ai

His eyes half drown'd in rheum, his accents weak, Bald was his head, and furrow'd was his cheek.

The conscious steed stopp'd fhort in deadly fright, And back recoiling, stretch'd his wings for flight. When thus the wretch, with fupplicating tone And rueful face, began his piteous moan, And, as he spake, the tears ran trickling down. O gentle youth, if pity e'er inclin'd

Thy foul to gen'rous deeds, if e'er thy mind
Was touch'd with soft diftrefs, extend thy care
To fave an old man's life, and ease the load I bear.
So may propitious heav'n your journey speed,
Prolong your days, and all your vows fucceed.
Mov'd with the pray'r the kind Porfenna staid,
Too nobly minded to refuse his aid,

And, prudence yielding to fuperior grief,
Leap'd from his steed, and ran to his relief;
Remov'd the weight, and gave the pris'ner breath,
Juft choak'd and gafping on the verge of death.
Then reach'd his hand, when lightly with a bound
The grizle spectre vaulting from the ground,
Seiz'd him with fudden gripe, th' aftonifh'd Prince,
Stood horror-ftruck, and thoughtlefs of defence.

O King of Ruffia, with a thund'ring found
Bellow'd the ghaftly fiend, at length thou'rt found
Receive the ruler of mankind, and know,
My name is Time, thy ever dreaded foe.
These feet are founder'd, and the wings you fee
Worn to the pinions in pursuit of thee;
Thro' all the world in vain for ages fought,
it caught.

is But Fate has doom'd thee now, and d A 2 2

Then

Then round his neck his arms he nimbly caft,
And feiz'd him by the throat, and grafp'd him faft;
Till forc'd at length the foul forfook its feat,
And the pale breathlefs corfe fell bleeding at his feet.
Scarce had the curfed fpoiler left his prey,
When fo it chane'd young Zephyr pass'd that way;
Too late his prefence to aflift his friend,
A fad but helplefs witnefs of his end.

He chafes, and fans, and ftrives in vain to cure
His ftreaming wounds; the work was done too fure..
Now lightly with a foft embrace uprears
The lifelefs load, and bathes it in his tears;
Then to the blissful feats with speed conveys,
And graceful on the moffy carpet lays

With decent care, clofe by the fountain's fide,
Where first the Princess had her Phoenix spy'd.
There with sweet flow'rs his lovely limbs he ftrew'd,
And gave a parting kifs, and fighs and tears beftow'd..

To that fad folitude the weeping dame,

Wild with her lofs, and swoln with forrow came.
There was the wont to vent her griefs, and mourn
Those dear delights that must no more return.
Thither that morn with more than ufual care
She fped, but O what joy to find him there!
As just arriv'd, and weary with the way,
Retir'd to foft repose, her hero lay.
Now near approaching she began to creep,
With careful steps, loth to disturb his fleep;
"Till quite o'ercome with tenderness fhe flew,
And round his neck her arms in tranfport threw.

But

But, when the found him dead, no tongue can tell
The pangs fhe felt; fhe fhriek'd, and fwooning fell.
Waking, with loud laments fhe pierc'd the skies,
And fill'd th' affrighted foreft with her cries..
'That fatal hour the palace gates fhe barr'd,
And fix'd around the coaft a ftronger guard;
Now rare appearing, and at diftance feen,
With crouds of black misfortune plac'd between 5
Mischiefs of ev'ry kind, corroding care,
And fears, and jealoufies, and dark despair.
And fince that day (the wretched world must own
'These mournful truths, by fad experience known)
No mortal e'er enjoy'd that happy clime,
And ev'ry thing on earth fubmits to Time.

THE CURATE. A FRAGMENT.

Ο

'ER the pale embers of a dying, fire, His little lamp fed but with little oil, The curate fat (for fcanty was his hire) And ruminated fad the morrows toil. "Twas Sunday's eve, meet feafon to prepare The ftated lectures of the coming tyde; No day of refte to him but day of care,

At manie a church to preach with tedious ride. Before him fprede his various fermons lay, Of explanation deepe and fage advice, The harvest gain'd from many a thoughtful daye, The fruit of learninge bought with heavy price.

On

On these he caft a fond but fearful eye :

A while he paus'd for forrow stopp'd his throte; Arriv'd at length he heav'd a bitter fighe

And thus complain'd, as well indeed he mote. "Here is the scholar's lot, condemn'd to fail Unpatroniz'd o'er life's tempeftuous wave, Clouds blind his fighte, nor blows a friendly gale To waft him to one port, except the grave. "Big with prefumptive hope I launch'd my keele, With youthful ardour and bright science fraught, Unanxious of the pain long doom'd to feel,

Unthinking that the voyage might end in nought. "Pleas'd on the fummit fea I danc'd a while With gay companions, and with views as fair, Outstript by these I'm kept to humble toil, My fondest hopes abandon'd in despair.

"Had my

ambitious mind been led to rise

To highest flights, to crozier and to pall, Scarce could I mourn the miflinge of my prize For foaring wishes well deferve their fall. "No tow'ring thoughts like these engag'd my breast, I hop'd (nor blame ye proud, the lowly plan) Some little cove, fome parfonage of rest The scheme of duty fuited to the man: "Where in my narrow sphere, fecure at ease, From vile dependence free I might remain, The guide to good, the counfellor of peace, The friend, the fhepherd of the village fwain. "Yet cruel fate denied the small request, And bound me faft in one ill omen'd hour,

Beyond

Beyond the chance of remedy, to rest

The flave of wealthie pride and priestly power. "Oft as in ruffet weeds I fcour along In diftant chapels haftilie to pray, By nod scarce notic'd of the paffing thronge, "Tis but the curate', every child will fay. "Nor circumfcrib'd indignity alone

Do I my rich fuperior's vaffal ride;
Sad penury as was in cottage known

With all its frowns does o'er my roof prefide.
"Ah! not for me the harvest yields its store,
The bough crown'd shock in vain attracts mine eye,
To labour doom'd and deftin'd to be poor,

I pass the field, I hope not envious by. "When at the altar furplice clad I stand,

The bridegroom's joy draws forth the golden fee,
The gift I take, but dare not close my hand,
The fplendid present centers not in me."

A

PROLOGUE,
Supposed to be written by Mr WARTON, and lately
Spoke at the WINCHESTER THEATRE, which
ftands over the city Shambles.

W

HOE'ER our house examines must excuse

The wond'rous fhifts of the dramatic muse: Then kindly liften, while the Prologue rambles From wit to beef-from Shakespeare to the fhambles! Divided only by one flight of stairs,

The monarch fwaggers, and the butcher swears!

Quick

L