INCOMPARABLE SOPORIFIC DOCTOR.
SWEET, sleeky Doctor! dear pacific soul !
Lay at the beef, and suck the vital bowl !
Still let the' involving smoke around thee fly,
And broad-look'd dullness settle in thine eye.
Ah! soft in down these dainty limbs repose,
And in the very lap of slumber doze;
But chiefly on the lazy day of grace,
Call forth the lambent glories of thy face;
If aught the thoughts of dinner can prevail,
And sure the Sunday's dinner cannot fail.
To the thin church in sleepy pomp proceed,
And lean on the lethargic book thy head.
These eyes wipe often with the hallow'd lawn,
Profoundly nod, immeasurably yawn.
Slow let the prayers by thy meek lips be sung,
Nor let thy thoughts be distanc'd by thy tongue,
If ere the lingerers are within a call,
Or if on prayers thou deign'st to think at all.
Yet-only yet-the swimming head we bend;
But when serene, the pulpit you ascend,
Through every joint a gentle horror creeps,
And round you the consenting audience sleeps.
So when an ass with sluggish front appears,
The horses start, and prick their quivering ears;
But soon as e'er the sage is heard to bray,
The fields all thunder, and they bound away.
TO MALLET'S MUSTAPHA.
SINCE Athens first began to draw mankind,
To picture life, and show the' impassion'd mind
PROLOGUE TO MALLET'S MUSTAPHA.
The truly wise have ever deem'd the stage
The moral school of each enlighten'd age.
There, in full pomp, the tragic muse appears,
Queen of soft sorrows, and of useful fears.
Faint is the lesson reason'd rules impart :
She pours it strong, and instant through the heart.
If virtue is the theme; we sudden glow
With generous flame: and, what we feel, we grow.
If vice she paints; indignant passions rise;
The villain sees himself with loathing eyes.
His soul starts, conscious, at another's groan,
And the pale tyrant trembles on his throne.
To night, our meaning scene attempts to show
What fell events from dark suspicion flow;
Chief when it taints a lawless monarch's mind,
To the false herd of flattering slaves confin'd.
The soul sinks gradual to so dire a state;
Ev'n excellence but serves to feel its hate:
To hate remorseless, cruelty succeeds,
And every worth, and every virtue bleeds.
Behold, our author at your bar appears,
His modest hopes depress'd by conscious fears.
Faults he has many-but to balance those,
His verse with heart-felt love of virtue glows:
All slighter errors let indulgence spare,
And be his equal trial full and fair.
For this best British privilege we call,
Then-as he merits, let him stand, or fall.
C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, Union Buildings, Leather Lane.
IN THE MASK OF ALFRED.
WHEN Britain first, at Heaven's command,
Arose from out the azure main,
This was the charter of the land,
And guardian angels sung this strain:
"Rule, Britannia! rule the waves,
Britons never will be slaves.'
The nations not so bless'd as thee,
Must in their turns to tyrants fall;
While thou shalt flourish great and free,
The dread and envy of them all.
'Rule,' &c.
Still more majestic shalt thou rise,
More dreadful from each foreign stroke;
As the loud blast that tears the skies Serves but to root thy native oak. " Rule,' &c.
ADDITION TO THE POEMS OF THOMSON.
Thee haughty tyrants ne'er shall tame,
All their attempts to bend thee down,
Will but arouse thy generous flame,
But work their woe, and thy renown. 'Rule,' &c.
To thee belongs the rural reign;
Thy cities shall with commerce shine;
All thine shall be the subject main,
And every shore it circles thine.
'Rule,' &c.
The Muses, still with freedom found,
Shall to thy happy coast repair;
Bless'd isle! with matchless beauty crown'd,
And manly hearts to guard the fair:
" Rule, Britannia! rule the waves,
Britons never shall be slaves.'
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