Perhaps mid these unsocial yews is placed, Some head once member of the "Chosen Few *," Hands that the dazzling diamond might have graced, Or tip'd with ecstasy the billet-doux ; But Fashion to their eyes her motley page Rich with the rags of France would ne'er unroll ; Through this they lost "The Ton,"-" the Thing,""the Rage," And all the soft enamel of the soul. Full many a bawdy pun and joke obscene, Some birth-day Colonel, with undaunted breast, To rule each cackling circle coxcomb smitten, To cheat their tradesmen and despise their betters, To spell their titles in the Red-Book written, (Should fate have kindly taught them but their letters.) Their lot forbids-nor circumscribes alone * A club in Oxford of that name, chiefly consisting of noblemca and men of fortune. The surly pangs of stubborn truth to hide, With sweet sauce piping hot from Learning's flame. Far from the turbid paths of madd'ning strife They keep the jog-trot tenour of their way; Yet even their bones from surgeons to protect, The name bedizon'd by the pedant Muse, For who at Hymen's block in youthful bloom, To some dear friend by stealth remembrance flies, For me who, mindful of the life I loved, In these weak lines its happiness relate, Should e'er in future day some roaming friend *, Haply old Kitt, with iron tears, may say †, Brushing from broken cap the dust away, "His listless length at breakfast would he lay "Hard by yon gate, now painted as in scorn, "One morn I miss'd him in the chapel train, "Next post the tidings came; in due array The farewell tribute of some lonely friend ‡." * For the cast of this natural thought the author is indebted to a most inimitable passage in Churchill. The Personage here alluded to is no less than the author's bedmaker, an old soldier much distinguished for his honesty and roughness, and can be only understood by his friends in college. To a most ingenious and valuable friend the author is indebted for the five concluding stanzas of this piece. VOL. II. THE CHARACTER. HERE dwelt, ere marriage call'd to joys refin’d, A youth to riot and to noise unknown, Fair poesy engaged his gentler mind, And melancholy claim'd him for her own. Kind was his soul of softest sympathy, Nor pass'd in vain his friendship unreturn'd; Each old companion heav'd a parting sigh, Their master's loss each sorrowing servant mourn'd. Yet seek not here his virtues to disclose, Nor learn from hence the tenour of his life, The best of all can paint the worth she knows, With equal virtues graced, his sister, friend, and wife. ROSALIND'S DYING COMPLAINT TO HER SLEEPING CHILD. ALAS! my dearest baby, I grieve to see thee smile; I think upon thy rueful lot, And cold's my heart the while. 'Gainst wind and tide of worldly woe, To lull thee in my bosom warm, I feel I must not stay. My mother will not hear me speak, Sweet Heavens! were they never young, Ye souls unkind, a fate like mine My friends they all forsake me, May God amend their cruel hearts, Th' ungentle hand of rude mischance Lies strangled in my breast. 'Twas yester-eve at midnight hour, I kiss'd my baby's pretty hand, Its cruel far-off father My tender thoughts embraced, And in my darling's infant look His lovely likeness traced, |