Besides, this zealous son of warm devotion
Has a true Levite bias for promotion.
Vicars must with discretion go astray,

Whilst bishops may be damn'd the nearest way :
So puny robbers individuals kill,

When hector-heroes murder as they will.
Good honest Curio elbows the divine,
And strives a social sinner how to shine;
The dull quaint tale is his, the lengthen❜d tale,
That Wilton farmers give you with their ale,
How midnight ghosts o'er vaults terrific pass,
Dance o'er the grave, and slide along the grass;
Or how pale Cicely within the wood

Call'd Satan forth, and bargain'd with her blood:
These, honest Curio, are thine, and these
Are the dull treasures of a brain at peace;
No wit intoxicates thy gentle skull,
Of heavy, native, unwrought folly full:
Bowl upon bowl in vain exert their force,
The breathing spirit takes a downward course,
Or vainly soaring upwards to the head,
Meets an impenetrable fence of lead.

Hast thou, oh reader! search'd o'er gentle Gay,
Where various animals their powers display?
In one strange group a chattering race are hurl'd,
Led by the monkey who had seen the world.
Like him Fabricio steals from guardian's side,
Swims not in pleasure's stream, but sips the tide :
He hates the bottle, yet but thinks it right
To boast next day the honours of the night;
None like your coward can describe a fight.
See him as down the sparkling potion goes,
Labour to grin away the horrid dose;
In joy-feign'd gaze his misty eyeballs float,
Th' uncivil spirit gurgling at his throat;
So looks dim Titan through a wintry scene,
And faintly cheers the woe foreboding swain.

Timon, long practised in the school of art,
Has lost each finer feeling of the heart;
Triumphs o'er shame, and, with delusive wiles,
Laughs at the idiot he himself beguiles :
So matrons past the awe of censure's tongue,
Deride the blushes of the fair and young.
Few with more fire on every subject spoke,
But chief he loved the gay immoral joke;
The words most sacred, stole from holy writ,
He gave a newer form, and call'd them wit.
Vice never had a more sincere ally,

So bold no sinner, yet no saint so sly;
Learn'd, but not wise, and without virtue brave,
A gay, deluding, philosophic knave.

When Bacchus' joys his airy fancy fire,
They stir a new, but still a false desire;

And to the comfort of each untaught fool,

Horace in English vindicates the bowl.

"The man," says Timon, "who is drunk is blest, (1) "No fears disturb, no cares destroy his rest;

"In thoughtless joy he reels away his life,
"Nor dreads that worst of ills, a noisy wife."

"Oh! place me, Jove, where none but women come,
"And thunders worse than thine afflict the room,
"Where one eternal nothing flutters round,
"And senseless titt'ring sense of mirth confound;
"Or lead me bound to garret, Babel-high,
"Where frantic poet rolls his crazy eye,

66 Tiring the ear with oft-repeated chimes,
"And smiling at the never-ending rhymes:
"E'en here, or there, I'll be as blest as Jove,
"Give me tobacco, and the wine I love."
Applause from hands the dying accents break,
Of stagg'ring sots who vainly try to speak;

(1)" Integer vitæ, scelerisque puris

Non eget," &c. &c.

HORACE.

From Milo, him who hangs upon each word,
And in loud praises splits the tortured board,
Collects each sentence, ere it's better known,
And makes the mutilated joke his own,

At weekly club to flourish, where he rules,
The glorious president of grosser fools.

But cease, my Muse! of those, or these enough,
The fools who listen, and the knaves who scoff;
The jest profane, that mocks th' offended God,
Defies his power, and sets at nought his rod;
The empty laugh, discretion's vainest foe,
From fool to fool re-echoed to and fro;
The sly indecency, that slowly springs

From barren wit, and halts on trembling wings:
Enough of these, and all the charms of wine,
Be sober joys, and social evenings mine;

Where peace and reason, unsoil'd mirth improve
The powers of friendship and the joys of love;
Where thought meets thought ere words its form array,
And all is sacred, elegant, and gay:

Such pleasure leaves no sorrow on the mind,

Too great to fall, to sicken too refined;

Too soft for noise, and too sublime for art,
The social solace of the feeling heart,

For sloth too rapid, and for wit too high,
'Tis VIRTUE'S pleasure, and can never die!

308

No. II.

FRAGMENTS OF VERSE

FROM

MR. CRABBE'S EARLY NOTE-BOOKS.

YE GENTLE GALES.

Woodbridge, 1776.

YE gentle Gales, that softly move,

Go whisper to the Fair I love;
Tell her I languish and adore,
And pity in return implore.

But if she's cold to my request,
Ye louder Winds, proclaim the rest
My sighs, my tears, my griefs proclaim,
And speak in strongest notes my flame.

Still if she rests in mute disdain,

And thinks I feel a common pain

Wing'd with my woes, ye Tempests, fly,
And tell the haughty Fair I die.

MIRA.

Aldborough, 1777.

A WANTON chaos in my breast raged high,
A wanton transport darted in mine eye;

False pleasure urged, and ev'ry eager care,
That swell the soul to guilt and to despair.
My Mira came! be ever blest the hour,

That drew my thoughts half way from folly's power;
She first my soul with loftier notions fired;
I saw their truth, and as I saw admired;
With greater force returning reason moved,
And as returning reason urged, I loved;
Till pain, reflection, hope, and love allied
My bliss precarious to a surer guide —
To Him who gives pain, reason, hope, and love,
Each for that end that angels must approve.
One beam of light He gave my mind to see,

And gave that light, my heavenly fair, by thee;

That beam shall raise my thoughts, and mend my strain, Nor shall my vows, nor prayers, nor verse be vain.

HYMN.

Beccles, 1778.

Он, Thou! who taught my infant eye
To pierce the air, and view the sky,
To see my God in earth and seas,
To hear him in the vernal breeze,
To know him midnight thoughts among,
O guide my soul, and aid my song.
Spirit of Light! do thou impart
Majestic truths, and teach my heart;
Teach me to know how weak I am;

How vain my powers, how poor my frame;
Teach me celestial paths untrod

The ways of glory and of God.