In behalf of the Nose it will quickly appear,

And your lordship, he said, will undoubtedly find,
That the Nose has had spectacles always in wear,
Which amounts to possession time out of mind.

Then holding the spectacles up to the court-
Your lordship observes they are made with a straddle,
As wide as the ridge of the Nose is; in short,
Design'd to sit close to it, just like a saddle.

Again, would your lordship a moment suppose
('Tis a case that has happen'd, and may be again)
That the visage or countenance had not a nose,
Pray who would, or who could, wear spectacles then?

On the whole it appears, and my argument shows,
With a reasoning the court will never condemn,
That the spectacles plainly were made for the Nose,
And the Nose was as plainly intended for them.

Then shifting his side (as a lawyer knows how),
He pleaded again in behalf of the Eyes:
But what were his arguments few people know,

For the court did not think they were equally wise.

So his lordship decreed with a grave solemn tone,
Decisive and clear, without one if or but-
That, whenever the Nose put his spectacles on,
By daylight or candlelight-Eyes should be shut!

ON THE BURNING

OF

LORD MANSFIELD'S LIBRARY,

TOGETHER WITH HIS MSS.

by the mob, in the month of June, 1780.

So then the Vandals of our isle,
Sworn foes to sense and law,

Have burnt to dust a nobler pile
Than ever Roman saw !

And MURRAY sighs o'er Pope and Swift,

And many a treasure more,

The well-judg'd purchase, and the gift,
That grac'd his letter'd store.

Their pages mangled, burnt and torn,
The loss was his alone;

But ages yet to come shall mourn.
The burning of his own.

ON THE SAME.

When wit and genius meet their doom
In all devouring flame,
They tell us of the fate of Rome,
And bid us fear the same.

O'er MURRAY'S loss the Muses wept,
They felt the rude alarm,

Yet bless'd the guardian care that kept
His sacred head from harm.

There Mem'ry, like the bee, that's fed!
From Flora's balmy store,

The quintessence of all he read
Had treasur'd up before.

The lawless herd, with fury blind,

Have done him cruel wrong;

The flow'rs are gone-but still we find

The honey on his tongue

THE LOVE OF THE WORLD REPROVED

OR

HYPOCRISY DETECTED *.

Thus says the prophet of the Turk,
Good Mussulman, abstain from pork ;
There is a part in ev'ry swine
No friend or follower of mine

May taste, whate'er his inclination,

On pain of excommunication.

* It may be proper to inform the reader, that this piece has already appeared in print, having found its way, though with some unnecessary additions by an unknown hand, into the Leed's Journal, without the author's privity.

Such Mahomet's mysterious charge,
And thus he left the point at large.
Had he the sinful part express'd,
They might with safety eat the rest;
But for one piece they thought it hard
From the whole hog to be debarr'd;
And set their wit at work to find
What joint the prophet had in mind.
Much controversy straight arose,
These choose the back, the belly those;
By some 'tis confidently said

He meant not to forbid the head;
While others at that doctrine rail
And piously prefer the tail.

Thus, conscience freed from ev'ry clog,
Mahometans eat up the hog.

You laugh-'tis well-The tale applied May make you laugh on t'other side. Renounce the world-the preacher cries. We do a multitude replies.

While one as innocent regards

A snug and friendly game at cards;
And one, whatever you may say,
Can see no evil in a play;
Some love a concert, or a race;

And others shooting, and the chace.
Revil'd and lov'd, renounc'd and follow'd,
Thus, bit by bit, the world is swallow'd;
Each thinks his neighbour makes too free,
Yet likes a slice as well as he;

With sophistry their sauce they sweeten, Till quite from tail to snout 'tis eaten.

ON THE DEATH OF

MRS. (now LADY) THROCKMORTON'S

BULFINCH.

Ye nymphs! if e'er your eyes were red
With tears o'er hapless fav'rites shed,
O share Maria's grief!

Her fav'rite, even in his cage,
(What will not hunger's cruel rage ?)
Assassin'd by a thief.

Where Rhenus strays his vines among,
The egg was laid from which he sprung;
And, though by nature mute,
Or only with a whistle blest,
Well-taught he all the sounds express'd
Of flagelet or flute.

The honors of his ebon poll

Were brighter than the sleekest mole;
His bosom of the hue

With which Aurora decks the skies,
When piping winds shall soon arise,
To sweep away the dew.

Above, below, in all the house,
Dire foe alike of bird and mouse,
No cat had leave to dwell;
And Bully's cage supported stood
On props of smoothest-shaven wood,
Large built, and lattic'd well.

Well-lattic'd-but the grate, alas!
Not rough with wire of steel or brass,
For Bully's plumage sake,

Cut smooth with wands from Ouse's side,
With which, when neatly peel'd and dried,
The swains their baskets make.

Night veil'd the pole, all seem'd secure :
When led by instinct sharp and sure,
Subsistence to provide,

A beast forth sallied on the scout,

Long-back'd, long tail'd, with whisker'd snout, And badger-color'd hide.

He, ent'ring at the study door,
Its ample area 'gan explore;

And something in the wind
Conjectur'd, sniffing round and round,
Better than all the books he found,
Food chiefly for the mind.

Just then, by adverse fate impress'd,
A dream disturb'd poor Bully's rest;
In sleep he seem'd to view
A rat fast clinging to the cage,
And, screaming at the sad presage,
Awoke and found it true.

For, aided both by ear and scent,
Right to his mark the monster went-
Ah! muse, forbear to speak
Minute the horrors that ensued;

His teeth were strong, the cage was wood-
He left poor Bully's beak.

O had he made that too his prey;
That beak, whence issued many a lay
Of such mellifluous tone,

Might have repaid him well, I wote
For silencing so sweet a throat,
Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps-the Muses mourn-
So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.

THE ROSE.

The rose had been wash'd, just wash'd in a show'r, Which Mary to Anna convey'd,

The plentiful moisture encumber'd the flow'r,

And weigh'd down its beautiful head.

The cup was all fill'd, and the leaves were all wet,

And it seem'd to a fanciful view,

To weep for the buds it had left with regret,
On the flourishing bush where it grew.

I hastily seiz'd it, unfit as it was

For a nosegay, so dripping and drown'd,
And swinging it rudely, too rudely, alas !
I snapp'd it, it fell to the ground.

And such, I exclaim'd, is the pitiless part
Some act by the delicate mind,

Regardless of wringing and breaking a heart
Already to sorrow resign'd.

This elegant rose, had I shaken it less,

Might have bloom'd with its owner a while; And the tear, that is wip'd with a little address, May he follow'd perhaps by a smile.