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And view the sea of boiling, foaming wort; When lo! (a very serious matter) His star-of most malignant nature— [for't;
Sous'd him plump in; who did not thank him
For loud the Drayman roard, and yainly toild ;
Lord! what was done? Attend-you'll hear:
The Brewer scorn'd to give it a bad name :
When, strange to tell, it won immortal fame.
A customer, call'd Peter Por,
Was to be favour'd with this christian beer, Proceeds to Thrale's-proclaims its praise : “ Ne’er drank such beer in my born days !
“ A glorious, glorious brew! liked ev'ry where
“ So pleas'd were folks—Sir,hundreds I can name; “ So let me always have the very same. “ Your name is up, Sir; you may lie abed“ You've hit the nail at last upon the head.”
« Well, MASTER Por,"quoth MISTERTARALE,
What could be fairer? Yet, God wot,
“ As near it as you can !” cried Pota “ Why not the very same ?-why not?
“ Put in the same materials, and 'twill do." “ Damme," quoth Turale, enrag'd, “ dost
“think “ I'll make my conscience always wink,
“ And boil a Drayman ev'ry time I brew ?"
ODE TO TIME.
Occasioned by seeing the Ruins of an old Castle.
Sitt'st on yon solitary spire!
Say, when thy musing soul
Bids distant times unrol, And marks the flight of each revolving year, Of years whose slow-consuming pow'r Has clad with moss yon leaning tow'r, That saw the race of glory run, That mark'd Ambition's setting sun, That shook old Empire's tow’ring pride, That swept them down the Aoating tide- . Say, when these long-unfolding scenes appear, Streams down thy hoary cheek the pity-darting 1. 2. : Cast o’er yon trackless waste thy wand’ring eye:
Yon hill, whose gold-illumin'd brow, Just trembling through the bending sky, O’erlooks the boundless wild below, Once bore the branching wood
That o'er yon murmuring flood Hung wildly waving to the rustling gale; The naked heath, with moss o’ergrown, That hears the lone owl's nightly moan, Once bloom’d with Summer's copious store, Once rais'd the lawn-bespangling flow'r; Qr heard some lover's plaintive lay, When, by pale Cynthia’s silver ray, All wild he wander’d o'er the lonely dale, And taught the list’ning Moon the melancholy
. I. 3. Ye wilds where heaven-rapt Fancy roves ! Ye sky-crown'd hills, and solemn groves !
Ye low-brow'd vaults, ye gloomy cells !
When Caledonia’s martial train
Pour'd on the heart-struck flying Dane!