In Fleet-ftreet dwelt in days of ycre
A jolly tradefman nam d Tom Moore,
Gen'rous and open as the day,
But pafcnately fond of play,

No founds to him fuch fweets afford
As diuber rattling o`er the board;
Bewitching basurd is the game

For which he fo, feits health and fame.

In basket prijon hung on high,
With dappled coat and watchful eye,
A fav'rite Magige fees the play,
And mimics ev'ry word they fay:
Lord! bow be nicks us, Tom Moore cries,
Lord! brew be nicks us, Mog replies į
Tom throws, and eyes the glitt'ring itore,
And as he throws exclaims Tom M re!
Tom Moore the mimię bird replies
The attonith'd gamefters lift their eyes,
And wond ring ftare and look around,
As doubtful whence proceeds the found.
This diffipative life of courfe

Soon brought pear Tom from bad to worse;
Nor prayers nor promifes prevail
To keep him from a dreary jail.

And now between each heart-felt figh
Tom oft exclaims Bad compary!
Poor Mag, who fhares his master's fate,
Excla.ms from out his wicker grate
"Bad company! Bad company!"
Then views poor Tow with curious eye,
And cheers his master's wretched hours
By this difplay of mimic powers.
Th' imprisoned bird, tho' much carefs'd,
Is ftill by anxious cares oppress'd,
In filence mourns its cruel fate,
And oft explores his prison gate.
Obferve, thro' life you'll always find
A fellow feeling makes us kind.
So Tom refolves immediately
To give poor Mag his liberty;
Then opes his cage, and with a figh
Takes one fond look and lets him fly.
Now Mag, once more with feedo.n blefs'd,
Locks round to find a place of reft;
To Temple Gardens wings his way,
There perches on a neighbouring spray.
The Gard ner now with bufy cares
A curious feed for grafs prep..res,
Yet, fpite of all his toil and pain,
The hungry birds devour the grain.
A curious net he does prepare,
And lightly spreads the wily fnare;
The feather'd plunderers come in view,
And Mag foon joins the thievip crew.
The watchful Gard'ner now itands by,
With nimble hand and wary ey: ;
The birds begin their stoin repast,
The flying net fecures them fast.

The vengeful clown, now fill'd with ire, Does to a neighbouring shed retire, And, having fuift fecur'd the door> And windows, next the net explores,

Now, in revenge for plunder'd feed, Each felon he refolves fhall bleed, Then twists their little necks around, And cafts them breathlefs on the ground. Mag, who with man was us'd to herd, Knew fomething more than common bird He therefore watch d with anxious care, And flipt himself from out the fnare, Then, perch'd on nail remote from groume · Obferves how deaths are dealt around. Lord! bor be wicks us, Maggy cries: Tre aften.fh'd Gard'ner lifts his eyes, With fault ring voice and panting breath Exclaims, "Who's there?”—Allstill as death, His murd'rous work he does resume, And cafts his eye around the room With caution, and at length does fpy The Magiye perch'd on nail to high! The wond ring clown, from what he heard, Believes him fomething more than bird, With fear imprefs'd does now retreat Towards the door with trembling feet; Then fays Thy name I do implore ?" The ready bird replies-" Tom Moore." "O Lord!" the trighten'd clown replies, With hair erect and staring eyes; Haif opening then the hovel door, He afks the bird one queftion more: "What brought you here?”—With quick reply

Sly Mg rejoins-" Bad company"

Out jumps the Gard'ner in a fright,
And runs away with al his might,
And as he runs, in prefs'd with dread,
Exclaims, “The Devil's in the fhea !”

The wond'ious tale a Bencher hears,
And foothes the man, and quells his fears,
Gets Mag fecured in wicker cage
Once more to spend h.s little rage:
In Temple Hall now hung on high,
Mag oft exclaims-"Bad company y

ODE TO MELANCHOLY,
BY MRS. ANN RADCLIFFE.
Author of "THE MYSTERIES OF UDOL,
PHO."

SPIRIT of Love and Sorrow hail!

Thy folemn voice from far I hear,
Mingling with Evening's dying gale:
Hail with thy fadly pleasing tear I
O! at this fill, this lonely hour,
Thine own fweet hour of clcfing day,
Awake thy lute, whofe charming power
Shall call up Fancy to bey:
To paint the wild romantic ream

That meets the Poet's mufing eye,
As on the bank of fhadowy ftream

He breathes to her the fervid figh. Lead where the pine woods wave on high, Whole pathleis fod is darkly feen, As the cold moon with trembling eye Daits her long beams the leaves between; Lead

You fure were her peculiar care,
And guardian Cupids hail'd you fair,
Till Venus' fatal mandate fent,
Recall'd the killing charms fhe'd lent.
For now with filent grief I fee
Another Lydia (mile on me,
Your fqualid form and wither'd face
Half vanish from my warm embrace ;
To every amorous pleature dead,
And all the Lloar of life is filed.

Thofe eyes, that wont to pierce my heart,
No longer Love's artillery dart;
Thofe lips, that breath'd a spicy gale,
Ambrofial fweets no more exhale ;
And cheeks, where tempting roles grew,
Now wear a fad fepulchral hue.

Then blame not me, 'tis Venus' doom Has cropp'd your beauty in its bloom; Nor thank me partial, fhould I chufe

detire,

charms

Let each, in fancy, praife defert, 'Tis BEAUTY claims the port's heart. Car lifle.

LINES

R. B.

WRITTEN IN A RECESS AT CORBY
THE SEAT OF H. HOWARD, ESQ.

WHAT tho' beneath this fylvan fhade
No marks of grandeur are difplay`d
To form this cool umbrageous feat,
This quiet and this calm retreat,
Dame Nature feems to have outvy'd
The boast of Art, the temple's pride.
Hence! far away the painted dome,
The fculptur d arch, the fplendid room;
Ye cannot give the breaft that eafe,
That peace which fwells with every breeze.
The mould'ring rock of aspect stern,
The bank beftrew'd with mofs and fern,
The ivy twining round the oak,

The ftripling tree with branching stalk,
All nobler, happier thoughts suggest,
And foothe the mind to tranquil reft.

Here, undisturb'd by madd'ning noise,
The foul partakes her purest joys;
Bids the warm cheek with fervor glow,
And wonders at thefe joys below.
To this lone cave the lover flies,
To fhun the world's inquiring eyes;
The buobling brook which passes by
Bears faithful witnefs to each figh;
While the bold tow'ring rock above
Re echoes oft the founds of Love.

Within this lonely folitude,
No worldly cares dare e'er intrude;
No trouble here the breaft arnoy,
But all is peace, and all is joy.
Carlifle.

R. C.

SON

made.

HORTENSIUS.

SONNET

WRITTEN IN TINTERN ABBEY,

MONMOUTHSHIRE.

STRANGER, whoe'er thou art, whose ling'ring feet,

Enchained by wonder, prefs this verdant green †,

Where thy enraptur'd fight the dark woods meet,

Ah pause awhile, and contemplate the fccne !

Thefe hoary pillars clafp'd by ivy round,

This hallow'd floor by holy footsteps trod, The mould'ring Choir by fpreading thorns embrown'd,

Where fafting faints devoutly hymn'd their God.

But ruthlefs Time, by flow but certain fweep, Has laid, alas! their antient fplendor low: Yet if Reflection finks its leffon deep,

The foul's improvement from thefe walls may flow.

And fragrant lily-bell efcapes my care;

"And wafte its fweetnefs on the defart

Made

LORD LOVAT.

IT is most certainly no mark of affured

virtue and goodness to meet death with intrepidity. It often happens, that the moft pious and excellent perfons (as knowing how much better they probably might have acted) close the laft fcene with much difficulty and trepidation. Lord Lovat, upon having the axe turned against him, as is ufual when the dreadful fentence in cafes of treafon is pronounced against a Peer, fmiled, and behaved throughout the courfe of his trial with great lightnefs and carcleff. aels, afking feveral improper queftions. He refigned himfelf to death with great fortitude on the fcaffold, ate a meat breakfast the morning of his execution, and not long before he died exclaimed, Dulce & decorum eft pro patria mori."

The late Duke of Orleans, M. l'Egalité, met his fate with apparent unconcern; he went to the Guillotine the day before he was fentenced to fuffer by it; and it has been faid, that on the executioner's offering to take off his boots before he put him under the infernal engine, be faid, “Il vaut mieux les oter du carcafe, You had better take them off from the dead body."

COUNT OXENSTIERN.

The following concife and whimficai account of England was given fome years fince by Count Oxenftiern, after fis departure from London: Engand is really the Queen of Ifles-the metropolis and arfenal of Neptune it is the treafury of Europe-the kingdom of Bacchus-the fchool of EpicuFus-the academy of Venus-the country of Mars--the recefs of Minerva the fupport of Holland-the fcourge of France the purgatory of those who are advocates for flavery and the Paradife of thofe who are lovers of Liberty."

LORD BOLINGBROKE. Pafcal fays, that there are fome men who believe in the miracles of Vefpafian, and deny thofe of the Gospel. Lord YOL. XXX. AUGUST 1796.

HAMLET.

Bolingbroke had one day in company, before Marivaux, the celebrated French Novel Writer, talked again religion; who told him, "At least, my Lord, if you are not a Believer, it is not for want of faith."

MARSHAL SAXE

"I have no great opinion," faid he, "of those Generals who are always afking after detachments to attack the enemy. They are like the ftatue of a horie, whole foot is always lifted up, and yet he never ftirs a step."

To the celebrated Father Caftel, who wrote to congratulate him upon his fucceffes, and upon the very excellent manner in which his military operations were carried on, he awered, "Nothing, my reverend Father, can flatter me more than that I fhould have attracted your attention upon the manner in which I have had the honour to con⚫ duct the King's troops. Very few perfons fee fo far as you do, and I am in no hurry to take off the veil from their eyes. It would be an useless and an impertinent behaviour in me to do fo. The generality of mankind are fatisfied when affairs go on tolerably well, and the number you know of common perfons in the world is very great."