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In Gath, ah! never this dishonour name,
Nor in the streets of Askelon proclaim;
Lest the sad tidings of our country's woe
Cause triumph to the daughters of the foe.
May Heav'n, Gilboa, on thy heights ne'er pour
The dew refreshing, or the fruitful shower;
Ne'er may thy furrows give the golden seed,
Nor from thy folds the fleecy victims bleed:
There mighty men through fear their shields re-

sign'd,

The shield of Saul was basely left behind.
Thy bow, O Jonathan, oft strew'd the plain
With carcasses of valiant heroes slain;

Thy sword, O Saul, ne'er left its sheath in vain.
Blest pair! whom love with sweetest concord tied,
Whom glory join'd, and death cou'd not divide.
Dreadful through all the war they mov'd along,
Swift as the eagle, as the lion strong. [drest
Weep, weep for Saul, ye maids, whose bounty
Israel's fair daughters in the scarlet vest;
Who gave you gold and pearls your robes to
deck,

And rings and jewels for your hands and neck.
Thy prowess, much lov'd Jonathan, prov'd vain;
How are the mighty on the mountains slain!
To me, O Jonathan, for ever dear,
Thy fate, alas! demands th' eternal tear :
Where can such faith, such piety be found?
Such pleasing converse with firm friendship
bound?

Thy love was wondrous, soothing all my care,
Passing the fond affection of the fair.

How are the mighty on the mountains slain !
And all the instruments of battle vain!

THE PICTURE OF OLD-AGE,

PARAPHRASED FROM THE SEVEN FIRST VERSES OF
THE TWELFTH CHAPTER OF ECCLESIASTES.

My son, attentive hear the voice of truth;
Remember thy Creator in thy youth,
Ere days of pale adversity appear,
And age and sorrow fill the gloomy year,
When wearied with vexation thou shalt say,
"No rest by night I know, no joy by day;"
Ere the bright soul's enlighten'd pow'rs wax frail,
Ere reason, memory, and fancy fail,

But care succeeds to care, and pain to pain,
As clouds urge clouds, returning after rain:
Ere yet the arms unnerv'd and feeble grow,
The weak legs tremble, and the loose knees bow;
Ere yet the grinding of the teeth is o'er,
And the dim eyes behold the Sun no more;
Ere yet the pallid lips forget to speak,
The gums are toothless, and the voice is weak;
Restless he rises when the lark he hears,
Yet sweetest music fails to charm his ears.
A stone, or hillock, turns his giddy brain,
Appall'd with fear he totters o'er the plain;
And as the almond-tree white flow'rs displays,
His head grows hoary with the length of days;
As leanness in the grasshopper prevails,
So shrinks his body, and his stomach fails;
Doom'd to the grave his last long home to go,
The mourners march along with solemn woe:
Ere yet life's silver cord be snapt in twain,
Ere broke the golden bowl that holds the brain,

Ere broke the pitcher at the fountful heart,
Or life's wheel shiver'd, and the soul depart,
Then shall the dust to native earth be given,
The soul shall soar sublime, and wing its way to
Heaven.

MORE

A GOOD WIFE.

FROM PROVERBS, Chapter xxxi.

[ORE precious far than rubies, who can find
A wife embellished with a virtuous mind:
In her securely, as his better part,
Her happy husband cheerful rests his heart:
With such a lovely partner of his toil
His goods increase without the need of spoil.
Bless'd in the friendship of his faithful wife,
He steers through all vicissitudes of life.
Well pleas'd she labours, nor disdains to cull
The textile flax, or weave the twisted wool.
Rich as the merchant ships that crowd the
strands,

She reaps the harvest of remotest lands.
Early she rises ere bright Phoebus shines,
And to her damsels separate tasks assigns:
Refresh'd with food her hinds renew their toil,
And cheerful haste to cultivate the soil.
If to her farm some field contiguous lies,
With care she views it, and with prudence buys;
And with the gains which Heaven to wisdom
grants,

A vineyard of delicious grapes she plants.
Inur'd to toils she strength and sweetness joins,
Strength is the graceful girdle of her loins.
With joy her goodly merchandise she views,
And oft till morn her pleasing work pursues.
The spindle twirls obedient to her tread,
Round rolls the wheel, and spins the ductile
Benignant from her ever-open door [thread.
She feeds the hungry, and relieves the poor.
Nor frost nor snow her family molest,
For all her household are in scarlet drest.
Resplendent robes are by her husband worn,
Her limbs fine purple and rich silks adorn:
For wisdom fam'd, for probity renown'd,
He sits in council with bright honour crown'd.
To weave rich girdles is her softer care, [wear.
Which merchants buy, and mighty monarchs
With strength and honour she herself arrays,
And joy will bless her in the latter days.
Wise are her words, her sense divinely strong,
For kindness is the tenour of her tongue.
Fair rule and order in her mansion dwell,
She eats with temperance what she earns so well.
Rich in good works her children call her blest,
And thus her husband speaks his inmost breast:
"To Eve's fair daughters various virtues fall,
But thou, lov'd charmer, hast excell'd them all."
Smiles oft are fraudful, beauty soon decays,
But the good woman shall inherit praise.
To her, O grateful, sweet requital give!
Her name,
her honour shall for ever live.

NATHAN'S PARABLE.

II. SAMUEL, Chap. xii.

To Israel's king thus spoke the holy seer:
O mighty monarch, fam'd for wisdom, hear
While to my lord a tale of woe I tell :
Two men, O king, in one fair city dwell;
The one is friendless, and exceeding poor,
The other rich, and boastful of his store:
Large herds of oxen in his pastures feed,
And flocks unnumber'd whiten every mead.
The poor man's stock was only one ewe-lamb
Of snowy fleece, wean'd lately from its dam;
He bought it with what treasure he could spare,
Ev'n all his wealth, and 'twas his only care;
Nurs'd by his hand, and with his children bred,
With them it wanton'd, and with them it fed;
Of his own mess it eat without control,
And drank the beverage of his milky bowl;
Then lightly-sportful skipt, and, tir'd with play,
Dear as a daughter in his bosom lay.
A traveller of no ignoble fame,

By chance conducted, to the rich man came;
Yet from his herds he could not spare an ox
To treat him, nor a wether from his flocks,
But took by cruel force, and kill'd and drest
The poor man's lamb to feed his pamper'd guest."
The monarch paus'd-then made this stern
reply

Incens'd: "I swear by God that rules the sky,
The man that did this thing shall surely die:
The lamb fourfold he likewise shail restore,
To recompense the friendless and the poor:
Because his heart no soft compassion felt,
At other's woe unknowing how to melt."
"Thou art the man," reply'd the holy seer,
Thus saith the Lord, the God of Israel, hear:
A king thou art, anointed at my call,
O'er Israel; and I rescued thee from Saul;
And gave thee all thy master's servants lives,
His large possessions, and his numerous wives:
Was that too little? Could'st thou more require?
I would have given thee all thy heart's desire.
Then wherefore didst thou God's commandment
Committing this great evil in his sight? [slight,
Lo! thou hast robb'd Uriah of his wife,
Defil'd his bed, and then destroyed his life,
Hast slain him with the adversary's sword :
Now therefore hear the judgment of the Lord,
And lock this awful sentence in thy heart;

The sword shall never from thy house depart,
For thou hast robb'd Uriah of his wife,
Defil'd his bed, and then destroy'd his life.'
Thus saith the Lord, nor thou his words despise,
The power of evil in thy house shall rise,
Lo! I will take thy wives before thine eyes;
Thy concubines shall be in triumph led,
The Sun shall see them in thy neighbour's bed:
Thou didst it secret-this thing shall be done
Before all Israel, and before the Sun."

Agbast, convict the mighty monarch stood,
And from his eyes stream'd sorrow in a flood;
And while a sigh repentant heav'd his breast,
He thus the anguish of his soul exprest: [sword,
66 Thy words are sharper than the two-edg'd
For I, alas! have sinn'd against the Lord."
Stung with remorse he mourn'd his past of-
fence

With bitter tears, and heart-sprung penitence.

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66

The seer then sooth'd him with this calm reply;
Thy sin is pardon'd, and thou shall not die."
Thus may we clearly see each secret sin,
Warn'd by the faithful monitor within:
Thus may we, blest with bounteous grace from
Heaven,

Like Judah's king repent, and be forgiven.

THE SONG OF DEBORAH.
LEND, O ye princes, to my song an ear,
Ye mighty rulers of the nations, bear,
While to the Lord the notes of praise I sing,
To Israel's God, the everlasting king.

When from aerial Seir, in dread array,
From Edom when th' Almighty took his way,
"On Cherub, and on Cherubim he rode," [God:
The trembling Earth proclaim'd th' approach of
The heavens dissolv'd, the clouds in copious
rains
[plains:
Pour'd their black stores, and delug'd all the
The rent rocks shiver'd on that awful day,
And mountains melted like soft wax away.

In Shamgar's days, in Jael's hapless reign,
How were the princes, and the people slain?
When Sisera, terrific with his hosts,
Pour'd dire destruction on pale Judah's coasts;
The cities no inhabitants contain'd;
The public ways unoccupied remain'd;
The travellers through dreary deserts stray'd,
Or pensive wander'd in the lonely glade,
Till, sent by Heaven, I, Deborah, arose
To rule and rescue Israel from their foes.

Those patriot warriors of immortal fame,
Who sav'd their country all my favour claim:
Ye judges, speak, ye shepherd swains, rehearse
Jehovah's praise in never-dying verse.
Awake, awake; raise, Deborah, thy voice,
And in loud numbers bid the lyre rejoice:
Raise to the Lord of Heaven thy grateful song,
Who gave the weak dominion o'er the strong.

The tribes of Israel sent their mighty men,
That wield the falchion, or that guide the pen.
Gilead, Oh shame! by fountful Jordan lay,
Dan in his ships, and Asher in his bay :
Their bleating flocks (ignoble care!) withheld
The tribes of Reubeu from the tented field:
But chiefs intrepid to the conflict came,
Heroes that fought for empire and for fame:
In Taanach where Megiddo's streams are roll'd,
There fought the monarchs resolutely bold.
Heav'n's thunders to our foes destruction

wrought,

The stars 'gainst Sisera conspiring fought.
The river Kishon swept away the slain,
Kishon, that antient river, to the main.
For ever bless'd be Jael's honour'd name!
For ever written in the rolls of fame!
He ask'd refreshment from the limpid wave,
The milky beverage to the chief she gave:
He drank, he slept extended on the floor,
She smote the warrior, and he wak'd no more:
Low at her feet he bow'd his nail-pierc'd head;
Low at her feet he bow'd, he fell, he lay down
dead.

The hero's mother, anxious for his stay,
Thus, fondly sighing, chid his long delay;

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ON A WORTHY FRIEND

WHO WAS ACCOMPLISHED IN THE SISTER ARTS OF
MUSIC AND PAINTING.

OH born in liberal studies to excel,
Thou friendly, candid, virtuous mind, farewel!
To speak thy praise all eloquence is faint,
Except the style's expressive as thy paint:
Unless th' enliven'd numbers sweetly flow,
As when thy music gave the soul to glow :
Unless the Muses polish every line,
And draw the good man with a warmth divine,
Serenely pious, with the gentlest mind,
Through life contented, and in death resign'd.

ON THE REV. MR. COOKSON,

VICAR OF LEEDS.

WRAPT in cold clay beneath this marble lies What once was generous, eloquent, and wise;

ON JAMES FOX, ESQ.
1754.

PEACE to the noblest, most ingenuous mind,
In wisdom's philosophic school refin'd,
The friend of man; to pride alone a foe;
Whose heart humane would melt at others woe.
Oft has he made the breast of anguish gay,
And sigh'd, like Titus, when he lost a day.
All vice he lash'd, or in the rich or great,
But prais'd mild merit in the meanest state.
Calm and serene in virtue's paths he trod,
Lov'd mercy, and walk'd humbly with his God.

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The present is trifling, yet still you will find
Some food for the body as well as the mind.
To tell you their uses there is not much need-
The birds you will roast, and the books you may
read,

And as for the paper of snuff, I suppose
You are very well satisfied that's for your nose.
My respects to all friends, as a favour I ask it,
And I hope you'll remember to send back the
basket.

September 1744.

AN ELEGY

ON THE DEATH OF DOBBIN, THE BUTTER WOMAN'S

HORSE.

THE death of faithful Dobbin I deplore;
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no

more.

The cruel Fates have snapt bis vital thread,
And gammer Jolt bewails old Dobbin dead.
From stony Cudham down to watery Cray,
This honest horse brought butter every day,
Fresh butter meet to mix with nicest rolls,
And sometimes eggs, and sometimes geese and
fowls;

And though this horse to stand had ne'er a leg,
He never dropt a goose, or broke an egg.

Ye maids of Cray, your butter'd rolls deplore, Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no

more.

Oft did the 'squire that keeps the great hallhonse,

Invite the willing vicar to a goose ;
For goose could make his kindred Muse aspire
From earth to air, from water to the fire;
But now, alas! his towering spirit's fled,
His muse is founder'd, for poor Dobbin's dead.
Last Friday was a luckless day, I wot,
For Friday last lean Dobbin went to pot;
No drinks could cherish, no prescriptions save;
In Cn's hounds he found a living grave:
Weep all, and all (except sad dogs) deplore,
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin, is no

more.

Sculk, Reynard, sculk in the securest grounds, Now Dobbin hunts thee in the shape of hounds: Late sure but slow be march'd as foot could fall, Sure to march slow whene'er he march'd at all; Now fleeter than the pinions of the wind,

He leaves the huntsmen, and the hunt behind,
Pursues thee o'er the hills, and down the steep,
Through the rough copse, wide woods, and waters
deep,

Along th' unbounded plain, along the lea,
But has no pullet, and no goose for thee.
Ye dogs, ye foxes, howl for Dobbin dead,
Nor thou, O Muse, disdain the tear to shed;

Ye maids of Cray, your butter'd rolls deplore,
Dame Jolt's brown horse, old Dobbin. is no

more.

EPITHALAMIUM

ON THE MARRIAGE OF A COBLER AND A CHIMNEY-
SWEEPER.

YE sable sweepers, and ye coblers all,
Sons of the chimney, masters of the stall,
Whether ye deal in smearing soot, or leather,
Hail to the day that joins your trades together.
Huzza, my jolly coblers! and huzza,
My sable sweepers! Hail the joyous day.
Immortal fame, O coblers, ye derive
From Crispin, a good cobler when alive,
Who kept his stall at Hockley in the Hole,
With nut-brown beer encouraging his soul:
A bonnet blue he wore upon his head,
His nose was copper, and his jerkin red;
For conjurer and astrologer he past,
And mended understandings to his last.

Huzza, my jolly coblers! and huzza,

My sable sweepers! Hail the joyous day. Sly Jobson, though he never learn'd in France, Not only mended shoes, but taught to dance; So when he'd worn his pupils' soles quite out, With leading of the booby bears about, He soon repair'd the damage with his awl, And brought convenient custom to his stall.

Huzza, my jolly coblers! and huzza, My sable sweepers! Hail the joyous day. Nor less distinguish'd is your noble line, Ye sweepers, sprung from pedigree divine! Your ancient ancestor, whose name was Smut, Work'd at the forge, with Vulcan, in his hut. Once as the limping god was hammering out Those tongs that pinch'd the Devil by the snout, Smut chanc'd to jest upon his awkward frame, Which chaf'd the bickering blacksmith into flame;

He burl'd his hammer at the joker's head,
Which sure had left him on the pavement dead,
But Smut was nimble, and, to shun the stroke,
Sheer up the chimney went, like wreaths of
smoke;

Happy to find so snug a hole to creep in,
And since that time he took to chimney-sweeping.
Huzza, my jolly sweepers! hail the day!
My jolly coblers! roar aloud huzza.
And you, meet couple, memorable match,
May live with comfort in your cot of thatch;
While venal members sell their venal friends,
The cobler brings all soles to serve his ends.
And as the fair miss Danae sate smiling,
To see the gold come pattering through the tiling,
Our sweeper joys to see the chimney drop her
Meat, drink, and clothing, in a shower of copper.
Huzza, my jolly coblers! and huzza,
My sable sweepers! Hail the joyous day.

THE SMOKING DOCTOR'S SOLILOQUY OVER HIS PIPE.

Dulce tubo, genitos haurire & reddere fumos. EMERGING awful through a cloud of smoke, The tall lean doctor snapt his box and spoke:

"Though scorn'd by fribbles all bedanb'd with
I value not their censures of a puff, [snuff,
Who, ifkind Heav'n had furnish'd 'em with brains,
Would into pipes convert their taper canes,
Be sick that nauseous nostril-dust to see,
And substitute tobacco for rappee.

I less regard the rage of female railings-
Some ladies have their waters, and their failings :
Though when grey prudence comes, and youth
is past,

They'll learn to smoke (or I am deceiv'd) at last!
Peace to the beaux, and every scented belle,
Who cry
'Tobacco has an odious smell :'
To men of sense I speak, and own with pleasure,
That smoking sooths my studies and my leisure;
It aids my eyes, inspires my mind to think,
And is a calm companion when I drink.
At home how sweetly does a pipe engage
My sense to relish Tully's moral page!
Or Homer's Heaven-aspiring Muse divine,
And puffing measure each sonorous line!
But if to Tom's I stray to read the Daily,
Or at the tavern spend my evening gaily,
My pipe still adds, as the mild minutes pass,
Charms to the toast, and flavour to the glass.
Blest Indian leaf! what raptures I inhale
From each light breath of thy ambrosial gale!
Thou giv'st the soldier courage, to the hind
Repose, to captives sacred peace of mind;
Can'st wealth on merchants, state on kings be-
And to physicians only art a foe.
[stow,
Thou sav'st, when pestilence spreads far and wide,
From that dread plague, and every plague be-
side.

Though by thy fumes the teeth are blacken'd o'er,
Thy ashes scour them whiter than before.
O with abundant riches amply blest,
He, who can buy one ounce of Freeman's best!
If in this fob my well-fill'd box I feel,
In that my short pipe, touchwood, flint, and
Gold I regard not, I can live without;
I carry every requisite about.

[steel,

Whether my stomach calls for drink or meat,
Whether the cold affects me, or the heat,
The weed of India answers the demand,
And is the pleasing remedy at hand.
O noblest proof of nature's genial power!
O weed more precious than the choicest flower!
Thy vapours bland through every state engage,
Charm us when young, and solace us in age;
Adorn when fortune showers her golden store,
And breathe kind comfort when she smiles no

more:

Tranquil at home they lull with sweet content,
Abroad they give us no impediment;
But, mild associates, tend us night and day,
And if we travel cheer us on our way;
In town or country soft repose incite,
And puff us up with exquisite delight."

In allusion to that fine passage in Tully. Hæc studia adolescentiam alunt, senectutem oblectant; secundas res ornant, adversis perfugium et solatium præbent; delectant domi, non impediunt foris; pernoctant nobiscum, peregrinantur, rusticantur.

WOMAN:

A BALLAD.

66 BEING A CONTRAST TO THE WOMEN ALL TELL ME I'M FALSE TO MY LASS."

No longer let whimsical songsters compare
The merits of wine with the charms of the fair;
I appeal to the men to determine between
A tun-bellied Bacchus, and beauty's fair queen.
The pleasures of drinking henceforth I resign,
For though there is mirth, yet there's madness
in wine;

Then let not false sparkles our senses beguile,
'Tis the mention of Chloe that makes the glass

smile.

Her beauties with rapture my fancy inspire,
And the more I behold her, the more I admire;
But the charms of her temper and mind I adore;
These virtues shall bless me when beauty's no

more.

How happy our days when with love we engage, 'Tis the transport of youth, 'tis the comfort of

age;

But what are the joys of the bottle or bowl?
Wine tickles the taste, love enraptures the soul.
Let the men of all nations, but Italy, prove
The blessings that wait upon beauty and love:
But in boosing, alas! one unfortunate bout
Will rob us of vigour, and leave us the gout.
A sot, as he riots in liquor, will cry,
"The longer I drink, the more thirsty am I,"
From this fair confession, 'tis plain, my good
friend,

You're a toper eternal, and drink to no end.
Your big-bellied bottle may ravish your eye,
But how foolish you'll look when your bottle is
dry!
[spring,

Sweet pleasure from woman still flows like a Nay the Stoics must own it-She is the best thing.

Yet some praises to wine we may justly afford, For a time it will make one as great as a lord; But woman for ever gives transport to man, And I'll stand by the ladies as long as I can.

THE BROWN JUG:

A SONG.

IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF HIERONYMUS
AMALTHEUS.

DEAR Tom, this brown jug that now foams with mild ale,

(In which I will drink to sweet Nan of the Vale)
Was once Toby Fillpot, a thirsty old soul
As e'er drank á bottle, or fathom'd a bowl;
In boosing about 'twas his praise to excel,
And among jolly topers he bore off the bell.
It chanc'd as in dog-days he sat at his ease
In his flow'r-woven arbour as gay as you please,
With a friend and a pipe puffing sorrows away,
And with honest old stingo was soaking his clay,

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