New Lauders1 and Bowers' the Tweed shall cross over,
No countryman living their tricks to discover;

Detection her taper shall quench to a spark,

And Scotchman meet Scotchman, and cheat in the dark.

Here lies David Garrick, describe me who can,
An abridgment of all that was pleasant in man.
As an actor, confess'd without rival to shine;
As a wit, if not first, in the very first line;

and other works. Dr. Johnson denounced the former to be "as gross an imposition as ever the world was troubled with." Macpherson wrote an angry letter; and Johnson, in reply, called him a cheat and a ruffian. Macpherson never produced the Ossian MSS, and the authenticity of the poems is still an unsettled question. He died in 1796.

Lauders.-William Lauder, a Scotchman, who is now remembered only for his attack upon Milton, whom he accused of plagiarisms. Dr. Douglas, in his defence of Milton, convicted Lauder of forgery and imposture in his quotations, who was forced by Dr Johnson to subscribe a confession, which was published. Lauder lost character, was ruined and despised, and went to Barbadoes, where he died in 1771.

2 Bowers-Archibald Bower, a Scotch Roman Catholic. He entered, as a noviciate, the Order of Jesuits, at Rome: became a professor, at Macerata; and after various adventures came to England, was introduced to Clarke and Berkeley, and conformed to the Church of England. Lord Lyttleton gave him the custody of his sons, and he wrote for the booksellers. He rejoined the Jesuits, and again left them. His principal work was a history of the Popes. He died in 1765

Yet, with talents like these, and an excellent heart,
The man had his failings, a dupe to his art.
Like an ill-judging beauty, his colours he spread,
And beplaster'd with rouge his own natural red.
On the stage he was natural, simple, affecting;
'Twas only that when he was off he was acting.
With no reason on earth to go out of his way,
He turned and he varied full ten times a day;
Though secure of our hearts, yet confoundedly sick,
If they were not his own by finessing and trick:
He cast off his friends as a huntsman his pack,

For he knew, when he pleased, he could whistle them back.
Of praise a mere glutton, he swallow'd what came,
And the puff of a dunce he mistook it for fame;
Till his relish grown callous, almost to disease,
Who pepper'd the highest was surest to please.
But let us be candid, and speak out our mind,
If dunces applauded, he paid them in kind.

Ye Kenricks, ye Kellys,1 and Woodfalls,2 so grave,
What a commerce was yours, while you got and you gave!
How did Grub-street re-echo the shouts that you raised,
While he was be-Roscius'd and you were be-praised!

But peace to his spirit, wherever it flies,

To act as an angel, and mix with the skies:

Those poets who owe their best fame to his skill,
Shall still be his flatterers, go where he will;

Old Shakespeare receive him with praise and with love,
And Beaumonts and Bens be his Kellys above.

Here Hickey reclines, a most blunt, pleasant creature,
And slander itself must allow him good-nature:
He cherish'd his friend, and he relish'd a bumper,
Yet one fault he had, and that one was a thumper!
Perhaps you may ask if the man was a miser?
I answer, No, no, for he always was wiser.

Ye Kellys.-Hugh Kelly, an Irishman, who went to London, and took to writing for periodicals. Garrick patronised him, and under his auspices he produced his first comedy, False Delicacy," which was very successful. "A Word to the Wise" (for which, after his death, Johnson wrote a prologue!, "Clementina," "The School for Wives," and other pieces, were written by him. He was called to the Ear in 1774, and was making rapid proficiency, when he died, after a short illness, 10 1777

Woodfalls.-William Woodfall, the printer of "Junius's Letters" in the Public Advertiser, and subsequently proprietor and editor of the Morning Chronicle. He died in 1803.

241

Too courteous, perhaps, or obligingly flat?
His very worst foe can't accuse him of that.
Perhaps he confided in men as they go,

And so was too foolishly honest? Ah, no!
Then what was his failing? come tell it, and burn ye.
He was could he help it ?-a special attorney.

Here Reynolds is laid, and to tell you my mind,
He has not left a wiser or better behind;
His pencil was striking, resistless, and grand;
His manners were gentle, complying, and bland;
Still born to improve us in every part,

His pencil our faces, his manners our heart:

To coxcombs averse, yet most civilly steering,

When they judged without skill, he was still hard of hearing!
When they talk'd of their Raphaels, Correggios, and stuff,
He shifted his trumpet, and only took snuff.

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL Wolfe.

MIDST 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 breast 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.

AN ELEGY

ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE.

OOD 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 lived a twelvemonth more,

She had not died to-day.