Puslapio vaizdai
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To moral truth when loveliest grace is given,
The smile of Beauty is a ray from heaven;—
Soft as the fairy web, Arachne weaves

To ward the night-dew from the lily's leaves;
Chaste as the pity of Aurora's tears,

When the web trembles with the pearl it bears.

Yon dapper Dash-who screens the lobby fireIs doughty Peter Paragraph, Esquire,Forever knowing-and forever known,The gay Court Calender-of all the town. His brilliant fancy wings such rapid flights, That his pen flashes,-like the northern lights! On fashion's face he marks each patch and pimple,— Notes all the Belle Assemble-to a dimple! Keeps dates of wrinkles-sets each freckle down,And knows the age of each old maid in town! -Puff, and Post Obit,-naught is he perplexed on,And, Death or Marriage, he is Clerk or Sexton ! Whate'er the theme,-his is the quill to grace it,From " consumatum est”—to grave-" hic jacet !" Wherever folly lies-in wise perdue,

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Quick as heat lightning-and as harmless too,
He splinters words, as gamesters rattle dice,
And sparkles, like a man, who chops on ice.
In daily lounge, Cornhill pavé he passes,
To study signs, and ogle looking glasses!
His spleen-at vulgar gutters-never rankles;
He thanks their mud-for every pair of ankles!
Nor thinks, while feasting on caprice and whim,-
One grace too naked, or one fop too slim!

Belles, beaux, and blankets,tiffanies and teas,-
He borrows all he knows, from all he sees.
Then home for fame,-to scribble to be sure,-
For every traveller must write a tour;-

He gives the world the gleanings of his ramble,
As nuts are thrown to monkies, for a scramble !

Eh!-I've a full length Critick in my eye!
Shall I or not?-He'll catch me, or I'd try!
Egad, I'm in for't!-see, he's at me too!
Pray, Sir, turn round,-I'll take a profile view.
Nay!-nouns and pronouns save such want of grace!
A Poet look a critick in the face!

Such courage ne'er was known 'mong rhyming elves,
Since they, who're criticks now, wrote tags themselves.
Streams, when neglected, sink to common sewers,
And disappointed Authors turn Reviewers!*
Like stagnant pools, they breathe putrescent air,
From the green film, their fetid bosoms bear.
Fie!-frown not, we, who catch the trick of faces,
Must rouse the passions, to excite the graces:
Now, in what Act, Sir, was our-epitasis ?
The busy, bustling action of our play?

"The scenes with Abigail"-ha! there you say!-
"The eyes of beauty beamed with lightning there,"
"When hopeless virtue proudly spurned despair."
Caught by a twinkle from "the eye of beauty!"
A Critick too most Stocick Sir, my duty.-
Nature will break,-encase her how you will,-
A Cat in pattens is Grimalkin still.

*These two lines are altered from the "Children of Thespi".""

But soft, he speaks-"An Epilogue may sport
"With a broad patent, like a fool at court;
"But while you laugh by text, and rail by rote,
"Your author's fable has our warmest vote."-

I thank you, Sir,-I'll have that down by note.
"His Hero needs no advocate at bar;-
"We see his virtues in its native spar!
Now, what of Sindal ?-How did he appear?
"Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear!"
"In crime accomplished, and in wit refined,
"His very genius blurred the grace of mind."
But what of Gripe?" Such knaves elude the law,
"And live, like leeches, on the blood they draw.
"When Gripe the balance with his conscience made,
"He kept his vices, as his stock in trade.—
"Spawned in the alley, by its logick reared,

"He shaves a note, as Smallpeace shaves a beard; "And both so well their office understand,

"They trim you smooth, and yet conceal the hand!"

Oh! what is man, who, thus debased by pelf,
All human nature sinks in human self;
Who basely pilfers, with unfeeling joy,

A mother's picture from an artless boy!
When man's deserting soul forsakes his breast,
To pine a death-watch in a miser's chest,
The starving hypocrite allegiance swears,
To gold and grace, to poverty and pray rs;
And, not one joy his flickering lamp to cheer,
Lives without love, and dies without a tear!
Such are the, "Gripes," the meanest of their tribe,
Who cheat themselves, and chuckle at the bribe;

Who bury nature, ere her mortal doom,

And drag existence in a living tomb.

In life's dark cell, pale burns their glimmering soul; A rush-light warms the winter of the pole,

To chill and cheerless solitude confined,

No spring of virtue thaws the ice of mind.
They creep in blood, as frosty streamlets flow,
And freeze with life, as dormice sleep in snow.
Like snails, they bear their dungeons on their backs,
And shut out light,-to save a window tax!

Not so gay Cœlebs lives, nor wife, nor child,
E'er blessed his arms, or on his bounty smiled;
Yet, touched by nature, his affections glow,
And claim their kindred to the man of woe,
Mid wine and mirth while rolls his daily round,
The secret want, the meek distress is found;
Silent as light, and, like its source, serene.—
His bounty gives unknown, and warms unseen.
He feels, while tears the sacred joy confess,
Man likens God, when he has power to bless.

Criticks there are, who boast a noble race;
Who twine with genius every lettered grace;
Candid to censure, generous to commend,
The polished scholar, and the faithful friend,
Loved by the Muse, they feel the poet's fire,
And soothe the minstrel, while they tune his lyre ;
On private merit, publick fame they raise,
For every Nation shares its Author's praise.

EPILOGUE

TO THE POOR LODGER.

Enter HARRIET.

WITH anxious heart, that beats for perils past,
Your happy Harriet now comes home, at last :
A home, indeed! where oft, each generous mind
With fame has cheered her, and with taste refined:
Where first, her powers indulgent to disclose,
You op'd the petals of the budding rose;

Bade the young stalk, with trembling blossoms, rise,
Warmed by your beams, though foreign to your skies,
And placed, oh, grateful joy! with fondest care,
The fostered flow'ret in your own parterre !

Enter SIR HARRY.

Sir Har. Sure, such a flower would flourish, any where? Har. Gallant, Sir Harry

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Wit may be wisdom, but all wits are fools.

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