The Master storm'd, the prize was lost,

And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doom'd his fav'rite dead.

He seiz'd him fast, and from the pit Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,

And, bring me cord, he cried;

The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil,

And all the terrors of the tale

That can be, shall be, sunk

Led by the suff'rer's screams aright His shock'd companions view the sight And him with fury drunk.

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate

For the old warrior at the grate:

He deaf to pity's call

Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel

His culinary club of steel,

Death menacing on all.

But vengeance hung not far remote,

For while he stretch'd his clam'rous throat And heav'n and earth defied,

Big with a curse too closely pent

That struggled vainly for a vent,

He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

'Tis not for us, with rash surmise,

To point the judgments of the skies,

But judgments plain as this,

That, sent for Man's instruction, bring

A written label on their wing,

"Tis hard to read amiss.

ON THE

BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY

FROM SEA-BATHING

IN THE YEAR 1789.

O Sov'REIGN of an isle renown'd

For undisputed sway

Wherever o'er yon gulph profound
Her navies wing their way,

With juster claim she builds at length

Her empire on the sea,

And well may boast the waves her strength

Which strength restored to Thee.

HOR. LIB. I. ODE IX.

Vides, ut alta stet nive candidum

Soracte;

SEE'ST thou yon mountain laden with deep snow,
The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow,
The streams congeal'd forget to flow,

Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile

Of fuel on the hearth;

Broach the best cask, and make old winter

smile

With seasonable mirth.

This be our part-let Heaven dispose the rest; If Jove command, the winds shall sleep, That now wage war upon the foamy deep,

And gentle gales spring from the balmy West.

E'en let us shift to-morrow as we may,

When to-morrow's past away,

We at least shall have to say,

We have liv'd another day;

Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er,

Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no

more.

HOR. LIB. I. ODE XXXVIII.

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus;

Boy, I hate their empty shows,
Persian garlands I detest,

Bring not me the late-blown rose
Ling'ring after all the rest:

Plainer myrtle pleases me

Thus out-stretched beneath my vine,

Myrtle more becoming thee,

Waiting with thy master's wine.