tion

They found not easy of digestion. While Dan alone for faith contended,

Jane equally good works defended.

་

Who build on faith and scoff at works,'
Quoth Jane-while eager Dan reply'd,
By none but heathens faith's deny 'd.'
'I'll tell you wife,' at length quoth Dan,
A story of a right good man.
A patriarch sage, of ancient days,
A man of faith, whom all must praise.
In his own country he possess'd,
Whate'er can make a wise man blest;
His was the flock, the field, the spring,
In short, a little rural king.
Yet, pleas'd, he quits his native land,
By faith in the divine command.
God bade him go; and he, content,
Went forth, not knowing where he went.
He trusted in the promise made,
And, undisputing strait obey'd.
The heavenly word he did not doubt,
But prov'd his faith by going out.

Jane answer'd, with some little pride-
'I've an example on my side;
And tho' my tale be somewhat longer,
I trust you'll find it vastly stronger.
I'll tell you, Daniel, of a man,
The holiest since the world began:
Who now God's favour is receiving,
For prompt obeying, not believing.
One only son this man possest,
In whom his righteous age was blest;
And more to mark the grace of heaven,
This son by miracle was given.
And from this child the word divine
Had promis'd an illustrious line.
When lo! at once a voice he hears,
Which sounds like thunder in his ears.

Abraham,' quoth Jane, why that's my

man!'

'No, Abraham's him I mean,' says Dan. He stands a monument of faith ;'No, 'tis for works the Scripture saith.' "Tis for his faith that I defend him ;' "Tis for obedience I commend him.'

Thus he thus she-both warmly feel,
And lose their temper in their zeal;
Too quick each other's choice to blame,
They did not see each meant the same.
At length, good wife,' said honest Dan,
'We're talking of the self-same man.
The works you praise I own indeed,
Grow from that faith for which I plead;
And Abraham, whom for faith I quote,
For works deserves especial note:
'Tis not enough of faith to talk,

A man of God with God must walk :
Our doctrines are at last the same,
They only differ in the name:
The faith I fight for, is the root;
The works you value, are the fruit;
How shall you know my creed's sincere,
Unless in works my faith appear?
How shall I know a tree's alive,
Unless I see it bear and thrive?
Your works not growing on my root,
Would prove they were not genuine fruit.
If faith produce no works, I see,
That faith is not a living tree.
Thus faith and works together grow,
No separate life they e'er can know :
They're soul and body, hand and heart,
What God hath join'd let no man part.

To thee, fair creature, SALLY HORNE,

And sure a fairer ne'er was born;

A grave biographer I send,

For she, of kings and queens can prate,
As fast as patriotic KATE ;*
Nor vents like her, her idle spleen,
Merely because 'tis king or queen.
KATE, who each subject makes a slave,
Would make each potentate a knave;
Though Britons can the converse prove,
A king who reigns and rules by love.
While Mother Bunch's honest story,
Unaw'd by wHIG, unwarp'd by TORY;
Paints sovereigns with impartial pen,
Some good, some bad, like other men.

Oh, there are few such books as these,
Which only mean to teach or please ;
Read Mother Bunch, then, charming SALLY,
Her writings, with your taste will tally.
No pride of learning she displays,
Nor reads one word an hundred ways;
To please the young she lays before 'em
A simple tale, sans variorum;
With notes and margins unperplext,
And comments which confuse the text.
No double senses interfere

To puzzle what before was clear.
Here no mistaken dates deceive ye,
Which oft occur from HUME to LIVY.
Her dates, more safe and more sublime,
Seize the broad phrase- Once on a time.
Then Mother Bunch is no misleader
In citing authors who precede her;
Unlike our modern wits of note,
Who, purposely, and oft misquote;
Who injure history, or intend it,
As much as KENNICOT to mend it;
And seek no less the truth to mangle,
Than he to clear and disentangle.

These short digressions we apply
Our author's fame to magnify:
She seeks not to bewilder youth,
But all is true she gives for truth :
And still, to analyze you're able,
Fable is safe while given as fable;
As mere invention you receive it,
You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it;
While that bad chemistry which brings
And mixes up incongruous things,
With genuine fact invention blending,
As if true history wanted mending;
Or flav'ring, to mislead our youth,
Mere fable with a dash of truth;
In all these heterogeneous tales
The injudicious project fails;
Of truth you do not get your measure,
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure.
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts,
A sounder taste her work imparts.

Then if for prosperous turns you look,
There's no such other history book.
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em,
How tyrants shar'd the world among 'em ;
And all we learn of ancient times
Are human woes and human crimes.
They tell us naught but dismal tales,
How virtue sinks, and vice prevails;
And all their labours but declare
The miseries of the good and fair;
How one brave captive in a quarrel
*Seo Mrs. Macaulay's History of England.
VOL. I.
5

Was tumbled down hill in a barrel !
In fiery flames how some did fry,
Only because they dar'd not lie!
How female victims meet their doom,
At Aulis one, and more at Rome!
How ease the hero's laurels stain'd
How CAPUA lost what CANNA gain'd!
How he, whom long success attends,
Is kill'd at home among his friends!
How ATHENS, him who serv'd so well,
Rewarded with an oyster-shell!
How NERO stabb'd a mother's breast!
Ah, barbarous CLIO, spare the rest;
Conceal these horrors, if thou'rt able,
If these be truth, oh give me fable!
Till real deed are fit to mention,
Regale my feelings with invention.

But Mother Bunch's morals tell
How blest all were who acted well!
How the good little girl's regarded,
And boy who learns his book rewarded,
How loss of favour follows rudeness,
While sugar-plumbs repay all goodness!
How she who learns to read or write,
Will get a coach or chariot by't;
And not a faggot-maker's daughter
But has it at her christening taught her,
By some invited fairy guest,

That she shall wed a prince at least; And thro' the whole this truth's pursu'd That to be happy's to be good.

If these to life be contradictions,
Mark the morality of fictions;
Axioms more popular they teach,
That to be good is to be rich!
For all the misses marry kings,
And diamonds are but common things;
While dames in history hardly get 'em,
Our heroines ope their mouths and spit 'em.
Oh, this is profitable learning.
Past cold historians' dull discerning,
Who, while their annals they impart,
Expose, but seldom mend the heart.
I grant, they teach to know mankind,
To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind:
But till the heart from vice is clear,
Who wants to know what passes there?
Till Hercules to cleanse was able,
No doubt they shut th' Augean stable.
Here too in high emphatic tone
The power of female worth is shown;
Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Falls short of true heroic mark:
THALESTRIS was a mere home-keeper,
And swift CAMILLA but a creeper.
Here deeds of valour are as common
As song or dance to real woman;
And meekest damsels find it facile
To storm a giant's moated castle;
Where drawbridges do open fly
If virgin foot approaches nigh;
And brazen-gates with twenty locks,
At which an army vainly knocks,
Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
At touch of virgin's little finger.

Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges, Which history makes the work of ages, Are here, by means of fairy power,

See Lowth despise the meed of mortal praise;

Spurn the cheap wreath by human science

won,

Borne on the wing sublime of Amos' son!
He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flew,
And with his mantle caught his spirit too.
To snatch bright beauty from devouring
fate,

And lengthen nature's transitory date;
At once the critic's and the painter's art,
With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace im-
part:

To form with code correct the graphic school,

And lawless fancy curb by sober rule;
To show how genius fires, how taste

strams,

While, what both are, his pencil best explains;

Have we not REYNOLDS ? lives not JENYNS yet,

To prove his lowest title was a wit?

Though purer flames thy hallow'd zeal inspire

Thane'er were kindled at the Muse's fire, Thee, mitred Chester !§ all the Nine shall boast;

And is not Johnson ours? himself a host! Yes, still for you your gentle stars dis

Yours is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer sends,

To call the wisest, brightest, best, your friends.

And while to these I raise the votive line,
0: let me grateful own these friends are
mine;

With Carter trace the wit to Athens known,
Or view in Montagu that wit our own:
Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's instruc-
tive page,

Intent to raise the morals of the age:
Or bast, in Walshingham, the various
power,

To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour; Delany too is ours, serenely bright, Wislem's strong ray, and virtue's milder light:

And she who bless'd the friend, and grac'd the lays

And those whose gen'rous souls each tear would keep

From other's eyes, are born themselves to weep.

Can all the boasted pow'rs of wit and song, Of life one pang remove, one hour prolong? Fallacious hope! which daily truths deride;

For you, alas! have wept, and Garrick dy'd! O shades of Hampton! witness, as I mourn, Could wit or song elude your fav'rite's urn? Though living virtue still your haunt endears,

Yet buried worth shall justify my tears. Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment cool,

The errors of my orphan muse shall rule? With keen acumen how his piercing eye, The fault conceal'd from vulgar view would spy!

While with a generous warmth he strove to hide,

Nay vindicate the fault his taste had spy'd. So pleas'd could he detect a happy line That he would fancy merit ev'n in mine.

His wit so pointed it ne'er miss'd its end, And so well temper'd it ne'er lost a friend ; How his keen eye, quick mind, and ardent heart,

Impov'rish'd nature, and exhausted art, A muse of fire has sung,* if muse could trace,

Or verse retrieve the evanescent grace! How rival bards with rival statesmen strove, Who most should gain his praise or win his

love!

Opposing parties to one point he drew,
Thus Tully's Atticus was Cæsar's too.

Tho' tinie his mellowing hand across has stole,

Soft'ning the tints of sorrow on the soul; The deep impression long my heart shall fill,

And ev'ry fainter trace be perfect still.

Forgive, my friend, if wounded memory melt,

See Mr. Sheridan's beautiful monody.

You best can pardon who have deepest felt. You, who for Britain's hero* and your own, The deadliest pang which rend the soul have known;

You, who have found how much the feeling heart

Shapes its own wound, and points itself the dart;

You, who are call'd the varied loss to

mourn;

You, who have clasp'd a son's untimely urn; You, who from frequent fond experience feel

The wounds such minds receive can never heal;

That grief a thousand entrances can find, Where parts superior dignify the mind; Yet would you change that sense acute to gain

A dear bought absence from the poignant pain;

Commuting ev'ry grief those feelings give In loveless, joyless apathy to live?

For though in souls where energies abound,

Pain through its numerous avenues can wound;

Yet the same avenues are open still,
To casual blessings as to casual ill.
Nor is the trembling temper more awake
To every wound calamity can make,
Than is the finely fashion'd nerve alive
To ev'ry transport pleasure has to give.

Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain, Their jests the tender anguish would profane.

Yet these some deem the happiest of their kind,

Whose low enjoyments never reach the mind;

Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have known,

Who ne'er have felt a sorrow but their own:
Who deem romantic ev'ry finer thought
Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought;
Whose insulated souls ne'er feel the pow'r
Of gen'rous sympathy's extatic hour;
Whose disconnected hearts ne'er taste the
bliss

Extracted from another's happiness;
Who ne'er the high heroic duty know,
For public good the private to forego.

Then wherefore happy? where's the kin-
dred mind?

Where the large soul which takes in human kind?

Yes-'tis the untold sorrow to explain,
To mitigate the but unsuspected pain;
The rule of holy sympathy to keep,
Joy for the Joyful, tears for them that weep:
To these the virtuous half their pleasures

owe,

Pleasures, the selfish are not born to know; They never know in all their coarser bliss, The sacred rapture of a pain like this. Then take ye happy vulgar take your part

Admiral Boscawen.