a

In difinal pomp, now, hovering on their way,
To a fick twilight, they reduce the day.
And hark ! imprison’d winds, broke loose, arife,
And roar their haughty triumph through the skies.
While the driven clouds, o'ercharg'd with floods of rain,
And mingled lightning, burst upon the plain.
Now see fad earth-like thine, her alter'd state,
Like thee, she mourns her fad reverse of fate!
Her smile, her wanton looks-where are they now?
Faded her face, and wrapt in clouds her brow!

No more, th'ungrateful verdure of the plain;
No more, the wealth-crown'd labours of the swain;
These scenes of bliss, no more upbraid my fate ,
Torture my pining thought, and rouze my hate.
The leaf-clad forest, and the tufted grove,
Erewhile the safe retreats of happy love,
Stript of their honours, naked, now appear ;
This is--my soul! the winter of their year!
The little, noisy fongsters of the wing,
All, shivering on the bough, forget to sing.
Hail! reverend Silence! with thy awful brow!
Be Music's voice, for ever mute-as now :
Let no intrusive joy my dead repose
Disturb :-no pleasure disconcert my woes.

In this inoss-cover'd cavern, hopeless laid,
On the cold cliff, I 'll lean my aching head ;
And, pleas’d with Winter's waste, unpitying, see
All nature in an agony with me!
Rough, rugged rocks, wet marshes, ruin d towers,
Bare trees, brown brakes, bleak heaths, and ruhy moors,

Dead floods, huge cataracts, to my pleas'd eyes-
(Now I can smile!)-in wild disorder rise :
And now, the various dreadfulness combin'd,
Black melancholy comes, to doze my mind.
See! Night's wish'd shades rise, spreading through

the air,
And the lone, hollow gloom, for me prepare !
Hail! folitary ruler of the grave !
Parent of terrors ! from thy dreary cave !
Let thy dumb silence midnight all the ground,
And spread a welcome horror wide around.-
But hark !--a sudden howl invades my ear !
The phantoms of the dreadful hour are near.
Shadows, from each dark cavern, now combine,
And falk around, and mix their yells with mine.

Stop, flying Time ! repose thy restless wing i
Fix here-nor hasten to restore the spring :
Fix'd

my

ill fate, fo fix'd let winter be Let never wanton season laugh at me!

1

*

P ROLOGUE
TO THE MASQUE OF BRITANNIA.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK *, 1755,
in the character of a Sailor, fuddled

and talking to himself,

He enters, singing, “ How pleasant a sailor's life passes" WELL, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow!

A failor, half seas a'er-'s a pretty fellow! What cheer ho? * Do I carry too much fail ?

to the pit.
No-tight and trim-I fcud before the gale

* be staggers forward, then steps.
But softly though-the vessel seems to heel :
Steddy! my boy--she must not thew her keel.
And now, thus ballasted-what course to steer ?
Shall I again to fea--and bang Mounseer ?
Or stay on thore, and toy with Sall and Sue
Doft love 'em, boy-By this right hand, I do!
A well-rigg'd girl is surely most inviting :
There's nothing better, faith_fave flip and fighting:
For shall we fons of beef and freedom ftoop,
Or lower our flag to Navery and foop?
What! mall these parly-vous make such a racket,
And we not lend a hand, to lace their jacket?
Still fall Old England be your Frenchman's butt?
Whene'er he shuffles, we should always cut.

I'll
Some of the lines too were written by him.

I'll to 'em, faith-Avalt-before I

go Have I not promis'd Sall to see the show ?

* Pulls out a play-bill. From this fame paper we Mall understand What work 's to-night- I read your printed hand ! But, first refresh a bit-for faith I need it I'll take one sugar-plumb *-and then I 'll read it,

* Takes fome tobacco. He reads the play-bill of Zara,

which was acted that evening. At the The-atre Royal-Drury. Lane will be presen-ta-ted a Tragedy called

SARAH. I'm glad 'tis Sarah-Then our Sall

may

fee Her namesake's Tragedy: and as for me, I'll fleep as sound, as if I were at sea.

To which will be added--a new Marque. Zounds! why a Masque? We sailors hate grimaces : Above-board all, we scorn to hide our faces. But what is here, so very large and plain? Bri-ta-nia-oh Britania !--good again -Huzza, boys! by the Royal George I swear, Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall itrait be there. All free-born fouls must take Bri-ta-nia's part, And give her three round cheers, with hand and heart !

going off, be flops. I wish you landmen, though, would leave your tricks, Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics : And, like us, honest tars, drink, fight, and sing! True to yourselves, your country, and your king!

IN.

}

INSCRIPTION FOR A PICTURE. WI

ITH no one talent that deserves applause ;

With no one aukwardness that laughter draws i Who thiviks not, but just echoes what we say ; A clock, at morn, wound up, to run a day: His larum goes in one sinooth, simple strain ; He stops : and then, we wind him up again. Still hovering round the fair at fifty-four, Unfit to love, unable to give o'er ; A fieth-fly, that just flutters on the wing, Awake to buz, but not alive to sting ; Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can; The teazing ghost of the departed man.

's ON G. To A SCOTCH TUNE,

MARY SCOT.

I.
WHERE Thames, along the daisy'd meads,

His wave, in lucid mazes, leads,
Silent, flow, ferenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing :
There, in a safe, though small retreat,
Content and Love have fix'd their seat
Love, that counts his duty, pleasure ;
Content that knows, and hugs his treasure.

II.
From art, from jealousy secure ;
As faith unblam'd, as friendship pure ;
Vain opinion nobly fcorning,
Virtue aiding, life adorning.