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Might have repaid him well, I wot,
For silencing so sweet a throat,

Fast stuck within his own.

Maria weeps the Muses mourn
So when, by Bacchanalians torn,
On Thracian Hebrus' side
The tree-enchanter Orpheus fell,
His head alone remain'd to tell
The cruel death he died.

ON MRS MONTAGUE'S FEATHER HANGINGS.

[This is the lady at whose house the Blue Stocking Club used to meet, in Leicester Square. Her maiden name was Robison, she was born at York, 1720, educated under the care of Dr Conyers Middleton, and married into the Sandwich family. She died 1800, wrote Letters and Dialogues of the Dead, and proved a most kind patroness of literary merit; but she is now best known as having written the admirable defence of Shakespeare. She was a particular friend of Lady Hesketh, at whose suggestion the present verses appear to have been written.

THE birds put off their every hue

To dress a room for Montague.

The Peacock sends his heavenly dyes,
His rainbows, and his starry eyes;

The Pheasant plumes, which round enfold
His mantling neck with downy gold;
The Cock, his arch'd tail's azure show;
And, river-blanch'd, the Swan his snow.
All tribes beside of Indian name,
That glossy shine, or vivid flame,
Where rises, and where sets the day,
Whate'er they boast of rich and gay,
Contribute to the gorgeous plan,
Proud to advance it all they can.
This plumage, neither dashing shower,
Nor blasts, that shake the dripping bower,
Shall drench again or discompose,
But screen'd from every storm that blows,

It boasts a splendour ever new,
Safe with protecting Montague.

To the same patroness resort, Secure of favour at her court,

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Strong Genius, from whose forge of thought
Forms rise, to quick perfection wrought,
Which, though new-born, with vigour move,
Like Pallas springing arm'd from Jove-
Imagination scattering round
Wild roses over furrow'd ground,
Which Labour of his frown beguile,
And teach Philosophy a smile-
Wit flashing on Religion's side,
Whose fires, to sacred Truth applied,
The gem, though luminous before,
Obtrude on human notice more,
Like sunbeams on the golden height
Of some tall temple playing bright-
Well-tutor'd Learning, from his books
Dismiss'd with grave, not haughty, looks,
Their order on his shelves exact,
Not more harmonious or compact
Than that, to which he keeps confined
The various treasures of his mind.
All these to Montague's repair,
Ambitious of a shelter there.

There Genius, Learning, Fancy, Wit,
Their ruffled plumage calm refit,
(For stormy troubles loudest roar
Around their flight who highest soar)
And in her eye, and by her aid,
Shine safe without a fear to fade.

She thus maintains divided sway
With yon bright regent of the day;
The plume and poet both, we know,
Their lustre to his influence owe;
And she the works of Phoebus aiding,
Both poet saves and plume from fading.

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COULD I, from Heaven inspired, as sure presage
To whom the rising year shall prove his last;
As I can number in my punctual page,
And item down the victims of the past;

How each would trembling wait the mournful sheet, On which the press might stamp him next to die And, reading here his sentence, how replete

;

With anxious meaning, heaven-ward turn his eye!

Time then would seem more precious than the joys
In which he sports away the treasure now;
And prayer more seasonable than the noise
Of drunkards, or the music-drawing bow.

Then doubtless many a trifler, on the brink

Of this world's hazardous and headlong shore, Forced to a pause, would feel it good to think, Told that his setting sun must rise no more.

Ah, self-deceived! Could I prophetic say
Who next is fated, and who next, to fall,
The rest might then seem privileged to play ;
But, naming none, the Voice now speaks to ALL.

Observe the dappled foresters, how light

They bound, and airy, o'er the sunny glade— One falls-the rest, wide-scatter'd with affright, Vanish at once into the darkest shade.

Had we their wisdom, should we, often warn'd,
Still need repeated warnings, and at last,

A thousand awful admonitions scorn'd,

Die self-accused of life run all to waste?

Sad waste! for which no after-thrift atones:
The grave admits no cure for guilt or sin ;
Dew-drops may deck the turf that hides the bones,
But tears of godly grief ne'er flow within.

Learn then, ye living! by the mouth be taught
Of all these sepulchres, instructors true,

That, soon or late, death also is your lot,
And the next opening grave may yawn for you.

ON THE

QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON,

THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH MARCH, 1789.

[This piece, referring to the recovery of George III. was first published in The World.]

WHEN, long sequester'd from his throne,

George took his seat again,

By right of worth, not blood alone,

Entitled here to reign,

Then loyalty, with all his lamps

New trimm'd, a gallant show!

Chasing the darkness and the damps,
Set London in a glow.

'Twas hard to tell, of streets or squares,
Which form'd the chief display,
These most resembling cluster'd stars,
Those the long milky way.

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires,

And rockets flew, self-driven,

To hang their momentary fires

Amid the vault of heaven.

So, fire with water to compare,
The ocean serves, on high
Up-spouted by a whale in air,
To express unwieldy joy.

Had all the pageants of the world
In one procession join'd,

And all the banners been unfurl'd
That heralds e'er design'd,

For no such sight had England's Queen Forsaken her retreat,

Where George recover'd made a scene, Sweet always, doubly sweet.

Yet glad she came that night to prove,
A witness undescried,

How much the object of her love
Was loved by all beside.

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er

In aid of her design,

Darkness, O Queen! ne'er call'd before To veil a deed of thine!

On borrow'd wheels away she flies,
Resolved to be unknown,

And gratify no curious eyes
That night, except her own.

Arrived, a night like noon she sees,
And hears the million hum,
As all by instinct, like the bees,
Had known their sovereign come.

Pleased she beheld aloft portray'd
On many a splendid wall,
Emblems of health, and heavenly aid,
And George the theme of all.

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