XCIX.-A LADY OF OLD.
A SET of phrases learned by rote; A passion for a scarlet coat; When at a play, to laugh, or cry, Yet cannot tell the reason why; Never to hold her tongue a minute, While all she prates has nothing in it; Whole hours can with a coxcomb sit, And take his nonsense all for wit; Her learning mounts to read a song, But all the words pronouncing wrong; Hath every repartee in store She spoke ten thousand times before; Can ready compliments supply On all occasions, cut and dry; Such hatred to a parson's gown, The sight would put her in a swoon; For conversation well endu'd, She calls it witty to be rude; And, placing raillery in railing, Will tell aloud your greatest failing; Nor make a scruple to expose Your bandy leg, or crooked nose: Can at her morning tea run o'er The scandal of the day before; Improving hourly in her skill To cheat and wrangle at quadrille. In choosing lace a critic nice, Knows to a groat the lowest price; Can in her female clubs dispute What linen best the silk will suit, What colors each complexion match, And where with art to place a patch.
If chance a mouse creeps in her sight, Can finely counterfeit a fright;
So sweetly screams if it comes near her,
She ravishes all hearts to hear her.
Can dext'rously her husband teaze,
By taking fits whene'er she please;
By frequent practice learns the trick
At
proper seasons to be sick;
Thinks nothing gives one airs so pretty,
At once creating love and pity.
If Molly happens to be careless,
And but neglects to warm her hair-lace,
She gets a cold as sure as death,
And vows she scarce can fetch her breath;
Admires how modest women can
Be so robustious, like a man.
In party, furious to her pow'r;
A bitter Whig, or Tory sour;
Her arguments directly tend
Against the side she would defend;
Would prove herself a Tory plain,
From principles the Whigs maintain;
And to defend the Whiggish cause,
Her topics from the Tories draws.
O yes! if any man can find
More virtues in a woman's mind,
Let them be sent to Mrs. Harding;
She'll pay the charges to a farthing;
Take notice, she has my commission
To add them in the next edition;
They may out-sell a better thing:
So, halloo, boys; God save the king!
C. THE DRONES OF THE COMMUNITY, THOSE gilded flies
That, basking in the sunshine of a Court,
Fatten on its corruption-what are they?
The drones of the community! they feed
On the mechanic's labor; the starved hind
For them compels the stubborn glebe to yield
Its unshared harvests; and yon squallid form,
Leaner than fleshless misery, that wastes
A sunless life in the unwholesome mine,
Drags out in labor a protracted death,
To glut their grandeur. Many faint with toil,
That few may know the cares and woe of sloth.
Whence, think'st thou, kings and parasites arose?
Whence that unnatural line of drones, who heap
Toil and unvanquishable penury
On those who build their palaces, and bring
Their daily bread ?-From vice, black, loathsome vice;
From rapine, madness, treachery, and wrong;
From all that genders misery, and makes
Of earth this thorny wilderness; from lust,
Revenge, and murder.-And, when Reason's voice,
Loud as the voice of nature, shall have waked
The Nations and mankind perceive that vice
Is discord, war, and misery,-that virtue
Is peace, and happiness, and harmony;
When man's maturer nature shall disdain
The playthings of its childhood;-kingly glare
Will lose its power to dazzle; its authority
Will silently pass by; the gorgeous throne
Shall stand unnoticed in the regal hall,
Fast falling to decay; whilst falsehood's trade
Shall be as hateful and unprofitable
CI. THE MAID OF THE INN.
WHO is she, the poor maniac, whose wildly fixed eyes
Seem a heart overcharged to express?
She weeps not, yet often and deeply she sighs;
She never complains, but her silence implies
The composure of settled distress.
No aid, no compassion the maniac will seek;
Cold and hunger awake not her care;
Through the rags do the winds of the winter blow bleak
On her poor withered bosom, half bare; and her cheek
Has the deadly pale hue of despair.
Yet cheerful and happy, nor distant the day,
Poor Mary, the maniac, has been;
The traveller remembers, who journeyed this way,
No damsel so lovely, no damsel so gay,
As Mary, the maid of the inn.
Her cheerful address filled the guests with delight,
As she welcomed them in with a smile;
Her heart was a stranger to childish affright,
And Mary would walk by the abbey at night,
When the wind whistled down the dark aisle.
She loved, and young Richard had settled the day,
And she hoped to be happy for life;
But Richard was idle and worthless, and they
Who knew her, would pity poor Mary, and say
That she was too good for his wife.
Twas in autumn, and stormy and dark was the night,
And fast were the windows and door;
Two guests sat enjoying the fire that burnt bright,
And smoking in silence, with tranquil delight,
They listened to hear the wind roar.
"'Tis pleasant," cried one," seated by the fireside,
To hear the wind whistle without."
"A fine night for the abbey," his comrade replied"Methinks a man's courage would now be well tried, Who should wander the ruins about.
"I myself, like a schoolboy, should tremble to hear
The hoarse ivy shake over my head;
And could fancy I saw, half persuaded by fear,
Some ugly old abbot's white spirit appear,
For this wind might awaken the dead."
"I'll wager a dinner," the other one cried,
"That Mary would venture there now."
"Then wager and lose," with a sneer he replied,
"I'll warrant she'd fancy a ghost by her side,
And faint if she saw a white cow."
"Will Mary this charge on her courage allow?"
His companion exclaimed with a smile;
"I shall win, for I know she will venture there now,
And earn a new bonnet by bringing a bough
From the alder that grows in the aisle."
With fearless good humor did Mary comply,
And her way to the abbey she bent;
The night it was dark, and the wind it was high,
And as hollowly howling it swept through the sky,
She shivered with cold as she went.
O'er the path, so well known, still proceeded the maid,
Where the abbey rose dim on the sight;
Through the gateway she entered, she felt not afraid,
Yet the ruins were lonely and wild, and their shade
Seemed to deepen the gloom of the night.
All around her was silent, save when the rude blast
Howled dismally round the old pile;
Over weed-covered fragments still fearless she passed,
And arrived at the innermost ruin at last,
Where the alder-tree grows in the aisle.
Well pleased did she reach it, and quickly drew near,
And hastily gathered the bough-
When the sound of a voice seemed to rise on her ear-
She paused, and she listened, all eager to hear,
And her heart panted fearfully now!
The wind blew, the hoarse ivy shook over her head ;—
She listened ;-naught else could she hear.
The wind ceased, her heart sunk in her bosom with dread
For she heard in the ruins-distinctly-the tread
Of footsteps approaching her near.
Behind a wide column, half breathless with fear,
She crept to conceal herself there;
That instant the moon o'er a dark cloud shone clear,
And she saw in the moonlight two ruffians appear,
And between them—a corpse did they bear !
Then Mary could feel her heart's-blood curdle cold!
Again the rough wind hurried by-
It blew off the hat of the one, and behold!
Even close to the feet of poor Mary it rolled !—
She fell-and expected to die!
"Curse the hat!" he exclaims. "Nay come on, and first hide
The dead body," his comrade replies.
She beheld them in safety pass on by her side,
She seizes the hat, fear her courage supplied,
And fast through the abbey she flies.
She ran with wild speed, she rushed in at the door,
She gazed horribly eager around;
Then her limbs could support their faint burden no more,
And exhausted and breathless she snnk on the floor,
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