Thro' the groves of Angola I ftray'd, Love and hope made my bofom their home; There I talk'd with my favourite maid, Nor dream'd of the forrow to come. From the thicket the man-hunter fprung, My cries echoed-loud thro' the air; There was fury and wrath on his tongue, He was deaf to the fhrieks of despair. Accurs'd be the mercilefs band, Who his love could from Maratan tear; And blasted this impotent hand, That was fever'd from all I held dear. Flow ye tears, down my cheeks ever flow, Drink deep of the ftream of my heart! My Adila's accents I hear, As the mist that hangs light on the wave; That lingers fo long from the grave. "O, Maratan, hafte thee," the cries, "Here the reign of oppreffion is o'er, "The tyrant is robb'd of his prize, "And Adila forrows no more.' Now finking amidst the dim ray, Her form feems to fade on my view: "Oftay thee, my Adila, ftay-"” She beckons, and I muft purfue. To-morrow, the white man in vain Shall proudly account me his flave; My fhackles I plunge in the main, And rush to the realms of the brave. Elegy to the Memory of Mifs Louisa Hanway. THOU, to whom fair Genius homage paid, Whom Science courted, and the Mules lov'd; Whofe mind the hand of Innocence array'd, Yet check'd should be those tears thy friends may fhed, That grief which thy fond parents' peace de- For thou art only rank'd amongst the dead, That Power which feal'd th' apparent harf decree, Who ev'ry feeling of thy heart could know, Judg'd what thy pangs from future ills might be, And fuatch'd thee early from a world of woe. ΑΝΟΝ. On an unfortunate Beauty. POOR wand'rer! how fhall that weak form, So loofely clad in vefture light, Endure the malice of the ftorm, The rudeness of the winter's night? And does a fimile thy cheek illume? Alas! that faint and feeble glow Is like the flower's untimely bloom, Drooping amidst a waste of fnow. Poor wretch! you figh, you would unfold A fimple ftory, quickly told,- I can but wipe away one tear, your grateful eye Yet e'en for this By Dr. YOUNG. AS in fmooth oil the razor best is whet, So wit is by politenefs fharpeft fet; Advice to Mr. Pope, on bis intended Translation of Pure as that form which envy's felf approv❜d: Endow'd with all that Nature could impart; THOU who, with a happy genius born, Canft tuneful verfe in flowing numbers turn, Crown'd on thy Windfor's plains with early bays, Be early wife, nor trust to barren praise. Blind was the bard that sung Achilles' rage, If Britain his tranflated fong would hear, He fung, and begg'd, and curs'd th'ungiving age: So fhall thy father Homer fmile to fee First take the gold-then charm the lift'ning ear; His penfion paid, tho' late-and paid to thee. Under the Print of Tom Britton, the mufical Small-coal Man. HUGHES. TH HO' mean thy rank, yet in thy humble cell Did gentle peace and arts unpurchas'd dwell: Well Well pleas'd, Apollo thither led his train, TH' infpiring mufes, and the god of love, The mufes more enrich'd her mind with arts. AN Opera, like a pill'ry, may be faid To nail our Ears down, but expose our Head. LUCIA thinks happiness confifts in state; She weds an ideot, but the eats in plate. To the Hon. Mrs. Percival, with Hutchefon's Treatife on Beauty and Order. GRIERSON. TH' internal fenfes painted here we see : They're born in others, but they live in thee. ✪ were our author with thy converse bleft, J Like, Sammon, I my theft, did fay Like Samfon, I my thousands flay: vow, quoth Roger, fo you de, And with the felf-fame weapon too. MY fickly fpoufe, with many a figh, Oft tells me-Billy, I fhall die. I griev'd, but recollected ftraight 'Tis bootlefs to contend with fate: So refignation to Heaven's will Prepar'd ine for fucceeding ill. 'Twas well it did; for, on my life, 'Twas Heaven's will-to fpare my wife. WHEN Chloe's picture was to Chloe shown, Adorn'd with charms and beauty not her own; Where Hogarth, pitying nature, kindly made Blunt and fevere as Manly in the play, On an eminent Modern Preacher. POLLIO muft needs to penitence excite ; For, fee, his fearf is rich, and gloves are white; with what a zeal he labours to be prais'd! Behold his notes difplay'd, his body rais'd; No ftubborn finner able to withstand Who, in his life-time, fav'd a candle's end! The Humourift. Imitated from Martial. IN all thy bumours, whether grave or mellow, thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee. A Haughty courtier meeting in the streets A fcholar, him thus infolently greets: Bafe men to take the wall I ne'er permit. The fcholar faid, I do; and gave him it. THUS with kind words Sir Edward cheer'd his friend: Dear Dick! thou on my friendship mayft depend free him: To Mr. Thomson, who bad procured the Author a R His word he kept-in want he ne'er wou'd fee him. An engine of fmall force in love; Yet the, with graceful air and mien, To the Author of an Epitaph en Dr. Mead. MEAD's not dead then, you fay, only fleeping a little > Why, egad! Sir, you've hit it off there to a tittle: Yet, Yet, friend, his awaking I very much doubt- out. To Mr. Pope. WHILE malice, Pope, denies thy page Its own celeftial fire; While critics and while bards in rage, Admiring, won't admire: But when the world's loud praife is thine, That day (for come it will)-that day British Oeconomy. IN merry old England it once was a rule, Found fuck on the Statue of the Moor which fupports the Sun Dial in Clement's-Inn. IN vain, poor fable fon of woe, Thou feek ft the tender tear; From thee in vain with pangs they flow, The first won't eat you till you 're flain, On the Burfer of St. John's College in Oxford cutting down a fine Row of Trees. EVANS. INDULGENT nature to cach kind bettows A fecret instinct to difcern its foes: The goofe, a filly bird, avoids the fox; FAIR hand, that can on virgin paper write, Yet from the ftain of ink preferve it white; Whofe travel o'er that filver field does fhew Like tracks of leverets in morning fnow: Love's image thus in pueft minds is wrought, Without a spot or blemish to the thought. Strange, that your fingers thould the pencil foil, Without the help of colours or of oil! For tho' a painter boughs and leaves can make, Tis yours alone to make them bend and shake: Whofe breath falutes your new-created grove, Like fouthern winds, and makes it gently move. Orpheus could make the foreft dance, but you Can make the motion and the foreft too. A poet, when he would describe his mind, Is, as in language, fo in fame, confin'd: Your works are read wherever there are men: So far the fciffars goes beyond the pen. By PRIOR. nags, the leaneft things alive, So very hard thou lov't to drive, Lambs By from wolves, and failors fteer from rocks: I heard thy anxious coachinın fay, A rogue the gallows as his fate forefees, And bears the like antipathy to trees. Good Mufic, and bad Dancers. HOW ill the motion with the mufic fuits! So Orpheus play'd, and like them danc'd the brutes. It colt thee more in whips than hay. Written on the Bed-chamber Door of Charles II. ROCHESTER. HERE lies our fovereign lord the King, Whose word no man relies on; THAT little patch upon your face On you it hides a killing grace, A By PRIOR. S afternoon one fummer's day, Venus food bathing in a river; Cupid a-fhooting went that way, New ftrung his bow, new fill'd his quiver. With kill he chofe his fharpeft dart; With all his might his bow, he drew: Swift to his beauteous parent's heart The too well guided arrow flew. I faint! I die! the goddefs cried: O cruel! couldft thou find none other To wreak thy fpleen on, parricide? Like Nero, thou haft flain thy mother. Poor Cupid, fobbing, fcarce could fpeaks Indeed, Mama, I did not know ye: Alas! how eafy my mistake! I took you for your likeness, Chloe. |