ON SEEING A GENTLEMAN AT A PUBLIC ENTERTAIN
MENT, WITH SPECTACLES.
Each speaking eye, thro' which all secrets pass,
Alcon conceals beneath the polish'd glass;
Happy that art, which can at once reveal
His Delia's passion, and his own conceal.
Ah, woe is me! from day to day
I drag a life of pain and sorrow :
Yet still, sweet Hope, I hear thee say,
Be calm, thine ills will end to-morrow.'
The morrow comes, but brings to me
No charm, disease or grief relieving!
And am I ever doom'd to see,
Sweet Hope, thy promises deceiving!
Yet, false and cruel as thou art,
Thy dear delusions will I cherish :
I cannot, dare not with thee part,
Since I, alas! with thee must perish.
The Sun, in bright meridian power
And glory, rides supreme;
He triumphs in the noon-tide hour,
And darts his sultry beam.
And now his utmost height is gain'd,
His utmost power is shown;
Splendid, till now, the god has reign'd,
With influence all his own.
Let mortals now his passage view,
And mark his fading light;
Still to his fated circle true,
He travels on till night.
Thus rises man to life's high noon,
Impetuous, fearless, brave;
But life's dull winter hastens on,
And points to the gloomy grave.
On the City's Request to have his Lordship's remains interred in St. Paul's Cathedral.
Shall Chatham's bones in Paul's grand dome
Be decently repos'd,
Or shall they rest in Henry's shrine,
With Kings and Bards enclos'd?
Ah! little does it now avail
Where Chatham's bones may lie; Since, built on honour's solid base, His fame shall never die.
His epitaph may catch the eye,
And bid the tear to start;
But his best eulogy is wrote
On every British heart.
UPON THE COMMON USE OF THE WORD HONOur.
Hearing a woman cry some fish,
I call'd her to supply a dish,
And cheapen'd them, depending on her,
She'd not abate, upon her honour.
A term of such important weight,
To flow so free from Billinsgate,
Astonish'd me-
-Yet, in a trice,
The girl return'd, and took my price!
This word's as frequent from the stews,
As from the man that blacks your shoes.
An instance, what great folly springs,
From trifling thus with sacred things;
From every failing of the great,
The meaner copy, soon or late.
The phrase is so familiar grown,
The sense of honour's scarcely known.
Far o'er the sea on heaving billows tost,
A distant vessel, sore beset, appears;
While driving onward to the rocky coast,
A furious gale the hapless pilot bears.
Now tost aloft she flies a giddy height,
Then sinks in gulfs that secret depths disclose.-
Ah!-there she vanish'd from my eager sight;
And o'er her decks the liquid mountains close!
O! could the pitying muse but fly to save
The wretched sailor, sinking in the main
Bear him secure above the stormy wave,
And safe return him to his port again,
Gladly she'd snatch him from the whelming deep. But ah!-'tis all she can to pity, and to weep!
When lurking love, in ambush lies,
Under friendship's fair disguise...
When he wears an angry mien,
Imitating spite-or spleen :
When, like sorrow, he seduces
When like pleasure he amuses ...
Still, howe'er, the parts are cast,
'Tis but" LURKING LOVE" at last.
While fair Thalestris pois'd the shaft,
'How keen the point;' she said;
And when she saw it lodg'd, she laugh'd,
To think the wound it made.
The arrow's point bites deep, fair maid,'
Replied a friend; But who,
Without the softer feather's aid,
Could aim that arrow true?'
Thus in your lovely sex we find
Each charm, a pointed dart;
But 'tis the softness of the mind
Must guide it to the heart.
In fancied scenes, as in life's real plan,
He could not, for a moment, sink the man.
In whate'er cast, his character was laid,
Self still, like oil, upon the surface play'd.
Nature, in spite of all his skil, crept in
Horatio, Dorax, Falstaff,-still 'twas Quin.
By Sir John Sinclair, Bart. President of the Board of Agriculture.
Let this be held the farmer's creed ;
For stock look out the choicest breed i
In peace and plenty let them feed.
Your land sow with the best of seed,
Let it not dung nor dressing need:
Inclose and drain it with all speed;
And you will soon be rich indeed.
QUIN'S SOLILOQUY, ON SEEING THE EMBALMED BODY OF DUKE HUMPHREY, AT ST. ALBAN'S.
A plague on Egypt's arts, I say!
Embalm the dead! on senseless clay.
Rich wines and spices waste!
Like sturgeon, or like brawn, shall I
Bound in a precious pickle lie,
Which I can never taste?
Let me embalm this flesh of mine
With turtle fat and Bourdeaux wine,
And spoil th' Egyptian trade!
Than Humphrey's Duke, more happy I—
Embalm'd alive, old Quin shall die
A mummy ready made.
In Celia's face a question did arise,
'Which were more beautiful, her Lips or Eyes?'—
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