While shrouded manes palely stare,

And beckoning wish to breathe their care:
Thus real woes from false he bears,

And feels the death, the hell he fears.

*

*

*

* * *

FROM A SOLILOQUY.

[The Extract alludes to the Death of the Author's Father, who was killed by an Accident.]

WHERE now, ah! where is that supporting arm
Which to my weak unequal infant steps
Its kind assistance lent? Ah! where that love,
That strong assiduous tenderness, which watch'd
My wishes yet scarce form'd; and, to my view,
Unimportuned, like all-indulging heaven,
Their objects brought? Ah! where that gentle
voice

Which, with instruction, soft as summer dews
Or fleecy snows, descending on my soul,
Distinguish'd every hour with new delight?
Ah! where that virtue, which, amid the storms,

The mingled horrors of tumultuous life,
Untainted, unsubdued, the shock sustain'd?
So firm the oak, which, in eternal night,
As deep its root extends as high to heaven
Its top majestick rises: such the smile
Of some benignant angel, from the throne
Of God dispatch'd, ambassador of peace;
Who on his look imprest his message bears,
And pleased, from earth averts impending ill.
Alas! no wife thy parting kisses shared:
From thy expiring lips no child received
Thy last dear blessing, and thy last advice.
Friend, father, benefactor, all at once,
In thee forsook me, an unguarded prey
For every storm, whose lawless fury roars
Beneath the azure concave of the sky,
To toss, and on my head exhaust its rage."

AN EXTEMPORE EPIGRAM.

On a Girl bringing in a Bottle of Wine.

"TERRESTRIAL Hebe! come, and banish woe; Let mighty wine in generous bumpers flow ;

All flame, all spirit, let the glass go round;

Each face be brighten'd, and each wish be crown'd.

Atlas, the prop of Jove's sublime abodes,

Oft groans beneath the weight of staggering gods:

Their great example let us then pursue;
We cannot err in what our authors do.
Like them, in joys unconscious of allay,
Laugh, drink, and sing eternity away."

WILLIAM WOTY.

1731-1791.

One of the many Poets, who have had as much relish for the juice of the grape, as for the waters of Helicon.

His talents, and his love of good living, attended him chearfully to the age of sixty. His Poems are printed in 2 vols. 8vo.

TURN we aside to yon slow solemn prig,

Deck'd with a huge circumference of wig,
Curl, above curl ascending-

Who fills the Change with all that pomp and

state,

As if, like

he was fix'd as fate,

Who would not think from his eternal pride,
That wealth to him roll'd down her golden tide,
And that the wheels of credit, rusty grown,
Turn'd glibly forward by his means alone?
Deluding thought! for Civis, whelm'd in debt,
Trembling each time at reading the Gazette,
But for the present swells into applause -
Ask you the reason?-Why, his wig's the cause.
Had it not been for this egregious show,
The impostor would have fail'd some years ago.

Day roll'd on day, and night succeeded night, Whole years had wing'd their everlasting flight, Ere Wig-wag's vast mechanick stretch of thought This wonderous wonder to perfection brought. Mean-while, earths' kings to death resign'd their pride,

Statesmen, and coblers, wits, and dunces, died; The knave, the fool, the coward, and the bold, Shared the same fate, and Time himself caught

cold

As well he might, when one poor lock of hair
Was all he had to shield a pate so bare,