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Howe'er the youth, with forward air,
Bows to the fage, and mounts the car:
The lah resounds, the courfers fpring,
The chariot marks the rolling ring;
And gath'ring crowds with eager eyes,
And shouts, purfue him as he flies.
Triumphant to the goal return'd,
With nobler thirst his bofom burn'd;
And now along th' indented plain,
The felf-fame track he marks again,
Purfues with care the nice defign,
Nor ever deviates from the line.

Amazement feiz'd the circling crowd;
The youths with emulation glow'd;
Ev'n bearded fages hail'd the boy,
And all, but Plato, gaz'd with joy;
For he, deep-judging fage, beheld
With pain the triumphs of the field;
And when the charioteer drew nigh,
And, flufh'd with hope, had caught his eye,
Alas unhappy youth, he cried,
Expect no praife from me, (and figh'd,)
With indignation I furvey

Such skill and judgment thrown away,
The time profufely fquander'd there,
On vulgar arts beneath thy care,
If well employ'd, at less expenfe,
Had taught thee honour, virtue, fenfe,
And rais'd thee from a coachman's fate,

To govern men,


guide the state.




WHERE London's column, pointing at the skies,

Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lies ;
There dwelt a Citizen of fober fame,

A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and fo forth:
His word would pafs for more than he was worth.
One folid difh his weekday meal affords,
An added pudding folemniz'd the Lord's:
Conftant at Church, and 'Change; his gains were fure,
His givings rare, fave farthings to the poor.

The devil was piqued fuch faintfhip to behold,
And long'd to tempt him, like good Job of old:
But Satan now is wifer than of yore,

And tempts by making rich, not making poor.
Rous'd by the Prince of Air the whirlwinds fweep
The furge, and plunge his Father in the deep;
Then fuil against his Cornish lands they roar,
And two rich fhipwrecks blefs the lucky fhore.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,

He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:
"Live like yourfelf," was foon my Lady's word;
And lo! two puddings smok'd upon the board.
Afleep and naked as an Indian lay,'

An honeft factor ftole a gem away:

He pledg'd it to the knight; the knight had wit,
So kept the diamond, and the rogue was bit.
Some Tcruple rofe, but thus he eas'd his thought,
"I'll now give fixpence where I gave a groat;
"Where once I went to Church I'll now go twice-
"And am fo clear too of all other vice."


The tempter faw his time; the work he plied;
Stocks and fubfcriptions pour on ev'ry fide,
'Till all the Dæmon makes his full defcent
In one abundant fhow'r of cent per cent,
Sinks deep within him, and poffeffes whole,
Then dubs Director, and fecures his foul.

Behold Sir Balaam now a man of spirit,
Afcribes his gettings to his parts and merit;
What late he call'd a bleffing, now was wit,
And God's good Providence, a lucky hit.
Things change their titles, as our manners turn:
His counting-house employ'd the Sunday morn:
Seldom at Church ('twas fuch a busy life),
But duly feat his family and wife.

There (fo the Devil ordain'd) one Christmas tide
My good old lady catch'd a cold and died.

A Nymph of quality admires our Knight,
He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite :
Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the fair)
The well-bred cuckolds in St. James's air.
In Britain's Senate he a feat obtains,
And one more penfioner St. Stephen gains.
My Lady falls to play; fo bad her chance,
He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;
The Houfe impeach him; Coningsby harangues;
The Court forfake him, and Sir Balaam hangs.
Wife, fon, and daughter, Satan! are thy own,
His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:
The Devil and the King divide the prize,
And fad Sir Balaam curfes God and dies.




FAR in the windings of a vale,

Faft by a fhelt'ring wood,

The fafe retreat of health and peace,
An humble cottage stood.

There beauteous EMMA flourish'd fair
Beneath her mother's eye,
Whofe only wish on earth was now
To fee her bleft, and die.

The foftest blush that nature spreads,
Gave colour to her cheek;

Such orient colour fimiles through Heav'n
When May's sweet mornings break.

Nor let the pride of great ones fcorn

The charmers of the plains;

That fun which bids their diamond blaze,

To deck our lily deigns.

Long had the fir'd each youth with love,

Each maiden with despair;

And though by all a wonder own'd,

Yet knew not fhe was fair;

"Till EDWIN came, the pride of fwains,

A foul that knew no art,

And from whofe eyes ferenely mild,
Shone forth the feeling heart.

A mutual flame was quickly caught,
Was quickly too reveal'd;
For neither bofom lodg'd a wish,
Which virtue keeps conceal'd.


What happy hours of heart-felt blifs

Did love on both bestow !

But blifs too mighty jong to laft,
Where fortune proves a foe.

His fifter, who, like Envy form'd,
Like her in mifchief joy'd,

To work them harm with wicked skill
Each darker art employ'd.

The father, too, a fordid man,
Who love nor pity knew,
Was all unfeeling as the rock

From whence his riches grew.

Long had he feen their mutual flame,
And feen it long unmov'd;
Then with a father's frown at last
He fternly disapprov'd.

In EDWIN's gentle heart a war
Of differing paffions ftrove;
His heart, which durft not disobey,
Yet could not ceafe to love.

Denied her fight, he oft behind
The fpreading hawthorn crept,
To fnatch a glance, to mark the spot
Where EMMA walk'd and wept.
Oft too in Stanemore's wintry waste,
Beneath the moonlight shade,
In fighs to pour his foften'd foul,

The midnight mourner ftray'd.

His cheeks, where love with beauty glow'd,

A deadly pale o'ercaft;

So fades the fresh rofe in its prime,

Before the northern blast.


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