VIII.

Not frizz'd and fritter'd, pinn'd and roll'd,
Sublime their artless locks they wear,
And gorgeous dames, and judges old,
• Without their têtes and wigs appear;
In the midst a form divine,

Her dress bespeaks the Pennsylvanian line,
Her port demure, her grave, religious face,
Attemper'd sweet to virgin grace.

What sylphs and spirits wanton thro' the air!
What crouds of little angels round her play!
Hear from thy sepulchre, great Penn! oh hear!
A scene like this might animate thy clay..

Simplicity now soaring as she sings,

Waves in the eye of Heav'n her Quaker-colour'd wings. IX.

No more toupees are seen

That mock at Alpine height,

And queues with many a yard of ribbon bound,

All now are vanish'd quite.

No tongs, or torturing pin,

But ev'ry head is trimm'd quite snug around:

Like boys of the cathedral choir,

Curls, such as Adam wore, we wear;

Each simpler generation blooms more fair,

"Till all that's artificial expire.

Vain puppy boy! think'st thou yon essenc'd cloud

Rais'd by thy puff, can vie with Nature's hue?

'To-morrow see the variegated croud

With ringlets shining like the morning dew.

Enough for me; with joy I see

The different dooms our fates assign;

Be thine to love thy trade and starve;

To wear what Heaven bestow'd be mine;'

He said, and headlong from the trap-stairs' height, Quick thro' the frozen strect, he ran in shabby plight.

EPIGRAM.

ON CERTAIN FASHIONABLES.

YE wits and moralists, forbear
The driving band to blame!
Their conduct speaks a prudent care,
And praise may justly claim.

They've heard that he, in lordly state
Who proudly rears his head,
May yet be doom'd by cruel Fate
To earn his daily bread.

Too weak the arms of modern beaux

To delve the stubborn soil;

Too weak their heads, alas! Heaven knows,

To live by mental toil.

And, therefore, do they seek the skill
To use the whip and reins,

Since well the coachman's place to fill
Requires nor strength nor brains.

Should cards and dice their fortunes swallow,

They still may 'scape starvation,

For they have learn'd, and then may follow,
One honest occupation,

R. A. D.

TO PHЕВЕ.

SAY, lovely Phabe, why has heaven,
In every end divinely wise,
Perfection to thy features given,
Enchantment to thy radiant eyes?

Was it that mortal men might view
Thy charms at distance, and adore ?
Ah no! the man who would not woo,
Were less than mortal, or were more!

The budding rose of ruddy dye,

Born to be loved, admired, carest, We leave not on the stalk to die,

But snatch its beauties to the breast;

There, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells-
Unless the breast be Phabe's own;
There blooming, every bloom excells-
Except of Phabe's face alone!

O PHOBE! life is on the wing,
And years, like rivers, glide away;
To-morrow may misfortune bring-
Then gentle girl, enjoy to-day!

Nor had I pour'd in numbers warm,
A song even Phabe might approve,
Had she a face less formed to charm,
Or I a heart less apt to love!

1

ANACREON,

ODE XL. TRANSLATED.

ONCE, a bee, unseen white sleeping, Touch'd by Love, from rose-buds creeping, Stung the boy, who blood espying

On his finger, fell a-crying:

Then, both feet and pinious straining,

Flew to Venus, thus complaining:

"Oh! mamma, mamma, I'm dying,

Me a little dragon spying,

Which the ploughman-tribe, so stupid,
Call a bee, has bit your Cupid."

"Ah!" quoth Venus, smiling shrewdly,
"If a bee can wound so rudely,
Cupid, think how sharp the sorrows
Caus'd by thy envenom'd arrows!"

B.

J. W.

LINES

To the Memory of the Right Rev. Thomas Percy, late Lord Bishop of Dromore, who died Sept 30, 1811.

IF Fancy sculpture o'er the Poet's dust
A guardian Genius jealous of its trust;
If civic crowns the Patriot's worth record,
Or palms denote the servant of the Lord;
Let Percy's urn these blended symbols claim,
To mark the Poet's, Saint's, and Patriot's name:
He with nice taste the Minstrel's harp restrung,
And prais'd the feudal chiefs from whom he sprung:
Grav'd in his youth on Britain's classic

A mild Mæcenas in his happy age:

By genius rais'd, to genius still a friend,

page,

He grac'd the patronage he lov'd to lend;

Pleas'd to converse on Shenstone's flowing strain,
Great Johnson's depth, and Goldsmith's pleasant vein,
Till buried Sages seem'd to hover nigh,
And give the vision of an age gone by.

Yet higher praise is due to Percy's bier,
More than the filial or the grateful tear!
"Twas not enough that, kind and unreprov'd,
The needy blest him, and his kindred lov'd:
He, when Rebellion rous'd her murderous host,
Stood firm, a Christian Bishop at his post;
Preserv'd his flock from Faction's wild alarms,
And died at last a Patriarch in their arms: