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And savage men more murd’rous still than they : While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravag’d landscape with the skies. Far different these from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only shelter'd thefts of harmless love. Good Heaven! what sorrows gloom'd that parting day, That call'd them from their native walks away; When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, Hung round the bowers, and fondly look'd their last, And took a long farewell, and wish'd in vain For seats like these beyond the western main; And shudd'ring still to face the distant deep, Return'd and wept, and still return'd to weep. The good old sire the first prepar'd to go To new-found worlds, and wept for other's woe; But for himself, in conscious virtue brave, He only wish'd for worlds beyond the grave. His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years, Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lover's for a father's arms. With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes, And blest the cot where every pleasure rose; And kiss'd her thoughtless babes with many a tear, And claspt them close, in sorrow doubly dear; Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief, In all the silent manliness of grief. O, luxury ! thou curst by Heaven's decree, How ill exchang'd are things like these for thee! How do thy potions with insidious joy, Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy! Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown, Boast of a florid vigour not their own. At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe; Till sapp'd their strength, and every part unsound, Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round. Even now the devastation is begun, And half the business of destruction done; Even now, methinks, as pond'ring here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move, a melancholy band, Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand. Contented toil, and hospitable care, And kind connubial tenderness, are there; And piety with wishes plac'd above, And steady loyalty, and faithful love. And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade; Unfit in these degen'rate times of shame, To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; Dear charming nymph, neglected and decry’d; My shame in crowds, my solitary pride; Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe, That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so; Thou guide, by which the nobler arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well:

Farewell, and Ol where'er thy voice betro,
On Torno's cliffs, or Pambamarca's side,
Whether where equinoctial servours glow,
Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,
Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,
Redress the rigours of th' inclement clime;
Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive ana,
Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;
Teach him, that states of native strengthso
Though very poor, may still be very bet:
That trade's proud empire hastes to will decay,
As ocean sweeps the labour'd mole away;
While self-dependent power can time desy,
As rocks resist the billows and the *}.

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What have we gothere?—why, this is good eating! four own I suppose—or is it in waiting?” ‘Why, whose should it be?” cried I with a flounce— ‘I get these things often ;” but that was a bounce: “Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation, Are pleas'd to be kind; but I hate ostentation.” “If that be the case then,” cried he, very gay, * I'm glad I have taken this house in my way. To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words—I insist on't—precisely at three: We’ll have Johnson, and Burke; all the wits will be there; My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my Lord Clare. And, now that I think on’t, as I am a sinner, We wanted this venison to make out the dinner! What say you—a pasty, it shall and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter—this venison with me to Mile-end; No stirring, I beg, my dear friend, my dear friend!” Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind, And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf, \nd “nobody with me at sea but myself;” Though I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty, Yet Johnson, and Burke, and a good venison pasty, were things that I never dislik'd in my life, Though clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife. So next day in due splendour to make my approach, ! drove to his door in my own hackney coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine "A chair-lumber'd closet just twelve feet by nine.) My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb, With tidings that Johnson and Burke would not come 5 For “I knew it,” he cried, “both eternally fail, The one with his speeches, and th’ other with Thrale; But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party, With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty. The one is a Scotsman, the other a Jew, They're both of them merry, and authors like you; The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge; some think he writes Cinna—he owns to Panurge.” While thus he described them by trade and by name, They enter'd, and dinner was serv'd as they came. At the top a fried liver, and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe, in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinage and pudding made hot; n the middle a place where the pasty—was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian– So there I sat stuck, like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most, was that d-m'd Scottish rogue, With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue. And, “madam,” quoth he, “may this bit be my poison,

A prettier dinner I never set eyes on ; Pray a slice of your liver, though may I be curst, But I've eat of your tripe, till I’m ready to burst.” “The tripe,” quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek, “I could dine on this tripe seven days in the week: I like these here dinners so pretty and small; But your friend there,the doctor, eats nothing at all.” “O—Oh!” quoth my friend, “he'll come on in a trice, He's keeping a corner for something that's nice: There's a pasty”—“A pasty I" repeated the Jew; “I don't care, if I keep a corner for't too.” “What the de'il, mon, a pasty 1" re-echo'd the Scot; “Though splitting, I’ll still keep a corner for that.” “We'll all keep a corner,” the lady cried out; “We'll all keep a corner,” was echo'd about. While thus we resolv’d, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid: A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Wak'd Priam in drawing his curtains by night. But we quickly sound out, for who could mistake her? That she came with some terrible news from the baker: And so it fell out, for that negligent sloven Had shut out the pasty on shutting his ovem. Sad Philomel thus—but let similes drop— And now that I think on’t, the story may stop." To be plain, my good lord, it's but labour misplac'd, To send such good verses to one of your taste; You've got an odd something—a kind of discerning— A relish—a taste—sicken'd over by learning; At least, it's your temper, as very well known, That you think very slightly of all that's your own: So, perhaps, in your habits of thinking amiss, You may make a mistake, and think slightly of this.


Of old, when Scarron his companions invited, Each guest brought his dish, and the feast was united. If our landlord supplies us with beef and with fish, Let each guest bring himself, and he brings the best dish. Our Dean shall bevenison, just fresh from the plains; Our Burke shall be tongue, with a garnish of brains; Our Will shall be wild fowl, of excellent flavour, And Dick with his pepper shall heighten their savour: Our Cumberland's sweetbread its place shall obtain; And Douglas is pudding, substantial and plain: Our Garrick's a sallad; for in him we see Oil, vinegar, sugar, and saltness agree: To make out the dinner, full certain I am, That Ridge is anchovy, and Reynolds is lamb; That Hickey's a capon, and, by the same rule, Magnanimous Goldsmith a gooseberry fool. At a dinner so various, at such a repast,

who'd not be a glutton, and stick to the last?
Here, waiter, more wine, let me sit while I'm able,
Till all my companions sink under the table;
Then, with chaos and blunders encircling my head,
Let me ponder, and tell what I think of the dead.
Here lies the good Dean, re-united to earth,
Who mixt reason with pleasure, and wisdom with
mirth :
If he had any faults, he has left us in doubt,
At least, in six weeks, I could not find 'em out;
Yet some have declar'd, and it can’t be denied 'em,
That sly-boots was cursedly cunning to hide 'em.
Here lies our good Edmund, whose genius was
We scarcely can praise it, or blame it too much;
Who, born for the universe, narrow'd his mind,
And to party gave up what was meant for mankind.
Though fraught with all learning, yet straining his
Topersuade Tommy Townshend to lend him a vote;
Who, too deep for his hearers, still went on refining,
And thought of convincing, while they thought of
dining; -
Though equal to all things, for all things unfit,
Too nice for a statesman, too proud for a wit:
For a patriot too cool ; for a drudge, disobedient;
And too fond of the right to pursue the expedient.
In short, 'twas his fate, unemploy'd, or in place, sir,
To eat mutton cold, and cut blocks with a razor.
Here lies honest William, whose heart was a mint,
While the owner ne'er knew half the good that was
The pupil of impulse, it forc'd him along,
His conduct still right, with his argument wrong;
Still aiming at honour, yet fearing to roam,
The coachman was tipsy, the chariot drove home;
would you ask for his merits? alas! he had none;
What was good was spontaneous, his faults were his
own. [at;
Here lies honest Richard, whose fate I must sigh
Alas, that such frolic should now be so quiet!
What spirits were his 1 what wit and what whim!
Now breaking a jest, and now breaking a limb
Now wrangling and grumbling to keep up the ball!
Now teasing and vexing, yet laughing at all !
In short, so provoking a devil was Dick,
That we wish'd him full ten times a day at Old Nick;
But, missing his mirth and agreeable vein,
As often we wish'd to have Dick back again.
Here Cumberland lies, having acted his parts,
The Terence of England, the mender of hearts;
A flattering painter, who made it his care
To draw men as they ought to be, not as they are.
His gallants are all faultless, his women divine,
And comedy wonders at being so fine;
Like a tragedy queen he has dizen’d her out,
Or rather like tragedy giving a rout.
His fools have their follies so lost in a crowd
Of virtues and feelings, that folly grows proud,
And coxcombs alike in their failings alone,
Adopting his portraits are pleas'd with their own.
Say, where has our poet this malady caught?

Or, wherefore his characters thus without fault?
Say, was it that vainly directing his view
To find out men's virtues, and finding them few,
Quite sick of pursuing each troublesome elf,
He grew lazy at last, and drew from himself:
Here Douglas retires from his toils to relax,
The scourge of impostors, the terror of quacks:
Come, all ye quack bards, and ye quacking divines.
Come, and dance on the spot where your tyranti-
When satire and censure encircled his throne,
I fear'd for your safety, I fear'd for my own;
But now he is gone, and we want a detector,
Our Dodds shall be pious, our Kenricks shalllector:
Macpherson write bombast, and call it a style,
Our Townshend make speeches, and Ishall.como:
New Lauders and Bowers the Tweed shall cross
No countryman living their tricks to discover;
Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,
And Scotchman meet Scotchman and cheat in the
Here lies David Garrick, describe me who cat,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man;
As an actor, confest without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line:
Yet, with talents like these, and an excellentber,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge, his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting:
'Twas only that, when he was off, he was arting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turn’d and he varied full ten times a day:
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly so.
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends, as a huntsman his pack,
For he knew when he pleas'd he could whistlets
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow’d what case.
And the puff of a dunce, he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest, was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.
Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys, and Woodfalls so grave.
What a commerce was yours, while you get to
you gave? -
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that yes
While he was be-Roscius'dandyou werebe-pres:
But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,
To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:
Those poets, who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will; .
Old Shakspeare receive him with praise and **

love, And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above. Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt pleasanto ture, And slander itself must allow him good-naturo He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bum”

Yet one fault he had, and that was a thumper. He has not left a wiser or better behind;
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser: His pencil was striking, resistless and grand;
I answer, no, no, for he always was wiser: His manners were gentle, complying and bland;

Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat? Still born to improve us in every part,
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that: His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:
Perhaps he confided in men as they go, To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,
And so was too foolishly honest? ah no! When they judg’d without skill he was still hard of
Then what was his failing come tell it, and burn hearing :

ye, - When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Corregios and He was, could he help it? a special attorney. stuff,

Here Reynolds is laid, and, to tell you my mind, He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

ARMSTRONG—A. D. 1709–79.

THE ART of PRESERVING HEALTH. b00K. I. AIR. Daughter of Paeon, queen of every joy, Hygeia; whose indulgent smile sustains The various race luxuriant nature pours, And on th’ immortal essences bestows Immortal youth; auspicious, O descend! Thou cheerful guardian of the rolling year: whether thou wanton'st on the western gale, Or shak'st the rigid pinions of the north, Diffusest life and vigour through the tracts Of air, through earth, and ocean's deep domainwhen through the blue serenity of heaven Thy power approaches, all the wasteful host Of pain and sickness, squalid and deform'd, Confounded sink into the lothesome gloom, where in deep Erebus involv'd the fiends Grow more profane. Whatever shapes of death, Shook from the hideous chambers of the globe, Swarm through the shudd'ring air: whatever plagues or meagre famine breeds, or with slow wings Rise from the putrid watery element, The damp waste forest, motionless and rank, That smothers earth and all the breathless winds, Or the vile carnage of th’ inhuman field: Whatever baneful breathes the rotten south; Whatever ills th' extremes or sudden change Of cold and hot, or moist and dry produce; They fly thy pure effulgence: they and all The secret poisons of avenging heaven, And all the pale tribes halting in the train Of vice and heedless pleasure; or if aught The comet's glare amid the burning sky, Mournful eclipse, or planets ill-combin'd, Portend disastrous to the vital world ; Thy salutary power averts their rage, Averts the general bane: and but for thee Nature would sicken, nature soon would die. Without thy cheerful active energy No rapture swells the breast, no poet sings, No more the maids of Helicon delight. Come then with me, O goddess heavenly gay ! Begin the song; and let it sweetly flow, And let it wisely teach thy wholesome laws: “How best the fickle fabric to support Of mortal man; in healthful body how A healthful mind the longest to maintain.” 'Tis hard, in such a strife of rules, to choose The best, and those of most extensive use;

Harder in clear and animated song Dry philosophic precepts to convey. Yet with thy aid the secret wilds I trace Of nature, and with daring steps proceed Through paths the Muses never trod before. Nor should I wander doubtful of my way, Had I the lights of that sagacious mind which taught to check the pestilential fire, And quell the deadly Python of the Nile. O thou belov'd by all the graceful arts, Thou long the favorite of the healing powers, Indulge, O Mead a well-design'd essay, Howe'er imperfect; and permit that I My little knowledge with my country share, | Till you the rich Asclepian stores unlock, And with new graces dignify the theme. Ye who amid this feverish world would wear A body free of pain, of cares a mind, Fly the rank city, shun its turbid air; Breathe not the chaos of eternal smoke And volatile corruption, from the dead, The dying, sick’ning, und the living world Exhal’d, to sully heaven's transparent dome With dim mortality. It is not air That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine, Sated with exhalations rank and fell, The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw

"Of nature; when from shape and texture she

Relapses into fighting elements:
It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass
Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things.
Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath,
With oily rancour fraught, relaxes more
The solid frame than simple moisture can.
Besides, immur'd in many a sullen bay
That never felt the freshness of the breeze.
This slumb'ring deep remains, and ranker grows
With sickly rest: and (though the lungs abhor
To drink the dun fuliginous abyss)
Did not the acid vigour of the mine,
Roll'd from so many thund'ring chimnies, tame
The putrid steams that overswarm the sky;
This caustic venom would perhaps corrode
Those tender cells that draw the vital air,
In vain with all their unctuous rills bedev "d;
Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn
In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin
Imbib'd, would poison the balsamic blood,
And rouse the heart to every sever's rage.
While yet you breathe, away; the rural wilds
Invite; the mountains call you, and the vales,
The woods, the streams, and each ambrosial breet”

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