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THE COURT OF DEATH.

A FABLE.

Death, on a solemn night of state,
In all his pomp of terror sate:
Th’ attendants of his gloomy reign,
Diseases dire, a ghastly train !
Crowd the vast court. With hollow tone,
A voice thus thunder'd from the throne :
“ This night our minister we name,
Let every servant speak his claim;
Merit shall bear this ebon wand.”
All, at the word, stretch'd forth their hand.

Fever, with burning heat possest,
Advanc'd, and for the wand addrest.

“ I to the weekly bills appeal, Let those express my fervent zeal ; On every slight occasion near, With violence I persevere."

Next Gout appears with limping pace, Pleads how he shifts from place to place; From head to foot how swift he flies, And every joint and sinew plies; Still working when he seems supprest,

most tenacious stubborn guest.

A haggard spectre from the crew Crawls forth, and thus asserts his due : 6. 'Tis I who taint the sweetest joy, And in the shape of love destroy: My shanks, sunk eyes, and noseless face, Prove my pretension to the place."

Stone urg'd his over-growing force; And, next, Consumption's meagre corse, With feeble voice that scarce was heard, Broke with short coughs, his suit preferr'd : “ Let none object my lingering way, I gain, like Fabius, by delay; Fatigue and weaken every foe By long attack, secure, though slow.”

Plague represents his rapid power, Who thinn'd a nation in an hour.

All spoke their claim, and hop'd the wand.
Now expectation hush'd the band;
When thus the monarch from the throne :

« Merit was ever modest known.
What, no physician speak his right!
None here ! but fees their toils requite !
Let then Intemperance take the wand,
Who fills with gold their zealous hand.
You, Fever, Gout, and all the rest,
(Whom wary men, as foes, detest)
Forego your claim; no more pretend;
Intemperance is esteem'd a friend;
He shares their mirth, their social joys,
And as a courted guest destroys.
The charge on him must justly fall,
Who finds employment for you all."

BARTON BOOTH.

DIED 1733.

An excellent man and an eminent actor.

SONG,

SWEET are the charms of her I love,

More fragrant than the damask rose,
Soft as the down of turtle dove,

Gentle as air when Zephyr blows,
Refreshing as descending rains
To sun-burnt climes, and thirsty plains.

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True as the needle to the pole,

Or as the dial to the sun; Constant as gliding waters roll,

Whosé swelling tides obey the moon; From every

other charmer free, My life and love shall follow thee.

The lamb the flowery thyme devours,

The dam the tender kid pursues;
Sweet Philomel, in shady bowers

Of verdant spring her note renews ;
All follow what they most admire,
As I pursue my soul's desire,

Nature must change her beauteous faee, And vary

as the seasons rise; As winter to the spring gives place,

Summer th' approach of autumn flies : No change on love the seasons bring, Love only knows perpetual spring.

Devouring time, with stealing pace,

Makes lofty oaks and cedars bow; And marble tow'rs, and gates of brass,

In his rude march he levels low: But time, destroying far and wide, Love from the soul can ne'er divide.

Death only, with his cruel dart,

The gentle godhead can remove; And drive him from the bleeding heart

To mingle with the bless'd above, Where, known to all his kindred train, He finds a lasting rest from pain.

Love, and his sister fair, the soul,

Twin-born, from heav'n together came: Love will the universe control,

When dying seasons lose their pame; Divine abodes shall own his pow'r, When time and death shall be no more.

GEORGE GRANVILLE,

LORD LANSDOWNE.

BORN 1667.-DIED 1735.

SONG.

Love is by fancy led about
From hope to fear, from joy to doubt ;

Whom we now an angel call,
Divinely grac'd in every feature,
Straight 's a deform'd, a perjur'd creature;

Love and hate are fancy all.

'Tis but as fancy shall present Objects of grief, or of content,

That the lover's blest, or dies : Visions of mighty pain, or pleasure, Imagin'd want, imagin'd treasure,

All in powerful fancy lies.

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