VI.

"The porter-mug fill high,

"Baked curls and locks prepare;

"Reft of our heads, they yet by wigs may live. "Close by the greasy chair

"Fell thirst and famine lie

"No more to art will beauteous nature give.

"Heard ye the the gang

of Fielding say,

"Sir John at last we've found their haunt;

"To desperation driv'n by hungry want,

"Thro' the crammed laughing Pit they steal their way.

"Ye tow'rs of Newgate! London's lasting shame,

"By many a foul and midnight murder fed,
"Revere poor Mr. Coe, the blacksmith's † fame,
"And spare the grinning barber's chuckle head.

VII.

"Rascals! we tread thee under foot,

(Weave we the woof, the thread is spun :) "Our beards we pull out by the root;

"(The web is wove; your work is done.")

Stay, oh stay! nor thus forlorn

Leave me uncurl'd, undinner'd, here to mourn.
Thro' the broad gate, that leads to College Hall,
They melt, they fly, they vanish all.

But, oh! what happy scenes of pure delight,
Slow moving on their simple charms unroll!
Ye rapt'rous visions! spare my aching sight,
Ye unborn beauties croud not on my soul!
No more our long-lost Coventry we wail:
All hail, ye genuine forms; fair Nature's issue, hail!

Sir John Fielding the active Police Magistrate of that day. + Coe's father, the blacksmith of Cambridge.

VIII.

Not frizz'd and fritter'd, pinn'd and roll'd,
Sublime their artless locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames, and judges old,
Without their têtes and wigs appear;
In the midst a form divine,

Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line,
Her port demure, her grave, religious face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.

What sylphs and spirits wanton thro' the air!
'What crouds of little angels round her play!
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! oh hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay.
Simplicity now soaring as she sings,

Waves in the eye of Heav'n her Quaker-colour'd wings.
IX.

No more toupees are seen

That mock at Alpine height,

And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound,

All now are vanish'd quite.

No tongs, or torturing pin,

But ev'ry head is trimm'd quite snug around:

'Like boys of the cathedral choir,

'Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear;

Each simpler generation blooms more fair,

"Till all that's artificial expire.

Vain puppy boy! think'st thou yon essenc'd cloud,

'Rais'd by thy puff, can vie with Nature's hue?

To-morrow see the variegated croud

With ringlets shining like the morning dew.
Enough for me; with joy I see

The different dooms our fates assign;

Be thine to love thy trade and starve;

To wear what Heaven bestow'd be mine;'

He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs' height, Quick thro' the frozen street, he ran in shabby plight.

EPIGRAM.

ON CERTAIN FASHIONABLES.

YE wits and moralists, forbear
!. The driving band to blame!
Their conduct speaks a prudent care,
And praise may justly claim.

They've heard that he, in lordly state
Who proudly rears his head,
May yet be doom'd by cruel Fate
To earn his daily bread.

Too weak the arms of modern beaux

To delve the stubborn soil ;

Too weak their heads, alas! Heaven knows,

To live by mental toil.

And, therefore, do they seek the skill
To use the whip and reins,

Since well the coachman's place to fill

Requires nor strength nor brains.

Should cards and dice their fortunes swallow,
They still may 'scape starvation,

For they have learn'd, and then may follow,
One honest occupation.

R. A. D.

ТО РНЕВЕ.

SAY, lovely Phabe, why has heaven,
In every end divinely wise,
Perfection to thy features given,
Enchantment to thy radiant eyes?

Was it that mortal men might view
Thy charms at distance, and adore?
Ah no! the man who would not woo,
Were less than mortal, or were more!

The budding rose of ruddy dye,

Born to be loved, admired, carest, We leave not on the stalk to die,

But snatch its beauties to the breast;

There, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwellsUnless the breast be Phabe's own; There blooming, every bloom excellsExcept of Phabe's face alone!

O PHOBE! life is on the wing,

And years, like rivers, glide away; To-morrow may misfortune bringThen gentle girl, enjoy to-day!

Nor had I pour'd in numbers warm,
A song even Phabe might approve,
Had she a face less formed to charm,
Or I a heart less apt to love!

ANACREON,

ODE XL. TRANSLATED.

ONCE, a bee, unseen while sleeping,
Touch'd by Love, from rose-buds creeping,
Stung the boy, who blood espying
On his finger, fell a-crying:

Then, both feet and pinions straining,

Flew to Venus, thus complaining:

"Oh! mamma, mamma, I'm dying,

Me a little dragon spying,

Which the ploughman-tribe, so stupid,
Call a bee, has bit your Cupid."

"Ah!" quoth Venus, smiling shrewdly,
"If a bee can wound so rudely,
Cupid, think how sharp the sorrows
Caus'd by thy envenom'd arrows!"

B.

J. W.