On me the robes of Dulness thou hast placed;
Thank Heaven, I'm not a fool in rags, like thee.

"The discounts few!" Hadst thou, dull cynic, cast
O'er Fame's bright ledger a correct survey,
There thou hadst found Philenia's dues so vast,
That all the Muses can't the interest pay.

Should'st thou, to soothe departed Credit's ghost,
At Taste's or Honour's bank present a note,
With Conon's and Ezekiel's names endorsed,
And were the sum applied for, but a groat;

No just director, were the signer known,
Would trust so base an applicant a stiver;
To thy responsorship would clip the loan,

And, cent per cent, curtail it-to a cypher.

Henceforth, let "Truth" a liberal spirit learn,

For female genius claims a deathless mead; Henceforth those low, aspersive insults spurn, Which Truth would blush to write, and Genius weep to read.

TO TRUTH.

WELL, "Truth," the snails, upon the tuneful mount,
Would twist and lift their sluggish limbs about,
While thy dull fingers duller numbers count,

And drag the limping legs of Rhyme, slow, lin-ge-ring out.

144

TO TRUTH.

So, "Dulness" owns me for

a

"favourite son!"1

Thank ye, good Sir, that worse ye don't abuse us; This self-same strumpet, ere her time was run,

Swore thee on Chaos, a Natura lusus!

Ah! is the praise of fools no proof of merit?
Their censure, surely then, an envied "praise" is,
And blest be all the stars, that I inherit

So large a portion of your evil graces!

"Then dare be honest, and to Knavery own?"
Hadst thou the office of confessor claimed,
Then might I kneel, and all my sins make known,
To one, of whom e'en "Knavery" is ashamed!

"The greatest fool, that lives!"-Why heaves that groan? I'll wear no wreath, that costs my friend a tear; The cap receive again, 'tis thine alone;

For you, like Cæsar, find on earth no peer!

"As Sense, the accountant, sure has entered sound!"
This error on the clerk of "Fame" must fall;
I'm proud, that in her books my name is found;
With thee she opens no account at all!

“And find the whole amount not half a sous !" As well might ants about the Alps declaim, And garret-criticks preach upon Peru,

As Truth" the lowest coin of Genius name.

"Philenia's sergeant!" Pride adores the thought! The humblest halbert, which Pieria's queen

From Taste's bright armoury gives, were cheaply bought With all the epaulets of envious Spleen!

Though all my "puffs" not one recruiter drew,

I'll not thy more successful drumstick rob;
Yes! oft I've heard thee beat the loud tattoo,
And with thy long-roll muster Wapping's mob!

Thy Gorgon train array, in battle ire;

Philenia triumphs with unaided Charms;
Like Rome's illustrious chief, her magick lyre
Could speak a tuneful Myriad into arms.

By "puffs" Menander "seeks his fame to raise !"
Thy sickly fame were shocked by means so rough;
The mildest breath puts out the Taper's blaze,
And bubbles vanish at the slightest "puff!"

"My sinking credit!"-Should it sink to wreck, 'Tis joy, to hear thee own, my credit rose; Thine, by a fall, can never break its neck,

The tide can never ebb, before it flows!

Thou son of Zoilus, hail! His pulpit host
Exult in thee, a second leader gained;
Whose greatest praise the vilest grub might boast;
Whose only glory is a laurel stained!

But I'll no longer war against a foe,

On whom too condescending Justice snears;

A foe, so lost to every tender glow,

That Adamant a Sensitive appears!

The surly Critick, who with envy blind,

To shine the pedant, with the man would part, In Fame's ascending scale may raise his mind, While in the falling balance sinks his heart.

Poor is the ruffian victor of the field,

Where tortured feelings melt the female eye, Where wounded Tenderness, compelled to yield, Leads the barbarian's triumph with a sigh.

STANZAS

TO A YOUNG LADY ON A BAMBOO FAN, ACCIDENTALLY

TORN.

ERST, wanton Toy, 'twas thine to move,

By beauty's lovely queen caressed; While, waving, like the wing of love,

Thou fanned'st a flame in every breast! 'Twas thire, in her imperial hand,

The cold to warm, the proud subdue; The female Franklin's magic wand, Olivia's sceptre, sweet Bamboo !

Whene'er the Nymph displayed thy charms
Thy airy flutters graceful move;
Each bosom, throbbing soft alarms,
Appeared an aspen leaf of love.

And while, too fondly, thought the maid
To smile unseen, when veiled by you;
Her treacherous eyes the plot betrayed,
And dazzled through the thin Bamboo.

But oh! ye LOVES, whence heaves that sigh,
And whence those tears, ye Graces, flow?
Why swells the sorrow-glistening eye?
Why ventilates the breast of woe?

""Tis rent! Olivia's fan is rent!

"Farewell, our triumphs! Fame, adieu !"

Alas!-But why, this wound lament?

'Tis glory to your loved Bamboo !

Two rival Zephyrs, knights of air,
Contended for Olivia's lip;
To dwell, like Epicureans there,
And riot on the nect'rous sip;
To that pure fount, of chaste delight,

These Chesterfields of æther flew ;

Rushed on the Fan, which checked their sight,

And rudely tore the soft Bamboo.

Ah! could I gain the ear of Jove,
To list propitious to my prayer,
This sole request my wish should prove,
That I thy envied form might bear.
Then, from the nymph I'd steal a kiss,
And sigh, in plaintive zephyrs too;
While tender tales of love and bliss,

I'd whisper from the fond Bamboo !