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A brain of feather! very right,
With wit that's flighty, learning light;
Such as to modern bard's decreed;
A just comparison,―proceed.

In the next place, his feet peruse, Wings grow again from both his shoes; Design'd, no doubt, their part to bear, And waft his godship through the air : And here my simile unites,

For in the modern poet's flights,
I'm sure it may be justly said,

His feet are useful as his head.

Lastly, vouchsafe t' observe his hand,
Fill'd with a snake-encircled wand;
By classic authors term'd caduceus,
And highly famed for several uses.
To wit-most wondrously endued,
No poppy water half so good;
For let folks only get a touch,
Its soporific virtue's such,

Though ne'er so much awake before,
That quickly they begin to snore.
Add too, what certain writers tell,
With this he drives men's souls to hell.

Now to apply, begin we then ;His wand's a modern author's pen; The serpents round about it twined, Denote him of the reptile kind; Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom❜d bites;

An equal semblance still to keep,
Alike too both conduce to sleep.
This difference only, as the god
Drove souls to Tart'rus with his rod,
With his goose-quill the scribbling elf,
Instead of others, damns himself.

And here my simile almost tript, Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover Merc'ry had a failing;

Well! what of that? out with it-stealing;
In which all modern bards agree,

Being each as great a thief as he :
But even this deity's existence
Shall lend my simile assistance.
Our modern bards! why what a pox

Are they but senseless stones and blocks?

DESCRIPTION

OF AN

AUTHOR'S BEDCHAMBER.

WHERE the Red Lion staring o'er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay;
Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black champagne,
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 night-cap deck'd his brows instead of bay,

A cap by night—a stocking all the day!

THE HERMIT;

A BALLAD.

FIRST PRINTED IN MDCCLXV.

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