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His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff:
So kept it-laughing at the steel and suds :
Hodge, in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direft vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods. « Razors ! a damn'd, confounded dog,
« Not fit to scrape a hog!" Hodge sought the fellow-found him--and begun : « P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
“ That people flay themselves out of their lives : " You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing, “ Giving my crying whiskers here a scrubbing,
« With razors just like oyster-knives. 66 Sirrah! I tell you, you're a knave, “ To cry up razors that can't shave." “ Friend,” quoth the razor-man, “ I'm not a knave :
“ As for the razors you have bought, “ Upon my soul I never thought
" That they would have." « Not think they'd pave !" quoth Hodge with won
d'ring eyes, And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
“ What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries. « Made !" quoth the fellow, with a smile" to sell !"
On the Death of Tom Osborne the Bookseller,
in September, 1766. OF
F a dull heavy folio, here rests the last page,
And what is more true, the best half: It had nothing within it, informing or fage,
'Twas unletter'd and bound up in calf.
An Elegy on a Tallow Candle.
ENSIVE I lay, e'en from the dead of night,
Until the fun his daily course began, Reflecting on the candle's wasting light, And moraliz'd the fate of mortal man.
White and unsully'd was that cotton-wick, When from the chandler first to me it came; Behold how black! the greasy drops how thick ! Such colour takes it from imparted flame.
Such is the youth, of manners strict and pure,
Till, led by vice, he quits his reason's guide;
By flatt'ry drawn, he stoops to vice's lure,
And from the path of reason wanders wide.
His passions melt, his manly vigour faints,
Nor mourns he aught his former vigour gone;
For foul society his morals taints,
And Mother Herbert marks him for her own.
The fool who sells his freedom for a smile,
Or for a ribband barters peace of mind,
Like wasting wicks juft glimmers for a while,
Then dies in smoke, and leaves a stink behind.
The many perils that ambition wait,
When soaring high, we still the lower fall,
Are but the snuffers of expiring light,
And Death's the grand extinguisher of all.
ITY the sorrows of a poor
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store.
These tatter'd cloaths my poverty- bespeak,
These hoary locks proclaim my lengthen d years ;
And many a furrow in my grief-worn cheek
Has been the channel to a flood of tears.
Yon house, erected on the rifing ground,
With tempting aspect drew me from my road;
For Plenty there a residence has found,
And Grandeur a magnificent abode.
Hard is the fate of the infirm and poor!
Here, as I crav'd a morsel of their bread,
A pamper'd menial drove me from the door
To seek a shelter in an humbler shed.
Oh! take me to your hospitable dome ;
Keen blows the wind, and piercing is the cold !
Short is my passage to the friendly tomb,
For I am poor and miserably old.
Should I reveal the sources of my grief,
If soft humanity e'er touch'd your breast,
Your hands would not withhold the kind relief,
And tears of Pity would not be represt.
Heaven sends misfortunes; why should we repine ?
'Tis Heaven has brought me to the state
And your condition may be foon, like mine,
The child of Sorrow, and of Mifery.
A little farm was my paternal lot,
Then, like the lark, I sprightly haild the morn;
But ah! oppression forc'd me from my eot,
My cattle dy'd, and blighted was my corn.
My daughter, once the comfort of my age,
Lurd by a villain from her nåtive home,
Is cast abandon'd on the world's wide ftage,
And doom'd in scanty Poverty to roam.
My tender wife, sweet foother of my care !
Struck with fad anguish at the stern decree,
Fell, ling’ring fell, a victim to despair,
And left the world to wretchedness and me.
Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
Whose trembling limbs have borne him to your door,
Whose days are dwindled to the shortest span,
Oh! give relief, and Heaven will bless your store,
Translation of Hanmer's Epitaph. TH
"HOU who survey'st these walls with curious eye, His various worth through varied life attend, And learn his virtues while thou mourn'st his end.
His force of genius burn'd in early youth,
With thirst of knowledge, and with love of truth ;
His learning, join'd with each endearing art,
Charm'd ev'ry ear, and gain'd on ev'ry heart.
Thus early wise, th' endanger'd realm to aid,
His country call’d him from the studious shade;
In life's first bloom his public toils began,
At once commenc'd the senator and man.
In business dextrous, weighty in debate,
Thrice ten long years he labour'd for the state ;
In every speech persuasive wisdom flow'd,
In every act refulgent virtue glow'd;
Suspended faction ceas'd from rage and strife,
To hear his eloquence, and praise his life.
Resistless merit fix'd the Senate's choice, Who haild him Speaker with united voice. Illustrious age ! how bright thy glories fhone, When Hanmer fill'd the chair and Anne the throne!
Then when dark arts obscur'd each fierce debate, When mutual frauds perplex'd the maze of state, The Moderator firmly mild appear'da Beheld with love-with veneration heard.
This task perform’d-he fought no gainful post,
Nor wilh'd to glitter at his country's cost;
Strict on the right he fix'd his steadfast eye, ,
With temperate zeal and wise anxiety ;