Quitting the cot's warm walls in filth to lie, Where the fwine grunting yields up half his fty; The damp night air her fhiv'ring limbs affails; In dreams the moans, and fancied wrongs bewails. When morning wakes, none earlier rous'd than the, When pendent drops fall glitt'ring from the tree; But nought her raylefs melancholy cheers, Or fooths her breaft, or ftops her ftreaming tears. Her matted locks unornamented flow ; Clafping her knees, and waving to and fro ;- Her head bow'd down, her faded cheek to hide; A piteous mourner by the pathway fide. Some tufted molehill through the livelong day She calls her throne; there weeps her life And oft the gaily paffing ftranger stays His well-tim'd ftep, and takes a filent gaze, Till fympathetic drops unbidden fiart,
And pangs quick fpringing mufter round his heart; And foft he treads with other gazers round,
And fain would catch her forrow's plaintive found: One word alone is all that strikes the ear, One fhort, pathetic, fimple word," Oh dear!" A thousand times repeated to the wind, That wafts the figh, but leaves the pang behind! For ever of the proffer'd parley fhy,
She hears th' unwelcome foot advancing nigh; Nor quite unconfcious of her wretched plight, Gives one fad look, and hurries out of fight—
Fair promis'd funbeams of terreftrial blifs, Health's gallant.hopes,-and are ye funk to this? For in Life's road though thorns abundant grow, There ftill are joys poor Poll can never know; Joys which the gay companions of her prime Sip, as they drift along the ftream of time; At eve to hear befide their tranquil home The lifted latch, that fpeaks the lover come: That love matur'd, next playful on the knee To prefs the velvet lip of infancy;
To ftay the tottering ftep, the features trace ;- Ineftimable sweets of focial peace!
CONTRAST between the POST-HORSE and FARMER'S HORSE.
HORT-fighted Dobbin!-thou can't only fee The trivial hardships that encompass thee: Thy chains were freedom, and thy toils repose, Could the poor poft-horfe tell thee all his woes; Shew thee his bleeding shoulders, and unfold The dreadful anguifh he endures for gold: Hir'd at each call of business, luft, or rage, That prompt the trav'ller on from stage to stage. Still on his ftrength depends their boasted speed; For them his limbs grow weak, his bare ribs bleed; And though he groaning quickens at command, Their extra fhilling in the rider's hand
Becomes his bitter fcourge:-'tis he must feel The double efforts of the lash and steel: Till when, up hill, the deftin'd inn he gains, And trembling under complicated pains, Prone from his noftrils, darting on the ground, His breath emitted floats in clouds around: Drops chale each other down his cheft and fides, And patter'd mud his native colour hides: Through his (woln veins the boiling torrent flows, And every nerve a feparate torture knows. His harness loos'd, he welcomes eager-eyed The pail's full draught that quivers by his fide; And joys to fee the well known stable door, As the ftarvid mariner the friendly fhore.
Ah, well for him if here his fuff'rings ceas'd, And ample hours of reft his pains appeas'd! But rous'd again, and fternly bade to rife, And thake refreshing flumber from his eyes, Ere his exhaufted fpirits can return,
Or through his frame reviving ardour burn, Come forth he muft, though limping, maim'd, and fore He hears the whip; the chaife is at the door :- The collar tightens, and again he feels
His half-heal'd wounds inflam'd; again the wheels With tirefome famenefs in his ears refound, O'er blinding duft, or miles of flinty ground. Thus nightly robb'd, and injur'd day by day, His piece-meal murd'rers wear his life away.
What fay'ft thou, Dobbin? what though hounds await With open jaws the moment of thy fate, No better fate attends his public race; His life is mifery, and his end difgrace. Then freely bear thy burden to the mill, Obey but one short law,-thy driver's will, Affection, to thy memory ever true,
Shall boaft of mighty loads that Dobbin drew; And back to childhood fhall the mind with pride Recount thy gentlenefs in many a ride
To pond, or field, or village fair, when thou Held'ft high thy braided mane and comely brow; And oft the tale fall rife to homely fame Upon thy gen'rous fpirit and thy name.
SUFFOLK CHEESE; from the fame.
TNRIVALL'D ftands thy country cheese, O Giles! Whofe very name alone engenders fmiles; Whose fame abroad by every tongue is spoke, The well-known butt of many a flinty joke, That pals like current coin the nation through; And, ah! experience proves the fatire true. Provifion's grave, thou ever craving mart, Dependent, huge metropolis! where art Her poring thousands ftows in breathless rooms, Midft pois'nous fmokes and fteams, and rattling looms; Where grandeur revels in unbounded stores; Reftraint, a flighted ftranger at their doors! Thou, like a whirlpool, drain'ft the countries round, Till London market, London price, refound Through every town, round every paffing load, And dairy produce throngs the eastern road: Delicious veal, and butter, every hour,
From Effex lowlands, and the banks of Stour; And farther far, where numerous herds repose, From Orwell's brink, from Weveny, or Oufe. Hence Suffolk dairy-wives run mad for cream, And leave their milk with nothing but its name; Its name derifion and reproach purfue,
And ftrangers tell of " three times fkimm'd fky-blue." To cheese converted, what can be its boast? What, but the common virtues of a post! If drought o'ertake it fafter than the knife, Moft fair it bids for ftubborn length of life,
And, like the oaken shelf whereon 'tis laid, Mocks the weak efforts of the bending blade; Or in the hog-trough refts in perfect fpite, Too big to fwallow, and too hard to bite. Inglorious victory! Ye Chefhire meads,
Or Severn's flow'ry dales, where plenty treads, Was your rich milk to fuffer wrongs like these, Farewell your pride! farewell renown'd cheese! The skimmer dread, whofe ravages alone Thus turn the mead's fweet nectar into ftone.
The RHYMING APOTHECARY; a Tale. By George Colman, Ejq.
A Man, in many a country town we know,
Profeffing openly with death to wrestle;
Ent'ring the field against the grimly foe, Arm'd with a mortar and a peftle.
Yet, fome affirm, no enemies they are; But meet, just like prize-fighters, in a fair: Who first shake hands before they box, Then give each other plaguy knocks, With all the love and kindness of a brother: So (many a fuff'ring patient faith)
Though the apothecary fights with death, Still they're fworn friends to one another.
A member of this Æfculapian line, Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne: No man could better gild a pill; Or make a bill;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blifter; Or draw a tooth out of your head; Or chatter fcandal by your bed; Or give a glister.
Of occupations these were quantum fuff: Yet ftill he thought the lift not long enough; And therefore midwifery he chofe to pin to't. This balanc'd things:-for if he hurl'd A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by bringing others into't.
His fame full fix miles round the country ran;
In fhort, in reputation he was folus:
All the old women call'd him " a fine man His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, though in trade,
(Which oftentimes will genius fetter) Read works of fancy it is faid;
And cultivated the Belles Lettres.
And why fhould this be thought fo odd? Can't men have taste who cure a phthyfick? Of poetry though patron God,
Apollo patronizes phyfic.
Bolus loved verfe;-and took fo much delight in't, That his prefcriptions he refolved to write in't. No opportunity he e'er let pafs
Of writing the directions on his labels, In dapper couplets like Gay's fables;
Or, rather, like the lines in Hudibras.
Apothecaries rhyme! and where's the treafon? Tis fimply honeft dealing-not a fault. When patients fwallow phyfic without reason, Is it not fair to give a little falt?
He had a patient lying at death's door,
Some three miles from the town-it might be four; To whom, one evening, Bolus fent an article, In Pharmacy, that's called cathartical.
And, on the label of the ftuff,
He wrote this verse;
Which one would think was clear enough,
And terfe:
"When taken,"
"To be well fhaken."
Next morning, early, Bolus rofe; And to the patient's houfe he goes;- Upon his pad,
Who a vile trick of stumbling had: It was indeed a very forry hack ;- But that's of course:
For what's expected from a horse, With an apothecary on his back? Bolus arrived; and gave a doubtful tap ;- Between a fingle and a double rap.—
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