But man, all-feeling and awake,
The gloomy scene surveys;
With present ills his heart must ache,
And pant for brighter days.
Old Winter, halting o'er the mead,
Bids me and Mary mourn;

But lovely Spring peeps o'er his head,
And whispers your return.
Then April, with her sister May,

Shall chase him from the bow'rs,
And weave fresh garlands ev'ry day,
To crown the smiling Hours.
And if a tear, that speaks regret
Of happier times, appear,

A glimpse of joy that we have met
Shall shine, and dry the tear.

Invitation to the feathered Race. GREAVES
AGAIN the balmy zephyr blows,

Fresh verdure decks the grove;
Each bird with vernal rapture glows,
And tunes his notes to love.
Ye gentle warblers! hither fly,

And shun the noon-tide heat:
My shrubs a cooling shade supply;
My groves, a safe retreat.

Here, freely hop from spray to spray,
Or weave the mossy nest:

Here, rove and sing the live-long day ;
At night, here sweetly rest.

Amid this cool translucent rill
That trickles down the glade,

Here bathe your plumes, here drink your fill,
And revel in the shade.

No school-boy rude, to mischief prone,
E'er shows his ruddy face,
Or twangs his bow, or hurls a stone,
In this sequester'd place.
Hither the vocal thrush repairs;
Secure the linnet sings;
The goldfinch dreads no slimy snares
To clog her painted wings.
Sad Philomel! ah, quit thy haunt
Yon distant woods among,
And round my friendly grotto chant
Thy sweetly plaintive song.
Let not the harmless red-breast fear,
Domestic bird, to come,
And seek a sure asylum here,
With one that loves his home.
My trees for you, ye artless tribe!
Shall store of fruit preserve;

O! let me thus your friendship bribe;

Come, feed without reserve.

For these cherries I protect, you

Το you these plums belong;
Sweet is the fruit that you have peck'd,
But sweeter far your song.

Let then this league betwixt us made
Our mutual interests guard:
Mine be the gift of fruit and shade;
Your songs be my reward.

Address to a Nightingale. THOMPSON. O NIGHTINGALE! best poet of the grove, That plaintive strain can ne'er belong to thee, Blest in the full possession of thy love:

O lend that strain, sweet nightingale! to me. 'Tis mine, alas! to mourn my wretched fate; I love a maid who all my bosom charms, Yet lose my days without this lovely mate; Inhuman Fortune keeps her from my arms. You, happy birds! by nature's simple laws Lead your soft lives, sustain'd by nature's fare; You dwell wherever roving fancy draws,

And love and song is all your pleasing care: But we, vain slaves of int'rest and of pride, Dare not be blest, lest envious tongues should blame;

And hence in vain I languish for my bride: O mourn with me, sweet bird! my hapless flame.

The title and nature of this Poem show that it owed its birth to some preceding circumstances of festive merriment, which from the wit of the company and the very ingenious author's peculiar oddities, were probably enlivened by some strokes of humor. This piece was only intended for the Doctor's private amusement, and that of the particular friends who were its subject; and he unfortunately did not live to revise, or even finish it, in the manner which he intended. The public have, however, already shown how much they were pleased with its appearance, even in its present form.

Orold, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united;

If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish,

Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish:

Our Deant shall be venison, just fresh from the plains;

Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains;

Our Wills shall be wild-fowl, of excellent

Alavour;

And Dick || with his pepper shall heighten their

savour:

obtain,

And Douglast is pudding substantial and plain;
Our Garrick's a salad, for in him we see
Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree:
To make out the dinner full certain I am
That Ridges is anchovy and Reynolds || is lamb,
That Hickey's a capon: and by the same rule,
Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry-fool.
At a dinner so various, at such a repast,
Who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm
able,

Till all my companions sink under the table; Then with chaos and blunders encircling my head,

Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead. Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth, Who mix'd reason with pleasure, and wisdom with mirth:

If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt, At least in six weeks I could not find 'em out; Yet some have declar'd, and it can't be denied 'em, ['em. That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was such

We scarcely can praise it or blame it too much; Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind, [mankind: And to party gave up what was meant for Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his throat [him a vote: To persuade Tommy Townshend ** to lend Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining, [of dining; And thought of convincing, while they thought Though equal to all things, for all things unfit, Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit; For a patriot too cool; for a drudge disobedient; And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient. In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd or in place, Sir,

To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor. Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint, [was in't; While the owner ne'er knew half the good that The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along, His conduct still right, with his argument

were his own.

Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must

sigh at,

Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his, what wit and what whim,
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a
limbtt;
[ball,

Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all!
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old
Nick;

But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.

Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts, The Terence of England, the mender of hearts; A flattering painter, who made it his care Todraw men as they ought to be, not as they are. His gallants are all faultless, his women divine, And Comedy wonders at being so fine; Like a tragedy-queen he has dizen'd her out, Or rather like Tragedy giving a rout. His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud; And coxcombs, alike in their failings alone, Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their own. Say, where has our poet this malady caught, Or wherefore his characters thus without fault? Say, was it, that vainly directing his view To find out men's virtues, and finding them few, Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf, He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself?

Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax, The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks. Come all ye quack bards, and ye quacking di[reclines.

vines,

Come and dance on the spot where your tyrant When Satire and Censure encircled his throne, I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own; But now he is gone, and we want a detector, Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shall lecture;

Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style; Our Townshend make speeches; and I shall compile ; [over, New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross No countryman living their tricks to discover: Detection her taper shall quench to a spark, And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the dark.

An eminent Attorney.

She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair.
No British miss sincerer grief has known,
Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown.
She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread,
And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed ;
Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall
Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall.
In peals of thunder now she roars, and now
She gently whimpers like a lowing cow;
Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears:
Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears,
Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain,
When from the thatch drips fastashow'r ofrain.
In vain she search'd each cranny of the house,
Each gaping chink impervious to a mouse.
"Was it for this," she cried," with daily care
Within thy reach I set the vinegar;
And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide,
While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied,
Where twin'd the silver eel around thy hook,
And all the little monsters of the brook?
Sure in that lake he dropp'd: my Grilly's
drown'd."

She dragg'd the cruet, but no Grildrig found.
"Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast:
But little creatures enterprise the most.
Trembling I've seen thee dare the kitten's
Nay mix with children as they play'd at taw,
Nor fear'd the marbles as they bounding flew;
Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you.

paw,

"Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth?
Who from a page can ever learn the truth?
Vers'd in court-tricks, that money-loving boy
To some lord's daughter sold the living toy;
Or rent him limb from limb, in cruel play,
As children tear the wings of flies away.
From place to place o'er Brobdignag I'll roam,
And never will return, or bring thee home.
But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind?
How then thy fairy footsteps can I find?
Dost thou, bewilder'd, wander all alone
In the green thicket of a mossy stone;
Or tumbled from the toadstool's slippery round,
Perhaps all maim'd, lie grovelling on the ground?
Dost thou embosom'd in the lovely rose,
Or sunk within the peach's down, repose?
Within the king-cup if thy limbs are spread,
Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head,

O show me, Flora, 'midst those sweets, the flow'r
Where sleeps my Grildrig in this fragrant bow'r!
"But, ah! I fear thy little fancy roves
On little females, and on little loves,
Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse,
The baby playthings that adorn thy house,
Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious
Equal in size to cells of honey-combs. [rooms,

Vulgo, salary. Supposed sorrel.

§ Parsley. Vide Chamberlayne,

Hast thou for these now ventur'd from the shore,
Thy bark a bean-shell, and a straw thy oar?
Or in thy box, now bounding on the main,
Shall I ne'er bear thyself and house again?
And shall I set thee on my hand no more,
To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o'er
My spacious palm? of stature scarce a span,
Mimic the actions of a real man?
No more behold thee turn my watch's key,
As seamen at a capstern anchors weigh?"
How wast thou wont to walk withcautious tread,
A dish of tea, like milk-pail, on thy head!
How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away,
And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!"
She said; but broken accents stopp'd her voice,
Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise.
She sobb'd a storm, and wip'd her flowing eyes,
Which seem'd like two broad suns in mistyskies.
O squander not thy grief! those tears command
To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland:
The plenteous pickle shali preserve the fish,
And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.

A Receipt for stewing Teal. GAY.

TAKE a knuckle of veal;
You may buy it or steal:
In a few pieces cut it,
In a stewing-pan put it,
Salt, pepper, and mace,

Must season this knuckle;
Then what's join'd to a place,

With other herbs muckle;
That which kill'd king Will†;
And what never stands still,
Some sprigs of that bed §
Where children are bred;
Which much you will mend, if
Both spinach and endive,
And lettuce and beet,
With marygold meet.
Put no water at all,

For it maketh things small;
Which lest it should happen,
A close cover clap on.
Put this pot of Wood's metal ||
In a hot boiling kettle,
And there let it be

(Mark the doctrine I teach) About-let me see

Thrice as long as you preach
So skimming the fat off,
Say grace with your hat off.
O, then with what rapture
Will it fill dean and chapter!