Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats,
Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats.
Then sad he sung," the Children in the Wood:"
(Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood!)
How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild,
And fearless at the glittering faulchion smiled;
Their little corpse the robin red-breasts found,
And strew'd with pious bill the leaves around.
(Ah! gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long,
Your names shall live for ever in my song.)
For "Buxom Joan" he sung the doubtful strife,
How the sly tailor made the maid a wife.

To louder strains he raised his voice to tell
What woeful wars in "Chevy-chace" befel,
When "Percy drove the deer with hound and horn,
Wars to be wept by children yet unborn!"
Ah, Witherington, more years thy life had crown'd,
If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound!
Yet shall the squire, who fought on bloody stumps,
By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps.

"All in the land of Essex" next he chants, How to sleek mares starch quakers turn gallants: How the grave brother stood on bank so green— Happy for him if mares had never been!

Then he was seized with a religious qualm, And on a sudden sung the hundredth psalm. He sung of "Taffey Welsh," and "Sawney Scot," "Lilly-bullero" and the "Irish Trot."

Why should I tell of "Bateman," or of "Shore," Or "Wantley's Dragon" slain by valiant Moore; "The Bower of Rosamond," or "Robin Hood," And how the "grass now grows where Troy town stood?"

His carols ceased: the listening maids and swains Seem still to hear some soft imperfect strains. Sudden he rose and, as he reels along, Swears kisses sweet should well reward his song. The damsels laughing fly: the giddy clown Again upon a wheat-sheaf drops adown; The power that guards the drunk his sleep attends, Till, ruddy, like his face, the sun descends.

THE BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE.
IN IMITATION OF THE "POLLIO" OF VIRGIL.

YE sylvan Muses, loftier strains recite:
Not all in shades and humble cots delight.
Hark! the bells ring; along the distant grounds
The driving gales convey the swelling sounds:
Th' attentive swain, forgetful of his work,
With gaping wonder, leans upon his fork.
What sudden news alarms the waking morn?
To the glad Squire a hopeful heir is born.
Mourn, mourn, ye stags, and all ye beasts of chase;
This hour destruction brings on all your race:
See, the pleased tenants duteous offerings bear,
Turkeys and geese, and grocer's sweetest ware ;
With the new health the ponderous tankard flows,
And old October reddens every nose.
Beagles and spaniels round his cradle stand,
Kiss his moist lip, and gently lick his hand.

He joys to hear the shrill horn's echoing sounds,
And learns to lisp the names of all the hounds.
With frothy ale to make his cup o'erflow,
Barley shall in paternal acres grow;
The bee shall sip the fragrant dew from flowers,
To give metheglin for his morning-hours;
For him the clustering hop shall climb the poles,
And his own orchard sparkle in his bowls.

His sire's exploits he now with wonder hears, The monstrous tales indulge his greedy ears; How, when youth strung his nerves and warm'd his He rode the mighty Nimrod of the plains. [veins, He leads the staring infant through the hall, Points out the horny spoils that grace the wall; Tells how the stag through three whole counties fled,

What rivers swam, where bay'd, and where he bled.
Now he the wonders of the fox repeats,
Describes the desperate chase, and all his cheats;
How in one day, beneath his furious speed,
He tired seven coursers of the fleetest breed;
How high the pale he leap'd, how wide the ditch,
When the hound tore the haunches of the witch!
These stories, which descend from son to son,
The forward boy shall one day make his own.

Ah, too fond mother, think the time draws nigh,
That calls the darling from thy tender eye;
How shall his spirit brook the rigid rules,
And the long tyranny of grammar-schools?
Let younger brothers o'er dull authors plod,
Lash'd into Latin by the tingling rod;
No, let him never feel that smart disgrace:
Why should he wiser prove than all his race?
When ripening youth with down o'ershades his chin,
And every female eye incites to sin;

The milk-maid (thoughtless of her future shame)
With smacking lip shall raise his guilty flame;
The dairy, barn, the hay-loft, and the grove,
Shall oft be conscious of their stolen love.
But think, Priscilla, on that dreadful time,
When pangs and watery qualms shall own thy crime.
How wilt thou tremble when thy nipple's prest,
To see the white drops bathe thy swelling breast!
Nine moons shall publicly divulge thy shame,
And the young squire forestall a father's name.
When twice twelve times the reaper's sweeping

hand

With levell'd harvests has bestrown the land;
On famed St. Hubert's feast his winding horn
Shall cheer the joyful hound, and wake the morn:
This memorable day his eager speed
Shall urge with bloody heel the rising steed.
O check the foamy bit, nor tempt thy fate,
Think on the murders of a five-bar gate!
Yet, prodigal of life, the leap he tries,
Low in the dust his grovelling honour lies;
Headlong he falls, and on the rugged stone
Distorts his neck, and cracks the collar-bone.
O venturous youth, thy thirst of game allay :
Mayst thou survive the perils of this day!
He shall survive; and in late years be sent
To snore away debates in parliament.

The time shall come when his more solid sense With nod important shall the laws dispense; A justice with grave justices shall sit ; He praise their wisdom, they admire his wit. No greyhound shall attend the tenant's pace, No rusty gun the farmer's chimney grace; Salmons shall leave their covers void of fear, Nor dread the thievish net or triple spear; Poachers shall tremble at his awful name, Whom vengeance now o'ertakes for murder'd game. Assist me, Bacchus, and ye drunken powers, To sing his friendships and his midnight hours! Why dost thou glory in thy strength of beer, Firm cork'd and mellow'd till the twentieth year; Brew'd, or when Phoebus warms the fleecy sign, Or when his languid rays in Scorpio shine? [sprung! Think on the mischiefs which from hence have It arms with curses dire the wrathful tongue; Foul scandal to the lying lip affords, And prompts the memory with injurious words. O where is wisdom when by this o'erpower'd? The state is censured, and the maid deflower'd! And wilt thou still, O Squire, brew ale so strong? Hear then the dictates of prophetic song.

Methinks I see him in his hall appear, Where the long table floats in clammy beer, 'Midst mugs and glasses shatter'd o'er the floor, Dead drunk, his servile crew supinely snore; Triumphant, o'er the prostrate brutes he stands, The mighty bumper trembles in his hands; Boldly he drinks, and, like his glorious sires, In copious gulps of potent ale expires.

SWEET WILLIAM'S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED

SUSAN.

ALL in the Downs the fleet was moor'd,

The streamers waving in the wind,
When black-eyed Susan came aboard.
Oh! where shall I my true-love find?
Tell me, ye jovial sailors, tell me true,
If my sweet William sails among the crew.

William, who high upon the yard

Rock'd with the billow to and fro, Soon as her well-known voice he heard, He sigh'd, and cast his eyes below:

The cord slides swiftly through his glowing hands, And (quick as lightning) on the deck he stands.

So the sweet lark, high poised in air,

Shuts close his pinions to his breast,
(If chance his mate's shrill call he hear,)
And drops at once into her nest.
The noblest captain in the British fleet
Might envy William's lip those kisses sweet.

O Susan, Susan, lovely dear,

My vows shall ever true remain; Let me kiss off that falling tear; We only part to meet again.

Change, as ye list, ye winds! my heart shall be The faithful compass that still points to thee.

Believe not what the landmen say,

Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind. They'll tell thee, sailors, when away,

In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present wheresoe'er I go.

If to fair India's coast we sail,

Thy eyes are seen in diamonds bright,
Thy breath is Afric's spicy gale,

Thy skin is ivory so white.
Thus every beauteous object that I view
Wakes in my soul some charm of lovely Sue.
Though battle call me from thy arms,

Let not my pretty Susan mourn;
Though cannons roar, yet, safe from harms,
William shall to his dear return.

Love turns aside the balls that round me fly,
Lest precious tears should drop from Susan's eye.

The boatswain gave the dreadful word,

The sails their swelling bosom spread; No longer must she stay aboard:

They kiss'd, she sigh'd, he hung his head. Her lessening boat unwilling rows to land : Adieu! she cries; and waved her lily hand.

A BALLAD.

FROM THE WHAT-D'YE-CALL-IT.

'Twas when the seas were roaring With hollow blasts of wind,

A damsel lay deploring,

All on a rock reclined. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look ; Her head was crown'd with willows, That trembled o'er the brook.

Twelve months are gone and over,

And nine long tedious days:
Why didst thou, venturous lover,
Why didst thou trust the seas?
Cease, cease, thou cruel ocean,
And let my lover rest:
Ah! what's thy troubled motion
To that within my breast?

The merchant, robb'd of pleasure,
Sees tempests in despair;
But what's the loss of treasure

To losing of my dear?
Should you some coast be laid on
Where gold and diamonds grow,
You'd find a richer maiden,

But none that loves you so.

How can they say that nature
Has nothing made in vain ;
Why then beneath the water

Should hideous rocks remain ?

A voice thus thunder'd from the throne:
"This night our minister we name,
Let every servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand."
All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand.

Fever, with burning heat possess'd,
Advanced, and for the wand address'd.

"I to the weekly bills appeal,

Let those express my fervent zeal;
On every slight occasion near,
With violence I persevere."

[* What can be prettier than Gay's ballad, or rather Swift's, Arbuthnot's, Pope's and Gay's, in the What-d'yecall it,'-"'Twas when the seas were roaring." I have been well informed that they all contributed. CowPER to Unwin, Aug. 4, 1783.]

Next Gout appears with limping pace,
Pleads how he shifts from place to place;
From head to foot how swift he flies,
And every joint and sinew plies;
Still working when he seems suppress'd,
A most tenacious, stubborn guest.

A haggard spectre from the crew
Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due :
""Tis I who taint the sweetest joy,
And in the shape of love destroy:
My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face,
Prove my pretension to the place."

Stone urged his over-growing force;
And, next, Consumption's meagre corse,
With feeble voice that scarce was heard,
Broke with short coughs, his suit preferr'd:
"Let none object my lingering way,
I gain, like Fabius, by delay;
Fatigue and weaken every foe

By long attack, secure, though slow."
Plague represents his rapid power,
Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hoped the wand, Now expectation hush'd the band; When thus the monarch from the throne:

"Merit was ever modest known.

What, no physician speak his right!
None here! but fees their toils requite!
Let then Intemperance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand.
You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest,
(Whom wary men, as foes, detest,)
Forego your claim; no more pretend;
Intemperance is esteem'd a friend ;
He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all."

MATTHEW GREEN was educated among the Dissenters; but left them in disgust at their precision, probably without reverting to the mother church. All that we are told of him is, that he had a post at the Custom-honse, which he discharged with great fidelity, and died at a lodging in Nag's-head court, Gracechurch-street, aged forty-one. His strong powers of mind had received little advantage from education, and were occasionally subject to depression from hypochondria; but his conversation is said to have abounded in wit and shrewdness. One day his friend Sylvanus Bevan complained to him, that while he was bathing in the river he had been saluted by a waterman with the cry of "Quaker Quirl," and wondered how he should have been

known to be a Quaker without his clothes. Green replied, “by your swimming against the stream."

His poem, "the Spleen," was never published in his lifetime. Glover, his warm friend, presented it to the world after his death; and it is much to be regretted, did not prefix any account of its interesting author. It was originally a very short copy of verses, and was gradually and piecemeal increased. Pope speedily noticed its merit, Melmoth praised its strong originality in Fitzosborne's Letters, and Gray duly commended it in his correspondence with Walpole, when it appeared in Dodsley's collection. In that walk of poetry, where Fancy aspires no farther than to go hand in hand with common sense, its merit its certainly unrivalled †.

CONTENTMENT, parent of delight,
So much a stranger to our sight,
Say, goddess, in what happy place
Mortals behold thy blooming face;

[* He was a clerk in the Custom House, on, it is thought, a small salary; but the writer of this note has hunted over official books in vain for a notice of his appointment, and of obituaries for the time of his death.]

Thy gracious auspices impart,

And for thy temple choose my heart.
They, whom thou deignest to inspire,
Thy science learn, to bound desire;

[ There is a profusion of wit everywhere in Green; reading would have formed his judgment and harmonized his verse, for even his wood-notes often break out into strains of real poetry and music.-GRAY.]

By happy alchemy of mind

They turn to pleasure all they find;
They both disdain in outward mien
The grave and solemn garb of Spleen,
And meretricious arts of dress,
To feign a joy, and hide distress;
Unmoved when the rude tempest blows,
Without an opiate they repose;
And, cover'd by your shield, defy

The whizzing shafts that round them fly:
Nor meddling with the gods' affairs,
Concern themselves with distant cares;
But place their bliss in mental rest,
And feast upon the good possess'd.

Forced by soft violence of pray'r,
The blithsome goddess soothes my care,
I feel the deity inspire,

And thus she models my desire.
Two hundred pounds half-yearly paid,
Annuity securely made,

A farm some twenty miles from town,
Small, tight, salubrious, and my own;
Two maids that never saw the town,
A serving-man not quite a clown,
A boy to help to tread the mow,

And drive, while t'other holds the plough;
A chief, of temper form'd to please,
Fit to converse and keep the keys;
And better to preserve the peace,
Commission'd by the name of niece;
With understandings of a size
To think their master very wise.
May Heaven (it's all I wish for) send
One genial room to treat a friend,
Where decent cupboard, little plate,
Display benevolence, not state.
And may my humble dwelling stand
Upon some chosen spot of land:
A pond before full to the brim,

Where cows may cool, and geese may swim ;
Behind, a green, like velvet neat,
Soft to the eye, and to the feet;
Where od'rous plants in evening fair
Breathe all around ambrosial air ;
From Eurus, foe to kitchen ground,
Fenced by a slope with bushes crown'd,
Fit dwelling for the feather'd throug,
Who pay their quit-rents with a song ;
With op'ning views of hill and dale,
Which sense and fancy too regale,
Where the half-cirque, which vision bounds,
Like amphitheatre surrounds :

And woods impervious to the breeze,
Thick phalanx of embodied trees,
From hills through plains in dusk array
Extended far, repel the day.
Here stillness, height, and solemn shade
Invite, and contemplation aid:
Here Nymphs from hollow oaks relate
The dark decrees and will of fate,
And dreams beneath the spreading beech
Inspire, and docile fancy teach;

While soft as breezy breath of wind,
Impulses rustle through the mind :
Here Dryads, scorning Phoebus' ray,
While Pan melodious pipes away,
In measured motions frisk about,
Till old Silenus puts them out.
There see the clover, pea, and bean,
Vie in variety of green;

Fresh pastures speckled o'er with sheep,
Brown fields their fallow sabbaths keep,
Plump Ceres golden tresses wear,
And poppy top-knots deck her hair,
And silver streams through meadows stray,
And Naiads on the margin play,
And lesser Nymphs on side of hills
From plaything urns pour down the rills.

Thus shelter'd, free from care and strife,
May I enjoy a calm through life;
See faction, safe in low degree,
As men at land see storms at sea,
And laugh at miserable elves,
Not kind, so much as to themselves,
Cursed with such souls of base alloy,
As can possess, but not enjoy;
Debarr'd the pleasure to impart
By avarice, sphincter of the heart;
Who wealth, hard earn'd by guilty cares,
Bequeath untouch'd to thankless heirs.
May I, with look ungloom'd by guile,
And wearing virtue's liv'ry-smile,
Prone the distressed to relieve,
And little trespasses forgive,
With income not in fortune's power,
And skill to make a busy hour,
With trips to town life to amuse,
To purchase books, and hear the news,
To see old friends, brush off the clown,
And quicken taste at coming down,
Unhurt by sickness' blasting rage,
And slowly mellowing in age.
When Fate extends its gathering gripe,
Fall off like fruit grown fully ripe,
Quit a worn being without pain,
Perhaps to blossom soon again.

But now more serious see me grow,
And what I think, my Memmius, know.

Th' enthusiast's hope, and raptures wild, Have never yet my reason foil'd. His springy soul dilates like air, Wher free from weight of ambient care, And, hush'd in meditation deep, Slides into dreams, as when asleep; Then, fond of new discoveries grown, Proves a Columbus of her own, Disdains the narrow bounds of place, And through the wilds of endless space, Borne up on metaphysic wings, Chases light forms and shadowy things, Anl, in the vague excursion caught, Brings home some rare exotic thought.