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STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.

AMIDST the clamour 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 breasts to glow,

While thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour 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.

A SONNET.

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight;
Mira, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night,

Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Mira follow'd my direction,

She Inog had wanted cause of fear.

FROM THE ORATORIO OF THE CAPTIVITY.

A SONG.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, still on hopes relies;

And ev'ry pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray

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 the door,
And always found her kind:
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wondrous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church in silks and satins 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 liv'd a twelvemonth more→→
She had not died to-day.

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.*

HERE lies poor 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.

Educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.

SONG.

O MEMORY, thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain!

Thou, like the world, the opprest oppressing,
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

A PROLOGUE

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS,

A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON
THE STAGE.

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WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age
re!
Scarce half-alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside.
Unaw'd by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift, I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour 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 inclin'd 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 honour ends.

First printed in one of our Author's earliest works, 'The Present State of Learning in Europe,' 12mo, 1759.

PROLOGUE TO 'ZOBEIDE,

A TRAGEDY.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,

And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading:
Yet, ere he lands, has order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:

[Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em

[Pit.

Here trees of stately size, and billing turtles 'em

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound-
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:
The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:
I heard a hissing- there are serpents here!
O there the people are best keep my distance;
Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance;
Our ship's well stor❜d-in yonder creek we've laid her,
His honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure, lend him aid;

[Balconies. [Stage. [Tasting them.

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war,

What, no reply to promises so ample?

-I'd best step back, and order up a sample.

EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS,

IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.

HOLD! prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense?
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my consciente.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses;
Whose only plot it is to break our noses ;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off, off, vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:

6

Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-soft-'twas but a dream.'

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating:

If I cease Harlequin, Í cease from eating.

'Twas thus that Esop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

And cavill'd at his image in the flood.

The deuce confound,' he cries, 'these drum-stick shanks, They neither have my gratitude nor thanks: They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead! But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head. How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! My horns! I'm told, horns are the fashion now.' Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew.

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