46 "I've heard ftrange things from one of you, "Such incenfe has perfum'd my throne! "To light fome flames, and fome revive, "Full oft I am implor'd; "But, with peculiar pow'r to please, "To fupplicate for nought but cafe! "'Tis odd, upon my word! "Tell her, with fruitlefs care I've fought; And tho' my realms, with wonders fraught, "In remedies abound, "No grain of cold Indifference "Was ever yet allied to fenfe "In all my fairy round. "The regions of the fky I'd trace, "I'd ranfack every earthly place, "Each leaf, each herb, each flow'r, "To mitigate the pangs of fear, "Difpel the clouds of black despair, "Or lull the reftiefs hour. "I would be generous as I'm juft; "But I obey, as others muft, "Thofe laws which fate has made. "My tiny kingdom how defend, "And what might be the horrid end, "Should man my state invade? "'Twould put your mind into a rage, "And fuch unequal war to wage "Suits not my regal duty! This faid, he darted o'er the plain, § 85. The Beggar's Petition. ANON. PITY the forrows of a poor old man, Whofe trembling limbs have borne him to Whofe days are dwindled to the shortest span; road; Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor ! Here, as I crav'd a morfel of their bread, A pamper'd menial drove me from the door To feek a fhelter in an humbler fhed. Oh take me to your hofpitable dome! Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold! Short is my paffage to the friendly tomb, For I am poor, and miferably old. Should I reveal the fources of my grief, If foft humanity e'er touch'd your breast, Your hands would not withhold the kind relief, And tears of pity would not be reprefs'd. Heaven fends misfortunes; why fhould we repine? 'Tis Heaven has brought me to the ftate you fee; And your condition may be foon like mine, The Child of Sorrow and of Milery. A little farm was my paternal lot; Then like the lark I fprightly hail'd the morn: ftore, The playful school-boys wanton o'er the green: Where fpreading poplars fhade the cottage-door, The villagers in ruftic joy convene. Amid the fecret windings of the wood, With folemn Meditation let me ftray; This is the hour when to the wife and good The heavenly maid repays the toils of day. The river murmurs, and the breathing gale Whispers the gently-waving boughs among: The ftar of evening glimmers o'er the dale, And leads the filent hoft of heaven along. How bright, emerging o'er yon broom-clad height, The filver emprefs of the night appears! Yon limpid pool reflects a ftream of light, And faintly in its breaft the woodland bears. The waters tumbling o'er their rocky bed, Solemn and conftant, from yon dell refound; I i The The lonely hearths blaze o'er the diftant glade; The bat, low-wheeling, fkims the dusky ground. Auguft and hoary, o'er the floping dale, The Gothic abbey rears its fculptur'd tow'rs; Dull through the roofs refounds the whiftling gale, Dark folitude among the pillars low'rs. Where von old trees bend o'er a place of graves, And folemn fhade a chapel's fad remains, Where yon fcath'd poplar through the window waves, And, twining round, the hoary arch sustains; There oft, at dawn, as one forgot behind, Who longs to follow, yet unknowing where, Pores on the graves, and fighs a broken pray'r. A warlike mien, a fullen grandeur wears. Still on the war-worn veteran's brow attends; Still his big bones his youthful prime declare, Tho' trembling o'er the feeble crutch he bends. Gone is the bow'r, the grot a ruin'd heap, to me! This bank, the river, and the fanning breeze, The dear idea of my Pollio bring; So fair a bleffom gentle Pollio wore, These werethe emblems of his healthful mind; To him the letter'd page di'play'd its lore, To him bright Fancy all her wealth refign'd; Him with her purest flames the Mufe endow'd, Flames ne er to th' illiberal thought allied: The facred fifters led where Virtue glow'd In all her charms; he faw, he felt, and died. O partner of my infant griefs and joys! Big with the fcenes now paft, my heart o'erflows; Bids each endearment, fair as once, to rile, And dwells luxurious on her melting woes. Oft with the rifing fun, when life was new, Along the woodland have I roam'd with thee; Off by the moon have bruth'd the evening dew, When all was fearless innocence and glee. The fainted well, where yon bleak hill declines, For thou art gene. My guide, my friend! oh Where haft thou fled, and left me here behind! My tend 'reft with, my heart to thee was bare; Oh now cut off cach paffage to my mind! Hope falters, and the foul recoils aghaft! And could thy bright, thy living foul expire? Chill'd in this vale of death, but languish here. So plant the vine on Norway's wint'ry land, The languid franger feebly buds, and dies: Yet there's a clime where Virtue thall expand With godlike ftrength beneath her native fkies! The lonely fhepherd on the mountain's side With patience waits the roly-opening day; In mental vifion view the happy fhore, Oh that fome kind, fome pitying kindred shade, Who now perhaps frequents this folemn grove, Would tell the awful fecrets of the dead, And from my eyes the mortal film remove! Vain is the wifh-yet furcly not in vain Man's bofom glows with that celestial fire Which fcorns earth's luxuries, which fmiles at pain, And wings his fpirit with fublime defire ! Stiil, O my foul! ftill be thy dear employ; While rifing ecftafics their bofoms fir'd. The burning deferts fmil'd as Eden's plains $87. The Tears of Scotland. SMOLLET. MOURN, hapless Caledonia, mourn Thy banish'd peace, thy laurels torn! Thy fons, for valour long renown'd, Lie laughter'd on their native ground; Thy hofpitable roofs no more Invite the ftranger to the door; In fmoky ruins funk they lie, The monuments of cruelty. The wretched owner fees, afar, His all become the prey of war: Bethinks him of his babes and wife; Then mites his breaft, and curfes life. The fwains are famith'd on the rocks, Where once they fed their wanton flocks: Thy ravish'd virgins fhrick in vain; Thy infants perish on the plain. What boots it, then, in ev'ry clime, Thro' the wide-fpreading wafte of time, Thy martial glory, crown'd with praife, Still fhone with undiminish'd blaze? Thy tow'ring fpirit now is broke, Thy neck is bended to the yoke: What foreign arms could never quell, By civil rage and rancour fell. The rural pipe, and merry lay, No more fhall cheer the happy day: No focial fcenes of gay delight Beguile the dreary winter night : No ftrains but thofe of forrow flow, And nought be heard but founds of woe; While the pale phantoms of the flain Glide nightly o'er the filent plain. Oh baneful caufe, on fatal morn, Accurs'd to ages yet unborn! The fons against their fathers stood; The parent fhed his children's blood. Yet, when the rage of battle ceas'd, The victor's foul was not appeas'd: The naked and forlorn must feel Devouring flames, and murd'ring fteel! The pious mother doom'd to death, Forfaken, wanders o'er the heath; The bleak wind whistles round her head, Her helpless orphans cry for bread; Bereft of thelter, food, and friend, She views the fhades of night defcend; Troop in her rear, and fly th' approach of morn. Pale fhiv'ring ghofts, that dread th' all-cheering [night. light, Quick as the lightning's flash glide to fepulchral But whence the gladd'ning beam That pours his purple ftr.am O'er the long prospect wide? With Laughter at her fide. Now Mirth hath heard the fuppliant Poet's pray'ı : $59. Ole to Leven Water. SMOLLET. ON Leven's banks, while free to rove, Pure ftream! in whofe tranfparent wave With white, round, polish'd pebbles spread; Stili on thy banks, fo gaily green, $90. Songe to Alla, Lorde of the Caftel of Bryflowe ynne daies of yore. From CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLEY. OH thou, orr what remaynes of thee, Alla, the darlynge of futurity,.. Lett thys mie fonge bolde as thie courage be, And neighe to be amenged the poyntedd fpeers § 91. Briftowe Tragedie, or, The Detbe of i Charles Bawdin. CHATTERTON, under the name of ROWLET. THE featherd fongfter chaunticleer Had wounde hys bugle horne, And told the carlie villager The commynge of the morne; Kynge Edwarde fave the rudie ftreakes And herde the raven's crokynge throte "Thou 'rt ryght," quod hee, "for, by the God, Then wythe a jugge of nappy ale His Knyghtes dydd onne hymm waite; "Goe tell the traytour thatt to-daie "Hee leaves thys mortall state." Syr Canterlone thenne bendedd lowe, Wythe hart brymm-fulle of woe; Hee journey'd to the caftle-gate, And to Syr Charles dydd goe. But whenne hee came, his children twaine, Whanne Dacya's fonnes, whofe hayres of bloude-Wythe brinie tears dydd wett the floore, redde hue [ing due, Lyche kynge-cuppes braftynge wythe the morn- Spredde farre and wyde onne Watchets fhore; Beefprengedd all the mees wythe gore. Drawne bie thyne anlace felle, Oh thou, whereer (thie bones att refte) The dyimall crye of warre, Or fecft fomme mountayne made of corfe of fleyne;} 3 For goode Syr Charleses lyfe. "O goode Syr Charles !" fayd Canterlone, "Badde tydyngs I doe brynge." 66 Speke boldlie, manne," fayd brave Syr Charles, "I greeve to telle: Before yonne fonne Wee all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Of thatte I'm not affearde: "What bootes to lyve a little space? "Thanke Jefu, I'm prepar'd. "Butt telle thye kynge, for myne hee 's not, "Thanne lyve hys flave, as manic are, For goode Syr Charleses fate. Thenne Thenne Maifterr Canynge faugthe the kynge, And felle down onne hys knee; I'm come,' quod hee, "unto your grace "To move your clemencye." "We all muft die," quod brave Syr Charles; "Whatte bootes ytte howe or whenne? "Dethe ys the fure, the certaine fate "Of all wee mortall menne. Thenne quod the kynge, "Your tale fpeke out, "Saye why, my friend, thie honest foul "You have been much oure friende; "Whatever youre request may bee, "We wylle to ytte attende." My nobile liege! all my request Ys for a nobile knygute, Who, tho' may hap he has donne wronge, "He thoghte ytte ftylle was ryghte: Hee has a fpoufe and children twaine, "Alle rewyn'd are for aie; "Yff thatt you are refolv'd to lett "Charles Bawdin die to daie." Speke nott of fuch a traytour vile," The kynge ynne fury fayde; Before the ev'ning ftarre doth fheene, "Bawdia thall loofe hys hedde: "Juftice does loudlie for hym calle,. "And hee fhall have hys meede: "Speke, Maifter Cauynge! whatte thynge elfe "Att prefent doc you neede ?" My nobile licge !" goode Canynge fayde, "Was Godde to ferche our hertes and reines, "The best were fynners grete; "Chrift's vycarr only knowes ne fynne, Ynne alle thys mortall ftate. "Lett mercie rule thyne infante reigne, "Alle fov'reigns fhall endure: But yff wythe bloode ann flaughter thou "Thy crowne uponne thy childrennes brows "Has fcorn'd my power and mee; "Howe canft thou thenne for fuch a manne "Intreate my clemencye?" "My nobile liege! the truly brave "Wylle val rous actions prize, "Refpect a brave and nobile mynde, "Altho' ynne enemies." "Canynge, awaic! By Godde ynne heav'n "That dydd mee beinge gyve, "I wylle nott tafte a bitt of breade "Whilft thys Syr Charles dothe lyve. "By Marie, and all Seinetes ynn heav'n "Thys funne fhall be hys lafte." Thenne Canynge dropt a brinie tcare, And from the prefence pafte. With herte brymm-fulle of gnawynge grief, Runns overr att thyne eye; "Is ytte for my moft welcome doome "Thatt thou doft child-lyke crye?" 66 Quod godlie Canynge, “I do weepe, "Thatt thou fee toone mult dye, "And leave thy fonnes and helpiefs wyfe; 'Tys thys thatt wettes myne eye." "Thenne drie the teares thatt out thyne eye "From godlie fountaines fprynge; "Dethe I defpife, and alle the pow'r "Of Edwarde, traytour kynge. "Whan throgh the tyrant's welcom means "I fhall refigne my lyfe, "The Godde I ferve wylle foon pravyde "Howe oft ynne battaile have I stoode, "How dydd I knowe that ev'ry darte, Why thenne hys wylle be donne. My honefte friende, my faulte has beene "To ferve Godde and mye prynce; "And thatt I no tyme-ferver am, My dethe wylle foone convynce. "Hee taught mee juftice and the laws "And eke hee taughte mee howe to knowe "Ne lette mye fervants drive awaie "And |