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Hard by there ran a whimp'ring brook;
The Road hung fhelving tow'rds the brim ;
The fpiteful Wind th' advantage took ;

The Wheel flies up; the Onions fwim;
The Peafant, faw his fav'rite ftore
At one rude blaft, all puff'd away,
How would an English Clown have sworn,
To hear them plump, and fee them roll?
Have curs'd the day that he was born,

And, for an Onion, damn'd his Soul?
Our Frenchman acted quite as well,
He flop'd (and hardly ftop'd) his fong;
Firft rais'd the Bidet from his fwoon;
Then flood a little while, to view
His onions, bobbing up and down;
At laft, he fhrugging cry'd, "Parbleu !

* "Il ne manqu'ici, que du fel,
"Pour faire du potage excellent."

*Here wants nothing but falt

To make excellent porridge.

Art. 29. Ode to the Legiflator Elect of Ruffia, on his being prevented from entering on his high Office, by a Fit of the Gout. 4to. Is.

Nicoll.

The raillery of this ode is poignant and spirited ;-but as the object of the Author's fatire is unhappily no more, we fhall only add, that the little poem before us was published a few weeks before Dr. B-'s melancholy catastrophe happened; and that an account of it was fent to our printer, for the last month's Review; but it was left out, with other articles, for want of room. Art. 30. Cynthia and Daphne. Tranflated from the Italian of II. Cavalier Marino, with a Dedication in Blank Verse to the Duke of York. 4to. 2s. Almon.

The loves of Pan and Apollo, fo elegantly told by claffic pens, are very ill paraphrafed in the Italian, and much worfe tranflated in the English. As a fpecimen of the powers of our Tranflator, take the following extract from his dedication:

Black-bearded Jove in majefty fecure,

From throne of burnish'd gold wav'd boundless sway,
Loquacious Juno, as a trumpet fhrill,

With clamorous accents ranted through the fkies.

This Writer feems to be a defcendant of the fublime Sir Richard Blackmore.

Art. 31. Providence, written in 1764. By the Rev. Joseph

66

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A ftrange farrago of rhyme in profe, or profe in rhyme for inftance:
The worthy wight, who thinks the best he can,
And lives thereto, will be the happy man.".

This is very well meant, but

The worthy wight, who never would devife
Thilk verte to write, we'd call him Mr. Wife.

Art. 31.

Art. 32. The Poor Man's Prayer. Addreffed to the Earl of Chatham. By Simon Hedge. 4to. 6d. T. Payne.

This very pathetic elegy cannot be fuppofed to be, in reality, the work of any Simon Hedge,-any unlettered peafant; for it is not unworthy the pen of a Mafon or a Gray.-The fubject is at this time fo critical, and the publication fo feasonable, that our humane Readers will forgive us, if, to fecond the endeavours of our benevolent Bard, we affift him in wafting fome parts of the Poor Man's Prayer to other ears, beside those of the right honourable perfonage to whom it is more immediately addreffed.

Lord Chatham is thus folemnly and feelingly called upon, in the fe cond stanza :

O Chatham, nurs'd in ancient virtue's lore,

To these sad strains incline a fav'ring ear ;
Think on the God, whom Thou, and I adore,

Nor turn unpitying from the Poor Man's Prayer..

Honeft Hedge begins, very naturally, the recital of his diftreffes, by a melancholy retrospective view of his former happy ftate, in better times :

Ah me! how bleft was once a peafant's life! :
No lawless paffion fwell'd my even breast;
Far from the ftormy waves of civil ftrife,

Sound were my flumbers, and my heart at rest.
I ne'er for guilty, painful pleafures rov'd, :

But taught by nature, and by choice to wed,
From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I lov'd,
With her I ftaid my heart, with her my bed.
To gild her worth I ask'd no wealthy power,
My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;
In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,
The fame fond hufband, father, brother, friend,
And fhe, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening ftreak'd the western sky,
Look towards the uplands, if her mate was there,
Or thro' the beech wood caft an anxious eye.
Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board
With favoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From fuch plain food as Nature could afford,

Ere fimple nature was debauch'd by art.
While I, contented with my homely cheer,
Saw round my knees my prattling children play;
And oft with pleas'd attention fat to hear

The little hiftory of their idle day.

What a dismal reverfe of this pleafing scene now follows!
But ah! how chang'd the scene! on the cold ftones,
Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale famine fits, and counts her naked bones,
Still fighs for food, ftill pines with vain defire

My

Hard by there ran a whimp'ring brook;
The Road hung fhelving tow'rds the brim ;
The fpiteful Wind th' advantage took;

The Wheel flies up; the Onions fwim;
The Peafant, faw his fav'rite ftore
At one rude blaft, all puff'd away,
How would an English Clown have fworn,
To hear them plump, and fee them roll?
Have curs'd the day that he was born,

And, for an Onion, damn'd his Soul?
Our Frenchman acted quite as well,
He flop'd (and hardly ftop'd) his fong;
Firft rais'd the Bidet from his fwoon;
Then flood a little while, to view
His onions, bobbing up and down;
At laft, he fhrugging cry'd, "Parbleu!

*"Il ne manqu' ici, que du fel,

Pour faire du potage excellent."

* Here wants nothing but falt
To make excellent porridge.

Art. 29. Ode to the Legiflator Elect of Ruffia, on his being prevented from entering on his high Office, by a Fit of the Gout. 4to. 1s.

Nicoll.

The raillery of this ode is poignant and fpirited ;-but as the object of the Author's fatire is unhappily no more, we fhall only add, that the little poem before us was published a few weeks before Dr. B-'s melancholy catastrophe happened; and that an account of it was fent to our printer, for the last month's Review; but it was left out, with other articles, for want of room. Art. 30. Cynthia and Daphne. Tranflated from the Italian of II. Cavalier Marino, with a Dedication in Blank Verfe to the Duke of York. 4to. 25. Almon.

The loves of Pan and Apollo, fo elegantly told by claffic pens, are very ill paraphrafed in the Italian, and much worfe tranflated in the English. As a fpecimen of the powers of our Tranflator, take the following extract from his dedication:

Black-bearded Jove in majefty fecure,

From throne of burnish'd gold wav'd boundless sway,
Loquacious Juno, as a trumpet fhrill,

With clamorous accents ranted through the skies.

This Writer feems to be a defcendant of the fublime Sir Richard Blackmore.

Art. 31. Providence, written in 1764. By the Rev. Jofeph
Wife. 8vo. IS.
Bladon.

66

A ftrange farrago of rhyme in profe, or profe in rhyme: for inftance:
The worthy wight, who thinks the best he can,
And lives thereto, will be the happy man.".

This is very well meant, but

The worthy wight, who never would devise
Thilk verfe to write, we'd call him Mr. Wife.

Art. 31.

Addreffed to the Earl of
4to. 6d. T. Payne.

Art. 32. The Poor Man's Prayer.
Chatham. By Simon Hedge.
This very pathetic elegy cannot be fuppofed to be, in reality, the
work of any Simon Hedge,-any unlettered peafant; for it is not unworthy
the pen of a Mafon or a Gray.-The fubject is at this time fo critical,
and the publication fo feasonable, that our humane Readers will forgive
us, if, to fecond the endeavours of our benevolent Bard, we affift him in
wafting fome parts of the Poor Man's Prayer to other ears, befide thofe
of the right honourable perfonage to whom it is more immediately ad-
dressed.

Lord Chatham is thus folemnly and feelingly called upon, in the fe cond ftanza:

O Chatham, nurs'd in ancient virtue's lore,

To these sad strains incline a favʼring ear ;
Think on the God, whom Thou, and I adore,

Nor turn unpitying from the Poor Man's Prayer.

Honeft Hedge begins, very naturally, the recital of his diftreffes, by a melancholy retrofpective view of his former happy ftate, in better times:

Ah me! how bleft was once a peafant's life!
No lawless paffion fwell'd my even breast;
Far from the ftormy waves of civil ftrife,
Sound were my flumbers, and my heart at rest.
I ne'er for guilty, painful pleasures rov'd,

But taught by nature, and by choice to wed,..
From all the hamlet cull'd whom best I lov'd,
With her I ftaid my heart, with her my bed.
To gild her worth I afk'd no wealthy power,
My toil could feed her, and my arm defend;
In youth, or age, in pain, or pleasure's hour,
The fame fond husband, father, brother, friend.
And fhe, the faithful partner of my care,

When ruddy evening ftreak'd the western sky,
Look towards the uplands, if her mate was there,
Or thro' the beech wood caft an anxious eye.
Then, careful matron, heap'd the maple board
With favoury herbs, and pick'd the nicer part
From fuch plain food as Nature could afford,

Ere fimple nature was debauch'd by art.
While I, contented with my homely cheer,

Saw round my knees my prattling children play;
And oft with pleas'd attention fat to hear

The little history of their idle day.

What a dismal reverse of this pleafing scene now follows!
But ah! how chang'd the fcene! on the cold ftones,
Where wont at night to blaze the chearful fire,
Pale famine fits, and counts her naked bones,
Still fighs for food, ftill pines with vain defire.

My

My faithful wife with ever-freaming eyes
Hangs on my bofom her dejected head;
My helpless infants raife their feeble cries,
And from their father claim their daily bread.
Dear tender pledges of my honeft love,

On that bare bed behold your brother lie;
Three tedious days with pinching want he ftrove,
The fourth, I faw the helpless cherub die.
Nor long shall ye remain. With visage four
Our tyrant lord commands us from our home;
And arm'd with cruel laws coercive power

Bids me and mine o'er barren mountain's roam.

The complainant now proceeds to expatiate on the unmerited feverity of his fate, and on the wickedness of those to whom he attributes his fhare of the general mifery in which the poor are involved :

Hard was my fare, and conftant was my toil,
Still with the morning's orient light I rofe,
Fell'd the ftout oak, or rais'd the lofty pile,
Parch'd in the fun, in dark December froze.

Is it, that nature with a niggard hand

Withholds her gifts from these once favour'd plains?
Has God, in vengeance to a guilty land,

Sent dearth and famine to her lab'ring swains?
Ah, no; yon hill, where daily fweats my brow,
A thousand flocks, a thousand herds adorn ;
Yon field, where late I drove the painful plough,
Feels all her acres crown'd with wavy corn.
But what avails, that o'er the furrow'd foil
In autumn's heat the yellow harvests rise,
If artificial want elude my toil,

Untafted plenty wound my craving eyes?
What profits, that at diftance 1 behold

My wealthy neighbour's fragrant smoke afcend,
If fill the griping cormorants withhold

The fruits which rain and genial seasons fend?

If those fell vipers of the public weal
Yet unrelenting on our bowels prey;
If ftill the curfe of penury we feel,

And in the midft of plenty pine away?

He concludes with the following ardent fupplication:

From thee alone I hope for instant aid,

"Tis thou alone can fave my children's breath;

O deem not little of our cruel need,

O hafte to help us, for delay is death.

So may nor fpleen, nor envy blaft thy name,
Nor voice profane thy patriot acts deride;
Still may'st thou ftand the firft in honeft fame,
Unftung by folly, vanity, or pride.

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