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THE MISTAKE... TO A LADY WITH A BASKET OF FRUIT. 313 Yet, for all this parade,

Of pow'r to tempt your gentle breast to share You are but a dull blade,

With me the peaceful cot, and rural fare: And your lines are all scragged and raw;

A diff'rent fate should crown the blest device, And though you've hack'd, and have hew'd, And change my desert to a paradise.

And have squeez'd, and have stew'd, Your forc'd-meat is n't all worth a straw.

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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.
Says a gosling, almost frighten'd out of her wits,
“ Help, mother, or else I shall go into fits.

“ Who art thou, passenger," it cry'd, I have had such a fright, I shall never recover,

Fiom yonder mirth retir'd ?
0! that hawke, that you 've told us of over and That here pursu'st thy cheerless way,

Benighted, and be-mir'd.”
See, there, where he sits, with his terrible face,
And his coat how it glitters all over with lace. “ I am,” said I, “a country clerk,
With his sharp hooked nose, and his sword at his A clerk of low degree,

And yonder gay and gallant scene
How my heart it goes pit-a-pat, pray, mother, feel.” Suits not a curacy.
Says the goose, very gravely, “Pray do n't talk so

“ But I have seen such sights to day, Those looks are as harmless as mine are, my child.

As make my heart full glad, And as for his sword there, so bright and so nice, Although it is but dark, 't is true, I'll be sworn 't will hurt nothing besides frogs and

And eke-my road is bad. mice. Nay, prithee do n't hang so about me, let loose,

“ For I have seen lords, knights, and 'squires, I tell thee he dares not say-bo to a goose.

Of great and high renown, In short there is not a more innocent fowl,

To choose a knight for this fair shire, Why, instead of a hawke, look ye child, 't is an

All met at Warwick town. owl."

“ A wight of skill to ken our laws,

Of courage to defend,
Of worth to serve the public cause

Before a private end.

1 Was lord Willoughby de Broke. This is a ONCE of forbidden fruit the mortal taste

mistake, as that nobletnan had neither the name Chang'd beauteous Eden to a dreary waste. nor the estate of Mr. Peytoe. The late lord, inHere you may freely eat, secure the while deed, his godson and heir, had both. This poem From latent poison, or insidious guile.

refers to Mr. Peytoe, who lived at Chesterton, where Yet O! could I but happily infuse

the scene lies, and formerly represented the Some secret charm into the sav'ry juice,

county. G


And such they found, if right I guess

But since you carelessly refuse, Of gentle blood he came;

And to my pen the task assign; Of morals firm, of manners mild,

0! let your genius guide my Muse, And Craven 2 is his name.

And every vulgar thought refine.

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Teach me to read fair Nature's hook,

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.

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.

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These spotless leaves, this neat array,

Might well invite your charming quill,
In fair assemblage to display
The power of learning, wit, and skill.

Hon. William Craven, of Wykin; he was afterwards lord Craven.

3 The late sir Charles Mordaunt, bart.

Behold Earth's lord, imperial man,

In ripen'd vigour gay;
His outward form attentive scan,

And all within survey.


ON RECEIVING A LITTLE IVORY BOX FROM A LADY. Behold his plans of future life,

Times too there be, when friendly sleep's His care, his hope, his love,

Soft charms the senses bind, Relations dear of child and wife,

Yet fancy then her vigils keeps, The dome, the lawn, the grove.

And ranges unconfin'd. Now see within his active mind,

And reason holds her sep'rate sway, More gen'rous passions share,

Though all the senses wake, Friend, neighbour, country, all his kind,

And forms in mem'ry's storehouse play, By turns engage his care.

Of no material make.

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Yet stay till some few suns are past,

Fach 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?

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 refind,
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 gidily fortune's random blows.
From thoughtless mirth, barbaric hate,
From the iron hand of Pate,
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.
0! 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,

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1 Vide Butler’s Analogy.

Like the dew at early dawn,

When as himself might his quietus make Like the moon-light on the lawn,

With a bare inkhorn? Who would fardles bear? Lucid rows of pearls should dwell,

To groan and sweat under a load of wit ? Pleas'd as in their native shell;

But that the tread of steep Parnassus' hill, Or the brilliant's sparkling rays,

That undiscover'd country, with whose bays Should emit a starry blaze.

Few travellers return, puzzles the will, And if the fair, whose magic skill

And makes us rather bear to live unknown, Wrought thee passive to her will,

Than run the hazard to be known and damn'd. Deign to regard thy poet's love,

Thus critics do make cowards of us all. Nor his aspiring suit reprove,

And thus the healthful face of many a poem Her form should crown the fair design,

Is sickly'd o'er with a pale manuscript ;
Goddess fit for such a shrine!

And enterprises of great fire and spirit,
With this regard from Dodsley turn away,
And lose the name of authors.



The tuneful choir in amorous strains

Accost their feather'd loves;
While each fond mate, with equal


UPON AVON, With cheerful hop from spray to spray



They sport along the meads;
In social bliss together stray,
Where love or fancy leads.

SISTERS of the tuneful train,
Through spring's gay scenes each happy pair Attend your parent's jocund strain,
Their fluttering joys pursue ;

'T is Fancy calls you; follow me Its various charms and produce share,

To celebrate the jubilee. For ever kind and true.

On Avon's banks, where Shakspeare's bust Their sprightly notes from ev'ry shade

Points out and guards his sleeping dust; Their mutual loves proclaim;

The sons of scenic mirth agree Till winter's chilling blasts invade,

To celebrate the jubilee. And damp th’enlivening flame.

Come, daughters, come, and bring with you Then all the jocund scene declines,

Th' aerial sprites and fairy crew, Nor woods nor meads delight;

And the sister Graces three, The drooping tribe in secret pines,

To celebrate the jubilee. And mourns th' unwelcome sight.

Hang around the sculpturd tomb Go, blissful warblers ! timely wise,

The 'broider'd vest, the nodding plume, Th' instructive moral tell !

And the mask of comic glee, Nor thou their meaning lays despise,

To celebrate the jubilee.
My charming Annabelle !

From Birnham wood, and Bosworth field,
Bring the standard, bring the shield,

With drums and martial symphony,

To celebrate the jubilee.

In mournful numbers now relate
To print, or not to print—that is the question. Poor Desdemona's hapless fate,
Whether 't is better in a trunk to bury

With frantic deeds of jealousy,
The quirks and crotchets of outrageous fancy, To celebrate the jubilee.
Or send a well-wrote copy to the press,
And by disclosing, end them? To print, to doubt Nor be Windsor's wives forgot,
No more; and by one act to say we end

With their harmless merry plot,
The head-ach, and a thousand natural shocks The whitening mead, and haunted tree,
Of scribbling frenzy-t is a consummation

To celebrate the jubilee.
Devoutly to be wish'd. To print-to beam
From the same shelf with Pope, in calf well bound: Now in jocund strains recite
To sleep, perchance, with Quarles-Ay, there's the The humours of the braggard knight,
For to what class a writer may be doom'd, (rub-Fat knight, and ancient Pistol he,
When he hath shuffled off some paltry stuff, To celebrate the jubilee.
Must give us pause. — There's the respect that makes
Th' unwilling poet keep his piece nine years. But see in crowds the gay, the fair,
For who would bear th' impatient thirst of fame, To the splendid scene repair,
The pride of conscious merit, and 'bove all, A scene as fine as fine can be,
The tedious importunity of friends,

To celebrate the jubilee.

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He ceas'd his song-tbe plumy dame

Heard with delight the love-sick strain,

Nor long conceal'd the mutual flame,

Nor long repress'd his am'rous pain.

He led her to the nuptial bow'r,
The Sun had chas'd the mountain snow,

And perch'd with triumph by her side; His beams had pierc'd the stubborn soil,

What gilded roof could boast that hour 'The melting streams began to flow,

A fonder mate, or happier bride? And ploughmen urg'd their annual toil.

Next morn he wak'd her with a song, 'T was then, amidst the vocal throng,

“ Behold,” he said, “the new-born day, Whom Nature wak'd to mirth and love,

The lark his mattin-peal has rung, A blackbird rais'd his am'rous song,

Arise, my love, and come away." And thus it echo'd through the grove.

Together through the fields they stray'd, “ O fairest of the feather'd train !

And to the murm'ring riv'let's side, For whom I sing, for whom I burn,

Renew'd their vows, and hopp'd, and play'd Attend with pity to my strain,

With artless joy, and decent pride. And grant my love a kind return.

When, O! with grief my Muse relates “ For see, the wintry storms are flown,

What dire misfortune clos'd the tale, And zephyrs gently fan the air;

Sent by an order from the Fates, Let us the genial influence own,

A gunner met them in the vale. Let us the vernal pastime share.

Alarm'd, the lover cried, “ My dear, “ The raven plumes his jetty wing,

Haste, haste away, from danger fly; To please his croaking paramour,

Here, gunner, point thy thander here, The larks responsive carols sing,

O spare my love, and let me die." And tell their passion as they soar:

At him the gunner took his aim, “ But does the raven's sable wing

Too sure the volley'd thunder flew ! Excel the glossy jet of mine?

O had he chose some other game, Or can the lark more sweetly sing,

Or shot--as he was wont to do! Than we, who strength with softness join?

Divided pair! forgive the wrong, « O let me then thy steps attend !

While I with tears your fate rehearse, I'll point new treasures to thy sight:

l'll join the widow's plaintive song, Whether the grove thy wish befriend,

And save the lover in my verse.
Or edge-rows green, or meadows bright.
“ I'll guide thee to the clearest rill,
Whose streams among the pebbles stray;

There will we sip, and sip our fill,

AN ELEGY. Or on the flow'ry margin play.

TO WILLIAM SHENSTONE, ESQ. “ I'll lead thee to the thickest brake, Impervious to the schoolboy's eye;

......... Ingenuas didicisse fideliter artes For thee the plaster'd nest I'll make,

Emollit mores, nec sinit esse feros. And to thy downy bosom fly.

To you, whose groves protect the feather'd choirs, “ When, prompted by a mother's care,

Who lend their artless notes a willing ear, Thy warmth shall form th' imprison'd young ; To you, whom pity moves, and taste inspires, The pleasing task I'll gladly share,

The Doric strain belongs, O Shenstone hear. Or cheer thy labours with a song.

'T was gentle spring, when all the plumy race, “ To bring thee food I'll range the fields,

By Nature taught, in nuptial leagues combine, And cull the best of ev'ry kind,

goldfinch joy'd to meet the warm embrace, Whatever Nature's bounty yields,

And with her mate in love's delights to join. And love's assiduous care can find.

All in a garden, on a currant bush, " And when my lovely mate would stray,

With wondrous art they built their airy seat; To taste the summer sweets at large,

In the next orchard liv'd a friendly thrush, I'll wait at home the live-long day,

Nor distant far a woodlark's soft retreat. And fondly tend our little charge.

Here bless'd with ease, and in each other bless'd, " Then prove with me the sweets of love,

With early songs they wak'd the neighb’ring With me divide the cares of life,

groves, No bush shall boast in all the grove,

Till time matur'd their joys, and crown'd their nest A mate so fond, so bless'd a wife.”

With infant pledges of their faithful loves.

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