A milder doom had fallen to thy chance In our days: Thy sole assignment Some solitary confinement, (Not worth thy care a carrot,) Where in world-hidden cell Thou thy own Crusoe might have acted well, By sure experience taught to know Whether the qualms thou mak'st him feel were truly such or no. IV. But stay! methinks in statelier measure- I see thy steps the mighty tread-mill trace Delay'd, however, long,) And some of thine own race, To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee along There with thee go, Link'd in like sentence, With regulated pace and footing slow, Each old acquaintance, Rogue-harlot-thief—that live to future ages; Rankly embalm'd in thy too natural pages. There points to Amy, treading equal chimes, V. Incompetent my song to raise That by thy motion proper No thanks to wind, or sail, or working rill) That were begrimed before, as clean and sweet Into thy hopper. All reformation short of thee but nonsense is, Compared with thee, VI. What are the labours of that jumping sect, Or jump, But walk men into virtue; between crime Instructing with discretion demi-reps How to direct their steps. VII. Thou best philosopher made out of wood! With nothing in his bosom sympathetic; But from those groves derived, I deem, Of immortality; Seeing that clearly Thy system all is merely Peripatetic. Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give Of how to live With temperance, sobriety, morality, (A new art,) That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds, Each Tyro now proceeds A "Walking Stewart !" GOING OR GONE. I. FINE Merry franions, My days are ev'n banyans With thinking upon ye! How Death, that last stinger, II. There's rich Kitty Wheatley, She sleeps in the Kirk House ; And poor Polly Perkin, Whose dad was still firking The jolly ale firkin, She's gone to the work-house; III. Fine gard'ner, Ben Carter, For Proserpine's orchards; And Lily, postillion, With cheeks of vermilion, Is one of a million That fill up the churchyards; IV. And, lusty as Dido, Fat Clemitson's widow Flits now a small shadow By Stygian hid ford; V. And gallant Tom Dockwra, Whose honest grasp of hand VI. Roger de Coverley Not more good man than he; Push'd for Cocytus, With drivelling Worral, 'Gainst whom I've a quarrel, Whose end might affright us! VII. Kindly hearts have I known; 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 She died as the dunce died; And prim Betsy Chambers, Things, as she once did; IX. And prudent Miss Wither Nor I well, nor you know; Though proud once as Juno! FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS. SOME Cry up Haydn, some Mozart, I do not care a farthing candle Or through the world with comfort go That lived in the unwash'd world with Juoal, By stroke on anvil, or by summʼat, Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut. Than he did for Salvator Rosa, 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 'tween him last named and Winter. Knew just as much, God knows, as I do. I would not go four miles to visit Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?) I shall not say a word to grieve 'em, |