The froth and fury of this reckless league,
Betray the infamies of Whig intrigue :
Whose heath'nish tongue praised Europe's murd'ring foe,
Who wiped the blood-stains of his frequent blow;
And, link'd with Jacobins, have vilely sneer'd
At England's glories, and her rites revered?
Whose Jesuistic rant has tried to fan,
And raise up rebels from the vulgar clan?---
The Scotch Review!-th' accursed vamp for all
That surly B- or simpering S
For all the inebriate lies of party rage,
And dunghill democrats that soil the age;—
Oh! might discerning Truth her foes surpass,
And fling from England's isle this vip'rous mass!
"TIs Fashion dies the beldame's blister'd cheek,
Lives in her errant gaze, and kitten squeak;
"Tis Fashion rolls the lech'ry of the eye,
Breathes in the tone, and wantons in the sigh,-
Deals with the gambler, pilfers with the rogue,
And gives to wealth, a NEW-MADE DECALOGUE!
FRENCH MANNERS IMITATED.
THE times are come, when arts Parisian please,
And Britons, to be Englishmen must cease:
To Gallic shores our demireps resort,-
Return again--and all their filth import:
Then like French apes, these scented mongrels talk,
Feast like the French, and like the Frenchmen walk.
And can it be, that Albion's deem'd no more A fairer, nobler clime, than Gallia's shore?— Must England stoop to be the mime of France, Beget her toaders, and adopt her dance? For novel crimes, NEED English spendthrifts roam, And kindly teach them to us boors at home?
FECUNDITY OF AUTHORS-ITS CAUSE.
WHAT Wonder, then, while puffs insure a sale,
That, thick as muck-flies in the evening gale,
Authors appear, of every breed and kind,
Far as absurdity can stretch the mind:
Pun-clenchers-they whose eyes poetic roll
With all the hot insanity of soul;
Prose-dabblers, wrenching, like great L's face,
Their style and words into a monstrous grace,
Makers of tales, romance-mechanics, all
Book-scrawlers, brazen, barren, great and small,-
Arise each morn-assert their lofty claim,
And yelp, like hungry puppies, for their fame.
GREAT GOD! how hearts must welter in their vice, When blighted happiness supports the dice,
And gamblers with convivial smiles can meet,
Sit face to face, and triumph in the cheat!
Within St. James's Hells, what bilks resort,-
Both young and hoary, to pursue their sport!
"Tis Mis'ry revels here !—the haggard mien
And lips that quiver with the curse obscene,
The hollow cheeks that faintly fall and rise,
While silent madness flashes from the eyes,
Those fever'd hands, the darkly-knitting brow,
Where mingling passions delve their traces now—
Denote the RUINED,-whose bewilder'd air,
Is one wild vengeful throbbing of despair!
Deserted homes, and mothers' broken hearts,
Forsaken offspring,-crime's unfathomed arts,
The suicide,—and ev'ry sad farewell,—
These are the triumphs of a London Hell!
HINTS FOR COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.
OH! ye who wallow on the couch of ease,
Who gorge what meats, and quaff what wines ye
Ye who ride smiling o'er your spacious grounds,
Bestride your hunters, and pursue the hounds;
Can banquets, balls, and luxuries from town,
And every gaud that buys a mean renown,
Bestow such bliss, as if the happy poor
Pointed with blessings to your open door!
As if your wealth diffused around the plain,
"Health to the sick, and comfort to the swain ?"
Soften your hearts, ye noble, if ye can;
Let England see her Country Gentleman!
That patriotic plant of British growth,
Worth all your lordly lumps of vice and sloth;
Instead of fops, raise sons that shall adorn,
While thousands bless the spot where they were
Instead of painted drabs to swoon and whine,
And snivel o'er a sentimental line,
Or else to waltz it with unbosom'd charms,
In the snug circle of a dandy's arms;
Instead of such a shape of vulgar pride,
Rear modest daughters, who shall well preside
Where'er domestic life, or duteous art,
Demand the union of the head and heart;
So, when the mother's love shall claim a share
Of fond solicitude and tender care,
Duty and love will both alike combine,
And teach them to uprear a useful line.
"AN HONEST MAN'S THE NOBLEST WORK OF GOD;"
So lectured Pope, who sway'd the critic's rod;
He's prais'd by matron, moralist and don,
Though SEEN more rarely than the coal-black swan!
TRUE HONESTY!-where is it in these days,
When rogues repeat, and villains beg their praise?
Not in the full-blown unassuming face,
Where honesty is but a smiling grace ;
Nor in the glossy candour of their tones,
Who pule and gabble what the heart disowns;—
Nor in prim proverbs daub'd with moral paint,
Where unfelt goodness whimpers from the saint,
Or mumbling drones that foster secret vice,
But blazon Virtue, and define her nice :
In truth, the HONEST MAN scarce lives at all,
The last I saw was on a church-yard wall!—
If ev'ry knave must have his reprimand,
Then take a rope and gibbet half the land.
BUT list! huge wheels roll o'er the jarring stones, I hear the clatt'ring hoofs, and rabble's tones!
dome the creaking engines wait, Where shield-mark'd firemen empt their liquid
While, grandly awful to the startled sight,
Rear the red columns of resistless light!
The windows deepen into dreadful glow,
Till the hot glass bursts shatt'ring down below;
While darting fires around their wood-work blaze,
And lick the water, hissing as it plays ;
Above the crackling roof fierce flames arise,
And whirl their sparks, careering to the skies;
Triumphantly the ravenous blazes mount,
As if they started from a fiery fount,
Now, cloud-like, piling up in billowy fire,
Now quiv'ring sunk, to re-collect their ire :-
But see! again whirl up the blood-red flames,
In vain the rushing flood their fury tames;
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