Her fears difpell'd, and all her foes remov'd, Her fertile grounds industriously improv❜d, Her towns with trade, with fleets her harbours

crown'd,

And Plenty fmiling on her plains around;

Thus bleft with all that commerce could fupply,
America regards with jealous eye,

And canker'd heart, the Parent, who fo late
Had fratch'd her gafping from the jaws of Fate;
Who now, with wars for her begun, relax'd,
With grievous aggravated burdens tax'd,
Her treasures wafted by a hungry brood
Of cormorants, that fuck her vital blood;

Copy of a letter from Mr. Secretary Pitt to the feveral Governors and Councils in North America, relating to the Flag of Truce Trade.

"Whitehall, August 24, 1760.

"Gentlemen,

"The commanders of his Majefty's forces, &c. in North America and the West Indies have tranfmitted certain and repeated intelligences of an illegal and moft pernicious trade carried on by the king's fubjects in North America and the West Indies, as well to the French iflands as to the French fettlements on the continent in America, and particularly to the rivers Mobile and Miffifippi; by which the enemies, to the great reproach and detriment of government, are fupplied with provifions and other neceffaries; whereby they are principally, if not alone, enabled to fuftain and protract this long and expenfive war. And it further appearing, that large fums of bullion | are fent by the king's fubjects to the above places, in return whereof commodities are taken, which interfere with the product of the Britifh colonies themfelves, in open contempt of the authority of the mother country, as well as the most manifeft prejudice of the manufactures and trade of Great Britain: in order, therefore, to put the moft fpeedy and effectual ftop to fuch flagitious practices, fo utterly fubverfive of all laws, and fo highly repugnant to the well-being of this kingdom:

"It is his majesty's exprefs will and pleasure, that you do forthwith make the ftricteft and most diligent enquiry into the state of this dangerous and ignominious trade; and that you do use every means in your power to detect and difcover perfons concerned either as principals or acceffaries therein; and that you do take every step authorised by law to bring all fuch heinous offenders to the most exemplary and condign punishment: and you will, as foor as may be, and from time to time tranfmit to me, for the king's information, full and particular accounts of the progress you shall have made in the execution of this his majesty's commands, to the which the king expects that you pay the most exact obedience. And you are further to use your utmost endeavours to trace out and investigate the various artifices and evafions by which the dealers in this iniquitous intercourfe find means to cover their criminal proceedings, and to clude the law; in order that from fuch lights due and timely confiderations may be had what farther provifion may be neceffary to restrain an evil of fuch extenfive and pernicious confequences.

VOL. VIII.

I am, &c.

Who now of her demands that tribute due,
For whom alone th' avenging sword she drew.
Scarce had America the juft request
Receiv'd, when kindling in her faithless breaft
Refentment glows, enrag'd fedition burns,
And, lo! the maridate of our laws the fpurns!
Her fecret hate, incapable of shame
Or gratitude, incenfes to a flame,
Derides our power, bids infurrection rife,
Infults our honour, and our laws defies;
O'er all her coafts is heard th' audacious roar,
"England fhall rule America no more!"

Soon as on Britain's fhore th' alarm was heard,
Stern indignation in her look appear'd;
Yet, loth to punish, the her fcourge withheld
From her perfidious fons who thus rebell'd :
Now ftung with anguish, now with rage affail'd,
Till pity in her foul at laft prevail'd,
Determin'd not to draw her penal steel
Till fair perfuafion made her laft appeal.

And now the great decifive hour drew nigh, She on her darling Patriot cast her eye; His voice like thunder will fupport her caufe, Enforce her dictates, and sustain her laws; Rich with her fpoils, his fanction will dismay, And bid th' infurgents tremble and obey. He comes but where, th' amazing theme to hit,

Difcover language of ideas fit?
Splay-footed words, that hector, bounce, and swag-
ger,

The fenfe to puzzle, and the brain to stagger?
Our Patriot comes !-with phrenzy fir'd, the Muf
With allegoric eye his figure views:
Like the grim portrefs of hell-gate he ftands,
Bellona's fcourge hangs trembling in his hands!
Around him, fiercer than the ravenous shark,
A cry of hell-hounds never ceafing bark!'
And lo! th'enormous giant to bedeck,
A golden millftone hangs upon his neck!
On him Ambition's vulture darts her claws,
And with voracious rage his liver gnaws.
Our Patriot comes!-the buckles of whofe fhass
Not Cromwell's felf was worthy to unloofe.
Repeat his name in thunder to the skies!
Ye hills fall proftrate, and ye vales arise!
Thro' Faction's wilderness prepare the way!
Prepare, ye liftening fenates, to obey!
The idol of the mob, behold him stand,
The alpha and omega of the land!

Methinks I hear the bellowing Demagogue
Dumb-founding declamations difembogue,
Expreffiors of immeasurable length,
Where pompous jargon fills the place of strength;
Where fulminating, rumbling eloquence,
With loud theatric rage, bombards the sense;
And words, deep rank'd in horrible array,
Exafperated metaphors convey !
With thefe auxiliaries, drawn up at large,
He bids enraged Sedition beat the charge;
From England's fanguine hope his aid withdraws,
And lifts to guide in Infurrection's caufe.
And lo! where, in her facrilegious hand,
The parricide lifts high her burning brand!
Go, while the yet fufpends her impious an,
With those infernal lungs aroufe the flame!
Tho' England merits not her leaft regard,
Thy friendly voice gold boxes shall reward!

U

THE

AUTHOR's APOLOGY.

Y Works are advertis'd for fale, And cenfures fly as thick as hail; While my poor scheme of publication Supplies the dearth of converfation.

What will the World fay ?-That's your cry. Who is the World? and what am I?

Once, but thank heaven, those days are o'er, And perfecution reigns no more, One man, one hardy man alone, Ufurp'd the critic's vacant throne, And thence with neither taste nor wit, By powerful catcall from the pit, Knock'd farce, and play, and actor down. Who pafs'd the fentence then?-the Town. So now each upstart puny elf Talks of the world, and means himself. Yet in the circle there are those Who hurt e'en more than open foes: Whose friendship ferves the talking turn, Juft fimmers to a kind concern, And with a wond'rous foft expreffion Expatiates upon indifcretion; Flies from the Poems to the Man, And gratifies the favourite plan To pull down other's reputation, And build their own on that foundation.

The scholar grave, of tafte difcerning, Who lives on credit for his learning, And has no better claim to wit Than carping at what others writ, With pitying kindness, friendly fear, Whifpers conjectures in your ear. "I'm forry-and he's much to blame"He might have publish'd-but his name "The thing might please a few, no doubt, "As handed privately about"It might amufe a friend or two, "Some partial friend like me and you ; "But when it comes to prefs and print "You'll find, I fear, but little in't. "He stands upon a dangerous brink "Who totters o'er the fea of ink,

"Where reputation runs aground,
"The author caft away, and drown'd.
"And then-'twas wilful and abfurd,
(So well approv'd, fo well preferr'd,)
"Abruptly thus a place to quit
"A place which most his genius hit,
"The theatre for Latin wit!

"With critics round him chafte and terse, "To give a plaudit to his verfe!",

Latin, I grant, fhews college breeding,
And fome fchool-common-place of reading.
But has in Moderns fmall pretenfion
To real wit or ftrong invention.
The excellence you critics praise
Hangs on a curious choice of phrafe;
Which pick'd and chosen here and there,
From profe or verfe no matter where,
Jumbled together in a dish,

Like Spanish olio, fowl, flesh, fish,
You fet the claffic hodge-podge on
For pedant wits to feed upon.
Your wou'd-be Genii vainly seek
Fame for their Latin verfe, or Greek;
Who would for that be moft admir'd

Which blockheads may, and have acquir’d.

A mere mechanical connection

Of favourite words,a bare collection

Of phrafes,-where the labour'd cento
Prefents you with a dull memento,
How Virgil, Horace, Ovid join,
And club together half a line.
Thefe only ftrain their motly wits
In gathering patches, fhreds, and bits,
To wrap their barren fancies in,
And make a claffic Harlequin.

-Where I at once impower'd to fhew
My utmost vengeance on my foe,
To punish with extremeft rigour,
I could inflict no penance bigger
Then ufing him as learning's tool
To make him Ufher of a fchool.
For, not to dwell upon the toil
Of working on a barren foil,
And lab'ring with inceffant pains
To cultivate a blockhead's brains.
The duties there but ill befit
The love of letters, arts, or wit.

For whofoe'er, though flightly, fips,
Their grateful favour with his lips,
Will find it leave a fmatch behind,
Shall sink fo deeply in his mind,
It never thence can be eras'd—
But, rifing up, you call it Tafte.
'Twere foolish for a drudge to chufe
A gufto which he cannot ufe.
Better difcard the idle whim,
What's He to Tafte or Tafte to Him?
For me, it hurts me to the foul
To brook confinement or controul:
Still to be pinion'd down to teach
The fyntax and the parts of fpeech;
Or, what perhaps is drudging worse,

The links, and joints, the rules of verfe;
To deal out authors by retail,
Like penny pots of Oxford ale;
-Oh! 'Tis a fervice irkfome more
Than tugging at the flavish oar.

Yet fuch his tafk, a difmal truth,
Who watches o'er the bent of youth;
And while, a paltry ftipend earning,
He fows the richest feeds of learning,
And tills their minds with proper care,
And fees them their due produce bear;
No joys, alas! his toil beguile
His own lies fallow all the while.

"Yet ftill he's in the road, you say,
"Of learning."-Why, perhaps he may.
But turns like horfes in a mill,
Nor getting on, nor ftanding ftill:
For little way his learning reaches,
Who reads no more than what he teaches.

"Yet you can fend advent'rous youth, "In fearch of letters, tafte, and truth, "Who ride the highway road to knowledge "Through the plain turnpikes of a college," True. Like way-pofts, we ferve to fhew The road which travellers should go; Who jog along in easy pace, Secure of coming to the place, Yet find, return whene'er they will, The Poft, and its direction ftill:

Which stands an useful unthank'd guide,

To many a paffenger befide.

"Tis hard to carve for others meat, And not have time one's felf to eat. Though, be it always understood, Our appetites are full as good.

"But there have been, and proofs appear, "Who bore this load from year to year; "Whofe claim to letters, parts and wit, "The world has ne'er difputed yet. "Whether the flowing mirth prevail "In Wesley's fong, or humorous tale; "Or happier Bourne's expreffion please "With graceful turns of claffic ease; "Or Oxford's well-read poet fings "Pathetic to the ear of kings: "Thefe have indulg'd the mufes' flight, "Nor loft their time or credit by't; "Nor fuffer'd fancy's dreams to prey "On the due bufinefs of the day. Verfe was to them a recreation "Us'd by way of relaxation."

Your inftances are fair and true, And genius I refpect with you.

I envy none their honeft praife;
I feek to blast no fcholar's bays:
Still let the graceful foliage fpread
Its generous honours round their head,
Bleft, if the Mufes' hand entwine
A fprig at least to circle mine!

Come,-I admit, you tax me right.
Prudence, 'tis true, was out of fight,
And you may whisper all you meet,
The man was vague and indifcreet.
Yet tell me, while you cenfure me,
Are you from error found and free?
Say, does your breast no bias hide,
Whofe influence draws the mind afide?

All have their hobby-horse, you fee,
From Triftram down to you and me.
Ambition, fplendour, may be thine;
Eafe, indolence, perhaps, are mine.
Though prudence, and our nature's pride
May with our weakneffes to hide,
And fet their hedges up before'em,

Some Sprouts will branch, and ftraggle o'er 'em.
Strive, fight against her how you will,
Nature will be the mistress still,

And though you crub with double rein,
She'll run away with us again.

But let a man of parts be wrong,
'Tis triumph to the leaden throng.
The fools fhall cackle out reproof,
The very afs fhall raise his hoof;
And he who holds in his poffeffion,
The fingle virtue of difcretion,
Who knows no overflow of spirit,
Whose want of paffions is his merit,
Whom wit and taste and judgment flies,
Shall shake his noddle, and feem wife.

dear Thornton, its perfection draws,

From no obfervance of mechanic laws :
No fettled maxims of a fav'rite stage,
No rules deliver'd down from age to age,
Let players nicely mark them as they will,
Can e'er entail hereditary skill.
If, 'mongst the humble hearers of the pit,

Some curious vet'ran critic chance to fit,
Is he pleas'd more because 'twas acted fo
By Booth and Cibber thirty years ago!
The mind recals an object held more dear,
And hates the copy, that it comes so near.
Why lov'd he Wilks's air, Booth's nervous tone?
In them 'twas natural, 'twas all their own.
A Garrick's genius muft our wonder raise.
But gives his mimic no reflected praife.

Thrice happy Genius, whofe unrival'd name,
Shall live for ever in the voice of Fame!
'Tis thine to lead with more than magic skill,
The train of captive paffions at thy will;