Here, martyr'd Otway hunger'd to his grave,
And toiling Johnson drudg'd a printer's slave!
The lurking satire of each stranger's eye,
The bribe-fed sycophants that swagger by,—
The knaves that cozen, and the fools that goad,
With all the thorns on life's precarious road,—
Commingled, these oft balk the firstling thrown
On life, to steer his little bark alone:

How many a flower of dear domestic pride,
In wasted fragrance here, has droop'd and died!
Yet better far, to languish on and die,
Than live to pen the page of infamy.

ENNUI OF FASHIONABLE LIFE.

How time must lag, where Fashion sits the queen,
Nor heart, nor soul, commingles with the scene;
Where each succeeding hour is but the last,
And Folly stagnates, by herself surpass'd :
To scribble, leave the card's diurnal lie,
Watch Christie's grin, or pinch a noon-tide pie,
Create importance in a matin call,

:

Unpack a tradesman's shop-nor buy at all,Crawl forth each morn, and so yawn out the day, Growl, smile, and guzzle,—sorrowing to be gay; Thus, Fashion dupes her addle-headed slaves, Until, like dogs, they shrivel to their graves!

EFFECTS OF INDISCRIMINATE NOVEL

READING;

WITH A HINT TO A CERTAIN PUBLISHER.

HERE sentimental misses and coquettes,

Like sucking pigs, whine out their soft regrets :-
Here school girls learn the load-stone of their eyes,
The flush of feeling and exchange of sighs;
Each heart-felt twitch romantic love endures,
Till passion tickles,—and elopement cures!
E'en sluttish housemaids crib a farthing light,
To whimper o'er the novel's page by night;
And then, like heroines, scorning to be wed,
Next night make John the hero of their bed!

One word to thee, whose cheap-bought brains supply
The letter'd garbage for each reading stye:
Will not the hoarded heaps within thy chest
Feed the vile cravings of a selfish breast?
Go, monger, all thy manufact❜ry stop,
And drive the novel-panders from thy shop;
Yet, ere thou leave the fetid mass of lies
The minion of thy Pallas press supplies;

Think on the taintless hearts thy dross defiled,—
Think on the youthful ones thy hacks have wiled!
In thy lewd leaves how many pens have taught,
The filth of fancy, and the lust of thought.

EDINBURGH REVIEW.

THOUGH all the knaves of Edinburgh confess,
Their Scotch Review the censor of the press,

The froth and fury of this reckless league,
Betray the infamies of Whig intrigue:

Whose heath'nish tongue praised Europe's murd'ring foe,

Who wiped the blood-stains of his frequent blow;
And, link'd with Jacobins, have vilely sneer'd
At England's glories, and her rites revered?
Whose Jesuistic rant has tried to fan,

And raise up rebels from the vulgar clan ?-
The Scotch Review!-th' accursed vamp for all
That surly B-
or simpering S

For all the inebriate lies of party rage,

scrawl,

And dunghill democrats that soil the age ;—

Oh! might discerning Truth her foes surpass, And fling from England's isle this vip'rous mass !

FASHION.

"TIs Fashion dies the beldame's blister'd cheek, Lives in her errant gaze, and kitten squeak; "Tis Fashion rolls the lech'ry of the eye, Breathes in the tone, and wantons in the sigh,— Deals with the gambler, pilfers with the rogue, And gives to wealth, a NEW-MADE DECALOGUE!

FRENCH MANNERS IMITATED.

THE times are come, when arts Parisian please, And Britons, to be Englishmen must cease:

Y

To Gallic shores our demireps resort,-
Return again and all their filth import :
Then like French apes these scented mongrels talk,
Feast like the French, and like the Frenchmen walk.

And can it be, that Albion's deem'd no more A fairer, nobler clime, than Gallia's shore?— Must England stoop to be the mime of France, Beget her toaders, and adopt her dance? For novel crimes, need English spendthrifts roam, And kindly teach them to us boors at home?

FECUNDITY OF AUTHORS-ITS CAUSE.
WHAT Wonder, then, while puffs insure a sale,
That, thick as muck-flies in the evening gale,
Authors appear, of every breed and kind,
Far as absurdity can stretch the mind:
Pun-clenchers-they whose eyes poetic roll
With all the hot insanity of soul;

Prose-dabblers, wrenching, like great L's face,
Their style and words into a monstrous grace,
Makers of tales, romance-mechanics, all
Book-scrawlers, brazen, barren, great and small,—
Arise each morn-assert their lofty claim,
And yelp, like hungry puppies, for their fame.

GAMESTERS.

GREAT GOD! how hearts must welter in their vice, When blighted happiness supports the dice,

And gamblers with convivial smiles can meet,
Sit face to face, and triumph in the cheat!
Within St. James's Hells, what bilks resort,--
Both young and hoary, to pursue their sport!
'Tis Mis'ry revels here!—the haggard mien
And lips that quiver with the curse obscene,
The hollow cheeks that faintly fall and rise,
While silent madness flashes from the eyes,
Those fever'd hands, the darkly-knitting brow,
Where mingling passions delve their traces now-
Denote the RUINED,-whose bewilder'd air,
Is one wild vengeful throbbing of despair!
Deserted homes, and mothers' broken hearts,
Forsaken offspring,-crime's unfathomed arts,
The suicide, and ev'ry sad farewell,—
These are the triumphs of a London Hell!

HINTS FOR COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.

Он! ye who wallow on the couch of ease,
Who gorge what meats, and quaff what wines ye
please;

Ye who ride smiling o'er your spacious grounds,
Bestride your hunters, and pursue the hounds;
Can banquets, balls, and luxuries from town,
And every gaud that buys a mean renown,
Bestow such bliss, as if the happy poor
Pointed with blessings to your open door!
As if your wealth diffused around the plain,
"Health to the sick, and comfort to the swain ?"