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ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND

BY LIGHTNING.

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.1

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,

To save him from Narcissus' fate.

STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC.2

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasures

start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear: Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow,

Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, tho' dead !

Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

1 See The Bee, No. i.
2 First printed in The Busy Body, 1759.-P. C.

THE GIFT

TO TRIS, IN BOW STREET, COVENT GARDEN."

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual offering shall I make

Expressive of my duty ?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,

Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair one prize

The gift, who slights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,

My rivals give,- and let 'em : If gems or gold impart a joy,

I'll give them - when I get 'em.

I'll give — but not the full-blown rose,

Or rosebud, more in fashion; Such short-liv’d offerings but disclose

A transitory passion.

1 See The Bee, No. ij.

I'll give thee something yet unpaid,

Not less sincere than civil; I'll give thee - ah! too charming maid,

I'll give thee to the devil.

2 This poem is taken from Ménagiana, vol. iv. 200.

· ÉTRENNE À IRIS.
Pour témoignage de ma flamme,
Iris, du meilleur de mon ame
Je vous donne à ce nouvel an,
Non pas dentelle, ni ruban,
Non pas essence, ni pommade,
Quelques boîtes de marmalade,
Un mouchoir, des gans, un bouquet,
Non pas fleures, ni chapelet.
Quoi donc? attendez, je vous donne,
O fille plus belle que bonne,
Qui m'avez toujours refusé,
Le point si souvent proposé,
Je vous donne — Ah! le puis-je dire?
Oui: c'est trop souffrir le martyre,
Il est temps de m'émanciper,
Patience va m'échapper.
Fussiez-vous cent fois plus aimable,
Belle Iris, je vous donne au diable.'

A DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR'S

BEDCHAMBER.1

WHERE the Red Lion, staring o'er the way, Invites each passing stranger that can pay; Where Calvert's butt, and Parson's black cham

pagne, Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane; There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The Muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug: A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly show'd the state in which he lay; The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread; The humid wall with paltry pictures spread ; The royal game of goose was there in view, And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew ;2

i First printed in The Citizen of the World, Letter xxx., and afterwards inserted, with a few variations, in The Deserted Village, 1770.-P. C. [See, post, the extract from a letter to the Rev. Henry Goldsmith.]

2 Viz: "1. Urge no healths; 2. Profane no divine ordinances; 3. Touch no state matters; 4. Reveal no secrets; 5. Pick no quarrels; 6. Make no comparisons; 7. Maintain no ill opinions; 8. Keep no bad company; 9. Encourage no vice; 10. Make no long meals; 11. Repeat no grievances • 12. Lay no wagers.”—P. C.

The seasons, fram'd with listing, found a place, And brave prince William 8 show'd his lampblack

face. The morn was cold; he views with keen desire The rusty grate unconscious of a fire : With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scorid, And five crack'd teacups dress’d the chimney

board ; A nightcap deck'd his brows instead of bay, A cap by night,-a stocking all the day!

8 William, Duke of Cumberland, the hero of Culloden, d. 1765.-P. C.

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