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ANvage there was, fome authors teach,

When all things were endued with speech,
Nor plant, nor bird, nor fish, nor brụté,
Nor thing inanimate was mute;
Their converse taught or these men lie-
Better than books, morality.
One grain more faith afford me now;
It aks but one more grain, I vow,
Speech on mere visions to bestow.
Then you'll believe, that truth I tell,
That what I now relate befell.

Calm was the day, the sky was clear,
Save that a light cloud here and there,
Floating amid the azure plain,
Promis'd some gentle showers of rain :
Tho' Men are faithless, Clouds are true,
As by the sequel soon I'll shew.
Sol from the zenith now departed,
Eastward his rays obliquely darted,
The clouds, late glorious of the day,
By western winds are borne away,
'Till to the east each

vapour blown,
In lucid Now'rs came gently down.
Now full oppos'd to Phæbus rays,
Iris her vivid tints displays;
A wat'ry mirror spread below,
To her own eyes her beauties (hew.
I scarce can think Narcissus eyed
Reflected beauty with such pride;
Or modern belle for birth-night dressid,
Raptures so exquisite express'd,
Some time enamour'd o'er the lake
She hung, then thus the spake.

*** Say, in Creation's ample bound,
Where can there such a form be found ?
How fine that curve! How bright those rays !
Oh I could here for ever gaze !
See, fee, resplendent circles rise,
Each above each, of various dyes !
Mark that first ring of fanguine light !
Beam'd ever ruby half so bright?
Or can the flaming topaz vie
With that next stream of golden dye ?
Where was that em'rald ever seen
Whose rays could rival yonder green?
Or where's that saphire's azure hue,
Can emulate it's neighb'ring blue?
See ! purple terminates my how,
Boast amethysts so bright a glow ?"

Thus to each charm the gave its due,
Nay more -- but that is

entre nous,
Exhaustless seem'd the copious theme,
For where's the end of self esteem ?
She finding still for praise pretence,
From vanity drew eloquence :
When in the midft of her career,
Behold her glories disappear.
See her late boasted tints decay,
And vanish into air away,
Like spectres at th' approach of day.
On things too transient hangs their fate,
For them to hope a lasing date,
The fallen rain has clear'd the skies,
And lo ! the Mort-lived phantom dies.
My application's brief and plain,
Beauty's the Rainboru, Youth's the Rain.

EUGENIO.

}

E P I G R A M.

On the Seahorse, vith the aftronomers on board, being attacked

by a French frigate.

M , inquifitive eyes

Design'd into Venus's motions to pry, Dispatch'd a bold warrior from Lewis's fleet, The caitiffs to seize, and their purpose defeat ; But Neptune (trait sent a Seahorse to their aid, And safe o'er the ocean his far'fites convey'd. Vol. IV,

S

CRITO

Lines from Mr.
Gk to a Nobleman, who asked him if he did not

intend being in Parliament.

MOR

ORE than content with what my labours gain,

Of public favour though a little vain ;
Yet not fo vain my mind, so madly bent,
To wish to play the fool in parliament;
In each dramatic unity to err
Miftaking time and place and character !
Were it my fate to quit the mimic art,
I'd “frut, and fret, no more in any part;
No more in public scenes would I engage,
Or wear the cap and mask on any stage.

EPITAPH on Admiral Bofcawer.

STO

TOP and behold!

Where lies
(Once a stable pillar of the state)
Admiral EDWARD BOSCAWEN,

Who died
January the roth, 1761.
In the fiftieth year of his age ;
Equally in the lustre of renowe
As in the meridian of life.

His birth, tho' noble,

His titles, tho' illuftrious,
Were but incidental additions to his greatness.
Be these therefore the leffer theme of heralds,
Whilft the annals of adverse nations,

If they faithfully record,
What our own history,
Proud to adorn her page,
Muft

perpetuate ;
Shall even to late posterity convey,

With what ardent zeal,
With what successful valour,

He served his country,
And taught her foes to dread

Her naval power.

Also,
What an inflexible attachment to merit
Flourishing beneath his happy auspices,

What an assemblage

Of

Of
Intrepidity, humanity and justice

United
To form his character,

And render him
At once beloved and envied.

Yet know, insidious Gaul !
Eternal enemy of this our iste !

Howe'er our grief
May seem to give thee present exultation";

Yet, even after death,

BOSCAWEN's triumphs
Shall to fucceedings ages stand

A fair example,
And rouse the active fons of Britain,

Like him,
To dart the terror of their thunders

On Gallic perfidy!
So shall the conquests which his deeds inspired,

Indelibly transmit his virtues,
(A blaze of martial glory)

Far beyond
The mural epitaph,

Or,
The local and perishable monuments

Of brass or ftone.

EPITAPH on the late Mr. Richardson, Author of Pamela,

Sir Charles Grandifon, &c.

I

Fever warm benevolence was dear,

If ever wisdom gaind esteem fincere,
Or genuine fancy deep attention won,
Approach with awe the duft-of Richardson.

What tho' his Muse, thro' diftant regions known,
Might fcorn the tribute of this humble stone ;
Yet pleasing to his gentle shade, must prove
The meanest pledge of friendship, and of love ;
For oft will thejë, from venal throngs exil'd ;
And oft will Innocence, of aspect mild,
And white-rob'd Chastity, with streaming eyes
Frequent the cloister where their patron lies.

This, reader, learn; and learn from one, whole woe
Bids her wild verse in artless accents flow :
For, could the frame her numbers to commend
The husband, father, citizen and friend ;
How would her Mufe difplay, in equal strain,
The critic's judgment, and the writer's vein ?

S 2

Ah,

Ah, no! expect not from the chissel'd stone
The praises, graven on our hearts alone.
There shall his fame a lasting shrine acquire :
And ever shall his moving page inspire
Pure truth, fixt honour, virtue's pleasing lore ;
While taste, and science crown this favour'd shore.

On the death of JOHN RICH, Esq;

Accept this latest tribute at my band.

SHAKESPEARE

T

HE scene is clos’dLife's play is done

And pleasantry expires with Lun;
Who well perform’d, with various art,
The mimick, and the moral part.
His action, just, correct his plan,
Whether as Harlequin, or man.
Hear, criticks, hear! and spare your jeft,
Life's but a motley-garb at best ;
He wore it long with grace and ease,
And ev'ry geiture taught to please ;
Where (some few patch-work foibles seen
Scatter'd around -blue-yellow-green-.)
His constant virtue's radiant hue
O'er all fuperior shone to view.

The lively vein of repartée,
As magick-sword, was smart and free;
Like that, for harmless mirth design'd,
It struck, but left no pain behind.

The masque of oddity, he wore,
Endear'd the hidden beauties more.
When thrown aside, the shade was clear'd,
The real countenance appear’d.
Where human kindness, candour fair,
And truth the native features were.
With moral eye his labours scan,
And in the actor read the man.
How few, like him, could change with ease,
From shape to shape, and all should pleale !
Think on the num’rous hours of sport
We spent with him in Fancy's court!
What ev’nings of supreme delight !
They're paft--they're clos'd in endless night.

For gratitude, for virtue's cause,
Crown his last exit with applause.

Let

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