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Bucks have at ye all.

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'Tis not in nature for ye to be quiet,

No, damme, Bucks exist but in a riot.

For instance now-to please the ear and charm the admiring

crowd,

Your Bucks o'th' boxes sneer and talk aloud:

To the green box next with joyous speed you run,

Hilly ho! ho! my Bucks! well, damn it what's the fun?

Tho' Shakspeare speaks-regardless of the play,

Ye laugh and loll the sprightly hours away:

For to seem sensible of real merit,

Oh, damme, it's low, it's vulgar - beneath us lads of spirit.
Your Bucks o'the pit are miracles of learning,
Who point out faults to shew their own dincerning;
And critic-like bestriding martyr'd sense,
Proclaim their genius and vast consequence.
The side long row, whose keener views of bliss,
Are chiefly center'd in some favourite miss;
A set of jovial Bucks who here resort,
Flush from the tavern, reeling, ripe for sport:
Wak'd from their dream oft join the gen'ral roar,
With bravo, bravo-bravissimo, et damme, encore.
Or skipping that behold another row,
Supply'd by citizens or smiling beau;
Addressing miss, whose cardinal protection,
Keeps her quite safe from ranc'rous detraction;
Whose lively eyes beneath a down-drawn hat,
Give hint she loves a little-you know what.
Ye Bucks above who range like gods at large,
Nay pray don't grin, but listen to your charge.
You who design to change this scene of raillery,
And out-talk players in the upper gallery:
Oh there's a youth, and one o'th' sprightly sort,
I don't mean you-damme, you've no features for't.
Who slily skulks to hidden station,

While players follow their vocation,

:

Whistle, off, off, off? Nosee, Roast Beef- there's education.

Now I've explor'd this mimic world quite thro',

And set each country's little faults to view:

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In the right sense receive the well-meant jest,
And keep the moral stili within your breast;
Convinc'd I'd not in heart or tongue offend,
Your hands acquit me, and I've gain'd my end.

ELEGY,

WIRTTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH YARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The plowman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds,
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,
And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;
Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r,
The moping owl doth to the moon complain
Of such, as wand'ring near her secret bow'r,
Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree's-shade,
Where heaves the turf in many a mould ring heap,
Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.
The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,
The swallow twitt'ring from the straw-built shed,
The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.
For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
Or busy housewife ply her evening care:
No children run to lisp their sare's return,
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did their harvest to the sickle yield,
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke,
How jocund did they drive their team afield !
Howbow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke.

Elegy.

Let not ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile,
The short and simple annals of the poor.
The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow'r,
And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,
Await alike the inevitable hour,

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.
Nor you. ye proud, impute to these the fault,
If Mem'ry o'er their tomb no trophies raise,
Where thro' the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.
Can storied urn or animated bust,

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honour's voice provoke the silent dust,
Or flatt'ry sooth the dult cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid
Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;
Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,
Or wak'd to ecstacy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page.
Rich with the spoils of Time, did ne'er unroll;
Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage.
And froze the genial current of the soul.
Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark unfathom'd caves of Ocean bear :
Fu'l many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast,
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwe I guiltless of his country's blood.
Th' applause of list ning senates to command,
The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

.....

Elegy.

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........NIH

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,
And read their hist'ry in a nation's eyes,
Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib'd alone
Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin'd;
Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind.
The struggling pangs of conscious 'Truth to hide,
To quench the blushes of ingenuous Shame,
Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride
With incense kindled at the muse's flame,
Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife,
Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray;
Along the cool sequester'd vale of life
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.
Yet ev'n these bones from insult to protect,
Some frail memorial still erected nigh,
With uncouth rhimes and shapeless sculpture deck'd
Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years spelt by th' unletter'd muse,
The place of fame and elegy supply;
And many a holy text around she strews,
That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,
This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,
Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
Nor cast one longing ling'ring look behind!
On some fond breast the parting soul relies,
Some pious drops the closing eye requires.
Ev'n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,
Ev'n in our ashes live their wonted fires.
For thee, who mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate,
If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,
Some kindred Spirit shall enquire thy fate.
Haply some hoary headed swain may say,
" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,

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Elegy.

"Brushing with hasty steps the dew away,
"To meet the sun upon the upland lawn:
"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech,
"That wreathes its old fantastic root so high,
"His listless length at noontide would he stretch,
" And pore upon the brook that bubbles by.
"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in seorn,
"Mutt'ring his wayward fancies he would rove,
"Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,
"Or craz'd with care' or cross'd in hopeless love.
"One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,
"Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;
"Another came; nor yat beside the rill,

"Norun the lawn, nor at the wood was he:

"The next, with dirges due, in sad array,

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• Slow through the church-way pathe saw him borne,

"Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay

" Grav'd on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

ΤΗΕ ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ,

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth,
A Youth to Forture and to Fame unknown;
Fair Science frown d not on his humble birth,
And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,
Heav'n did a recompense as largely send:
He gave to Mis'ry all he had, a tear,

He guin'd from Heav'n ('twas all he wish'd) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose,) The bosom of his Father and his God.

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