THE SCAVENGERS.

A TOWN ECLOGUE.

Dulcis odor lucri ex re quâlibet.

AWAKE, my Muse, prepare a loftier theme.
The winding valley and the dimpled stream
Delight not all: quit, quit the verdant field,
And try what dusty streets and alleys yield.

Where Avon wider flows, and gathers fame,
Stands a fair town, and Warwick is its name.
For useful arts entitled once to share
The gentle Ethelfleda's guardian care.
Nor less for deeds of chivalry renown'd,
When her own Guy was with her laurels crown'd.
Now Syren sloth holds here her tranquil reign,
And binds in silken bonds the feeble train.
Now frowning knights in uncouth armour lac'd,
Seek now for monsters on the dreary waste:
In these soft scenes they chase a gentler prey,
No monsters! but as dangerous as they.
In diff'rent forms as sure destruction lies,
They have no claws 't is true-but they have eyes.
Last of the toiling race there liv'd a pair,
Bred up in labour, and inur'd to care!
To sweep the streets their task from Sun to Sun,
And seek the nastiness which others shun.
More plodding wight or dame you ne'er shall see,
He Gaffer Pestel hight, and Gammer she.

As at their door they sat one summer's day,
Old Pestel first essay'd the plaintive lay:
His gentle mate the plaintive lay return'd,
And thus alternately their cares they mourn'd.

OLD PESTEL.

Alas! was ever such fine weather seen,
How dusty are the roads, the streets how clean!
How long, ye almanacs! will it be dry?
Empty my cart how long, and idle I!
Ev'n at the best the times are not so good,
But 't is hard work to scrape a livelihood.
The cattle in the stalls resign their life,
And baulk the shambles, and th' unbloody knife.
While farmers sit at home in pensive gloom,
And turnpikes threaten to complete my doom.

WIFE.

Well! for the turnpike, that will do no hurt,
Some say the managers are friends to dirt.
But much I fear this murrain where 't will end,
For sure the cattle did our door befriend.
Oft have I hail'd them, as they stalk'd along,
Their fat the butchers pleas'd, but me their dung.

OLD PESTEL.

See what a little dab of dirt is here!

But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where?
Yet, on this spot, though now so naked seen,
Heaps upon heaps, and loads on loads have been.
Bigger, and bigger, the proud dunghill grew,
Till my diminish'd house was hid from view.

WIFE.

Ah! Gaffer Pestel, what brave days were those, When higher than our house our muckhill rose! The growing mount I view'd with joyful eyes, And mark'd what each load added to its size.

Wrapt in its fragrant steam we often sat,
And to its praises held delightful chat.
Nor did I e'er neglect my mite to pay,
To swell the goodly heap from day to day.
A cabbage once I bought; but small the cost-
Nor do I think the farthing all was lost.
Again you sold its well-digested store,
To dung the garden where it grew before.

OLD PESTEL.

What though the beaux and powder'd coxcombs jeer'd,

And at the scavenger's employment sneer'd,
Yet then at night content I told my gains,
And thought well paid their malice, and my pains.
Why toils the tradesman, but to swell his store?
Why craves the wealthy landlord still for more?
Why will our gentry flatter, fawn, and lie?
Why pack the cards, and what d' ye call 't-the
die?

All, all the pleasing paths of gain pursue,
And wade through thick and thin as we folks do.
Sweet is the scent that from adyantage springs,
And nothing dirty which good interest brings.

WIFE.

When goody Dobbins call'd me nasty bear,
And talk'd of kennels and the ducking-chair,
With patience I could hear the scolding quean,
For sure 't was dirtiness that kept me clean.
Clean was my gown on Sundays, if not fine,
Nor Mrs.
's cap so white as mine.
A slut in silk, or kersey is the same,
Nor sweetest always is the finest dame.

Thus wail'd they pleasure past, and present cares, While the starv'd hog join'd his complaint with theirs.

To still his grunting diff'rent ways they tend,
To West Street he, and she to Cotton End'.

ABSENCE.

WITH leaden foot Time creeps along
While Delia is away,
With her, nor plaintive was the song,
Nor tedious was the day.

Ah! envious pow'r! reverse my doom,
Now double thy career,
Strain ev'ry nerve, stretch ev'ry plume,
And rest them when she 's here.

TO A LADY,

WHEN Nature joins a beauteous face With shape, and air, and life, and grace, To ev'ry imperfection blind,

I spy no blemish in the mind.

Names of the most remote and opposite parts of the town.

Go on, dear maid, your utmost pow'r essay,
And if for fame your little bosom heave,
Know patriot-hands your merit shall display,
And amply pay the graces they receive.

Let ev'ry nymph like you the gift prepare,

And banish foreign pomp and costly show; What lover but would burn the prize to wear,

Or blush by you pronounc'd his country's foe?

Your smiles can win when patriot-speeches fail,
Your frowns control when justice threats in vain,
O'er stubborn minds your softness can prevail,
And placemen drop the bribe if you complain.

Then rise the guardians of your country's fame,
Or wherefore were ye form'd like angels fair?
By beauty's force our venal hearts reclaim,
And save the drooping virtues from despair.

FEMALE EMPIRE.

A TRUE HISTORY.

LIKE Bruin's was Avaro's breast,
No softness harbour'd there;
While Sylvio some concern express'd,
When beauty shed a tear.

In Hymen's bands they both were tied, As Cupid's archives show ye; Proud Celia was Avaro's bride,

And Sylvio's gentle Chloe.

Like other nymphs, at church they swore To honour and obey,

Which, with each learned nymph before,
They soon explain'd away.

If Chloe now would have her will,
Her streaming eyes prevail'd,
Or if her swain prov'd cruel still,
Hysterics never fail'd.

But Celia scorn'd the plaintive moan,
And heart-dissolving show'r;
With flashing eye, and angry tone,
She best maintain'd her pow'r.

Yet once the mandates of his Turk
Avaro durst refuse;

For why? important was his work,
"To register old shoes!"

"And does,” said she, "the wretch dispute My claim such clowns to rule?

If Celia cannot charm a brute,
She can chastise a fool."

Then straight she to his closet flew, His private thoughts she tore, And from its place the poker drew, That fell'd him on the floor.

"Henceforth," said she, " my calls regard,
Own mine the stronger plea,
Nor let thy vulgar cares retard
The female rites of tea."

Victorious sex! alike your art,
And puissance we dread;
For if you cannot break our heart,
'T is plain you 'll break our head.

Place me, ye gods, beneath the throne
Which gentle smiles environ,
And I'll submission gladly own,
Without a rod of iron.

ON MR. SAMUEL COOKE'S POEMS.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1749.

INDEED, master Cooke!

You have made such a book, As the learned in pastry admire: But other wits joke

To see such a smoke Without any visible fire.

What a nice bill of fare,

Of whatever is rare,

And approv'd by the critics of taste! Not a classical bit,

Ev'ry fancy to hit,

But here in due order is plac'd.

1 The parish-register.

See, there, where he sits, with his terrible face, And his coat how it glitters all over with lace. With his sharp hooked nose, and his sword at his heel,

How my heart it goes pit-a-pat, pray, mother, feel." Says the goose, very gravely, "Pray don't talk so wild,

Those looks are as harmless as mine are, my child.
And as for his sword there, so bright and so nice,
I'll be sworn 't will hurt nothing besides frogs and
mice.

Nay, prithee do n't hang so about me, let loose,
I tell thee he dares not say-bo to a goose.
In short there is not a more innocent fowl,
Why, instead of a hawke, look ye child, 't is an
owl.»

ΤΟ

A LADY WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT.

ONCE of forbidden fruit the mortal taste
Chang'd beauteous Eden to a dreary waste.
Here you may freely eat, secure the while
From latent poison, or insidious guile.
Yet O! could I but happily infuse
Some secret charm into the sav'ry juice,

Of pow'r to tempt your gentle breast to share
With me the peaceful cot, and rural fare:
A diff'rent fate should crown the blest device,
And change my desert to a paradise.

PEYTOE'S GHOST'.

To Craven's health, and social joy,
The festive night was kept,
While mirth and patriot spirit flow'd,
And Dullness only slept.

When from the jovial crowd I stole, And homeward shap'd my way; And pass'd along by Chesterton, All at the close of day.

Thy sky with clouds was overcast,
An hollow tempest blow'd,
And rains and foaming cataracts
Had delug'd all the road;

When through the dark and lonesome shade
Shone forth a sudden light;

And soon distinct an human form
Engag'd my wondering sight.

Onward it mov'd with graceful port, And soon o'ertook my speed; Then thrice I lifted up my hands,

And thrice I check'd my steed.

"Who art thou, passenger," it cry'd, "From yonder mirth retir'd? That here pursu'st thy cheerless way, Benighted, and be-mir'd."

"I am," said I, "a country clerk, A clerk of low degree,

And yonder gay and gallant scene Suits not a curacy.

"But I have seen such sights to day, As make my heart full glad, Although it is but dark, 't is true, And eke-my road is bad.

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"For I have seen lords, knights, and 'squires, Of great and high renown,

To choose a knight for this fair shire,
All met at Warwick town.

"A wight of skill to ken our laws, Of courage to defend,

Of worth to serve the public cause Before a private end.

I Was lord Willoughby de Broke.-This is a mistake, as that nobleman had neither the name nor the estate of Mr. Peytoe. The late lord, indeed, his godson and heir, had both. This poem refers to Mr. Peytoe, who lived at Chesterton, where the scene lies, and formerly represented the county. C

WHEN just proportion in each part,
And colours mix'd with nicest art,
Conspire to show the grace and mien
Of Chloe, or the Cyprian queen:
With elegance throughout refin'd,
That speaks the passions of the mind,
The glowing canvass will proclaim
A Raphael's or a Titian's name.

So where through ev'ry learned page Each distant clime, each distant age Display a rich variety

Of wisdom in epitome,;
Such elegance and taste will tell
The hand, that could select so well.
But when we all their beauties view,
United and improv'd by you,

We needs must own an emblem faint,
T' express those charms no art can paint.
Books must, with such correctness writ,
Refine another's taste and wit;

'T is to your merit only due,
That theirs can be refin'd by you.

But since you carelessly refuse,

And to my pen the task assign; O! let your genius guide my Muse, And every vulgar thought refine.

Teach me your best, your best lov'd art,
With frugal care to store my mind;
In this to play the miser's part,
And give mean lucre to the wind:

To shun the coxcomb's empty noise, To scorn the villain's artful mask; Nor trust gay pleasure's fleeting joys, Nor urge ambition's endless task.

Teach me to stem youth's boisterous tide,
To regulate its giddy rage;
By reason's aid my bark to guide,
Into the friendly port of age:

To share what classic culture yields,
Through rhetoric's painted meads to roam;
With you to reap historic fields,

And bring the golden harvest home.

To taste the genuine sweets of wit;
To quaff in humour's sprightly bowl;
The philosophic mean to hit,

And prize the dignity of soul.

Teach me to read fair Nature's book, Wide opening in each flow'ry plain; And with judicious eye to look

On all the glories of her reign.

To hail her, seated on her throne,

By awful woods encompass'd round, Or her divine extraction own,

Though with a wreath of rushes crown'd.

Through arched walks, o'er spreading lawns,
Near solemn rocks, with her to rove;
Or court her, mid her gentle fawns,
In mossy cell, or maple grove.

Whether the prospect strain the sight,
Or in the nearer landscapes charm,
Where hills, vales, fountains, woods unite,
To grace your sweet Arcadian farm:

There let me sit, and gaze with you,
On Nature's works by art refin'd;
And own, while we their contest view,
Both fair, but fairest, thus combin'd!

Behold his plans of future life,

His care, his hope, his love, Relations dear of child and wife, The dome, the lawn, the grove.

Now see within his active mind,

More gen'rous passions share, Friend, neighbour, country, all his kind, By turns engage his care.

Behold him range with curious eye,
O'er Earth from pole to pole,
And through th' illimitable sky
Explore with daring soul.

Yet pass some twenty fleeting years,
And all his glory flies,
His languid eye is bath'd in tears,
He sickens, groans, and dies.

And is this all his destin'd lot,
This all his boasted sway?

For ever now to be forgot,

Amid the mould'ring clay!

Ah, gloomy thought! ah, worse than death!
Life sickens at the sound;

Better it were not draw our breath,
Than run this empty round.

Hence, cheating Fancy, then, away;
O let us better try,

By reason's more enlighten'd ray,
What 't is indeed to die.

Observe yon mass of putrid earth,
It holds an embryo-brood,
Ev'n now the reptiles crawl to birth,
And seek their leafy food.

Yet stay till some few suns are past, Each forms a silken tomb,

And seems, like man, imprison'd fast, To meet his final doom.

Yet from this silent mansion too
Anon you see him rise,

No more a crawling worm to view,
But tenant of the skies.

And what forbids that man should share,
Some more auspicious day,

To range at large in open air,
As light and free as they?

There was a time when life first warm'd
Our flesh in shades of night,
Then was th' imperfect substance form'd,
And sent to view this light.

There was a time, when ev'ry sense
In straiter limits dwelt,

Yet each its task could then dispense,
We saw, we heard, we felt.

And times there are, when through the veins The blood forgets to flow,

Yet then a living pow'r remains,

Though not in active show.

Times too there be, when friendly sleep's

Soft charms the senses bind,

Yet fancy then her vigils keeps,

And ranges unconfin'd.

And reason holds her sep'rate sway,
Though all the senses wake,

And forms in mem'ry's storehouse play,
Of no material make.

What are these then, this eye, this ear,
But nicer organs found,

A glass to read, a trump to hear,
The modes of shape, or sound?

And blows may maim, or time impair
These instruments of clay,
And Death may ravish what they spare,
Completing their decay.

But are these then that living pow'r
That thinks, compares, and rules?
Then say a scaffold is a tow'r,

A workman is his tools.

For aught appears that Death can do,
That still survives his stroke,
Its workings plac'd beyond our view,
Its present commerce broke.

But what connections it may find, Boots much to hope and fear, And if instruction courts the mind, 'T is madness not to hear.

315

ON RECEIVING A LITTLE IVORY BOX FROM A LADY,

CURIOUSLY WROUGHT BY HER OWN HANDS.

LITTLE box of matchless grace!

Fairer than the fairest face,

Smooth as was her parent-hand,

That did thy wondrous form command.
Spotless as her infant mind,

As her riper age refin'd,
Beauty with the graces join'd.

Let me clothe the lovely stranger,
Let me lodge thee safe from danger.
Let me guard thy soft repose,
From giddy fortune's random blows.
From thoughtless mirth, barbaric hate,
From the iron hand of Fate,
And oppression's deadly weight.

Thou art not of a sort, or number, Fashion'd for a poet's lumber; Though more capacious than his purse, Too small to hold his store of verse. Too delicate for homely toil,

Too neat for vulgar hands to soil.

O! would the Fates permit the Muse
Thy future destiny to choose!

In thy circle's fairy round,
With a golden fillet bound:
Like the snow-drop silver white,
Like the glow-worm's humid light,

' Vide Butler's Analogy.