For owls, as swains observe, detest the light,
SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS. And only sing and seek their prey by night.

How turnips hide their swelling heads below:
BOW ZYBEUS.

And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare ;

How Will-o-wisp misleads night-faring clowns

O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downg. Forget a while the barn and dairy's care;

Of stars he told, that shoot with shining trail,
Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise,
The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;

And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 60 With Bowzy beus' songs exalt thy verse,

He sung where woodcocks in the Summer feed, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. And in what climates they renew their breed, 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil

(Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend

Or to the Moon in midnight hours ascend); of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil ;

Where swallows in the Winter's season keep, Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout, Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 10 And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep; The lads, with sharpend hook and sweating brow, Till the bright Sun has nine times set and rose ;

How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close Cut down the labors of the winter plow.

(For huntsmen by their long experience find, To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,

That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind.) 70 She seign'd her coat or garter was untied ; Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,

For still new fairs before his eyes arose.
And merry reapers what they list will ween.
Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill,

How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, That Echo answer'd from the distant hill;

The various fairings of the country maid.

Long silken laces hang upon the twine, The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid, Who thought some adder had the lass dismay’d. 20 How the tight lass knives, combs, and scissors spics,

And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine; When fast asleep they Bowzy beus spied,

And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes. His hat and oaken staff lay close beside ;

Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told, That Bowzy beus who could sweetly sing,

Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 80 Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string;

The lads and lasses trudge the street along,
That Bowzy beus who, with fingers speed,
Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; And all the fair is crowded in his song.
That Bowzy beus who, with jocund tongue,

The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells

His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells; Ballads and roundelays and catches sung :

Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,

And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; And in disport surround the drunken wight. 30

Jack Pudding in his party-color'd jacket “Ah, Bowzybee, why didst thou stay so long ?

Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous

of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats, strong!

Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats. 90 Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night;

Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood : But thou sat'st toping till the morning light."

(Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood !) Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout,

How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild, And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout:

And fearless at the glittering falchion smil'd; (For custom says, “ Whoe'er this venture proves, For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.")

Their little corpse the robin-red-breasts found,

And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around. By her example Dorcas bolder grows,

(Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, And plays a tickling straw within his nose. 40

Your names shall live for ever in my song.)
He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke
The sneering swains with stammering speech be. How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

For Buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife,

100 spoke :

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell "To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er,

What woful wars in Chevy-chace befeil,
As for the maids—I've something else in store."
No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,

When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn, But lads and lasses round about him throng.

Wars to be wept by children yet unborn ! Not ballad-singer plac'd above the crowd

Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd,

If thou hadst never heard the horn or bound ! Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud;

Yet shall the 'squire, who fought on bloody stumps, Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,

By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps. Like Bowzy beus soothes th' attentive ear. 50

All in the land of Essex next he chants, 109 Of Nature's laws his carols first begun,

How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants : Why the grave owl can never face the Sun.

ܪ

Ver. 22.
Serta procul tantum capiti dela psa jacebant. Virg.

Ver. 40.
Sanguineis frontem moris et tempora pingit. Virg.

Ver. 43.
Carinina, que vultis, cognoscite! carmina vobis;
Huic aliud mercedis erit.

Virg.
Ver 47.
Nec tantum Phæbo gaudet Parnassia rupes:
Nec tantum Rhodope mirantur et Ismarus Orphea.

Virg.

Ver. 51. Our swain had possibly read Tusser, from
whence he might have collected these philosophical ob.
servations:
Namque canebat, uti magnum per inane coacta, &c.

Ver. 97.
Fortunati ambo, si quid mea carmina possunt,
Nulla dies unqnam memori vos eximet avo. Virg.

Ver. 99. A song in the comedy of Love for Love, beginning “ A soldier and a sailor," &c.

Ver. 109. A song of Sir J. Denham's. See his poems.

When, starting from her silver dream,
Thus far and wide was heard her scream.

“That Raven on yon left-hand oak
(Curse on his ill-betiding croak !)
Bodes me no good.” No more she said,
When poor blind Ball, with stumbling tread,
Fell prone; o'erturn'd the pannier lay,
And her mash'd eggs bestrow'd the way.

She, sprawling in the yellow road, Rail'd, swore, and curs'd : “ Thou croaking toad, A murrain take thy whoreson throat! I knew misfortune in the note."

“ Dame," quoth the Raven,“ spare your oaths Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own; For, had you laid this britule ware On Dun, the old sure-footed mare, Though all the Ravens of the hundred With croaking had your tongue out-thunder'd Sure-footed Dun had kept her legs, And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs."

MATTHEW GREEN.

MATTHEW GREEN, a truly original poet, was born, is further attested, that he was a man of great probably at London, in 1696. His parents were re- probity and sweetness of disposition, and that his spectable Dissenters, who brought him up within conversation abounded with wit, but of the most inthe limits of the sect. His learning was confined 10 offensive kind. He seems to have been subject to a little Latin; but, from the frequency of his clas- low-spirits, as a relief from which he composed his sical allusions, it may be concluded that what he principal poem, "The Spleen.” He passed his read when young, he did not forget. The austerity life in celibacy, and died in 1737, at the early age in which he was educated had the effect of inspiring of forty-one, in lodgings in Gracechurch-street. him with seitled disgust; and he fled from the The poems of Green, which were not made pubgloom of dissenting worship when he was no longer lic till after his death, consist of “ The Spleen;" compelled to attend it. Thus set loose from the "The Grotto;" “ Verses on Barclay's Apology;" opinions of his youth, he speculated very freely “ The Seeker," and some smaller pieces, all comon religious topics, and at length adopted the sys- prised in a small volume. In manner and subject tem of outward compliance with established forms, they are some of the most original in our language. and inward laxity of belief. He seems at one They rank among the easy and familiar, but are time to have been much inclined to the principles replete with uncommon thoughts, new and striking of Quakerism; but he found that its practice would images, and those associations of remote ideas by not agree with one who lived by pulling off the some unexpected similitudes, in which wit prin. hat." We find that he had obtained a place in the cipally consists. Few poems will bear more re. Custom-house, the duties of which he is said to have peated perusals ; and, with those who can fully enter discharged with great diligence and fidelity. It into them, they do not fail to become favorites.

School-helps I want, to climb on high,
THE SPLEEN.*

Where all the ancient treasures lie,
And there unseen commit a theft

On wealth in Greek exchequers left.
AN EPISTLE TO MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.

Then where? from whom? what can I steal, This motley piece to you I send,

Who only with the moderns deal ? Who always were a faithful friend ;

This were attempting to put on Who, if disputes should happen hence,

Raiment from naked bodies won :t Can best explain the author's sense ;

They safely sing before a thief, And, anxious for the public weal,

They cannot give who want relief; Do, what I sing, so often feel.

Some few excepted, names well known, The want of method pray excuse,

And justly laureld with renown, Allowing for a vapor’d Muse :

Whose stamps of genius mark their ware, Nor to a narrow path confin'd,

And theft detects : of thest beware ; Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

From More so lash'd, example fit, The child is genuine, you may trace

Shun petly larceny in wit. Throughout the sire's transmitted face.

First know, my friend, I do not mean
Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean,

To write a treatise on the spleen;
Draws from the spring she finds within ;
Nor vainly buys what Gildont sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

† A painted vest Prince Vortiger had on,

Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won. *“In this poem,” Mr. Melmoth says, “there are more

HOWARD's British Princes. original thoughts thrown together than he had ever read in the same compass of lines."

§ James More Smith, Esq. Sce Dunciad, B. ii. I. 50. and FirZOSBORNE's Letters, p. 114. the notes, where the circumstances of the transaction + Gildon's Art of Poetry.

here alluded to are very fully explained.

Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse;

A strict dissenter saying grace, Nor mend th' alarum-watch, your pulse.

A lect'rer preaching for a place, If I am right, your question lay,

Folks, things prophetic to dispense, What course I take to drive away

Making the past the future tense, The day-mare, Spleen, by whose false pleas The popish dubbing of a priest, Men prove mere suicides in ease;

Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas'd, And how I do myself demean

Green-apron'd Pythonissa's rage, In stormy world to live serene.

Great Æsculapius on his stage,
When by its magic-lantern Spleen

A miser starving to be rich,
With frightful figures spreads life's scene, The prior of Newgate's dying speech,
And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears,

A jointur'd widow's ritual state,
A stranger to the luck of heirs;

Two Jews disputing tête-à-tête,
Reason, some quiet to restore,

New almanacs compos'd by seers,
Show'd part was substance, shadow more; Experiments on felons' ears,
With Spleen's dead weight though heavy grown, Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
In life's rough tide I sunk not down,

The superb muscle of the eye,
But swam, till Fortune threw a rope,

A coquet's April-weather face, Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.

A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace, I always choose the plainest food

And fops in military show, To mend viscidity of blood.

Are sov'reign for the case in view. Hail! water-gruel, healing power,

If spleen-fogs rise at close of day, Of easy access to the poor;

I clear my ev'ning with a play, Thy help love's confessors implore,

Or to some concert take my way, And doctors secretly adore ;

The company, the shine of lights,
To thee I fly, by thee dilute-

The scenes of humor, music's flights,
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot, Adjust and sel the soul to rights.
And by swist current throws off clean

Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays, Prolific particles of Spleen.

To others' grief attention raise : I never sick by drinking grow,

Here, while the tragic fictions glow, Nor keep myself a cup too low,

We borrow joy by pitying woe; And seldom Chloe's lodgings haunt,

There gaily comic scenes delight, Thrifiy of spirits, which I want.

And hold true mirrors to our sight. Hunting I reckon very good,

Virtue, in charming dress array'd, To brace the nerves, and stir the blood :

Calling the passions to her aid, But after no field-honors itch,

When moral scenes just actions join, Achiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.

Takes shape, and shows her face divine. While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed,

Music bas charms, we all may find, Or o'er coal fires inclines the head,

Ingratiate deeply with the mind. Hygeia's sons with hound and horn,

When art does sound's high pow'r advance, And jovial cry, awake the Morn.

To music's pipe the passions dance ; These see her from the dusky plight,

Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shown, Smear'd by th' embraces of the Night,

Tarantulated by a tune. With roral wash redeem her face,

Many have held the soul to be And prove herself of Titan's race,

Nearly allied to harmony. And, mounting in loose robes the skies,

Her have I known indulging grief, Shed light and fragrance as she flies.

And shunning company's relief, Then horse and hound fierce joy display,

Unveil her face, and, looking round, Exulting at the hark-away,

Own, by neglecting sorrow's wound, And in pursuit o'er tainted ground,

The consanguinity of sound. From lungs robust field-notes resound.

In rainy days keep double guard, Then, as St. George the dragon slew,

Or Spleen will surely be too hard ; Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view; Which, like those fish by sailors met, While all their spirits are on wing,

Fly highest, while their wings are wet. And woods, and hills, and valleys ring.

In such dull weather, so unfit To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen,

To enterprise a work of wit, Some recommend the bowling-green;

When clouds one yard of azure sky, Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ;

That's fit for simile, deny, Fling but a stone, the giant dies;

I dress my face with studious looks, Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been

And shorten tedious hours with books Extreme good doctors for the Spleen,

But if dull fogs invade the head, And kitten, if the humor hit,

That mem'ry minds not what is read, Has harlequin'd away the fit.

I sit in window dry as ark, Since mirth is good in this behalf,

And on the drowning world remark: At some partic'lars let us laugh.

Or to some coffee-house I stray
Witlings, brisk fools, curst with half sense, For news, the manna of a day,
That stimulates their impotence ;

And from the hipp'd discourses gather,
Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind Aies, That politics go by the weather:
Err with their wings for want of eyes.

Then seek good-humor'd tavern chums,
Poor authors worshipping a calf,

And play at cards, but for small sums; Deep tragedies that make us laugh,

Or with the merry fellows quaff,

Nor lay out so much cost and art,
And laugh aloud with them that laugh ; But to deflow'r the virgin heart;
Or drink a joco-serious cup

Of every folly-fost'ring bed
With souls who've took their freedom up, By quick’ning heat of custom bred.
And let my mind, beguil'd by talk,

Rather than by your culture spoil'd,
In Epicurus' garden walk,

Desist, and give us nature wild, Who thought it Heav'n to be serene;

Delighted with a hoyden soul, Pain, Hell, and Purgatory, Spleen.

Which truth and innocence control. Sometimes I dress, with women sit,

Coquets, leave off affected arts, And chat away the gloomy fit;

Gay fowlers at a flock of hearts ; Quit the stiff garb of serious sense,

Woodcocks to shun your snares have skill, And wear a gay impertinence,

You show so plain, you strive to kill. Nor think nor speak with any pains,

In love the artless catch the game, But lay on Fancy's neck the reins ;

And they scarce miss who never aim. Talk of unusual swell of waist

The world's great Author did create In maid of honor loosely lac'd,

The sex to fit the nuptial state, And beauty borr'wing Spanish red,

And meant a blessing in a wife And loving pair with sep’rate bed,

To solace the fatigues of life; And jewels pawn'd for loss of game,

And old inspired times display, And then redeem'd by loss of fame;

How wives could love, and yet obey. Of Kitty (aunt left in the lurch

Then truth, and patience of control, By grave pretence to go to church)

And housewife arts, adorn’d the soul ; Perceiv'd in hack with lover fine,

And charms, the gift of Nature, shone ; Like Will and Mary on the coin:

And jealousy, a thing unknown: And thus in modish manner we,

Veils were the only masks they wore ; In aid of sugar, sweeten tea.

Novels (receipts to make a whore) Permit, ye fair, your idol form,

Nor ombre, nor quadrille, they knew, Which e'en the coldest heart can warm, Nor Pam's puissance felt at loo. May with its beauties grace my line,

Wise men did not, to be thought gay, While I bow down before its shrine,

Then compliment their pow'r away: And your throng'd altars with my lays

But lest, by frail desires misled, Perfume, and get by giving praise.

The girls forbidden paths should tread, With speech so sweet, so sweet a mien

Of ign'rance rais'd the safe high wall; You excommunicate the Spleen,

We sink haw-haws, that show them all. Which, fiend-like, flies the magic ring

Thus we at once solicit sense, You form with sound, when pleas'd to sing ; And charge them not to break the fence. Whate'er you say, howe'er you move,

Now, if untir'd, consider, friend, We look, we listen, and approve.

What I avoid to gain my end. Your louch, which gives to feeling bliss,

I never am at meeting seen, Our nerves officious throng to kiss ;

Meeting, that region of the Spleen ; By Celia's pat, on their report,

The broken heart, the busy fiend, The grave-air'd soul, inclin'd to sport,

The inward call, on Spleen depend. Renounces wisdom's sullen pomp,

Law, licens'd breaking of the peace, And loves the floral game, to romp.

To which vocation is disease : But who can view the pointed rays,

A gipsy diction scarce known well That from black eyes scintillant blaze ?

By th' magi, who law-fortunes tell, Love on his throne of glory seems

I shun; nor let it breed within Encompass'd with satellite beams.

Anxiety, and that the Spleen; But when blue eyes, more softly bright,

Law, grown a forest, where perplex Diffuse benignly humid light,

The mazes, and the brambles vex; We gaze, and see the smiling loves,

Where its twelve verd'rers every day And Cythereas gentle doves,

Are changing still the public way: And raptur'd fix in such a face

Yet, if we miss our path and err, Love's mercy-seat, and throne of grace.

We grievous penalties incur; Shine but on age, you melt its snow;

And wand'rers tire, and tear their skin, Again fires long-extinguish'd glow,

And then get out where they went in. And, charm’d by witchery of eyes,

I never game, and rarely bet, Blood long congealed liquefies !

Am loth to lend, or run in debt. True miracle, and fairly done

No compter-writs me agitate; By heads which are ador'd while on.

Who moralizing pass the gate, But oh, what pity 'tis to find

And there mine eyes on spendthrifts turn, Such beauties both of form and mind,

Who vainly o’er their bondage mourn. By modern breeding much debas'd,

Wisdom, before beneath their care, In half the female world at least !

Pays her upbraiding visits there,
Hence I with care such lott’ries shun,

And forces folly through the grate,
Where, a prize miss'd, I'm quite undone ; Her panegyric to repeat.
And han't, by vent'ring on a wife,

This view, profusely when inclind,
Yet run the greatest risk in life.

Enters a caveat in the mind : Mothers, and guardian aunts, forbear

Experience join'd with common sense, Your impious pains to form the fair,

To mortals is a providence.