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October 5, 1775. No.
560. |
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The Bout-Rimés
proposed by three Ladies to an Old Man.
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LADIES,
I love you still, I still am young:
My heart for three such hearts will am’rous prove.
There was indeed a time—this heart and tongue,
Found three hearts not too much to praise and love.
N. |
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October 5, 1775.
No. 560. |
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The SERMON
without END
Imitated from the French of
Monsieur de la Condamine
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A priest, whom
good lungs never left in the lurch,
But whose breath gave a lethargy through the church,
Would preach all his people asleep and awake,
Confounded their senses; nor made them to quake.
Yet his sermons for years had been so long and
loud, 5
That no creature could say they e’er heard him conclude.
It was Lent, and the people were very sharp set;
So they risk’d their poor souls, and left the church in a
pet.
The sexton he stay’d—he’d no cause to repine;
He cheer’d up his soul with the bread and the
wine: 10
And then brought the keys—left the priest in the lurch;
Saying when you have done father—lock up the church.
T. |
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October 5, 1775.
No. 560. |
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Another
Translation
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A Certain old
preacher by nature long winded,
So tired his flock, and so little they minded,
That all by consent went to sleep:
Awaking, they found he was still going on
Without having finish’d the first head of his
plan, 5
They out of the church by turns creep.
The sexton remains, tho’ impatient and thirsty;
Yet, consoling himself with some wine and bread musty,
That by good hap in a corner he found:
Then reaching the keys he gives them the
priest, 10
Saying, Sir, I must go: when you’ve finish’d the rest,
Pray fasten the door safe and sound. |
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October 12, 1775.
No. 561. |
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The
MONK
and JEW
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An
unbelieving Jew one day
Was scating o’er the icy way,
Which being brittle let him in,
Just deep enough to catch his chin;
And in that woful plight he
hung, 5
With only power to move his tongue.
A brother scater near at hand,
A Papist born in foreign land,
With hasty strokes directly flew
To save poor Mordecai the
Jew: 10
But first, quoth he, I must enjoin
That you renounce your faith for mine;
There’s no entreaties else will do,
’Tis heresy to help a Jew.
"Forswear mine fait! No!
Cot
forbid! 15
Dat would be ferry base indeed.
Come, never mind such tings as
deeze,
Tink, tink how fary hard it
freeze.
More coot you do, more coot you
be;
Vat signifies your fait to
me? 20
Come tink agen, how cold and
vet,
And help me out van lettle
bit."
By holy mass, ’tis hard, I own,
To see a man both hang and drown,
And can’t relieve him from his
plight, 25
Because he is an Israelite.
The church refuses all assistance,
Beyond a certain pale and distance;
And all the service I can lend
Is praying for your soul, my
friend. 30
"Pray for mine soul! ha!
ha! you make me laugh;
You petter help me out py half:
My soul I farrant will take care
To pray for her nown self my
tear.
So tink a little now for
me; 35
’Tis I am in de hole, not
she."
The church forbids it, friend, and faith,
That all shall die who has no faith.
"Vell! if I must pelieve, I
must;
But help me out van little
first." 40
No, not an inch without AMEN,
That seals the whole—"Vell hear me den:
I here renounce, for coot and
all,
De race of Jews, both great and
small;
’Tis de varst trade peneath de
sun, 45
Or varst religion, dat’s all
vun:
Dey cheat, and get deir living
pite,
And lie, and swear de lie is
right.
I’ll co to mass as soon as
ever
I get to toder side de
river. 50
So help me out, dow Christian
friend,
Dat I may do as I intend."
Perhaps you do intend to cheat,
If once you get upon your feet?
"No, no, I do intend to
be 55
A Christian, such a one as dee."
For thought the Jew, he is as
much
A Christian man as I am such.
The bigot Papist joyful hearted,
To hear the heretic
converted, 60
Replied to the designing Jew,
"This was a happy fall for you;
You’d better die a Christian now,
For if you live you’ll break your vow."
Then said no more, but in a
trice 65
Popp’d Mordecai beneath the ice. |
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October 19, 1775.
No. 562. |
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NIGHT.
An ELEGY
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’SCAP’D from
the noisy world’s bewitching power,
Where endless Discord holds her chearless
reign,
From Folly’s trifling train I steal an hour,
And dedicate to Night the youthful strain.
No balmy slumbers sooth the cares of
toil, 5
Sweet sleeps the peasant in his humble cot;
Now flattery’s flippant tongue lies still a while;
And all the labour of the day’s forgot.
Cynthia, emerging from the crimson’d east,
Moves slowly onward with her starry
train; 10
And sober Night, in dusky mantle drest,
Resumes once more her awful silent reign;
Save where the mastiff, on the village-green,
Barks wildly at the wan moon’s glimm’ring
ray;
Save where the drowsy owl, with dismal
mien, 15
Hoots lonely on the dew-bespangled spray;
Save where the rill, whose many banks are clad
With plaintive willows, waving o’er the
stream,
Comes softly murm’ring thro’ the peaceful glade,
And silver’d glitters in the quiv’ring
gleam; 20
Save where the raven, from her airy nest,
’Mid woods impervious to the midnight
moon,
Lulls with her dreary songs her young to rest,
While weary Nature mourns her beauties gone.
When at this solemn hour the slumb’ring
world 25
Lies lowly prostrate on the downy couch;
And Riot’s sons, in mere confusion hurl’d,
Prolong the revels of the mad debauch;
Oft let me wander near the heath-clad hill,
O’er whose high top beams sweet the star
of
eve: 30
Or tread beside the daisy margin’d rill,
And ev’ry scene of vice and folly leave;
And there hold converse with the sacred Muse,
With Night’s seraphic bard, immortal
Young!
In memory’s fair page his strains
peruse, 35
How sweet he warbled, and how sad he sung:
Or feel the force of Thomson’s deathless song,
Who copied Nature in each diff’rent hue;
Who, soft as Sappho, and as Pindar strong,
Describ’d such scenes as Shakespeare never
drew. 40
There let me meditate on themes divine,
Whose blissful influence high exalts the
soul;
Or bend at Wisdom’s ever glorious shrine,
And learn the throbbing passions to controul.
There quick-eye’d Fancy’s airy flights
pursue, 45
That wake to ecstasy, and thoughts sublime,
In heav’n’s bright concave with amazement view
"The God of nature, and the God of
time."
Blest solitude! how sweet thy peaceful scenes!
Where Contemplation’s vot’ries love to
stray; 50
Where, in her sapient dress, Religion reigns,
And shines more splendid than the noon-tide
ray. |
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October 26, 1775.
No. 563. |
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An ODE
to VIRTUE.
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LONG
have I sought the living ’midst the dead;
Far from the crowd, art thou, O Virtue fled;
Say, in what cave, or hermit’s lonely cell,
Dost thou, dear heav’nly sanctifier, dwell?
Teach me by thy attractive pow’r to
find 5
The narrow path, unknown to half mankind;
The path, that leads to thy celestial seat,
In all that’s lovely, all that’s fair, complete.
Here saint-like spirits dwell, and here the few
Receive from thee their long-expected
due; 10
Thrice happy beings! thus prepar’d to know
The endless joys that from perfection grow.
Here let me learn to curb each vain desire,
And here to holy rectitude aspire;
Here learn to build my house of heav’nly
mould, 15
Dearer than life, or Crœsu’s countless gold.
Grant me the ornaments thy vot’ries love,
Unspotted truth, and wisdom from above,
The noble frankness, talents unconfin’d,
The gentle manners, elevated mind: 20
The soul sincere that never knows disguise,
And starts from guilt with horror and surprize:
Teach me to rise from earthly views to thee,
And gain, thro’ christian faith, true liberty |
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October 26, 1775.
No. 563. |
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A Humble
Prayer
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FULL
humble is my pray’r, I ween—
For humble I have always been.
Far from the wishes to be rich,
I ask not, for I need not much:
No nabob’s wealth, no fav’rites’s
place, 5
Nor royal gifts, nor royal grace:
Give me, O Fortune, give me clear
Three hundred sterling pounds a year:
And give a friend, to lounge, and talk,
And lean my arm on when I
walk. 10
Full humble is my pray’r, I ween—
For humble I have always been.
M. |
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