Who study'd there, so strange their plan,
Not plants, nor herbs alone, but man;
While travellers, of other notions,
Scale mountain tops, and traverse oceans;
As if so much these themes engross,
The study of mankind, was moss.
Ladies who point, nor think me partial,
An epigram as well as MARSHAL;
Yet in all female worth succeed,
As well as those who cannot read.
Right pleasant were the task, I ween,
Tomime the groups which fill the scene;
But rhymes of such fastidious nature,
She proudly scorns all nomenclature,
Nor grace our northern names her lips,
Like HOMER's catalogue of ships.

Once-faithful Memory! heave a sigh,
Here ROSCIUS gladden'd every eye.
Why comes not, Maro? Far from town,
He rears the urn to Taste, and BROWN,
Plants cypress round the tomb of GRAY,
Or decks his English garden gay;
Whose mingled sweets exhale perfume,
And promise a perennial bloom.
Taste thou the gentler joys they give.
With HORACE and with LELIUS live,
Hail, CONVERSATION, Soothing power,
Sweet goddess of the social hour!
Not with more heartfelt warmth, at least,
Des LELIUS bend, thy true high priest;
Than I the lowest of thy train,

These field-flowers bring to deck thy fane;
Who to thy shrine like him can haste,
With warmer zeal, or purer taste?
O may thy worship long prevail,
And thy true votaries never fail!
Long may thy polish'd altars blaze
With wax-lights' undiminish'd rays!
Still be thy nightly offering paid,
Libations large of lemonade!
Un silver vases, loaded, rise
The biscuits' ample sacrifice!
Nor be the milk-white streams forgot
Of thirst-assuaging, cool orgeat;
Rise, incense pure from fragrant tea,
Delicious incense, worthy thee!

Hail, Conversation, heav'nly fair,
Thou bliss of life, and balm of care!
Still may thy gentle reign extend,
And Taste with Wit and Science blend.
Soft polisher of rugged man!
Refiner of the social plan!
For thee, best solace of his toil!
The sage consumes his midnight oil!
And keeps late vigils, to produce.
Materials for thy future use.
Calls forth the else neglected knowledge,
Of school, of travel, and of college.
If none behold, ah! wherefore fair?
Ah wherefore wise, if none must hear?
Our intellectual ore must shine,
Not slumber, idly, in the mine.
Let Education's moral mint
The noblest images imprint ;

Let Taste her curious touchstone hold,
To try if standard be the gold;

But 'tis thy commerce, Conversation,
Must give it use by circulation;

VOL. I.

3

That noblest commerce of mankind,
Whose precious merchandise is MIND!
What stoic traveller would try
A sterile soil, and parching sky,
Or pare th' intemp'rate northern zone,
If what he saw must ne'er be known?
For this he bids his home farewell;
The joy of seeing is to tell.

Trust me, he never would have stirr'd,
Were he forbid to speak a word;
And Curiosity would sleep,

If her own secrets she must keep :
The bliss of telling what is past
Becomes her rich reward at last.
Who mock'd at death, and danger smile,
To steal one peep at father Nile;
Who, at Palmyra risk his neck,
Or search the ruins of Balbeck;
If these must hide old Nilus' fount,
Nor Lybian tales at home recount;
If those must sink their learned labour,
Nor with their ruins treat a neighbour?
Range-study-think-do all we can,
Colloquial pleasures are for man.

Yet not from low desire to shine
Does Genius toil in Learning's mine;
Not to indulge in idle vision,

But strike new light by strong collision.
Of CONVERSATION, Wisdom's friend,
This is the object and the end,

Of moral truth man's proper science,
With sense and learning in alliance,
To search the depths, and thence produce
What tends to practice and to use.
And next in value we shall find

What mends the taste and forms the mind. If high those truths in estimation,

Whose search is crown'd with demonstra

For grant the mathematic truth
Best balances the mind of youth;
Yet scarce the truth of Taste is found
To grow from principles less sound.

O'er books the mind inactive lies,
Books, the mind's food, not exercise!
Her vigorous wings she scarcely feels,
'Till use the latent strength reveals;
Her slumbering energies call'd forth,
She rises, conscious of her worth;
And, at her new-found powers elated,
Thinks them not rous'd, but new created.

Enlighten'd spirits! you, who know
What charms from polish'd converse flow,
Speak, for you can, the pure delight
When kindling sympathies unite;
When correspondent tastes impart
Communion sweet from heart to heart;
You ne'er the cold gradations need.
Which vulgar souls to union lead;
No dry discussion to unfold

The meaning caught ere well 'tis told:
In taste, in learning, wit, or science,
Still kindled souls demand alliance:
Each in the other joys to find
The image answering to his mind.

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 inade
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 trace 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 elicits new.

But wit and parts if thus we praise,
What noble altars should we raise,
Those sacrifices could we see
Which Wit, O 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 plunder'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!

But let the letter'd and the fair,
And, chiefly, let the wit beware;
You, whose warm spirits never fail,
Forgive the hint which ends my tale.
O 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;
'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.

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
L'et 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 that wisdom which forbid
To think that monks were men?

The tangled mazes of the schools,
Which spread so thick before;
Which knaves entwin'd to puzzle fools,
Shall catch mankind no more.
Those charming intricacies where?
Those venerable lies?

Those legends, once the church's care?
Those sweet perplexities?

Ah! fatal age, whose sons combin'd
Of credit to exhaust us:

Ah! fatal age, which gave mankind
A LUTHER and a FAUSTUS!*
Had only JACK and MARTIN† liv'd,
Our pow'r had slowly fled;
Our influence longer had surviv'd,
Had layman never read.

For knowledge flew, like magic spell,
By typographic art;

Oh, shame! a peasant now can tell
If priests the truth impart.

Ye councils, pilgrimages, creeds!
Synods, decrees, and rules!
Ye warrants of unholy deeds,
Indulgences and bulls !

Where are ye now? and where, alas?
The pardons we dispense !
And penances, the sponge of sins;
And Peter's holy pence?

Where now the beads that us'd to swell
Lean Virtue's spare amount?
Here only faith and goodness fill
A heretic's account.

But soft-what gracious form appears!
Is this a convent's life!
Atrocious sight! by all my fears,
A prelate with a wife!

The same age which brought heresy into the church, anhappily introduced printing among the arts, by which means the Scriptures were unluckily disseminated ag the vulgar.

How bishop Bonner came to have read Swift's Tale ofa Tub it may now be in vain to inquire.

Ah! sainted MARY,* not for this
Our pious labour's join'd;
The witcheries of domestic bliss

Had shook ev'n GARDNER's mind. Hence all the sinful, human ties,

Which mar the cloister's plan; Hence all the weak fond charities, Which makes man feel for man. But tortur'd Memory vainly speaks The projects we design'd; While this apostate bishop seeks The freedom of mankind. Oh, born in ev'ry thing to shake The systems plann'd by me! So heterodox, that he would make Both soul and body free.

Nor clime nor colour stay his hand; With charity deprav'd,

He would from Thames to Gambia's strand, Have all be free and sav'd.

And who shall change his wayward heart, His wilful spirit turn?

For those his labours can't convert,

His weakness will not burn.

A GOOD OLD PAPIST, Ann. Dom. 1900.

By the lapse of time the three last stanzas are become unintelligible. Old chronicles say, that towards the latter end of the 18th century, a bill was brought into the British parliament, by an active young reformer, for the abolition of a pretended traffic of the human species. But this only shows how little faith is to be given to the exaggerations of history; for as no vestige of this incredible trade now remains, we look upon the whole story to have been one of those fictions, not uncommon among authors, to blacken the memory of former ages.

An orthodox queen of the sixteenth century, who laboured with might and main, conjointly with these two venerable bishops to extinguish a dangerous heresy yeleped the Reformation.

value.

January 27, 1786.

THE AUTHOR.

FLÓRIO, a youth of gay renown,
Who figur'd much about the town.
Had pass'd, with general approbation,
The modish forms of education;
Knew what was proper to be known,
Th' establish'd jargon of bon-ton;
Had learnt, with very moderate reading,
The whole new system of good breeding:
He studied to be bold and rude,
Tho' native feeling would intrude:
Unlucky sense and sympathy,
Spoilt the vain thing he strove to be.
For FLORIO was not meant by nature,
A silly or a worthless creature :
He had a heart dispos'd to feel,
Had life and spirit, taste and zeal;
Was handsome, generous; but by fate,
Predestin'd to a large estate !

Hence, all that grac'd his op'ning days,
Was marr'd by pleasure, spoilt by praise.
The Destiny, who wove the thread
Of FLORIO'S being, sigh'd, and said,
'Poor youth! this cumbrous twist of gold,
More than my shuttle well can hold,
For which thy anxious father toil'd,
Thy white and even thread has spoil'd:
'Tis this shall warp thy pliant youth
From sense, simplicity and truth,
Thy erring fire, by wealth misled,
Shall scatter pleasures round thy head,
When wholesome discipline's control,
Should brace the sinews of thy soul;
Coldly thou'lt toil for Learning's prize,
For why should he that's rich be wise?
The gracious Master of mankind,
Who knew us vain, corrupt and blind,
In mercy, tho' in anger said,
That man should earn his daily bread;
His lot, inaction renders worse,
While labour mitigates the curse.
The idle, life's worst burthens bear,
And meet, what toil escapes, despair!
Forgive, nor lay the fault on me,
This mixture of mythology;
The muse of Paradise has deign'd
With truth to mingle fables feign'd;
And tho' the bard, who would attain
The glories, MILTON, of thy strain,
Will never reach thy style or thoughts,
He may be like thee in thy faults!

Exhausted FLORIO, at the age,
When youth should rush on glory's stage;
When life should open fresh and new,
And ardent Hope her schemes pursue;
Of youthful gaiety bereft,

Had scarce an unbroach'd pleasure left;

He found already to his cost,
The shining gloss of life was lost;
And Pleasure was so coy a prude,
She fled the more, the more pursu'd ;
Or if, o'ertaken and caress'd,

He loath'd and left her when possess'd.
Fut FLORIO knew the world; that science
Sets sense and learning at defiance;
He thought the world to him was known,
Whereas he only knew the town;
In men this blunder still you find,
All think their little set-mankind.

Tho' high renown the youth had gain'd,
No flagrant crimes his life had stain'd,
No tool of falsehood, slave of passion,
But spoilt by CUSTOM, and the FASHION.
Tho' known among a certain set,
He did not like to be in debt;
He shudder'd at the dicer's box,
Nor thought it very heterodox,
That tradesmen should be sometimes paid,
And bargains kept as well as made.
His growing credit as a sinner,
Was that he lik'd to spoil a dinner;
Made pleasure and made business wait,
And still, by system, came too late ;
Yet, 'twas a hopeful indication,
On which to found a reputation :
Small habits, well pursu'd betimes,
May reach the dignity of crimes.
And who a juster claim prefer'd,
Than one who always broke his word?

His mornings were not spent in vice,
'Twas lounging, sauntering, eating ice :
Walk up and down St. James's-street,
Full fifty times the youth you'd meet:
He hated cards, detested drinking,
But stroll'd to shun the toil of thinking;
'Twas doing nothing was his curse,
Is there a vice can plague us worse?
The wretch who digs the mine for bread,
Or ploughs, that others may be fed,
Feels less fatigue than that decreed
To him who cannot think, or read.
Not all the peril of temptations,
Not all the conflict of the passions,
Can quench the spark of glory's flame;
Or quite extinguish virtue's name;
Like the true taste for genuine saunter,
Like sloth, the soul's most dire enchanter.
The active fires that stir the breast,
Her poppies charm to fatal rest,
They rule in short and quick succession,
But SLOTH keeps one long, fast possession;
Ambition's reign is quickly clos'd
Th'usurper rage is soon depos'd;