256 BURNING LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

ON THE SAME.

I.

WHEN wit and genius meet their doom

In all devouring flame,

They tell us of the fate of Rome,

And bid us fear the fame.

II.

Over MURRAY's lofs the mufes wept,
They felt the rude alarm,

Yet bleffed the guardian care, that kept

His facred head from harm.

III.

There memory, like the bee, that's fed

From Flora's balmy ftore,

The quinteffence of all he read

Had treasured up before.

IV.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,

Have done him cruel wrong;

The flowers are gone-but ftill we find

The honey on his tongue.

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD

REPROVED;

OR,

HYPOCRISY DETECTED

THUS fays the prophet of the Turk,
Good muffulman, abftain from pork;
There is a part in every swine
No friend or follower of mine
May tafte, whatever his inclination,
On pain of excommunication.
Such Mahomet's myfterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the finful part expreffed,
They might with fafety eat the reft;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarred;
And fet their wit at work to find

What joint the prophet had in mind,

It may be proper to inform the reader that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with fome unnecefary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leeds Jour. nal, without the author's privity.

Much controversy straight arose,

These choose the back, the belly those;
By fome 'tis confidently faid

He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail,
And piously prefer the tail.

Thus, confcience freed from every clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well-The tale applied
May make you laugh on t'other fide.
Renounce the world-the preacher cries.
We do a multitude replies,

While one as innocent regards

A fnug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,

Can fee no evil in a play;

Some love a concert, or a race;

And others shooting, and the chafe.

Reviled and loved, renounced and followed,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is fwallowed;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a flice as well as he :

With fophiftry their fauce they sweeten,
Till quite from tail to fnout 'tis eaten.

ON

THE DEATH

OF

MRS. (now LADY) THROCKMORTON'S

BULFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless favourites fhed,
O fhare Maria's grief!

Her favourite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage ?)
Affaffined by a thief.

Where Rhenus ftrays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung,
And though by nature mute,

Or only with a whistle bleft,

Well-taught he all the sounds expreffed
Of flagelet or flute.

The honours of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the fleekeft mole,
His bofom of the hue,

With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds fhall foon arife
To sweep up all the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike to bird and moufe,

No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage fupported food
On props of smootheft-shaven wood,
Large-built and latticed well.

Well-latticed-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of fteel or brafs,
For Bully's plumage fake,

But smooth with wands from Oufe's fide,
With which, when neatly peeled and dried,
The fwains their baskets make.

Night veiled the pole. All feemed fecure.
When led by inftinct sharp and fure,
Subfiftence to provide,

A beaft forth-fallied on the fcout,

Long-backed, long-tailed, with whiskered fnout, And badger-coloured hide.