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Idle notes ! untimely green!

Why such unavailing haste ?
Gentle gales and sky serene

Prove not always Winter past.
Cease, my doubts, my fears to move.
Spare the honour of my love.

*With Beauty,with Pleasure surrounded, to languishTo weep without knowing the cause of my anguish; To start from short slumbers, and wish for the mornTo close my dull eyes when I see it returning ; [ingSighs sudden and frequent, looks ever dejectedWords that steal from my tongue, by no meaning

connected! Ah, say, fellow-swains, how these symptoms befel me! They smile, but reply not-Sure Delia can tell me !


An Epigram. [Mr. Etough,t of Cambridge University, was remarkable for

his eccentricities and personal appearance. A Mr. Tyson of Bene't College, made an etching of his head, and presented it

to Mr. Gray, who wrote under it the following lines.) Thus Tophet look'd ; so grinn'd the brawling fiend, Whilst frighted prelates bow'd, and call’d him friend. Our mother-church, with half-averted sight, Blush'd as she bless'd her grisly proselyte; Hosannas rung through Hell's tremendous borders, And Satan's self had thoughts of taking orders.

* These lines will be found in a note in the second volume of Warton's Edition of Pope's Works.

+ Gentleman's Magazine, Vol. LVI, p. 25. 281.

IMPROMPTU, Suggested by a View, in 1766, of the Seat and Ruins

of a deceased Nobleman, at Kingsgate, Kent. OLD, and abandon'd by each venal friend,

Here H-~d form’d the pious resolution
To smuggle a few years, and strive to mend

A broken character and constitution.
On this congenial spot he fix'd his choice ;

Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighb'ring sand; Here sea-gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice,

And mariners, though shipwreck’d, dread to land. Here reign the blust'ring North and blighting East,

No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing ; Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast,

Art he invokes new horrors still to bring. Here mould'ring fanes and battlements arise,

Turrets and arches nodding to their fall ; Unpeopled monast'ries delude our eyes,

And mimic desolation covers all. • Ah !' said the sighing peer, ' had B-te been true,

Nor MS, R-'s, B—'s friendship vain,
Far better scenes than these had blest our view,

And realized the beauties which we feign. • Purged by the sword, and purified by fire,

Then had we seen proud London's hated walls; Owls would have hooted in St. Peter's choir,

And foxes stunk and litter'd in St. Paul's.'


Written a short time previous to the election of a High

When sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugg'd up his face,
With a lick of court white-wash, and pious grimace,
A wooing he went, where three sisters of old
In harmless society guttle and scold.

Lord ! sister,' says Physic to Law,' I declare, Such a sheep-biting look, such a pick-pocket air ! Not I for the Indies !-You know I'm no prude, But his name is a shame,-and his eyes are so lewd ! Then he shambles and straddles so oddly--I fearNomat our time of life 'twould be silly, my dear.' 'I don't know,' says Law,' but methinks for his look 'Tis just like the picture in Rochester's book ; Then his character, Phizzy,-his morals—his lifeWhen she died, I can't tell, but he once had a wife. They say he's no Christian, loves drinking and w--g, And all the town rings of his swearing and roaring ! His lying and filching, and Newgate-bird tricks ;Not 1—for a coronet, chariot and six.' Divinity heard, between waking and dozing, Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing: From table she rose, and with bumper in hand, She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her band• What a pother is here about wenching and roaring! Why, David loved catches, and Solomon w--g: Did not Israel filch from th' Egyptians of old Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold ? The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie: He drinks—so did Noah;—he swears—so do I: To reject him for such peccadillos, were odd ; Besides, he repents—for he talks about G** ;

(To Jemmy.] Never hang down your head, you poor penitent elf ; Come, buss me—I'll be Mrs. Twitcher myself.



Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to impórtune ;
He had not the method of making a fortune ;
Could love and could hate, so was thought somewhat
No very great Wit, he believed in a God.

[odd; A post or a pension he did he did not desire, But left church and state to Charles Townshend and

Squire + * Written in 1761, and found in one of his pocket-books.

+ Fellow of St. John's College, Cambridge, and afterward Bishop of St. David's.




By David Garrick, Esq.
REPINE not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes

Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can trace the eagle to the skies,

Or, like him, gaze upon the sun !
Each gentle reader loves the gentle Muse,

That little dares and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,

Or flutters in the Magazines.
No longer now from Learning's sacred store

Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are revered no more,

No more the Stagyrite is law.
Though nursed by these, in vain thy Muse appears

To breathe her ardours in our souls ;
In vain to sightless eyes and deaden'd ears

The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls :
Yet droop not, Gray, nor quit thy heaven-born art;

Again thy wondrous powers reveal;
Wake slumb'ring Virtue in the Briton's heart,

And rouse us to reflect and feel !
With ancient deeds our long-chill'd bosoms fire,

Those deeds that mark Eliza's reign!
Make Britons Greeks again, then strike the lyre,

And Pindar shall not sing in vain.

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