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Who study'd there, so strange their plan, That noblest commerce of marikinel, Not plants, nor herbs alone, but man; Whose precious merchundive is pilna! While travellers, of other notions,

What stoic traveller would try Scale mountain tops, and traverse oceans; A sterile soil, and parching sky, As it so much these themes engross,

Or pare th’intemp'rate northern zone, The study of mankind, was moss.

If what he saw must ne'er be known? Ladies who point, nor think me partial, For this lie bids his home farewell; in epigram as well as MARSHAL;

| The joy of seeing is to tell. Yet in all female worth succeed,

Trust me, he never would have stirr'd, As well as those who cannot read.

Were he forbid to speak a word ; Right pleasant were the task, I ween, And Curiosity would sleep, Tonine the groups which fill the scene; If her own secrets she must keep : But rhymes of such fastidious nature, The bliss of telling what is past Sne proudly scorns all nomenclature, Becomes her rich reward at last. Nor grace our northern names her lips, Who mock'd at death, and danger smile, Like Homer's catalogue of ships.

To steal one peep at father Nile; Once-faithful Memory ! heave a sigh, Who, at Palmyra risk his neck, Here Roscius gladden' every eye. Or search the ruins of Balbeck ; Why comes not. Maro? Far from town, If these must hiile old Nilus' fount, He rears the urn to Taste, and BROWN, Nor Lybian tales at home recount ; Piants cypress sound the tomb of GRAY, If those must sink their learned labour, O: decks his English garden gay ;

Nor with their ruins treat a neighbour? Whose mungled sweets exhale perfume, Range-study--think-do all we can, and promise a perennial bloom.

Colloquial pleasures are for man. Tasie thou the gentler joys they give.

Yet not from low desire to shine With HORACE and with LELIUS live, Does Genius toil in Learning's mine;

Hail, CONVERSATION, soothing power, Nut to indulge in idle vision, Sett goddess of the social hour!

But strike new light by strong collision, Art with more heartfelt warmth, at least, Of CONVERSATION, Wisdom's friend, Des LELIUS bend, thy true high priest; This is the object and the end, Taan I the lowest of thy train,

Of moral truth man's proper science, These beld-flowers brug to deck thy fane; With sense and learning in alliance, Who to thy shrine like in can haste, To search the depths, and thence produce With warmer zeal, or purer taste?

What tends to practice and to use. O may thy worship long prevail,

Ind next in value we shall find And thy true votaries never fail !

What mends the taste and forms the mind. Long may thy polish'd altars blaze

If high those truths in estimation, With wax-lights'undiminish'd rays ! Whose search is crown'd with demonstraScill be thy nightly offering paid,

tion; L5ations large of lemonade!

To these assign no scanty praise, . On silver vases, loaded, rise

Our taste which clears, our views which The biscuits' ample sacrifice !

raise. Nor be the milk-white streams forgot For grant the mathematic truth Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat;

Best balances the mind of youth; Rise, incense pure from fragrant tea, Yet scarce the truth of Taste is found Delicious incense, worthy thee!

To grow from principles less sound. Hail, Conversation, heav'nly fair,

O'er books the mind inactive lies, Thou bliss of life, and balın of care ! Books, the mind's food, not exercise ! Süll may thy gentle reign extend,

Her vigorous wings she scarcely feels, And Taste with Wit and Science blend. "Till use the latent strength reveals; Soft polisher of rugged man !

Her slumbering energies call’d forth, Refiner of the social plan!

She rises, conscious other worth ; For thee, best solace of his toil !

And, at her new-found powers elated, The sage consumes his midnight oil ! Thinks them not rous'l, but new created. And keeps late vigils, to produce

Enlighten'd spirits ! you, who know Materials for thy future use.

What charms from polish'd converse flow, Calls forth the else neglected knowledge, Speak, for you can, the pure delight Of school, of travel, and of college.

When kindling sympathies unite; if none behold, ah! wherefore fair?

When correspondent tastes impart Ah wherefore wise, if none must hear? Communion sweet from heart to heart; Our intellectual ore must shine,

You ne'er the cold gradations need Sot slumber, idly, in the mine.

Which vulgar souls to union lead ; Let Education's moral mint

No dry discussion to unfold The noblest images imprint ;

The ineaning caught ere well 'tis told : Let Taste her curious touchstone hold, In taste, in learning, wit, or science, To try if standard be the gold;

Still kindled souls demand alliance :
But 'tis thy commerce, Conversation, | Each in the other joys to find
Just give it use by circulation;

| The image answering to his mind. VOL. I.

But sparks electric only strike On souls electrical alike; The flash of intellect expires, Unless it meet congenial fires : The language to th'elect alone Is, like the mason's mystery known; In vain th' unerring sign is made To him who is not of the trade, What lively pleasure to divine, The thought implied, the hinted line, To feel Allusion's artful force, * And tracc the image to it's source ! Quick Memory blends her scatter'd rays, 'Till Fancy kindles at the blaze; The works of ages start to view, And ancient Wit clicits new,

But wit and parts if thus we praise, What noble altars should we raise,

Those sacrifices could we see
Which Wit, () Virtue ! makes to thee :
At once the rising thought to dash,
To quench at once the bursting flash!
The shining Mischief to subdue,
And lose the praise, and pleasure too !
Tho' Venus' self, could you detect her,
Imbuing with her richest nectar,
The thought unchaste—to check that

thought,
To spurn a fame so dearly bought ;
This is high Principle's controul !
This is true continence of soul !
Blush, heroes, at your cheap renown,
A vanquish'd realm, a plunc!er'd town!
Your conquests were to gain a name,
This conquest triumphs over fame;
So pure its essence, 'twere destroy'd
If known, and if commended, void.
Amidst the brightest truths believ'd
Amidst the fairest deeds achiev'd,
Shall stand recorded and admir'd,
That Virtue sunk what Wit inspir'd!

1 But let the letter'd and thic fair,
| And, chiefly, let the wit beware ;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale,
10 shun the perils which attend
On wit, on warmth, and heed your friends;
Tho' Science nurs'd you in her bowers,
Tho' Fancy crown your brow with flowers,
Each thought, tho’ bright Invention fill,
|Tho' Attic bees each word distil ;
Yet, if one gracious power refuse
Her gentle influence to infuse;
If she withhold her magic spell,
Nor in the social circle dwell;
In vain shall listening crowds approve,
They'll praise you, but they will not love.
What is this power, you're loth to mention,
This charm, this witchcraft ? 'tis ATTEN-

TION:
Mute angel, yes; thy look dispense

The silence of intelligence;
| Thy graceful form I well discern,
In act to listen and to learn,
'Tis thou for talents shalt obtain
| That pardon Wit would hope in vain;

Thy wond'rous power, thy secret charm,
Shall Envy of her sting disarm;
Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit,
And we forgive eclipsing merit;
Our jealous souls no longer burn,
Nor hate thee, tho'thou shine in turn;
The sweet atonement screens the fault,
And love and praise are cheaply bought.

With mild complacency to hear,
Tho' somewhat long the tale appear, —
The dull relation to attend,
Which mars the story you could mend;
l'Tis more than wit, 'tis moral beauty,

'Tis pleasure rising out of duty,
| Nor vainly think, the time you waste,
( When temper triumphs over taste,

BISHOP BONNER’S GHOST.

The little poem was never before published. A few copies were printed by the late earl of Orford at his press at Strawberry-hill, and given to a few particular friends.

THE ARGUMENT. In the gardens of the palace of Fulham is a dark recess; at the end of this stands a chair, which once belonged to bishop BONNER.—A certain bishop of London, more than two hundred years after the death of the aforesaid Bonner, one morning, just as the clock of the Gothic chapel had struck six, undertook to cut with his own hand a narrow walk through this thicket, which is since called the Monk's-walk. He had no sooner begun to clear the way, than lo! suddenly up-started from the chair the ghost of bishop BONNER, who, in a tone of just and bitter indignation, uttered the following verses.

REFORMER, hold ! ah, spare my shade,

Respect the hallow'd dead !
Vain pray’r! I see the op'ning glade,

See utter darkness fled.
Just so your innovating hand

Let in the moral light;

So, chas'd from this bewilder'd land,

Fled intellectual night. Where now that holy gloom which hid

Fair Truth from vulgar ken ? Where now th it wisdom which forbid

To think that monks were men?

The tangled mazes of the schools,

| Ah! sainted Mary, not for this Which spread so thick before;

Our pious labour's join'd; Which knaves entwin'd to puzzle fools, The witcheries of domestic bliss Shall catch mankind no more,

Had shook ev'n GARDNER's mind, Those charming intricacies where?

Hence all the sinful, human ties, Those venerable lies?

Which mar the cloister's plan; Those legends, once the church's care? Hence all the weak fond charities, Those sweet perplexities?

Which makes man feel for man. Ab! fatal age, whose sons combin'd

But tortur'd Memory vainly speaks
Ofcredit to exhaust us:

The projects we design'd;
Ah ! fatal age, which gave mankind While this apostate bishop seeks
ALUTHER and a FAUSTUS!*

The freedom of mankind.
Had only Jack and Martint liv'd, Oh, born in ev'ry thing to shake
Our pow'r had slowly fled ;

The systems plann'd by me !
Our intluence longer had surviv'd,

So heterodox, that he would make
Had layman never read.

Both soul and body free,
For knowledge flew, like magic spell, Nor clime nor colour stay his hand;
By typographic art;

With charity depravid,
Oh, shame! a peasant now can tell

He would from Thames to Gambia's strand, If priests the truth impart.

Have all be free and sav'd. Ye councils, pilgrimages, creeds !

And who shall change his wayward heart, Synods, decrees, and rules !

His wilful spirit turn? Ye warrants of unholy deeds,

For those his labours can't convert, Indulgences and bulls !

His weakness will not burn. Where are ye now ? and where, alas?

A GOOD OLD PAPIST, The pardons we dispense !

Ann. Dom. 1900.
And penances, the sponge of sins;
And Peter's holy pence?

By the lapse of time the three last stanzas are beWhere now the beads that us'd to swell come unintelligible. Old chronicles say, that towards Lean Virtue's spare amount ?

the latter end of the 18th century, a bill was brought inHere only faith and goodness fill

to the British parliament, by an active young reformer, A heretic's account.

for the abolition of a pretended traffic of the human speBut soft-what gracious form appears ! cies. But this only shows how little faith is to be given Is this a convent's life !

to the exaggerations of history; for as no vestige of Atrocious sight! by all my fears,

this incredible trade now remains, we look upon the A prelate with a wife !

whole story to have been one of those fictions, not un

common among authors, to blaeken the memory of for. The same age which brought heresy into the church,

mer ages. anbappily introduced printing among the arts, by which Drans the Scriptures were upluckily disseminated • An orthodox queen of the sixteenth century, who bag the vulgar.

laboured with might and main, conjointly with these # How bishop Bonner came to bave read Swift's Tale iwo venerable bishops to extinguish a dangerous heresy d's Tub it may now be in vain to inquire.

ycleped the Reformation.

FLORIO:

A TALE. FOR FINE GENTLEMEN AND FINE LADIES.

IN TWO PARTS.

TO THE HON. HORACE WALPOLE.* My DEAR SIR, It would be very flattering to me, if I might hope that the little tale, Tinch I bow take the liberty of presenting to you, could amuse a few moments of your tedi. cas indisposition. It is, I confess, but a paltry return for the many hours of agreeable intormation and elegant amusement which I have received from your spirited and very enterTabing writings: yet I am persuaded, that you will receive it with favour, as a small offerning of esteem and gratitude; as an offering of which the intention alone makes all the lille

Valse.

The slight verses, sir, which I place under your protection, will not, I fear, impress the Torld with a very favourable idea of my poetical powers; But I shall, at least, be suspected gi baving some taste, and of keeping good company, when I confess that some of the pleitslalegt hours of my life have been passed in your conversation. I should be unjust to your fety engaging and well-bred turn of wit, if I did not declare that, among all the lively and

Afterwards Ead or Orford,

brilliant things I have heard from you, I do not remember ever to have heard an unkind or an ungenerous one. Let me be allowed to bear my feeble testimony to your temperate use of this charming faculty, so delightful in itself, but which can only be safely trusted in such bands af yours, where it is guarded by politeness, and directed by humanity. I have the honour to be, sir, your much obliged, and most obedient, huinble servant,

THE AUTHOR. January 27, 1786.

PART 1.

Flório, a youth of gay renown,

He found already to his cost, Who figur'd much about the town,

The shining gloss of life was lost;
Had pass'l, with general approbation, Ind Pleasure was so coy a prude,
The modish forms of education ;

She fled the more, the more pursu'd ;
Knew what was proper to be known, Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd, i
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton ;

| He loath'd and left her when possess’d.
Had learnt, with very moderate reading, . Fut Florio knew the world; that science
The whole new system of good breeding: Sets sense and learning at defiance;
He studied to be bold and rude,

He thought the world to hiin was known, Tho'native feeling would intrude :

Whereas he only knew the town; Unlucky sense and sympathy,

In men this blunder still you find, Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be." All think their little set-mankind, For FLORIO was not meant by nature, Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd, A silly or a worthless creature :

No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd, He had a heart dispos’d to feel,

No tool of falsehood, slave of passion, Had life and spirit, taste and zeal ;

But spoilt by CUSTOM, and the FASHION, Was handsome, generous; but by fate, Tho'known among a certain set, Predestin’d to a large estate !

He did not like to be in debt; Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days, He shudder'd at the dicer's box, Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise. Nor thought it very heterodox, The Destiny, who wove the thread

That tradesmen should be sometimes paid, (.f Florio's being, sigh'd, and said, And bargains kept as well as made. • Poor youth! this cumbrous twist of gold, His growing credit as a sinner, More than my shuttle well can hold, Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner; For which thy anxious father toil'd,

Made pleasure and made business wait, Thy white and even thread has spoil'd : And still, by system, came too late; 'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth

Yet, 'twas a hopeful indication, From sense, simplicity and truth,

On which to found a reputation : Thy erring fire, by wealth misled,

Small habits, well pursu'd betimes, Shall scatter pleasures round thy head, May reach the dignity of crimes. When wholesome discipline's control, And who a juster claim prefer'd, Should brace the sinews of thy soul ; Than one who always broke his word ? Coldly thou'lt toil for Learning's prize, His mornings were not spent in vice', For why sliould he that's rich be wise? 'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice :

The gracious Master of mankind, Walk up and down St. James's-street, Who knew us vain, corrupt and blind, Full fifty times the youth you'd meet : In mercy, tho' in anger said,

He hated cards, detested drinking, That man should earn his daily bread; But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking; His lot, inaction renders worse,

'Twas doing nothing was his curse, While labour mitigates the curse.

Is there a vice can plague us worse? The idle, life's worst burthens bear,

The wretch who digs the mine für bread, And meet, what toil escapes, despair! Ur ploughs, that others may be fod, Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,

Feels less fatigue than that decreed This mixture of mythology ;

To him who cannot think, or read. The muse of Paradise has deign'd . Not all the peril of temptations, With truth to mingle fables feigo'd ; Net all the conflict of the passions, And tho' the bard, who would attain Can quench the spark of glory's flame; The glories, MILTON, of thy strain, Or quite extinguish virtue's name; Will never reach thy style or thoughts, Like the true taste for genuine saunter, He may be like thee in thy faults!

Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter, Exhausted FLORIO, at the age,

Tie active fires that stir the breast, When youth should rush on glory's stage; Her poppies charm to fatal rest, When life should open fresh and new, They rule in short and quick succession, And ardent Hope her schemes pursue ; | But Sloth keeps one long, fast possession ; Of youthful gaiety leieft,

| Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left; | Th'usurper rage is soon depos'd;

Intemperance, where there's no temptation, Talk'd gravely of th’ Atomic dance,
Makes voluntary abdication ;

Of moral fitness, fate, and chance;
Of cther tyrants short the strife,

Admir'd the system of LUCRETIUS, But IxDOLENCE is king for life.

Whose matchless verse makes nonsense The despot twists with soft control,

specious! Ltemal fetters round the soul.

| To this his doctrine owes its merits, Yet tho’so polish'd FLORIO's breeding; Like pois'nous reptiles kept in spirits. Think him not ignorant of reading ; - Thu' sceptics dull his scheme rehearse, For he to keep him from the vapours, Who have not souls to taste his verse. Subscrib'dat HOOKHAN's, saw the papers ; BELLARIO founds his reputation Was deep in poet's corner wit;

On dry stale jokes, about creation ; Knew what was in italics writ;

Would prove, hy argument circuitous, Explain'd fictitious names at will,

The combination was fortuitous. Each gutted syllable could fill;

Swort priests' whole trade was to deceive, There oft, in paragraphs, his name

And prey on bigots who believe; Gare symptom sweet of growing fame;" With bitter ridicule could jeer, Tho' yet they only sery'd to hint

And had the true free-thinking sneer. That Florió lov'd to see in print,

Grave arguments he had in store, His ample buckles' alter'd shape,

Which have been answer'd o'er and o'er; His buttons charg'd, his varying cape. And us'd, with wondrous penetration And many a standard phrase was his The trite, old trick of false citation; Might rival bore, or banish quiz; . From ancient authors fond to quote The man who grasps this young renown, A phrase or thought they never wrote. And early starts for Fashion's crown; Upon his highest shelf there stood In time that glorious prize may wield, The classics, neatly cut in wood; Which clubs, and ev’n Newmarket yield. And in a more commodious station, He studied while he dress’d, for true'tis, You found them in a French translation: He read compendiums, extracts, beauties, He swears, 'tis from the Greek he quotes, Abreges, dictionaries, recueils,

But keeps the French-just for the notes, Mercures, journaux, extracts, and feuilles; He worshipp'd certain modern names No work in substance now is follow'd, Who history write in epigrams, The chemic extract only's swallow'd. In pointed periods, shining phrases, He lik'd those literary cooks

And all the small poetic daisies, Whoskim the cream of other's books; Which crowd the pert and florid style, And ruin half an author's graces,

Where fact is dropt to raise a smile;
By plucking bon-mots from their places; Where notes indecent or profane
He wonders any writing sells,

Serve to raise doubts, but not explain :
But these spic'd mushrooms and morells; Where all is spangle, glitter, show,
His palate these alone can touch,

And truth is overlaid below:
Where every mouthful is bonne bouche. Arts scorn'd by History's sober muse,
Scine phrase, that with the public took, Arts CLARENDON disclain'd to use.
Was all he read of any book;

Whate'er the subject of debate,
For plan, detail, arrangement, system, 'Twas larded still with sceptic prate ;
He let them go, and never miss'd 'em. Begin whatever theme you will,
Of each new play he saw a part,

In unbelief he lands you still ;
And all the anas had by heart;

The good, with shame I speak it, feel He found whatever they produce

Not half this proselyting zeal : Is fit for conversation-use;

While cold their master's cause to own Learning so ready for display,

Content to go to heaven alone; A page would prime him for a day; The infidel in liberal trim, They cram not with a mass of knowledge, Would carry all the world with him : With smacks of toil, and smells of college, | Would treat his wife, friend, kindred, naWhich in the memory useless lies,

tion. Or only makes men-good and wise, Mankind--with what! Annihilation. This might have merit once indeed,

Tho' FLORIO did not quite believe him, But now for other ends we read.

He thought, why should a friend deceive A friend he had, BellaR10 hight,

him A reasoning, reading, learned wight; Much as he priz'd BELLARIO's wit, At least, with men of Florio's breeding,

He liked not all his notions yet; He was a prodigy of reading,

He thought him charning, pleasant, odd, He knew each stale and vapid lie

But hop'd one might believe in God; In tomes of French philosophy;

Yet such the charms that grac'd his tongue, And then, we fairly may presume,

He knew not how to think him wrong. From PYRRHO down to David HUME, Tho' FLOR10 tried a thousand ways, "Twere difficult to single out

Truth's insuppressive torch would blaze; A man more full of shallow doubt;

Where ouce her flame has burnt, I doubt He knew the little sceptic prattle,

If ever it go fairly out.
The sophist's paltry arts of battle; 1 Yet, under great BELLARIO's care,

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