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Thus have I seen a magpie in the street,
With head awry,
And cunning eye, Peep knowingly into a marrow-bone, And now his curious majesty did stoop To count the nails on every hoop; And lo! no single thing came in his way, That, full of deep research, he did not say, • What's this? hae, hae? What's that? What's this? What's that? So quick the words too, when he deigned to speak, As if each syllable would break its neck. Thus, to the world of great whilst others crawl, Our gov'reign peeps into the world of small : Thus microscopic geniuses explore
Things that too oft provoke the public scorn;
By finding systems in a peppercorn.
What would they do, what, what, placed end to end?'
Almost to Windsor that they would extend:
And in it legibly began to write!
A charming place beneath the grates
For roasting chestnuts or potates.
'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer,
Is there no cheaper stuff? where doth it dwell?
Would not horse-aloes bitter it as well?
To try it soon on our small beer
Old Whitbread to my house one day.
Now, having pencilled his remarks so shrewd,
Sharp as the point, indeed, of a new pin, His majesty his watch most sagely viewed,
And then put up his ass's-skin.
Sire,' cried the humble brewer, "give me leave
From malt, malt, malt-I meant malt all the while.
An't please your majesty, you did, I'm sure.'
Parents and children, fine fat hopeful sprigs,
Appeared the brewer's tribe of handsome pigs;
Exclaimed: 'O heavens ! and can my swine
Who, bridling in her chin divine,
For such high honour done her father's swine.
Whitbread, d'ye nick the excisemen now and then ?
What, what's the matter with the men ?
Don't, don't the fine for sheriff pay; ?
I'll prick you every year, man, I declare;
Job, job, that's cheapest; yes, that's best, that's best.
Hae, Whitbread? You have feathered well your nest.
Then searched his brains with ruminating eye;
That once was prized by thee: Hard rush the rains, the tempests roar, Think of the ring by yonder burn
And lightnings cleave the skies.' Thou gav'st to love and me. “Who comes with woe at this drear night, "But shouldst thou not poor Marion know, A pilgrim of the gloom ?
I'll turn my feet and part; [blow, If she whose love did once delight, And think the storms that round me My cot shall yield her room.'
Far kinder than thy heart.'
Epigram on Sleep. Thomas Wharton wrote the following Latin epigram to be placed under the statute of Somnus, in the garden of Harris, the philologist, and Wolcot translated it with a beauty and felicity worthy of the original.
Somne levis, quanquam certissima mortis imago
THE REV. WILLIAM CROWE. WILLIAM CROWE (circa 1746–1829) was the son of a carpenter at Winchester, and was admitted upon the foundation as a poor scholar. He was transferred to New College, Oxford, and was elected Fellow in 1773. He rose to be Professor of Poetry and Public Orator, holding at the same time the valuable rectory of Alton Barnes. Crowe was author of 'Lewesdon Hill' (1786), å descriptive poem in blank verse, and of various other pieces. Several editions of his ‘Poems' have been published, the latest in 1827. There is poetry of a very high order in the works of Crowe, though it has never been popular.
Wreck of the · Falsewell,' East Indiaman.
phosphor-seeming waves. So fair,
wild and foamy jaws
and unconquerable even in death-
The Miseries of War. From Verses intended to have been spoken in the Theatre of Oxford, on the In stallation of the Duke of Portland as Chancellor of the University.'
If the stroke of war
Then might the bard, though child of peace, delight * The Falsewell. Captain Pierce. was wrecked in January 1786, having struck on the rocks near Seacombe, on the island of Purbeck, between Peverel Point and St. Alban's Head. All the passengers perished; but out of 240 souls on board, 74 were saved. Seven interesting and accomplished young ladies (two of them daughters of the captain), were among the drowned.
To twine fresh wreaths around the conqueror's brow;
CHARLOTTE SMITH. Several ladies cultivated poetry with success at this time. Among these was Mrs. CHARLOTTE SMITH (whose admirable prose fictions will afterwards be noticed). She was the daughter of Mr. Turner of Stoke House, in Surrey, and born on the 4th of May 1749. She was remarkable for precocity of talents, and for a lively playful humour that shewed itself in conversation, and in compositions both in prose and verse. Being early deprived of her mother, she was carelessly though expensively educated, and introduced into society at a very early age. Her father having decided on a second mar. riage, the friends of the young and admired poetess endeavoured to establish her in life, and she was induced to accept the hand of Mr. Smith, the son and partner of a rich West India merchant. The husband was twenty-one years of age, and his wife fifteen! This rash union was productive of mutual discontent and misery. Mr. Smith was careless and extravagant, business was neglected, and his father dying, left a will so complicated and voluminous that no two lawyers understood it in the same sense. Law-suits and embarrassments were therefore the portion of this ill-starred pair for all their after-lives. Mr. Smith was ultimately forced to sell the greater part of his property, after he had been thrown into prison, and his faithful wife had shared with him the misery and discomfort of his confinement. After an unhappy union of twenty-three years, Mrs. Smith separated from her busband, and, taking a cottage near Chichester, applied herself to her literary occupations with cheerful assiduity, supplying to her children the duties of both parents. In eight months she completed her novel of 'Emmeline,' published in 1788. In the following year appeared another novel from her pen, entitled Ethelinde;' and in 1791, a third under the name of 'Celestina.' She imbibed the opinions of the French Revolution, and em. bodied them in a romance entitled “Desmond.' This work arrayed