Let bright Hygeia her glad reign resume,
And o'er each sickly form renew her bloom.
Me, whom no fell disease this hour compels
To visit Bristol's celebrated Wells,

Far other motives prompt my eager view;
My heart can here its fav'rite bent pursue,
Here can I gaze, and pause, and muse between,
And draw some moral truth from ev'ry scene.
Yon dusky rocks, that from the stream arise
In rude rough grandeur, threat the distant
skies,

Seem as if Nature in a painful throe,
With dire convulsions, lab'ring to and fro,
(To give the boiling waves a ready vent)
At one dread stroke the solid mountain rent;
The huge cleft rocks transmit to distant fame
The sacred gilding of a good saint's name.
Now round the varied scene attention turns
Her ready eye-my soul with ardour burns ;
For on that spot my glowing fancy dwells,
Where cenotaph its mournful story tells-
How Briton's heroes, true to honour's laws,
Fell, bravely fighting in their country's cause.
But tho' in distant fields your limbs are laid,
In fame's long list your glories ne'er will fade;
But blooming still beyond the gripe of death,
Fear not the blast of time's inclouding breath.
Your generous leader rais'd this stone to say,
You follow'd still where honour led the way;
And by this tribute, which his pity pays,
Twines his own virtues with his soldiers' praise.
Now Brandon's cliffs my wand'ring gazes meet,
Whose craggy surface mocks the ling'ring feet;
Queen Bess's gift, (so ancient legends say)
To Bristol's fair; where to the Sun's warm ray
On the rough bush the linen white they spread,
Or deck with russet leaves the mossy bed.

Here as I musing take my pensive stand,
Whilst evening shadows lengthen o'er the land,
O'er the wide landscape cast the circling eye,
How ardent mem'ry prompts the fervid sigh;
O'er the historic page my fancy runs,
Of Britain's fortunes of her valiant sons.
You castle, erst of Saxon standards proud,
Its neighbouring meadows dy'd with Danish blood.
Then of its later fate a view I take:

Here the sad monarch lost his hope's last stake;
When Rupert bold, of well-achiev'd renown,
Stain'd all the fame his former prowess won.
But for its ancient use no more employ'd,
Its walls all moulder'd and its gates destroy'd;
In hist'ry's roll it still a shade retains,
Tho' of the fortress scarce a stone remains.
Eager at length I strain each aching limb,
And breathless now the mountain's summit climb.
Here does attention her fixt gaze renew,
And of the city takes a nearer view.
The yellow Avon, creeping at my side,
In sullen billows rolls a muddy tide;

No sportive Naiads on her streams are seen,
No cheerful pastimes deck the gloomy scene;
Fixt in a stupor by the cheerless plain,
For fairy flights the fancy toils in vain:
For tho' her waves, by commerce richly blest,
Roll to her shores the treasures of the West,
Tho' her broad banks trade's busy aspect wears,
She seems unconscious of the wealth she bears.
Near to her banks, and under Brandon's hill,
There wanders Jacob's ever-murm'ring rill,
That, pouring forth a never-failing stream,
To the dim eye restores the steady beam.
Here too (alas! tho' tott'ring now with age)
Stands our deserted, solitary stage,
Where oft our Powell, Nature's genuine son,
With tragic tones the fix'd attention won:
Fierce from his lips his angry accents fly,
Fierce as the blast that tears the northern sky;
Like snows that trickle down hot Etna's steep,
His passion melts the soul, and makes us weep:
But O! how soft his tender accents move→
Soft as the cooings of the turtle's love-
Soft as the breath of morn in bloom of spring,
Dropping a lucid tear on Zephyr's wing:
O'er Shakespear's varied scenes he wandered wide,
In Macbeth's form ali human pow'r defy'd;
In shapeless Richard's dark and fierce disguise,
In dreams he saw the murder'd train arise;
Then what convulsions shook his trembling breast,
And strew'd with pointed thorns his bed of rest!
But fate has snatch'd thee early was thy doom,
How soon enclos'd within the silent tomb!
No more our raptur'd eyes shall meet thy form,
No more thy melting tones our bosoms warm.
Without thy pow'rful aid, the languid stage
No more can please at once and mend the age.
Yes, thou art gone! and thy belov'd remains
Yon sacred old cathedral wall contains;
There does the muffled bell our grief reveal,
And solemn organs swell the mournful peal;
Whilst hallow'd dirges fill the holy shrine,
Deserved tribute to such worth as thine.
No more at Clifton's scenes my strains o'erflow,
For the Muse, drooping at this tale of woe,
Slackens the strings of her enamour'd lyre,
The flood of gushing grief puts out her fire:
Else would she sing the deeds of other times,
Of saints and heroes sung in monkish rhymes;
Else would her soaring fancy burn to stray,
And thro' the cloister'd aisle would take her way,
Where sleep (ah! mingling with the common dust)
The sacred bodies of the brave and just.
But vain th' attempt to scan that holy lore,
These soft'ning sighs forbid the Muse to soar.
So treading back the steps I just now trod,
Mournful and sad I seek my lone abode.

TO MISS HOYLAND.

[From a MS. of Chatterton's in the British Mu-
seum.]

SWEET are thy charming smiles, my lovely maid,
Sweet as the flow'rs in bloom of spring array'd;
Those charming smiles thy beauteous face adorn,
As May's white blossoms gaily deck the thorn.
Then why, when mild good-nature basking lies
Midst the soft radiance of thy melting eyes,

[From a MS. of Chatterton's, in the British
Museum.]

WHAT language, Powell! can thy merits tell,
By Nature form'd in every path t' excel:
To strike the feeling soul with magic skill,
When every passion bends beneath thy will.
Loud as the howlings of the northern wind
Thy scenes of anger harrow up the mind;
But most thy softer tones our bosoms move,
When Juliet listens to her Romeo's love.
How sweet thy gentle movements then to see-
Each melting heart must sympathize with thee.
Yet, though design'd in every walk to shine,
Thine is the furious, and the tender thine;
Though thy strong feelings and thy native fire
Still force the willing gazers to admire,
Though great thy praises for thy scenic art,
We love thee for the virtues of thy heart.

70 MISS C.

ON HEARING HER PLAY ON THE HARPSICHORD.
[From a MS. of Chatterton's, in the British
Museum.]

HAD Israel's Monarch, when misfortune's dart
Piere'd to its deepest core his heaving breast,
Heard but thy dulcet tones, his sorrowing heart
At such soft tones, had sooth'd itself to rest.

Yes, sweeter far than Jesse's son's thy strains,
Yet what avail if sorrow they disarm;
Love's sharper sting within the soul remains,
The melting movements wound us as they charm.

THE ART OF PUFFING,
BY A BOOKSELLER'S JOURNEYMAN.
[Copied from a MS. of Chatterton.]
VERS'D by experience in the subtle art,
The myst'ries of a title I impart:

Teach the young author how to please the town,
And make the heavy drug of rhyme go down.
Since Curl, immortal, never-dying name!
A Double Pica in the book of Fame,
By various arts did various dunces prop,
And tickled every fancy to his shop:
Who can, like Pottinger, ensure a book?
Who judges with the solid taste of Cooke?
Villains exalted in the midway sky,
Shall live again to drain your purses dry:

Nor yet unrivall'd they: see Baldwin comes,
Rich in inventions, patents, cuts, and hums:
The honourable Boswell writes, 'tis true,
What else can Paoli's supporter do.
The trading wits endeavour to attain,
Like booksellers, the world's first idol, gain:
For this they puff the heavy Goldsmith's line,
And hail his sentiment, tho' trite, divine;
r'or this, the patriotic bard complains,
And Bingley binds poor Liberty in chains:
For this was every reader's faith deceiv'd,
And Edmunds swore what nobody believ'd:
For this the wits in close disguises fight;
For this the varying politicians write;
For this each month new magazines are sold,
With dullness fill'd and transcripts of the old.
The Town and Country struck a lucky bit,
Was novel, sentimental, full of wit:
Aping her walk the same success to find,
The Court and City hobbles far behind:
Sons of Apollo learn; merit's no more
Than a good frontispiece to grace the door.
The author who invents a title well,
Will always find his cover'd dullness sell;
Flexney and every bookseller will buy,
Bound in neat calf, the work will never die.
July 22, 1770.

PAMP.

COPY OF VERSES WRITTEN BY
CHATTERTON,

TO A LADY IN BRISTOL

[From a copy given by Chatterton to Mr. H.
Kater, of Bristol.]

To use a worn out simile,
From flow'r to flow'r the busy bee

With anxious labour flies,
Alike from scents which give distaste,
By fancy as disgusting plac'd,
Repletes his useful thighs.

Nor does his vicious taste prefer
The fopling of some gay parterre,
The mimickry of art!

But round the meadow-Violet dwells,
Nature replenishing his cells,

Does ampler stores impart.

So I, a humble dumble drone,
Anxious and restless when alone
Seek comfort in the fair,
And featur'd up in tenfold brass,
A rhyming, staring, am'rous ass,
To you address my pray❜r.

But ever in my love-lorn flights
Nature untouch'd by art delights,

Why, says some priest of mystic thought,
Art ever gives disgust.
The bard alone by nature taught,

Is to that nature just.

But ask your orthodox divine

If ye perchance should read this line
Which fancy now inspires:

Will all his sermons, preaching, prayers
His Hell, his Heaven, his solemn airs,
Quench nature's rising fires?

Since pious Ch-dl-gh is become her grace,
Martin turns rump, to occupy her place.
Say, Rigby, in the honours of the door
How properly a knave succeeds a whore.
She knows the subject almost slipt my quill,
Lost in that pistol of a woman's will;
She knows when Bute would exercise his rod,
The worthiest of the worthy sons of God.
But (say the critics) this is saying much,
The Scriptures tell us peace-makers are such.
Who can dispute his title, who deny
What taxes and oppression justify?
Who of the Thane's beatitude can doubt?
On! was but North as sure of being out.
And, (as I end whatever I begin,)
Was Chatham but as sure of being in.
But foster child of fate, dear to a dame,
Whom satire freely would, but dare not name.
Ye plodding barristers who hunt a flaw,
What mischief would you from the sentence draw.
Tremble and stand attentive as a dean,
Know, royal favour is the thing I mean.
To sport with royalty the Muse forbears,
And kindly takes compassion on my ears.
When once Shebbeare in glorious triumph stood
Upon a rostrum of distinguish'd wood,
Who then withheld his guinea or his praise,
Or envy'd him his crown of English bays?
But now Modestus, truant to the cause,
Assists the pioneers who sap the laws,
Wreaths infamy around a sinking pen,
Who could withhold the pillory again.
But lifted into not ce, by the eyes
Of one whose optics always set to rise,
Forgive a pun, ye rationals, forgive
A flighty youth as yet unlearnt to live.
When I have conn'd each sage's musty rule,
I may with greater reason play the fool.
Burgum and I, in ancient lore untaught,
Are always, with our nature, in a fault:
Tho' Cn would instruct us in the part,
Our stubborn morals would not err by art.
Having in various starts from order stray'd,
We'll call imagination to our aid.
See Bute astride upon a wrinkled hag,
His hand replenish'd with an open'd bag,
Whence fly the ghosts of taxes and supplies,
The sales of places, and the last excise.
Upon the ground in seemly order laid
The Stuarts stretch'd the majesty of plaid.
Rich with the peer, dependance bow'd the head,
And saw their hopes, arising from the dead,
His countrymen were muster'd into place,
And a Scotch piper was above his grace.
But say, astrologers, could this be strange,
The lord of the ascendant rul'd the change,
And music, whether bagpipes, fiddles, drums,
All which is sense as meaning overcomes.
So now this universal fav'rite Scot
His former native poverty forgot,
The highest member of the car of state,

The Scots have tender honours to a man;
Honour's the tie that bundles up the clan,
They want one requisite to be divine,
One requisite in which all others shine.
They're very poor; then who can blame the hand
Who polishes by wealth his native land.
And to complete the worth possest before
Gives ev'ry Scotchman one perfection more,
Nobly bestows the infamy of place,
And C-mpb-11 struts about in doubled lace.
Who says Bute barters place, and nobly sold
His king, his union'd countrymen, for gold?
When ministerial hirelings proofs defy,
If Musgrave cannot prove it, how can I?
No facts unwarranted shall soil my quill,
Suffice it, there's a strong suspicion still.
When Bute the iron rod of favour shook,
And bore his haughty passions in his look,
Nor yet contented with his boundless sway,
Which all perforce must outwardly obey,
He sought to throw his chain upon the mind,
Nor would he leave conjectures unconfin'd;
We saw his measures wrong, and yet in spite
Of reason we must think these measures right:
Whilst curb'd and check'd by his imperious rein,
We must be satisfied, and not complain.
Complaints are libels, as the present age
Are all instructed by a law-wise sage,
Who, happy in his eloquence and fees,
Advances to preferment by degrees,
Trembles to think of such a daring step,
As from a tool to chancellor to leap.
But lest his prudence should the law disgrace,
He keeps a longing eye upon the mace.
Whilst Bute was suffer'd to pursue his plan,
And ruin freedom as he rais'd his clan,
Could not his pride, his universal pride,
With working undisturb'd be satisfied?
But when we saw the villany and fraud,
What conscience but a Scotchman's could applaud?
But yet 'twas nothing cheating in our sight,[right,
We should have humm'd ourselves and thought them
This faith, established by the mighty Thane,
Will long outlive that system of the Dane:
This faith but now the number must be brief,
All human things are center'd in belief;
And, (or the philosophic sages dream,)
Nothing is really so as it may seem.
Faith is a glass to rectify our sight,
And teach us to distinguish wrong from right:
By this corrected Bute appears a Pitt,
And candour marks the lines which Murphy
Then let this faith support our ruin'd cause,
And give us back our liberties and laws.
No more complain of fav'rites made by lust,
No more think Chatham's patriot reasons just,
But let the Babylonish harlot see,
You to her Baal bow the humble knee.
Lost in the praises of the fav'rite Scot,
My better theme, my Newton, was forgot,
Blest with a pregnant wit, and never known

Where well he plays at blindman's buff with fate: To boast of one impertinence his own,

If fortune condescends to bless his play,
And dropa rich Havannah in his way,
He keeps it with intention to release
All conquests at the gen'ral day of peace.
When first and foremost to divide the spoil,
Some millions down might satisfy his toil:
To guide the car of war he fancied not
Where honour, and not money, could be got.

[writ.

He warp'd his vanity to serve his God,
And in the paths of pious fathers trod :
Tho' genius might have started something new,
He honour'd lawn, and prov'd his scripture true;
No literary worth presum'd upon,
He wrote the understrapper of St. John,
Unravell'd every mystic simile,

Rich in the faith, and fanciful as me,