January 14, 1768. No. 159.

     Of all the Sports that can be found,
When once the Snow lies on the Ground,
For Lad or Lass that dance the Round,
            There’s none like Carioling.

      The Bucks they first use all their Cant,                                                5
Then send their Cards in Compliment
To envite the Ladies who are bent
            To go a Carioling.

      Then at the appointed Hour they fly,
With Horse and Cariole so spry;                                                            10
To win Miss ——— each doth try,
            By Art of Carioling.

      But have a-care with whom you go,
For all they aim at is to shew
How clean they’ll toss you in the Snow                                                  15
            By Way of Carioling.

      In Pity then Miss ——— hide
The dazling Beams of your B----de,
Or with you I no more dare ride
            At all a Carioling.                                                                      20

      The Sun was asham’d to shew his Face;
Indeed it caus’d him great Disgrace
To be outshone by such a Place,
            And that by Carioling.

January 21, 1768. No. 160.

ELEGY, occasioned by the Death of a LADY.

Still shall unthinking man substantial deem
The forms that fleet through life’s deceitful dream!
On clouds, where fancy’s beam amusive plays,
Shall heedless Hope his towering fabrick raise!
Till at Death’s touch th’ ideal glories fly,                                                   5
And real scenes rush dismal on the eye;
And, from the bowers of fairy beauty torn,
The startled soul awakes to think—and mourn.

   O Ye, whose hours in jocund train advance,
Whose spirits to the song of gladness dance;                                          10
Who flowery scenes in endless view survey,
Glittering in beams of visionary day!
O, yet while fate delays th’ impending woe,
Be rous’d to thought, anticipate the blow;
Left, like the lightning’s glance, the sudden ill                                          15
Flash to confound, and penetrate to kill:
Left, thus encompas’d with funeral gloom,
Like me, ye bend o’er some untimely tomb,
Pour your wild ravings in night’s frighted ear,
And half pronounce Heaven’s sacred doom severe.                               20

   Wife! Beauteous! Good!—O every grace combin’d,
That charms the eye, that captivates the mind!
Fair, as the flowret opening on the morn,
Whose leaves bright drops of liquid pearl adorn!
Sweet, as the downy-pinion’d gale, that roves                                       25
To gather fragrance in Arabian groves!
Mild, as the strains, that, at the close of day
Warbling remote, along the vales decay!——
Yet, why with those compar’d? What tints so fine,
What sweetness, mildness, can be match’d with thine?                           30
Why roam abroad? Since still, to Fancy’s eyes,
I see I see thy lovely form arise!
Still let me gaze, and every care beguile,
Gaze on that cheek, where all the Graces smile;
That soul-expressing eye, benignly bright,                                              35
Where Meekness beams ineffable delight;
That brow, where Wisdom sits enthroned serene,
Each feature forms, and dignifies the mien:
Still let me listen, while her words impart
The sweet effusions of the blameless heart;                                            40
Till all my soul, each tumult charm’d away,
Yields, gently led, to Virtue’s easy sway.

   By thee inspir’d, O Virtue, Age is young,
And music warbles from the faltering tongue:
Thy ray creative cheers the clouded brow,                                             45
And decks the faded cheek with rosy glow,
Brightens the joyless aspect, and supplies
Pure heavenly lustre to the languid eyes:
Each look, each accent, while it awes, invites,
And Age with every youthful grace delights.                                           50
But when Youth’s living bloom reflects thy beams,
Resistless on the view the glory streams,
Th’ ecstatic breast triumphant Virtue warms,
And Beauty dazzles with angelic charms.

   Ah whither, fled!—ye dear illusions stay!—                                        55
Lo, pale and silent lies the lovely clay!
How are the roses on that lip decay’d,
Which Health in all the pride of bloom array’d!
Health on her form each sprightly grace bestow’d;
With active life each speaking feature glow’d.                                        60
Fair was the flower, and soft the vernal sky;
Elate with hope we deem’d no tempest nigh;
When lo, a whirlwind’s instantaneous gust
Left all its beauties withering in the dust.

   All cold the hand, that soothed Woe’s weary head!                            65
All quench’d the eye, the pitying tear that shed!
All mute the voice, whose pleasing accents stole,
Infusing balm, into the rankled soul!——
O Death, why arm with cruelty thy power,
And spare the weed, yet lop the lovely flower!                                       70
Why fly thy shafts in lawless error driven!
Is virtue then no more the care of Heaven!——
But peace, bold thought! be still, my bursting heart!
We, not ELIZA, felt the fatal dart.
Scaped the dark dungeon does the slave complain,                                75
Nor bless the hand that broke the galling chain?
Say, pines not Virtue for the lingering morn,
On this dark wild condemn’d to roam forlorn?
Where Reason’s meteor-rays, with sickly glow,
O’er the dun gloom a dreadful glimmering throw;                                   80
Disclosing dubious to th’ affrighted eye
O’erwhelming mountains tottering from on high,
Black billowy seas in storm perpetual tost,
And weary ways in wildering labyrinths lost.
O happy stroke, that bursts the bonds of clay,                                       85
Darts through the rending gloom the blaze of day,
And wings the soul with boundless flight to soar,
Where dangers threat, and fears alarm no more.

   Transporting thought! here let me wipe away
The falling tear, and wake a bolder lay.                                                  90
But ah! afresh the swimming eye o’erflows——
Nor check the tear that streams for human woes——
Lo, o’er her dust, the speechless anguish, bend
The hopeless Parent, Husband, Brother, Friend!——
How vain the hope of man!—But cease thy strain,                                 95
Nor sorrow’s dread solemnity profane;
Mix’d with yon drooping Mournets o’er her bier
In silence shed the symathetic tear.