Then lifting his lid in a delicate way,

And opening his mouth with a smile quite engaging,

The Box in reply was heard plainly to say, What a filly dispute is this we are waging!

If

you have a little of merit to claim,

thank the sweet-smelling Virginian

You may weed;

And I, if I seem to deferve any blame,

The beforemention'd drug in apology plead.

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, No room for a fneer, much less a cachinnus,

We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone,

But of any thing else they may choose to put in us.

THE FLATTING MILL.

An Illuftration.

HEN a bar of pure filver or ingot of gold
Is fent to be flatted or wrought into

length,

It is paff'd between cylinders often, and roll'd
In an engine of utmost mechanical strength.

Thus tortured and squeezed, at last it appears Like a loose heap of ribbon, a glittering show, Like mufic it tinkles and rings in your ears, And, warm'd by the preffure, is all in a glow.

This process achieved, it is doom'd to fuftain
The thump after thump of a gold-beater's mallet,
And at last is of service in fickness or pain
To cover a pill for a delicate palate.

Alas for the Poet, who dares undertake

Το
urge reformation of national ill!
His head and his heart are both likely to ache
With the double employment of mallet and mill.

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight, Smooth, ductile, and even his fancy must flow, Muft tinkle and glitter like gold to the fight, And catch in its progrefs a fenfible glow.

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows;
For truth is unwelcome, however divine,
And unless you adorn it, a naufea follows.

EPITAPH ON A FREE BUT TAME

REDBREAST,

A Favourite of Mifs Sally Hurdis.

HESE are not dewdrops, these are tears,
And tears by Sally shed

For absent Robin, who fhe fears,

With too much caufe, is dead.

One morn he came not to her hand

As he was wont to come,
And, on her finger perch'd, to ftand
Picking his breakfast-crumb.

Alarm'd, fhe call'd him, and perplex'd
She fought him, but in vain—
That day he came not, nor the next,
Nor ever came again.

She therefore raised him here a tomb, Though where he fell, or how, None knows, fo fecret was his doom, Nor where he moulders now.

Had half a score of coxcombs died
In focial Robin's ftead,

Poor Sally's tears had foon been dried,
Or haply never shed.

But Bob was neither rudely bold

Nor spiritleffly tame;

Nor was, like theirs, his bofom cold,

But always in a flame.

SONNET

Addreffed to William Hayley, Efq.

SAYLEY-thy tenderness fraternal shown
In our first interview, delightful guest!
To Mary, and me for her dear fake
diftreff'd,

Such as it is has made my heart thy own,
Though heedlefs now of new engagements grown;
For threefcore winters make a wintry breast,
And I had purposed ne'er to go in quest
Of Friendship more, except with God alone.
But Thou haft won me; nor is God
my foe,
Who, ere this last afflictive scene began,
Sent Thee to mitigate the dreadful blow,
My Brother, by whofe fympathy I know
Thy true deferts infallibly to fcan,

Not more to admire the Bard than love the Man.

June 2, 1792.

AN EPITAPH.

ERE lies one who never drew

Blood himself, yet many

flew ;

Gave the gun its aim, and figure

Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger.

Armed men have gladly made
Him their guide, and him obey'd;
At his fignified defire

Would advance, present, and fire-
Stout he was, and large of limb,
Scores have fled at fight of him!
And to all this fame he rofe
Only following his Nose.

Neptune was he call'd, not He
Who controls the boisterous sea,
But of happier command,
Neptune of the furrow'd land;
And, your wonder vain to fhorten,
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton.

1792.

ON RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE.

ON language warm as could be breathed or penn'd

Thy picture speaks the original my friend, Not by those looks that indicate thy mind— They only speak thee friend of all mankind; Expreffion here more foothing ftill I see, That friend of all a partial friend to me.

January, 1793.