THE CONSOLATIONS OF RELIGION.

By Bishop ATTERBURY. Written in Exile.

ELIGION, chiefeft good to mortals giv'n,

The chain that links us to the throne of Jove;
The golden fteps by which we mount above;
The cheerful dranght that gives the foul relief;
The kindly friend that mitigates our grief;
The plant that blooms though in a barren foil;
The fpritely dawn that makes a prifon fmile!
By thee fecure we leave the road of ftrife,
And tread the pleafing filent paths of life;
By thee encourag'd, tempt the dang'rous fea,
And, fearlefs, take an exile's fate with thee!
Thou being our guide, where'er we're fore'd to roam,
To whate'er region driv'n, we're fill a' home:
Howe'er confin'd in dungeons hid from day,
The guiltless victims of a tyrant-fway,
Thou art our liberty, and in thy fight
Our bands are filken, and our fetters light,
Thou art the hungry ftemach's rich repaft,
The draught refreshing to the thirfly tafte;
The fureft, greatest wealth in all our need,
Poffeffing thee alone we're rich indeed.
Though poorly drefs'd, expos'd to pinching air,
Thou art a clothing, lafting, warm, and fair:
Thou art the bandage of the aching head ;

Thou fmooth'ft the fick man's conch, and mak'ft his bed,
Reviv'ft his drooping foul, when arts are vain,
To ftill his groanings, and compofe his pain;
Thou near him, he undaunted looks on death,
And icarcely feems to figh away his breath.

ODE

ODE to the INHABITANT* of a well-known dirty Shop in Leadenhall Street. From the European Magazine,

W Twist Aldgate's well-known

THO but has feen (if he can see at all),

'Twixt Aldgate's well-known pump and Leadenhall,

A curious hardware fhop, in general full

Of wares from Birmingham and Pontypool?

Begrim'd with dirt, behold it's ample front,

With thirty years collected filth upon't:

See feftoon'd cobwebs pendant o'er the door,

While boxes, bales, and trunks, are ftrew'd around the floor.

Behold how whiffling winds and driving rain

Gain free admiffion at each broken pane,

Save where the dingy tenant keeps them out
With urn or tray, knife-cafe, or dirty-clout!

Here fnuffers, waiters, patent-fcrews for corks;

There cafters, card-racks, cheefe-trays, knives and forks
Here empty cafes pil'd in heaps on high;

There packthread, papers, rope, in wild diforder lie.

O fay, thon enemy to foap and towels!
Haft no compaffion lurking in thy bowels?
Think what the neighbours fuffer by thy whim
Of keeping felf and houfe in fuch a trim?
The officers of health fhould view the fcene
And put thy fhop and thee in quarantine.

Confider thou, in fummer's ardent heat,
When various means are tried to cool the street,
What must each decent neighbour fuffer then
From noxious vapours iffuing from thy den.

When fell Difeafe, with all her horrid train,
Spreads her dark pinions o'er ill-fated Spain,
That Britain may not witnefs fuch a feene,

Behoves us doubly now to keep our dwellings clean.

Nathaniel Bently (fon of a refpectable hardwareman of that name, who died about 1770) refides at the corner of the Old Crown Tavern, Leadenhall-street, and is one of the most eccentric characters this day living. His father, who kept a carriage, and lived in ftyle, gave him a good education. It is faid, indeed, that he speaks not only French, but Italian, fluently. Previous to his father's death, and for feveral years after, he was called the beau of Leadenhall-ftreet, and was feen at all public places dreffed as a man of fabion. He attended, in a most elegant fuit, the Fête at Ranelagh, given by the Spanish ambaffador, on the king's recovery. His manners in company, in fhort, befpeak the gentleman; yet his appearance in business is little short of difgufting.

Say

Say, if, within the street where thou dost dwell,
Each houfe were kept exactly like thy cell;
O fay, thou enemy to brooms and mops!
How long thy neighbours could keep open fhops,
If, following thee in tafte, each wretched elf,
Unfhav'd, unwafh'd, and fqualid, like thyfelf,
Refolved to live?-The anfwer's very plain;
One year would be the utmost of their reign:
Victims to filth, each vot'ry foon would fall,
And one grand jail diftemper kill them all.

Perfons there are, who fay, thou hast been seen
(Some years ago) with hands and face wafl'd clean;
And, would't thou quit this most unfeemly plan,
Thou art ('tis faid) a very comely man,

Of polifhed language, partial to the fair;

Then why not wath thy face, and comb thy matted hair;

Clear from thy houfe accumulated dirt,

New paint the front, and wear a cleaner flirt.

THE EMPEROR PAUL.-A NEW SONG.

THO

Tune-"The Tight Little Island.

HO' of emp'rors.and kings, and all fuch fine things,
Hiftorians and novelifts bawl-o;

Yet none e'er fhone in ftory, with half fo much glory,
As the great Ruffian emperor Paul-o!

Then ah! fing of emperor Paul-o,
Magnanimous emperor Paul-o,

No one e'er was known, so deferving the throne,
As the valorous emperor Paul-o.

When a promife he made, that he France would invade,
And foon humble ev'ry proud Gaul-o,

Ev'ry one 'gan to raife his weak voice in the praife

Of our ally-the great emperor Paul-o ;

What a friend was the emperor Paul-o,

Quite a bulwark was Petersburg Paul-o!
And 'twas ev'ry one's fure hope, the faviour of Europe,
Wou'd be found in the emperor Paul-o;

Jus

Juft when he was fo hearty, up jumps Buonaparte,
For in truth, fir, his hopes were quite small-o,
Yet by dint of intrigue, he foon broke up the league,
Between us and the emperor Paul-o;

O faithless emperor Paul-o!
Changeable emperor Paul-o!

It must raise our surprise to hear so many lies,
From his honour the emperor Paul-o,

Then he fram'd a pretence, without reason or sense,
To make us give Malta up all-o,

For he thought that his might wou'd put Briton's in fright,
As he was the great matter Paul-o;

No, no, my dear fweet mafter Paul-o,

You are quite in the wrong, Mr. Paul-o,
We're too much enlighten'd to be at all frighten'd
By the threats of the emperor Paul-o.

Upon this he began to enlift ev'ry man,
And his troops altogether to call u,
And his meffengers far-go, to lay an embargo,
By orders of emperor Paul-o;

For, fays he, I'm the emperor Paul-o

They fhall fuffer, fays emperor Paul-o ; And my ftandard unfurl'd, fhall aftonish the world, For there's war between Britain and Paul-o!

So its in contemplation, to make proclamation
To our admirals, both short, tir, and tall-o,
To feize on his fleet, the moment they fee't,
And retaliate on emperor Paul-o.

So take care, my dear emperor Paul-o;
You'll repent of this, emperor Paul-o;
For if we fend Nelfon, he furely will tell foon
Some news of the veffels of Paul-o.

VERSES

Infcribed in the Temple of Friendship, at St. Anne's Hill

By the Right Hon. R. FITZPATRICK.

TH

HE Star, whose radiant beams adorn
With vivid light the rifing morn,
The fealon chang'd-with milder ray
Cheers the calm hour of parting day.

So

So Friendship (of the generous breaft
The earlieft, and the lateft, gueft)
In youthful prime with ardour glows,
And sweetens Life's ferener clofe.

Benignant pow'r! in this retreat,
O! deign to fix thy tranquil feat;
Where, rail'd above the dufky vale,
Thy favourites brighter funs fhall hail!
And, from Life's bufy fcenes remote,
To thee their cheerful hours devote;
Nor waste a tranfient thought, to know
What cares difturb the crowd below!,

HA

The BARD to his CANDLE.

JAIL, bright companion of my lonely hours! My midnight fun, with faintly glima'ring ray; To thee thy mafter now a fonnet pours;

Accept the verfe-'tis all the bard can pay.

When folemn darknefs veils the gloom-fpread earth,
And Night with fable fceptre rules the plain,
What time pale Fear gives fancied fpe&tres birth
And imag'd terrors fill the vulgar brain.

Then to my filent chamber I retire,

Where books and mufing folitude invite, With fecret pleafure trim my chearful fire, And from its flame my frugal taper light.

More dear to me thy little quiv'ring rays,

Which fcarce illume my filent ftudy round,
Than the proud glare where thousand torches blaze,
And Mirth and Folly pour their mingled found.

Thefe fpread their light, with glitt'ring radiance fraught,
To chafe Reflection from the heedlefs throng-

Thy fober beam affifts the poet's thought,

Infpires the lay, and tunes his foul to fong.

By thy lone light, full oft the Mufe has wove
Or tale or fong in Fancy's flow'ry icom;--
Oft has the breath'd the plaintive notes of love,
And mourn'd her fate-a hapless lover's doom.