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,
Be our's to save, from time's devouring womb,
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the
tomb.

For you, ye fair, who sprightlier scenes may
chuse,

Where music decks in all her airs the Muse,
Gay opera shall in all its charms dispense,
Yet boast no tuneful triumph over sense;
The nobler bard shall still assert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.

To greet their mortal brethren of our skies,
Here all the gods of pantomime shall rise:
Yet 'midst the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our scenes;
Scenes which were held, in good king Rich's
days,

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.

VERSES

ON CONVERTING THE CHAPEL TO A KITCHEN, AT THE SEAT OF THE LORD DONNERAYLE, CALLED THE GROVE, IN HERTFORDSHIRE.

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.

The word was scarce giv'n-when down dropp'd

the clock,

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.

VERSES

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,
Brave William has conquer'd-Rebellion's no
[name,
Well pleas'd, in his annals Time set down the
Made the record authentic, and gave it to Fame.

more.

The manes of each hallow'd hero to wound;
On Argyle's, when she saw only truth was related
Of him, whom alive she most mortally hated,
And finding the record adopted by Fame,

In revenge to the poet-she gnaw'd out his name',

Free flow'd her numbers, flourish'd fair her bays;
O'er Britain's stage majestic, unconfin'd,
She tun'd her patriot lessons to mankind;
For mighty heroes ransack'd ev'ry age,
Then beam'd them glorious in her Shakespeare's

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,
And tell how I languish, sigh, pine, and despair;
In gentlest murmurs my passion commend;
But whisper it softly, for fear you offend, [pain;
For sure, O ye winds, ye may tell her my
'Tis Strephon's to suffer, but not to complain.
Wherever I go, or whatever I do, [view:
Still something presents the fair nymph to my
If I traverse the garden, the garden still shows
Me her neck in the lily, her lip in the rose:

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

love;