Can you this hated Brother see

Floating, the sport of wind and sea ?
Can you his feeble accents hear,

Though but in thought, nor drop a tear?
He faintly strives, his hopes are fled,
The billows booming o'er his head;
He mounts upon the waves again,
He calls on us, but calls in vain ;
To death preserves his friendship true,
And mutters out a kind adieu.
See now he rises to our sight,
Now sinks in everlasting night.

80

Here Fanny's color rose and fell,
And Harriot's throat began to swell:
One sidled to the window quite,
Pretending some unusual sight,
The other left the room outright;

While Molly laugh'd, her ends obtain❜d,
To think how artfully she feign'd.

EPISTLE XXVIII.

FROM

FRANCIS FAWKES, M. A.

то

HIS WIFE.

A

JOURNEY TO DONCASTER;

OR, A CURIOUS JOURNAL OF FIVE DAYS,

Wrote with a Pencil in a Chaise.

IN

DEAR ANNE,

prose I've wrote you many a journal
Of travels, which I hope you'll burn all,
And now for once I write in rhyme
To tell you how I spend my time,
And what adventures may ensue
While I am hasting down to you.

On Sep. the second day I went
To London from my house in Kent;
And, as good luck would have it, found
A friend for shire of Ebor bound: 16
It proving temperate, pleasant weather,
We soon agreed to go together,

And for our ease, o'er turnpike-ways,
To travel down in my post-chaise.
By learned men it is agreed,

Poets should ride the winged steed;
And therefore, thus says Betty Martin,
"Thou art no poet, that's most certain."
Thro' Kentish-town, up Highgate-hill,
Our horses move-against their will; __29
And, while they snuff the wholesome wind,
We cast a parting look behind,
Pleas'd t' have left yon sable cloud,
That buries millions in its shroud;

Alas! they toil, the sons of care!
And never breathe the purer air.

Thy common, Finchley, next we measure, Whose woodland views would give us pleasure, But that they many a wretch exhibit,

Too near the high road, on a gibbet; 30
Hence men may guess, without much skill,
Here have been rogues—and may be still.
High Barnet pass'd, we reach the plain,
Where Warwick, haughty earl, was slain :
So perish all, as Warwick fell,
Who 'gainst their lawful liege rebel!
Ah! passing strange, that one sweet flower
Should kindle all the rage of power!
Yet England oft has wail'd her woes,

And wept the colors of the rose.

40

With hungry appetites we hie on,
Where Hatfield shows the Silver Lion;
But, lo! nice steaks from rump of beef
Will soon afford us kind relief;
Of good old Port we drink a quart,
Discharge our reckoning, and depart.
Thro' sandy lanes, and deep defiles,
Where ray of Phoebus never smiles,
(Save on that beam-illumin'd dwelling,
Where Young delights the Muse at Welling)
We march as gently as we can,
And reach at Stevenage the Swan :
A well-fed pullet, roasted nice,
And of high-season'd ham a slice,
Of suppers could not prove the worst—
Warm negus gratified our thirst:
At ten the welcome down we prest,
And wooed the kindly Power of rest.—

With early dawn we mount the chaise,
And Phoebus smiles in friendly rays: 66.
O'er finest turnpike-road we bowl,
The wheels, the numbers gently roll,
Speed swift to Baldock down the hill,
Where liv'd sweet Polly of the Mill,
But now the lovely Polly's gone,
Rival of Venus!-so drive on.

Thro' villages, o'er plains we ride,
Where Ouze conducts his silver tide;

So slow his winding waters stray,

He seems to linger on his way,

As loth to leave the pleasing scene

Of woods, corn-fields, and pastures green :
Thus man, low-grovelling, like the river,
Would loiter in this life for ever;
So beautiful these scenes appear,

He thinks it better to be here,

Than try that country, from whose bourn
No pale-eyed travellers return.

At Eaton next, by twelve-a-clock,
We bait our horses at the Cock :
Then leave awhile the public road,

To take with friends a night's abode :
This visit comes in due succession,
And therefore deem it no digression.
Thence cross corn-fields our way explore,
Where chariots never went before;
'Thro' rushy swamps, and bogs we past,
And came to Beggary at last :

Even then we did not know our doom,
For worse misfortunes were to come:
Fain would we thro' the pastures ride;"
Our entrance gates and locks denied:
Thro' that deep lane, where many a slough
Would spoil a horse, or hide a cow,
Pass on we must, if we intend
To pay our visit to a friend:
True friendship has a bias strong,
It drove us thro' the mire along,
O'er banks and ridges, till, at last,