One talks of mildew and of frost, And one of ftorms of hail, And one of pigs that he has loft Quoth one, A rarer man than you In pulpit none fhall hear: But yet, methinks, to tell you true, Oh, why are farmers made fo coarse, Or clergy made fo fine! A kick that fcarce would move a horfe May kill a found divine. Then let the boobies ftay at home; Lefs trouble taking twice the fum, Dr. DARWIN, Author of "THE BOTANIC GARDEN." Two Poets,* (poets, by report, Sweet Harmonist of Flora's court! They beft can judge a poet's worth The pangs of a poetic birth By labours of their own. We, therefore, pleas'd, extol thy fong, And learn'd as it is sweet. No envy mingles with our praise, Though, could our hearts repine At any poet's happier lays, They would-they must at thine! * Alluding to the poem by Mr. Hayley, which accompanied this. But we, in mutual bondage knit And deem the Bard, whoe'er he be,. And howfoever known, Who would not twine a wreath for Thee, ON Mrs. MONTAGUE's FEATHER-HANGINGS. THE Birds put off their ev'ry hue To dress a room for Montague. The Peacock fends his heav'nly dyes, The Pheafant, plumes, which round infold- All tribes befide of Indian name, But fcreen'd from ev'ry ftorm that blows, To the fame patronefs refort, Strong Genius, from whofe forge of thought Forms rife, to quick perfection wrought, Which, though new-born, with vigour move, Like Pallas fpringing arm'd from JoveImagination scatt'ring round Wild rofes over furrow'd ground, Which Labour of his frown beguile, And teach Philosophy a smile Wit flashing on Religion's fide, The gem, though luminous before, Like fun-beams on the golden height Not more harmonious or compact Than that to which he keeps confin'd There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit, She thus maintains divided sway |