LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED.
O'er MURRAY's loss the muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,
Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.
There Mem'ry, like the bee, that's fed
From Flora's balmy store,
The quintessence of all he read
Had treasured up before.
The lawless herd, with fury blind,
Have done him cruel wrong;
The flowers are gone-but still we find
The honey on his tongue.
LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED:
THUS says the prophet of the Turk,
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May taste, whate'er his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd;
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
It may be proper to 'nform the rea'er, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unneces nry additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Journal, without the author's privity.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said
He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.
Thus conscience freed from every clog
Mahometans eat up the hog.
You laugh-'tis well-The tale applied May make you laugh on t' other side. Renounce the world-the preacher cries. We do a multitude replies.
While one as innocent regards
A snug and friendly game at cards:
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in the play;
Some love a concert, or a race;
And others shooting, and a chase.
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he;
With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.
OF MRS. (NOW LADY) THROCKMORTON'S
YE nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,
O share Maria's grief;
Her fav'rite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage ?)
Assassin'd by a thief.
ON THE DEATH OF A BULFINCH.
Where Rhenus strays his vines among.
The egg was laid from which he sprung,
And, though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle bless'd,
Well-taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flageolet or flute.
The honours of his ebon poll
Were brighter than the sleekest mole?
His bosom of the hue
With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.
Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest-shaven wood,
Large-built, and lattic'd well.
Well lattic'd-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage' sake,
But smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried.
The swains their baskets make.
Night veil'd the pole; all seem'd secure ;
When led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,
A beast forth sallied on the scout,
Long-back'd, long-tail'd, with whisker'd snout,
And badger-colour'd hide.
He, entering at the study-door
Its ample area 'gan t' explore;
And something in the wind
Conjectured, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.
Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;
In sleep he seem'd to view
A rat fast clinging to the cage,
And screaming at the sad presage,
Awoke and found it true.
For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went-
Ah, muse! forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensued;
His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-
He left poor Bully's beak.
He left it, but he should have ta'en
That beak, whence issued many a train
Of such mellifluous tone,
Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.
Maria weeps-the muses mourn-
So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus's side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.
THE rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a shower,
Which Mary to Anna convey'd,
The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flower,
And weigh'd down its beautiful head.
The cup was all fill'd and the leaves were all wet,
And it seem'd to a fanciful view,
To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.
I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was
For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd.
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas!
I snapp'd it; it fell to the ground.
And such I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,
Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.
This elegant rose had I shaken it less,
Might have bloom'd with its owner a while And the tear that is wip'd with a ltttle address May be followed perhaps by a smile.
REAS'NING at every step he treads,
Man yet mistakes his way,
While meaner things, whom instinct leads
Are rarely known to stray.
One silent eve I wander'd late,
And heard the voice of love;
The turtle thus address'd her mate,
And sooth'd the list'ning dove:
Our mutual bond of faith and truth
No time shall disengage,
Those blessings of our early youth
Shall cheer our latest age:
While innocence without disguise,
And constancy sincere.
Shall fill the circles of those eyes,
And mine can read them there:
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