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Then know, though now repentance comes too late,
Your acts in Polly rais'd the virgin-figh:
Oh, think of Polly Whitehead's hapless fate-
For by your hands did Polly Whitehead die!

But bookfellers, although they loft their trade,
Still Polly lov'd in memory of the paft;
And rais'd this buft, in honour of the maid-
For bookfellers were grateful to the last!

ADDRESS TO JULY.

BY MR. T. STOTT, OF DROMORE, IRELAND.

SW

WART ruler of the fultry fummer's day,
Whom laffitude and languor ftill attend,
As flow up yonder blue ethereal path

Thy radiant car afcends, beneath this bow'r,
That Nature's hand in wild luxuriance weaves,
That Lagan's Naiads long have fondly nurs'd,
'Let me retire; and whilft the fickly scene,
Smit by thy fervid influence, droops around,
Cherish the foothing faculty of fong,
Nor yield my lyre to lethargy and thee!

The warrior chief*, whose celebrated name
Thy bright efcutcheon proudly still displays;
He, whom in time a trembling world obey'd,
At once the boaft and bane of ancient Rome!
Under thy ardent aufpices first drew
The vital fluid, and, if Hift'ry's pen
Has faithfully pourtray'd his character,
Much of thy hot and haughty temper too,
His mind partook. Where'er ambition led
His hoftile footsteps, victory purfu'd,
And warlike nations wither'd as he went.
But having reach'd the zenith of renown,
And grafp'd the fafces of defpotic sway,
Envy beheld him with a jealous eye,

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And Freedom frown'd-fure prefage of his fall.
Then dark cabal and grim confpiracy
Began to fap the pillars of his power
With deep and defperate progrefs; tillat laft
Affaffination rush'd with ruffian speed
Upon him, unprepar'd to meet the blow,
And bath'd his rival's statue in his blood.
Each modern Cæfar, whofe ambition foars
Beyond the limits justice has prescrib'd,
May learn from this afpiring Roman's fate,
What hazards haunt unbounded luft of pow'r.

No devotee of Bacchus, round whose heart
The pow'r of thirst extends her fpongy fway,
Delights in drinking more, dry month! than thou
The stream that murmur'd o'er its pebbled path
To thy parch'd palate scarce fupplies a draught;
And with difmay the fhepherd fees how foon
Thou canft exhauft the copious refervoir,
On which he lately founded all his hopes
Of never-failing beverage for the flock.
The plumy partners of the fhrinking lake
Lament thy inroads on their reedy haunts,
And lead their brood far from the fenceless fhore,
Where freak ifh youth and idlenefs refort,
To chafe and plague them with offenfive noise.
But in the fplendour of thy burning beam,
The infect race rejoice: in ev'ry fhade
The buzzing fwarms their airy gambols hold,
And, iffuing thence in ftrong detachments, oft
Annoy the weary trav'ller on his way.

Fierce Sirius, rous'd by thee, erects his crest,
And, like a cockatrice, with venom'd eye,
Athwart the pale horizon fhoots his fires,
Difpenfing dire disease to man and beast.
Ah! hapless he, who, on the boiling main,
Where torrid, equinoctial rays defcend,"
Now falls the prey of cruel calenture *.

* A diftemper incident to failors in hot climates, under which they imagine the fea to be a green field covered with flowers, groves, &c.

As on his fick brain the delirium works,
He fancies all around him he beholds
Green lawns, enamell'd meads, and fhady groves;
Then, rufhing forth, by the delufion led,
To wander through the fair inviting scene,
He tumbles headlong o'er the vessel's fide,
And finks, to rife no more!-Oh may the Hand
That guides the progress of the varying year,
Extend its guardian Thadow o'er the heads
Of our brave countrymen, who now expos'd
To all the rigours of thy tropic reign,
Affert the glory of the British name
On diftant Nile's inhofpitable fhore!

As

ORIGIN OF THE MORNING BLUSH.

BY MR. STOTT.

S Tithonus reclin'd on the couch of Aurora,
Juft like fome fond bee on the foft lap of Flora,
"Offweet kiffes," fhe cried, "love, still give me some more ah!
Let Time, as he will, jog for me."

But the youngfter, quite tir'd now with kiffing and toying,
Replied " My dear, rife! or the Sun will be prying;
All Nature, like me, is grown weary with lying,
And longs much thy fair face to fee."

At this cold unexpected remonftrance and warning,
With a look that befpoke difappointment and fcorning,
Up ftarted the beautiful Goddess of Morning,

And left her dull fweetheart in dumps:

"O good morrow!" fays Phoebus, with brows fomewhat hazy,

"Mifs Aurora, I fee you 're inclin'd to grow lazy."
"Mifter Sol," the replies, "with your gibing be eafy"
Then into his chariot fhe jumps.

So off the pair drove, juft like brother and fifter;
The day grew fo bright that mankind never mifs'd her;
Nor would any have known that Tithonus had kiss'd her,

If Cupid the fecret had kept;
But he, in a talkative fit, told his mother,
And the, quite unable fuch scandal to smother,
Of the goffipping goddeffes foon told another,

Till at length to Fame's knowledge it crept.
Now as Fame fuch high characters loves most to worry,
This news put her breast in a wonderful flurry;
She fnatch'd up her trump, and flew off in a hurry
To found it on every fide:

Aurora, perceiving her name was thus blasted,
Refoiv'd, that, as long as this earthly ball lafted,
Her face ftill, while taking her daily trip paft it,
A veil of deep crimson should hide.

Hence arifes the beautiful blush we discover,
When Morning the mountain's dim fummit peeps over;
Reflection ftill flashes the cheek of the lover-

Still her grief for detection remains;

In vain each fond cloud the fhy nymph now addreffes,
She feenis e'en to fhun her attendants' careffes,
And, while they with rofes and pearls braid her treffes,
Her tears oft befprinkle the plains.

LONDON SUMMER MORNING.

WHO has not wak'd to lift the bufy founds
Of Summer's Morning in the fultry smoke
Of noify London? On the pavement hot
The footy chimney-boy, with dingy face,
And tatter'd cov'ring, thrilly bawls his trade,
Roufing the fleepy houfemaid. At the door
The milk-pail rattles, and the tinkling bell
Proclaims the duftman's office, while the street
Is loft in clouds impervious. Now begins
The din of hackney coaches, waggons, carts;
While tinmen's fhops, and noify trunk-makers,
Knife grinders, coopers, fqueaking cork-cutters,
Fruit-barrows, and the hunger-giving cries
Of vegetable venders, fill the air.
Now every fhop difplays.its varied trade,

And

And the fresh fprinkled pavement cools the feet
Of early walkers. At the private door
The ruddy houfemaid twirls the busy mop,
Annoying the fmart 'prentice, or neat girl
Tripping with band-box lightly. Now the fun
Darts burning fplendour on the glitt'ring pane,
Save where the canvafs awning throws a fhade
On the gay merchandise. Now fpruce and trim,
In fhops (where Beauty fmiles with Industry)
Sits the fmart damfel, while the passenger
Peeps through the window, watching ev'ry charm.
Now paftry dainties catch the eyes minute
Of humming infects, while the limy fnare
Waits to enthral them. Now the lamp-lighter-
Mounts the tall ladder, nimbly vent'rous,
To trim the half-fill'd lamp; while at his feet
The pot-boy yells difcordant: all along
The fultry pavement the old clothesman cries.
In tone monotonous, and fidelong views
The area for his traffic: now the bag
Is flily open'd, and the half-worn fuit
(Sometimes the pilfer'd treasure of the base
Domeftic fpoiler,) for one half its worth,
Sinks in the green abyfs. The porter now
Bears his huge load along the burning way,
And the poor poet wakes from bufy dreams. ~ J
To paint the Summer Morning.

FORMERLY AND TO-DAY,

[From a Paris Journal:]

FORMERLY the hair was worn fo long, that a ge

neral council thought proper to proferibe that fashion, in compliance with a paffage of St. Paul against long hair; and we have fince had fquare wigs, long tailed wigs, pig-tailed wigs, full-bottomed wigs, foho wigs, bag wigs, pigeon-winged wigs, fpaniel-eared wigs, horfe hoe wigs, lapdog wigs, wigs à l'Espagnole, à l'Anglaife, à la confeillère, et à la Greque, &c. &c."

To-day

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