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THE

LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED;

OR, HYPOCRISY DETECTED'.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose

('Tis a case that has happen’d and may be again) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would or who could wear spectacles

then ? On the whole it appears, and my argument shows

With a reasoning the court will never condemn, That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,

And the Nose was as plainly intended for them. Then shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how,

He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes, But what were his arguments few people know, For the court did not think they were equally

wise.

Tuus says the prophet of the Turk ;
Good mussulman, abstain from pork !
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
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.

So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,

Decisive and clear, without one if or but,That whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,

By daylight or candlelight_Eyes should be shut.

ON

THE BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S

LIBRARY,

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 every clog, Mahometans eat up the hog.

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS.

BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE, 1780,

So then-the Vandals of our isle,

Sworn foes to sense and law, Have burnt to dust a nobler pile

Than ever Roman saw !

And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift,

And many a treasure more, The well-judged purchase and the gift

That graced his letter'd store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,

The loss was his alone ;
But ages yet to come shall mourn

The burning of his own.

You laugh !—'tis well,—the tale applied
May make you laugh on t'other side.
Renounce the world, the preacher cries ;-
We do,-a 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; 1 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.

Some love a concert or a race,
And others, shooting and the chase.
Reviled and loved, renounced 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 sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

Nec Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixæ,

Cui curæ est pictas pandere ruris opes.
Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri,

Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest.
Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus, inquit,

Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color,
Et donec vincat quædam formosior ambas,

Et tibi reginæ nomen, et esto tibi. His ubi sedatus furor est, petit utraque nympham

Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit ; Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius,

Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis. [hujus

THE LILY AND THE ROSE.

THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM.

The nymph must lose her female friend

If more admired than she,-
But where will fierce contention end

If flowers can disagree?
Within the garden's peaceful scene

Appear'd two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,

The Lily and the Rose.
The Rose soon redden'd into rage,

And swelling with disdain,
Appeald to many a poet's page

To prove her right to reign.
The Lily's height bespoke command,

A fair imperial flower,
She seem'd design'd for Flora's hand,

The sceptre of her power.
This civil bickering and debate

The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, ere yet too late,

The pride of the parterre.
Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,

And yours the statelier mien,
And till a third surpasses you,

Let each be deem'd a queen.
Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks

The fa irest British fair,
The seat of empire is her cheeks,

They reign united there.

A NIGHTINGALE that all day long
Had cheer'd the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When looking eagerly around,
He spied, far off upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the Glow-worm by his spark;
So stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop;
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus right eloquent.--

“ Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
“ As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song ;
For 't was the self-same power divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine,
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night.”
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.

Hence jarring sectaries may learn, Their real interest to discern: That brother should not war with brother, And worry and devour each other, But sing and shine by sweet consent, Till life's poor transient night is spent, Respecting in each other's case The gifts of nature and of grace.

Those Christians best deserve the name, Who studiously make peace their aim; Peace, both the duty and the prize Of him that creeps and him that flies.

IDEM LATINE REDDITUM.

VOTUM.

Hev inimicitias quoties parit æmula forma,

Quam raro pulchræ, pulchra placere potest ! Sed fines ultrà solitos discordia tendit,

Cum fores ipsos bilis et ira movent. Hortus ubi dulces præbet tacitosque recessûs,

Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas, Hic sibi regales Amaryllis candida cultûs,

Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa. Ira Rosam et meritis quaesita superbia tangunt,

Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinů, Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatûm,

Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat. Altior emicat illa, et celso vertice nutat,

Ceu flores inter non habitura parem, Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usûs

Imperii, sceptrum, Flora quod ipsa gerat.

O MATUTINI rores, auræque salubres,
O nemora, et lætæ rivis felicibus herbæ,
Graminei colles, et amænæ in vallibus umbra!
Fata modò dederint quas olim in rure paterno
Delicias, procul arte, procul formidine novi,
Quam vellem ignotus,quod mens mea semperavebat,
Ante larem proprium placidam expectare senectam,
Tum demùm exactis non infeliciter annis,
Sortiri tacitum lapidem, aut sub cespite condi.

ON A GOLDFINCH

HORACE.

BOOK II.

ODE X.

STARVED TO DEATH IN HIS CAGE.

Time was when I was free as air,
The thistle's downy seed my fare,

My drink the morning dew;
I perch'd at will on every spray,
My form genteel, my plumage gay,

My strains for ever new.
But gaudy plumage, sprightly strain,
And form genteel were all in vain

And of a transient date,
For caught and caged and starved to death,
In dying sighs my little breath

Soon pass’d the wiry grate.
Thanks, gentle swain, for all my woes,
And thanks for this effectual close,

And cure of every ill !
More cruelty could none express,
And I, if you had shown me less,

Had been your prisoner still.

RECEIVE, dear friend, the truths I teach,
So shalt thou live beyond the reach

Of adverse fortune's power;
Not always tempt the distant deep,
Nor always timorously creep

Along the treacherous shore.
He that holds fast the golden mean,
And lives contentedly between

The little and the great,
Feels not the wants that pinch the poor,
Nor plagues that haunt the rich man's door,

Imbittering all his state.
The tallest pines feel most the power
Of wintry blast, the loftiest tower

Comes heaviest to the ground;
The bolts that spare the mountain's side,
His cloud-capt eminence divide

And spread the ruin round.
The well-inform’d philosopher
Rejoices with a wholesome fear,

And hopes in spite of pain ;
If winter bellow from the north,
Soon the sweet spring comes dancing forth,

And nature laughs again.
What if thine heaven be overcast ?
The dark appearance will not last,

Expect a brighter sky;
The God that strings the silver bow,
Awakes sometimes the Muses too,

And lays his arrows by.
If hindrances obstruct thy way,
Thy magnanimity display,

And let thy strength be seen;
But oh! if Fortune fill thy sail
With more than a propitious gale,

Take half thy canvas in!

THE PINE APPLE AND THE BEE.

A REFLECTION ON THE FOREGOING ODE.

The Pine Apples in triple row
Were basking hot and all in blow,
A Bee of most discerning taste
Perceived the fragrance as he pass’d;
On eager wing the spoiler came,
And search'd for crannies in the frame,
Urged his attempt on every side,
To every pane his trunk applied,
But still in vain, the frame was tight
And only pervious to the light.
Thus having wasted half the day,
He trimm'd his flight another way.

Methinks, I said, in thee I find
The sin and madness of mankind;
To joys forbidden man aspires,
Consumes his soul with vain desires;
Folly the spring of his pursuit,
And disappointment all the fruit.
While Cynthio ogles as she passes
The nymph between two chariot glasses,
She is the Pine Apple, and he
The silly unsuccessful Bee.
The maid who views with pensive air
The show-glass fraught with glittering ware,
Sees watches, bracelets, rings, and lockets,
But sighs at thought of empty pockets,
Like thine her appetite is keen,
But, ah, the cruel glass between !

Our dear delights are often such,
Exposed to view but not to touch ;
The sight our foolish heart inflames,
We long for pine-apples in frames ;
With hopeless wish one looks and lingers,
One breaks the glass and cuts his fingers :
But they whom truth and wisdom lead,
Can gather honey from a weed.

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He sees that this great roundabout The world, with all its motley rout,

Church, army, physic, law, Its customs and its businesses Are no concern at all of his,

And says-what says he? Caw. Thrice happy bird ! I too have seen Much of the vanities of men,

And sick of having seen 'em, Would cheerfully these limbs resign For such a pair of wings as thine,

And such a head between 'em.

At first he aims at what he hears,
And listening close with both his ears,

Just catches at the sound;
But soon articulates aloud,
Much to the amusement of the crowd,

And stuns the neighbours round.

A querulous old woman's voice
His humorous talent next employs,

He scolds and gives the lie;
And now he sings, and now is sick,
Here, Sally, Susan, come, come quick,

Poor Poll is like to die.

Belinda and her bird ! 'tis rare
To meet with such a well-match'd pair,

The language and the tone,
Each character in every part
Sustain’d with so much grace and art,

And both in unison.
When children first begin to spell,
And stammer out a syllable,

We think them tedious creatures;
But difficulties soon abate,
When birds are to be taught to prate,

And women are the teachers.

'Tis a bower of Arcadian sweets,

Where Flora is still in her prime; A fortress to which she retreats,

From the cruel assaults of the clime. While earth wears a mantle of snow,

These pinks are as fresh and as gay As the fairest and sweetest that blow

On the beautiful bosom of May. See how they have safely survived

The frowns of a sky so severe ! Such Mary's true love that has lived

Through many a turbulent year. The charms of the late-blowing rose

Seem graced with a livelier hue, And the winter of sorrow best shows

The truth of a friend, such as you.

MUTUAL FORBEARANCE,

NECESSARY TO THE HAPPINESS OF THE MARRIED STATE.

THE SHRUBBERY.

WRITTEN IN A TIME OF AFFLICTION.

Oh happy shades! to me unblest,

Friendly to peace, but not to me, How ill the scene that offers rest,

And heart that cannot rest, agree ! This glassy stream, that spreading pine,

Those alders quivering to the breeze, Might soothe a soul less hurt than mine,

And please, if anything could please. But fixt unalterable care

Foregoes not what she feels within, Shows the same sadness everywhere,

And slights the season and the scene. For all that pleased in wood or lawn,

While peace possess'd these silent bowers, Her animating smile withdrawn,

Has lost its beauties and its powers. The saint or moralist should tread

This moss-grown alley, musing slow;
They seek like me the secret shade,

But not like me, to nourish woe.
Me fruitful scenes and prospects waste

Alike admonish not to roam;
These tell me of enjoyments past,

And those of sorrows yet to come.

The lady thus address'd her spouse :-
“ What a mere dungeon is this house !
By no means large enough; and was it,
Yet this dull room and that dark closet,
Those hangings with their worn-out giaces,
Long beards, long noses, and pale faces,
Are such an antiquated scene,
They overwhelm me with the spleen."
Sir Humphrey, shooting in the dark,
Makes answer quite beside the mark :-
No doubt, my dear, I bade him come,
Engaged myself to be at home,
And shall expect him at the door
Precisely when the clock strikes four.'

“ You are so deaf,” the lady cried, (And raised her voice and frown'd beside)

You are so sadly deaf, my dear, What shall I do to make you hear?” • Dismiss poor Harry!' he replies, • Some people are more nice than wise ; For one slight trespass all this stir! What if he did ride, whip, and spur? 'Twas but a mile,-your favourite horse Will never look one hair the worse.' “Well, I protest 'tis past all bearing! • Child ! I am rather hard of hearing.'“ Yes, truly - one must scream and baw), I tell you you can't hear at all.” Then with a voice exceeding low“ No matter if you hear or no.”

Alas! and is domestic strife,
That sorest ill of human life,
A plague so little to be feard,
As to be wantonly incurr'd ;
To gratify a fretful passion,
On every trivial provocation ?
The kindest and the happiest pair
Will find occasion to forbear,
And something every day they live,
To pity and, perhaps, forgive.
But if infirmities that fall
In common to the lot of all,
A blemish, or a sense impair'd,
Are crimes so little to be spared,
Then farewell all that must create
The comfort of the wedded state ;

THE WINTER NOSEGAY.

What Nature, alas ! has denied

To the delicate growth of our isle, Art has in a measure supplied,

And winter is deck'd with a smile. See Mary, what beauties I bring

From the shelter of that sunny shed, Where the flowers have the charms of the spring.

Though abroad they are frozen and dead.

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