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Such Taste and Feeling! all agree

He's sure the Soul of Company!"

QUESTION IV.

Pray," ask'd a fourth, at Phillot's stand,

The tumbler smoking in her hand,—
"When all his Spirits are on wing,
Have you heard Elliston yet sing
His Song of Frolic, or of Gloom?—
I'm speaking of him in a room-
By turns such pathos, humour, glec-
He's sure the Soul of Pleasantry!"

If dear Variety be sweet,

He needs must prove a constant treat,
Who can so variously excel;-

Does all things, and yet does them well.

EXTEMPORE LINES,

PRESENTED ON THE MARRIAGE OF A FRIEND:
INCLUDING THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGY

FOR APPEARING IN BLACK.

How's this?-in mourning-garments, and the night
When Undertakers would array in white,
Were they a pair just married to attend?
When e'en the jetty Raven would assume

The Swan's fair colours, could she change her plume,-
And comes in black the Poet and the Friend?

5

I own

I own the charge :-but Bride-nights have been sung
Since Love's first Couple, when the World was young;
A pair most fond, though rather near akin:
Both seem'd by Nature-Love's Mamma-design'd
To form but One in body and in mind;

In troth, they were as near as bone and skin.

To hail this Marriage came the tuneful Nine,
And their first Song was laid at Wedlock's shrine;
To them the Hymeneal harp was giv❜n:

And ever since that Union, every Pair,

On bridal days, have been the Muses' care;

And some have thought each Match was made in Heav'n.

In very truth, there's not a simile,

A trope, a figure left, alas! for me;

Stripp'd are the Trees of Fancy and of Love; And, just like Shakspeare's Mulberry,

Fiction has cut a Forest from a Tree;

And Hymen, who loves shade, has not one Grove.

At least a hundred thousand songs, thrice told,
-'Tis lucky that these Muses ne'er grow old-
Have hail'd as many Weddings; and, I fear,
Successive Poets have so hard been prest,
And each oblig'd to borrow from the rest,

There's nothing left for Matches made this year,

Nothing, I mean, that's new:-bride-pinks and roses Have long been us'd in Matrimonial Posies,

That scarce a bud remains for Beauty's pillow;

Bards

Bards have to true-love-knots turn'd all the bowers,
And made so many chaplets of the flowers,

That I have nought to offer but the Willow.

And hence it is I am in sables drest,

my

While bloomy vestments grace each other guest:
Yet still heart-warm Wishes are as true,
Though breath'd in an undecorated lay,
As if all Eden's fragrance strew'd the way,
And Love's first Paradise around me grew.

Then since the flowers Parnassian are o'er,—
May all the Garlands Bards have twin'd before,
And all that Fancy ever imag'd true,
Of fair and good, of tender and of kind,
In this day's happy Nuptials be cOMBIN'D,

To form a fadeless Wreath, my Friend, for You!

TO AN OLD MARRIED COUPLE;

ON THE AUTHOR'S BEING PRESENT AT THEIR MEETING AFTER A SHORT SEPARATION.

WHEN to the happy Time you've pass'd
You both have measur'd ten years more,
May those be happy as the last!
Then add another happy score.

May ev'ry parting lose a tear,
And ev'ry meeting win a kiss!

Or,

Or, should you weep though both are near,
it be a tear of bliss!

Oh, may

And if the Fates so friendly prove

To add another six or seven,

May these, too, bless you as they move,
Then both go lovingly to Heav'n!

Nay-now a wishing-cap the Bard
Has put upon the Muse's head-
When you have gain'd Love's last reward,
And Thomas reigneth in your stead,—

When wedded, may that gifted Boy
Live as a Bridegroom with his Bride;
Like you, a Heav'n on Earth enjoy,

And share your Heav'n of Heav'ns beside!

TO THE MEMORY OF *******.

THOUGH in her cheek soft Beauty's flow'r maintain'd
Its loveliest bloom when Youth no longer reign'd;
Sweeter than Beauty or than Youth, the art

Which plucks the thorn from Sorrow's aching heart;
Which pours the balm of Pity on the wound,
A healing balm in Pity only found:
Such art, oh dear lamented Shade! was thine:
But, the balm lost, the cureless wound is mine.

EXTEMPORE.

TO A LADY IN FEEBLE HEALTH.

WHY do the Fates so oft decree,

To frames of steel, and lungs of leather,
To shallow brains from thinking free,
And tongues that prate for years together,

A privilege all day to laugh;

Without a care through life to roll;
All night the cup of Joy to quaff,
Till empty as the Drinker's soul?

While, miser-like, those Fates dispense
The trembling nerve and slender form
To such as You-to Wit and Sense,

And leave a Reed to brave the Storm!

'Tis strange, and yet there's reason in it;
For Sense or Wit more blest appears,
And lives more life in one short minute
Than Dullness in a hundred years.

A QUESTION

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