AT Teignmouth dwells my lovely Fanny,
Where frequent beats the whiten'd surge,

My bosom rag'd as wild as any,

Ere I could first my passion urge;
To Newfoundland my schooner ploughing,
With swiftest barks in sailing vied,
Yet slow she seem'd, my ardour growing,
Till "shore boat 'hoy," I eager cry'd.

Our cargo stow'd, for England steering,
My palpitating heart beat high,
When adverse winds the vessel veering,

For Fan I heav'd the lengthen'd sigh;
But prosp'rous gales at length succeeded,
While oftimes at the helm I ply'd,

Nor danger, nor fatigue I heeded,
Till "shore boat 'hoy," I eager cry'd.

6-VOL. XXI.

Upon the beach (a fav'ring omen)
Her eyes soon met my earnest gaze,
86 Accept my heart thou best of women,"
I said, "and bless your sailor's days."
She blush'd assent; my prize I captur'd;
To church soon led her as my bride,
And now think on the time enraptur'd,
When "shore boat 'hoy," I eager cry'd.

[MR. EDITOR,

G. A.

From the scarce Poems of Edward Howard, Earl of Suffolk, published in 1725 and 1728, accept the Description of a Whiffler, who seems to have shone as the Prototype of a modern Box-lobby Lounger. Yours, &c. S. K.]

UPON A WHIFFLER,

IN London town you easily may find
A set of prodigies in any kind :
In Smithfield you a hugeous ox may see,
That for the great Mogul a gift might be ;
As there, likewise, a stern and hairy man,
From Negropontis brought, or from Japan':
Yet with the Whiffler none must still compare
For look, for gait, or a prepost'rous air:
His smiles so like a cat-o-mountain's grin,
You'd swear he were to Lybian apes akin :
The sport of Nature and the strumpet's tool,
Who never acts by any kind of rule.

If you frequent the shining theatre,
Where heav'nly virgins in their robes appear,
Vast droves of Whifflers thither do repair,
The most on foot, tho' some in hackney-chair,
Dispensing ogles to the blushing fair.
And oft the grandeur of their mind to show,
To painted Miss they'll in the side-box go,
Saluting meanly, with a fond grimace,
The borrow'd lustre of her wainscot face.
'Twere to be wish'd, the constable wou'd seize,
And into Newgate put such fops as these,
For to the state they more vexatious are,
Than all the pyrate salley-men of war.

THE ROSE-TREE.

THE Rose-tree was lately the pride of the bowers,
And rivall'd all others around;

But the winds of the north came and blighted the flowers,
And now not a leaf can be found.

I have watched them successively bloom and decay,
And long made their beauties my boast;

But, at last, they all sicken'd and languish'd away,
And the pride of the garden is lost!

The lone, widow'd stalk, wither'd, poor, and in years,
Despis'd and dejected is grown;

'Tis propp'd and defended with care, but appears
To pine for the flowers that are gone.

So families, once the bright stars of their sphere,
Have sunk in oblivion's cold wave;

While some parent survives but to tell, with a tear,
She follow'd her sons to the grave.

Plymouth, 14th Dec. 1805.

TO FRIENDSHIP.

J. NORRINGTON.

SWEET Friendship hail! blest daughter of the skies,

Inspir'd by thee my thoughts to Heav'n arise ;
And ponder why the power that gave thee birth
So seldom deigns to let thee visit earth.

Methinks I hear thy seraph tongue reply,
"I once descended from my native sky;
"And left this canopy of lovely blue,
"Ungrateful mortals! to bring bliss to you.

"When ills increas'd, and dire Misfortune press'd,
"I then was cherish'd, honour'd, and caress'd;
"But when gay Pleasure shed her dazzling ray,
"I was dismiss'd, and Interest held the sway.

"Wearied with fruitless toil, I gave it o'er,
แ And fled, determin'd to return no more.
Birmingham, Oct. 6th, 1805.

PHILLIDA

THE BACHELOR.

How weary and how woe-begone, at eve,
Sits the lone bachelor, and on his mind,
Save where a cheerful fire imparts its beam,
No ray of varied happiness steals in.

Far luckier wight, who, proud of youthful grace, Ambles at evening with some sportive nymph, By lamp-light frequent view'd with draggled tail, Sempstress, or milliner, or serving maid.

But he more blest who waits the postman's knock,
Prompt to decypher hyeroglyphic scrawls,

In lovely characters by his fair one sent,
Cupid entangling every mazy line,

Till forth he flies to know her sweet intent,
When haply met, they interchange soft looks,
Vow, e'er they part, eternal constancy,
Nor dream a fortnight is its longest date.
And trav❜lling farther on life's thorny road,
Behold the married man―vagaries gone,
And all the pride of youthful folly spent,
Hair breadth escapes, and quarrels nightly pick'd,
Justicial admonitions, sly intrigues,

Lanterns despoil'd, and sentry-box laid flat,
And hobbling vet'ran in the kennel roll'd,
All vanish'd like "the whistling of a name,"

He sits him down the happiest man on earth;

Ten thousand cares all dancing in his brain,

Blest with a tender, loving, scolding wife,
Five children here-there fifty debts unpaid,
Duns, doctors, education, masters, books,
Taxes and petticoats, and taylors' bills,
And all the plagues they call " domestic sweets"
At times returning to his homely fare,
In fancy dwelling o'er a savoury chop,
With pickles drest, and serv'd on cleanly plate,
Amaz'd he sees his house involv'd in smoke,
From gaping copper, raised in murky clouds;
He hurries on in search of babes and wife,

And hears her warbling ditties at a tub,
Immers'd in froth, the deity of suds.

In vain his stomach cries for eatables;

Steam'd out, and dripping like an unwrung sheet,
He hies him to some alehouse fire to dry.

Yet are there pleasures in the married state,
And I the last that would decry their worth,
Though clouded, yet at least superior deem'd
To uniform and tasteless celibacy;

Where the few "virtues walk their narrow round,"
Worthless without the sanction of the fair.

How luckless he who loiters by the stream Till the best chance of pleasure is gone by And his frail bark sinks in the rushy flood.

W. A.

SONNET.

BY MISS SEWARD.

By Derwent's rapid stream as oft I stray'd
With infancy's light step and glances wild,
And saw vast rocks on steepy mountains pil'd,
Frown o'er the umbrageous glen; or pleas'd survey'd
The cloudy moon-shine in the shadowy glade,
Romantic nature to the enthusiast child
Grew dearer far, than when serene she smil'd
In uncontrasted loveliness array'd.

But O, in every scene with sacred sway

Her graces fire me: from the bloom that spreads Resplendent in the lucid morn of May,

To the green light the little glow-worm sheds On mossy banks, when mid-night glooms prevail And softest silence broods o'er all the dale.