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But hark! Distress, with screaming voice, draws nigher,

And wakes the slumbering street with cries of fire.
At first a glowing red enwraps the skies,
And, borne by winds, the scattering sparks arise;
From beam to beam the fierce contagion spreads;
The spiry flames now lift aloft their heads;
Through the burst sash a blazing deluge pours,
And splitting tiles descend in rattling showers.
Now with thick crowds th' enlighten'd pavement

swarms,

The fireman sweats beneath his crooked arms;
A leathern casque his venturous head defends,
Boldly he climbs where thickest smoke ascends;
Mov'd by the mother's streaming eyes and prayers,
The helpless infant through the flame he bears,
With no less virtue, than through hostile fire
The Dardan hero bore his aged sire.

See, forceful engines spout their levell'd streams,
To quench the blaze that runs along the beams;
The grappling hook plucks rafters from the walls,
And heaps on heaps the smoky ruin falls;
Blown by strong winds, the fiery tempest roars,
Bears down new walls, and pours along the floors;
The Heavens are all a-blaze, the face of Night
Is cover'd with a sanguine dreadful light.
Twas such a light involv'd thy towers, O Rome!
The dire presage of mighty Cæsar's doom,
When the Sun veil'd in rust his mourning head,
And frightful prodigies the skies o'erspread.
Hark! the drum thunders! far, ye crowds, retire:
Behold! the ready match is tipt with fire,
The nitrous store is laid, the smutty train,
With running blaze, awakes the barrel'd grain;
Flames sudden wrap the walls; with sullen sound
The shatter'd pile sinks on the smoky ground.
So, when the years shall have revolv'd the date,
Th' inevitable hour of Naples' fate,

Her sapp'd foundations shall with thunders shake
And heave and toss upon the sulphurous lake;
Earth's womb at once the fiery flood shall rend;
And in th' abyss her plunging towers descend.

Consider, reader, what fatigues I've known,
The toils, the perils, of the wintery town;
What riots seen, what bustling crowds I bore,
How oft I cross'd where carts and coaches roar;
Yet shall I bless my labors, if mankind
Their future safety from my dangers find.
Thus the bold traveller (inur'd to toil,
Whose steps have printed Asia's desert soil,
The barbarous Arabs' haunt; or shivering crost
Dark Greenland's mountains of eternal frost;
Whom Providence, in length of years, restores
To the wish'd harbor of his native shores)
Sets forth his journals to the public view,
To caution, by his woes, the wandering crew.
And now complete my generous labors lie,
Finish'd, and ripe for immortality.

Death shall entomb in dust this mouldering frame,
But never reach th' èternal part, my fame
When W- and G-, mighty names!* are dead;
Or but at Chelsea under custards read;

When critics crazy bandboxes repair;

And tragedies, turn'd rockets, bounce in air;
High rais'd on Fleet-street posts, consign'd to Fame,
This work shall shine, and walkers bless my name.

Probably Ward and Gildon.-N.

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Wide o'er the foaming billows

She cast a wistful look; Her head was crown'd with willows,

That trembled o'er the brook.

"Twelve months are gone and over

And nine long tedious days;
Why didst thou, venturous lover

Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel Ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

"The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,

Sees tempests in despair;

But what's the loss of treasure,
To losing of my dear?
Sould you some coast be laid on,
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

"How can they say that Nature Has nothing made in vain? Why then beneath the water Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover,

That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep."

All melancholy lying,

Thus wail'd she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white wave stooping,

His floating corpse she spied';

Then, like a lily drooping,

She bow'd her head, and died.

FABLE.

THE GOAT WITHOUT A BEARD. "Tis certain that the modish passions Descend among the crowd like fashions. Excuse me, then, if pride, conceit (The manners of the fair and great) I give to monkeys, asses, dogs, Fleas, owls, goats, butterflies, and hogs I say that these are proud: what then!

I never said they equal men.

A Goat (as vain as Goat can be)
Affected singularity:

Whene'er a thymy bank he found,
He roll'd upon the fragrant ground,
And then with fond attention stood,
Fix'd o'er his image in the flood.

"I hate my frowzy beard," he cries, My youth is lost in this disguise. Did not the females know my vigor, Well might they lothe this reverend figure." Resolv'd to smooth his shaggy face, He sought the barber of the place. A flippant monkey, spruce and smart, Hard by, profess'd the dapper art: His pole with pewter-basons hung, Black rotten teeth in order strung,

Rang'd cups, that in the window stood,
Lin'd with red rags to look like blood,
Did well his threefold trade explain,
Who shav'd, drew teeth, and breath'd a vein,
The Goat he welcomes with an air,
And seats him in his wooden chair:
Mouth, nose, and cheek, the lather hides
Light, smooth and swift, the razor glides.
"I hope your custom, sir," says Pug,
"Sure never face was half so smug!" .་་

The Goat, impatient for applause,
Swift to the neighboring hill withdraws.
The shaggy people grinn'd and star'd.
"Heigh-day! what's here? without a beard'
Say, brother, whence the dire disgrace?
What envious hand hath robb'd your face?"
When thus the fop, with smiles of scorn,
"Are beards by civil nations worn?
Ev'n Muscovites have mow'd their chins.
Shall we, like formal Capuchins,
Stubborn in pride, retain the mode,
And bear about the hairy load?
Whene'er we through the village stray,
Are we not mock'd along the way,
Insulted with loud shouts of scorn,

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My name, perhaps, hath reach'd your ear; Attend, and be advis'd by Care.

Nor love, nor honor, wealth, nor power,
Can give the heart a cheerful hour,
When health is lost. Be timely wise:
With health all taste of pleasure flies."
Thus said, the Phantom disappears.
The wary counsel wak'd his fears.
He now from all excess abstains,
With physic purifies his veins;
And, to procure a sober life,
Resolves to venture on a wife.

But now again the Sprite ascends,
Where'er he walks, his ear attends,
Insinuates that beauty's frail,
That perseverance must prevail,
With jealousies his brain inflames,
And whispers all her lovers' names
In other hours she represents
His household charge, his annual rents.

Increasing debts, perplexing duns, And nothing for his younger sons.

Straight all his thought to gain he turns,
And with the thirst of lucre burns.
But, when possess'd of Fortune's store,
The Spectre haunts him more and more;
Sets want and misery in view,

Bold thieves, and all the murdering crew,
Alarms him with eternal frights,
Infests his dreams, or wakes his nights.
How shall he chase this hideous guest?
Power may, perhaps, protect his rest.
To power he rose Again the Sprite
Besets him morning, noon, and night;
Talks of Ambition's tottering seat,
How Envy persecutes the great;
Of rival hate, of treacherous friends,
And what disgrace his fall attends.

The court he quits, to fly from Care,
And seeks the peace of rural air;
His groves, his fields, amus'd his hours;
He prun'd his trees, he rais'd his flowers;
But Care again his steps pursues,
Warns him of blasts, of blighting dews,
Of plundering insects, snails, and rains,
And droughts that starv'd the labor'd plains.
Abroad, at home, the Spectre 's there;
In vain we seek to fly from Care.

At length he thus the Ghost addrest:
"Since thou must be my constant guest,
Be kind, and follow me no more;
For Care, by right, should go before."

FABLE.

THE JUGGLERS.

A JUGGLER long through all the town
Had rais'd his fortune and renown;
You d think (so far his art transcends)
The devil at his fingers' ends.

Vice heard his fame, she read his bill;
Convinc'd of his inferior skill,

She sought his booth, and from the crowd
Defied the man of art aloud.

"Is this then he so fam'd for sleight?
Can this slow bungler cheat your sight?
Dares he with me dispute the prize?
I leave it to impartial eyes."

Provok'd, the Juggler cried, ""Tis done;
In science I submit to none."

Thus said, the cups and balls he play'd;
By turns this here, that there, convey'd.
The cards, obedient to his words,
Are by a fillip turn'd to birds.
His little boxes change the grain:
Trick after trick deludes the train.
He shakes his bag, he shows all fair;
His fingers spread, and nothing there;
Then bids it rain with showers of gold;
And now his ivory eggs are told;
But, when from thence the hen he draws,
Amaz'd spectators hum applause.

Vice now stept forth, and took the place,
With all the forms of his grimace.

"This magic looking-glass," she cries, (There, hand it round) will charm your eyes." Each eager eye the sight desir'd, And every man himself admir'd.

Next, to a senator addressing,

"See this bank-note; observe the blessing. Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! "Tis gone.' Upon his lips a padlock shown.

A second puff the magic broke;
The padlock vanish'd, and he spoke.
Twelve bottles rang'd upon the board,
All full, with heady liquor stor'd,
By clean conveyance disappear,
And now two bloody swords are there.
A purse she to a thief expos'd;
At once his ready fingers clos'd.
He opes his fist, the treasure's fled:
He sees a halter in its stead.

She bids Ambition hold a wand; He grasps a hatchet in his hand. A box of charity she shows. "Blow here;" and a church-warden blows. "Tis vanish'd with conveyance neat, And on the table smokes a treat.

She shakes the dice, the board she knocks, And from all pockets fills her box.

She next a meagre rake addrest.
"This picture see; her shape, her breast!
What youth, and what inviting eyes!
Hold her, and have her" With surprise,
His hand expos'd a box of pills,
And a loud laugh proclaim'd his ills.

A counter, in a miser's hand,
Grew twenty guineas at command.
She bids his heir the sum retain,
And 'tis a counter now again.

A guinea with her touch you see,
Take every shape but Charity;
And not one thing you saw, or drew,
But chang'd from what was first in view.
The Juggler now, in grief of heart,
With this submission own'd her art.

"Can I such matchless sleight withstand
How practice hath improv'd your hand!
But now and then I cheat the throng;
You every day, and all day long."

FABLE.

THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. "Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend.

A Hare who, in a civil way, Complied with every thing, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend; And every creature was her friend.

As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Half-dead with fear she gasping lay.

What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appear'd in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight: To friendship every burthen's light."

The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus: Be comforted, relief is near,

For all your friends are in the rear."

She next the stately Bull implor'd;
And thus replied the mighty lord:
"Since every beast alive can tell
That I sincerely wish you well,
I may, without offence, pretend
To take the freedom of a friend.
Love calls me hence: a favorite cow
Expects me near yon barley-mow;
And, when a lady's in the case,
You know, all other things give place.
To leave you thus might seem unkind;
But, see, the Goat is just behind."

The Goat remark'd, her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye:

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My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.' The Sheep was feeble, and complain'd, His sides a load of wool sustain'd; Said he was slow, confess'd his fears; For Hounds eat Sheep as well as Hares. She now the trotting Calf address'd, To save from Death a friend distress'd. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler pass'd you by; How strong are those! how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then; you know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu; For, see, the Hounds are just in view."

FABLE.

THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN.

Let not thy stomach be suspended;
Eat now, and weep when dinner's ended;
And, when the butler clears the table,
For thy desert I'll read my Fable."

Betwixt her swagging panniers' load,
A Farmer's Wife to market rode,
And, jogging on, with thoughtful care,
Summ'd up the profits of her ware;
When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.
"That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak!).
Bodes me no good." No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
Fell prone; o'erturned the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road,
Rail'd, swore, and curs'd: "Thou croaking toad,
A murrain take thy whoreson throat!
I knew misfortune in the note."

"Dame," quoth the Raven, "spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own;

For, had you laid this brittle ware

On Dun, the old sure-footed mare,
Though all the Ravens of the hundred
With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd,
Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs,

And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs."

FABLE.

THE TURKEY AND THE ANT.

IN other men we faults can spy,
And blame the mote that dims their eye,
Each little speck and blemish find;
To our own stronger errors blind.

A Turkey, tir'd of common food,
Forsook the barn, and sought the wood;
Behind her ran an infant train,

Collecting here and there a grain.

'Draw near, my birds!" the mother cries, "This hill delicious fare supplies;

Behold the busy negro race,

See millions blacken all the place!
Fear not; like me, with freedom eat;

"WHY are those tears? why droops your An Ant is most delightful meat.

head?

Is then your other husband dead?

Or does a worse disgrace betide?
Hath no one since his death applied?"
"Alas! you know the cause too well;
The salt is spilt, to me it fell;
Then to contribute to my loss,
My knife and fork were laid across;
On Friday too! the day I dread!
Would I were safe at home in bed!
Last night (I vow to Heaven 'tis true)
Bounce from the fire a coffin flew.
Next post some fatal news shall tell :
God send my Cornish friends be well!"
"Unhappy Widow, cease thy tears,
Nor feel affliction in thy fears;

How bless'd, how envied, were our life,
Could we but 'scape the poulterer's knife;
But man, curs'd man, on Turkeys preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savory chine;
From the low peasant to the lord,
The Turkey smokes on every board.
Sure men for gluttony are curs'd,
Of the seven deadly sins the worst."

An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach,
Thus answer'd from the neighboring beech:
"Ere you remark another's sin,
Bid thy own conscience look within;
Control thy more voracious bill,
Nor for a breakfast nations kill.”

JOHN DYER.

JOHN DYER was born at Aberglasney, in Carmarthenshire, Wales in 1700. His father was a solicitor, and intended John for the same profession; but the boy, after being educated at Westminster School, preferred painting, and studied that art under a master. He then became an itinerant painter in South Wales, but is not credited with any high degree of success as an artist.

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During his wanderings, however, he found in the celebrated natural scenery of that country an inspiration for poetry that has long outlived his pictures. Grongar Hill," descriptive of one of his most familiar haunts, was published in 1726, in Lewis's Miscellanies, and became one of the most popular poems of the kind ever written. While it is not the product of any very lofty genius, its charming simplicity and naturalness make it still readable after all the changes that English poetry has gone through in a century and a half.

After the publication of this poem, Dyer went to Italy, where he wandered about for some time, visiting ruins and studying works of art, still intent on success as a painter. How much of this he really attained, it is impossible

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to say. But he certainly gathered material for poetry, and in 1740 appeared his "Ruins of Rome," included in this collection, a poem which contains many fine verses.

He had returned home in poor health, and soon gave up his occupation as a painter. He married a lady named Esnor, a descendant of Shakespeare, and retired to the country. Soon after, by the advice of friends, he entered into holy orders, and settled on a small living in Leicestershire, which he exchanged for one in Lincolnshire. He seems not to have been very happy there, as the climate did not agree with him, and he lacked books and company.

In 1757 he published "The Fleece," a didactic poem in four books: the first pastoral, the second mechanical, the third and fourth historical and geographical. It is a versified dissertation on wool and its industries, and of course is worthless as a poem, and dead long ago. Somebody said that the author, if he was an old man, would be buried in woollen.

Dyer as a man is said to have been a most excellent character, earnest, conscientious, and humane. He died in 1758. A collected edition of his poems was published in 1761.

GRONGAR HILL

SILENT nymph, with curious eye!
Who, the purple evening, lie
On the mountain's lonely van,
Beyond the noise of busy man;
Painting fair the form of things,
While the yellow linnet sings;
Or the tuneful nightingale
Charms the forest with her tale;-
Come, with all thy various dues,
Come and aid thy sister Muse;
Now, while Phoebus riding high,
Gives lustre to the land and sky!
Grongar Hill invites my song,

Draw the landscape bright and strong;
Grongar, in whose mossy cells
Sweetly musing Quiet dwells;
Grongar, in whose silent shade,

For the modest Muses made,

So oft I have, the evening still,
At the fountain of a rill,
Sate upon a flowery hed,

With my hand beneath my head;

While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood,

From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill.

About his chequer'd sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind And groves, and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal:

The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise:

Still the prospect wider spreads,

Adds a thousand woods and meads;

Still it widens, widens still,

And sinks the newly-risen hill.

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