ODE on the Death of MATZEL, a favourite Bull-finch, addrefs'd to Mr. ST - PE, to whom the Author had given the Reversion of it when he left Dresden.

By the Same.

I.

RY not, my St-pe, 'tis in vain

TR

To stop your tears, to hide your pain,

Or check your honeft rage;

Give forrow and revenge their scope,

My prefent joy, your future hope,
Lies murder'd in his cage.
II.

Matzel's no more, ye graces, loves,
Ye linnets, nightingales and doves,

Attend th' untimely bier;

Let every forrow be exprest,

Beat with your wings each mournful breast,

And drop the natʼral tear.

III. In

III.

In height of fong, in beauty's pride,
By fell Grimalkin's claws he died-

But vengeance fhall have way;

On pains and tortures I'll refine;

Yet, Matzel, that one death of thine,
His nine will ill repay.
IV.

For thee, my bird, the facred Nine,
Who lov'd thy tuneful notes, fhall join
In thy funereal verse :

My painful task fhall be to write

Th' eternal dirge which they indite,
And hang it on thy hearse.

V.

In vain I lov'd, in vain I mourn

My bird, who never to return

Is fled to happier shades,

Where Lesbia fhall for him prepare

The place most charming, and most fair
Of all th' Elyfian glades.

VI.

There shall thy notes in cypress grove

Sooth wretched ghosts that died for love;

There fhall thy plaintive strain

Lull

Lull impious Phædra's endless grief,
To Procris yield fome short relief,
And foften Dido's pain.
VII.

'Till Proferpine by chance shall hear
Thy notes, and make thee all her care,
And love thee with my love;

While each attendant's foul fhall praise
The matchless Matzel's tuneful lays,
And all his fongs approve.

MARTIALIS EPIGRAMMA.

Lib. VI. Ep. 34. Imitated.

By the Same.

COME, Chloe, and give me sweet kiffes,

For sweeter fure never girl gave:

But why in the midst of my bliffes
Do you ask me how many I'd have?
I'm not to be stinted in pleasure,

Then pr'ythee my charmer be kind,
For whilft I love thee above measure,

To numbers I'll ne'er be confin'd.

Count

Count the bees that on Hybla are playing,
Count the flow'rs that enamel its fields,
Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying,
Or the grain that rich Sicily yields;
Go number the stars in the heaven,
Count how many fands on the fhore,
When fo many kiffes you've given

I still shall be craving for more.

To a heart full of love let me hold thee,

To a heart which, dear Chloe, is thine;.
With my arms I'll for ever enfold thee,

And twift round thy limbs like a vine.
What joy can be greater than this is?
My life on thy lips fhall be spent ;
But the wretch that can number his kiffes
With few will be ever content.

<*}X{*}X{*}**

The Progress of DISCONTENT.

A POE M.

Written at Oxford in the Year 1746.

WH

VOL. IV.

'HEN now mature in claffic knowledge,
The joyful youth is fent to college,
S

His

His father comes, a vicar plain,
At Oxford bred-in Anna's reign,

And thus in form of humble fuitor

Bowing accofts a reverend tutor.

My wife's ambition and my own

"Was that this child should wear a gown= "I'll warrant that his good behaviour

"Will justify your future favour:

"And for his parts, to tell the truth,

}

"Has Horace all by heart-you'd wonder"And mouths out Homer's Greek like thunder.

"If you'd examine and admit him, "A scholarship would nicely fit him:

"That he fucceeds 'tis ten to one;

"Your vote and interest, Sir!"— 'Tis done. Our pupil's hopes, though twice defeated, Are with a scholarship compleated:

A scholarship but half maintains,

And college rules are heavy chains:
In garret dark he fmokes and puns,
A prey to discipline and duns

And