One talks of mildew and of frost,

And one of ftorms of hail,

And one of pigs that he has loft
By maggots at the tail.

Quoth one,

A rarer man than

you

In pulpit none fhall hear:

But yet, methinks, to tell you true,
You fell it plaguy dear.'

Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse, Or clergy made fo fine!

A kick that fcarce would move a horfe May kill a found divine.

Then let the boobies ftay at home;
"Twould coft him, I dare fay,

Lefs trouble taking twice the fum,
Without the clowns that pay.

Dr. DARWIN,

Author of "THE BOTANIC GARDEN."

Two Poets,* (poets, by report,
Not oft fo well agree)

Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court!
Confpire to honour Thee.

They beft can judge a poet's worth
Who oft themselves have known

The pangs of a poetic birth

By labours of their own.

We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy fong,
Though various yet complete,
Rich in embellishment as ftrong,

And learn'd as it is sweet.

No envy mingles with our praise,

Though, could our hearts repine

At any poet's happier lays,

They would-they must at thine!

* Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this.

But we, in mutual bondage knit
Of friendship's closest tie,
Can gaze on even Darwin's wit
With an unjaundiced eye;

And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,.

And howfoever known,

Who would not twine a wreath for Thee,
Unworthy of his own.

ON

Mrs. MONTAGUE's

FEATHER-HANGINGS.

THE Birds put off their ev'ry hue

To dress a room for Montague.

The Peacock fends his heav'nly dyes,
His rainlows and his starry eyes;

The Pheafant, plumes, which round infold-
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock his arch'd tail's azure show;
And, river-blanch'd, the Swan, his fnow.

All tribes befide of Indian name,
That gloffy shine or vivid flame,
Where rifes, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage neither dashing show'r
Nor blafts that shake the dripping bow'r
Shall drench again or discompose,

But fcreen'd from ev'ry ftorm that blows,
It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montague.

To the fame patronefs refort,
Secure of favour at her court,

Strong Genius, from whofe forge of thought Forms rife, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move, Like Pallas fpringing arm'd from JoveImagination scatt'ring round

Wild rofes over furrow'd ground,

Which Labour of his frown beguile,

And teach Philosophy a smile

Wit flashing on Religion's fide,
Whofe fires to facred Truth applied,

The gem, though luminous before,
Obtrude on human notice more,

Like fun-beams on the golden height
Of fome tall temple playing bright-
Well-tutor'd Learning, from his books
Difmifs'd with grave, not haughty, looks,
Their order on his fhelves exact

Not more harmonious or compact

Than that to which he keeps confin'd
The various treafures of his mind-
All thefe to Montague's repair,
Ambitious of a fhelter there.

There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit,
Their ruffled plumage calm refit,
(For ftormy troubles loudeft roar
Around their flight who highest soar)
And in her eye, and by her aid,
Shine fafe without a fear to fade.

She thus maintains divided sway
With yon bright Regent of the day;
The Plume and Poet both we know
Their luftre to his influence owe,
And the the works of Phoebus aiding,
Both Poet faves and Plume from fading.