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VERSES, Decusioned by the pusillanimous conduct of a Magis

trate, in a Riot which happened at Frome, in Somersetshire.

Ye conservators of the public peace,
Who in your country's service pass your days,
Who deal impartial justice here and there,
And make the laws your study and your care,
To you the muse now dedicates her lay,
And states a fact which happen'd t'other day.

A large tumultuous body of the poor Assembled lately at a tradesman's door, With honest, but mistaken zeal inspir’d, Against a scribbling engine they conspir’d, And, driving ceremony far away, Through doors and windows forc'd their eager way, Seiz'd the devoted victim, neck and heels, And broke the cranks, the cylinders, and wheels, Dealt such destruction on the poor machine, That nought but scatter'd fragments could be seen. In vain mechanic skill, and plaistic art, With nice construction moulded ev'ry part; In vain the ingenuity of inan Contriv’d, and to perfection brought the plan; In vain each finish’d, well adjusted wheel, Mov'd round its axis with consummate skill

I; In vain its nicely fashion’d pow'rs display'd A source of great advantage to the trade;


In vain, tho' hid from sight its polish'd frame,
The keen-nos'd multitude soon snuff’d the game,
Dragg’d the conceald automaton away
To quick destruction, in the face of day,
And shouted o'er the ruins as they lay.
Its organiz'd and well adjusted form
Afforded no protection from the storm,
Nor could assembled clothiers stop the deed,
Or save their favorite in the hour of need.
Yet still they thought, the mischief being o'er,
The people would disperse and meet no more;
But no! the mob had other fish to fry,
And other goodly engines in their eye,
For now they hop'd th’ auspicious hour was come
When all machinery would meet its doom.
Impress’d with this idea, who could say
What devastation might have mark'd the day,
Had not some prudent men of influence,
Of reputation, temper, and good sense,
Stepp'd forward to the madd’ning populace,
And, by persuasion, kept the public peace.

'Twas well they did, for not a justice came
To read the riot act, or quench the flame.
One magistrate (a clergyman by trade)
To whom some gentlemen apply'd for aid,
Who liv'd but two miles distant from the place,
Refus'd to grant the citizens redress :
Poor gentleman! no sooner did he hear
The sound of riot, than he quak'd for fear;

And, when the messenger detail'd the news,
Shook like an aspen leaf, and begg'd excuse,
Altho' a carriage waited at his gate
To bear his Worship to the town in state.

Do not our bosoms with resentment glow,
And does not injur'd justice feel the blow?
Of what avail are magistrates like these?
Mere cyphers, not preservers of the peace;
Whose delegated power, when thus abus’d,
Whose high authority, thus basely us’d,
Should, with indignant scorn, be snatch'd away
From those who such important trusts betray.

Strict is the duty of a magistrate, A duty, which he dares not violate; The laws enjoin activity and zeal, And close attention to the public weal. To fly froin danger, howsoever near, To shrink through favour, or decline through fear, To say to those who for assistance come, “ Self preservation bids me stay at home!” In such a violation of your trust, So pusillanimous, and so unjust, That no excuse, but illness, should avail To save your Worship from the county goal.

Away! then, with such useless men of straw, And give us better guardians of the law;

Men with no terror quiv'ring in their veins,
With no unmanly marrow in their brains ;
Men who, amid the tumults of the age,
Dare interfere to calm a people's rage :
Or, if such lenient measures wo’nt avail,
Commit the rioter’s at once to goal.

Such men alone should execute the laws,
Who, disregarding censure, or applause,
Are ever active to preserve the peace,
And save the name of Justice from disgrace.

Mr. Bowden.


Tom meets his friend, and strait complains

sad and doleful strains :

“Ah, Jack, what must I do? My sweetheart's wed! the semistress fair ; Eternal grief must be my share !

You smile-but it's too true!

“ But nothing mads me more than t see Who the man is she's chang'd for me ;

A Barber, on my soul!” “ You fool," says Jack, “what makes you mourn? Pray, whither should the Needle tu If not unto the Pole?"

British Magazine.


To the lily's milk-white glow,
Add the rose bud ere it blow;
To Raphael's touch, and Titian's dye,
Add Corregio's symmetry;

Iv'ry bring from Africk's shore,
Corals thence, where billows roar;
Ebony and shining jet,
All be in the casket met;

In Arabia's land exhale, Odours from the spicy gale; Rich perfumes from India bring, Catch the meadow's sweets in spring;

More the picture to adorn, Draw the blushes of the morn; In Aurora's flowing vest, Lightly be the damsel drest;

Shape and air of Venus show, Let the graces smiles bestow; Lastly, to complete the whole, Give the nymph Minerva's soul;

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