The needy seldom passed her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning,
And never followed wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumbered 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 followed her —
When she has walked 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 BED-CHAMBER.
WHERE the Red Lion, flaring 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, stretched beneath a rug.
A window, patched with paper, lent a ray
That dimly showed 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 showed 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 cracked tea-cups dressed the chimney-board ;
A night-cap decked his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night—a stocking all the day!
ON SEEING MRS. * * PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF ***.
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?
As when in Paphian groves the Queen of Love
With fond complaint addressed the listening Jove -
"T was joy and endless blisses all around,
And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last, even 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 snatched away;
O! had he lived another year
He had not died to-day.
O! 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 sheep ;
Even pitying hills would drop a tear
If hills could learn to weep.
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.
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.
YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep,
Where flows Euphrates, murmuring to the deep –
Suspend a while the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your father and your friend:
Insulted, chained, and all the world a foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES.
Our God is all we boast below,
To Him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice, is here,
We'll make His temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
That strain once more! it bids remembrance rise,
And brings my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, dressed in flowery pride;
Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide;
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crowned;
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around :
Those 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 oppressed oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe ·
And he who wants each other blessing
In thee must ever find a foe.
Yet, why repine? What though by bonds confined,
Should bonds enslave the vigor of the mind?
Have we not cause for triumph, when we see
Ourselves alone from idol worship free?
Are not, this very day, those feasts begun
Where prostrate folly hails the rising sun?
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