ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GENERAL WOLFE
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MIDST the clamour of exulting joys,Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,And quells the raptures which from pleasures start. O WOLFE! to thee a streaming flood of woe, 5Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear;QUEBEC in vain shall teach our breast to glow,Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: 10Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead—Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise! AN ELEGY ON THAT GLORY OF HER SEX,MRS. MARY BLAIZE GOOD people all, with one accord,Lament for Madam BLAIZE,Who never wanted a good word—_From those who spoke her praise._ The needy seldom pass’d her door, 5And always found her kind;She freely lent to all the poor,—_Who left a pledge behind._ She strove the neighbourhood to please,With manners wond’rous winning, 10And never follow’d wicked ways,—_Unless when she was sinning._ At church, in silks and satins new,With hoop of monstrous size,She never slumber’d in her pew,— 15_But when she shut her eyes._ Her love was sought, I do aver,By twenty beaux and more;The king himself has follow’d her,—_When she has walk’d before._ 20 But now her wealth and finery fled,Her hangers-on cut short all;The doctors found, when she was dead,—_Her last disorder mortal._ Let us lament, in sorrow sore, 25For Kent-street well may say,That had she liv’d a twelve-month more,—_She had not died to-day._ DESCRIPTION OF AN AUTHOR’S BEDCHAMBER WHERE the Red Lion flaring o’er the way,Invites each passing stranger that can pay;Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury-lane;There in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, 5The Muse found Scroggen stretch’d beneath a rug;A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,That dimly show’d the state in which he lay;The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;The humid wall with paltry pictures spread: 10The royal game of goose was there in view,And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,And brave prince William show’d his lamp-black face:The morn was cold, he views with keen desire 15The rusty grate unconscious of a fire;With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,And five crack’d teacups dress’d the chimney board;A nightcap deck’d his brows instead of bay,A cap by night—a stocking all the day! 20 ON SEEING MRS. ** PERFORM IN THE CHARACTER OF **** FOR you, bright fair, the nine address their lays,And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.The heartfelt power of every charm divine,Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?See how she moves along with every grace, 5While soul-brought tears steal down each shining face.She speaks! ’tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,Ye gods! what transport e’er compared to this.As when in Paphian groves the Queen of LoveWith fond complaint addressed the listening Jove, 10’Twas joy, and endless blisses all around,And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,And felt her charms, without disguise, within. OF THE DEATH OF THE LEFT HON. *** YE Muses, pour the pitying tearFor Pollio snatch’d away;O! had he liv’d another year!—_He had not died to-day._ O! were he born to bless mankind, 5In virtuous times of yore,Heroes themselves had fallen behind!—_Whene’er he went before._ How sad the groves and plains appear,And sympathetic sheep; 10Even pitying hills would drop a tear!—_If hills could learn to weep._ His bounty in exalted strainEach bard might well display;Since none implor’d relief in vain!— 15_That went reliev’d away._ And hark! I hear the tuneful throngHis obsequies forbid,He still shall live, shall live as long!—_As ever dead man did._ 20 AN EPIGRAM ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTEDON INTHE ROSCIAD, A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail,His pen heprostitutes t’ avoid a gaol.
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