloth he tugs the lingering plough.
So blind are mortals, of each other's state
Mis-judging, self-deceiv'd. Here as supreme
Stern Hobbinol in rural plenty reigns

O'er wide-extended fields, his large domain.
The' obsequious villagers, with looks submiss
Observant of his eye, or when with seed
To' impregnate Earth's fat womb, or when to bring
With clamorous joy the bearded harvest home.

Here, when the distant sun lengthens the nights, When the keen frosts the shivering farmer warn

3 Vale of Evesham. 4 Glocestershire. 5 Worcestershire. Simon de Montfort, killed at the battle of Evesham.

To broach his mellow cask, and frequent blasts
Instruct the crackling billets how to blaze,
In his warm wicker-chair, whose pliant twigs
In close embraces join'd, with spacious arch
Vault the thick-woven roof, the bloated churl
Loiters in state, each arm reclin❜d is prop'd
With yielding pillows of the softest down.
In mind compos'd, from short coëval tube
He sucks the vapours bland, thick curling clouds
Of smoke around his reeking temples play;
Joyous he sits, and impotent of thought
Puffs away care, and sorrow from his heart.
How vain the pomp of kings! Look down, ye great,
And view with envious eye the downy nest,

Where soft Repose, and calm Contentment dwell,
Unbrib'd by wealth, and unrestrain'd by power.
One son alone had blest his bridal bed,

Whom good Calista bore, nor long surviv'd
To share a mother's joy, but left the babe
To his paternal care. An orphan niece
Near the same time his dying brother sent,
To claim his kind support. The helpless pair
In the same cradle slept, nurs'd up with care
By the same tender hand, on the same breasts
Alternate hung with joy; till reason dawn'd,
And a new light broke out by slow degrees:
Then on the floor the pretty wantons play'd,
Gladding the farmer's heart with growing hopes,
And pleasures erst unfelt. Whene'er with cares
Oppress'd, when wearied, or alone he doz'd,
Their harmless prattle soothed his troubled soul.
Say, Hobbinol, what ecstasies of joy

Trill'd through thy veins, when climbing for a kiss
With little palms they strok'd thy grisly beard,