THE SCAVENGERS. A TOWN ECLOGUE. Dulcis odor lucri ex re quâlibet. AWAKE, my Muse, prepare a loftier theme. Where Avon wider flows, and gathers fame, As at their door they sat one summer's day, OLD PESTEL. Alas! was ever such fine weather seen, WIFE. Well! for the turnpike, that will do no hurt, OLD PESTEL. See what a little dab of dirt is here! But yields all Warwick more, O tell me where? 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, OLD PESTEL. What though the beaux and powder'd coxcombs jeer'd, And at the scavenger's employment sneer'd, All, all the pleasing paths of gain pursue, WIFE. When goody Dobbins call'd me nasty bear, 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, ABSENCE. WITH leaden foot Time creeps along Ah! envious pow'r! reverse my doom, 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, 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, Then rise the guardians of your country's fame, FEMALE EMPIRE. A TRUE HISTORY. LIKE Bruin's was Avaro's breast, 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, If Chloe now would have her will, But Celia scorn'd the plaintive moan, Yet once the mandates of his Turk For why? important was his work, "And does,” said she, "the wretch dispute My claim such clowns to rule? If Celia cannot charm a brute, 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, Victorious sex! alike your art, Place me, ye gods, beneath the throne 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. THE MISTAKE...TO A LADY WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT. 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. Nay, prithee do n't hang so about me, let loose, ΤΟ A LADY WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT. ONCE of forbidden fruit the mortal taste Of pow'r to tempt your gentle breast to share PEYTOE'S GHOST'. To Craven's health, and social joy, 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, When through the dark and lonesome shade And soon distinct an human form 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. 313 "For I have seen lords, knights, and 'squires, Of great and high renown, To choose a knight for this fair shire, "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, So where through ev'ry learned page Each distant clime, each distant age Display a rich variety Of wisdom in epitome,; We needs must own an emblem faint, 'T is to your merit only due, 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, 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 share what classic culture yields, And bring the golden harvest home. To taste the genuine sweets of wit; 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, Whether the prospect strain the sight, There let me sit, and gaze with you, ON RECEIVING A LITTLE IVORY BOX FROM A LADY. 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, Yet pass some twenty fleeting years, And is this all his destin'd lot, For ever now to be forgot, Amid the mould'ring clay! Ah, gloomy thought! ah, worse than death! Better it were not draw our breath, Hence, cheating Fancy, then, away; By reason's more enlighten'd ray, Observe yon mass of putrid earth, 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 No more a crawling worm to view, And what forbids that man should share, To range at large in open air, There was a time when life first warm'd There was a time, when ev'ry sense Yet each its task could then dispense, 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, And forms in mem'ry's storehouse play, What are these then, this eye, this ear, A glass to read, a trump to hear, And blows may maim, or time impair But are these then that living pow'r A workman is his tools. For aught appears that Death can do, 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. As her riper age refin'd, Let me clothe the lovely stranger, 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 In thy circle's fairy round, ' Vide Butler's Analogy. |