NOON. WRITTEN BY STEPHEN KEMBLE, ESQ. NOW in the fouth the ardent god of day In flaxen folds that fhame the lily's bloom, Her modeft thanks are borne above the skies; No poifon lurks within her delphen urnsThe dying groans from golden goblets rife. Now blooming damfels give the bubbling rill Their home-fpun vefts, and bleach them on the thorn; While the pert coxcomb poppies on the hill Nod their gay bells amid the waving corn. Now Vegetation through her countless hoft Feels in each fibre the creative power! Ecftatic Nature, in the tranfport loft, Unfolds her odours to the fpangled shower, The bufy bee now rifles ev'ry sweet, And ftores the luscious treasure for his hive; Now fwarming millions leave their dark retreat, And mountains, woods, and waters, are alive. And now the linnet on the poplar bough Warbles in fofteft notes the song of love; The melting fair believes the pleafing vow Take heed, ye nymphs, fly Cupid's in the grove! Down the parch'd cliffs now drive the bleating flocks, And seek the shelter of the spreading fhades; The fcorching heat, reflected from the rocks, Saps the kind moisture, and the herbage fades. The toiling peafant proftrate lays the grafs, And now exhaufted on his fcythe reclines; The fun-beam dancing on the wat❜ry glafs, Where, with a mimic beauty, Flora fhines. The lufty bull now scours across the mead, Still Joy and Peace, those nymphs of rofy hue, That shelters Labour from the evening's dew. EPIGRAM PIECE ON OUR THEATRES ROYAL HAVING A NEW DD ON THE SAME EVENING AT EACH HOUSE*. WHAT! two new dramas d--'d the self-same night! For had they been well charg'd with wit, perforce A VOLUNTEER. ON A MODERN DRAMATIST. NOT for the ftage his plays are fit, "The clofet!" said his friend; IMPROMPTU. HINT TO A MONO-DRAMATIST, HOW TO AVOID DEA DAMNATION. EAR Mat, if again you should write for the stage, It's the way to be fafe :-and the fecret is this, *The Three per Cents, and Scapin in Mafquerade. Written about the time that the Captive was acted at Covent Garden, March 22, 1803. FITY; PITY: AN IMPROMPTU. HAVE been robb'd, Sir-I pity your grief. CONSOLATION. THE HIGH-CROWN'D HAT: A PINDARIC STORY. BY ONE OF THE FAMILY. [From the Oracle.] LOOD pious reader, no offence I hope! Though a church-tale be mine, 't is not profane; I fcorn to fatirize e'en Turk or Pope, Or faints of Drury or of Warwick Lane. So drefs'd herself for church, in all her glory. She thought would mightily call forth her graces. The mufe not gueffes; but thus much can tell, Were quite the mode, and fince ten times I ween There people wear their clothes to keep them warm, A prodigy indeed, Whence did fuch terror-darting beams proceed, In fact, fhe had not master'd-A, B, C, (Call'd Alphabet by fome, as much to feek In their own language as in Greek,) Nor held of literary door the key; She just as able was to read as pray. He goes just to be chriften'd, to be wed, Since there the Prieft threw water in her face; Nay, Piety itfelf would look afkance, At length the devil whisper'd in her ear, Ange LINES ADDRESSED TO R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. 18г Anger betrays us from the paths of grace, Nor pays refpect to perfons, time, or place; So honest Gammer, like with rage to burst, Exclaims, "Indeed! your impudence be curft; Good Lord deliver us! heigh? you giggling w Did you ne'er fee a high-crown'd hat before!" Say, reader, art thou apt to take offence,' Quarrel, and fquabble on each flight pretence; Fretful and jealous, thinking ev'ry tongue, Which names thee not, yet means to do thee wrong? Look at thyfelf-If fo, my ftory 's pat, Thou 'rt the old woman in the high-crown'd hat. LINES ADDRESSED TO R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ. ON THE NATIONAL INSTITUTE OF FRANCE ELECTING THOUGH dumb the lyre that Orpheus once infpir'd, HAYDN |