On this congenial spot he fix'd his choice;

Earl Goodwin trembled for his neighb'ring sand; Here sea gulls scream, and cormorants rejoice,

And mariners, though shipwreck'd, dread to land.

Here reign the blust'ring North and blighting East,
No tree is heard to whisper, bird to sing;
Yet Nature could not furnish out the feast,
Art he invokes new horrors still to bring.

Here mould'ring fanes and battlements arise,
Turrets and arches nodding to their fall;
Unpeopled monast'ries delude our eyes,
And mimic desolation covers all.

Ah!' said the sighing peer, had B-te been true,
Nor M-'s, R-'s, B-'s friendship vain,
Far better scenes than these had blest our view,
And realized the beauties which we feign.

Purged by the sword, and purified by fire, Then had we seen proud London's hated walls; Owls would have hooted in St. Peter's choir, And foxes stunk and litter'd in St. Paul's.'

THE CANDIDATE;

OR, THE CAMBRIDGE COURTSHIP.

Written a short time previous to the election of a
High Steward.

WHEN sly Jemmy Twitcher had smugg'd up his face,
With a lick of court white-wash, and pious grimace,
A wooing he went, where three sisters of old

In harmless society guttle and scold.

Lord! sister,' says Physic to Law, 'I declare,
Such a sheep-biting look, such a pick-pocket air.
Not I for the Indies!-You know I'm no prude,-
But his name is a shame,-and his eyes are so lewd!
Then he shambles and straddles so oddly-I fear-
No-at our time of life 'twould be silly, my dear.'

'I don't know,' says Law, but methinks for his look
'Tis just like the picture in Rochester's book;
Then his character, Phizzy,-his morals-his life-
When she died, I can't tell, but he once had a wife.
They say he's no Christian, loves drinking and w--g,
And all the town rings of his swearing and roaring!
His lying and filching, and Newgate-bird tricks ;-
Not I-for a coronet, chariot and six.'

g:

Divinity heard, between waking and dozing,
Her sisters denying, and Jemmy proposing:
From table she rose, and with bumper in hand,
She stroked up her belly, and stroked down her band-
What a pother is here about wenching and roaring!
Why, David loved catches, and Solomon w-
Did not Israel filch from th' Egyptians of old
Their jewels of silver and jewels of gold?
The prophet of Bethel, we read, told a lie:
He drinks-so did Noah;-he swears-so do I:
To reject him for such peccadillos, were odd;
Besides, he repents-for he talks about G**;—

[To Jemmy.]

Never hang down your head, you poor penitent elf; Come, buss me-I'll be Mrs. Twitcher myself.

SKETCH

OF HIS OWN CHARACTER.

Too poor for a bribe, and too proud to impórtune;
He had not the method of making a fortune:

Could love and could hate, so was thought somewhat

odd;

No very great Wit, he believed in a God.

A post or a pension he did not desire,

But left church and state to Charles Townshend and

Squire.t

Written in 1761, and found in one of his pocket-books.
+Fellow of St.Jobu's College, Cambridge, and afterwards
Bishop of St. David's

POEMS,

ADDRESSED TO, AND IN MEMORY OF

MR. GRAY.

UPON HIS ODES.

By David Garrick, Esq.

REPINE not, Gray, that our weak dazzled eyes
Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can trace the eagle to the skies,
Or, like him, gaze upon the sun!

Each gentie reader loves the gentle Muse,
That little dares and little means;
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.

No longer now from Learning's sacred store
Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are revered no more,
No more the Stagyrite is law.

Though nursed by these, in vain thy Muse appears
To breathe her ardours in our souls;

In vain to sightless eyes and deaden'd ears

The lightning gleams, the thunder rolls:

Yet droop not, Gray, nor quit thy heaven-born art;
Again thy wond'rous powers reveal;

Wake slumb'ring Virtue in the Briton's heart,
And rouse us to reflect and feel!

With ancient deeds our long-chill'd bosoms fire,
Those deeds that mark Eliza's reign?

Make Britons Greeks again, then strike the lyre,
And Pindar shall not sing in vain.

ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF SPRING.

By the late Mr. Richard West.

DEAR Gray, that always in my heart
Possessest far the better part,

What mean these sudden blasts that rise
And drive the Zephyrs from the skies?
O join with mine thy tuneful lay,
And invocate the tardy May.

Come, fairest Nymph, resume thy reign!
Bring all the Graces in thy train!
With balmy breath and flowery tread,
Rise from thy soft ambrosial bed;
Where, in Elysian slumber bound,
Embow'ring myrtles veil thee round.
Awake, in all thy glories drest,
Recall the Zephyrs from the west;
Restore the sun, revive the skies,
At mine, and Nature's call, arise!
Great Nature's self upbraids thy stay,
And misses her accustom'd May.
See! all her works demand thy aid;
The labours of Pomona fade :

A plaint is heard from ev'ry tree;
Each budding flow'ret calls for thee;
The birds forget to love and sing;
With storms alone the forests ring.
Come, then, with Pleasure at thy side,
Diffuse thy vernal spirit wide;
Create, where'er thou turn'st thine eye,
Peace, Plenty, Love, and Harmony:
Till ev'ry being share its part,

And Heaven and Earth be glad at heart.