BOWZYBEUS.

For owls, as swains observe, detest the light, SATURDAY; OR, THE FLIGHTS. And only sing and seek their prey by night.

How turnips hide their swelling heads below:

And how the closing coleworts upwards grow; SUBLIMER strains, O rustic Muse! prepare ;

How Will-o-wisp misleads night-faring clowns Forget awhile the barn and dairy's care;

O'er hills, and sinking bogs, and pathless downs.

Of stars he told, that shoot with shining trail, Thy homely voice to loftier numbers raise, The drunkard's flights require sonorous lays;

And of the glow-worm's light that gilds his tail. 60

He sung where woodcocks in the Summer feed, With Bowzy beus' songs exalt thy verse, While rocks and woods the various notes rehearse. And in what climates they renew their breed, 'Twas in the season when the reapers' toil

(Some think to northern coasts their flight they tend Of the ripe harvest 'gan to rid the soil ;

Or to the Moon in midnight hours ascend);

Where swallows in the Winter's season keep,
Wide through the field was seen a goodly rout,
Clean damsels bound the gather'd sheaves about; 10 And how the drowsy bat and dormouse sleep;
The lads, with sharpen'd hook and sweating brow, Till the bright Sun has nine times set and rose ;

How Nature does the puppy's eyelid close
Cut down the labors of the winter plow.
To the near hedge young Susan steps aside,

(For huntsmen by their long experience find, She feign'd her coat or garter was untied ;

That puppies still nine rolling suns are blind.) 70 Whate'er she did, she stoop'd adown unseen,

Now he goes on, and sings of fairs and shows,

For still new fairs before his eyes arose.
And merry reapers what they list will ween.
Soon she rose up, and cried with voice so shrill,

How pedlars' stalls with glittering toys are laid, That Echo answer'd from the distant hill;

The various fairings of the country maid. The youths and damsels ran to Susan's aid,

Long silken laces hang upon the twine, Who thought some adder had the lass dismay'd. 20 How the tight lass knives, combs

, and scissors spies,

And rows of pins and amber bracelets shine ; When fast asleep they Bowzy beus spied,

And looks on thimbles with desiring eyes.
His hat and oaken staff lay close beside ;
That Bowzy beus who could sweetly sing,

Of lotteries next with tuneful note he told,
Or with the rosin'd bow torment the string ;

Where silver spoons are won, and rings of gold. 80 That Bowzy beus who, with fingers speed,

The lads and lasses trudge the street along, Could call soft warblings from the breathing reed; And all the fair is crowded in his song. That Bowzy beus who, with jocund tongue,

The mountebank now treads the stage, and sells Ballads and roundelays and catches sung :

His pills, his balsams, and his ague-spells; They loudly laugh to see the damsel's fright,

Now o'er and o'er the nimble tumbler springs, And in disport surround the drunken wight. 30

And on the rope the venturous maiden swings; “Ah, Bowzy bee, why didst thou stay so long ?

Jack Pudding in his party-color'd jacket The mugs were large, the drink was wond'rous

Tosses the glove, and jokes at every packet. strong!

Of raree-shows he sung, and Punch's feats, Thou shouldst have left the fair before 'twas night;

Of pockets pick'd in crowds, and various cheats. 90 But thou sat'st toping till the morning light."

Then sad he sung the Children in the Wood : Cicely, brisk maid, steps forth before the rout,

(Ah, barbarous uncle, stain'd with infant blood !) And kiss'd with smacking lip the snoring lout:

How blackberries they pluck'd in deserts wild, (For custom says, “Whoe'er this venture proves,

And fearless at the glittering falchion smild; For such a kiss demands a pair of gloves.")

Their little corpse the robin-red-breasts found, By her example Dorcas bolder grows,

And strow'd with pious bill the leaves around. And plays a tickling straw within his nose. 40

(Ah, gentle birds! if this verse lasts so long, He rubs his nostril, and in wonted joke

Your names shall live for ever in my song.) The sneering swains with stammering speech be- How the sly sailor made the maid a wife.

For Buxom Joan he sung the doubtful strife,

100 spoke : "To you, my lads, I'll sing my carols o'er,

To louder strains he rais'd his voice, to tell As for the maids—I've something else in store."

What woful wars in Chevy-chace befell, No sooner 'gan he raise his tuneful song,

When Percy drove the deer with hound and horn, But lads and lasses round about him throng.

Wars to be wept by children yet unborn! Not ballad-singer plac'd above the crowd

Ah, Witherington! more years thy life had crown'd, Sings with a note so shrilling sweet and loud ;

If thou hadst never heard the horn or hound ! Nor parish-clerk, who calls the psalm so clear,

Yet shall the 'squire, who fought on bloody stumps, Like Bowzybeus soothes th' attentive ear. 50

By future bards be wail'd in doleful dumps. of Nature's laws his carols first begun,

All in the land of Essex next he chants,

109 Why the grave owl can never face the Sun.

How to sleek mares starch Quakers turn gallants :

Ver. 22.
Serta procul tantum capiti delapsa jacebant. Virg.

Ver. 40.
Sanguineis frontem moris et tempora pingit. Virg.

Ver. 43.
Carinina, quæ vultis, cognoscitel carmina vobis;
Huic aliud mercedis erit.

Virg.
Ver 47.
Nec tantum Phæbo gaudet Parnassia rupes:
Nec tantum Rhodope mirantur et Ismarus Orphea.

Virg

Ver. 51. Our swain had possibly read Tusser, from
whence he might have collected these philosophical ob.
servations:
Namque canebat, uti magnum per inane coacta, &c.

Ver. 97.
Fortunati ambo, si quid mea carmina possunt,
Nulla dies unquam memori vos eximet ævo. Virg.

Ver. 99. A song in the comedy of Love for Lovė, be ginning “A soldier and a sajlor," &c.

Ver. 109. A song of Sir J. Denham's. See his poems.

MATTHEW GREEN.

Matthew GREEN, a truly original poet, was born, is further attested, that he was a man of great probably at London, in 1696. His parents were re- probity and sweetness of disposition, and that his spectable Dissenters, who brought him up within conversation abounded with wit, but of the most in. the limits of the sect. His learning was confined 10 Offensive kind. He seems to have been subject to a little Latin; but, from the frequency of his clas- low-spirits, as a relief from which he composed his sical allusions, it may be concluded that what he principal poem, “ The Spleen.” He passed his read when young, he did not forget. The austerity life in celibacy, and died in 1737, at the early age in which he was educated had the effect of inspiring of forty-one, in lodgings in Gracechurch-street. him with settled disgust; and he fled from the The poems of Green, which were not made pubgloom of dissenting worship when he was no longer lic till after his death, consist of “The Spleen;" compelled to attend it. Thus set loose from the “ The Grotto;" “ Verses on Barclay's Apology;" opinions of his youth, he speculated very freely “The Seeker," and some smaller pieces, all comon religious topics, and at length adopted the sys- prised in a small volume. In manner and subject tem of outward compliance with established forms, they are some of the most original in our language. and inward laxity of belief. He seems at one They rank among the easy and familiar, but are time to have been much inclined to the principles replete with uncommon thoughts, new and striking of Quakerism; but he found that its practice would images, and those associations of remote ideas by not agree with one who lived " by pulling off the some unexpected similitudes, in which wit prin. hat." We find that he had obtained a place in the cipally consists. Few poems will bear more reCustom-house, the duties of which he is said to have peated perusals ; and, with those who can fully enter discharged with great diligence and fidelity. It into them, they do not fail to become favorites.

School-helps I want, to climb on high,
THE SPLEEN.*

Where all the ancient treasures lie,

And there unseen commit a theft
AN EPISTLE TO MR. CUTHBERT JACKSON.

On wealth in Greek exchequers left.

Then where? from whom? what can I steal, This motley piece to you I send,

Who only with the moderns deal ? Who always were a faithful friend;

This were attempting to put on Who, if disputes should happen hence,

Raiment from naked bodies won :t Can best explain the author's sense ;

They safely sing before a thief, And, anxious for the public weal,

They cannot give who want relief; Do, what I sing, so often feel.

Some few excepted, names well known, The want of method pray excuse,

And justly laurel'd with renown, Allowing for a vapor'd Muse :

Whose stamps of genius mark their ware, Nor to a narrow path confin'd,

And theft detects : of theft beware; Hedge in by rules a roving mind.

From More V so lash'd, example fit, The child is genuine, you may trace

Shun petty larceny in wit. Throughout the sire's transmitted face.

First know, my friend, I do not mean
Nothing is stol'n: my Muse, though mean,

To write a treatise on the spleen;
Draws from the spring she finds within ;
Nor vainly buys what Gildont sells,
Poetic buckets for dry wells.

† A painted vest Prince Vortiger had on,

Which from a naked Pict his grandsire won. "In this poem," Mr. Melmoth says, “there are more

HOWARD's British Princes. original thoughts thrown together than he had ever read

§ James More Smith, Esq. Sce Dunciad, B. ji. 1. 50. and in the same compass of lines." FITZOSBORNE's Letters, p. 114. the notes, where the circumstances of the transaction

bere alluded to are very fully explained, + Gildon's Art of Poetry.

Nor to prescribe when nerves convulse ;

A strict dissenter saying grace,
Nor mend th' alarum-watch, your pulse.

A lect'rer preaching for a place,
If I am right, your question lay,

Folks, things prophetic to dispense,
What course I take to drive away

Making the past the future tense,
The day-mare, Spleen, by whose false pleas The popish dubbing of a priest,
Men prove mere suicides in ease;

Fine epitaphs on knaves deceas d,
And how I do myself demean

Green-apron'd Pythonissa's rage,
In stormy world to live serene.

Great Æsculapius on his stage,
When by its magic-lantern Spleen

A miser starving to be rich,
With frightful figures spreads life's scene, The prior of Newgate's dying speech,
And threat'ning prospects urg'd my fears, A jointur'd widow's ritual state,
A stranger to the luck of heirs;

Two Jews disputing tête-à-tête,
Reason, some quiet to restore,

New almanacs compos'd by seers,
Show'd part was substance, shadow more ; Experiments on felons' ears,
With Spleen’s dead weight though heavy grown, Disdainful prudes, who ceaseless ply
In life's rough tide I sunk not down,

The superb muscle of the eye,
But swam, till Fortune threw a rope,

A coquet's A pril-weather face,
Buoyant on bladders fill'd with hope.

A Queenb'rough mayor behind his mace,
I always choose the plainest food

And fops in military show,
To mend viscidity of blood.

Are sov'reign for the case in view.
Hail! water-gruel, healing power,

If spleen-fogs rise at close of day,
or easy access to the poor ;

I clear my ev'ning with a play,
Thy help love's confessors implore,

Or to some concert take my way,
And doctors secretly adore ;

The company, the shine of lights,
To thee I fly, by thee dilute-

The scenes of humor, music's flights,
Through veins my blood doth quicker shoot, Adjust and set the soul to rights.
And by swift current throws off clean

Life's moving pictures, well-wrought plays,
Prolific particles of Spleen.

To others' grief attention raise :
I never sick by drinking grow,

Here, while the tragic fictions glow,
Nor keep myself a cup too low,

We borrow joy by pitying woe;
And seldom Chloe's lodgings haunt,

There gaily comic scenes delight,
Thrifty of spirits, which I want

And hold true mirrors to our sight.
Hunting I reckon very good,

Virtue, in charming dress array'd,
To brace the nerves, and stir the blood :

Calling the passions to her aid,
But after no field-honors itch,

When moral scenes just actions join,
Achiev'd by leaping hedge and ditch.

Takes shape, and shows her face divine.
While Spleen lies soft relax'd in bed,

Music has charms, we all may find,
Or o'er coal fires inclines the head,

Ingratiate deeply with the mind.
Hygeia's sons with hound and horn,

When art does sound's high pow'r advance,
And jovial cry, awake the Morn.

To music's pipe the passions dance ;
These see her from the dusky plight,

Motions unwill'd its pow'rs have shown,
Smear'd by th' embraces of the Night,

Tarantulated by a tune.
With roral wash redeem her face,

Many have held the soul to be
And prove herself of Titan's race,

Nearly allied to harmony.
And, mounting in loose robes the skies,

Her have I known indulging grief,
Shed light and fragrance as she fies.

And shunning company's relief,
Then horse and hound fierce joy display,

Unveil her face, and, looking round,
Exulting at the hark-away,

Own, by neglecting sorrow's wound,
And in pursuit o'er tainted ground,

The consanguinity of sound.
From lungs robust field-notes resound.

In rainy days keep double guard,
Then, as St. George the dragon slew,

Or Spleen will surely be too hard ;
Spleen pierc'd, trod down, and dying view; Which, like those fish by sailors met,
While all their spirits are on wing,

Fly highest, while their wings are wet.
And woods, and hills, and valleys ring.

In such dull weather, so unfit
To cure the mind's wrong bias, Spleen, To enterprise a work of wit,
Some recommend the bowling-green;

When clouds one yard of azure sky,
Some, hilly walks ; all, exercise ;

That's fit for simile, deny,
Fling but a stone, the giant dies;

I dress my face with studious looks,
Laugh and be well. Monkeys have been And shorten tedious hours with books
Extreme good doctors for the Spleen,

But if dull fogs invade the head,
And kitten, if the humor hit,

That mem'ry minds not what is read,
Has harlequin'd away the fit.

I sit in window dry as ark,
Since mirth is good in this behalf,

And on the drowning world remark:
At some partic'lars let us laugh.

Or to some coffee-house 1 stray
Witlings, brisk fools, curst with half sense, For news, the manna of a day,
That stimulates their impotence ;

And from the hipp'd discourses gather,
Who buzz in rhyme, and, like blind flies, That politics go by the weather:
Err with their wings for want of eyes.

Then seek good-humor'd tavern chums,
Poor authors worshipping a calf,

And play at cards, but for small suins, Deep tragedies that make us laugh,