Those twinkling tiny lustres of the land
Drop one by one from Fame's neglecting hand;
Lethæan gulfs receive them as they fall,
And dark oblivion soon absorbs them all.
So when a child (as playful children use)
Has burnt to tinder a stale last-year's news,
The flame extinct, he views the roving fire-
There goes my lady, and there goes the squire,
There goes the parson, oh illustrious spark!
And there, scarce less illustrious, goes the clerk!
REPORT OF AN ADJUDGED CASE
NOT TO BE FOUND IN ANY OF THE BOOKS
BETWEEN Nose and Eyes a strange contest arose,
The spectacles set them unhappily wrong;
The point in dispute was, as all the world knows,
To which the said spectacles ought to belong.
So Tongue was the lawyer, and argued the cause
With a great deal of skill, and a wig full of learning ;
While Chief Baron Ear sat to balance the laws,
So famed for his talent in nicely discerning.
"In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,
And your lordship," he said, "will undoubtedly find, That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear, Which amounts to possession time out of mind."
Then, holding the spectacles up to the court,
"Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle, As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short, Designed to sit close to it, just like a saddle.
Again, would your lordship a moment suppose ('Tis a case that has happened, and may be again,) That the visage or countenance had not a Nose, Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?
"On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them."
Then, shifting his side, as a lawyer knows how,
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes:
But what were his arguments few people know,
For the court did not think they were equally wise.
So his lordship decreed, with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but-
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight-Eyes should be shut!
ON THE BURNING OF LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY
BY THE MOB, IN THE MONTH OF JUNE 1780
So then the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,
Have burnt to dust a nobler pile
Than ever Roman saw !
And Murray sighs o'er Pope and Swift,
And many a treasure more,
The well-judged purchase and the gift
That graced his lettered store.
Their pages mangled, burnt, and torn,
The loss was his alone;
But ages yet to come shall mourn
The burning of his own.
WHEN wit and genius meet their doom
In all devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.
O'er Murray's loss the Muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,
Yet blessed the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.
There Memory, like the bee that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,
The quintessence of all he read
Had treasured up before.
The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The flowers are gone-but still we find
The honey on his tongue.
THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED;
THUS says the prophet of the Turk,
"Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication."
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those ;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail
And piously prefer the tail.
Thus, conscience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.
You laugh; 'tis well. The tale applied
May make you laugh on t'other side.
"Renounce the world," the preacher cries.
"We do," a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;
Some love a concert or a race;
And others shooting and the chase.
Reviled and loved, renounced and followed,
Thus bit by bit the world is swallowed;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he :
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.
It may be proper to inform the reader that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the "Leeds Journal," without the author's privity.
THE nymph must lose her female friend
If more admired than she-
But where will fierce contention end
If flowers can disagree?
Within the garden's peaceful scene
Appeared two lovely foes,
Aspiring to the rank of queen,
The Lily and the Rose.
The Rose soon reddened into rage
And, swelling with disdain,
Appealed to many a poet's page
To prove her right to reign.
The Lily's height bespoke command,
A fair imperial flower;
She seemed designed for Flora's hand,
The sceptre of her power.
This civil bickering and debate
The goddess chanced to hear,
And flew to save, ere yet too late,
The pride of the parterre.
Yours is, she said, the nobler hue,
And yours the statelier mien,
And, till a third surpasses you,
Let each be deemed a queen.
Thus soothed and reconciled, each seeks
The fairest British fair;
The seat of empire is her cheeks,
Thy reign united there.
HEU inimicitias quoties parit æmula forma, Quam raro pulchræ pulchra placere potest!
Sed fines ultrà solitos discordia tendit
Cum flores ipsos bilis et ira movent,
Hortus ubi dulces præbet tacitosque recessûs,
Se rapit in partes gens animosa duas,
Hic sibi regales Amaryllis candida cultûs,
Illic purpureo vindicat ore Rosa.
Ira Rosam et meritis quæsita superbia tangunt,
Multaque ferventi vix cohibenda sinû,
Dum sibi fautorum ciet undique nomina vatûm,
Jusque suum, multo carmine fulta, probat.
Altior emicat illa et celso vertice nutat,
Ceu flores inter non habitura parem,
Fastiditque alios, et nata videtur in usûs
Imperii, sceptrum Flora quod ipsa gerat.
Nec Dea non sensit civilis murmura rixæ,
Cui curæ est pictas pandere ruris opes,
Deliciasque suas nunquam non prompta tueri,
Dum licet et locus est, ut tueatur, adest.
"Et tibi forma datur procerior omnibus," inquit;
"Et tibi, principibus qui solet esse, color;
Et, donec vincat quædam formosior ambas,
Et tibi reginæ nomen, et esto tibi."
His ubi sedatus furor est petit utraque nympham,
Qualem inter Veneres Anglia sola parit;
Hanc penes imperium est, nihil optant amplius, hujus
Regnant in nitidis, et sine lite, genis.
THE NIGHTINGALE AND GLOW-WORM
A NIGHTINGALE, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent-
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