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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,
Still let fleep from my eye-lids depart,
And ftill may the arrows of woe

Drink deep of the ftream of my heart!
But hark! on the filence of night

My Adila's accents I hear,
And mournful beneath the wan light
I fee her lov'd image appear.
Slow o'er the fmooth ocean the glides,

As the mist that hangs light on the wave;
And fondly her lover the chides,

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-
ftroys;

For thou art only rank'd amongst the dead,
To find a paffage to eternal joys.

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
The course of forrow you have run:

A fimple ftory, quickly told,-
You lov'd, believ'd, and were undone.
Why weep you as my hand you prefs?
Why on my features gaze and figh?
Would no one pity your diftrefs?
None liften to your tale, but I?
Alas! a pittance fcant, I fear,
Is all the joy I can bestow;

I can but wipe away one tear,
One moment from a life of woe.

your grateful eye

Yet e'en for this
To heaven is rais'd-Poor girl, adicu!
To scenes of fenfelefs mirth I fly,
To poverty and fickness you.

By Dr. YOUNG.

AS in fmooth oil the razor best is whet,

So wit is by politenefs fharpeft fet;
Their want of edge from their offence is feen,
Both pain us leaft when exquifitely keen.

Advice to Mr. Pope, on bis intended Translation of
Homer, 1714.

Pure as that form which envy's felf approv❜d:
Accept thefe tributary drops-these fighs!
(Remembrance ftill will on thy virtues dwell)O
Tho' nought could check thy progress to the skies.
The foul muft cherish ber's it lov'd fo well.
For, thou wert all Ambition could defire,

Endow'd with all that Nature could impart;
Warm was thy breaft with Friendship's facred fire,
And form'd for fentiment thy gentle heart.
Near thy bleft fhade the penfive Mufe fhall ftray,
Led by the pallid moon's uncertain light,
Sad tributes to thy peerlefs worth to pay,
And to thy tomb foft Sympathy invite.
Lamenting Memory, too, fhall linger there,
And cull fweet flow'rs to deck thy holy fhrine;
For thee indulge the deep-drawn figh fincere,
And o'er thy athes fhall with pity pine.

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,
And mufic warbled in her fweeteft ftrain:
Cyllenius fo, as fables tell, and Jove,
Came willing guefts to poor Philemon's grove.
Let ufelefs pomp behold, and blufh to find
So low a ftation, fuch a lib'ral mind.

TH' infpiring mufes, and the god of love,
Whichmoffhouldgrace the fairMelinda ftrove,
Love arm'd her with his bow and keenest darts,

The mufes more enrich'd her mind with arts.
Tho' Greece in fhining temples heretofore
Did Venus and Minerva's pow'rs adore,
The ancients thought no fingle goddess fit
To reign at once o er beauty and o'er wit;
Each was a fep'rate claim; till now we find
The diff'rent titles in Melinda join'd.

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,
Could he behold the virtues of thy breaft;
His needief's labours with contempt he 'd view,
And bid the world not read-but copy you.

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.

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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
Such lips, fuch eyes, as Chloe never had;
Ye Gods! the cries, in ecftacy of heart,
How near can nature be exprefs'd by art!
Well! it is wondrous like nay, let me die,
The very pouting lip, the killing eye!

Blunt and fevere as Manly in the play,
Downright replies-Like, Madam! do you fay?
The picture bears this likeness, it is true:
The canvas painted is, and so are you.

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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
The force and reas'ning of his wig and hand :
Much better pleas'd, fo pious his intent,
With five that laugh than fifty who repent:
On moral duties when his tongue refines,
Tully and Plato are his best divines;
What Matthew fays, or Mark, the proof but small;
What Locke or Clarke afferts, good feripture all:
Touch'dwish each weaknefs which he does arraign,
With vanity he talks against the vain;
With oftentation does to meekness guide,
Proud of his periods levell'd against pride;
Ambitiously the love of glory flights,
And damns the love of fame-forwhich he writes.

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Who, in his life-time, fav'd a candle's end!

The Humourift. Imitated from Martial.

IN all thy bumours, whether grave or mellow,
Thou 'rt fuch a touchy, tefty, pleafant fellow,
Haft fo much wit, and mirth, and fpleen about

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
I know thy fortune is but very fcant;
But, be affur'd, I'll ne'er fee Dick in want.
Dick 's foon coufin'd-his friend, no doubt; would

free him:

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To Mr. Thomson, who bad procured the Author a
DENNIS.
Benefit Night.
Eflecting on thy worth, methinks I find

R
Thy various Scafons in their author's mind.
Spring opes her blooms, various as thy mufe;
And, like thy foft compattion, theds her dews.
Summer's hot drought in thy expreflion glows,
And o'er each page a tawny ripenefs throws.
Autumn's rich fruits th' inftructed reader gains,
Who tastes the meaning purpofe of thy ftrains.
Winter-but that no femblance takes from thee:
That hoary feafon yields a type of me.
Shatter'd by Time's bleak ftorms I with'ring lay;
Leafiefs, and whit'ning in a cold decay!
Yet hall my proplefs ivy, pale and bent,
Biefs the thort funfhine which thy pity lent.
The Fan.
ATTERBURY,
FLAVIA the leaft and flightest toy
Can with refiilefs art employ:
This Fan in meaner hands would prove

His word he kept-in want he ne'er wou'd fee him. An engine of fmall force in love;

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Yet the, with graceful air and mien,
Not to be told, or fafely feen,
That it wounds more than Cupid's bow;
Directs its wanton motions fo,
Gives coolness to the matchlefs dame,
To ev'ry other breaft a flame.

To the Author of an Epitaph en Dr. Mead.
HACKETT.

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-
Pluto knows whom he's got, and will ne'er let him

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:
While wayward pens thy worth affail,
And envious tongues decry;
Thefe times tho' many a friend bewail,
Thefe times bewail not I.

But when the world's loud praife is thine,
And fpleen no more fhall blame;
When with thy Homer thou shalt fhine
In one establish'd fame :
When none shall rail, and ev'ry lay
Devote a wreath to thee:

That day (for come it will)-that day
Shall I lament to fee.

British Oeconomy.

IN merry old England it once was a rule,
The King had his poet, and alfo his fool:
But now we 're fo frugal, I'd have you to know it,
Poor Cibber muft ferve both for fool and for poet.

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,
For mercy dwells not here.
From cannibals thou fled'ft in vain;
Lawyers lefs quarter give;

The first won't eat you till you 're flain,
The laft will do 't alive.

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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;

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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.

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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.

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Written on the Bed-chamber Door of Charles II. ROCHESTER.

HERE lies our fovereign lord the King,

Whose word no man relies on;
He never fays a foolish thing,
No ever does a wife one.

THAT little patch upon your face
Would feem a foil on one lefs fair;

On you it hides a killing grace,
And you in pity plac'd it there.

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.

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