LYRICAL AND MISCELLANEOUS.
TO AN IMPERTINENT MUSICIAN.
OUR herald hath proclaimed this saying:
"See Esop dancing," and his monkey playing.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears:
"An't please you," quoth John, "I'm not given to letters,
Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;
Howe'er, from this time I shall ne'er see your graces,
As I hope to be saved! without thinking on asses.
ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
SURE 't was by Providence designed,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
TO IRIS, IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make
Expressive of my duty?
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver
Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift, who slights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give — and let them :
If gems or gold impart a joy,
I'll give them—when I get them.
I'll give-but not the full-blown rose,
Or rosebud more in fashion;
Such short-lived offerings but disclose
A transitory passion.
I'll give thee something yet unpaid,
Not less sincere than civil:
I'll give theeah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil!
IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.
LOGICIANS have but ill-defined
As rational the human mind;
Reason, they say, belongs to man —
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglecius,
By ratiocinations specious,
Have strove to prove with great precision,
With definition and division,
Homo est ratione præditum
But for my soul I cannot credit 'em :
And must in spite of them maintain
That man and all his ways are vain,
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature ;
That instinct is a surer guide
Than reason, boasting mortals' pride,
And that brute beasts are far before 'em :
Deus est anima brutorum.
Who ever knew an honest brute
At law his neighbor prosecute;
Bring action for assault and battery,
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfined,
No politics disturb their mind;
They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go
To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job.
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster-row :
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets, or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confessed, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion,
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him, humbly cringing, wait
Upon the minister of state:
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors;
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;
At court, the porters, lackeys, waiters,
Their masters' manners still contract
And footmen lords and dukes can act.
Thus, at the court, both great and small
Behave alike for all ape all.
IMITATED FROM THE FRENCH OF SAINT PAVIN.
WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight-
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears the approaching bridal night.
Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra followed my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.
AMIDST the clamor of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O WOLFE, to thee a streaming flood of woe
Sighing we pay, and think even conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
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