« AnteriorContinuar »
There, screen’d from moths, the hallow'd garb : shall stand, From Troas brought by pastoral command.
Once, wrapt secure within thy woollen folds, I brav’d the summer rains, the winter colds. Fearless of coughs, catarrhs, which EURUS
brings, Or dark NOVEMBER on his vap'ry wings, Whistling a tune, like Cymon in the song, Thro' filthy streets and lanes I trudg’d along, Nor heeded aught the hackney driver's cry, Tho' “Coach, your Honour,” sounded to the sky.
And shall the Muse to beaux and belles pretend, In better days, I fondly call’d thee friend; That, screen’d by thee, thro’ various toils I past, Enjoy'd the present hour, and hop'd the last; Yet now, when Time hath blanch'd thy rev'rend
hue, Sell thee a slave to yonder hoarse-mouth'd Jew ?
Forbid it gratitude, forbid it shame!
Thou poor old man, whose brow is streak’d
with care, Stretch'd on the clay-cold earth, thy bosom bare, Had I but half that Clodio's shining store, Thy breast should heave with misery no more. Yet take the scanty pittance I bestow, This coat shall shield thee from the drifting snow.
But ere we part, indulge the moral lay, Hear it, ye fools, who flutter life away; Vain are the proud man's plumes, the rich man's
bags; Men turn to dust, as BROADCLOTH turns to
How bright were the blushes of Morn,
How sweet was the song of the Grove, Ere Cynthia thus left me forlorn,
And, frowning, forbade me to love!
My streams I was wont to adore-
My flocks bleated music around;
Because she was pleas'd with the sound.
Dear CynthIA! Ah, who could behold
A damsel with beauty so blest, Nor wish in his arms to infold
Such charms as were never possest?
Oh, attend, thou fair cause of my woes!
Oh, refuse not to hear me complain! Thy smile has destroy'd my repose,
And that only can give it again.
ON " BLEST AS TH' IMMORTAL GODS IS HE."
By the Hon. HENRY ERSKINE.
DRUNK as a dragon sure is he,
’T was this first made me love my dose,
I found the claret and champagne,
I felt my gorge and sickness rise ;
TO EIGHT CATS, EELONGING TO ISRAEL
MENDEZ, A JEW.
SCENE, the Street.
The Time, Midnight---the Poet at his Chamber Window.
SINGERS of Israel! Oh, ye singers sweet! .
Who, with your gentle mouths from ear to ear, Pour forth rich symphonies from street to street,
And to the sleepless wretch the night endear: