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The FABLE of JOTHA M: To the BOROUGH-HUNTERS.

By RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, Esq;

Jotham's fable of the trees is the oldeft that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made fince that time.

JUDGES, Chap. ix. ver. 8.

ADDISON.

LL Plumb, who tho' bleft in his Kentish retreat,
Still thrives by his oilfhop in Leadenhall-ftreet,
With a Portugal merchant, a knight by creation,
From a borough in Cornwall receiv'd invitation.
Well-affur'd of each vote, well equip't from the alley,
In quest of election-adventures they fally.

Tho' much they difcours'd, the long way to beguile,
Of the earthquakes, the Jews, and the change of the stile,
Of the Irish, the flocks, and the lott'ry committee,

They came filent and tir'd into Exeter city.

"Some books, prithee landlord, to pass a dull hour; "No nonfenfe of parfons, or methodists four,

"No poetical ftuff—a damn'd jingle of rhimes,

"But fome pamphlet that's new, and a touch on the times." "O Lord! fays mine hoft, you may hunt the town round, "I queftion if any fuch thing can be found:

"I never was afk'd for a book by a guest ;

"And I'm fure I have all the great folk in the Weft. "None of these to my knowledge e'er call'd for a book; "But fee, Sir, the woman with fish, and the cook; “Here's the fatteft of carp, shall we dress you a brace ?

Would you have any foals, or a mullet, or plaice ?”

"A place, quoth the knight, we must have to be sure, "But first let us fee that our borough's fecure,

"We'll talk of the place when we've settled the poll: "They may drefs us for fupper the mullet and foal. "But do you, my good landlord, look over your shelves, "For a book we must have, we're so tired of ourselves." "In troth, Sir, I ne'er had a book in my life,

"But the prayer book and bible I bought for my wife.' "Well! the bible muft do; but who don't you take in "Some monthly collection? the new magazine ?" The bible was brought and laid out on the table, And open'd at Jotham's most appofite fable.

Sir Freeport began with this verfe, tho' no rhime"The trees of the foreft went forth on a time, (To what purpose our candidates scarce could expect, For it was not, they found, to transplant-but ELECT) "To the olive and fig-tree their deputies came,

"But by both were refus'd, and their answer the fame : Quoth the olive, shall I leave my fatnefs and oil

"For an unthankful office, a dignified toil?

"Shall I leave, quoth the fig-tree, my sweetness and fruit, "To be envy'd, or flav'd in fo vain a pursuit?

"Thus rebuff'd and furpriz'd they apply'd to the vine,
"He answer'd: fhall I leave my grapes and my wine,
"(Wine the fovereign cordial of god and of man)
"To be made or the tool or the head of a clan?
"At last, as it always falls out in a scramble,
"The mob gave the cry
for a bramble ! a bramble!

"A

"A bramble for ever! O! chance unexpected! "But bramble prevail'd and was duly elected."

"O! ho! quoth the knight with a look most profound, "Now I fee there's fome good in good books to be found. "I wish I had read this fame bible before :

"Of long miles at the least 'twould have fav'd us fourfcore. "You, Plumb, with your olives and oil might have ftaid, "And myself might have tarried my wines to unlade. "What have merchants to do from their bufinefs to ramble! "Your electioneer-errant fhould ftill be a bramble."

Thus ended at once the wife comment on Jotham, And our citizens' jaunt to the borough of Gotham.

An Elegy written in an empty Affembly-Room.

By the Same.

Semperque relinqui

Sola fibi

VIRG.

ADVERTISEMENT.

This poem being a parody on the most remarkable passages in the well-known epistle of Eloifa to Abelard, it was thought unneceffary to tranfcribe any lines from that poem, which is in the hands of all, and in the memory of most readers.

N scenes where HALLET's genius has combin'd

I Wichines whetch to amuse and cheer the mind;

Amid this pomp of coft, this pride of art,
What mean these forrows in a female heart?

Ye crowded walls, whofe well-enlighten'd round
With lovers fighs and proteftations found,
Ye pictures flatter'd by the learn'd and wise,
Ye glasses ogled by the brighteft eyes,

Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have blest,
Ye chairs, which peers and minifters have prest,
How are ye chang'd! `like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone.

For ah! to me alone no card is come,

I must not go

abroad.

and cannot be at home.

Bleft be that focial pow'r, the first who pair'd
The erring footman with th' unerring card.
Twas VENUS fure; for by their faithful aid
The whisp'ring lover meets the blushing maid :
From folitude they give the cheerful call
To the choice fupper, or the sprightly ball:
Speed the foft fummons of the gay and fair,
From diftant Bloomsbury to Grosvenor's square;
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the parade, the fenate, or the Tower.

Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily leffon, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye ftand difpos'd in proud array,
The vapours vanish, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glass adorn,
The difmal void with heart-felt fhame we mourn;
Confcious neglect infpires a fullen gloom,
And brooding fadnefs fills the flighted room.

If

If but fome happier female's card I've seen,
I fwell with rage, or ficken with the spleen;
While artful pride conceals the bursting tear,
With fome forc'd banter or affected fneer:
But now grown defp'rate, and beyond all hope,
I curfe the ball, the d-fs, and the pope.
And as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,
Tax it! ye greedy minifters, I cry.

How fhall I feel, when Sol refigns his light
To this proud fplendid goddess of the night!
Then when her aukward guests in measure beat
The crowded floors, which groan beneath their feet!
What thoughts in folitude shall then poffefs
My tortur'd mind, or soften my distress!
Not all that envious malice can suggest
Will footh the tumults of my raging breast.
(For Envy's loft amid the numerous train,
And hiffes with her hundred fnakes in vain)
Though with contempt each despicable foul
Singly I view, I must revere the whole.
The methodist in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though fingle happy, tho' alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (fhe thinks not of a crowd)
And if the ever feels a vapʼrifh qualm,

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Some drop of boney, or fome holy balm,

* The title of a book of modern devotion.

The