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Thus, judging, Sirs, and fure 'tis judging right,
I'm come to canvas for your fmiles to-night;
And on thefe boards beg leave to introduce
A bantling of the laughter-loving Mufe;
No jeft of our's fhall give a moment's pain,
And as for politics-the fcene's in Spain!
Tho' if you'd like a taste of home-bred maners,
A fimple English lad fhall make his honours-
One farther North than York-but no reproach-
Honest! as e'er beflrode the Carlifle coach;
He's canny Cumberland! no Scot indeed-
For fimple Scotchmen never cross the Tweed!
(To the upper Gallery.
What cheer aloft there? Any bucks of Wapping?
Vo! ho! my fouls! Come, come-all hands to

Take t'other fup of grog, then heel about;
See what comes next; and, damme! fee it out.
Who fits beyond? Oh! many a loving pair!
And many a fnug economift is there.

Kind fouls! I know 'em well, they're always willing [fhilling. To Ray, and have-twelve-penn'orth for their You who behind your counters daily toil; (First Gallery. Who fmile to live, and therefore live to fmile, Oh! take not home to-night a face of forrow, Or, fure you'll lofe a cuftomer-to-morrow; Smart, thriving tradefmen do their bufinefs-foNot yawning out"a-tenpence, M ,Ma-m;heigho!" With you, our ferious judges in the pit, (Pit. I'd gladly joke--but scarce dare truft my wit; Our bard would blame me, thould I not fucceed, And then your smiles were-terrible, indeed; Away you'd march, in critic fpleen and vapours, And we fhould feel you in to-morrow's papers! (Boxes.


Ladies-but fancy fure already traces A kind good humour dawning in your faces, That fays, for two fhort Acts you'll keep y places. Your prefence,fure can fhield ý bard from dangerProtect him then-he's young, and he's aftranger.

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Ay, you'd laugh to fee,
How bravely caper'd we;
'Twas neither heck! nor jee!
As the fiddler fhogg'd his knee,
Tree iddle dompty dee,


And a whoop, lads! "hey for Cumberland, ho
Laddlety tow row,

Te raddlety dum de daddlety di!
I'll never forget the time
I went to Roflay fair,
With a pair of new-foal'd pumps,
To dance when I got there;
How I, o'th' old grey nag,'
Was mounted like a king,
And Dick can on before,

With Hawkie in a string:
Then foon as I'd fell'd my cow,
And danc'd my pumps clean thro',
And drank till I wat fou
Wi'"neighbour how d'ye do?"
"I'fe gayly-how are you?"

Ecod it was whoop, lads! hey for Cumberland, he
Laddlety tow row,

Te raddlety dum de daddlety di!


Let the lark find repofe
In the full waving corn,
Or bees on the rofe,

Though furrounded with thorn.
Ne'er robb'd of their cafe,
They are thoughtlefs and free;
But here gentle peace,

Cannot harbour with me.

The most favourite AIRS in the new Comic Opera, called FONTAINEBLEAU; WAY IN FRANCE. Performed at Covent OR, OUR "Garden Theatre.


HE British Lion is my fign;



A roaring trade I drive
Right English ufage-neat French wine,
A landlady may thrive on.
At table d'hotte, to eat and drink,
Let French and English mingle,
And while to me they bring the chink,
Faith let the glaffes jingle;

Your rhino-rattle, come
Men and cattle come

All to Mrs. Caley,
Of trouble and money,
My jewel, my honey,

I warrant I'll make you easy.
When dreft and feated in my bar,
Let 'fquire, or beau, or belle come,
Let captains kifs me, if they dare,

'Tis Sir, you're kindly welcome! On Shuffle, Cog, and Slip, I wink, Let rooks and pigeons mingle, And if to me they bring the chink, Faith, let the glaffes jingle.

Rhino rattle, come, &c.

Let Love fly here, on filken wings,
His tricks I till connive at;
The lover who would fay foft things,
Shall have a room in private.

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On pleasure I am pleas'd to wink,
So lips in kiffes mingle,
For while to me they bring the chink,
Faith, let the glaffes jingle.

Your rhino rattle, come,
Men and cattle, come,
All to Mrs. Cafey;
Of trouble and money,
My jewel, my honey,
warrant I'll make you easy.

AIR.- Mrs. BANNISTER. The fight when paft- -in golden fkies, If whiten'd cliffs the failor fpies, Completely blefs'd!

The fight each tender thought infpires,

His love's on fhore, and fancy fires

His faithful breaft;

The dancing waves falute his ear,
He pulls, and fings "My love's on thore!"

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AIR. Mr. JOHNSTONE. Through circling fweets I freely rove, And think my paffion true, But every charm that man can love, Sweet love, I find in you. I will not boaft, with ftoic pride, That I've a heart of stone; That I have often gaz'd and figh'd, To you I frankly own.

For circling fweets, &c.

That beauty bears a gentle mind,
The fource of every joy,
Is now the hope I with to find,
Then don't that hope destroy.
For circling (weets, &c.

For fince that each external grace
Is by my fair pollefs'd,
In pity let her mind keep pace,
And make her lover bleft.
For circling fweets, &c.


THE morning we're married, how funny and jolly, The pridegroom Sir Shenkin, the pride Lady Tolly! When rous'd by fweet clamour we open our peepers, And Phoebus falute in our night-gowns and flippers; Then under our windows muficians all come,

The name of my goddefs, I grave on each tree;
Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!
'Tis I wound bark, but Love's arrows wound me;
Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!

The heayens I view, and their azure bright fkies;
Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!
My heaven exists in her ftill brighter eyes;

Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!

Toy fun's morning fplendor y poor Indian bows;
Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!
But I dare not worthip where I pay my vows;-
Ah! well-a-day, my poor heart!

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And your imperial spirit in reigning alone.
I faw with regret, when you first got my crown,
That, like the Stadtholder, your power was
kept down!

And your plans over-rul'd in pleafing y town.
With fkill to conduct, and with talents admir'd
The heir of my fame, by true genius infpir'd!
Tutor'd under y Garrick, you'll follow my rule,
And with novelty ne'er let Old Drury be cool.
Like COLMAN, keep always a bustling fhop-
For George is my pupil, and reaps a good crop.
He makes hay while the fun fhines-a wary wife
And being cool in the dog-days, he is warm in
Serve Novelty up, like the daily newspapers,
And rid my old itate of her late empty vapours.
If you drown her with tears, pray deck her with

Thalia's your mistress, you know all her wiles:
To Thalia as well as to Melpomne cling;
Encourage, I pray you, St. Cecilia to fing,
And do ev'ry thing worthy of honeft Tom King.
Skakfpeare's Temple,


Prefented to his Royal Highness Prince W11LIAM HENRY, by the Society at HANOVER, called the CLUB, on the 21st of August, 1784.

Y early valour, in remotest seas,

Play fiddle, fweet hautboy, sharp flagelet, drum. Br pride and with before, O what increase

But till the harps melodious tingle,
All is puff, rattle, fqueak, and jingle.
The cymbals they grind, and y baffes they grumble,
Pianos and fortes, a delicate jumble.

All joy to your honours. See, fee, how they flock,
Whilft cleaver and marrowbone go nick-y-knock,
Tantivy the horn, tantara the trumpet.
Sound, found, while we swallow our coffee and

But till, &c.

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Of happiness now to our feeling hearts,
Thy real prefence, royal youth, imparts!
Gracious and mild, thou doft extend thy fway
O'er all our minds, with each revolving day.
None more aufpicious yet, no day more bright
Than this, has e'er difpell'd the fhades of night.
We hail it, joyful anniversary

Of WILLIAM's birth-to our fociety's
Peculiar blifs, fince he did not difdain
Connexion-O! to latest time remain
Its fplendor and delight. Of flatt'ry vile
In this our homage, Prince, we fcorn the ftyle.
Kind heav'n, by granting to our fervent pray'rs,
Thy profp'rous courfe through long and glorious

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By Mifs HELEN WILLIAMS. XPRESSION, child of foul! I love to trace

With joy we fee thy brightness fhine,
On Ifaac's high-diftinguith'd line,
With real freedom bleft.

E Thy ftrong enchantment, when i poet's lyre, Our valiant Jeptha's conqu'sing arm

The painter's pencil, catch the vivid fire,
And beauty wakes for thee each touching grace!
But from my frighted gaze thy form avert,
When horror chills thy tear, thy ardent figh,
When frenzy rolls in thy impaffion'd eye,

Or guilt lives fearful at thy troubled heart;
Nor ever let my fhudd'ring fancy hear,

The wafting groan, or view the pallid look, Of him the mufes lov'd when hope forfook His fpirit, vainly to the mufes dear

For, charm'd with heav'nly fong, this bleeding [rest.


Mourns it could fharpen ill, and give defpair no


On the death of the much-lamented Mifs L***.
September 5, 1784.


IF beauty, wit, and innocence could charm,
And fet afide the monarch's ftern decree;
Thefe, dear MARIA! had unnerv'd his arm,
Or turn'd averfe his fatal fhaft from thee.
No more thy ftrains fhall charm our lift'ning ear;
'But we for thefe no longer fhould repine,
Since God commands thee from our converfe here,
To celebrate his praife in trains divine.
Dear, bleffed Saint! regard with pitying eye
The heart-ielt forrows of thy weeping friend;
Teach him, like thee to live-like thee to die,
Then thare with thee those joys never end.


E woods and ye mountains unknown,

To the breaft of Serena alone,

Thefe fighs bid fweet Eccho convey. Wherever the penfively leans,

By fountain, on bank, or in grove; Her heart will explain what he means, Who fighs both from forrow and love. More plaintive than Philomel's fong,

O breathe the fond ftrain in her ear; And fay, tho' departed fo long,

The friend of her bofom is near!
Then tell her, what days of delight,
Then tell her, what ages of pain

I felt, whilft I liv'd in her fight,
I feel, till I fee her again.

Bath, Jan. 12, 1785.

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Has bafl'd every fierce alarm,

And curb'd tyrannic Sway;
Proud Ammon's vaft gigantic might
Has driven to endless thades of night,
To ruthless death a prey..

It nought avail'd from Scythian bow,
Whole thow'rs of winged shafts to throw,
And breath vindictive rage;

In vain his chariots arm'd around

With fcythes--in vain their horrid found,
And fury to engage.

Not all his firm embodied force,
Not all his num'rous troops of horse,
Tho' wedg'd in clofe array,
When God our conquering armies led
Could e'er from danger fhield his head,
Or heaven's refentment ftay.

Hence own, ye proud, perfidious sace,
With deep confufion in your face,
And fad experience wife;
That God is more than wood or stone-
He is the fovereign Lord alone-
He reigns above the kies.
Invefted with immortal might,
He fits enthron'd in dazzling light,
Where glories waiting are:
He made vaft nature's curious frame;
governs and preferves the fame,
With providential care.

No pen his boundless power can tell;
No tongue, with feraph's boldeft fwell,
His goodness can relate:
The limner's hand how faint to show
The God, in whom perfections glow,
And mercy reigns in itate!

He curbs th' infulting pride of kings,
And foon to woeful ruin brings

Proud hopes and idle vows:
But to the juft, o'erpower'd with grief,
Aufpicious, fends a kind relief,

And balmy reft allows.
Jehovah's praife, all nations fing;
To him, the great, all-powerful king,
Pay reverence, and adore:
Let all mankind where 'er they dwell
His power and high perfections tell,
And own falle gods no more.

Let thofe, where Sol, at rifing day,
Profufely fheds his earliest ray,
In all his dazzling pride;
Where he his fierce meridian blaze,
Or milder light at eve displays,
Confefs no God befide.

Let thofe, who drink of Tagus' ftream,
Whofe fands reflect a golden gleam,
To heaven now prostrate fall:
Let thofe, where chilling Boreas blows
O'er frozen climes with endiefs fnows
On him devoutly call.



Ye daughters, Ifrael's blooming fair,
Now let your ornamented hair

Ambrofial fragrance breathe;
Now let the golden tiffu'd lace
Your fnowy necks with luftre grace,
In many a comely wreathe.

Rich Indian gems of deepest dye
Around your fparkiing temples tye

In curious order wrought:
O'er all the plains spread far and wide
Of blooming spring the flowery pride,

With varieus tinctures fraught.

Shall pfaltries cease their lofty strain ? Shall warbling lutes no more complain, Nor fweetly-founding lyre? Shall mufic's various breathing ftring No more heaven's fignal triumph fing, Nor catch feraphic fire?

Who fhall with graceful mien advance, And lead in mirth the fportive dance, Where all is foft delight?


Or in the jovial concert blend,
Where feftive notes confpire to fend
Corroding cares to flight?

Now let a fpotlefs ram be flain,
And quick the festal altars stain,
And pour libations round:
Let all Arabia's fpices rife,
And breathe their fragrance to the skies,
While chearful hymns refound.
And you, his only child, from whom
A noble progeny fhall come,

With fplendid garments bright,
Go! meet with joy your glorious fire;
Let filial love your breaft infpire,
With filent, fweet delight.

Go! deckt in purple, rich array,
Your waving trefles all difplay,

And let them breathe perfumes.-
But, hark! my ears enraptur'd meet
The various founds of trampling feet;
Your father comes! he comes!



LOUISA, a Poetical Novel, in Four Epifiles. By Mifs Seward. 4to. 3s. 6d. Robinfon. 1784.

THE fuccefs that has uniformly attended the poetical exertions of Mifs Seward will obviously create a prepoffeffion in favour of every production that comes from the pen of fo popular a writer. It will be no wonder, then, if, under the most favourable impreffions, we enter upon the prefent poem.

The poetical novel may be confidered as a new fpecies of compofition that promifes an ample field for the exercife of poetical genius. There is fcarcely, indeed, any object within the province of poetry that a work of this kind might not comprehend: defcription, incident, fentiment, and paffion, all lie within the fphere of its activity. Whatever is picturefque, elegant, or fublime in the appearances of nature; every incident of life, whether, serious, pathetic, or ludicrous; whatever can give energy to the mind, or operate on the feelings of the heart; are all at the command of the poetical novelift. But properly to exert the extenfive privileges fhe is invefted with, Hoc opus, hic labor eft. So various and comprehenfive, indeed, are the abilities it must require, that we have little reafon to expect, whoever may engage in the attempt, that there will be many fuccessful comLOND. MAG. Jan. 1785.

petitors in fo arduous an undertaking. The manner in which our firft adventurer, in this yet unusual district of poetry, has acquitted herself, is now to be confidered.

The incidents of this poem are few: Louifa and Eugenio have a mutual attachment. Emira, whom an accident throws in the way of Eugenio, and whom he refcues from the hands of affaffins that are going to take away her life, conceives the moft violent paffion for her deliverer. Ernefto, Eugenio's father, in the apprehended fhipwreck of his affairs, prevails upon his fon, as the only means of extricating him and his whole family from ruin, to marry Emira, who is poffeffed of immenfe wealth. The sequel is, that Ernesto's affairs, by a fortunate concurrence of circumftances are re-inftated; Emira embraces a life of fashionable and vicious diffipation, which, however, foon terminates. On her death-bed the repents, makes her peace with Louifa, and reconciles her to Eugenio. It is needlefs to add, that, in confequence of Emira's death, the lovers are united. Such are the outlines of the poem. The first epiftle is from Louifa to Emma, her friend, in the Eaft-Indies, tracing H



the progrefs of her attachment to Eu-
genio, the profpect of that union, and
the fuppofed perfidy of her lover.
Their first interview is thus defcribed;
"'Twas noon, and ripen'd fummer's fervid
From cloudless ether thed oppreffive day.
As on this fhady bank I fat reclin'd,
My voice, that floated on the waving wind,
Taught the foft echoes of the neighb'ring plains
Milton's fweet lays, in Handel's matchless itrains,
Prefaging notes my lips unconfcious try,
And murmur-Hide me from day's garifh eye!'
Ah! bleft, had death a fhade eternal thrown,
And hid me from the woes I fince have known!
Beneath my trembling fingers lightly rung
The lute's fweet chords, refponfive while I fung.
Faint in the yellow broom the oxen lay,
And the mute birds fat languid on the spray;
And nought was heard around ý noon-tide bow'r,
Save that the mountain bee, from flow'r to flow'r,
Seem'd to prolong, with her affiduous wing,
The foft vibration of the tuneful string;
While the fierce fkies flam'd on y fhrinking rills,
And fultry filence brooded o'er the hills!

As on my lip the ling'ring cadence play'd,
My brother gaily bounded down the glade,
And, while my looks the fire of gladness dart,
With ardour prefs'd me to his throbbing heart;
Then to a graceful ftranger turn'd, whofe feet,
With fteps lefs fwift, my coyer welcome meet.
O'er his fine form, and o'er his glowing face,
Youth's ripen'd bloom had shed its richest grace;
Tall as the pine, amidit inferior trees,
With all the bending ozier's pliant eafe.
O'er his fair brow, the fairer for their fhade,
Locks of the warmest brown luxuriant play'd.
Blufhing he bows!--and gentle awe fupplies
Each flattering meaning to his downcaft eyes;
Sweet, ferious, tender, thofe blue eyes impart
A thousand dear fenfations to the heart;
Mild, as the evening ftar, whofe fhining ray,
Soft in th' unruffled water feems to play;
And when he speaks-not mufic's thrilling pow'r,
No, nor the vocal miftrefs of the bow'r,
When flow the warbles from the blefiom'd fpray,
In liquid blandithment, her evening lay,
Such loft infinuating fweetnefs knows
As from that voice, in melting accent, flows!

Yet why, fond Mem'ry! why, in tints fo warm, Paint'it thou each beauty of that faultless form ? His fpecious virtues furely might impart Excufe more juft for this devoted heart. Oh! how each noble paffion's feeming trace Threw tranfient glories o'er his youthful face! How tofe, with fudden impulfe, fwift and ftrong, For ev'ry fecret fraud, and open wrong Th' oppreflor acts, the helpleis feel, or fear, Difdain's quick throb, and Pity's melting tear. So well its part each ductile feature play'd, Of worth, fuch firm, tho' filent promife made, That to have doubted its well-painted truth, Had been to want the primal grace of youth, Credulity, that icorns, with gen'rous heat, Alike to practice or fufpect deceit.

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The period the most delicious in the progrefs of a refined paffion is, perhaps,

that in which a reciprocal attachment firft betrays itself. The warmth of colouring with which this period is marked out by Louifa is as juft as it is animated:

"Thefe are the days that fly on rapture's wing Empurpling ev'ry flow'r that decks the fpring; For when Love-kindling Hope, whitper bland, Wakes the dear magic of her potent wand, More vivid colours paint the rifing morn, And clearer cryftal gems the filver thorn; On more luxuriant thade the noon-beam plays, And richer gold the ev'ning-fun arrays; Stars feem to glitter with enamour'd fire, And fhadowy hills in ftatelier grace afpire; More fubtle fweetnefs fcents the paffing gales, And fofter beauty decks the moon-light vales All Nature fmiles! nor e'en the jocund day, When feftal roses itrew the bridal way, Darts thro' the virgin breaft fuch keen delight, As when foft fears with gay belief unite; As Hope, fweet, warm, feducing hope infpires, Which fomewhat questions what it most defires; Reads latent meaning in a lover's eye, Thrills at his glance, and trembles at his figh; As o'er the frame diforder'd tranfport pours, When only less than certainty is ours.'

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The fecond epiftle, which is from Eugenio to Emma, and which contains his exculpation, is written with great force and pathos. But, perhaps, the poetefs no where difplays her pathetic powers to greater advantage than in the concluding epiftle, when Louifa is introduced to Emira on her death-bed:

"Shudd'ring we now draw near the house of


And find yet ftays the intermitting breath.
What agitated dread my bolom tears,
When paufing we afcend the filent ftairs!-
As we approach the flowly opening door,
As my pain'd fenfes, horror-chill'd, explore
The dim apartment, where the leden'd light
Gives the pale fuff'rer to my fearful fight!
The matchlefs grace of that confummate frame
Withering beneath the fever's fcorching flame.
Outstretcht and wan, with lab'ring breath the lies,
Clofing in palfied lids her quiv'ring eyes.
EUGENIO's hand lock'd in her claiping hands,
As hufh'd and mournful by her couch he stands!-
Horror and Pity mingled traces flung,
Which o'er his form, like wint'ry fhadows, hung;
Yet, on my ent'rance in that dreary room,
A gleam of joy darts thro' their aweful gloom!
Oh! what a moment! my EUGENIO's face!-
Alas!-how faded its cnce glowing grace!
Puit hours of woe on his pale check I read,
In eyes whofe beams, like waining stars, recede!
Faintly the found of that known voice I hear,
Oh, my LOUISA! fcarce it meets my ear,
Left the imperfect flumber thould be found
Chas'd by the check'd involuntary found.
But clear the fenfes of the dying feem,

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Like the expiring taper's faihing beam.

*An inchanting fong of Handel's, from Milton's Il Penferofo.


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