XVII.
And thrice he callid on Margaret's name,

And thrice he wept full fore :
Then laid his cheek to her cold grave,

And word spoke never more!

N. B. In a comedy of Fletcher, called “ The ** Knight of the burning Pestle," old Merry-Thought enters repeating the following verses : When it was grown to dark midnight,

And all were fast asleep,
In came Margaret's grimly ghost,

And stood at William's feet. This was, probably, the beginning of some ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote ; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. These lines, naked of ornament, and simple as they are, struck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poeni; which was written inany ago.

MALLET. An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.

EPITAPH, on Mr. AIKMAN, and his only Son:

who were both interred in the same grave. EAR to the wise and good, disprais’d by none,

Here sieep in peace the father and the son, By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd, The painter's genius, but without the pride; Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine, Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine. The fon, fair-rising, knew too short a date ; But oh, how more severe the parent's fate! He saw him torn, untimely, from his Gide, Felt all a father's anguish, wept, and dy'd !

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

Τ'

HIS humble grave though no proud structures gracesi'e

Yet Truth and Goodness fanctify the place :
Yet blameless Virtue, that adorn’d thy bloom,
Lamented maid ! now weeps upon thy tomb.
O scap'd from life! O safe on that calm shore,
Where fin, and pain, and passion are no more!
What never wealth could buy, nor power decree
Regard and Pity, wait fincere on thee :
Lo! soft Remembrance drops a pious tear;
And holy Friendship stands a mourner here.

SONG,

S O N G

To a SCOTCH TUNE.

THE BIRKS OF ENDERMAY.

I.

T

HE smiling morn, the breathing spring,

Invite the tuneful birds to fing:
And while they warble from each spray,
Love melts the universal lay.
Let us, Amanda, timely wise,
Like them improve the hour that flies ;
And, in soft raptures, walte the day,
Among the shades of Endermay.

II.

For foon the winter of the year,
And
age,

life's winter, will appear :
At this, thy living bloom muft fade;;
As that will strip the verdant shade.
Our taste of pleasure then is o'er ;
The feather'd songsters love no more :
And when they droop, and we decay,
Adieu the shades of Endermay!

OF VERBAL CRITICISM.

ADVERTISEMENT TO THE Is AND 2d EDITIONS.

A S the design of the following poem is to rally the

abuse of Verbal Criticism, the author could not, without manifest partiality, overlook the Editor of Milton, and the Restorer of Shakespeare. With regard to the latter, he has read over the many and ample fpecimens with which that Scholiaft has already obliged: the publick : and of these, and these only, he pre

tends to give his opinion. But, whatever he may - think of the Critic, not bearing the least ill-will to the

Man, he deferred printing these verses, though written several months ago, till he heard that the subscription.

for a new edition of Shakespeare was closed. He begs leave to add likewise, that this poem was un

dertaken and written entirely without the knowledge of the Gentleman to whom it is addressed. Only as it is a public teftimony of his inviolable esteem' for Mr. Pope, on that account, particularly, lie wishes, it may not be judged to increase the number of mean performances, with which the town is almost daily pestered.

AMONG the numerous fools

, by fate design'd

Oft todisturb, and oft divert, mankind,
The Reading Coxcomb is of special note,
By rule a Poet, and a Judge by rote :
Grave son of idle Industry and Pride,

5 Whom learning but perverts, and books misguide.

o fam’d for judging, as for writing well, That rarest science, where so few excel;

Whofc

10

Whose life, severely scann'd, transcends thy lays;
For wit fupreme is but thy second praise :
'Tis thine, O Pope, who chuse the better part,
To tell how false, how vain, the Scholiaft's art,
Which nor to taste, nor genius has pretence,
And, if 'tis learning, is not common sense.
In error obstinate, in wrangling loud,

15
For trifles eager, positive, and proud ;
Deep in the darkness of dull authors bred,
With all their refuse lumber'd in his head,
What

every dunce from every dunghill drew Of literary offals, old or new, Forth steps at last the self-applauding wight, Of points and letters, chaff and straws, to write: Sagely resolv'd to swell each bulky piece With venerable toys, from Rome and Greece; How oft, in Homer, Paris curld his hair; 25 If Aristotle's cap were round or square ; If in the cave, were Dido first was sped, To Tyre she turn'd her heels, to Troy her head.

Such the choice anecdotes, profound and vain, That store a Bentley's and a Burman's brain : Hence, Plato quoted, or the Stagyrite, To prove that flame ascends, and snow is white : Hence, much hard study, without sense or breeding, And all the grave impertinence of reading. If Shakefpeare fays, the noon-day sun is bright, 35 His Scholiast will remark, it then was light; Turn Caxton, Winkin, each old Goth and Hun, To rectify the reading of a pun.

Thus

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