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ODE on the CHOLERIC CHARACTER.

PINDAR.

APPY the man whose heart of fuch a fort is, As holds more butter-milk than aqua-fortis! But, lord! how paffionate are certain folk! How like the fea, reflecting ev'ry form, So placid! the next inftant in a storm, Dafhing against the inoffenfive rock;

Mounting towards the fkies with fuch a thunder, As though it wish'd (the lev❜ler!) to bring it under Sun, moon, and stars, and tear them into tattersSuch paffions verily are serious matters.

Men in morality should ne'er be idle,

But for their paffions make a strong curb bridle.
When lofty man doth quarrel with a pin,
In man refides the folly or the fin-

Not in the brass, by which his finger's fpitted; For a fmall philosophy we find,

That, as a pin is not endow'd with mind,

Of malice, call'd prepenfe, Pin stands acquitted:

Thus then his awkwardness muft bear the blame,
And thus to perfecute the pin's a shame.
Many inanimates, as well as pins,

Suffer for others' fooleries and fins.

How oft a drunken blockhead blames a post,

That overturns him, breaks his fhins, or head;
Whofe eyes fhould certainly have view'd the coaft,
And have avoided this fame poft fo dread:
Whereas he should have fpar'd his idle cries,
And only blam'd his own two blinking eyes.

A little Welchman, Welchman like indeed,
Hot as a Chian, that is to fay,

A Bachelor-and therefore ev'ry need

Was, for fubfiftence, forc'd to him to pray: This Bachelor, to fatisfy withal

His gullet,

Put into a fmall pot-indeed too small,
A pullet.

The pullet's legs were not to be confin'd,

So out they pok'd themfelves, fo fleek and white; The Welchman curs'd her legs, with wicked mind, And pufh'd them in again, with monftrous fpite.

The pullet liking not the pot's embrace,
So very warm-indeed a nat'ral cafe,

Pok'd forth her fhrinking legs again, fo fair;
With feeming much uneafinefs, in troth,
Objecting to her element of broth,

And wifhing much to take a little air.

The Cambro-Briton, waxing red and hot,
And highly foaming too, juft like the pot,
Ran to the legs, and fhov'd them once more:
But, lo! his oaths and labour all were vain;
Out pok'd the pullet's boiling legs again;

Which put the Welchman's paffions in a roar.

What will not mortals, urg'd by rage and fin, do?
Mad at defeat, and with a dev'lifh fcowl,
He feizes, with ferocity, the fowl,

And, full of vengeance, whirls her out at window.

[graphic]

THE BRITISH

POETICAL MISCELLANY.

SHEPHERD LUBIN and his DOG TRAY.

YOUNG

YOUNG Lubin was a fhepherd boy,
Who watch'd a rigid master's fheep,

And many a night was heard to figh,
And many a day was feen to weep.

For not a lambkin e'er was loft,
Or wether stray'd to field remote,
But Lubin ever was to blame;
Nor careful he, nor penn'd his cote.

Yet not a trustier lad was known
To climb the promontory's brow;
Nor yet a tend❜rer heart e'er beat,
Befide the brook in vale below.
From him ftern winter's drifting fnow,
Its pelting fleet, or froft fevere;
Or fcorching fummer's fultry ray,
Ne'er forc'd a murmur, or a tear.
For, ah! the varying feasons had
To ev'ry hardship form'd his frame;
Though fill his tender feeling heart,
By nature nurs'd, remain'd the fame.
But whither fhall the orphan fly,
To meet protection's foit'ring pow'r?
Oppreffion waits the future day,
When mis'ry marks the natal hour.

An orphan lad poor Lubin was,
No friend, no relative had he;
His happiest hour was dafh'd with woc,
His mildeft treatment-tyranny.

It chanc'd that o'er the boundless heath, One winter's day, his flocks had fpread, By hunger urg'd, to feek the blade,

That lurk'd beneath its fnowy bed.

And hous'd, at eve, his fleecy charge,
He, forr'wing, mifs'd a fav'rite lamb,
That fhunn'd the long perfifting fearch,
Nor anfwer'd to its bleating dam.

With heavy heart he fhap'd his way,
And told fo true, fo fad a tale,
That almoft pierc'd the marble breaft
Of ruthless Rufus of the vale.

Poor Lubin own'd his flocks had flray'd,
Own'd he had fuffer'd them to go;
Yes; he had learn'd to pity them,
For often he had hunger❜d too:

And had he, to their pinching wants,
The unnipp'd neighb'ring bounds deny'd,
They fure had droop'd-as furely, too,
The pitying fhepherd boy had dy'd.
Then die!-th' unfeeling mafter faid,
And fpurn'd him from his clofing door;
Which, till he found his fav'rite lamb,
He vow'd fhould ne'er admit him more.
Dark was the night, and o'er the wafte

The whiftling winds did fiercely blow;
And 'gainst his poor unfhelter'd head,

With arrowy keenness, came the fnow:

The fmall thick fnow, that Eurus drives
In freezing fury o'er the plain,
And, with unfparing vengeance, fcores
The callous face of hardieft fwain.

Yet thus he left his master's house,

And fhap'd his fad uncertain way;

By man unnotic'd and forfook,

And follow'd but by—trusty Tray——

Poor trufty Tray! a faithful dog;

Lubin and he were young together:

Sull would they grace each other's fide,
Whate'er the time, whate'er the weather.

Unlike to worldly friends were they,
Who feparate in fortune's blaft-
They ftill were near when fair the sky,
But nearer ftill when overcast.

When Lubin's random ftep involv'd
His body 'neath the drifted fnow,
Tray help'd him forth; and when Tray fell,
Poor Lubin dragg'd him from below.

Thus, 'midft the horrors of the night,
They enter'd on the houseless heath;
Above their heads no comfort broke,
Nor round about, nor underneath.

No little cheering star they faw,
To light them on their dreary way;
Nor yet the diftant twinkling blaze
Of cottage industry saw they.

Nay, e'en that most officious guide

Of those who roam and those who mope, Retiring Will o'th' Wifp, refus'd

To trim the lamp of treach'rous hope.

Nor parish bell was heard to ftrike

The hour of "tardy-gaited night;"
No noife-but winds and fcreams of those
Ill-omen'd birds that fhun the light.

Benumb'd at length his fliff'ning joints,
His tongue to Tray could scarcely speak;
His tears congeal'd to icicles-

His hair hung clatt'ring 'gainst his cheek.

As thus he felt his falt'ring limbs
Give omen of approaching death,
Aurora from her eaftern hill

Rufh'd forth, and ftaid his fleeting breath,

And fhow'd to his imperfect fight

The harmlefs caufe of all his woe;

His little lambkin, cold and stiff,

Stretch'd on its bed of glist'ning fnow.

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