[194]

The HUE and CRY.

[From Poems by the Author of the Village Curate, and Adriano.]

YEZ, my good people draw near,
My ftory furpaffes belief,

Yet deign for a moment to hear,
And affift me to catch a stray thief.

She feems to have nothing to blame,
Deceitlefs and meek as the dove;
But there lives not a thief of fuch fame,
She has pilfer'd below and above.

Her cheek has the blushes of day,

Her neck has undone the fwan's wing,
Her breath has the odors of May,
And her eye has the dews of the spring.

She has rob'd of its crimson the rose,
She has dar'd the carnation to strip,
The bee who has plundered them knows,
And would fain fill his hive at her lip.

She has ftol'n for her forehead fo even
All beauty by fea and by land,
She has all the fine azure of Heaven
In the veins of her temple and hand.

Yes, yes, fhe has ranfack'd above,

She has beggar'd both nature and art,
She has got all we honour and love,

And from me fhe has pilfer'd my heart.

Bring her home, honeft friends, bring her home,
And fet her down fafe at my door,
Let her once my companion become,

And I fwear the fhall wander no more.

Bring her home, and I'll give a reward
Whofe value can never be told,
More precious than all you regard,

More in worth than a houfe-full of gold.

A reward fuch as none but a dunce,
Such as none but a madman would mifs,
O yes, I will give you for once

From the charmer you bring me, a kiss.

PROJECT for the IMPROVEMENT of THEATRICAL ENTERS TAINMENTS.

[From Whift, a Poem.]

HAT dome, whofe managers inceffant strive
To keep the public appetite alive,

And feed their guefts, on each returning night,
With varied treats of ever new delight;
Where yet delight is often fought in vain,
And languor and difguft too often reign;
One fimple change might to a temple turn,
Where pleafure's lamp could never fail to burn.
How rich a feaft would ev'ry play become,
If, like a pantomime, the fcenes were dumb;
And liberty of fpeech to none allow'd,
But thofe diftinguifh'd from the vulgar crowd;
Who, thron'd betwixt the galleries and pit,
In vaulted cabinets of fplendor fit!

We should not then frequent the house to know
What Hamlet faid a thousand years ago:
But flock to catch, in the politeft way,
The news and fcandal of the prefent day.
What perfect blifs from fuch a scheme appears
To all our faculties of eyes and ears!
The one delighted with the charms that flow
From graceful action, and the pomp of show;
The other ravifh'd with the full difplay
Of all that wit and elegance could fay.

A plan which promis'd thus their toils to eafe,
The flothful players could not fail to please;
Nor would it coft them one triumphant hour,
Or circun.fcribe their fafcinating pow'r.
For fure the Siddons, whofe expreffive eve

N 2

Each

Each paufe of language can fo well fupply,
Requires no fuccour from poetic art
To roufe, to foften, or to tear the heart;
Which, were it made of penetrable ftuff,
Would find her geftures and her looks enough.
Nor lefs applaufe would crown the graces wild
Of fportive Jordan, Nature's charming child;
Whofe romps, tho' mute, would be refiftless still,
And all the house with endless laughter fill.

But much as those would love the change who fit
Or in the boxes, or the crowded pit;

}

I fear thofe vulgar fonls, who perch'd on high
Behold improvement with a jealous eye,
Would loudly all against the motion cry.
But managers would from their duty stray,
Did they to fuch a voice attention pay;
Or rifque offending the politer few,
To please the taste of fuch a tastelefs crew.
Befides at times, or even once a week,
A play for them might be allow'd to speak.
The Orphan then, or fome fuch vulgar thing,
Might 'prentice girls and country boobies bring;
Who there might all in maudlin concert whine,
And wet their handkerchiefs at ev'ry line;
And (filly fouls!) to fhew their forrow, ftrive
That the fhould die who never was alive;
While we devoted the remaining nights
To thofe refin'd and elegant delights,
Which none can relish but the chofen band,
The flow'r and cream of each admiring land;

Who down the smooth expanse of fashion's tide

In pleafure's painted barge fecurely glide,

}

And o'er the glitt'ring wave in fplendid triumph ride.)

DESCRIPTION of the HORRORS of a GUILTY MIND.

[From Seventeen Hundred and Ninety-one, a Poem, in Imitation of the thirteenth Satire of Juvenal. By Arthur Murphy, Efq.1

ET think not that the wretch who finds a flaw,

To baffle juftice, and elude the law,

Unpunish'd lives: he pays atonement due ;

Each hour his malefactions rife to view.

Vengeance more fierce than engines, racks, and wheels,
Unfeen, unheard, his mangled bofom feels.

What greater curfe can earth or heaven devise,
Than his, who self-condemn'd in torture lies?
From agony
of mind who knows no reft,
But bears his own accuser in his breast

What

What charm fhall bid these horrors rage no more,
Heal the hurt mind, and gentle peace restore?
That charm is virtue: virtue can supply
Comfort in life, and courage when we die.
Virtue the pureft bleffing can impart,

The confcience clear, and felf-applauding heart.
At Delphos when a Spartan youth applied,
What think you then the Pythian Maid replied?
The treach'rous knave his friend's beft treasure stole,
And meant by perjury to keep the whole:
Unpractis'd yet in fraud, he ask'd advice:

The priestlefs answer'd, "The bare thought is vice;
"Vice, that ftrikes deep infection to the mind;
"Vice, that in time will retribution find."
And if the flave no deeper plung'd in ill,
Twas fear, not virtue, that controul'd his will.
Who but conceives a crime, with malice fraught,
Warps into vice, and kindles at the thought..
What though the embryo fin conceal'd with art,
In thinking die? Guilt rankles in his heart.....
If the strong motive urge him to the deed,
Horror, remorfe, and mifery fucceed.
See him at table, liftlefs, wan with care,
In thick-eyed mufing loft, and pale defpair.
Within his mouth, now unelaftic, flow,..
The viands loiter, and infipid grow...
In vain for him the banquet spreads it store,
The rareft banquet now can please no moreJA
In vain for him the mellowing years refine
The precious age of the pure racy wine.
In vain gay wit calls forth her magic train;
He flies the scene, to think, and dwell with pain.
No refpite from himfelf, with cares opprefs'd,
If weary nature fink at length to rest,

A

T

In the dead waste of night pale phantoms rife, 1
Stalk round his couch, and glare before his eyes, ››i
The temple bends its arches o'er his head,

And the long ifles their umber'd twilight fhed.
He fees the altar perjur'd where he trod,
The violated altar of his God!

He groans, he rifes, but the conscious mind on T
Wakes to worse horrors than he left behind.

Of his fix'd doom each object is a fign,

A vifitation from the pow'r divine!

Kindled in air if fudden meteors fly,

W

And hollow murmurs shake the vaulted sky,
No more the tempeft fprings from gen❜ral laws;
The winds have now a preternatural cause. !!
'Tis god in wrath, that (preads his terrors round; //
'Tis God, who now his enemies has found;

W

'Tis God's right arm, that shakes the diftant poles,
Wings the red lightning, and the thunder rolls.
Soon as the warring elements subside,
And nature fmiles with renovated pride,
Remorfe and horror now no more appal;
'Tis chance, not providence, that rules the ball.
A fever comes: 'tis heaven's avenging rod !
Again he owns the attributes of God.

He dies, and leaves the church his children's fhare,
And hopes in heaven to make his foul his heir.
Such the deep pangs obdurate villains find;
Such the dire furies of the guilty mind.

ODE to HOPE.

[From genuine Poetical Compofitions, &c. By Eliz. Bentley.]

Thou bid'ft his anxious bofom glow,
To climb the steep afcent of fame;
To fhare that praife the juft bestow,
And gain a deathlefs name.

The Painter fir'd by thee can traces
Each genuine beauty Nature gives,
As on the canvas fhines each grace,
Renown'd his mem❜ry lives.

'Tis thoir Tweet Hope, whofe magic pow'r
The griefs of abfence beft can calm;
While Friendship chides each loit'ring hour,
Thou shed'ft thy foothing balm.

Thou mak'ft the captive's heart rejoice
In gloomy regions of defpair;
In thought he hears fair Freedom's voice,
And breathes in purer air.