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Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd,
The victors fouls were not appeas'd ;
The naked and forlorn muft feel
Devouring flames, and murd'ring steel !

The pious mother, doom'd to death,
Forsaken, wanders o'er the heath.
The bleak wind whistles round her head;
Her helpless orphans cry for bread;
Bereft of shelter, food, and friend,
She views the shades of night descend,
And, stretch'd beneath inclement skies,
Weeps o'er her tender babes, and dies.

Whilft the warm blood bedews my veins
And unimpair'd remembrance reigns;
Refentment of my country's fate,
Within my filial breast shall beat ;
And, spite of her insulting foe,
My sympathizing verse shall flow,
- Mourn, hapless Caledonia, mourn
“ Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn."

Love as we have already observed, is likewise one of the proper subjects for this kind of poem. An example of which we shall give from the love Elegies lately publish'd by Mr. Hammond.


Let others boaft their heaps of shining gold,

And view their fields with waving plenty crown'd, Whom neighb'ring foes in constant terror hold,

And trumpets break their slumbers, never found :

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While, calmly poor, I trifle life away,

Enjoy sweet leisure by my chearful fire, No wanton hope my quiet shall betray,

But cheaply bless'd' i'll fcorn cach' vain defire.

With timely care I'll fow my little field,

And plant my orchard with its master's hand,
Nor blush to spread the hay, the hook to wield,
Or range the leaves along the funny land.

If late at dusk, while carelessly I roam,

I meet a strolling kid, or bleating lamb,
Under my arm I'll bring the wand'rer home,
And not a little chide its thoughtless dam.

What joy to hear the tempeft howl in vain,

And clasp a fearful mistress to my breast ?
Or lull'd to sumber by the beating rain,

Secure and happy sink at last to reft.


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Or if the fun in Aaming Leo ride,

By shady rivers indolently stray,
And with my DELIA walking fide by fide,
Hear how they murmur, as they glide away.

What joy to wind along the cool retreat,

To stop and gaze on Delia as I go !
To mingle sweet discourfe with kisses sweet,
And teach my lovely scholar all I know !

Thus pleas'd at heart, and not with fancy's dream,

In filent happiness I rett unknown;
Content with what I am, not what I seem,
I live for Delia, and myfelf alone,

Ah foolish man! who thus of her poffefs'a,

Could float and wander with ambition's wind,
And if his outward trappings fpoke him bleft,
Not heed the sickness of his conscious mind,

With her I scorn the idle breath of praise,

Nor trust to happiness that's not our own,
The fruile of fortune might suspicion raise,
But here I know that I am lov'd alone.

STANHOPE, in wisdom as in wit divine,

May rise, and plead Britannia's glorious cause,
With steady rein his eager wit confine,
While manly sense the deep attention draws,

XII. Let STANHOPE speak his lift'ning country's wrong,

My humble voice shall please one partial maid ; For her alone, I pen my tender song, Securely fitting in his friendly shade.

XIII. STANhope hall come, and grace his rural friend,

Delia shall wonder at her noble guest,
With blushing awe the riper fruit commend,
And for her husband's patron cull the best.,

Her's be the care of all my little train,

While I with tender indolence am blest,
The favourite subject of her gentle reign,

By love alone distinguish'd from the rest.


For her I'll yoke my oxen to the plow,

In gloomy forests tend my lonely stock,
For her a goat-herd climb the mountain's brow,
And sleep extended on the naked rock.

Ah! what avails to press the stately bed,

And far from her midst tasteless grandeur weep By warbling fountains lay the pensive head,

And, while they murmur, ftrive in vain to deep

Delia alone can please and never tire,

Exceed the paint of thought in true delight,
With her, enjoyment wakens new desire,
And equal rapture glows thro' every night.

Beauty and worth, alone in her, contend,

To charm the fancy, and to fix the mind ;
In her, my wife, my mistress, and

my friend,
I taste the joys of sense, and reason join'd.

On her I'll gaze when others loves are o'er,

And dying, press her with my clay cold hand
Thou weep't already, as I were no more,
Nor can that gentle breast the thought withstand.

Oh! when I die, my latest moments spare,

Nor let thy grief with sharper torments kill ;
Wound not thy cheeks, nor hurt that flowing hair,
Tho" I am dead, my foul shall love thee ftill,

Oh quit the room, oh quit the deathful bed,

Or thou wilt die, so tender is thy heart!
Oh leave me, Delia! ere thou see me dead,
These weeping friends will do thy mournful part.

Let them, extended on the decent bier,

Convey the corse in melancholy state,
Thro? all the village spread the tender tear,

While pitying maids our wond'rous loves relate.

But every species of poetry, however serious, may admit of humour and burlesque. Examples of which we have given in the Epigram, and Epitaph, and we shall conclude this chapter with a burlesque elegy, written by

Dr. Swift.



An ELEGY on the supposed death of Mr. PARTRIDGE, the

Well ; 'tis as Bickerstaff has guess'd,
Tho' we all took it for a jeft ;
Partridge is dead ; nay more, he dy'd
E're he cou'd prove the good 'Squire lyd.
Strange, an astrologer shou'd die
Without one wonder in the sky!
Not one of all his


To pay their duty at his herse !
No meteor, no eclipfe appear'd !
No comet with a flaming beard !
The sun has rofe, and gone to bed,
Just as if Partridge were not dead :
Nor hid himfelf behind the moon
To make a dreadful night at noon.
He at fit periods walks thro' Aries,
Howe'er our earthly motion varies :
And twice a year he'll cut th’Equator,
As if there had been no such matter.

Some Wits have wonder'd, what analogy,
There is 'twixt * cobling and astrology:
How Partridge made his optics rise,
From a shoe-fole, to reach the skies.

A lift the coblers temples ties
To keep the hair out of their eyes ;
From whence 'tis plain the diadem,
That princes wear, derives from them.
And therefore crowns are now.a-days
Adorn'd with golden fars and rays,
Which plainly fhews the near alliance
'Twixt cobling and the planets science.

Befides, that flow-pac'd sign Bootes,
(As 'tis mifcalld) we know not who 'tis :
But Partridge ended all disputes;
He knew his trade, and call’d it + Bocts.

The horned moon, which heretofore,
Upon their shoes the Romans wore,
Whose wideness kept their toes from corns,
And whence we claim our fooing-horns,
* Partridge was a Cobler,

+ See his Almanacka

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