A dirty sail-cloth o'er his body thrown,
By marks of misery almost unknown,
Without a friend to pity, or to save,
Without a dirge to consecrate the grave,
Great Suffolk lies--he who for years had shone,
England's sixth Henry! nearest to thy throne.
What boots it now, that list'ning senates hung
All ear, all rapture on his angel-tongue?
Ah! what avails th' enormous blaze between
H's dawn of glory, and his closing scene!
When haughty France his heav'n-born pow'rs ador'd,
And Anjou's princess sheath'd Britannia's sword!
Ask ye what bold conspiracy opprest

A chief so honour'd, and a chief so blest?
Why, lust of power, that wreck'd his rising fame
On courts' vain shallows, and the gulf of shame:
A Glo'ster's murder, and a nation's wrongs,
Cali'd loud for vengeance with ten thousand tongues;
And hasten'd death, on Albion's chalky strand,
To end the exile by a pirate's hand.

Pleasure, my friend! on this side folly lies;
It may be vig'rous, but it must be wise:
And when our organs once that end attain,
Each step bevond it is a step to pain.
For ask the man whose appetites pursue
Each loose Roxana of the stew;
Who cannot eat till Luxury refine

His taste, and teach him how to dine;

Who cannot drink till Spain's rich vintage flow,
Mix'd with the coolness of December's snow:
Ask him, if all those ecstasies that move
The pulse of rapture, and the rage of love,
When wine, wit, woman, all their pow'rs employ,
And ev'ry sense is lost in ev'ry joy,

E'er fill'd his heart, and beam'd upon his breast
Content's full sunshine, with the calm of rest?
No--Virtue only gives fair Peace to shine,
And health, O sacred Temperance! is thine.
Hence the poor peasant, whose laborious spade
Rids the rough crag of half its heath and shade,
Feels in the quiet of his genial nights

A bliss more genuine than the club at White's:
And has in full exchange for fame and wealth,
Herculean vigour, and eternal health.

Of blooming genius, judgment, wit, possess'd,
By poets envied, and by peers caress'd;
By royal mercy sav'd from legal doom,
With royal favour crown'd for years to come,
O hadst thou, Savage! known thy lot to prize,
And sacred held fair Friendship's gen'rous ties;
Hadst thou, sincere to Wisdom, Virtue, Truth,
Curb'd the wild sailies of impetuous youth;
Had but thy life been equal to thy lays,
In vain had Envy strove to blast thy bays;
In vain thy mother's unrelenting pride
Had strove to push thee helpless from her side;
Fair Competence had lent her genial dow'r,
And smiling Peace adorn'd thy evening-hour;
True Pleasure would have led thee to her shrine,
And every friend to merit had been thine.
Bless'd with the choicest boon that Heav'n can give,
Thou then hadst learnt with dignity to live;
The scorn of wealth, the threats of want to brave,
Nor sought from prison a refuge in the grave.
Th' immortal Rembrant all his pictures made
Soft as their union into light and shade:
Whene'er his colours wore too bright an air,
A kindred shadow took off all the glare;
Whene'er that shadow, carelessly embrown'd,
Stole on the tints, and breath'd a gloom around,

Th' attentive artist threw a warmer dye,
Or call'd a glory from a pictur'd sky;
Till both th' opposing powers mix'd in one,
Cool as the night, and brilliant as the Sun.
Passions, like colours, have their strength and ease,
Those too insipid, and too gaudy these:
Some on the heart, like Spagnoletti`s, throw
Fictitious horrours, and a weight of woe;
Some, like Albano's, catch from ev'ry ray
Too strong a sunshine, and too rich a day;
Others, with Carlo's Magdalens, require
A quicker spirit, and a touch of fire;
Or want, perhaps, though of celestia! race,
Corregio's softness, and a Guido's grace. [knew,
Wou'dst thou then reach what Rembrant's genius
And live the model that his pencil drew,
Form all thy life with all his warmth divine,
Great as his plan, and fault'ess as his line;
Let all thy passions, like his colours, play,
Strong without harshness, without glaring gay:
Contrast them, curb them, spread them, or confine,
Ennoble these, and those forbid to shine;
With cooler shades Ambition's fire allay,
And mildly melt the pomp of Pride away;
Her rainbow-robe from Vanity remove,
And soften malice with the smile of love;
Bid o'er revenge the charities prevail,
Nor let a grace be seen without a vail :
So shalt thou live as Heav'n itself design'd,
Each pulse congenial with th' informing mind,
Each action station'd in its proper place,
Each virtue blooming with its native grace,
Each passion vig'rous to its just degree,
And the fair whole a perfect symmetry.

THE LOTTERY.
INSCRIBED TO MISS H

CAWTHORN had once a mind to fix
His carcass in a coach and six,
And live, if his estate would bear it,
On turtle, ortolans, and claret :
For this he went, at Fortune's call,
To wait upon her at Guildhall;
That is, like many other thick wits,
He bought a score of lottery tickets,
And saw them rise in dreadful ranks
Converted to a score of blanks.

Amaz'd, and vex'd to find his scheme
Delusive as a midnight dream,
He curs'd the goddess o'er and o'er,
Call'd her a mercenary whore;
Swore that her dull capricious sense
Was always dup'd by impudence,
That men of wit were but her tools,
And all her favours were for fools.

He said, and with an angry gripe
Snatch'd up his speculative pipe;
And, that he might his grief allay,
Read half a page in Seneca.

When, lo! a phantom, tall and thin, Knock'd at the door, and enter'd in: She wore a party-colour'd robe, And seem'd to tread upon a globeWhisk'd round the room with haughty air, And toss'd into an elbow chair. Then with a bold terrific look, Which made the doctor drop his book,

Address'd him thus: "Thou wicket varlet!
Art not asham'd to call me harlot ?
Why, what's thy consequence and parts,
Thy skill in letters, or in arts,

That I, poor Fortune! must be lectur'd,
Kick'd, bully'd, curs'd, abus'd, and hector'd,
Because, forsooth--a fever roast thee,-
Thou'rt not so wealthy as Da Costa?

"However, as thou hast some virtues,
And know'st my fav'rite Tom Curteis,
I'll point thee out a way to be.
Almost as rich a man as he.

"Send to the bank this day, and buy Ten tickets in the lottery;

And bid your honest friend, the broker,
Endorse the name of M- H——;
The sacred numbers then consign
Devoutly to the fair-one's shrine.
That is, in humbler rhetoric,
Present them by your footman Dick,
And tell her, in a billet-doux,

My dear, these tickets are for you,
An offering from an heart that's split
Asunder by your sense and wit,
Yet has the grace, to tell you true,
To keep its own dear ends in view,
And therefore hopes you'll not forget
To give me half of what you get.'

"My life on't, Jemmy, thou'lt be great-
Five thousand pounds!-a good estate:
For be assur'd that, though the poets,
The small philosophers, and no-wits,
Pretend that I'm to worth unkind,
And impudently paint me blind,
I yet can see thy charmer's merit, '
Her taste, her dignity, and spirit;
Have often listen'd to her song,
And stole persuasion from her tongue;
And am resolv'd, though all the shrews,
Stock-jobbers, brokers, pimps, and Jews,
Frown, curse, expostulate, and rally,
With all the tongues of all the Alley,
To give her, out of love and zeal,
The richest number in the wheel."

LADY JANE GREY

ΤΟ

LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY.

AN EPISTLE. IN THE MANNER OF OVID.

Teach me, ye warblers! teach this strain of woe
Like you to kindle, and like you to flow.

Alas! in vain ye bid your warmths divine
Wake all the string, and live through all the line.
Spite of those warmths, th' immortal numbers roll
Cool from my hand, and faithless to my soul;
Too faint a wish, too calm a sigh impart,
Hide half my grief, and tell but half my heart;
Lose the fond anguish of this flowing tear,
And the keen pang that tears and tortures there.
"Tis said that souls, to love's soft union wrought,
Converse by silent sympathy of thought:
O! then with that mysterious art divine
The fierce impatience of my breast be thine:
And when some tender, recollecting sigh
Pours the big passion from each weeping eye,
When wrapt, and wild, thy fond ideas roll,
And all my image takes up all thy soul;
Think that my breast the same dear tumults move,
As keen an anguish, and as soft a love;
Think that I hear thy pray'rs, explore thy fears,
Sigh to thy sighs, and weep with all thy tears;
Form all thy wishes, all thy phrenzies see,
And feel for Guilford all he feels for me.

Ah! where are now the joys my fancy drew For ever blooming, and for ever new! Where the dear scenes that meditation aid, The rill's soft murmur, and th' embow'ring shade; Where all the heartfelt charities that move The warmths of rapture in the pulse of love? Lost, lost for ever, like th' ethereal fire Shot through the sky to glitter and expire.

Hide it, ye pow'rs! the sad, the solemn day That gave a Dudley to the house of Grey: For, O! when to the altar's foot we came, And each fond eye confess'd the kindling flame; Just as the priest had join'd my hand to thine An awful tremor shook the hallow'd shrine, A sudden gloom the sacred walls array'd, And round the tapers threw an azure shade; The winds blew hollow with the voice of pain, Aerial echoes sigh'd through all the fane: "Twas God himself that, from th' empyreal sky, Look'd inauspicious on the nuptial tie, And pitying taught, as prophecies of woe, The shrines to tremble, and the wind to blow.

O! had thy blood drunk in some fell disease, From each chill pinion of th' autumnal breeze, Had yon keen Sun, with all the rage of pain, Wing'd every pulse, and scorch'd up every vein, Extinguish'd Guilford ere he liv'd his span, It had been nature, and the fate of man. Heav'ns! had my cares but eas'd thy parting breath, In life's last moment, and the gasp of death,

SCHOOL, 1753.

Loose on each fibre of the fault'ring tongue,
Cool'd the fond phrenzies of thy parting sigh,
Wip'd the warm drop from each expiring eye;
I had but known what many a virtuous pair
Are doom'd to suffer, and are doom'd to bear:
But, O! in thought's wild images to see
My glories fall, proud Infamy! like thee;
See, midst the murmur of a million sighs,
The sabre glitter, and the scaffold rise;
To see my Guilford moving sadly slow
Through ranks of warriors, and the pomps of woe
See him, while bending o'er his awful bier,
Shed the keen anguish of too warm a tear,
A tear that from the warmths of love proceeds,
And melts the husband, while the hero bleeds-

Bleed, did I say?-Tear, tear, ye pow'rs of art!
Sense, nature, memory, from my tortur'd heart:
And thou-beneath the pole's black umbrage laid,
Oblivion! daughter of the midnight shade!
With all thy glooms, and all thy mists, remove
Each sweet idea of connubial love:

Hide the dear man whose virtues first imprest
Too fond an image on my virgin breast;
From all the softness of my soul efface
His every beauty, and his every grace;
And force that soul with patience to resign
All the dear ties that bound her fast to thine.
Alas! vain effort of misguided zeal!
What pow'r can force affliction not to feel?
What saint forbid this throbbing breast to glow,
This sigh to murmur, and this tear to flow?
Still honest Nature lives her anguish o'er,
Still the fond woman bleeds at every pore.
Ah! when my soul, all panting to aspire,
Each sense enraptur'd, and each wish on fire,
On all the wings of heav'n-born Virtue flies
To yon bright sunshine, yon unclouded skies;
Spite of the joys that Heav'n and bliss impart,
A softer image heaves within my heart;
Impassions Nature in the springs of life,
And calls the seraph back into the wife.
Yet say, my Guilford! say, why wilt thou move
These idle visions of despairing love?
Why wilt thou still, with every grace and art,
Spread through my veins, and kindle in my heart?
O let my soul far other transports feel,

Wing'd with thy hopes, and warm'd with all thy zeal.

And thou, in yon imperial Heav'n enshrin'd,
Eternal effluence of th' eternal mind!
O grace divine! on this frail bosom ray
One gleam of comfort from the source of day.-
She comes, and all my opening breast inspires
With holy ardours, and seraphic fires:
Rapt, and sublime, my kindling wishes roll,
A brighter sunshine breaks upon my soul;
Strong, and more strong the light celestial shines,
Each thought ennobles, and each sense refines:
Each human pang, each human bliss retires,
All earth-born wishes, and all low desires,
The pomps of empire, grandeur, wealth decay,
And all the world's vain phantoms fade away.
Rise, ye sad scenes! ye black ideas rise,
Rise, and dispute the empire of the skies:
Ye horrours! come, and o'er my senses throw
Terrific visions, and a pomp of woe;
Call up the scaffold in its dread parade,
Bid the knell echo through the midnight shade;
Full in my sight the robe funereal wave,
Swell the loud dirge, and open all my grave:
Yet shall my soul, all-conscious of her God,
Resign'd, and sainted for the blest abode,
The last sad horrours of her exit eye,
Without a tremour, and without a sigh.

Romantic wish! for O, ye pow'rs divine!
Was ever misery, ever grief, like mine?
For ever round me glares à tragic scene,
And now the woman bleeds, and now the queen:
Now back to Edward's recent grave convey'd,
Talk with fond phrenzy to his spotless shade;
Now wildly image all his sister's rage,
The baleful fury of the rising age;
Behold her sanguinary banners fly
Loose to the breezes of a British sky;

See England's genius quit th' imperial dome
To Spain's proud tyrant, and the slaves of Rome;
See all the land the last sad horrours feel
Of cruel creeds, and visionary zeal.

Mad Bigotry her every son inspires,"

Breathes all her plagues, and blows up all her fires,

Points the keen falchion, waves th' avenging rod, And murders Virtue in the name of God.

May He, who first the light of Heav'n display'd, The dear Redeemer of a world in shade, He who to man the bliss of angels gave, Who bled to triumph, and who died to save, Beam all his gospel, sacred and divine, On ev'ry bosom, and on ev'ry shrine; Relieve th' expiring eye, and gasping breath, And rescue Nature from the arm of Death.

And now resign'd, my bosom lighter grows,
And hope soft-beaming brightens all my woes.
Hark! or delusion charms, a seraph sings,
And choirs to waft us spread their silver wings;
Th' immortals call, Heav'n opens at the sound,
And glories blaze, and mercy streams around.
Away-ere Nature wake her pangs anew,
Friend, father, lover, husband, saint, adieu!
Yet when thy spirit, taught from Earth to fly,
Spreads her full plume, and gains upon the sky,
One moment pause till these dead orbs resign
Their last faint beam, and speed my soul to
thine:

Then, while the priest, in hallow'd robes array'd,
Pays the last honours to each parting shade;
While o'er our ashes weeps th' attending train,
And the sad requiem flows along the fane;
Our kindred souls shall wing th' ethereal way,
From Earth and anguish to the source of day-
To all the bliss of all the skies aspire,
And add new raptures to th' angelic choir.

And, O! if aught we know, or left behind,
Can wake one image of the sainted mind;
If yet a friend, a parent, child, can move
Departed spirits to a sense of love;
Still shall our souls a kind connection feel
With England's senate, and with England's weal;
And drive from all its shores, with watchful care,
The flame of discord, and the rage of war.

Perhaps, when these sad scenes of blood are

o'er,

life

I still am woman, and am still a wife;

My hov`ring soul, though rais'd to Heav'n by pray'r,
Still bends to Earth, and finds one sorrow there:
There, there, alas! the voice of Nature calls,
A nation trembles, and a husband falls.
O! wou'd to Heav'n I could like Zeno boast
A breast of marble, and a soul of frost,
Calm as old Chaos, ere his waves begun
To know a zephyr, or to feel a sup.

Bares all her wounds, and opens all her heart;
Our hapless loves shall grace th' historic page,
And charm the nations of a future age:
Perhaps some bard, whose tears have learnt to
flow

For injur'd Nature, and to feel for woe,
Shall tell the tender melancholy tale
To the soft zephyrs of the western vale;

Fair Truth shall bless him, Virtue guard his cause,
And every widow'd matr.n weep applause.