And sometimes pairs them both together,
To dangle to the wind and weather;
Or claps some mighty general there,
Who has not any head to spare.
Or if it more his fancy suit,
Pourtrays or fish, or bird, or brute.
And hures the gaping, thirsty guest,
To Scott's entire, or Trueman's best.

Ye chequer'd domes thrice hail! for hence
The fire of wit, the froth of sense,
Here gentle puns, ambiguous joke,
Burst forth oracular in smoke,
And inspiration pottle deep
Forgets her sons, and falls asleep.
Hence issue treatises and rhymes,
The wit and wonder of the times,
Hence scandal, piracies and lies,
Defensive pamphlets on excise,
The murd'rous articles of news,
And pert theatrical reviews.
Hither, as to their urns, repair,
Bard, publisher, and minor play'r,
And o'er the porter's foaming head
Their venom'd malice nightly shed,
And aim their batteries of dirt
At genius, which they cannot hurt.

Smack not their works, if verse or prose
Offend your eye, or ear, or nose,
So frothy, vapid, stale, hum-drum,
Of stingo, porter, purl and mum?
And when the Muse politely jokes,
Cannot you find the lady smokes?
And spite of all her inspiration,
Betrays her alehouse education?

Alas! how very few are found,

Whose style tastes neat and full and sound!
In Wilmot's loose ungovern'd vein
There is, grant, much burnt Champaign,
And Dorset's lines all palates hit,
The very Burgundy of wit.

But when, obedient to the mode
Of panegyric, courtly ode,

The bard bestrides his annual hack,
In vain I taste, and sip and smack,
I find no flavour of the sack.
But while I ramble and refine
On flavour, style, and wit and wine,
Your claret, which I would not waste,
Recalls me to my proper taste;
So ending, as 'tis more than time,
At once my letter, glass and rhyme,
I take this bumper off to you,
'Tis Shepherd's health-dear friend, adieu.

Bids his kite soar on paper wing,

The critic comes, and cuts the string;
Hence dire contention often grows
'Twixt man of verse, and man of prose;
While prose-man deems the verse-man fool,
And measures wit by line and rule,
And, as he lops off fancy's limb,
Turns executioner of whim;
While genius, which too oft disdains
To bear e'en honourable chains;
(Such as a sheriff's self night wear
Or grace the wisdom of a may'r)
Turns rebel to dame Reason's throne
And holds no judgment like his own.

Yet while they spatter mutual dirt,
In idle threats that cannot hurt,
Methinks they waste a deal of time,
Both fool in prose, and fool in rhymes
And when the angry bard exclaims,
And calls a thousand paltry names,
He doth his critic mighty wrong,
And hurts the dignity of song.
The prefatory matter past
The tale, or story, comes at last.

A Candle stuck in flaring state
Within the nozzle of French plate,
Tow'ring aloft with smoky light,

The snuff and flame of wondrous height,
(For, virgin yet of amputation,
No force had check'd its inclination)
Sullen address'd with conscious pride,
The dormant Snuffers at his side.
"Mean vulgar tools, whose envious aim
Strikes at the vitals of my flame,
Your rude assaults shall hurt no more,
See how my beams triumphant soar!
See how I gaily blaze alone
With strength, with lustre all my own."

"Lustre, good sir!" the Snuffers cried, "Alas! how ignorant is pride! Thy light which wavers round the room, Shows as the counterfeit of gloom, Thy snuff which idly tow'rs so high Will waste thy essence by and by, Which, as I prize thy lustre dear

I fain would lop to make thee clear.
Boast not, old friend, thy random rays,
Thy wasting strength, and quiv'ring blaze,
You shine but as a Beggar's link,
To burn away, and die in stink,
No merit waits unsteady light,
You must burn true as well as bright."
Poets like candles all are puffers,
And critics are the candle snuffers.

THE CANDLE AND SNUFFERS.

A FABLE.

"No author ever spar'd a brother:
Wits are game cocks to one another."
But no antipathy so strong,
Which acts so fiercely, lasts so long
As that which rages in the breast
Of critic, and of wit profest:
When, eager for some bold emprise,
Wit, Titan-like, affects the skies,
When, full of energy divine,
The mighty dupe of all the Nine,

THE TEMPLE OF FAVOUR.
TO WILLIAM KENRICK..

THOUGH pilot in the ship no more,
To bring the cargo safe to shore';
Permit, as time and place afford,
A passenger to come aboard.

The shepherd who survey'd the deep
When all its tempests were asleep,

1 When this was published in the Saint James's Magazine Mr. Lloyd had relinquished the con duct of that work to Mr. Kenrick.

Dreamt not of danger; glad was he
To sell his flock, and put to sea:
The consequence has Esop told,
He lost his venture, sheep and gold.
So fares it with us sons of rhvine,
From doggrel wit, to wit sublime;
On iuk's calm ocean all seems clear,
No sands affright, no rocks appear;
No lightnings blast, no thunders roar;
No surges lash the peaceful shore;
Till, all too vent'rous from the land,
The tempests dash us on the strand:
Then the low pirate boards the deck,
And sons of theft enjoy the wreck.

The harlot Muse so passing gay,
Bewitches only to betray;
Though for a while, with easy air,
She smooths the rugged brow of care,
And laps the mind in flow'ry dreams,
With fancy's transitory gleams.
Fond of the nothings she bestows,
We wake at last to real woes.

Through ev'ry age, in ev'ry place,
Consider well the poet's case;
By turns protected and caress'd,
Defam'd, dependent, and distress'd;
The joke of wits, the bane of slaves,
The curse of fools, the butt of knaves;
Too proud to stoop for servile ends,
To lacquey rogues, or flatter friends;
With prodigality to give,

Too careless of the means to live:
The bubble fame intent to gain,
And yet too lazy to maintain;
He quits the world he never priz'd,
Pitied by few, by more despis'd;
And lost to friends, oppress'd by foes,
Sinks to the nothing whence he rose.

O glorious trade, for wit's a trade,
Where men are ruin'd more than made.
Let crazy Lee, neglected Gay,
The shabby Otway, Dryden grey,
Those tuneful servants of the Nine,
(Not that I blend their name with mine)
Repeat their lives, their works, their fame,
And teach the world some useful shame.
At first the poet idly strays

Along the greensward path of praise,
Till on his journeys up and down,

To see, and to be seen, in town,

What with ill-natured flings and rubs
From flippant bucks, and hackney scrubs,

His toils through dust, through dirt, through gravel,

Take off his appetite for travel.

Transient is Fame's immediate breath, Though it blows stranger after death;

Own then, with Martial, after fate

If Glory comes, she comes too late.
For who'd his time and labour give
For praise, by which he cannot live?
But in Apollo's court of Fame
(In this all courts are much the same)
By Favour folks must make their way,
Favour, which lasts, perhaps, a day,
And when you've twirl'd yourself about
To wriggle in, you're wriggled ont.
Tis from the sunshine of her eyes
Each courtly insect lives or dies;
Tis she dispenses all the graces

. Of profits, pensions; honours, places;

And in her light capricious fits
Makes wits of fools, and fools of wits,
Gives vices, folly, dullness birth,
Nay stamps the currency on worth;
'Tis she that lends the Muse a spur,
And even kissing goes by her.

Far in the sea a temple stands
Built by dame Errour's hasty hands,
Where in her dome of lucid shells
The visionary goddess dwells,
Here o'er her subject sons of Earth
Regardless or of place, or worth,
She rules triumphant; and supplies
The gaping world with hopes and lies:
Her throne, which weak and tott'ring seems,
Is built upon the wings of dreams;
The fickle winds her altars bear
Which quiver to the shifting air;
Hither hath Reason seldom brought
The child of Virtue or of Thought,
And Justice with her equal face,
Finds this, alas! no throne of Grace.

Caprice, Opinion, Fashion wait,
The porters at the temple's gate,
And as the fond adorers press
Pronounce fantastic happiness;
While Favour with a Syren's smile,
Which might Ulysses' self beguile,
Presents the sparkling bright libation,
The nectar of intoxication;
And summoning her ev'ry grace
Of winning charms, and cheerful face,
Smiles away Reason from his throne,
And makes his votaries her own:
Instant resounds the voice of Fame;
Caught with the whistlings of their name,
The fools grow frantic, in their pride
Contemning all the world beside:
Pleas'd with the gewgaw toys of pow'r,
The noisy pageant of an hour,

Struts forth the statesman, haughty, vain,
Amidst a supple servile train,

With shrug, grimace, nod, wink, and stare,
So proud, he almost treads in air;
While levee-fools, who sue for place,
Crouch for employment from his grace,
And e'en good bishops, taught to trim,
Forsake their God to bow to him.

The poet in that happy hour,
Imagination in his pow'r,
Waiks all abroad, and unconfin'd;
Enjoys the liberty of mind:
Dupe to the smoke of flimsy praise,
He vomits forth sonorous lays;
And, in his fine poetic rage,
Planning, poor soul, a deathless page,
Indulges pride's fantastic whim,
And all the world must wake to him.
A while from fear, from envy free,
He sleeps on a pacific sea;
Lethargic Errour for a while
Deceives him with her specious smile,
And flatting dreams delusive shed
Gay gilded visions round his head.

When, swift as thought, the goddess lewd
Shifts the light gale; and tempests rude,
Such as the northern skies deform,
When fell Destruction guides the storm,
Transport him to some dreary isle
Where Favour never deign'd to smile.

Where waking, helpless, all alone,

'Midst craggy steeps and rocks unknown;
Sad scenes of woe his pride confound,
And Desolation stalks around.

Where the dull months no pleasures bring,
And years roll round without a spring;
Where he all hopeless, lost, undone,
Sees cheerless days that know no sun;
Where jibing Scorn her throne maintains,
Midst mildews, blights, and blasts, and rains.
Let others, with submissive knee,
Capricious goddess! bow to thee;
Let them with fixt incessant aim
Court fickle Favour, faithless Fame;
Let Vanity's fastidious slave

Lose the kind moments Nature gave,
In invocations to the shrine
Of Phoebus and the fabled Nine,
An author, to his latest days,
From hunger, or from thirst of praise,
Let him through every subject roam
To bring the useful morsel home;
Write upon Liberty opprest,
On happiness, when most distrest,
Turn bookseller's obsequious tool,
A monkey's cat, a mere fool's fool;
Let him, unhallow'd wretch! profane
The Muse's dignity for gain,

Yield to the dunce his sense contemns,
Cringe to the knave his heart condemns,
And, at a blockhead's bidding, force
Reluctant genius from his course;
Write ode, epistle, essay, libel,
Make notes, or steal them, for the Bible;
Or let him, more judicial, sit

The dull Lord Chief, on culprit Wit,
With rancour read, with passion blame,
Talk high, yet fear to put his name,
And from the dark, but useful shade,
(Fit place for murd'rous ambuscade,)
Weak monthly shafts at merit hurl,
The gildon of some modern curl.

For me, by adverse fortune plac'd
Far from the colleges of taste,
I jostle no poetic name;

I envy none their proper fame;
And if sometimes an easy vein,
With no design, and little pain,
Form'd into verse, hath pleas'd a while,
And caught the reader's transient smile,
My Muse hath answer'd all her ends,
Pleasing herself, while pleas'd her friends;
But, fond of liberty, disdains

To bear restraint, or clink her chains;
Nor would, to gain a monarch's favour,
Let Dulness, or her sons, enslave her.

THE SPIRIT OF CONTRADICTION.

A TALE.

It is, you say; I say 'tis not-
Why you grow warm-and you are hot.
Thus each alike with passion glows,
And words come first, and, after, blows.

Friend Jerkin had an income clear,
Some fifteen pounds, or more, a year,
And rented, on the farming plan,
Grounds at much greater sums per ann.
A man of consequence, no doubt,
'Mongst all his neighbours round about;
He was of frank and open mind,
Too honest to be much refin'd,
Would smoke his pipe, and tell his tale,
Sing a good song, and drink his ale.

His wife was of another mould;
Her age was neither young or old;
Her features strong, but somewhat plaing
Her air not bad, but rather vain ;
Her temper neither new nor strange,
A woman's, very apt to change;
What she most hated was conviction,
What she most lov'd, flat contradiction

A charming housewife ne'ertheless;
-Tell me a thing she could not dress,
Soups, hashes, pickles, puddings, pies,
Nought came amiss-she was so wise.
For she, bred twenty miles from town,
Had brought a world of breeding down,
And Cumberland had seldom seen
A farmer's wife with such a mien;
She could not bear the sound of Dame;
-No-Mistress Jerkin was her name.

She could harangue with wond'rous grace
On gowns and mobs, and caps and lace;
But though she ne'er adorn'd his brows,
She had a vast contempt for spouse,
As being one who took no pride,
And was a deal too countrified.
Such were our couple, man and wife;
Such were their means and ways of life
Once on a time, the season fair

For exercise and cheerful air,

It happen'd in his morning's roam,
He kill'd his birds, and brought them home,
-"Here, Cicely, take away my gun-
How shall we have these starlings done?"
"Done! what, my love? Your wits are wild;
Starlings, my dear; they're thrushes, child."
Nay now but look, consider, wife,
They're starlings"-" No-upon my life:
Sure I can judge as well as you,

66

I know a thrush and starling too."

"Who was it shot them, you or I?

They're starlings"-" thrushes"-" zounds you "Pray, sir, take back your dirty word,

I scorn your language as your bird;

It ought to make a husband blush,
To treat a wife so 'bout a thrush."

[lie."

"Thrush, Cicely!"-"Yes"—"Starling”—“No,”
The lie again, aud then a blow.
Blows carry strong and quick conviction,
And mar the pow'rs of contradiction.
Peace soon ensued, and all was well:
It were imprudence to rebel,
Or keep the ball up of debate
Against these arguments of weight.

A year roll'd on in perfect ease,
'Twas as you like, and what you please,
'Till in its course and order due,
Came March the twentieth, fifty-two

A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO ***

WHAT, three months gone, and never send
A single letter to a friend?

In that time, sure, we might have known
Whether you fat or lean was grown;
Whether your host was short or tall,
Had manners good, or none at all;
Whether the neighb'ring squire you found
As mere a brute as fox or hound;
Or if the parson of the place
(With all due rev'rence to his grace)
Took much more pains himself to keep,
Than to instruct and feed his sheep;
At what hour of the day you dine;
Whether you drink beer, punch, or wine;
Whether you hunt, or shoot, or ride;
Or, by some muddy ditch's side,
Which you, in visionary dream,
Call bubbling rill, or purling stream,
Sigh for some awkward country lass,]
Who must of consequence surpass
All that is beautiful and bright,
As much as day surpasses night;
Whether the people eat and drink,
Or ever talk, or ever think;
If, to the honour of their parts,
The men have heads, the women hearts;
If the Moon rises and goes down,
And changes as she does in town;
If you've returns of night and day,
And seasons varying roll away;
Whether your mind exalted wooes
Th' embraces of a serious muse;
Or if you write, as I do now,

The L knows what, the I-d knows how.-
These, and a thousand things like these,
The friendly heart are sure to please.

Now will my friend turn up his eyes,
And look superlatively wise;
Wonder what all this stuff's about,
And how the plague I found him out!
When he had taken so much pains,
In order to regale his brains
With privacy and country air,
To go, no soul alive knew where !
Besides, 't is folly to suppose
That any person breathing goes
On such a scheme, with a design
To write or read such stuff as mine,

And idly waste his precious time.
In all th' impertinence of rhyme.

My good, wise, venerable sir!
Why about nonsense all this stir!
Is it, that you would stand alone,
And read no nonsense but your own;
Though you're (to tell you, by the by).
Not half so great a fool as I;
Or is it that you make pretence,'
Being a fool, to have some sense?

And would you really have my Muse
Employ herself in writing news,
And most unconscionably tease her
With rhyming to Warsaw and Weser;
Or toss up a poetic olio,

Merely to bring in marshal Broglio?
Should I recite what now is doing,
Or what for future times is brewing,
Or triumph that the poor French see all
Their hopes defeated at Montreal,
Or should I your attention carry
To Fred'ric, Ferdinand or Harry,
Of Alving Russian, dastard Swede,
And baffled Austria let you read;
Or gravely tell with what design
The youthful Henry pass'd the Rhine?
Or should I shake my empty head,
And tell you that the king is dead,
Observe what changes will ensue,
What will be what, and who'll be who,
Or leaving these things to my betters,
Before you set the state of letters?
Or should I tell domestic jars,
How author against author wars,
How both with mutual envy rankling,

Fr-k-n damns M-rp-y, M-rp-y Fr-k-n? Or will it more your mind engage

To talk of actors and the stage,

To tell, if any words could tell,

What Garrick acts still, and how well,
That Sheridan with all his care
Will always be a labour'd play'r,
And that his acting at the best
Is all but art, and art confest;
That Bride', if reason may presume
To judge by things past, things to come,
In future times will tread the stage,
Equally form'd for love and rage,
Whilst Pope for comic humour fam'd,
Shall live when Clive no more is nam'd.
Your wisdom I suppose can't bear
About dull pantomime to hear;
Nor would you have a single word

Of Harlequin, and wooden sword,

Of dumb show, fools tricks, and wry faces,
And wit, which lies all in grimaces,
Nor should I any thing advance
Of new invented comic dance.

Callous, perhaps, to things like these,
Would it your worship better please,
That I, more loaden than the camels,
Should crawl in philosophic trammels?
Should I attack the stars, and stray
In triumph o'er the milky way,
And like the Titans try to move
From seat of empire royal Jove,

1 Miss Bride an Actress then of Drury-Lane theatre, who soon after quitted the stage. See her character in the Roseiad.

Then spread my terrours all around,
And his satellites confound,
Teach the war far and wide to rage,
And ev'ry star by turn engage?
The danger we should share between us,
You fight with Mars and 1 with Venus.
Or should I rather, if I cou'd,
Talk of words little understood,
Centric, eccentric, epicycle,

Fine words the vulgar ears to tickle!
A vacuum, plenum, gravitation,
And other words of like relation,
Which may agree with studious men,
But hurt my teeth, and gag my pen;
Things of such grave and serious kind
Puzzle my head and plague my mind;
Besides in writing to a friend
A man may any nonsense send,
And the chief merit's to impart,
The honest feelings of his heart.

CHARITY. A FRAGMENT.

INSCRIBED TO THE REV. MR. HANBURY,

WORTH is excis'd, and Virtue pays
A heavy tax for barren praise.

A friend to universal man,

Is universal good your plan?

God may perhaps your project bless,
But man shall strive to thwart success.

Though the grand scheme thy thoughts pursue,
Bespeak a noble generous view,
Where Charity o'er all presides,

And Sense approves what Virtue guides,
Yet wars and tumults will commence,
For rogues hate virtue, blockheads sense,
Believe me, opposition grows

Not always from our real foes,
But (where it seldom ever ends)

From our more dangerous seeming friends.
I hate not foes, for they declare,
'Tis war for war, and dare who dare;
But your sly, sneaking, worming souls
Whom Friendship scorns and Fear controuls,
Who praise, support, and help by halves,
Like heifers, neither bulls, nor calves;
Who, in Hypocrisy's disguise,
Are truly as the serpent wise,
But cannot all the precept love,
And be as harmless as the dove.

Who hold each charitable meeting,

To mean no more than good sound eating,
While each becomes a hearty fellow
According as he waxes mellow,
And kindly helps the main design,
y drinking its success in wine;
And when his feet and senses reel,
Totters with correspondent zeal;
Nay, would appear a patron wise,
But that his wisdom's in disguise,
And would harangue, but that his mouth,
Which ever hates the sin of drowth,
atching the full perpetual glass,
Cannot afford a word to pass.

Such, who like true churchwardens eat,
Because the parish pays the treat,
And of their bellyful secure,

O'ersee, or over-look the poor;

Who would no doubt be wond'rous just,
And faithful guardians of their trust,
But think the deed might run more clever
To them and to their heirs for ever,\
That Charity, too apt to roam,
Might end, where she begins, at home;
Who make all public good a trade,
Benevolence a mere parade,
And Charity a cloak for sin,
To keep it snug and warm within;
Who flatter, only to betray,
Who promise much and never pay,
Who wind themselves about your heart
With hypocritic, knavish art,

Tell you what wond'rous things they're doing,
And undermine you to your ruin;
Such, or of low or high estate,
To speak the hopest truth, I hate:
I view their tricks with indignation,
And loath each fulsome protestation,
As I would loath a whore's embrace,
Who smiles, and smirks, and strokes my face,
And all so tender, fond, and kind,
As free of body, as of mind,
Affects the softness of a dove,
And p-xes me to show her love.

The maiden wither'd, wrinkled, pale,
Whose charms, tho' strong, are rather stale,
Will use that weapon call'd a tongue,
To wound the beauteous and the young.
-"What, Delia handsome!-well!-1 own
I'm either blind or stupid grown.
-The girl is well enough to pass,
A rosy, simple, rustic lass,

-But there's no meaning in her face,
And then her air, so void of grace!
And all the world, with half an eye,
May see her shape grows quite awry.
-I speak not from an ill design,
For she's a favourite of mine,
-Though I could wish that she would wear
A more reserv'd becoming air;

Not that I hear of indiscretions,

Such folks, you know, make no confessions,
Though the world says, that parson there,
That smock-fac'd man with darkish hair,
He who wrote verses on her bird,
The simplest things I ever heard,
Makes frequent visits there of late,
And is become exceeding great;
This I myself aver is true,

I saw him lead her to his pew."
Thus Scandal, like a false quotation,
Misrepresents in defamation;
And where she haply cannot spy
A loop whereon to hang a lie,
Turns every action wrong side out
To bring her paltry tale about.

Thus excellence of every kind,
Whether of body or of mind,
Is but a mark set up on high,
For knaves to guide their arrows by,
A mere Scotch post for public itch,
Where hog, or man, may scrub his breech,
But thanks to Nature, which ordains
A just reward for all our pains,
And makes us stem, with secret pride,
Hoarse Disappointment's rugged tide,
And like a lordly ship, which braves
The roar of winds, and rush of waves,