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nor wine

Not me th' adjacent furnace can delight,
That cheers, with chemic gleam, the languid

In vain my crystals boast their angles true,
In vain my port presents the genuine hue ;

my spirits can restore, My Knaster's out, and pleasure is no more.

" To German books for refuge shall I fly ?
Without my Knaster these no bliss supply.
Here in light tomes grave Meiners, prone to

Like thin bank-notes, confines a weighty store ;
Here BÜRGHE R's muse, with ghostly terrors pale,
Runs, “ hurry-skurry*,” thro' her nursery-tale;
Here Huon loves, while wizard-thunders roll,
Here Gorgon-SCHILLER petrifies the soul ;
CRELL’s sooty chemists here their lights impart ;
Here Pallas, skill'd in ev'ry barbarous art.
In vain to me each shining page is spread,
Without tobacco ne'er compos'd-nor read.
+ 6 Who Knaster loves not, be he doom'd to

With Caffres foul, or suek Virginia's weed.

* Hurry-skurry: one of the phrases, by which some translators of Burgher's Leonore have at. tempted to convey an adequate impression of the energy, and elegance of their original.

+ Qui Bavium non odit, &c.

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* At morn I love segars, at noon admire The British compound, pearly from the fire ; But Knaster always, Knaster is my song, In studious gloom, or mid th' assembly's throng. · Let pompous Bruce describe in boastful

style, The wond'rous springs of fertilizing Nile. Fool! for so many restless years to roam, To drink such water as we find at home ; And know, to end his long, romantic dreams, That Nile arises--much like other streams. Far other streams let me discover here, Of yellow grog, or briskly-sparkling beer! But more my glory, more my pride, to see My Knaster cas’d, with pious fraud, like t'ea; Glad soars the muse, and crowing claps her wings, At my discovery, hid, like his, from kings.

• Some chase the fair, some dirty grubs employ, And some the ball, and some the race enjoy. Cooper the courting sciences denies, And from their envied love to bleaching flies. Let serious fiddling nobler minds engage, Or dark black-leiter charm the studious


* In spring the fields, in autumn hills I love,
At morn the plains, at noon the shady grove,
But Delia always; absent from her sight,
Nor plains at morn, nor groves at noon delight.


I'd envy none their rattles, could I sit
To feast on Knaster, and Teutonic wit.'

Lo, while I speak the furnace-red decays,
And coy by fits the modest moon-beam plays,
Which thro'yond' threat’ning clouds, that bode

a shower, Just tips with tender light the Old Church tower. Now wheels the doubtful bat in blund'ring rings, Now “ half past ten" the doleful watchman sings. To-morrow Bower supplies my fav’rite store : My Knaster's out—and I can watch no more.




Thou shalt not laugh in this leaf, Muse

DONNE's 5th Satire,


The following ode contains ideas, suggested by the extraordinary prospect from a rock, in the neighbourhood of Alnwick Castle. That view comprehends a series of antiquities, deeply interesting, not only by their magnificence, but by their relation to history; and frequently recollected by the author, amidst the exertions of active life, as the fac vourite scenes of his youth. Some readers may, perhaps, suppose that the thoughts are not sufficiently developed. But I have always considered it as essential to the ode, that it should indicate impressions, without dwelling upon them. The torrent of ideas, which characterizes this species of poetry, only presents an object with force, to hurry it more rapidly beyond the view of the spectator.

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