Then Loyalty, with all his lamps New trimm'd, a gallant show! Chasing the darkness, and the damps, Set London in a glow. "Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares, Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, And rockets flew, self-driv'n, To hang their momentary fires Amid the vault of Heav'n. So, fire with water to compare, Had all the pageants of the world For no such sight had England's Queen Where, George recover'd, made a scene Yet glad she came that night to prove, How much the object of her love Darkness the skies had mantled o'er, Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before On borrow'd wheels away she flies, Resolv'd to be unknown, And gratify no curious eyes That night, except her own. Arriv'd, a night like noon she sces, Pleas'd she beheld aloft pourtray'd Emblems of health, and heav'nly aid, Unlike the ænigmatick line, So difficult to spell, Which shock Belshazzar at his wine, Soon, wat'ry grew her eyes and dim, None else, except a pray'r for him, It was a scene in ev'ry part Like those in fable feign'd, And scem'd by some magician's art But other magick there, she knew, To raise such wonders in her view, That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd, And through the cumb'rous throng Not else unworthy to be fear d, Convey'd her calm along. So, ancient poets say serene The sea-maid rides the waves, With more than astronomick eyes Yet let the glories of a nigh Like that once seen, suffice, Heav'n grant us no such future sight, THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND, [May, 1789.] MUSE-Hide his name of whom I sing Nor speak the School from which he drew Nor place where he was born. That such a man once was, may seem Perchance may credit win) For proof to man, what man may provз, The source of guilt within. This man (for since the howling wild Gentle he was, if gentle birth Could make him such, and he had worth, If wealth can worth bestow. In social talk and ready jest Illustrious in the eyes of those Methinks I see him powder'd red, The mossy rose bud not so sweet Can such be cruel-Such can be A tyrant, entertain'd With barb'rous sports, whose fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight "Twixt birds to battle train'd. One feather'd champion he possess'd, Which never knew disgrace, Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow It chanced, at last, when, on a day, The Master storm'd, the prize was lost, He doom'd his fav'rite dead. He seiz'd him fast, and from the pit The horrid sequel asks a veil, And all the terrours of the tale That can he, shall be, sunk Led by the suff'rer's screams aright, All, suppliant beg a milder fate For the old warriour at the grate : Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel Death menacing on all. But vengeance hung not far remote, Big with a curse too closely pent, Tis not for us, with rash surmise, "Tis hard to read amiss. |