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THE FRISEUR.

THE fair Jezebella what art can adorn,

Whose cheeks are like roses, that blush in the morn?
As bright were her locks as in Heaven are seen
Presented for stars by th' Egyptian queen;

But alas! the sweet nymph they no longer must deck,
No more shall they flow o'er her ivory neck;
Those tresses, which Venus might take as a favour,
Fall a victim at once to an outlandish shaver;
Her head has he robb'd with as little remorse,
As a foxhunter crops both his dogs and his horse:
A wretch, that, so far from repenting his theft,
Makes a boast of tormenting the little that's left:
And first at her porcupine head he begins
To fumble and poke with his irons and pins,
Then fires all his crackers with horrid grimace,
And puffs his vile rocambole breath in her face,
Discharging a steam that the devil would choke,
From paper, pomatum, from powder, and smoke.
The patient submits, and with due resignation,
Prepares for her fate in the next operation.
When lo! on a sudden, a monster appears,
A horrible monster, to cover her ears;-
What sign of the zodiac is it he bears?
Is it Taurus's tail, or the tête de mouton,

Or the beard of the Goat, that he dares to put on?
'Tis a wig en vergette, that from Paris was brought,
Une tête comme il faut, that the varlet has bought,
Of a beggar, whose head he has shav'd for a groat;
Now fix'd to her head, does he frizzle and dab it;
'Tis a foretop no more. 'Tis the skin of a rabbit.-
'Tis a muff-'tis a thing, that by all is confess'd
Is in colour and shape like a chaffinch's nest.

O cease, ye fair virgins, such pains to employ, The beauties of nature with paint to destroy;

See Venus lament, see the Loves and the Graces,
All pine at the injury done to your faces!

Ye have eyes, lips, and nose, but your heads are no more
Than a doll's, that is plac'd at a milliner's door.

BATH GUIDE.

A COMPARISON.

AS when the moon, refulgent lamp of night!
O'er Heav'n's clear azure spreads her sacred light,
When not a breath disturbs the deep serene,
And not a cloud o'ercasts the solemn scene;
Around her throne the vivid planets roll,
And stars unnumber'd gild the glowing pole,
O'er the dark trees a yellower verdure shed,
And tip with silver ev'ry mountain's head;
Then shine the vales, the rocks in prospect rise,
A flood of glory bursts from all the skies:
The conscious swains, rejoicing in the sight,
Eye the blue vault, and bless the useful light.

A WINTER PIECE.

POPE'S ILIAD.

IT was a winter's evening, and fast came down the snow,
And keenly o'er the wide heath the bitter blast did blow,
When a damsel all forlorn, quite bewildered in her way,
Press'd her baby to her bosom, and sadly thus did say :
"Oh cruel was my father, that shut his door on me,
And cruel was my mother, that such a sight could see;
And cruel is the wintry wind, that chills my heart with
cold;

But crueller than all the lad, that left my love for gold! Hush, hush, my lovely baby, and warm thee in my breast;

Ah! little thinks thy father how sadly we're distress'd;

For, cruel as he is, did he know but how we fare,
He'd shield us in his arms from this bitter piercing air.

Cold, cold, my dearest jewel! thy little life is gone: Oh let my tears revive thee, so warm that trickle down; My tears that gush so warm, oh they freeze before they fall,

Ah wretched, wretched mother! thou'rt now bereft of all."
Then down she sunk, despairing, upon the drifted snow,
And, wrung with killing anguish, lamented loud her wo;
She kiss'd her baby's pale lips, and laid it by her side,
Then cast her eyes to Heaven, then bow'd her head, and
died.
DR. AIKIN.

MATERNAL LOVE.

THRICE holy pow'r, whose fost'ring, bland embrace,
Shields the frail scions of each transient race,
To whom fair nature trusts the teeming birth,
That fills the air, that crowds the peopled Earth,
Maternal Love! thy watchful glances roll
From zone to zone, from pole to distant pole;
Cheer the long patience of the brooding hen,
Sooth the she fox, that trembles in her den,
'Mid Greenland ice-caves warm the female bear,
And rouse the tigress from her sultry lair.
At thy command, what zeal, what ardour fires
The softer sex! a mightier soul inspires:
Lost to themselves, our melting eyes behold
Prudent, the simple; and the timid, bold..
All own thy sway, save where, on Simoom wing,
Triumphant sailing o'er the blasted spring
(Whether in Otaheitan groves accurs'd,

Or Europe's polish'd scenes the fiend be nurs'd),
Unhallow'd Love bids Nature's self depart,

And makes a desert of the female heart.

LUCY AIKIN.

A MOTHER TO HER WAKING INFANT.

NOW in thy dazzling, half op'd eye,
Thy curled nose, and lip awry,

Thy up-hoist arms, and noddling head,
And little chin with crystal spread,
Poor helpless thing! what do I see,
That I should sing of thee?

From thy poor tongue no accents come,
Which can but rub thy toothless gum;
Small understanding boasts thy face,
Thy shapeless limbs nor step nor grace,
A few short words thy feats may tell,
And yet, I love thee well.

When sudden wakes the bitter shriek,
And redder swells thy little cheek;
When rattled keys thy woes beguile,

And through the wet eye gleams the smile,
Still for thy weakly self is spent

Thy little silly plaint.

But when thy friends are in distress,
Thou'lt laugh and chuckle ne'er the less;
Nor ev'n with sympathy be smitten,
Though all are sad but thee and kitten;
Yet, little varlet that thou art,

Thou twitchest at the heart.

Thy rosy cheek, so soft and warm ;
Thy pinky hand, and dimpled arm;
Thy silken locks, that scant❜ly peep,
With gold-tipp'd ends, where circles deep
Around thy neck in harmless grace,
So soft and sleekly hold their place,
Might harder hearts with kindness fill,
And gain our right good will.

Each passing clown bestows his blessing,
Thy mouth is worn with old wives kissing:
Ev'n lighter looks the gloomy eye

Of surly sense, when thou art by ;
And yet, I think, whoe'er they be,
They love thee not like me.

Perhaps, when time shall add a few
Short years to thee, thou'lt love me too:
Then wilt thou, through life's weary way,
Become my sure and cheering stay;
Wilt care for me, and be my hold,
When I am weak and old.

Thou'lt listen to my lengthen'd tale,
And pity me, when I am frail.
But see! the sweepy spinning fly,
Upon the window, takes thine eye.
Go to thy little senseless play;
Thou dost not heed my lay.

DESCRIPTION OF ITALY.

SEE how the golden groves around me smile, That shun the coast of Britain's stormy isle; Or, when transplanted and preserv'd with care, Curse the cold clime, and starve in northern air. Here kindly warmth their mounting juice ferments To nobler tastes, and more exalted scents: Ev'n the rough rocks with tender myrtle bloom; And trodden weeds send out a rich perfume. Bear me, some god, to Baia's gentle seats, Or cover me in Umbria's green retreats; Where western gales eternally reside, And all the seasons lavish all their pride;

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