Well-breech'd, and button'd close from hip to leg,

66

A fig," quoth he, “for Powel

Enough enough! However pro

Fillibog "

Satire with mirth, I mean not to offend :
You know my heart; if I have our'd-in-aught,
Forgive the trespass, give it not a thought :
But

come you must, though plac'd as wide, As Thule's cliffs from Fal's* deserted tide,. (Where now, alask me paekets put to sea, But howly like Tyrians at the tradeless quay.) "I'll feast my Prodigal, come when And strain my purse the fatted calf to kill.

will,

Thebanos aptare modos studet auspice Musâ,
An tragicâ desævit et ampullatur in arte?—

Pascitur in vestrum reditum votiva juvenca.

* The auther-takes this occasion, with respectful deference to these with whom the remedy lies, to represent the daily ruin of individuals, and as he conceives, the serious disadvantage to public service, resulting from the removal of the Government Packets-from-Falmouth Harbour: and fe authority than

his vn-on this subjoot, refers-his-readers to a pamphlet entitled, A Letter on the extension of the Naval Establishment+ Fab mouth Harbour, &c. By a Captain in the Royal Navy 2-Hatehardy 1910,

DEAR Heathcote, ever wont to blend,

The Critic with the partial friend,

Say, do'st thou bid thy pipe resound,
As Shenstone erst, the Wreckin round:

And teach thy Pegasus to gallop
Over the hills and dales of "Salop;

ALBI nostrorum sermonum candide judex
Quid nunc te dicam facere in regioneb Pedanâ

Scribere quod Cassi Parmensis opuscula vincat?

But at that time acording at (ond over

Park Salop.

Or wrapt in silent shades explore
The paths of philosophic lore?

Or, mounted on some earth-born steed,

For horns renounce the Doric reed?

Sure thou hast too much genuine fire,
To sink into the Country Squire :
The Fates to thy deserts have given
The choicest blessings under Heaven;
Health, Friends, and Affluence; the Art,
Without profusion to impart ;

A liberal hand, a glowing heart:
Nature to these a manly frame,

The Muse hath added classic fame;
Of wit and eloquence a store :

What would our Alma Mater more.

Feel then thy level, and disdain,

Each grov'ling joy, and paltry pain;

An tacitum silvas inter reptare salubres
Curantem quicquid dignum sapiente, bonoque?
Non tus corpus eras sine pectore. Di tibi formam,
Di tibi divitias dederunt, artemq; fruendi.

Quid voveat dulci a Nutricula majus Alumno

And keep, whatever intervenes,

A state proportion'd to thy means.

In calculating Life's amount,

Think every day will close the account;

And should an overplus remain,

'Tis clear unestimated gain.

When tir'd of too much sober sense,

Come here and laugh at my expence.
Thou'lt find, though sorely out of feed,
A pig of Epicurus' breed ;

In short, old Horace to a tittle,
Ere he grew fat, and full of victual.

Qui sapere & fari possit, quæ sentiat, & cui
Gratia, fama, valetudo contingat abundè.
Et mundus victus, non deficiente crumenâ?
Inter spem, curamq; timores inter & iras,
Omnem crede diem tibi diluxisse supremum :
Grata superveniet quæ non sperabitur hora.
Me pinguem & nitidum benè curatá cute vises,
Cum ridere voles, Epicuri de grege porcum,

OF

OVID'S METAMORPHOSES,

TRANSLATED.

FIRED by a mortal flame, the Queen of Love,
In distant shades forgets the Cyprian grove,
Cnidos and Paphos now delight no more,
Nor Amathus renown'd for precious ore;
E'en blest Olympus yields unenvied charms,
She knows no heav'n but in Adonis' arms:
Held in delicious chains, the captive boy
His youth inglorious wastes in idle joy;
For him the Goddess trims her rosy bowers,
The slave and partner of his blissful hours,
For him with comely robes her form improves,
Her heavenly form, that brightens, as she moves,
With livelier beauties, and with keener loves.
Idalias Goddess, now a huntress grown,

For chaste Diana's garb forsakes her own,