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And bids their languid hearts rejoice,
And points to Raby's door ; With open heart, and open hands, There Hospitality—she stands,
A nymph, whom men and gods admire : Daughter of heavenly goodness she, Her sister's Generosity,
And Honour is her sire.
What though, my lord, betwixt us lie
Full many an envious league,
Such vast extent of sea and sky
As ev’n the eye fatigue ;
Though interposing ocean raves,
And heaves his heaven-assaulting waves,
While on the shores the billows beat,
Yet still my grateful muse is free
To tune her warmest strains to thee,
And lay them at thy feet.
Goodness is ever kindly prone
To feign what fate denies,
And others, want of worth to' atone,
Finds in herself supplies :
Thus dignity itself restrains,
By condescension's silken reins,
While you the lowly muse upraise :
When such the theme, so mean the bard,
Not to reject is to reward,
To pardon is to praise.
The sweets of evening charm the mind,
Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more confin’d,
But exercise with freedom join'd,
When Phæbus sheathes his ray.
While, all serene, the summer moon
Sends glances through the trees, And Philomel begins her tune, Asteria too shall help her soon
With voice of skilful ease.
A nosegay, every thing that grows,
And music, every sound,
To lull the sun to his repose ;
The skies are colour'd like the rose
With lively streaks around,
Of all the changes rung by time,
None half so sweet appear As those when thoughts themselves sublime, And with superior natures chime
In fancy's highest sphere.
What's honour, did your lordship say?
My lord, I humbly crave a day.-
'Tis difficult, and in my mind,
Like substance, cannot be defin'd.
It deals in numerous externals,
And is a legion of infernals ;
Sometimes in riot and in play,
"Tis breaking of the Sabbath-day;
When 'tis consider'd as a passion,
I deem it lust and fornication.
We pay our debts in honour's cause,
Lost in the breaking of the laws.
'Tis for some selfish impious end,
To murder the sincerest friend ;
But would you alter all the clan,
Turn out an honourable man-
Why take a pistol from the shelf,
And fight a duel with yourself.-
'Twas on a time, the Lord knows when,
In Ely, or in Lincoln fen,
A frog and mouse had long disputes,
Held in the language of the brutes,
Who of a certain pool and pasture
Should be the sovereign and master :
“Sir,” says the frog, (and d—n'd bis blood) “I hold that my pretension's good ;
Nor can a brute of reason doubt it,
For all that you can squeak about it."
The mouse, averse to be o'erpower'd,
Gave him the lie, and call'd him coward;
Too hard for any frog's digestion,
To have his froghood call'd in question !
A bargain instantly was made,
No mouse of honour could evade,
On the next morn, as soon as light,
With desperate bullrushes to fight;
The morning came—and man to man,
The grand monomachy began ;
Need I recount how each bravado
Shone in motant and in passado ;
To what a height their ire they carried,
How oft they thrusted and they parried ?
But as these champions kept dispensing
Finesses in the art of fencing,
A furious vulture took upon her
Quick to decide this point of honour,
And, lawyer-like, to make an end on't,
Devour'd both plaintiff and defendant.
Thus, often in our British nation
(I speak by way of application)
A lie direct to some hot youth,
The giving which perhaps was truth ;
The treading on a scoundrel's toe,
Or dealing impudence a blow;
Disputes in politics and law,
About a feather and a straw:
A thousand trifles not worth naming,
In whoring, jockeying, and gaming,
Shall cause a challenge's inditing,
And set two loggerheads a fighting ;
Meanwhile the father of despair,
The prince of vanity and air,
His quarry like an hawk discovering,
O'er their devoted heads hangs hovering,
Secure to get in his tuition
These volunteers for black perdition.
THE COUNTRY SQUIRE AND THE MANDRAKE.
The sun had rais'd above the mead
His glorious horizontal head;
Sad Philomela left her thorn ;
The lively linnets hymn’d the morn,
And nature, like a waking bride,
Her blushes spread on every
The cock as usual crow'd up Tray,
Who nightly with his master lay;
The faithful spaniel gave the word,
Trelooby at the signal stir'd,
And with his gun from wood to wood
The man of prey his course pursued;
The dew and herbage all around,
Like pearls and emeralds on the ground;
The' uncultur'd flowers that rudely rise,
Where smiling freedom art defies ;
The lark, in transport, towering high,
The crimson curtains of the sky,
Affected not Treloohy's mind-
For what is beauty to the blind?
The' amorous voice of sylvan love,
Form'd charming concerts in the grove ;
Sweet zephyr sigh'd on Flora's breast,
And drew the blackbird from his nest ;