This truth premised was needful as a text,
To win due credence to what follows next.
A while they mused; surveying every face,
Thou hadst supposed them of superior race;
Their periwigs of wool and fears combined,
Stamp'd on each countenance such marks of mind,
That sage they seem'd as lawyers o'er a doubt,
Which, puzzling long, at last they puzzle out;
Or academic tutors, teaching youths,

Sure ne'er to want them, mathematic truths;
When thus a mutton statelier than the rest,
A ram, the ewes and wethers sad address'd:
"Friends! we have lived too long. I never heard
Sounds such as these, so worthy to be fear'd.
Could I believe that winds for ages pent

In earth's dark womb have found at last a vent,
And from their prison-house below arise,
With all these hideous howlings to the skies,
I could be much composed, nor should appear,
For such a cause, to feel the slightest fear.

Yourselves have seen, what time the thunders roll'd
All night, me resting quiet in the fold.

Or heard we that tremendous bray alone,
I could expound the melancholy tone:
Should deem it by our old companion made,
The ass; for he, we know, has lately stray'd,
And, being lost, perhaps, and wandering wide,
Might be supposed to clamour for a guide.
But ah! those dreadful yells what soul can hear,
That owns a carcass, and not quake for fear.
Demons produce them doubtless, brazen-claw'd,
And fang'd with brass the demons are abroad;
I hold it therefore wisest and most fit
That, life to save, we leap into the pit."

Him answer'd then his loving mate and true,
But more discreet than he, a Cambrian ewe :

"How! leap into the pit our life to save?
To save our life leap all into the grave?
For can we find it less ? Contemplate first
The depth how awful! falling there we burst:
Or should the brambles interposed our fall
In part abate, that happiness were small;
For with a race like theirs no chance I see
Of peace or ease to creatures clad as we.
Meantime, noise kills not. Be it Dapple's bray,
Or be it not, or be it whose it may,.

And rush those other sounds, that seem by tongues
Of demons utter'd, from whatever lungs,

Sounds are but sounds, and, till the cause appear,
We have at least commodious standing here.
Come fiend, come fury, giant, monster, blast
From earth or hell, we can but plunge at last."
While thus she spake, I fainter heard the peals,
For Reynard, close attended at his heels
By panting dog, tired man, and spatter'd horse,
Through mere good fortune, took a different course.
The flock grew calm again, and I, the road
Following, that led me to my own abode,
Much wonder'd that the silly sheep had found
Such cause of terror in an empty sound,
So sweet to huntsman, gentleman, and hound.

MORAL.

Beware of desperate steps. The darkest day,
Live till to-morrow, will have pass'd away.

ANNUS MEMORABILIS, 1789.

WRITTEN IN COMMEMORATION OF HIS MAJESTY'S HAPPY RECOVERY.

I RANSACK'D for a theme of song,
Much ancient chronicle, and long;
I read of bright embattled fields,
Of trophied helmets, spears, and
shields,

Of chiefs, whose single arm could
boast

Prowess to dissipate a host;
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme,
But none I found, or found them
shared

Already by some happier bard.
To modern times, with truth to guide
My busy search, I next applied;
Here cities won, and fleets dispersed,
Urged loud a claim to be rehearsed,
Deeds of unperishing renown,
Dur fathers' triumphs and our own.
Thus as the bee, from bank to
bower,

Assiduous sips at every flower,
But rests on none till that be found
Where most nectareous sweets
abound,

So I, from theme to theme display'd
In many a page historic stray'd,
Siege after siege, fight after fight,
Contemplating with small delight,
(For feats of sanguinary hue
Not always glitter in my view,)
Till, settling on the current year,
I found the far-sought treasure near.
| A theme for poetry divine,
A theme to ennoble even mine,
In memorable Eighty-nine.

The spring of Eighty-nine shall be
An era cherish'd long by me.
Which joyful I will oft record,
And thankful at my frugal board;
For then the clouds of Eighty-eight,
That threaten'd England's trembling

state

With loss of what she least could
spare,

Her sovereign's tutelary care,
One breath of heaven, that cried-
Restore!

Chased, never to assemble more;
And for the richest crown on earth,

If valued by its wearer's worth,
The symbol of a righteous reign
Sat fast on George's brows again.
Then peace and joy again pos-
sess'd

Our queen's long agitated breast;
Such joy and peace as can be known
By sufferers like herself alone,
Who losing, or supposing lost,
The good on earth they valued most,
For that dear sorrow's sake forego
All hope of happiness below.
Then suddenly regain the prize,
And flash thanksgivings to the skies!
O Queen of Albion, queen of isles!
Since all thy tears were changed to
smiles,

ON THE QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON,
THE NIGHT OF THE 17TH OF MARCH, 1789.

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 dome, 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 designed;

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,
Resolv'd to be unknown,
And gratify no curious eyes

That night except her own.

ON THE BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTY FROM SEA-BATHING IN THE YEAR 1789.

THE COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND.*

MUSE-hide his name of whom I Nor speak the school from which he

sing, Lest his surviving house thou bring The much or little that he knew, For his sake into scorn, Nor place where he was born.

* Written on reading the following in the obituary of the Gentleman's Magazine for April, 1789:-" At Tottenham, John Ardesoif, Esq., a young man of large fortune, and in the splendour of his carriages and horses rivalled by few country gentlemen. His

That such a man once was, may seem
Worthy of record (if the theme

Perchance may credit win),
For proof to man, what Man may
prove,

If grace depart and demons move
The source of guilt within.

This man (for since the howling wild
Disclaims him, man he must be styled)
Wanted no good below,

Gentle he was, if gentle birth

One feather'd champion he possess'd,
His darling far beyond the rest,

Which never knew disgrace,
Nor e'er had fought, but he made flow
The life-blood of his fiercest foe,
The Cæsar of his race.

It chanced, at last, when, on a day,
He push'd him to a desperate fray,
His courage droop'd, he fled.
The master storm'd, the prize was
lost,

Could make him such; and he had And, instant, frantic at the cost,

worth,

If wealth can worth bestow.

In social talk and ready jest
He shone superior at the feast,
And qualities of mind,
Illustrious in the eyes of those
Whose gay society he chose

Possess'd of every kind.

Methinks I see him powder'd red, With bushy locks his well-dress'd head

Wing'd broad on either side,
The mossy rosebud not so sweet;
His steeds superb, his carriage neat
As luxury could provide.

Can such be cruel? Such can be
Cruel as hell, and so was he;

A tyrant entertain'd
With barbarous sports, whose fell
delight

Was to encourage mortal fight

"Twixt birds to battle train'd.

He doom'd his favourite dead.

He seized him fast, and from the pit
Flew to the kitchen, snatch'd the spit,
And, "Bring me cord," he cried;
The cord was brought, and, at his
word,

To that dire implement the bird
Alive and struggling, tied.

The horrid sequel asks a veil,
And all the terrors of a tale

That can be, shall be, sunk.-
Led by the sufferer's screams aright
His shock'd companions view the
sight

And him with fury drunk.
All, suppliant, beg a milder fate
For the old warrior at the grate :
He, deaf to pity's call,
Whirled round him, rapid as a
wheel,

His culinary club of steel,
Death menacing on all.

table was that of hospitality, where it may be said, he sacrificed too much to conviviality; but, if he had his foibles, he had his merits also, that far outweighed them. Mr. A. was very fond of cock-fighting, and had a favourite cock upon which he had won many profitable matches. The last bet he laid upon this cock he lost, which so enraged him that he had the bird tied to a spit and roasted alive before a large fire. The screams of the miserable animal were so affecting, that some gentlemen who were present attempted to interfere, which so enraged Mr. A. that he seized a poker, and with the most furious vehemence declared that he would kill the first man who interposed; but, in the midst of his passionate asseverations, he fell down dead upon the spot. Such, we are assured, were the circumstances which attended the death of this great pillar of humanity." [This story was afterwards found to be false, and was contradicted.-ED.]