* STANZAS

ΤΟ

P P

ON HIS ABUSE OF MR. HAYLEY.

HAIL! bard, in whose prolific brain
Immortal Dulness holds her reign,
Father of Grub-street lays;

On Pegasus in vain you sit,
Your striving to be deem'd a wit
But impotence displays.

Thou candidate for Settle's fee,
Excelling him in ribaldry,

Superlatively dull;

With outré tales, and lines uncouth,

Why dost thou wound the ear of truth, With spleen and rancour full ?

Say why, impell'd by envious spite, Thy grey goose-quill has dar'd to write 'Gainst Hayley's moral page;

Hayley, whose works resplendent shine, Whose classic thoughts and nervous line

Shall charm the distant age?

In him Dan Pope again we see;
The vilest ribald, too, in thee;
Then be for once advis'd:

Send to the trunkmaker thy store
Of scandal Odes, and write no more;
Thou may'st be less despis'd.

THE LAUNDRESSES.

A RUNIC ode.

DARK with clouds the early day
On the eastern hills arose;
Females six, in strange array,

Left their couches' soft repose.

Two by two they march along,
Scarce th' unwieldy load they move,

Sheets of texture wide and strong,
Which Hibernia's shuttles wove.

Dread ablutions they prepare;
Lo! the purple furnace gleams;
And the cauldron high in air

Flings around mephitic steams.

In the billows foaming white
Now their brawny arms they steep:
Shirts with kindred shifts unite,
Buried in the boiling deep.

Songs obscene they now begin!

Each gaunt figure chaunts, in turn,
Words that breathe of Hollands gin,
Thoughts that like that spirit burn.

Jugs shall ring, and glasses crash ;
Nought their fiend-like thirst can quench:
Cheeks shall glow, and eye-balls flash,
Glimmering tapers die in stench.

Nor the hurly-burly slack,

Till, with mirth and toil oppress'd, Prostrate on her brawny back

Each stout matron sinks to rest.

*THE BLUSH.

WHEN first I woo'd young Delia fair,
I prais'd her shape and auburn air,
With warmth my passion press'd;

Her tongue denies-her cheeks disclose
The modest blush that decks the rose,
And all her love confess'd.

N

* LINES,

BY ISABELLA.

THE morn returns, whose genial light
Gilds ev'ry bosom with delight;

All nature smiles, and all looks gay,
To hail the rising god of day;

And all but me the blessing share,
Whose ev'ry thought is dark despair.
Of Friendship, Love, and Peace, bereft,
Say, is there any comfort left?

Religion gently whispers low,

In silv'ry accents, murm'ring slow,
"O child of grief, thy tears restrain,
Nor waste thy fleeting hours in vain;
Life, though sad, may yet impart
A ray of comfort to thy heart.
Let sober Reason be thy guide,
With calm Reflection by her side;
These will each wand'ring thought repress,
And lead thee back to happiness.
No more with weak regret repine

The fickle joys which once were thine;
Hope shall dispel this care and gloom,

And promise peace beyond the tomb."

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE.

This Well is situated in the parish of St. Neot's, in Cornwall, and is dedicated to St. Keyne, who, tradition says, laid a spell upon the water; in consequence of which any newmarried man or woman who shall first drink thereof shall be absolute domestic ruler.

[SOUTHEY.]

A WELL there is in the West Country,
And a clearer one never was seen;
There is not a wife in the West Country
But has heard of the Well of St. Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,
And behind does an ash tree grow;
And a willow from the bank above
Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St. Keyne,
Pleasant it was to his eye;

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,
And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,
For thirsty and hot was he;

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow tree.