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1. WHEN Wit and Genius meet their doom

In all-devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.

O'er Murray's loss the muses wept,

They felt the rude alarm,
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.

There mem'ry, like the bee, that's fed

From Flora's balmy, store,
The quintessence of all he road
Had treasur'd up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,

Have done him cruel wrong ;
The flow'rs are gone--but still we find

The honey on his tongue.




THUS says

the prophet of the Turk-
Good musselman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
Upon pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious chargo,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express’d,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd;
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those ;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.
Thus conscience freed from ev'ry clog,

Mahometans eat up the hog. * It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity.

You laugh—'tis well—The tale applied, May make you laugh on t'other side, Renounce the world—the preacher cries ; We doma multitude replies. While one as innocent regards A snug and friendly game at cards ; And one, whatever you may say, Can see no evil in a play ; Some love a concert or a race ; And others shooting, and the chace, Revil'd and lov’d, renounc'd and follow'd, Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd; Each thinks his neighbour makes too free, Yet likes a slice as well as he : With sophistry their sanice they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.





YE nymphs! is e'er your eyes were rod
With tears o'er hapless fav’rites shed

O share Maria's grief !
Her fav’rite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage ?)

Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung;

And, thouglı by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well taught he all the sounds express'd

Of flagelet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole,

His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies
Vhen piping winds shall soon arise

To sweep away the dew

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,

No cat had leave to dwell ;
And Bully's caye supported stood
On props of smooth-shaven wood,

Large built and lattic'd well.

Well lattic'd—but the grate, alas !
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,

For Bully's plumage sake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peal'd and dried,

The swains their baskets inake.


Night veil'd the pole; all seem'd
When led by instinct, sharp and sure,

Subsistence to provide,
A beast forth sallied on tho scout,
Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd snout,

And badger-colour'd hide.

Ho, ent’ring at the study door
Its ample area 'gan explore ;

And something in the wind

Conjectur’d, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,

Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb’d poor Bully's rest;

In sleep he seem'd to view
A rat fast clinging to the cage,
And screamirg at the sad presage,

Awoke and found it true.

For aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went

Ah muse! forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensu'd ;
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-

He left poor Bully's beak.
O had he made that too his prey ;
That beak, whence issu'd niany a lay

Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well I wote,
For silencing so sweet a throat,

Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps the muses mourn
So when by Bacchanalians torn,

On Thracean Hebrus' side,
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His liead alone remain'd to tell

The cruel death he died.


The Rose had been wash’d, just wash'd in a show'r

Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture encuniber'd the flow'r

And weighid down its beautiful liend.

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