Next crowns the bowl; with faithful Sunderlan!,
And Halifax, the Muses' darling son,
In whom conspicuous, with full luster, shine
The surest judgment and the brightest wit,
Himself Mecanas and a Flaccus too;
And all the worthies of the British realm,
In order rang'd succeed; such healths as tinge
The dulcet wine with a more charming gust.
Now each his mistress toasts, by whose bright eye
He's fired; Cosmelia fair, or Dulcibell',
Or Sylvia, comely black, with jetty eyes
Piercing, or airy Celia, sprightly maiil !---
Insensibly thus flow unnumber'd hours;
Glass succeeds glasa, till the Dircean god
Shines in our eyes, and with his fulgent ray3
Enlightens our glad looks with lovely dye;
All blithe and jolly, that like Arthur's knights
Of Rotund Table, fam'd in old records,
Now most we seem'd—such is the power of Wine !
Thus we the winged hours in harmless nirth
And joys unsullied pass, till humid Night
Has half her race perform’d; now all abroa !
Is hush'd and silent, nor the rumbling noise
Of coach, or cart, or smoky link-boy's call,
Is heard—but universal silence reigns ;
When we in merry plight, airy and gay,
Surpris'd to find the hours so swiftly fly,
With hasty knock, or twang of pendant coril,
Alarm the drowsy youth from slumbering nol:
Startled he flies, and stumbles o'er the stairs
Erroneous, and with busy knuckles plies
His yet clung eyelids, and with staggering red
Enters confus’d, and muttering asks our wilis;
When we with liberal hand the score disc'arge,
And homeward each his course with steal.y step
Unerring steers, of cares and coin bereft.
O, HEAVENLY born! in deepest dells
If fairer science ever dwells
Beneath the mossy cave;
Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flowery carpets lave.
For, Melancholy ever reigns
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
With scientific light
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
Though wrapt from mortal sight.
While raptured bards no more behold
A vernal age of purer gold,
In Heliconian streams.
Drive thraldom with malignant hand,
To curse some other destined land,
By Folly led astray:
lërne bear on azure wing ;
Energic let her soar, and sing
Thy universal sway.
So when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestic sound aspire,
Behold the mad'ning throng,
In wonder and oblivion drowned,
To sculpture turned by magic sound,
And petrifying song.
FLUTTERING spread thy purple pinions
Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart: I a slave in thy dominions ;
Nature must give way to art.
Mild Arcadians, ever blooming.
Nightly nodding o'er your fucks, See my weary days consumin
All beneath yon flowery rocks. Thus the Cyprian goddess weeping
Mourned Adonis, darling youth; Him the boar, in silence creeping,
Gored with unrelenting tooth.
Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers;
Fair Discretion, string the lyre: Soothe my ever-waking slumbers:
Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.
Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors,
Arm'd in adamantine chains,
Lead me to the crystal mirrors,
Watering soft Elysian plains.
Mournful cypress, verdant willow,
Gilding my Aurelia's brows,
Morpheus, hovering o'er my pillow,
Hear me pay my dying vows.
Melancholy smooth Meander,
Swiftly purling in a round,
On thy margin lovers wander,
With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.
In ancient time, as story tells,
The saints would often leave their cells,
And stroll about, but hide their quality,
To try good people's hospitality.
It happen'd on a winter night,
As authors of the legend write,
Two brother hermits, saints by trade,
Taking their tour in masquerade,
Disguised in tatter'd habits, went
To a small village down in Kent;
Where, in the strollers' canting strain,
They begg'd from door to door in vain,
Tried every tone might pity win;
But not a soul would let them in.
Our wandering saints, in woeful state,
Treated at this ungodly rate,
Having through all the village past,
To a small cottage came at last
Where dwelt a good old honest ye’man,
Calld in the neighborhood Philemon;
Who kindly did these saints invite
In his poor hut to pass the night;
And then the hospitable sire
Bid Goody Baucis mend the fire;
While he from out the chimney took
A flitch of bacon off the hook,
And freely from the fattest side
Cut out large slices to be fried;
Then stepp'd aside to fetch them drink,
Fill'd a large jug up to the brink,
And saw it fairly twice go round;
Yet (what was wonderful) they found
’T was still replenish'd to the top,
As if they ne'er had touch'd a drop.
The good old couple were amazed,
And often on each other gazed;
For both were frighten'd to the heart,
And just began to cry,
“What ar't!"
Then softly turn'd aside, to view
Whether the lights were burning blie.
The gentle pilgrims, soon aware on't,
Told them their calling and their ecrand:
“Good folks, you need not be afraiil,
We are but saints," the hermits said ;
“No hurt shall come to you or yours:
But for that pack of churlish boors,
Not fit to live on Christian ground,
They and their houses shall be drown'd;
While you shall see your cottage rise,
And grow a church before your eyes."
They scarce had spoke, when fair and soft,
The roof began to mount aloft;
Aloft rose every beam and rafter;
The heavy wall climb'd slowly after.
The chimney widen'd, and grew higher, Became a steeple with a spire.
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