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From art, from jealousy secure ;
As faith unblam'd, as friendship pure;
Vain opinion nobly scorning.
Virtue aiding, life adorning.

What! shall these parly-vous make such a racket,
And we not lend a hand, to lace their jacket?
Still shall Old England be your Frenchman's butt?
Whene'er he shuffles, we should always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith-Avast-before I go-
Have I not promis'd Sall to see the show?

[Pulls out a play bill.
From this same paper we shall understand
What work's to-night-I'll read your printed hand!
But, first refresh a bit-for faith I need it-
I'll take one sugar-plum-and then I'll read it,
[Takes some tobacco.
He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that
evening. At the The-atre-Royal-Drury-Lane-
will be presenta-ted a tragedy called-

SARAH.

I'm glad 'tis Sarah-Then our Sall may see
Her namesake's tragedy: and as for me,
I'll sleep as sound, as if I were at sea.

To which will be added-a new Masque.
Zounds! why a Mask? We sailors hate grimaces:
Ahove-board all, we scorn to hide our faces.
But what is here, so very large and plain?
Bri-ta-nia-oh Britania!-good again-
Huzza, boys! by the Royal George I swear,
Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall straight be there.
A'l free-born souls must take Bri-ta-nia's part,
And give her three round cheers, with hand and
[Going off, he stops..
I wish you landmen, though, would leave your tricks,
Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics:
And, like us, honest tars, drink, fight, and sing!
True to yourselves, your country, and your king!

heart.

INSCRIPTION FOR A PICTURE.

WITH no one talent that deserves applause;
With no one aukwardness that laughter draws;
Who thinks not, but just echoes what we say;
A clock, at morn, wound up, to run a day:
His larum goes in one smooth, simple strain;
He stops: and then, we wind him up again.
Still hovering round the fair at fifty-four,
Unfit to love, unable to give o'er;

A flesh-fly, that just flutters on the wing,
Awake to buz, but not alive to sting;

Brisk where he cannot, backward where he can;
The teazing ghost of the departed man.

SONG.

TO A SCOTCH TUNE, MARY SCOT.

WHERE Thames, along the daisy'd meads,
His wave, in lucid mazes, leads,
Silent, slow, serenely flowing,
Wealth on either shore bestowing:
There, in a safe, though small retreat,
Content and Love have fix'd their seat:
Love, that counts his duty, pleasure;
Content, that knows and hugs his treasure.

Fair Thames, along thy flowery side,
May those whom truth and reason guide,
All their tender hours improving,
Live like us, belov'd and loving!

TO MR. THOMSON,

ON HIS PUBLISHING THE SECOND EDITION OF HIS POEM,
CALLED WINTER.

CHARM'D, and instructed, by thy powerful song,
I have, unjust, withheld my thanks too long:
This debt of gratitude, at length, receive,
Warmly sincere, 'tis all thy friend can give.

Thy worth new lights the poet's darken'd name,
And shows it, blazing, in the brightest fame.
Through all thy various Winter, full are found
Magnificence of thought, and pomp of sound,
Clear depth of sense, expression's heightening grace,
And goodness, eminent in power, and place!
For this, the wise, the knowing few, commend
With zealous joy-for thou art Virtue's friend:
Ev'n Age, and Truth severe, in reading thee,
That Heaven inspires the Muse, convinc'd, agree.
Thus I dare sing of merit, faintly known,
Friendless-supported by itself alone:
For those, whose aided will could lift thee high
In fortune, see not with Discernment's eye.
Nor place, nor power, bestows the sight refin'd;
And wealth enlarges not the narrow mind.

How could'st thou think of such, and write so
well?

Or hope reward, by daring to excell?
Unskilful of the age! untaught to gain
Those favours, which the fawning base obtain!
A thousand shameful arts, to thee unknown,
Falsehood, and flattery, must be first thy own.
If thy lov'd country lingers in thy breast,
Thou must drive out th' unprofitable guest:
Extinguish each bright aim, that kindles there,
And centre in thyself thy every care.

But hence that vileness-pleas'd to charm man-
kind,

Cast each low thought of interest far behind:
Neglected into noble scorn-away

From that worn path, where vulgar poets stray:
Inglorious herd! profuse of venal lays!
And by the pride despis'd, they stoop to praise!
Thou, careless of the statesman's smile or frown,
Tread that straight way, that leads to fair renown.
By Virtue guided, and by Glory fir'd,
And, by reluctant Envy, slow admir'd,
Dare to do well, and in thy boundless mind,
Embrace the general welfare of thy kind:
Enrich them with the treasures of thy thought,
What Heaven approves, and what the Muse has
taught.

Where thy power fails, unable to go on,
Ambitious, greatly will the good undone.

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So shall thy name, through ages, brightening shine,
And distant praise, from worth unborn, be thine;
So shalt thou, happy! merit Heaven's regard,
And find a glorious, though a late reward,

WILLIAM AND MARGARET.

'Twas at the silent, solemn hour When night and morning meet; In glided Margaret's grimly ghost, And stood at William's feet.

Her face was like an April-morn,
Clad in a wintry cloud;
And clay-cold was her lily-hand,
That held her sable shroud.

So shall the fairest face appear,

When youth and years are flown: Such is the robe that kings must wear, When Death has reft their crown.

Her bloom was like the springing flower,
That sips the silver dew;

The rose was budded in her cheek,
Just opening to the view.

But, love had, like the canker-worm,
Consum'd her early prime:

The rose grew pale, and left her check;
She dy'd before her time.

"Awake!" she cry'd, " thy true-love calls, Come from her midnight-grave; Now let thy pity hear the maid,

Thy love refus'd to save.

"This is the dumb and dreary hour,
When injur'd ghosts complain;
When yawning graves give up their dead,
To haunt the faithless swain.

"Bethink thee, William, of thy fault,
Thy pledge and broken oath!
And give me back my maiden-vow,
And give me back my troth.

"Why did you promise love to me, And not that promise keep?

Why did you swear my eyes were bright, Yet leave those eyes to weep?

"How could you say my face was fair,
And yet that face forsake?
How could you win my virgin-heart,
Yet leave that heart to break?

"Why did you say, my lip was sweet,
And made the scarlet pale?
And why did I, young witless maid!
Believe the flattering tale?

"That face, alas! no more is fair,

Those lips no longer red :

Dark are my eyes, now clos'd in death, And every charm is fled.

"The hungry worm my sister is ;
This winding-sheet I wear:
And cold and weary lasts our night,
Till that last morn appear.

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This was probably the beginning of some ballad, commonly known, at the time when that author wrote; and is all of it, I believe, that is any where to be met with. These lines, naked of ornament, and simple as they are, struck my fancy: and, bringing fresh into my mind an unhappy adventure, much talked of formerly, gave birth to the foregoing poem; which was written many years ago. Maliet.

An elegant Latin imitation of this ballad is printed in the works of Vincent Bourne. N.

EPITAPH,

ON MR. AIKMAN, AND HIS ONLY SON; WHO WERE BOTH
INTERRED IN THE SAME GRAVE.

DEAR to the wise and good, disprais'd by none,
Here sleep in peace the father and the son:
By virtue, as by nature, close ally'd,
The painter's genius, but without the pride;
Worth unambitious, wit afraid to shine,
Honour's clear light, and Friendship's warmth divine.
The son, fair-rising, knew too short a date;
But oh, how more severe the parent's fate!
He saw him forn, untimely, from his side,
Felt all a father's anguish, wept and dy'd!

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

This humble grave though no proud structures

grace,

Yet Truth and Goodness sanetify the place: Yet blameless Virture that adora'd thy bloons, Lamented maid! now weeps upon thy tomb.

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O

THE

POEMS

OF

MARK AKENSIDE, M.D.

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