More awful scenes old Mona next display'd;
Her caverns gloom'd, her forest wav'd on high,
While flam'd within her consecrated shade

The Genius stern of British liberty.

And see, my Hurd! to thee those scenes consign'd;
O take and stamp them with thy honoured name.
Around the page be friendship's chaplet twin'd;
And, if they find the road to honest fame,

Perchance the candour of some nobler age
May praise the bard, who bade gay folly bear
Her cheap applauses to the busy stage

And leave him pensive Virtue's silent tear;

Chose too to consecrate his favourite strain
To him, who grac'd by ev'ry liberal art,
That best might shine amid the learned train,
Yet more excell'd in morals, and in heart:

Whose equal mind could see vain fortune shower
Her flimzy favours on the fawning crew,
While in low Thurcastan's sequester'd bower
She fixt him distant from promotion's view:

Yet, shelter'd there by calm Contentment's wing;
Pleas'd he could smile, and with sage Hooker's eye
"See from his mother earth God's blessings spring,
"And eat his bread in peace and privacy.”

March 20, 1759.

W. MASON!

An Ode to Miss L. On the death of General Wolfe.

RITONS, the work of war is done!

is

Loud triumphs rend the air:

Yet, tho' with martial pride elate,
Each heart bewails Wolfe's hapless fate;
Nor tastes its joy sincere.

Too well they knew his dauntless mind;
They knew it open, unconfin'd;

Awake to glory's call:

The soldier heard this bold command;

They saw him lead their foremost band;

They saw their leader fall.

One common grief their hearts possest
You, gentle maid, above the rest,

His fate untimely mourn;

Who vow'd, if heav'n should spare his youth,
With love, with constancy, and truth,

To crown his wish'd return.

Yet weep no more, but nobly claim
A proud alliance with his fame,
And all his glory share:

His country's cause requir'd his aid;
For victory to heav'n he pray'd,

And heaven hath heard his pray'r.

His wound was honest, on his breast-
Lay me in peace, and let me rest,
Th' expiring hero cry'd:
The pitying fates his death delay,
'Till heaven for him declares the day

He heard, rejoic'd, and dy'd.

An Essay to an Epitaph on the truly great and justly lamented Major Gen.
Wolfe, who fell victoriously before Quebec, Sept. 13, 1759.

ERE rests from toil, in narrow bounds confin'd,
The human shell of a celestial mind;

Who once, with splendor, fill'd a scene so large;
And took the fate of empires in his charge.
A hero, with a patriot's zeal inspir'd;
By public virtue, not by passion, fir'd.
A hero, disciplin'd in wisdom's school;
In action ardent, in reflection cool.

In bloom of years, who gain'd a glorious name,
And reap'd, betimes, the harvest of his fame.
Before Quebec he charg'd the daring foe,
And, quick as lightning, struck the fatal blow:
By active valour made the day his own,
And liv'd to see the num'rous foe o'erthrown.
Crown'd by just vict'ry, drew his latest breath;
As wont to smile on danger, smil❜d on death:
And, having bravely for his country fought,
Dy'd nobly as he wish'd, and calmly as he ought.
The troops around him shar'd a glorious grief,
And while they gather'd laurels wept their chief:
Their chief! to whom the great Moncalm gave way;
And fell to crown the honours of the day!

On the Vicar of Wd

HE vicar's rich, his income clear,
Exceeds eight hundred pounds a year.

Yet weeping want goes by his door,
Or knocks unheard the vicar's poor.
His daughter weds, her husband fails,
The rogue may beg, or bite his nails.

But

But shall the daughter starve? unkind,
The match was not the vicar's mind;
Besides she once has had her dow'r,
What can he more?- -the vicar's poor.
Tom graceless quits his band and gown,
To spend a winter once in town;
The vicar saw the approaching curse,
And hard he strung his heart and purse,
But Tom's resolves as fixt remain,
His heart and purse are strung in vain.
Slow then he told with trembling thumb
Five guineas; death, a dreadful sum!
Tom saw the splendid pieces lie,
But saw them with a thankless
eye:
What then, 'tis not sufficient, well,
Back go the guineas to their cell.
Uunhappy Tom, whate'er thy lot,
A priest, a squire, a saint, or sot;
A cit polite, or sage demure,
Or sink, or swim-the vicar's poor.
While fairer than her mother fair,
With sparkling eye, and golden hair,
Miss Betty still divine appears,
Nor feels the force of forty years;
What pity such enchanting charms,
Should fill no generous lover's arms.
Be doom'd to please some country boor,
It must be so the vicar's poor.
To see the vicar once there came,
A friend of equal years and fame,
A brother parson, free and gay,
Who nothing grudg'd the tedious way.
He knock'dadmitted-down he sat,
And ancient deeds records in chat.
A pipe was call'd, he lov'd to smoke,
He spoke and puff'd, and puff'd and spoke.
Two pipes were done, the thirsty vicaf,
Who long had look'd in vain for liquor,
Impatient now, he whisper'd, John!
Bring out the horses, let's be gone!
With whip and hat, enrag'd he flew,
Nor bad his wretched friend adieu!
Yet none for this will blame him sure,
What cou'd he do? -the vicar's poor.
The pulpit oft with black bespread,
To mourn some fool of fashion dead,
What won't he do to save his riches,
Supplies the vicar's coat and breeches.

But then to pay the taylor's pains,
And ev'ry little trifle drains:
His wife supplies the taylor's art,
She measur'd just his nether part:

A well known task, and next with stitches,
To work she falls and forms his breeches.
But buckram must be bought I fear!
Let 'scutcheon do for that my dear.
And can there be a greater farce,
Those coats of arms shall kiss your ase.
Besides, my dear, you need not lock it,
When rampant lions guard your pocket.
Unhappy vicar and unhappy wife,

By endless riches doom'd to endless strife,
Content unknown, 'tis poverty they flee,
And are for ever what they dread to be.

The following is the Prologue and Epilogue to the Adephi of Terence, which was acted this year by the young gentlemen of Westminster College.

C

PROLOGUS.

NUM patres populumque dolor communis haberet,
Fieret & Amilium maxima Roma suum,

Funebres inter ludos, his dicitur ipsis

Scenis extinctum condecorâsse ducem.

Ecquis adest- scenam nocte hâc qui spectet eandem,
Nec luctum nobis sentjat esse parem?
Utcunque arrisit pulcris victoria cæptis,
Qua sol extremas visit uterque plagas,
Successus etiam medio de fonte Britannis
Surgit amari aliquid, legitimusque dolor.
Si famæ generosa sitis, si bellica virtus,
Ingenium felix, intemerata fides.
Difficiles Laurus, ipsoque in flore juventæ,
Heu! lethi nimium præcipitata dies;

Si quid habent pulchrum hæc, vel si quid amabile, jure
Esto tua hæc, Wolfi, laus propriumque decus.
Nec moriere omnisquin usque corona vigebit,
Unanimis Britonum quam tibi pectit amor.

Regia quin pietas marmor tibi nobile ponet,
Quod tua perpetuis prædicet acta notis.
Confluet huc studio visendi Martia pubes,
Sentiet et flammâ corda calere pari;

Dumque legit mediis cecidisse heroa triumphis,
Dicet, sic detur vincere, sic moriar.

EPILOGUS.

QU

EPILOGU S. [Syrus loquitur]

UANTA intus turba est! quanto molimine sudat
Accinctus cultro & forcipe quisque coquus!
Monstrum informe maris testudo in prandia fertur,
Quæ varia & simplex omnia sola sapit.
Pullina esca placet, vitulina, suilla, bovina?
Præsto est. Hæc quadrupes singula piscis habet.
De gente Æthiopum conducitur Archimagirus,
Qui secet & coquat & concoquat arte novâ.
Qui doctè contundat aromata, misceat aptè
Thus, apium, thyma, sal, cinnama, cepe, piper.
Qui jecur & pulmonem in frustra minutula scindat,
Curetque ut penitus sint saturata mero,
Multo ut ventriculus pulchrè flavescat ab ovo,
Ut tremulis circum viscera vernet adeps.
His rite instructis conchæ sint fercula, nam tu,
Testudo, & patinis sufficis atque cibo.

Quam cuperem in laudes utriusque excurrere concha !

-Sed vereor Calepash dicere vel Caleper.

Vos etiam ad cœnam mecum appellare juvaret,
Vellem & relliquias participare dapum,

At sunt convivæ tam multi tamque gulosi,
Restabit, metuo, nil nisi concha mihi.

The Dying Rake's Soliloquy: altered and enlarged from the Universal Visitor, Numb, 3. p. 40. by Dr. Bartholomew.

N the fever of youth, ev'ry pulse in a flame,
Regardless of fortune, of health, and of fame;
Gay pleasure my aim, and profusion my pride,
No vice was untasted, no wish was deny'd.
Grown headstrong and haughty, capricious and vain,
Not decency aw'd me, nor laws could restrain;
The vigils of Comus and Venus I kept,
Tho' tir'd, not sated; in sunshine I slept:

All my appetites pall'd, I no pleasure enjoy'd,
Excess made 'em tasteless, their frequency cloy'd;
When my health and my fortune to riot gave way,
And my parts, and my vigour, felt total decay;
The doctors was sent for, who greedy of fees,
Engag'd that their skill should remove the disease;
With looks most important each symptom was weigh'd,
And the farce of precription full gravely was play'd.

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