But hark! Distress, with screaming voice, draws nigher, And wakes the slumbering street with cries of fire. swarms, The fireman sweats beneath his crooked arms; See, forceful engines spout their levell'd streams, Her sapp'd foundations shall with thunders shake Consider, reader, what fatigues I've known, Death shall entomb in dust this mouldering frame, When critics crazy bandboxes repair; And tragedies, turn'd rockets, bounce in air; Probably Ward and Gildon.-N. Wide o'er the foaming billows She cast a wistful look; Her head was crown'd with willows, That trembled o'er the brook. "Twelve months are gone and over And nine long tedious days; Why didst thou trust the seas? "The merchant, robb'd of pleasure, Sees tempests in despair; But what's the loss of treasure, But none that loves you so. "How can they say that Nature Has nothing made in vain? Why then beneath the water Should hideous rocks remain ? No eyes the rocks discover, That lurk beneath the deep, To wreck the wandering lover, And leave the maid to weep." All melancholy lying, Thus wail'd she for her dear; Repaid each blast with sighing, Each billow with a tear; When o'er the white wave stooping, His floating corpse she spied'; Then, like a lily drooping, She bow'd her head, and died. FABLE. THE GOAT WITHOUT A BEARD. "Tis certain that the modish passions Descend among the crowd like fashions. Excuse me, then, if pride, conceit (The manners of the fair and great) I give to monkeys, asses, dogs, Fleas, owls, goats, butterflies, and hogs I say that these are proud: what then! I never said they equal men. A Goat (as vain as Goat can be) Whene'er a thymy bank he found, "I hate my frowzy beard," he cries, My youth is lost in this disguise. Did not the females know my vigor, Well might they lothe this reverend figure." Resolv'd to smooth his shaggy face, He sought the barber of the place. A flippant monkey, spruce and smart, Hard by, profess'd the dapper art: His pole with pewter-basons hung, Black rotten teeth in order strung, Rang'd cups, that in the window stood, The Goat, impatient for applause, My name, perhaps, hath reach'd your ear; Attend, and be advis'd by Care. Nor love, nor honor, wealth, nor power, But now again the Sprite ascends, Increasing debts, perplexing duns, And nothing for his younger sons. Straight all his thought to gain he turns, Bold thieves, and all the murdering crew, The court he quits, to fly from Care, At length he thus the Ghost addrest: FABLE. THE JUGGLERS. A JUGGLER long through all the town Vice heard his fame, she read his bill; She sought his booth, and from the crowd "Is this then he so fam'd for sleight? Provok'd, the Juggler cried, ""Tis done; Thus said, the cups and balls he play'd; Vice now stept forth, and took the place, "This magic looking-glass," she cries, (There, hand it round) will charm your eyes." Each eager eye the sight desir'd, And every man himself admir'd. Next, to a senator addressing, "See this bank-note; observe the blessing. Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! "Tis gone.' Upon his lips a padlock shown. A second puff the magic broke; She bids Ambition hold a wand; He grasps a hatchet in his hand. A box of charity she shows. "Blow here;" and a church-warden blows. "Tis vanish'd with conveyance neat, And on the table smokes a treat. She shakes the dice, the board she knocks, And from all pockets fills her box. She next a meagre rake addrest. A counter, in a miser's hand, A guinea with her touch you see, "Can I such matchless sleight withstand FABLE. THE HARE AND MANY FRIENDS. FRIENDSHIP, like love, is but a name Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. "Tis thus in friendship; who depend On many, rarely find a friend. A Hare who, in a civil way, Complied with every thing, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend; And every creature was her friend. As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies. She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round; Till, fainting in the public way, Half-dead with fear she gasping lay. What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appear'd in view! "Let me," says she, "your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight: To friendship every burthen's light." The Horse replied, "Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus: Be comforted, relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear." She next the stately Bull implor'd; The Goat remark'd, her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye: My back," says he, "may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.' The Sheep was feeble, and complain'd, His sides a load of wool sustain'd; Said he was slow, confess'd his fears; For Hounds eat Sheep as well as Hares. She now the trotting Calf address'd, To save from Death a friend distress'd. "Shall I," says he, "of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler pass'd you by; How strong are those! how weak am I! Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then; you know my heart; But dearest friends, alas! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu; For, see, the Hounds are just in view." FABLE. THE FARMER'S WIFE AND THE RAVEN. Let not thy stomach be suspended; Betwixt her swagging panniers' load, She, sprawling in the yellow road, "Dame," quoth the Raven, "spare your oaths, Unclench your fist, and wipe your clothes. But why on me those curses thrown? Goody, the fault was all your own; For, had you laid this brittle ware On Dun, the old sure-footed mare, And you, good woman, sav'd your eggs." FABLE. THE TURKEY AND THE ANT. IN other men we faults can spy, A Turkey, tir'd of common food, Collecting here and there a grain. 'Draw near, my birds!" the mother cries, "This hill delicious fare supplies; Behold the busy negro race, See millions blacken all the place! "WHY are those tears? why droops your An Ant is most delightful meat. head? Is then your other husband dead? Or does a worse disgrace betide? How bless'd, how envied, were our life, An Ant, who climb'd beyond his reach, JOHN DYER. JOHN DYER was born at Aberglasney, in Carmarthenshire, Wales in 1700. His father was a solicitor, and intended John for the same profession; but the boy, after being educated at Westminster School, preferred painting, and studied that art under a master. He then became an itinerant painter in South Wales, but is not credited with any high degree of success as an artist. During his wanderings, however, he found in the celebrated natural scenery of that country an inspiration for poetry that has long outlived his pictures. Grongar Hill," descriptive of one of his most familiar haunts, was published in 1726, in Lewis's Miscellanies, and became one of the most popular poems of the kind ever written. While it is not the product of any very lofty genius, its charming simplicity and naturalness make it still readable after all the changes that English poetry has gone through in a century and a half. After the publication of this poem, Dyer went to Italy, where he wandered about for some time, visiting ruins and studying works of art, still intent on success as a painter. How much of this he really attained, it is impossible to say. But he certainly gathered material for poetry, and in 1740 appeared his "Ruins of Rome," included in this collection, a poem which contains many fine verses. He had returned home in poor health, and soon gave up his occupation as a painter. He married a lady named Esnor, a descendant of Shakespeare, and retired to the country. Soon after, by the advice of friends, he entered into holy orders, and settled on a small living in Leicestershire, which he exchanged for one in Lincolnshire. He seems not to have been very happy there, as the climate did not agree with him, and he lacked books and company. In 1757 he published "The Fleece," a didactic poem in four books: the first pastoral, the second mechanical, the third and fourth historical and geographical. It is a versified dissertation on wool and its industries, and of course is worthless as a poem, and dead long ago. Somebody said that the author, if he was an old man, would be buried in woollen. Dyer as a man is said to have been a most excellent character, earnest, conscientious, and humane. He died in 1758. A collected edition of his poems was published in 1761. GRONGAR HILL SILENT nymph, with curious eye! Draw the landscape bright and strong; For the modest Muses made, So oft I have, the evening still, With my hand beneath my head; While stray'd my eyes o'er Towy's flood, Over mead and over wood, From house to house, from hill to hill, Till Contemplation had her fill. About his chequer'd sides I wind, And leave his brooks and meads behind And groves, and grottoes where I lay, And vistas shooting beams of day. Wide and wider spreads the vale, As circles on a smooth canal: The mountains round, unhappy fate! Sooner or later, of all height, Withdraw their summits from the skies, And lessen as the others rise: Still the prospect wider spreads, Adds a thousand woods and meads; Still it widens, widens still, And sinks the newly-risen hill. |