A prey to the devouring tomb?

A more mute silence hast thou known,
A deafness deeper than thine own,
While Time was? and no friendly Muse,
That mark'd thy life, and knows thy dues,
Repair with quickening verse the breach,
And write thee into light and speech?
The Power, that made the Tongue, restrain'd
Thy lips from lies, and speeches feign'd;
Who made the Hearing, without wrong
Did rescue thine from Siren's song.
He let thee see the ways of men,
Which thou with pencil, not with pen,
Careful Beholder, down didst note,
And all their motley actions quote,
Thyself unstain'd the while. From look
Or gesture reading, more than book,
In letter'd pride thou took'st no part,
Contented with the Silent Art,
Thyself as silent. Might I be

As speechless, deaf, and good, as He !

IX.

THE FEMALE ORATORS.

NIGH London's famous Bridge, a Gate more famed

Stands, or once stood, from old Belinus named,
So judged Antiquity; and therein wrongs
A name, allusive strictly to two Tongues.*
Her School hard by the Goddess Rhetoric opes,
And gratis deals to Oyster-wives her Tropes.
With Nereid green, green Nereid disputes,
Replies, rejoins, confutes, and still confutes.
One her coarse sense by metaphors expounds,
And one in literalities abounds;

In mood and figure these keep up the din :
Words multiply, and every word tells in.

Her hundred throats here bawling Slander

And Lily, postilion,

With cheeks of vermilion,

Is one of a million

That fill up the church-yards;

IV.

And, lusty as Dido,

Fat Clemitson's widow
Flits now a small shadow
By Stygian hid ford;
And good Master Clapton
Has thirty years napt on,
The ground he last hapt on,
Intomb'd by fair Widford;

V.

And gallant Tom Dockwra,
Of Nature's finest crockery,
Now but thin air and mockery,

Lurks by Avernus,

Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command, Almost did burn us.

VI.

Roger de Coverley

Not more good man than he;
Yet has he equally

Push'd for Cocytus,

With drivelling Worral,
And wicked old Dorrell,
'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,

Whose end might affright us !—

VII,

Kindly hearts have I known;
Kindly hearts, they are flown;
Here and there if but one

Linger yet uneffaced,
Imbecile tottering elves,
Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
These scarce are half themselves,
With age and care crazed.

VIII.

But this day Fanny Hutton
Her last dress has put on;
Her fine lessons forgotten,

She died, as the dunce died;
And prim Betsy Chambers,
Decay'd in her members,
No longer remembers

Things, as she once did;

ΙΧ.

And prudent Miss Wither
Not in jest now doth wither,
And soon must go whither

Nor I well, nor you know; And flaunting Miss Waller, That soon must befall her, Whence none can recall her,

Though proud once as Juno!

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS.

SOME Cry up Haydn, some Mozart,

Just as the whim bites; for my part,

I do not care a farthing candle

For either of them, or for Handel.-
Cannot a man live free and easy,
Without admiring Pergolesi?

Or through the world with comfort go,
That never heard of Doctor Blow?
So help me heaven, I hardly have;
And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
Like other people, if you watch it,
And know no more of stave or crotchet,
Than did the primitive Peruvians;

Or those old ante-queer-diluvians

That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,
Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal

By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,

Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.
I care no more for Cimarosa,

Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
Being no painter; and bad luck

Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!

Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
Had something in them; but who's Purcel?
The devil, with his foot so cloven,

For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
And, if the bargain does not suit,
I'll throw him Weber in to boot.
There's not the splitting of a splinter

To choose 'twixt him last named, and Winter.
Of Doctor Pepusch old queen Dido
Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.
I would not go four miles to visit
Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
No more I would for Bononcini.
As for Novello, or Rossini,

I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,
Because they're living; so I leave 'em.

Selby. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife; I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself, And those too with allowance. I have not Been blest by thy fair side with five white years Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch With any strain of harshness on a string Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine, That to the lame performance of some vows, And common courtesies of man to wife, Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd To esteem as favours, what in that blest union Are but reciprocal and trivial dues, As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought Gently to reprehend.

Selby. But to divert the subject: Kate too fond,
I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,
Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
Haply did think their company too long;
And over-company, we know by proof,
Is worse than no attendance.
Kath.

You speak this of the Widow-
Selby.

I must guess,

"Twas a bolt

At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,
I am most sorry to have wounded you
Through a friend's side. I know not how we

have swerved

From our first talk. I was to caution you
Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
Which, for some girlish obligations past,
In that relenting season of the heart,
When slightest favours pass for benefits
Of endless binding, would entail upon you
An iron slavery of obsequious duty
To the proud will of an imperious woman.

Kath. The favours are not slight to her I owe.
Selby. Slight or not slight, the tribute she
exacts
Cancels all dues-

[A voice within. even now I hear her call you