Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane:
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug;
A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show'd the state in which he lay;
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the Royal Martyr drew;
The Seasons, framed with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show'd his lamp-black face.
The morn was cold; he views with keen desire
The rusty grate unconscious of a fire:
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scored,
And five crack'd tea-cups dress'd the chimney-board;
A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night-a stocking all the day!*
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.
[Preserved by Macrobius.]
WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
* The author has given, with a very slight alteration, a similar description of the alehouse. in the Deserted Village.
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honor dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honor is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel, at threescore, a life of fame :
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honor ends.
AN ELEGY ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighborhood to please
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satin new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.
But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found, when she was dead
Her last disorder mortal.
Let us lament in sorrow sore,
For Kent Street well may say,
That had she lived a twelvemonth more She had not died to-day.
STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.
SURE, 'twas by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;
'An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces As I hope to be saved ! . without thinking on asses.'
EPITAPH ON DR. PARNELL.
THIS tomb, inscribed to gentle PARNELL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure's flowery way?
Celestial themes confess'd his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The transitory breath of fame below:
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*
HERE lies Ned Purdon, from misery freed,
Who long was a bookseller's hack:
He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
* This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin ; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Grow. ing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.
STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.
AMIDST the clamor of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.
O Wolfe!* to thee a streaming flood of woe
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear;
Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,
Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigor fled,
And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.
WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy?
What art can wash her guilt away?
The only art her guilt to cover,
To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is to die.
* Goldsmith claimed relationship with this gallant soldier, whose character he greatly admired.
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