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At home auspicious mortals find
Serene tranquillity of mind;
All-beauteous nature decks the plain,
And merchants plough for gold the main:
Respect arises from our store,
Security from being poor:

More joys the bands of Hymen give ;
Th' unmarried with more freedom live:
If parents, our blest lot we own;
Childless, we have no cause to moan:
Firm vigour crowns our youthful stage,
And venerable hairs old-age.

Since all is good, then who would cry,
"I'd never live, or quickly die?"

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ADIEU the horrours of destructive war,
And mad Bellona in her iron car!
But welcome to our smiling fields again,
Sweet Peace! attended with thy jocund train,
Truth, Virtue, Freedom, that can never cloy,
And all the pleasing family of Joy. [plan'd,
Those schemes pursued, which Pitt so wisely
Conquest has shower'd her blessings on the land;
And Britain's sons more laurels have obtain'd,
Than all her Henries, or her Edwards gain'd:
George saw with joy the peaceful period given,
And bow'd obedient to the will of Heaven:
Awful he rose to bid dissention cease,
And all the warring world was calm'd to peace;
"Thus did the roaring waves their rage compose.
When the great father of the floods arose."
Then came Astrea mild, our isle to bless,
Fair queen of virtue, and of happiness!
Then came our troops in fighting fields renown'd,
And mark'd with many an honourable wound.
The tender fair one, long by fears opprest,
Now feels soft raptures rising in her breast,
The blooming hero of her heart to view,
And hear him bid the dangerous camp adieu.
The widow'd bride, that long on grief had fed,
And bath'd with weeping the deserted bed,
Glad that the tumults of the war are o'er,
That terrour, rage, and rapine are no more,
Greets her rough lord, secure from hostile harms,
And hopes an age of pleasure in his arms:
While he, with pompous eloquence, recites
Dire scenes of castles, storm'd and desperate
fights;

Where cattle pastured late, the purple plain,
Sad scene of horroar! teems with heroes slain;
Where the proud palace rear'd its haughty head,
Deep in the dust, see! crumbling columns
spread;

Or tells how Wolfe the free-born Britons led,
How Granby conquer'd and the household fled;
She, to the pleasing dreadful tale intent,
Now smiles, now trembles, for the great event.
O curst Ambition, foe to human good,
Pregnant with woe, and prodigal of blood!
Thou fruitful source, whence streams of sorrow
What devastations to thy guilt we owe ! [flow,
Where-e'er thy fury riots, all around
Confusion, havoc, and dread deaths abound:
Where Ceres flourish'd, and gay Flora smil'd,
Behold a barren, solitary wild'

To stately cedars thorns and briars succeed,
And in the garden spreads the noxious weed;

See gallant Britons in the field expire,

Towns turn'd to ashes, fanes involv'd in fire!
These deeds the guilt of rash Ambition tell,
And bloody Discord, furious fiend of Hell!
Ye baneful sisters, with your frantic crew,
Hence speed your flight, and take your last adieu,
Eternal wars in barbarous worlds to wage;

here vent your inextinguishable rage.
But come, fair Peace, and be the nation's bride,
And let thy sister Plenty grace thy side,
O come! and with thy placid presence cheer
Our drooping hearts, and stay for ever here.
Now be the shrill, strife-stirring trumpet mute;
Now let us listen to the softer lute:

The shepherd now his numerous flocks shall feed,
Where war relentless doom'd the brave to bleed;
On ruin'd ramparts shall the hawthorn flower,
And inantling ivy clasp the nodding tower,
Unusual harvests wave along the dale,
And the bent sickle o'er the sword prevail.
No more shall states with rival rage contend,
But arts their empire o'er the world extend;
Ingenious arts, that humanize the mind,
And give the brightest polish to mankind!
Then shall our chiefs in breathing marble stand,
And life seem starting from the sculptor's hand;
Then lovely nymphs in living picture rise,
The fairest faces, and the brightest eyes:
There polish'd Lane no loss of beauty fears;
Her charms, still mellowing with revolving years,
Shall, ev'n on canvas, youthful hearts engage,
And warn the cold indifference of age:
Then the firm arch shall stem the roaring tide,
And join those countries which the streams di-
Then villas rise of true palladian proof, [vide;
And the proud palace rear its ample roof;
Then statelier temples to the skies ascend,
Where mix'd with nobles mighty kings may bend,
Where poverty may send her sighs to Heaven,
And guilt return, repent, and be forgiven.
Such are the fruits which sacred peace imparts,
Sweet nurse of liberty and learned arts!
These she restores-O! that she could restore
Life to those Britons who now breathe no more,
Who in th' embattled field undaunted stood,
And greatly perish'd in their country's good;
Or who, by rage of angry tempests tost,
In whirlpools of the whelming main were lost.
Ye honour'd shades of chiefs untimely slain !
Whose bones lie scatter'd on some foreign plain;
That now perchance by lonely hind are seen
In glittering armour gliding o'er the green;
Ye! that beneath the cold cerulean wave
Have made the watery element your grave,
Whose wandering spirits baunt the winding shore,
Or ride on whirlwinds while the billows roar,
With kind protection still our isle defend,
(If souls unbodied can protection lend)
Still o'er the king your shadowy pinions spread,
And in the day of dauger shield his head;

The hon. Mrs. Lane, daughter of the right hon. lord chancellor Henley, and wife to the hon. Mr. Lane,

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IN southern climes there lies a village,
Where oft the vicar, fond to pillage,
Sallies with gun aloft on shoulder,
(Orlando's self could ne'er look bolder)
With which, well ramm'd with proper cartridge,
He knocks down apples, or a partridge;
And whilst o'er all his neighbours' ground,
Striding, he throws his eyes around,
Surveying, with a look most blithe,
The growing riches of his tithe,

Minds not the game for which he's beating;
But, to prevent his flock from cheating,
Looks in each yard with jealous eye,
With care examines every stye,
Numbers the cows, observes their udders,
And at the dread of losing shudders.
"His composition's low; the butter

From so much milk"-he can but mutter.
He counts the poultry, large and fine,
"Forty and five, then four are mine."
But when the vernal season came,
And took him from pursuit of game,
A sudden thought of his condition
Induc'd him to an expedition;
An expedition of great moment,

Which sing I must, let what will come on 't.
Scratching his head one day in strong sort,
Then turning short upon his consort,

"My joy," quoth he, "now things are dearish, To make some visits in the parish I think can never be amiss;

As for my reason, it is this:

Some farms, you know, lie very distant,
At which I seldom am a vist'ant;
And, now the shooting season's over,
Cannot so readily discover

If any sharp or fiiching wight
Should cheat us of our lawful right;
Nor have we any means to hear how
Soon they expect a sow to farrow.

Besides, my dearest, should they cheat us,
We shall get something when they treat us;
And save at home the spit and pot;
A penny sav'd's a penny got."

While thus, with all his oratory,

He labour'd through the pleasing story;
Ma'am by his side was all attention,
Delighted with his good invention;
Admir'd, and prais'd, then seal'd his bliss
With joyous matrimonial kiss.
And soon the loving pair agreed
By this same system to proceed;

And through the parish, with their how d'ye,
Go to each gaffer and each goody.

"Twas then resolv'd, that first of all They pay a visit at E-t hall;

And William 's order'd, to save trouble,
To get a steed that carries double.

A neighbour's palfry, small and pretty,
Is borrow'd for the use of Kitty.
All things provided, out they stalk;
Poor Dobbin wishes them at York;
Then mount and sally in great state,
William before, behind them Kate;
When thus he entertains his spouse
With observations on each house,
Each field and orchard, as they ride,
Looking and pointing on each side;
Remarking whence his profits rise,
And where he gets the best supplies.
"That house is manag'd ill, my dear,
It scarce affords a pig a year:
This orchard's good, but, were it wider,
'Twould yield a hogshead of good cider."
With joy he shows where turnips grew,
And tells what profits thence accrue;
But looks with envy on each stubble,
That nothing pays for vicar's trouble.
Pleas'd, she admires the lambkins play,
And loves them-when she 's told they pay.
Suppose them now arriv'd; my dame
Runs out, inquiring how they came;
Welcomes them in, and after all ber

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Forms are gone through, she shews her parlour.
Pray, madam, take a dram; the weather,
Is cold and damp, and I have either

Good rum or brandy, plain or cherry;

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A glass will make you warm and merry."
Next on the board the tea-things rattle,
And introduce a world of prattle.
"Your china's pretty, I declare;
'Tis pity 'tis such brittle ware.'
"Your tea is to your mind, I hope"-
"Exceeding good"-" Pray one more cup."
"Your toast is very nice; I've eat
Till I'm asham'd."-" Another bit:
The butter, ma'am, is fresh and sweet,
Although I say 't, that should not say 't."
After removing all the clutter

Of china, tea, and toast and butter,
Pipes and tobacco come, and beer
Preserv'd through many a rolling year;
And curraut-wine, and punch, fit liquor
To elevate the heart of vicar.
At loo the ladies take a game,
All but my notable old dame;

She has no time to seat her crupper,
She's so intent on getting supper.
At length it comes, a spare-rib, large
Enough to cover a small barge;
Or for (the simile to drag on)
A tilt for any carrier's waggon
Attended by a brace of chicken,

But twelve months old, for lady's picking:

A link of sausages, that seem

A boom design'd for some strong stream. "Your chicks are very fine,"—"You flatter;

I wish they were a little fatter.

But I have two shut up, design'd

For you ma'am."-"You're extremely kind.""And soon (my sow is very big)

I hope to send you a fat pig."
(The vicar inward smil'd, to see
His scheme succeed so happily.)
And last an apple-pye appear'd,

In earthen bowl, with custar'd smear'd.
The cloth remov'd, the chearful glass
Legins to circulate apace:

The landlord, waxing brisk and mellow, Becomes a hearty jovial fellow; And now with liquor grown full ripe, "Parson, you shall take t' other pipe.""We must not stay; 'tis late, Sir."-" No" "Well, one half pipe, and then wo go." The pipe and liquor out, they start, And homeward speed, with joyful heart. He triumphs in his good success; And she applauds his nice finesse.

THE VICAR'S REPLY.

BY FRANCIS FAWKES, M. A.
RHYMES! bless me! doggrel, I suppose,
Penn'd by some son of Brazen Nose;
Some starveling bard, or curate thin,
Whose bones have elbow'd out his skin;
And jogg'd him to provoke his Muse
An honest vicar to abuse,
Because he looks a little sleek,
With belly fair, and rosy cheek,
Which never but in men abound
Of easy minds, and bodies sound.
This vicar lives so blithe and happy,
With daily roast-meat, and ale nappy;
With dogs to hunt, and steeds to ride,
And wife that ambles at his side;
Who loves no hurries, routs, nor din,
But gently chucks her husband's chin.
These blessings, altogether met,
Have put lean curate in a pet,
As meagre wine is apt to fret.
And so this bard ecclesiastic
One day presum'd in Hudibrastic,
One day in Lent, un-eating time,
To prick his genius into rhyme;
The wind fresh blowing from the south,
And Indian vapours from his mouth:
For smoking aids this dry divine;
Puff follows puff, and line succeeds on line.
His lines by puffs he 's wont to measure;
He rhymes for drink, and puffs for pleasure.
And as he labours for a joke,

Out comes a puff, that ends in smoke.
Lo! swelling into thought he sits;
Wrapt in the rage of rhyming fits;
Fits which are seldom known to fail,
When full blown up with bottled ale.
But puffy cider 's better still,
It always works his doggrel mill;

By which, 'tis plain to all mankind,
His mill for verses goes by wind.
Encourag'd thus with bouncing liquor,
He points his wit against the vicar;
Then grows satiric on his wife,
The very meckest thing in life;
And next on cunning-looking Kitty,
And calls her palfry, not her,pretty.
But why, sad poet, should you fall
On the good woman of E-t Hall?
Because you did not taste her supper,
You hit her hard upon her crupper.
Next time that I and spouse ride double,
To save your Muse, and you too, trouble;
And keep my horse from being hit
With any of your waggish wit;
I'll take you in my hand along,
And thus prevent some idle song;
Cram you with custard till you choke:
And fill with punch, and not with smoke.
Mean while, to prove my honest heart,
Step down direct, and take a quart.

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THE

POEMS

OF

EDWARD LOVIBOND, ESQ.

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