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Goop Dan and Jane were man and wife, God says-Go sacrifice thy son ! And liv'd a loving kind of life;

-This moment, Lord, it shall be done. One point, however, they disputed, | He goes, and instantly prepares, And each by turns his mate confuted. To stay the child of many prayers. 'Twas Faith and Works--this knotty ques- Now here you see the grand expedience, tion

Of works, of actual sound obedience. They found not easy of digestion.

This was not faith, but act and deed, While Dan alone for faith contended, The Lord commands—the child shall bleed. Jane equally good works defended.

Thus Abraham acted,'Jenny cried; • They are not Christians sure, but Turks, | Thus Abraham trusted,' Dan replied. Who build on faith and scott at works,' * Abraham,' quoth Jane, 'why that's my Quoth Janc-while eager Dan reply'd,

man !' • By none but heathens faith's deny'u.' No, Abraham's him I mean,' says Dan. *I'll tell you wife,' at length quoth Dan, He stands a monument of faith ;'-.. “A story of a right good man.

No, 'tis for works the Scripture saith.' A patriarch sage, of ancient days,

''Tis for his faith that I defend him ;' A man of faith, whom all must praise. "'Tis for obedience I commend him.' In his own country he possess'd,

Thus he-thus she-both warmly feel, Whate'er can make a wise man blest; And lose their temper in their zeal ; His was the flock, the field, the spring, Too quick each other's choice to blame, In short, a little rural king.

They did not see each meant the same. Yet, pleas'd, he quits his native land, "At length, good wife,' said honest Dan, By faith in the divine command.

We're talking of the self-same man, God bade him go; and he, content,

The works you praise I own indeed, Went forth, not knowing where he went. | Grow from that faith for which I plead; He trusted in the promise made,

And Abraham, whom for faith I quote, And, undisputing strait obey'd.

For works deserves especial note : The heavenly word he did not doubt, 'Tis not enough of taith to talk, But prov'd his faith by going out.

A man of God with God must walk : Jane answer'd, with some little pride Our doctrines are at last the same, - I've an example on my side ;

They only differ in the name : And tho' my tale be somewhat longer, The faith' I fight for, is the root ; I trust you'll find it vastly stronger.

The works you value, are the fruit; I'll tell you, Daniel, of a man,

How shall you know my creed's sincere, The holiest since the world began :

Unless in works my faith appear? Who now God's favour is receiving, How shall I know a tree's alive, For prompt obeying, not believing. Unless I see it bear and thrive? One only son this man possest,

Your works not growing on my root, In whom his righteous age was blest; Would prove they were not genuine fruit, And more to mark the grace of heaven, If faith produce no works, I see, This son by miracle was given,

| That faith is not a living tree.
And from this child the word divine Thus faith anci works together grow,
Had promis'd an illustrious line.

No separate life they e'er can know :
When lo ! at once a voice he hears,
Which sounds like thunder in his ears. | What God hath join’á let no man part.



Written on the blank leaves of Mother Bunch's Tales;" and showing the superiority of these

histories to most others.

To thee, fair creature, SALLY HORNE, (Or if to truth my phrase I stinted,
And sure a fairer ne'er was born;

By NEWBERRY in the church-yard printed;) A grave biographer I send,

Might Mother Bunch-a worthier sage, By NEWBERRY in the church-yard penn'd; Ne'er fillid, I ween th’ historic page;

For she, of kings and queens can prate, Was tumbled down hill in a barrel !
As fast as patriotic KATE ;*

In fiery flanes how some did fry,
Nor vents like her, her idle spleen,

Only because they dard not lie! Merely because 'tis king or queen..

How female victims meet their doom, KATE, who each subject makes a slave, At Aulis one, and more at Rome! Would make each potentate a knave; How ease the hero's laurels stain'd

How Capua lost what CANNÆ gain'd!
A king who reigns and rules by love, How he, whom long success attends,
While Mother Bunch's honest story, Is kill'd at home among his friends!
Unaw'd by WHIG, unwarp'd by TORY; How Athens, him who serv'd so well,
Paints sarereigns with impartial pen, Rewarded with an oyster-shell!
Some good, some bad, like other men. How NERO stabb'd a mother's breast !

Oh, there are few such books as these, Ah, barbarous Clio, spare the rest ;
Which only mean to teach or please; Conceal these horrors, if thou’rt able,
Read Mother Bunch, then,charming SALLY, If these be truth, oh give me fable!
Her writings, with your taste will taily, Till real deed are fit to mention,
No pride of learning she displays,

Regale my feelings with invention,
Nor reads one word an hundred ways; But Mother Bunch's morals tell
To please the voung she lays before 'em How blest all were who acted well!
A simple tale, sans variorum;

How the good little girl's regarded,

And boy who learns his book rewarded, And comments which confuse the text. How loss of favour follows rudeness, No double senses interfere

While sugar-plumbs repay all goodness! To puzzle what before was clear.

How she who learns to read or write, Here no mistaken dates deceive ye, Will get a coach or chariot by't; Which oft occur from HUME to Livy. And not a faggot-maker's daughter Her dates, more safe and more sublime, But has it at her christening taught her, Seize the broad phrase- Once on a time.' By some invited fairy guest,

Then Mother Bunch is no misleader That she shall wed a prince at least; In citing authors who precede her;

And thro' the whole this truth's pursu'd Unlike our modern wits of note,

That to be happy's to be good. Who, purposely, and oft misquote ;

If these to life be contradictions,
Who injure history, or intend it,

Mark the morality of fictions ;
As much as KENNICOT to mend it; Axioms more popular they teach,
And seek no less the truth to mangle, That to be good is to be rich!
Than he to clear and disentangle,

For all the misses marry kings,
These short digressions we apply And diamonds are but common things;
Our author's fame to magnify :

| While dames in history hardly get 'em, She seeks not to bewilder youth,

Our heroines ope their moutlis and spit 'em. But all is true she gives for truth :

Oh, this is profitable learning. And still, to analyze you're able,

Past cold historians' dull discerning, Fable is safe while given as fable;

Who, while their annals they impart, As mere invention you receive it,

Expose, but seldom mend the heart. You know 'tis false, and disbelieve it; I grant, they teach to know mankind, While that bad chemistry which brings To learn we're wretched, weak, and blind : And mixes up incongruous things,

But till the heart from vice is clear, With genuine fact invention blending, Who wants to know what passes there? As if true history wanted mending;

Till Hercules to cleanse was able, Or flav'ring, to mislead our youth,

No doubt they shut th’Augean stable. Mere fable with a dash of truth;

Here too in bigh emphatic tone In all these heterogeneous tales

The power of female worth is shown; The injudicious project fails;

Ev'n enterprising Joan of Arc
Of truih you do not get your measure, Falls short of true heroic mark :
And of pure fiction lose the pleasure, THALESTRIS was a mere home-keeper,
But Mother Bunch rejects such arts, And swift CAMILLA but a creeper.
A sounder taste her work imparts.

Here deeds of valour are as common
Then if for prosperous turns you look, As song or dance to real woman;
There's no such other history book. And meekest damsels find it facile
Old authors show, nor do I wrong 'em, To storm a giant's moated castle ;
How tyrants shar'd the world among 'em; Where drawbridges do open fly
And all we learn of ancient times

If virgin foot approaches nigh;
Are human woes and human crimes. | And brazen-gates with twenty locks,
They tell us naught but dismal tales, At which an army vainly knocks,
How virtue sinks, and vice prevails; Fly ope, nor on their hinges linger,
And all their labours but declare

At touch of virgin's little finger. 'The miseries of the good and fair;

Then slow attacks, and tiresome sieges, How one brave captive in a quarrel Which history makes the work of ages, See Mro, Macaulay's History of England.

Are here, by means of fairy power, Vol. I.

Achiev'd with ease in half an hour. 1 Then leave your Robertsons and Bryants
Tactics! they prove, there's nothing in it, For John, the murderer of giants ;
Who conquer kingdoms in a minute : Since all mythology profane
They never hear of ten years jars,

Is quite as doubitul, quite as vain. (For Troy's the average length of wars.) Though Bryant, learned friend of youth, And diplomatic form and rule

His fable consecrate's to truth: Might learn from Mother Bunch's school, And Robertson with just applause How rapidly are state intrigues

His finish'd portraits fairly draws. Convey'd with boots of seven long lengues. Yet history, great Raleigh knew,

Here farther too, our great commanders, And knowing, griei'd, may not be true : Who conquer'd France, and rescued Flan For how the facts are we to know ders,

Which pass'd a thousand years ago; From Mother Bunch's Tales might hear When he no just account could get Some secrets worth a general's ear;

Of quarrel in the adjacent street; How armies need not stop to bait,

Though from his chair the noise he heard, And heroes never drink or eat;

The tale of each rclater eird. Wrapt in sublimer occupation

But if the fact's recorded right, They scorn such vulgar renovation,

The motive seldom comes in sight; Your British generals cannot keep

Hence, while the fairest cecds we blame, Themselves and fellows half so clieap; We often crown the worst with fame. For men and horses, out of books,

Then read, if genuine truth you'll glean, Call, one for corn, and one for cooks; Those who were actors in the scene; And dull historic nags must stay

Hear, with delight, the modest Greek, For provender of oats and hay:

(f his renown'l ten thousand spcak;
While these bold heroes wing their flight His commentaries* read again
Through twenty kingdoms in a night; Who led the troops and held the pen ;
Of silvery dews they snatch a cup,

The way to conquest best he show'd,
Or on a slice of moonshine sup;

Who trod ere he prescribd the road. And while they fly to meet their queen, Read him, for lofty periods fam'!, With half the convex world between, Who Charles's age adoru'd and sham'ı; Their milk-white palfrey's, scorning grass, Read Clarendon ; unaw'd, unbribid, Just crop a rose-leaf as they pass.

Who rul'I th' events his pe'n describ'd; Then Mother Bunch's morals strike, Who law and courts, and senates knew, By praising friend and foe alike.

And saw the sources whence he crew, What virtue to the world is lost,

Yet, lovely Sally, be not frighten'd, Because on thy ill-fater coast,

Nor dread to have thy mind enlighten'd; O Carthage! sung alone by foes,

Admire with me the fir alliance The sun of history never rose !

Which mirth, at Maudiin, t makes with sciFertile in heroes, didst thou own

ence': The muse that makes those heroes known; How humour may with learning dwell, Then had the bright reverse appear'd Go ask papa--for he can tell. And Carthaginian truth been clear'd :

MARGERY TWO-SHOES. On Punic faith, so long revil'd, The wily African had smil'd ;

• Cesar. And, possibly, not much had err'd,

+ Dr. Horne was at this time president of Magdalen If we of Roman fraud had heard.

| College, Oxford, where this little poem was written.

SENSIBILITY: AN EPISTLE TO THE HONOURABLE MRS. BOSCAWEN. ACCEPT, BOSCAWEN! these unpolish'd | Still sad Elfrida's poet* shall complain, lays,

Still, either Warton breathe his classic Nor blame too much the verse you cannot | strain : praise.

| While, for the wonders of the Gothic page, For you, far other bards have wak'd the Otranto's fame shall vindicate the age; strins,

Nor tremble lest the tuneful art expire, Far other bards for you were wont to sing; | While Beatie strikes ane.w old Spencer's Yet on the gale their parting music steals, lyre; Yet your charm'd ear the lov'd impression He best to paint the genuine minstrel knew, feels :

Who from himself, the living portrait drew. You heard the lyres of Littleton and Young, Though Latian bards had gloried in his And this a grace, and that a seraph strung. name, These are no more! but not with these de- When in full brightness burnt the Latian cline

flavne ; The attic chasteness or the vig'rous line, 1 Milton calls Euripides sad Electra's puct.

Yet fir'd with loftier hopes than transient Of poignant Swift, still gilds our social days; bavs,

Long, long protract thy light, () star benign! See Lowth* despise the mced of mortal W'hose setting beams with milder lustre praise;

shine. Spuru the cheap wreath by human science Nor, Barbauld, shall my glowing heart rewon,

fuse Bonne on the wing sublime of Amos'son! Its tribute to thy virtues, or thy muse ; He seiz'd the mantle as the prophet flew, This humble merit shall at least be mine, And with his mantle caught his spirit too. The poet's chaplet for thy brow to twine; To snatch bright beauty from devouring My verse thy talents to the world shall teach, fate,

And praise the genius it despairs to reach. And lengthen nature's transitory date; Yet what is wit, and what the poet's art? A: once the critic's and the painter's art, Can genius shield the vulnerable heart? With Fresnoy's skill and Guido's grace im- Ah no! where bright imagination reigns, part :

The fine wrought spirit feels acuter pains; To form with code correct the graphic Where glow exalted sense and taste refin'd, school,

There keener anguish rankles in the mind; wlawiess fancy curb by sober rule ; There, feeling is diffus'd through ev'ry part, To show how genius fires, how taste re-Thrills in each nerve, and lives in all the siraids,

heart; While, what both are, his pencil best ex- And those whose gen'rous souls each tear pluns ;

would keep Hart we not REYNOLDS?t lives not JENYNS Froin other's eyes, are born themselves to

weep. Ta prove his lowest title was a wit? I Can all the boasted pow'rs of wit and song, Though purer flames thy hallow'd zeal Of life one pang renove, one hour prolung? inspire

Fallacious hope ! which daily truths deTaneer were kindled at the Muse's fire, ride; Tace, mitred Chester !all the Nine shall For you, alas! have wept, and Garrick dy'd! boast;

O shades of Hampten! witness, as I mourn, Arlis not Johnson ours? himself a host! Could wit or song elude your fav’rite's urn? Yes, still for you your gentle stars dis-Though living virtue still your haunt enpense:

deals, The charm of friendship and the feast of Yet buried worth shall justify my tears. sense :

Who now with spirit keen, yet judgment Tour is the bliss, and Heav'n no dearer cool, sends,

The errors of my orphan muse shall rule ?! To call the wisest, brightest, best, your With keen acumen how his piercing eye, friends

The fault conceal'd froin vulgar view would And able to thesc I raise the votive line, spy! Od let me grateful own these friends are While with a generous warmth he strove to

mine; With Carter trace the wit to Athens known, Nay vindicate the fault his taste had spy'd. Orview in Montagu that wit our owo: So pleas'd could he detect a happy line Or mark, well pleas'd, Chapone's instruc | That he would fancy merit ev’n in mine. tire page,

His wit so pointed it ne'er miss'd its end, Intent to raise the morals of the age: And so well temper'd it ne'er lost a friend ; Or boast, in Walshingham, the various How his keen eye, quick mind, and ardent power,

heart, To cheer the lonely, grace the letter'd hour; Impov'rish'd nature, and exhausted art, Diar too is ours, serenely bright, | A muse of fire has sung, * if muse could Wisilm's strong ray, and virtuc's miller trace, ligit:

Or verse retrieve the evanescent grace ! And sie who bless'! the friend, and grac'd How rival bards with rival statesmien strove, the lay's

Who most should gain his praise or win his

love! * Then bishop of London.

Opposing parties to one point he drew, ** sir Jashua Reynolds very able notes to Du

"| Tuus Tully's Atticus was Cæsar's too. Fronty's poem on the art of painting, translated by

Tho'tinie his mellowing hand across has W. hason.-Also, his series of Discourses to the acade.

stole, 3. #hiel, though written professedly on the subject of

Söft’ning the tints of sorrow on the soul; painting, contain the principles of general art, and are ** ivered with so much perspicuous good sense, as to be

The deep impression long my heart shall Kinably calculated to assist in forming the taste of the

fill, foetal reader.

And ev'ry fainter trace be perfect still. 1 Mr. Seame Jenyns had just published his work 0:! Forgive, my friend, if wounded memory yrernel Evidence of the Christian Religion.

melt, Non bishop of London--See his admirable poem on a .

• Se Mr. Sheridan's beautiful monous.



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You best can pardon who have deepest felt. Of sordid joy which never touch'd the heart. You, who for Britaiu's hero* and your own, Benevolence, which seldom stays to chuse, The deadliest pang which rend the soul Lest pausing Prudence tempt her to refuse; have known;

Friendship, which once determin’d, never You, who have found how much the feeling swerves, heart

Weighs ere it trusts, but weighs not ere it Shapes its own wound, and points itself the serves,

| And soft-ey'd Pity, and Forgiveness bland, You, who are call'd the varied loss to And melting Charity with open hand; mourn;

| And artless love, believing and believ'd, You, who have clasp'd a son's untimely urn; And honest Confidence which ne'er deYou, who from frequent fond experience c eiv'd; feel

And Mercy, stretching out ere Want can The wounds such minds receive can never speak, heal;

To wipe the tear which stains Affliction's That grief a thousand entrances can find | cheek ; Where parts superior dignify the mind; | These ye have never known—then take Yet would you change that sense acute to gain

Of sordid joy which never touch'd the A dear bought absence from the poignant heart. pain ;

You who have melted in bright glory's Commuting ev'ry grief those feelings give flame, In loveless, joyless apathy to live?

Or felt the grateful breath of well-earn'd For though in souls where energies fame; abound,

Or you, the chosen agents from above, Pain through its numerous avenues can Whose bounty vindicates Almighty love ; wound;

You, who subdue the vain desire of show, Yet the same avenues are open still, Not to accumulate but to bestow; To casual blessings as to casual ill. | You who the dreary haunts of sorrow seek, Nor is the trembling temper more awake Raise the sunk heart, and flush the fading To every wound calamity can make,

cheek ; Than is the finely fashiou'd nerve alive You, who divide the joys and share the To ev'ry transport pleasure has to give.


(plains ; Let not the vulgar read this pensive strain, When merit triumphs, or oppress'd comTheir jests the tender anguish would pro- You, who with pensive Petrarch, love to fane,

mourn, Yet these some deem the happiest of their Or weave the garland for Tibullus’ urn; kind,

You, whose touch'd hearts with real sorrows Whose low enjoyments never reach the mind;

| Or feel, when genius paints those sorrows Who ne'er a pain but for themselves have well, known,

Would you renounce such energies as these Who ne'er have felt a sorrow but their own: For vulgar pleasures or for selfish ease? Who deem romantic ev'ry finer thought Would you to 'scape the pain, the joy forego, Conceiv'd by pity, or by friendship wrought; And miss the transport to avoid the wo? Whose insulated souls ne'er feel the pow'r Would you the sense of actual pity lose, Of gen'rous sympathy's extatic hour; Or cease to share the mournings of the Whose disconnected hearts ne'er taste the muse? bliss

No, Greville,* no!—thy song, tho' steep'd Extracted from another's happiness ; . in tears, Who ne'er the high heroic duty know, Though all thy soul in all thy strain appears; For public good the private to forego. | Yet would'st thou all thy well sung anguish Then wherefore happy? where's the kin chuse, dred mind?

And all th’ inglorious peace thou begg'st reWhere the large soul which takes in human fuse : kind?

And while Discretion all our views should Yes--'tis the untold sorrow to explain,

guide, To mitigate the but unsuspected pain; Beware, lest secret aims and ends she hide ; The rule of holy sympathy to keep,

Though 'midst the crowd of virtues, 'tis her Joy for the Joyful, tears for them that weep: part, To these the virtuous half their pleasures Like a firm sentinel-to guard the heart; owe,

Beware, lest Prudence 'self become unjust, Pleasures, the selfish are not born to know; Who never was deceiv'd, I would not trust; They never know in all their coarser bliss, Prudence must never be Suspicion's slave, The sacred rapture of a pain like this. The World's wise man is more than half a Then take ye happy vulgar take your part knave.

• Adoniral Beerman.

• See lier beautiful Ode to ludiffcrence.

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