Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of wo
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear: Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though deadSince from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise!
AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX,
Good people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wondrous winning,
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew—
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead,
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament, in sorrow sore-
For Kent Street well may say,
That, had she lived a twelvemonth more,
She had not died to-day.
DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER.*
Where the Red Lion, staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay-
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane-
There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug.
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay:
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold-he views with keen desire
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board.
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!
*From the "Citizen of the World," 1762.
To you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise,
The heartfelt power of every charm divine-
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.
She speaks 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss;
Ye gods! what transport e'er compared to this?
And when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint address'd the listening Jove-
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound!
Then first, at last, e'en Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms without disguise within.
ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON.
Ye Muses, pour the pitying tear
For Pollio snatch'd away;
Oh! had he lived another year,
He had not died to-day.
Oh! were he born to bless mankind
In virtuous times of yore,
Heroes themselves had fallen behind
Whene'er he went before.
How sad the groves and plains appear,
And sympathetic sleep;
Even pitying hills would drop a tear-
If hills could learn to weep.
* These and the two following pieces are from "The Citizen of the World." They are very lively specimens of what the Chinese philosopher calls flaunting copies of newspaper verses.
His bounty in exalted strain
Each bard might well display,
Since none implored relief in vain--
That went relieved away.
And hark! I hear the tuneful throng
His obsequies forbid;
He still shall live, shall live as long-
As ever dead man did.
TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH-AMERICAN ODE. In all my Enna's beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine:
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.
Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
SCENE.-The Banks of the River Euphrates near Babylon.
ISRAELITES SITTING ON THE BANKS OF THE EUPHRATES.
FIRST PROPHET.-Recitative.
Ye captive tribes that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend the task awhile, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world our foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
Our God is all we boast below,
To him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of wo
Shall make our homage rise.
And though no temple richly dress'd,
Nor sacrifice is here-
We'll make his temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
[The first stanza repeated by the CHORUS.
ISRAELITISH WOMAN.-Recitative.
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And calls my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dress'd in flowery pride;
Ye plains, where Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around:
These hills how sweet! those plains how wondrous fair!
But sweeter still when Heaven was with us there.
O Memory, thou fond deceiver!
Still importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's wo;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.
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