Henry the 4th's Invocation to Sleep.

HOW

How many hour
OW many thousands of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour afleep!-O fleep, O gentle fleep,

Nature's foft nurfe, how have I frighted thee,

That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down,
And steep my fenfes in forgetfulness?

Why rather, fleep, ly'ft thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneafy pallets ftretching thee,

And hufh'd with buzzing night-flies to thy flumber;
Than in the perfum'd chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of coftly ftate,

And lull'd with founds of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god, why ly'ft thou with the vile,
In loathfome beds: and leav'ft the kingly couch,
A watch-cafe, or a common larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mafts
Seal up the hip-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious furge;

And in the vifitation of the winds,

Who take the ruffian billows by the top,

Curling their monftrous heads, and hanging them
With deaf'ning clamours in the flippery clouds,
That, with the hurly, death itself awakes?
Canft thou, O partial fleep! give thy repofe
To the wet fea-boy in an hour so rude!
And, in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, le down!
Uneafy lies the head that wears a crown.

SHAKESPEAR.

Extempore on seeing Hoole's Tragedy of Cyrus.

M

ASTER Hoole,

Thou'rt not a fool:

But, do not tire us
More with Cyrus.

S.

THE

The Wounded Soldier.

fun was just retir'd, the dews of eve Their glow-worm luftre fcatter'd o'er the vale; The lonely nightingale began to grieve,

Telling, with many a paufe, her tend'reft tale.

No clamours loud difturb'd the penfive hour,

And the young Moon, yet fearful of the night, Rear'd her pale crefcent o'er the burnifh'd tow'r, That caught the parting orb's ftill ling'ring light.

'Twas then, where peasant footsteps mark'd the way,
A wounded Soldier feebly mov'd along,
Nor aught regarded he the foft'ning ray,
Nor the melodious bird's expreffive fong.

On crutches borne, his mangled limbs he drew,
Unfightly remnants of the battle's rage;
While Pity, in his youthful form, might view
A helpless prematurity of age.

Then, as with strange contortions, lab'ring flow,
He gain'd the fummit of his native hill,
And faw the well-known prospect spread below,
The farm, the cot, the hamlet, and the mill:

In fpite of Fortitude, one struggling figh
Shook the firm texture of his tortur'd heart:
And from his hollow and dejected eye

One trembling tear hung ready to depart. "How chang'd," he cry'd, "is the fair scene to me, "Since last across this narrow path I went!

"The foaring lark felt not superior glee,

"Nor any human breaft more true content.

"When the fresh hay was o'er the meadow thrown, "Amidst the bufy throng I ftill appear'd; "My prowefs too at harvest time was fhewn, "While Lucy's carol ev'ry labour cheer'd. "The burning rays I scarcely feem'd to feel, "If the dear maiden near me chanc'd to rove; "Or if the deign'd to fhare my frugal meal, "It was a rich repast, a feast of love.

"And when at evening, with a rustic's pride,

"I dar'd the sturdieft wrestlers on the green; "What joy was mine! to hear her at my fide, "Extol my vigour, and my manly mien. "Ah! now no more the sprightly lass shall run "To bid me welcome from the fultry plain; "But her averted eye my fight shall shun,

"And all our cherish'd fondest hopes be vain.

"Alas! my Parents, muft ye too endure

"That I fhould gloom for ere your homely mirth,

"Exift upon the pittance ye procure,

"And make ye curfe the hour that gave me birth!

Ohapless day! when, at a neighb'ring wake, "The gaudy ferjeant caught my wond'ring eye; "And as his tongue of war and honour fpake, "I felt a wish-to conquer or to die.

"Then, while he bound the ribbands on my brow,
"He talk'd of captains kind, and gen❜rals good;
"Said, a whole nation would my fame avow,
"And BOUNTY call'd the purchase of my blood.
"Yet I refus'd that BOUNTY, I disdain'd

"TO SELL my service in a RIGHTEOUS CAUSE;
"And fuch to my dull fense it was explain'd,
"The caufe of Monarchs, Justice, and the Laws.
"The rattling drums beat loud, the fifes began,
"My King and Country feem'd to ask my aid;
"Thro' ev'ry vein the thrilling ardour ran,

"I left my humble cot, my village maid. "O hapless day! torn from my Lucy's charms, "I thence was hurried to a scene of ftrife; "To painful marches and the din of arms,

"The wreck of reafon, and the waste of life. "In loathsome veffels now with crowds confin'd, "Now led with hosts to flaughter in the field; "Now backward driven, like leaves before the wind, "Too weak to ftand, and yet asham'd to yield.

"Till oft repeated victories infpir'd

"With tenfold fury the indignant foe; "Who ruthlefs ftill advanc'd, as we retir'd, "And laid our boasted, proudest honours low. "Thro' frozen defarts then compell'd to fly, "Our braveft legions moulder'd faft away; "Thousands of wounds and fickness left to die, "While hov'ring ravens mark'd them for their prey. > "Ah! fure remorfe THEIR favage hearts must rend, "Whose selfish, defp'rate frenzy could decree, "That in one mass of murder MAN fhould blend, "Who fent the SLAVES to fight against the FREE.

"Unequal contest!-at fair Freedom's call,
"The lowlieft hind glows with celeftial fire;
"SHE rules, directs, pervades, and conquers all,
"And ARMIES at her facred glance expire.

"Then be this warfare of the world accurs'd—
"The fon now weeps not on the father's bier;
"But grey-hair'd Age, for Nature is revers'd,
"Drops o'er his children's grave an icy tear."
Thus having spoke,—by varying passions toft,

He reach'd the threshold of his Parent's fhed,
Who knew not of his fate, yet mourn'd him loft
AMIDST THE number of THE UNNAM'D DEAD.
Soon as they heard his well-remember'd voice,
A ray of rapture chas'd habitual care;
"Our Henry lives, we may again rejoice,”
And Lucy fweetly blush'd, for she was there.

BUT WHEN HE ENTER'D IN SUCH HORRID GUISE,
His mother shriek'd, and dropp'd upon the floor;
His father look'd to Heav'n with streaming eyes,
And Lucy funk, alas! to rise no more.

O may this tale, which agony muft close,

Give deep contrition to the SELF-CALL'D GREAT; And fhew THE POOR how hard the lot of those, Who fhed their blood for MINISTERS OF STATE!

ANON.

To the memory of Mr Burgh, a learned School-mafter, and the ingenious and laborious author of Political Difquifitions, and the Dignity of Human Ñature.

BY CAPTAIN THOMPSON.

ENEATH this fod, conceal'd from mortal eyes,

BThe dignity of human nature lies.

What is this dignity, the sophists scan?

"The nobleft work of God-an honeft man."