Hopeful that pity can by her be shewn,
Who for another's offspring quits her own.

Ah! sure ye deem that nature gave in vain
Those swelling orbs that life's warm streams contain ;
As the soft simper, or the dimple sleek
Hangs on the lip, or wantons in the cheek;
Nor heed the duties that to these belong,
The dear nutrition of your helpless young.
-Why else, ere health's returning lustre glows,
Check ye the milky fountain as it flows?
Turn to a stagnant mass the circling flood,
And with disease contaminate the blood?

O crime! with herbs and drugs of essence high,
The sacred fountains of the breast to dry!
Pour back on nature's self the balmy tide
Which nature's God for infancy supplied!
--Does horror shake us when the pregnant dame,
To spare her beauties, or to bide her shame,
Destroys, with impious rage and arts accurst,
Her growing offspring ere to life it burst;
And can we bear, on every slight pretence,
The kindred guilt that marks this dread offence?
As the green herb fresh from its earliest root,
Young life protrudes its yet uncertain shoot,
Or falls, unconscious of the blighting storm,
A dubious victim, and a shadowy form:
But she who to her babe her breast denies,
The sentient mind, the living man destroys;
Arrests kind nature's liberal hand too soon,
And robs her helpless young of half the boon.
'Tis his, not hers-the colour only chang'd,
Erewhile thro' all the throbbing veins it rang'd;
Pour'd thro' each artery its redundant tide,
And with rich stream incipient life supplied;
And when full time releas'd the imprison'd young,
Up to the breasts, a living river, sprung.

Doubt ye the laws by nature's God ordain'd,
Or that the callous young should be sustain'd
Upon the parent breast?-be those your schools
Where nature triumphs, and where instinct rules.
No beast so fierce from Zembla's northern strand,
To Ethiopia's barren realms of sand,
But midst her young her milky fountain shares,
With teats as numerous as the brood she rears.
Two breasts ye boast for this kind end alone,
That your twin offspring each should have its own.

Does

Does no remorse, ye fair, your bosoms gnaw, Rebellious to affection's primal law?

Persist ye still, by her mild voice unaw'd,

False to yourselves, your offspring, and your God?
Mark but your proper frame-what wond'rous art,
What fine arrangement rules in every part;
As the blood rushes thro' each swelling vein,
The ruddy tide appropriate vessels strain ;
And whilst around the limpid current flows,
To shape and strength th' unconscious embryon grows,
But when 'tis born, then nature's secret force
Gives to the circling stream another course;
The starting beverage meets the thirsty lip,
'Tis joy to yield it, and 'tis joy to sip.
So when th' experienced chieftain leads along
To distant enterprise his warrior throng,
He, as they move, with ever-watchful cares
Their stores of needful nutriment prepares;
Still prompt, ere hunger ask, or thirst invade,
With due supplies and stationary aid.

CHARACTER of the BRITISH SATIRISTS:

[From the PROGRESS of SATIRE, an Essay, in Verse.}

ROM these illustrious models * Britain draws

FR

The moral song, and frames her Satire's laws:
But to new themes her muse applies the rhyme,
Free as her sons, and varying as her clime.
To life, to manners, now no more confined,
The general faults or follies of mankind,
For bolder flights proud Satire plumes her wings,
The friend, or foe, of statesmen and of kings,
And oft, with Faction's fierce resentment warm,
Points her dread vengeance, and "directs the storm."

Rough Donne, in homely strains, devoid of art,
Spoke the plain truths that prove an honest heart.
In learning rich, in native humour bold,
His merry tale the laughing Butler told,
And mark'd fanatic pride and factious zeal
In satire faithful to his country's weal.

But Dryden's vigorous muse, as interest sways,

Now wounds by satire, and now soothes by praise :
Now stoops to crush an envious poet's name,

The dull proud rival of his splendid fame,

Now weaves the mystic fable, to expose

Dire Faction's arts and brand a monarch's foes.
Oh! had'st thou scorn'd thy towering soul to bend,
Of guilt the flatterer, and of vice the friend.
Ill-fated bard! how few with generous pride,
Assail'd by want, can stem corruption's tide?
How few, when life is cruel fortune's sport,
Could shun the gay allurements of a court?
'Tis thus the pitying Muse her wrath allays,
And half forgives the strain she dares not praise.

But who thy finish'd beauties can display,
Pope, mighty master of the moral lay?
Whose manly wit and polish'd taste combine,

Point the strong sense, and tune th' harmonious line.
Soft as the strains that grac'd th' Horatian lyre,
Sublime as Juvenal's more vigorous fire,

Thy magic numbers with prevailing art
Steal on th' enraptured ear, and win the heart.
Each form succeeding bards for satire choose
Springs from thy various, thy accomplish'd muse:
Whether they claim just imitation's praise,
And classic thoughts adapt to British lays,
Or, more inventive, in appropriate rhymes
Display the manners, and record the times,
Or, mighty trifles studious to rehearse,
Strut on the stilts of mock-heroic verse,
Or dash proud dulness from Parnassus' height,
And with the muse's arms assert the muse's right.

Alas! could wit, could genius bright as thine
E'er give to spleen one harsh ungenerous line;
Or bid with bitter eloquence to flow

That verse" which made an Addison thy foe ?"

With wit that else had claim'd an equal prize,
But taste less just, see virtuous Young arise!
H's keen remark, well-tempered, though severe,
His lively sentence, and his pointed sneer,
At general vice, or flagrant follies, aim

Their nobler sting, nor wound one honour'd name.

But soon 'twas thine to mark, indignant muse, Degen'rate Satire warp'd by party views.

See her bold front Malignity display,

song.

And Faction triumph in fierce Churchill's lay!
Nor Candour's voice, nor sense of right and wrong,
Checks in its course his dire vindictive
He deals on every side the fatal blow,
Nor owns sense, wit, or virtue in a foe.
And yet insulted Candour must admire,
Distinguish'd bard, thy muse's strength and fire,

Must

་་

Must own, if party-zeal had ne'er confined
To transient themes thy bold and fervid mind,
Britain had dwelt with rapture on thy page,
Preserv'd by genuine worth from age to age.

Still Satire seeks a transitory name,
Nor heeds the call of never-dying fame,
Pursues vain shadows, and exerts her power
To catch the fleeting fashions of an hour.
Shrouded in night, the feign'd Macgregor pours
The tide of song from wit's abundant stores,
Skill'd to combine with humour's richest vein
The pomp of verse, the mock majestic strain.
And thou, sweet bard! o'er whose untimely urn
The Graces droop, the Muse delights to mourn,
Tickell, in vain to taste, to genius dear,
Accept this fond, this tributary tear!
'Twas thine by playful ridicule to seize
Gay Fashion's follies, yet her vot'ries please,
Stern Party's rage by sprightly wit allay,
And cheer her gloomy scenes by Fancy's ray.
Oh! hadst thou e'er, by true ambition fired,
To nobler themes, to lasting fame, aspired,
Each charm, each gift of the propitious nine,
That graced th' Ausonian lays, had beam'd in thine.

Severer Satire, from a different source,
Flow'd with rough vehemence and turbid course.
When C-s from Fashion's heavenly region fell,
Enraged he waked the majesty of hell,

And bade him, issuing from th' infernal gloom,
Record distinguish'd guilt, and stamp its doom.
Harsh was his censure, not unjust his aim;
While Satire echoed the loud voice of fame.

But lo! what tumults rise? what bustling throng
Provokes the scornful critic's angry song?
'Tis Affectation's motley crew invades,
With steps unhallow'd, the Pierian shades:

They seize the sacred chair, their shrill notes raise,
And ring th' unvarying peal of mutual praise.
Mourn, classic muse! conceit pollutes thy strain,
Proud Nonsense triumphs in her Crusca's reign:
When see, resentment sparkling in his eyes,
To crush thy foes indignant Gd rise!
Thy foes, the fluttering insects of an hour,
Fly from his rage, or bow beneath his power:
Yet why, victorious champion, why abuse
The cheap and easy conquest of thy muse?

Insult the fall'n, or brand some bards who claim
No proud distinction in the ranks of fame?
The modest poet's unobtrusive lays

True candour pardons where it cannot praise.
Conceit once check'd, let angry warfare cease,
And unoffending dullness rest in peace.

Part of an ADDRESS to the SUN, a FRAGMENT.

[From POEMS, by JOSEPH FAWCETT.]

ΤΗ
THOU

HOU dazzling ball! vast universe of flame!
Idol sublime! Error's most glorious god!
Whose peerless splendours plead in the excuse
Of him that worships thee, and shine away
The sin of pagan knees! whose awful orb,
Though truth informs my more enlightened creed,
Almost entices my o'er-ravished heart

To turn idolator, and tempts my mouth
To kiss my hand before thee. Nature's pride!
Of matter most magnificent display!
Bright masterpiece of dread Omnipotence!
Ocean of splendour! wond'rous world of light!
Thy sweet return my kindled lays salute.

Hail, amiable vision ! every eye

Looks up and loves thee! every tongue proclaims
'Tis pleasant to behold thee; rosy Health,
And laughing Joy thy beauteous daughters, play
Before thy face for ever, and rejoice

In thine indulgent ray.

Nature mourns

Thine annual departure; in despair,

Like one forsaken by her love, she sits,
And tears from off her all her gay attire,

And drowns her face in tears, and languid lies,
As if of life devoid: but lo, she lives!
She lives again! her glorious rover comes,
To wake her from her lethargy of woe,
Andwarm her into beauty with his smile.

Fountain of inspiration! fir'd by thee,
Imagination's sacred tumults rise,
And pour upon the fair, immortal page,
The splendid image and the burning word!
Oh hallow'd hour! o'erflowing with delight!
Moments of more than earthly ecstacy!

When the blest bard, panting beneath thy rays,
Feels the fine rapture silently infus'd
Into his agitated breast; and full

Of