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6. Caitiffs avaunt ! talk not to me! avaunt !

Shall shugs of demiwolves, and water-rugs,
Confront the Canis Taurus? Peace, I say;

I come, I come;
Sound the trumpet, beat the drum;

High in prowess, high in fame,
Great Maidstone shall record my never-dying name.

66 'Tis Liberty, sweet Liberty alone, (Did'st thou not hear thy dying country's groan?)

Draws me from my native home!
“ Adieu, ye social joys of Lydd !

I should live a man forbid;
Sleep ne'er should hang upon my penthouse lid,

Did I not waken at her call,

Forsake my children, wife and all,
To sign my name in Maidstone town-hall.

“ Fancy paints the long-drawn line Where Robert Cobb in pedigrean pomp shall shine;

Children unborn from me shall claim

The honours of their glorious name,
And, pointing, say, “This ancestor was mine.'

« Sink not, for shame, in sloth's dull lap;

Arise, put on that glorious cap,
With which Hogarth (alas ! he's dead)
Ornamented Wilkes's head.
Learn from me to greatly dare;
Let us our country's praises share.
On Monday next at Maidstone meet me,
And with the name of PATRIOT greet me;
Or else,
or else,

what then ? - let's see,
At N.'s on Tuesday I'll meet thee."

Have you


“ Lydd, May 30, 1777. “ It is an unaccountable thing, but I have sent all over the town and cannot get a lemon, and if I have no lemon I can make no punch, and if I make no punch I can make no letter : the thing is absolutely impossible.

been to the Dolphin, James ? Yes, Sir, but they have none; and they say you owe them for two already.' Why, then, I cannot write to Bowdler. O thou gentle goddess of bergamot, (for I suppose thee to be the very essence of lemon,) hover, I beseech thee, around my head, and deign to guide my quill. What, though there smokes not on my board the draught nectarious, high flavoured with the rich product of the western world, and wafted on the wings of Zephyr to our frigid clime, long ere rebellion's tooth had taught the anana not to bloom - what, though I have only to offer thee the blushing juice which Lusitanian hills have ripened, - Well, thou knowest I oft have on thine altar poured the rich libation. Come, then, thou Sapphire-wing', -- but you see it won't do, Bowdler, and so good-night.

- R. C.

“ How comes it to pass, that you should never have told me of Rowley's Poems ? and how strange is it that I should talk of nothing else for four hours the other day with Miss Carter ?

Among Mr. Bowdler's companions at this period, was a person mentioned in one of these letters, possessed of considerable poetical talent, and of great taste and power in theatrical declamation. He was bred a solicitor, but being sometimes perhaps inclined to “pen a stanza when he

should engross," he addressed his friend in language suited to the taste of both. Some extracts from a poetical letter may be pleasing.

“ In prose we fearless laugh, and freely pour
The various trifling topics of the hour.
These, when his polish'd pen a master draws,
Insure our smiles, and win our whole applause:
But verse, to gingling chains, and shackles sold,
Proudly conceits that every link is gold,
And thence elate, (tho' servilely confined)
Demands a subject lofty and refined.
Why, hapless ! then so hard a toil embrace ?
Banks — Beckford — Grafton —here can have no place-
Not even from him, whose's tortur'd name's so dear

To every rhymer in each gazetteer,
Whose scatter'd letters, torn from out their place,
Now tag the rebus, now th' acrostic grace;-
From him no inspiration I derive,
Fruitless alike both Wilkes and Forty-five?
Shou'd I the deeds of foreign fame rehearse,
Sobolski, Ratchewitz, deform my verse:
Or make the gallant Prozorowski mine,
At once he lames, and limps along the line. —
Bewilder'd thus, to whom shall I apply?
Let precedent invention's aid supply.
With eager haste to friendly Byshe I run,
Quick turn the leaves, - and lo- the work is done!

66 While * from fam’d Augusta's walls remove, The rural joys of rustick life to prove,


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Nor longer studious, seek the noisy bar,
(Seat of collusive rage, and friendly war,
Where right must yield to more persuasive gold,
Where words are weigh’d, and every letter's sold,)
Me, partial Fate within my wonted round
Confines, and holds in legal fetters bound;
And resolute to curb my wand'ring will,
Fast in my hands detains the weary quill :
But you ! - O might I in description stray,
How smooth the road! - how level lies the way!
Then, like my tiny brethren of the times,
Should useless epithet extend my rhymes,
Smit with the rage, I'd fancy's walks pursue,
And talk of beauties Nature never knew.
Cantium should then Thessalian Tempe grow,

every stream a new meander flow.
Here spring the myrtle — there the blushing vine,
The lote nectareous, and Arcadian pine,
Clothed with eternal green his hills should rise,
And kiss his brighter than Egyptian skies.

“But Cantium — No !- Old English Kent - disdains
Imagination's wild and frantick strains.
Nor asks the bard on Camus' banks to dream,
Or quaff the sacred source of Isis' stream;
Nor needs he once advert to classick lore,
Or cull the treasured sweets of antient store.
A wreath for him let artless Truth combine,
And round his brows his own fair flow'rets twine ;
For proud of native worth, he dares disown
Exotic charms, and beauties not his own.
Oh, let me range, whate'er of life remains,
His woody hills, and variegated plains !

With curious eye his antique piles explore -
The nodding battlement,—the mouldering tower,
The ivy cover'd shrine, and moss-grown cell,
Where holy superstition loved to dwell.


Already hoary winter, bursting forth, Has left the regions of the dreary North ; Through the brown woods the quivering leaves display His near approach, and point him on his way; And soon, alas ! he'll take his annual round, With horrid step deform the verdant ground, His purple crown shall tear from autumn's head, And o'er the earth his scatter'd honours spread. But here, the drama opes its 'witching doors, And Shakspeare greets me with his richest stores. Here Garrick, Barry, Holland, all combine To stamp new force and spirit on each line. Oh! how I joy to taste his festal hour ! Ev'n now I feel his more than magic pow'r. — Inhuman Thane ! hide, hide the murdering knife ! Nor touch the guest, — the friend, - the monarch's life; But see the dagger leads him to the bed! And now it falls ! - he's number'd with the dead ! What shall the hand its wonted white restore? Not ocean's self — Macbeth shall sleep no more. Amidst the blustering horrors of the night; What forms fantastic strike my aching sight? Inhuman daughters ! - where is pity fled? To the wild storm expose a parents head? But hark! I hear! - Ye winds, O catch the sound, And bear it on your rosy pinions round.Proclaim - the tempest's past, the sky's serene, And virtue crowns Cordelia more than queen.


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