And if you touch their aldermanic pride,
Bid dark reflection tell how Savage died!
Go to
and copy worthy
Ah! what a sharp experienc'd genius that:
Well he prepares his bottle and his jest,
An alderman is no unwelcome guest;
Adult'rate talents and adult'rate wine
May make another drawling rascal shine;
His known integrity outvies a court,
His the dull tale, original the port :
Whilst loud he entertains the sleepy cits,
And rates his wine according to his wits,
Should a trite pun by happy error please,
His worship thunders at the laughing Mease; *
And Mease inserts this item in his bill,
Five shillings for a jest with ev'ry gill.
How commendable this to turn at once

To good account the vintner and the dunce,

And, by a very hocus-pocus hit,

Dispose of damaged claret and bad wit.

Search through the ragged tribe who drink small beer,

And sweetly echo in his worship's ear,

What are the wages of the tuneful nine,—

What are their pleasures when compared to mine?

* Matthew Mease, vintner. He kept the Bush, and was succeeded by John Weeks, who married his sister. Mease's father kept the Nag's Head, in Wine Street.-Dix.

Happy I eat, and tell my num'rous pence,
Free from the servitude of rhyme or sense :
Though sing-song Whitehead ushers in the year
With joy to Briton's king and sovereign dear,
And, in compliance to an ancient mode,
Measures his syllables into an ode ;

Yet such the sorry merit of his muse,

He bows to deans and licks his lordship's shoes.
Then leave the wicked, barren way of rhyme,
Fly far from poverty-be wise in time-
Regard the office more—)
-Parnassus less-
Put your religion in a decent dress;

Then may your interest in the town advance,
Above the reach of muses or romance.

Besides, the town (a sober, honest town,

Which smiles on virtue, and gives vice a frown) Bids censure brand with infamy her name, I, even I, must think you are to blame. Is there a street within this spacious place That boasts the happiness of one fair face, Where conversation does not turn on you, Blaming your wild amours, your morals too, Oaths, sacred and tremendous oaths? You swear Oaths which might shock a Luttrell's soul to hear; These very oaths, as if a thing of joke, Made to betray, intended to be broke; Whilst the too tender and believing maid, (Remember pretty

) is betray'd;

Then your religion-ah, beware! beware!
Although a deist is no monster here;

Yet hide your tenets-priests are powerful foes,
And priesthood fetters justice by the nose:
Think not the merit of a jingling song

Can countenance the author's acting wrong;
Reform your manners, and with solemn air
Hear Catcott pray, and Robins squeak in prayer.
Robins, a reverend, cully-mully puff,

Who thinks all sermons, but his own, are stuff;
When harping on the dull, unmeaning text,
By disquisitions he's so sore perplex'd,
He stammers, instantaneously is drawn
A border'd piece of inspiration lawn,
Which being thrice unto his nose applied,
Into his pineal gland the vapours glide;
And now we hear the jingling doctor roar,
On subjects he dissected thrice before.
Honour the scarlet robe, and let the quill
Be silent when old Isaac eats his fill.
Regard thy interests, ever love thyself,
Rise into notice as you rise in pelf;

The muses have no credit here, and fame
Confines itself to the mercantile name.
Then clip imagination's wing, be wise,
And great in wealth, to real greatness rise;
Or if you must persist to sing and dream,
Let only panegyric be your theme;

With pulpit adulation tickle Cutts,*

And wreathe with ivy, Garden's tavern butts;
Find sentiment in Dampier's empty look,
Genius in Collins, harmony in Rooke;

Swear Broderip's horrid noise the tuneful spheres,
And rescue Pindar from the songs of Shears.
Would you still further raise the fairy ground,
Praise Broughton,-for his eloquence profound,
His generosity, and his sentiment,

His active fancy, and his thoughts on Lent:
Make North or Chatham canonize his Grace,
And beg a pension, or procure a place.

Damn'd narrow notions! notions which disgrace
The boasted reason of the human race:
Bristol may keep her prudent maxims still,
I scorn her prudence, and I ever will:
Since all my vices magnified are here,
She cannot paint me worse than I appear;
When raving in the lunacy of ink,

I catch my pen, and publish what I think.†

• Dr. Cutts Barton, Dean of Bristol.

+ Some of the lines in this poem appear also, with some slight alterations, in the "Whore of Babylon."

We have to thank Mr. Gutch and Mr. Dix conjointly for the poem called "Kew Gardens;" it is printed from the MS. of Mr. Isaac Reed, being contained in the late Mr. Haslewood's collection, now in the possession of Mr. Gutch. With the exception of some fragments, it was supposed to have been entirely lost. It consists of about 1200 lines, and is a great curiosity. The poet rambles mercilessly from London

to Bristol-from the Ministry to our Corporation-from national affairs to our domestic and civic tittle-tattle; one while abusing the bench of Bishops, and then condescending to throw his ink at the clergy of this diocese, abusing one after another, all without discrimination. The poem is altogether indeed a great acquisition, although he is dreadfully severe upon many who are known to have been of the highest respectability. But it may be taken for an axiom, generally speaking, that in the exact proportion that a man was worthy and good, in exactly the same inverse ratio would this untoward, but munificently talented boy abuse him and flog him, using absolutely a whip of scorpions.-Bristol Paper.

Successful attempts at satire were among the earliest manifestations of Chatterton's temperament and prematurity. A production of a more advanced age, entitled "Kew Gardens," contains many pointed lines and couplets: but who were the culprits under infliction is so well concealed behind rows of asterisms, that they might afterwards make their appearance with all effrontery as honest men, and nobody the wiser.-ECLECTIC REVIEW.