To Chloe. By PETER PINDAR. On a new-made Lord. By the same. [piece, Although they bought of wood a stubborn Not fit to make a block-yet, very odd! No losers were the men of chipping trade, Because of this same stubborn stuff they made A damn'd good god ! Then think not, tho' abridg'd by fate, On a whole Family cut off by the Small-pa A DOCTOR there is of so humble a grace, That the case he durst never express: But little he says; and if that you will trace His knowledge you'll find to be less. Then sure you will say he's deficient in br Or his head to a still you'll compare, That does little or nothing but simples cont And yields them by drops that are rate. A Distich, written by Mr. Cowper, at the? quest of a Gentleman who importuned i write something in his Pocket Album. WERE indeed indifferent to fame, Grudging two lines t'immortalize my An old Gentleman of the name of Page, j ing a Lady's Glove, sent it to the Ow with this Distich, and received the follow Answer, Then Glove is love, and that I send to 135 that from Glove you take the letter G, Answer. Ir that from Page you take the letter P, Then Page is age, and that won't do for Sent to a Lady with a Present of a Po Scissors. ABSCINDING form, divide the liquid ait, On wings metallic By unto my fair; To her acute and faithful ever prove, But never cut th' increasing plumes of lowe On his Excellency the late Lord Ge and his Cook.. SAYS my Lord to his cook, “You son ́ "punk, "How comes it I see you, thus, ev'ry "drunk? Physicians, they say, once a month, doa "A man, for his health,to get drunk-ask st "That is right." quoth the cook, "but the "they don't say; "So, for fear 1 should miss it, I'm drunk An economical Reflection. Sir Pricklouse, shall we try a rug?" PRETTY, little, buzzing thing! Arm'd by nature with a sting; To an unfortunate Beauty. Conscience. Pak Chartreux wants the warning of a bell Lines sent to Mr. Cosway, while Lady C, Paw let was sitting to him. COSWAY, my Cathrine sits to you: And, that the col'ring may be true, Shakspeare's Walk. BY von hills with mossing spread, On seeing a Dog asleep near kis Master. Thy peaceful hours that sweetly flow, Man's call'd thy lord-affliction's heir! And thou art slave to none. Oh! that my heart, like thine, could taste On a Waiter, once at Arthur's, and a Fellow- Here, sirrah, clean my shoes," to Rumb- He humbly answer'd, "Yea, Bob:" But since return'd from India's glunder'd land, The purse-proud Rumb-d now, on such command, Would stoutly answer, "Nay, Bob." To rob the nation two Contractors come, Verses written by a Gentleman on finding an TRI Urn. RIPLING mortal, tell me why Thou hast disturb'd my urn; Want'st thou to find out what am I? Vain man! attend, and learn: To know what letters spelt my name Is useless quite to thee; An heap of dust is all I am, And all that thou shalt be. Go now, that heap of dust explore, Measure its grains, or weigh; Canst thou the title which I bore Distinguish in the clay? What glitt'ring honours, or high trust Once dignified me here, Were characters imprest on dust, Which quickly disappear. Nor will the sparkling atoms show A Claudius or a Guelph: What from envy can be free, If ill-fate could envy thee? The Negro's Complaint. WIDE over the tremulous sea The moon spread her mantle of light, His tears fell unseen in the flood, His sighs pass'd unheard on the gale. Ere o'er the salt waves thou wert borne! Thro' the groves of Angola I stray'd, Love and hope made my bosom their hom There I talk'd with my favourite maid, Nor dream'd of the sorrow to come. From the thicket the man-hunter sprung My cries echo'd loud thro' the air: There was fury and wrath on his tone He was deaf to the shrieks of despair. Accurs'd be the merciless band, Who his love could trem Maratan ter And blasted this impotent hand, That was sever'd from all I held dear. Vain search! if here the source thou'dst know Flow, ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow, Of nobles, or thyself. The mould will yield no evidence, By which thou mayst divine If lords or beggars issued thence, And form'd the ancient line. Condition, honours, name, Th' extent of all their gains; Haste, lift thy thoughts from earthly things And leave that grov'ling pride to kings, Still let sleep from my eye-lids depart, And still may the arrows of woe Drink deep of the stream of my heart! But hark! on the silence of night My Adila's accents I hear, And mournful beneath the wan light I see her lov'd image appear! Slow o'er the smooth ocean she glides, As the mist that hangs light on the wa And fondly her lover she chides, That lingers so long from the grave. "O, Maratan, haste thee!" she cries, "Here the reign of oppression is o'er, "The tyrant is rebb'd of his prize, “ And Adila'sorrows no more.” Now, sinking amidst the dim ray, Her form seems to fade on my view; "O stay thee, my Adila, stayShe beckons, and I must pursue. To-morrow, the white man in vain Shall proudly account me his slave; My shackles I plunge in the main, And rush to the realms of the brave. Elegy to the Memory of Miss Louisa Hervé THOU, to whom fair Genius homage Whom Science courted, and the -lov'd; Whose mind the hand of Innocence array'd. Pareas that form which Envy's staf approv= Led by the pallid noon's uncertain light, shrine; For thee indulge the deep-drawn sigh sincere, fet check'd should be those tears thy friends ear; His pension paid, tho' late-and paid to thee. So shall thy father Homer smile to see Under the Print of Tom Britton, the Musical That grief, which thy fond parents' peace de-Tian thy rank, yet in thy humble cell stroys; or thou art only rank'd amongst the dead, ANON. On an unfortunate Beauty. te'en for this your grateful eye Did gentle peace and arts, unpurchas'd dwell: own; Where Hogarth, pitying nature, kindly made A motion. By fav'ring wit Mæcenas purchas'd fame, Virgil's own works immortaliz'd his name: A double share of fame is Dorset's due, On an eminent modern Preacher. POLLIO inust needs to penitence excite; white; Behold his notes display'd, his body rail; The force and reasoning of his wig and han Touch'd with cach weakness which he d With vanity he talks against the vain; THE Latin word for cold, one ask'd his i UNHAPPY, Dido, was thy fate, In first and second wedded state! One husband can'd the fight by dying, HUM ROUS fellow in a tavern late, [pate: Being drunk and valiant, gets a broken The surgeon, with his instruments and skill, Searches his skull deeper and deeper still, To feel his brains, and try if they were sound: And, as he keeps ado about the wound, pains, WHAT 'rous lights this wreck's The fellow cries--Good surgeon, spare your On the Funeral of Fulture Hopline attend, When I began this brawl I had no brains. Who, in his lifetime, sav'd a can" `¤ |