Unlike the enigmatic line,

So difficult to fpell,

Which fhook Belshazzar at his wine
The night his city fell.

Soon watery grew her eyes and dim,
But with a joyful tear,
None else, except in prayer for him,
George ever drew from her.

It was a scene in every part
Like those in fable feign'd,

And feem'd by some magician's art
Created and fuftain'd.

But other magic there, fhe knew,
Had been exerted none,

To raise fuch wonders in her view,
Save love of George alone.

That cordial thought her fpirits cheer'd,
And through the cumbrous throng,
Not elfe unworthy to be fear'd,

Convey'd her calm along.

So, ancient poets fay, ferene

The fea-maid rides the waves, And fearless of the billowy scene Her peaceful bofom laves.

With more than aftronomic eyes

She view'd the sparkling show; One Georgian star adorns the skies, She myriads found below.

Yet let the glories of a night

Like that, once feen, fuffice,
Heaven grant us no fuch future fight,
Such previous woe the price!

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.*

USE hide his name of whom I fing,
Left his furviving House thou bring
For his fake into scorn,
Nor speak the School from which he drew
The much or little that he knew,

Nor Place where he was born.

men.

* Written on reading the following in the obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine for April 1789.-" At Tottenham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and in the splendour of his carriages and horses rivalled by few country gentleHis table was that of hospitality, where, it may be faid, he facrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles, he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and had a favourite cock, upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he loft; which fo enraged him, that he had the bird tied to a spit and roafted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miferable animal were fo affecting, that fome gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr. A. that he seized a poker, and with the moft furious vehemence declared, that he would kill the first man who interpofed; but, in the midst of his paffionate affeverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are affured, were the circumftances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity."

That fuch a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme
Perchance may credit win)

For proof to man, what Man may prove,
If Grace depart, and Demons move
The fource of guilt within.

This man (for fince the howling wild
Disclaims him, Man he must be ftyled)
Wanted no good below;

Gentle he was, if gentle birth

Could make him fuch; and he had worth, If wealth can worth bestow.

In focial talk and ready jeft
He shone fuperior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,

Illuftrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay fociety he chose,
Poffeff'd of every kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red,
With bushy locks his well dreff'd head
Wing'd broad on either fide,

The moffy rofe-bud not so sweet;
His steeds fuperb, his carriage neat
As luxury could provide.

Can fuch be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and fo was he;

A tyrant entertain'd

With barbarous fports, whofe fell delight Was to encourage mortal fight "Twixt birds to battle train'd.

One feather'd champion he poffeff'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,
Which never knew disgrace,

Nor e'er had fought but he made flow
The life-blood of his fierceft foe,
The Cæfar of his race.

It chanced at laft, when on a day,
He push'd him to the defperate fray,
His courage droop'd, he fled.

The Master storm'd, the prize was lost,
And, instant, frantic at the cost,

He doom'd his favourite dead.

He seized him faft, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, fnatch'd the spit,
And, Bring me cord, he cried;
The cord was brought, and, at his word,
To that dire implement the bird,
Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil;

And all the terrors of the tale

That can be shall be funk

Led by the sufferer's screams aright
His fhock'd companions view the fight,
And him with fury drunk.

All, fuppliant, beg a milder fate

For the old warrior at the grate :
He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel
His culinary club of steel,

Death menacing on all.

But vengeance hung not far remote,
For while he ftretch'd his clamorous throat,
And heaven and earth defied,

Big with a curfe too closely pent,
That struggled vainly for a vent,
He totter'd, reel'd, and died.

'Tis not for us with rafh furmife,
To point the judgements of the skies;
But judgements plain as this,
That, fent for Man's inftruction, bring
A written label on their wing,

"Tis hard to read amifs.

May, 1789.

TO WARREN HASTINGS, ESQ.

By an old Schoolfellow of his at Westminster.

ASTINGS! I knew thee young, and of

a mind

While young humane, converfable, and

kind,