THE

NEWSPAPER.

È quibus, hi vacuas implent sermonibus aures,

Hi narrata ferunt aliò; mensuráque ficti

Crescit, et auditis aliquid novus adjicit auctor :
Illic credulitas, illic temerarius error,
Vanáque lætitia est, consternatique timores,
Seditióque repens, dubióque auctore susurri,

OVID. Metamorph. Lib. xii.

A TIME like this, a busy, bustling time,
Suits ill with Writers, very ill with Rhyme;
Unheard we sing when Party-rage runs strong,
And mightier Madness checks the flowing Song:
Or should we force the peaceful Muse to wield
Her feeble Arms amid the furious Field;
Where Party-Pens a wordy War maintain,
Poor is her Anger and her Friendship vain;

And oft the Foes who feel her Sting, combine,
Till serious Vengeance pays an idle Line;
For Party-Poets are like Wasps, who dart fre
Death to themselves and to their Foes but smart.

Hard then our Fate; if general Themes we choose,

Neglect awaits the Song, and chills the Muse;
Or should we sing the Subject of the Day,
To-morrow's Wonder puffs our Praise away.
More blest the Bards of that Poetic Time,

When all found Readers who could find a Rhyme;
Green grew the Bays on every teeming Head, eas
And Cibber was enthron'd and Settle read. On
Sing, drooping Muse, the Cause of thy Decline,
Why reign no more the once triumphant Nine
Alas! new Charms the wavering Many gain,
And rival Sheets the Reader's Eye detain;
A daily Swarm, that banish every Muse, ::
Come flying forth, and Mortals call them NEWS:
For these, unread the noblest Volumes lie an

For these, in Sheets unsoil'd the Muses die;
Unbought, unblest, the virgin Copies wait,
In vain for Fame, and sink, unseen, to fate.

Since, then, the Town forsakes us for our Foes,

The smoothest Numbers for the harshest Prose; V

Let us, with generous scorn, the Taste deride,

And sing our Rivals with a Rival's Pride.

2

Ye gentle Poets, who so oft complain

That foul Neglect is all your Labours gain ;
That Pity only checks your growing spite

To erring Man and prompts you still to write ;
That your choice Works on humble Stalls are laid,!
Or vainly grace the Windows of the Trade; a
Be ye my Friends, if Friendship e'er can warm
Those rival Bosoms whom the Muses charm:
Think of the common Cause, wherein we go,
Like gallant Greeks against the Trojan foe;

Nor let one prevish Chief his Leader blame,
Till crown'd with Conquest we regain our Fame; ?
And let us join our Forces to subdue.

This bold assuming but successful Crew.

Quaisves. 911 1

2001 *

A

I sing of NEws, and all those vapid Sheets for whị The rattling Hawker vends thro' gaping Streets; Whate'er their Name, whate'er the Time they fly, Damp from the Press, to charm the Reader's Eye: ngà For, soon as Morning dawns with roscate hue, h The HERALD of the Morn arises too;

POST after Post succeeds, and all day long, modă

GAZETTES and LEDGERS swarm, a noisy throug.
When Evening comes, she comes with all her train
Of LEDGERS, CHRONICLES, and Posts again,
Like Bats appearing when the Sun goes down,
From Holes obscure and Corner of the Town.

Of all these Triflers, all like these, I write

okuna Oh! like my Subject could my Song delight, a vo The Crowd at Lloyd's one Poet's Name should raise,} :) And all the Alley echo to his praise. fof wid mutv.91 In shoals the Hours their constant Numbers bring,... 15 Like Insects waking to th' advancing Spring.

Which take their rise from Grubs obscene that lie,

In shallow Pools, or thencé ascend the SkyNAS Such are these base Ephemeras, so born on IT, To die before the next revolving Morm

Yet thus they differ: Insect-tribes are lost ono brok In the first Visit of a Winter's Frost''nwana gi While these remain, a base but constant Breed,

Whose swarming Sons their short-liv'd Sires succeed ;*; No changing Season makes their Number less,

Nor Sunday shines a Sabbath on the Press !o a ki

Whose pious face some sacred Texts adorns von surp As artful Sinners cloak the secret Singerne pod To veil with seeming Grace the Guile within assi

So Moral Essays on his Front appear,

But all is Carnal Business in the Rear
The fresh-coin'd Lie, the Secret whisper'd last,

And all the Gleanings of the six Days past.
With these retir❜d, thro' half the Sabbath-day,

The London-lounger yawns his Hours away :

Not so, my little Flock, your Preacher fly,

Nor waste the Time no worldly Wealth can buy ;)

But let the decent Maid and sober Clown,

Pray for these Idlers of the sinful Town:
This Day at least, on nobler Themes bestow,
Nor give to Woodfall, or the World below...

But, Sunday past, what Numbers flourish then, What wond'rous Labours of the Press and Pen! Diurnal most, some thrice each Week affords, Some only once, O Avarice of Words!·

When thousand starving Minds such Manna seek*,
To drop the precious Food but once a Week.

Endless it were to sing the Powers of all,

Their Names, their Numbers; how they rise and fall;
Like baneful Herbs the Gazer's eye they seize,
Rush to the head and poison where they please;
Like idle Flies, a busy, buzzing train,

They drop their Maggots in the Trifler's brain:
That genial Soil receives the fruitful store,
And there they grow, and breed a thousand more...

Now be their Arts display'd, how first they choose. A Cause and Party, as the Bard his Muse;

The Manna of the Day. Green's Spleen.