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But then the play must have some wit, some spirit,
And we allow'd sole umpires of its merit.
For those deep sages of the judging pit, Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit, From Rome's great theatre we'll cull the piece, And plant, ou Britain's stage, the flow'rs of Greece.
If some there are our British bards can please,
Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
For you, ye fair, who sprightlier scenes may
Where music decks in all her airs the Muse,
To greet their mortal brethren of our skies,
By sages, no bad epilogues to plays.
If terms like these your suffrage can engage, To fix our mimic empire of the stage; Confirm our title in your fair opinions, And croud each night to people our dominions.
For a Jew many people the master mistook, Whose Levites were scullions, his high-priest a cook;
And thought he design'd our religion to alter, When they saw the burnt-offering smoke at the altar.
ON CONVERTING THE CHAPEL TO A KITCHEN, AT THE SEAT OF THE LORD DONNERAYLE, CALLED THE GROVE, IN HERTFORDSHIRE.
The bell's solemn sound, that was heard far and
And oft rous'd the chaplain unwilling to pray'r, No more to good sermons now summons the sin
But blasphemous rings in-the country to dinner. When my good lord the bishop had heard the strange story, [G-'s glory; How the place was profan'd, that was built to Full of zeal he cried out, "Oh, how impious the deed,
To cram Christians with pudding, instead of the creed!"
By Ovid, among other wonders, we're told What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old; How their cot to a temple was conjur'd by Jove, So a chapel was chang'd to a kitchen at Grove. The lord of the mansion most rightly conceiting, His guests lov'd good prayers much less than good eating; [ye, And possess'd by the devil, as some folks will tell What was meant for the soul, he assign'd to the belly.
Then away to the Grove hied the church's protector,
Resolving to give his lay-brother a lecture; But he scarce had begun, when he saw, plac'd before 'em,
A haunch piping hot from the Sanctum Sanclo
"Troth!" quoth he, "I find no great sin in the plan, [man : What was useless to God-to make useful to Besides, 'tis a true christian duty, we read, The poor and the hungry with good things to feed."
Then again on the walls he bestowed consecration, But reserv'd the full rights of a free visitation: Thus, 'tis still the Lord's house-only varied the treat,
The word was scarce giv'n-when down dropp'd
And straight was seen fix'd in the form of a jack; And, shameful to tell! pulpit, benches, and pews, Form'd cupboards and shelves for plates, saucepans, aud stews. Pray'r-books turn'd into platters; nor think it a fable,
A dresser sprung out of the communion table; Which, instead of the usual repast, bread and wine,
"Is stor❜d with rich soups, and good English sirloin. No fire, but what pure devotion could raise, "Till now, had been known in this temple to blaze: But, good lord! how the neighbours around did admire,
When a chimney rose up in the room of a spire!
Now there's meat without grace-where was grace without meat.
ON THE DUKE OF CUMBERLAND'S VICTORY AT CULLODEN, IN THE YEAR 17 16.
As his worm-eaten volumes old Time tumbled o'er, [yore, To review the great actions that happen'd of When the names of young Ammon and Cæsar he saw,
He to one oppos'd Churchill-to th' other Nassau;
Then said, with a sigh, "What! has Britain no friend? end?" "With these must her long race of heroes have When straight a loud blast on her trumpet Fame blew, [scarce knew; Which so long had been silent, the sound he But soon in his sight the swift goddess appear'd, And, half out of breath, cry'd-" News, news! have you heard?
I yet have one hero to add to your store,
The manes of each hallow'd hero to wound;
In revenge to the poet-she gnaw'd out his name',
Free flow'd her numbers, flourish'd fair her bays;
page. Shakespeare's no more!-lost was the poet's name, [fame; Till thou, my friend, my genius, sprung tq Lur'd by his laurel's never-fading bloom, You boldly snatch'd the trophy from his tomb, And to Britannia give one poet more. Taught the declining muse again to soar,
Pleas'd in thy lays we see Gustavus live; But, O Gustavus! if thou can'st, forgive Britons, more savage than the tyrant Dane, Beneath whose yoke you drew the galling chain, Degen'rate Briton's, by thy worth dismay'd, Prophane thy glories, and proscribe thy shade,
Go, Zephyrs, salute in soft accents her ear,
But with her neither lily nor rose can compare; Far sweeter's her lip, and her bosom more fair. If, to vent my fond anguish, I steal to the grove, The spring there presents the fresh bloom of my