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Not a pine in my grove is there seen,

But with tendrils of woodbine is bound: Not a beech's more beautiful green,

But a sweet-brier entwines it around. Not my fields, in the prime of the year,

More charms than my cattle unfold; Not a brook that is limpid and clear,

But it glitters with fishes of gold.

With her mien she enamours the brave;

With her wit she engages the free; With her modesty pleases the grave;

She is every way pleasing to me. O you that have been of her train,

Come and join in my amorous lays; I could lay down my life for the swain,

That will sing but a song in her praise. When he sings, may the nymphs of the town

Come trooping, and listen the while; Nay on him let nol Phyllida frown;

-But I cannot allow her to smile.

One would think she might like to retire

To the bower I have labor'd to rear; Not a shrub that I heard her admire,

But I hasted and planted it there. O how sudden the jessamine strove

With the lilac to render it gay! Already it calls for my love,

To prune the wild branches away.

For when Paridel tries in the dance

Any lavor with Phyllis to find, O how, with one trivial glance,

Might she ruin the peace of my mind! In ringlets he dresses his hair,

And his crook is bestudded around; And his pipe—oh my Phyllis, beware

Of a magic there is in the sound.

From the plains, from the woodlands and groves,

What strains of wild melody flow! How the nightingales warble their loves

From thickets of roses that blow! And when her bright form shall appear,

Each bird shall harmoniously join In a concert so soft and so clear,

As—she may not be found to resign.

'Tis his with mock passion to glow,

"Tis his in smooth tales to unfold, How her face is as bright as the snow,

And her bosom, be sure, is as cold. How the nightingales labor the strain,

With the notes of his charmer to vie ; How they vary their accents in vain,

Repine at her triumphs, and die.

I have found out a gift for my fair;

I have found where the wood-pigeons breed : But let me that plunder forbear,

She will say 'twas a barbarous deed. For he ne'er could be true, she averr'd,

Who would rob a poor bird of its young: And I lov'd her the more when I heard

Such tenderness fall from her tongue.

To the grove or the garden he strays,

And pillages every sweet;
Then, suiting the wreath to his lays,

He throws it at Phyllis's feet.
“O Phyllis," he whispers, “ more fair,

More sweet than the jessamine's flower. What are pinks in a morn to compare !

What is eglantine after a shower?

I have heard her with sweetness unfold

How that pily was due toma dove : That it ever attended the bold;

And she call'd it the sister of love. But her words such a pleasure convey,

So much I her accents adore, Let her speak, and whatever she say,

Methinks I should love her the more.

" Then the lily no longer is white;

The rose is depriv'd of its bloom ; Then the violets die with despite,

And the woodbines give up their perfume Thus glide the soft numbers along,

And he fancies no shepherd his peer; -Yet I never should envy the song,

Were not Phyllis to lend it an ear.

Can a bosom so gentle remain

Unmov'd when her Corydon sighs ? Will a nymph that is fond of the plain,

These plains and this valley despise ? Dear regions of silence and shade!

Soft scenes of contentment and ease ? Where I could have pleasingly stray'd,

If aught, in her absence, could please.

But where does my Phyllida stray ?

And where are her grols and her bowers ? Are the groves and the valleys as gay,

And the shepherds as gentle as ours? The groves may perhaps be as fair,

And the face of the valleys as fine ; The swains may in manners compare,

But their love is not equal to mine.

Let his crook be with hyacinths bound,

So Phyllis the trophy despise : Let his forehead with laurels be crown'd,

So they shine not in Phyllis's eyes. The language that flows from the heart,

Is a stranger to Paridel's tongue ; - Yet may she beware of his art, Or sure I must envy the song.

III. SOLICITUDE. Why will you my passion reprove ?

Why term it a folly to grieve ? Ere I show you the charms of my love,

She's fairer than you can believe.

IV. DISAPPOINTMENT. Ye shepherds, give ear to my lay,

And take no more heed of my sheep; They have nothing to do but to stray;

I have nothing to do but to weep. Yet do not my folly reprove;

She was fair-and my passion begun; She smild-and I could not but love;

She is faithless—and I am undone.

Erewhile, in sportive circles round
She saw him wheel, and frisk, and bound;
From rock to rock pursue his way,
And on the fearful margin play.

Perhaps I was void of all thought:

Perhaps it was plain to foresee, That a nymph so complete would be sought

By a swain more engaging ihan me.
Ah! love every hope can inspire ;

It banishes wisdom the while ;
And the lip of the nymph we admire

Seems for ever adorn'd with a smile.
She is faithless, and I am undone ;

Ye that witness the woes I endure, Let reason instruct you to shun

What it cannot instruct you to cure. Beware how you loiter in vain

Amid nymphs of a higher degree: It is not for me to explain

How fair, and how fickle, they be.

Pleas'd on his various freaks to dwell,
She saw him climb my rustic cell;
Thence eye my lawns with verdure bright,
And seem all ravish'd at the sight.

She tells with what delight he stood To trace his features in the flood ; Then skipp'd aloof with quaint amaze, And then drew near again to gaze.

She tells me how with eager speed
He flew to hear my vocal reed ;
And how with critic face profound,
And sted fast ear, devour'd the sound.

His every frolic, light as air,
Deserves the gentle Delia's care ;
And tears bedew her tender eye,
To think the playful kid must die.-

Alas! from the day that we met,

What hope of an end to my woes ? When I cannot endure to forget

The glance that undid my repose. Yet time may diminish the pain :

The flower, and the shrub, and the tree, Which I rear'd for her pleasure in vain,

In time may have comfort for me. The sweets of a dew-sprinkled rose,

The sound of a murmuring stream, The peace which from solitude flows,

Henceforth shall be Corydon's theme. High transports are shown to the sight,

But we're not to find them our own;
Fate never bestow'd such delight,

As I with my Phyllis had known.
O ye woods, spread your branches apace;

To your deepest recesses I fly;
I would hide with the beasts of the chase ;

I would vanish from every eye. Yet my reed shall resound through the grove

With the same sad complaint it begun; How she smil'd—and I could not but love;

Was faithless—and I am undone !

But knows my Delia, timely wise, How soon this blameless era flies? While violence and craft succeed ; Unfair design, and ruthless deed!

Soon would the vine his wounds deplore,
And yield her purple gifts no more ;
Ah! soon, eras'd from every grove
Were Delia's name, and Strephon's love.

No more those bowers might Strephon see,
Where first he fondly gaz'd on thee,
No more those beds of flowerets find,
Which for thy charming brows he twin'd.


Each wayward passion soon would tear
His bosom, now so void of care;
And, when they left his ebbing vein,
What, but insipid age, remain ?


Optima quæque dies miseris mortalibus ævi

Prima fugit A TEAR bedews my Delia's eye, To think yon playful kid must die; From crystal spring, and flowery mead, Must, in his prime of life, recede!

Then mourn not the decrees of Fate, That gave his life so short a date ; And I will join thy tenderest sighs, To think that youth so swiftly flies!


THE Rev. Charles CHURCHILL, a poet, once of name. Churchill was now at once raised from oh great repute, was the son of a curate of St. John's, scurity to eminence; and the Rosciad, which we Westminster, in which parish he was born in 1731. have selected as his best work, is, in fact, the only He received his early education at the celebrated one of his numerous publications on which he bepublic school in the vicinity, whence he was sent to slowed due labor. The delineations are drawn Oxford ; but to this university he was refused ad- with equal energy and vivacity ; the language and mission on account of deficient classical knowledge. versification, though not without inequalities, are Returning to school, he soon closed his further superior to the ordinary strain of current poetry, and education by an early and imprudent marri many of the observations are stamped with sound Receiving holy orders from the indulgence of Dr. judgment and correct taste. Sherlock, he went down to a curacy in Wales, The remainder of his life, though concurring where he attempted to remedy the scantiness of his with the period of his principal fame, is little worthy income, by the sale of cider; but this expedient of notice. He became a party writer, joining with only plunged him deeper in debt. Returning to Wilkes and other oppositionists, and employed his London, he was chosen, on his father's death, to pen assiduously in their cause. With this was succeed him as curate and lecturer of St. John's. joined a lamentable defect of moral feeling, erHis finances still falling short, he took various hibited by loose and irregular manners. Throwing methods to improve them; at the same time he dis- off his black suit, he decorated his large and clumsy played an immoderale fondness for theatrical ex- person with gold lace; and dismissing his wife, he hibitions. This latter passion caused him to think debauched from her parents the daughter of a of exercising those talents which he was conscious tradesman in Westminster. His writings at length of possessing ; and in March, 1761, he published, became mere rhapsodies; and taking a journey to though anonymously, a view of the excellencies and France for the purpose of visiting Mr. Wilkes, defects of the actors in both houses, which he en. then an exile in that country, he was seized with a titled “The Rosciad.” It was much admired, fever, which put a period to his life on November 4, and a second edition appeared with the author's | 1764, at the age of 34.

They can't, like candidate for other seat,

Pour seas of wine, and mountains raise of meat. THE ROSCIAD.

Wine! they could bribe you with the world as soon,

And of roast beef, they only know the tune: Roscius deceas'd, each high aspiring play'r But what they have they give; could Clive do more. Push'd all his int'rest for the vacant chair. Though for each million he had brought home four! The buskin'd heroes of the mimic stage

Shuter keeps open house at Southwark fair, No longer whine in love, and rant in rage; And hopes the friends of humor will be there; The monarch quits his throne, and condescends In Smithfield, Yates prepares the rival treat Humbly to court the favor of his friends ; For those who laughter love, instead of meat; For pity's sake tells undeserv'd mishaps,

Foote, at Old House, for even Foote will be, And, their applause to gain, recounts his claps. In self-conceit, an actor, bribes with tea; Thus the victorious chiefs of ancient Rome, Which Wilkinson at second-hand receives, To win the mob, a suppliant's form assume, And at the New, pours water on the leaves. In pompous strain fight o'er th' extinguish'd war, The town divided, each runs sev'ral ways, And show where honor bled in ev'ry scar. As passion, humor, int'rest, party sways.

But though bare merit might in Rome appear Things of no moment, color of the hair,
The strongest plea for favor, 'tis not here; Shape of a leg, complexion brown or fair,
We form our judgment in another way;

A dress well chosen, or a patch misplac'd,
And they will best succeed, who best can pay : Conciliate favor, or create distaste.
Those, who would gain the votes of British tribes, From galleries loud peals of laughter roll,
Must add to force of merit, force of bribes. And thunder Shuter's praises he's so droll.
What can an actor give? In ev'ry age

Embar'd, the ladies must have something smart, Cash hath been rudely banish'd from the stage ; Palmer! Oh! Palmer tops the janty part. Monarchs themselves, to grief of ev'ry play's, Seated in pit, the dwarf, with aching eyes, Appear as often as their image there :

Looks up, and vows that Barry's out of sizo;

Whilst to six feet the vig'rous stripling grown.
Declares that Garrick is another Coan.*

When place of judgment is by whim supplied,
And our opinions have their rise in pride;
When, in discoursing on each mimic elf,
We praise and censure with an eye to self;
All must meet friends, and Ackman bids as fair
In such a court, as Garrick, for the chair.

At length agreed, all squabbles to decide,
By some one judge the cause was to be tried;
But this their squabbles did afresh renew,
Who should be judge in such a trial?-Who?

For Johnson some, but Johnson, it was fear'd,
Would be too grave; and Sterne too gay appear'd:
Others for Francklin voted; but 'twas known,
He sicken'd at all triumphs but his own:
For Colman many, but the peevish tongue
Of prudent Age found out that he was young:
For Murphy some few pilf'ring wits declar'd,
Whilst Folly clapp'd her hands, and Wisdom star'd.

To mischief train'd, e'en from his mother's womb,
Grown old in fraud, though yet in manhood's bloom,
Adopting arts, by which gay villains rise,
And reach the heights which honest men despise;
Mute at the bar, and in the senate loud,
Dull 'mongst the dullest, proudest of the proud ;
A pert, prim prater of the northern race,
Guilt in his heart, and famine in his face,
Stood forth-and thrice he wav'd his lily hand-
And thrice he twirl'd his tye-thrice strok'd his

Who can-But Woodward came,-Hill slipp'd


Melting like ghosts, before the rising day.

+ With that low cunning, which in fools supplies
And amply too, the place of being wise,
Which Nature, kind, indulgent parent, gave
To qualify the blockhead for a knave;
With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance

With sleek appearance, and with ambling pace,
And, type of vacant head, with vacant face,
The Proteus Hill put in his modest plea,—


Let Favor speak for others, Worth for me."—
For who, like him, his various powers could call
Into so many shapes, and shine in all?
Who could so nobly grace the motley list,
Actor, inspector, doctor, botanist?
Knows any one so well-sure no one knows,
At once to play, prescribe, compound, compose?

"At Friendship's call," (thus oft with trait'rous aim
Men, void of faith, usurp Faith's sacred name)
"At Friendship's call I come, by Murphy sent,
Who thus by me develops his intent.
But lest, transfus'd, the spirit should be lost,
That spirit which in storms of rhet'ric tost,
Bounces about, and flies like bottled beer,
In his own words his own intentions hear.
"Thanks to my friends.-But to vile fortunes born, O'er its pale cheeks, the horrid manly red.
No robes of fur these shoulders must adorn.
Vain your applause, no aid from thence I draw;
Vain all my wit, for what is wit in law?
Twice (curs'd remembrance!) twice I strove to gain
Admittance 'mongst the law-instructed train,
Who, in the Temple and Gray's Inn, prepare
For clients' wretched feet the legal snare;
Dead to those arts, which polish and refine,
Deaf to all worth, because that worth was mine,
Twice did those blockheads startle at my name,
And, foul rejection, gave me up to shame.
To laws and lawyers then I bad adieu,
And plans of far more lib'ral note pursue.
Who will may be a judge-my kindling breast
Burns for that chair which Roscius once possess'd.
Here give your votes, your int'rest here exert,
And let success for once attend desert."

Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase,
Of genius and of taste, of play'rs and plays;
Much too of writings, which itself had wrote,
Of special merit, though of little note;
For Fate, in a strange humor, had decreed
That what it wrote, none but itself should read;
Much too it 'chatter'd of dramatic laws,
Misjudging critics, and misplac'd applause ;
Then, with a self-complacent jutting air,
It smil'd, it smirk'd, it wriggled to the chair;
And, with an awkward briskness not its own,
Looking around, and perking on the throne,
Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage dame
Known but to few, or only known by name,
Plain Common-Sense appear'd, by Nature there
Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair.
The pageant saw, and, blasted with her frown,
To its first state of nothing melted down.

Nor shall the Muse (for even there the pride
Of this vain nothing shall be mortified)
Nor shall the Muse (should Fate ordain her rhymes
Fond, pleasing thought! to live in after-times)
With such a trifler's name her pages blot;
Known by the character, the thing forgot;


And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms,
Which to the lowest depths of guile descends,
By vilest means pursues the vilest ends,
Wears Friendship's mask for purposes of spite,
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant envy, which turns pale,
And sickens, even if a friend prevail,
Which merit and success pursues with hate,
And damns the worth it cannot imitate;
With the cold caution of a coward's spleen,
Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a skreen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view-
What's basely done, should be done safely too;
With that dull, rooted, callous impudence,
Which, dead to shame, and ev'ry nicer sense,
Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading Vice's snares,
She blunder'd on some virtue unawares;
With all these blessings, which we seldom find
Lavish'd by Nature on one happy mind,
A motley figure, of the Fribble tribe,
Which heart can scarce conceive, or pen describe,
Came simp'ring on; to ascertain whose sex
Twelve sage, impannel'd matrons would perplex.
Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both;
Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth;
A six-foot suckling, mincing in its gait;
Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate;
Fearful it seem'd, though of athletic make,
Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake
Its tender form, and savage motion spread,

* John Coan, a dwarf, who died in 1764. C.

This severe character was intended for Mr. Fitzpatrick, a person who had rendered himself remarkable by his activity in the playhouse riots of 1763, relative to the taking half prices. He was the hero of Garrick's Fribbleriad. E.

Let it, to disappoint each future aim,

The morning came, nor find I that the Sun, Live without sex, and die without a name!

As he on other great events hath done, Cold blooded critics, by enervate sires

Put on a brighter robe than what he wore Scarce hammer'd out, when Nature's feeble fires To go his journey in the way before. Glimmer'd their last; whose sluggish blood, half Full in the centre of a spacious plain, froze,

On plan entirely new, where nothing vain, Creeps lab'ring through the veins; whose heart Nothing magnificent appear'd, but Art ne'er glows

With decent modesty perform'd her part, With fancy-kindled heat;-a servile race,

Rose a tribunal: from no other court Who in mere want of fault, all merit place; It borrow'd ornament, or sought support: Who blind obedience pay to ancient schools, No juries here were pack'd to kill or clear, Bigots to Greece, and slaves to musty rules; No bribes were taken, nor oaths broken here ; With solemn consequence declar'd that none No gownmen, partial to a client's cause, Could judge that cause but Sophoclee alone. To their own purpose tun'd the pliant laws, Dupes to their fancied excellence, the crowd, Each judge was true and steady to his trust, Obsequious to the sacred dictate, bow'd.

As Mansfield wise, and as old Foster* just. When, from amidst the throng. a youth stood forth, In the first seat, in robe of various dyes, Unknown his person, not unknown his worth; A noble wildness flashing from his eyes, His look bespoke applause; alone he stood, Sai Shakspeare.-In one hand a wand he bore, Alone he stemm'd the mighty critic flood.

For mighty wonders fam'd in days of yore; He talk'd of ancients, as the man became

The other held a globe, which to his will Who priz'd our own, but envied not their fame; Obedient turn'd, and own'd the master's skill : With noble rev'rence spoke of Greece and Rome, Things of the noblest kind his genius drew, And scorn'd 10 tear the laurel from the tomb. And look'd through Nature at a single view:

“But more than just to other countries grown, A loose he gave to his unbounded soul, Must we turn base a postates to our own!

And taught new lands to rise, new seas to roll ; Where do these words of Greece and Rome excel, Call'd into being scenes unknown before, That England may not please the ear as well ? And, passing Nature's bounds, was something more. What mighty magic's in the place or air,

Next Jonson sat, in ancient learning train'd, That all perfection needs must centre there? His rigid judgment Fancy's flights restrain'd, In states, let strangers blindly be preferr'd ; Correctly prun'd each wild luxuriant thought, In state of letters, merit should be heard.

Mark'd out her course, nor spar'd a glorious fault. Genius is of no country, her pure ray

The book of man he read with nicest art,
Spreads all abroad, as gen'ral as the day;

And ransack'd all the secrets of the heart;
Foe to restraint, from place to place she fies, Exerted penetration's utmost force,
And may hereafter e'en in Holland rise.

And trac'd each passion to its proper source;
May not (to give a pleasing fancy scope,

Then strongly mark'd, in liveliest colors drew, And cheer a patriot heart with patriot hope) And brought each foible forth to public view. May not some great extensive genius raise The coxcomb felt a lash in ev'ry word, The name of Britain 'bove Athenian praise ; And fools, hung out, their brother fools deterr'd. And, whilst brave thirst of fame his bosom warms, His coinic humor kept the world in awe, Make England great in letters as in arms ? And Laughter frighten’d Folly more than Law. There may-there hath-and Shakspeare's Muse But, hark !—The trumpet sounds, the crowd gives aspires

way, Beyond the reach of Greece : with native fires And the procession comes in just array. Mounting aloft, he wings his daring flight,

Now should I, in some sweet poetic line,
Whilst Sophocles below stands trembling at his Offer up incense at Apollo's shrine ;

Invoke the Muse to quit her calm abode,
“Why should we then abroad for judges roam, And waken mem'ry with a sleeping ode.
When abler judges we may find at home? For how should mortal man, in mortal verse,
Happy in tragic and in comic pow'rs,

Their titles, merits, or their names rehearse ?
Have we not Shakspeare ?-Is not Jonson ours ? But give, kind Dullness, memory and rhyme,
For them, your nat'ral judges, Britons, vote; We'll put off Genius till another time.
They'll judge like Britons, who like Britons wrote.” First, Order came-with solemn step, and slow,

He said, and conquer'd-Sense resum'd her sway, In measurd time his feet were taught to go. And disappointed pedants stalk'd away.

Behind, from time to time, he cast his eye, Shakspeare and Jonson, with desery'd applause, Lest this should quit his place, that step awry. Joint-judges were ordain'd to try the cause. Appearances to save his only care; Meantime the stranger ev'ry voice employ'd, So things seem right, no matter what they are. To ask or tell his name Who is it?-Lloyd. In him his parents saw themselves renew'd,

Thus, when the aged friends of Job stood mute, Begotten by sir Critic on saint Prude. And, tamely prudent, gave up the dispute,

Then came drum, trumpel, hautboy, fiddle, flute: Elihu, with the decent warmth of youth,

Next snuffer, sweeper, shifter, soldier, mue: Boldly stood forth the advocate of Truth;

Legions of angels all in white advance ; Confuted Falsehood, and disabled Pride,

Furies, all fire, come forward in a dance;
Whilst bafħed Age stood snarling at his side. Pantomime figures then are brought to view,
The day of trial's fix’d, nor any fear

Fools hand in hand with fools go iwo by two.
Lest day of trial should be put off here.
Causes but seldom for delay can call

* Sir Michael Foster, one of the judges of the King's In courts where forms are few, fees none at all. Bench.

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