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The pious prophet of her fect distils,
And her pare foul seraphic rapture fills ;
Grace shines around her with serenest beams,
And whisp'ring W*** prompts her golden dreams.

Far other dreams my fensual soul employ,
While conscious nature tastes unholy joy:
I view the traces of experienc'd charms,
And clasp the regimentals in my arnas.
To dream last night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes ;
Ye soft illusions, dear deceits arife;
Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To distant quarters ’midst the Highland snow :
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in smoak'd tap'ltry faded Dido mourns ;
To fome assembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel--in a parson's gown-
I start-I shriek-

O! could I on my waking brain impose,
Or but forget at least my present woes !
Forget 'em-how !-each rattling coach suggests
The loath'd ideas of the crowding guests.
To visit--were to publish my disgrace ;
To meet the spleen in ev'ry other place ;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn ;
And be at once their comfort and their scorn!
For once, to read with this diftemper'd brain,
Ey'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.

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Vol. VI.

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My MANDOLINE-what place can music find
Amid the discord of my restless mind?

How shall I waste this time which slowly flies !
How lull to number my reluctant eyes !
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,-N** * has murder'd sleep.

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The FAKEER: A TALE.

By the Same.

A

FaKeer (a religious well known in the East,

Not much like a parson, still less like a priest),
With no canting, no fly jesuitical arts,
Field-preaching, hypocrisy, learning, or parts;
By a happy refinement in mortification,
Grew the oracle, faint, and the pope of his nation.
But what did he do this esteem to acquire ?
Did he torture his head or his bosom with fire ?
Was his neck in a portable pillory cas'd ?
Did he faften a chain to his leg or his waist ?
No. His holiness rose to this fovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.

A wealthy young Indian, approaching the shrine,
Thus in banter accofts the prophetic divine.
This tribute accept for your int’rest with FO,

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To your suppliant disclose his immortal decree;
Tell me which of the heay'ns is allotted for me.

PAKEER.
Let me first know your merits.

INDIAN.

I strive to be juft :
To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my trust :
In religion I duly observe ev'ry form :
With an heart to my country devoted and warm:
I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich

FAKBER.
But how many nails do you run in your breech?

INDIAN.
With fubmission I speak to your rey'rence's tail ;
But mine has no taste for a ten-penny nail.

FAKEER.
Well! I'll pray to our prophet and get you prefer'd ;
Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.
With me in the thirtieth your feat to obtain,
You must qualify duly with hanger and pain,

INDIAN
With you in the thirtieth! you impudent rogue !
Can such wretches as you give to madness a vogue !
Though the priesthood of FO on the vulgar impofe,
By squinting whole years at the end of their nose,
Though with cruel devices of mortification
They adore a vain idol of modern creation,

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Does the God of the heav'ns such a service direct ?
Can his mercy approve a felf-punishing sect ?
Will his wisdom be worship’d with chains and with nails ?
Or e'er look for his rites in your noses and tails?
Come along to my house and these penances leave,
Give your belly a feast, and your breech a reprieve.

This reas'ning unhing'd each fanatical notion ;
And stagger'd our faint in his chair of promotion.
At length with reluctance he rose from his seat :
And resigning his nails and his fame for retreat,
Two weeks his new life he admir'd and enjoy'd :
The third he with plenty and quiet was cloy'd.
To live undistinguish'd to him was the pain,
An existence unnotic'd he could not sustain.
In retirement he figh’d for the fame-giving-chair :
For the crowd to admire him, to rev’rence and stare :
No endearments of pleasure and eafe could prevail ;
He the saintship resum'd, and new larded his tail.

Our Fakeer represents all the vot’ries of fame;
Their ideas, their means, and their end is the same :
The sportsman, the buck; all the heroes of vice,
With their gallantry, lewdness, the bottle and dice;
The poets, the critics, the metaphysicians,
The courtier, the patriot, all politicians;
The statesman begirt with th' importunate ring,
(I had almost compleated my lift with the king)
All labour alike to illuftrate

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All tortur'd by choice with th' invisible nail.

To

tale ;

To Mr. WHITEHEAD,

On his being made Poet LAUREAT.

By the Same.

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IS fo.- tho' we're surpriz'd to hear it:

The laurel is bestow'd on merit.
How hush'd is ev'ry envious voice !
Confounded by fo just a choice,
Tho' by prescriptive right prepar’d
To libel the selected bard.

But as you see the statesman's fate
In this our democratic ftate,
Whom virtue strives in vain to guard
From the rude pamphlet and the card ;
You'll find the demagogues of Pindus
In envy not a jot behind us :
For each Aonian politician
(Whose element is opposition,)
Will shew how greatly they surpass us,
In gall and wormwood at Parnaffus.

Thus as the fame detracting spirit
Attends on all distinguish'd merit,
When 'tis your turn, observe, the quarrel
Is not with you, but with the laurel.

Suppose that laurel on your brow,
For cypress chang'd, funereal bough!

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