September 5, 1776. No. 575.

The enamoured SHOE-BLACK WENCH.

A Shoe-black Wench with Brush and Ball in hand
Near Crispin’s Stall each Morning took her Stand:
She lov’d his merry Songs, his round Face more,
Her Eyes, tho’ silent, told it o’er and o’er:
As far as Modesty might say, she said,

If not her words, her Actions Love betray’d:
Her Pence for Purl and butter’d Buns she sent;
On her lov’d Cobler the last Farthing spent;
Shoes, good strong seams, she’d rip like rotten Thrums,
That they might come beneath her Cobler’s Thumbs;

All this she did, but all this could not move
His Tongue to speak one tender Tale of Love;
He’d whistle Black ey’d Sue and Chevy-Chace
But not one Word of honest Shoe-black Bess:
Oft, drooping on her Stool Bess sat reclin’d,

And thus in plaintive Accents eas’d her love-sick mind.
     “O, cruel Cobler!  O, hard-hearted Turk!
“Not one kind Glance to spare from off thy Work,
“Ript Seams thou closest neat I must confess,
“O!  close the Wound you’ve made in th’heart of Bess:

“Not one kind Word—Ah!  wretched me forlorn!
“Curs’d be the day wherein poor Bess was born,
“Curs’d be the Lamps that twinkling show’d the way,
“For me, unhappy, down this Street to stray;
“For here it was, accursed be the Place,

“I first beheld, beholding lov’d thy Face;
“Set down my Stool, in hopes one day to move
“Thy Heart obdurate to return my Love:
“But now I see—I see’t to my sad Cost
“That both my labour and my Money’s lost:

“Hard as thy LAPSTONE is thy Heart I find
“To Pity Callous and to Beauty blind;
“Is this the pay for Purl and butter’d Pease,
“For Penny-Loaves, strong Beer and Glos’ter Cheese?
“I paid my Cash—now two-pence, then a Groat,

“My own I pinch’d to wet thy graceless Throat:
“My Money’s gone; what’s worse, my Love beside
“Alas!  what doubl’d Ills poor me beside!
“Nought’s left but Patience to retrieve my Loss;
“Would I were fairly back at Charing-Cross!

“Absence, perhaps, may ease my wounded Heart,
“Remove thy Image and affwage my Smart.”
     Bess took her Stool, her Brushes and her Ball
Then—her last Look and left the Cobler’s Stall.

September 12, 1776. No. 576.

A Morning ADDRESS to the DEITY:
Written by BELMONT FORTEN.

ALMIGHTY Father!  now the Morning dawns,
And early dew Drops silver o’er the Lawns;
The harmless Flocks already frisk and play,
And matin Larks proclaim approaching day.
Let this then rouse me from the Bed of Ease,

To join with nature in my Maker’s Praise.
Parent of Light!  behold a heart sincere,
O deign to listen to thy Creature’s Pray’r!
’Tis all I ask while I thus prostrate bend,
That you, Creator, be my guardian Friend.

Tho’ Day now opens on my bounded Sight
And from yon Heaven streams a flood of Light,
Tho’ glaring seems the Object on my View,
The Earth’s green Carpet, and the Skies pure Blue,
Still I may err in all this Blaze of Day,

Rove thro’ the Wilds, and thro’ the Desarts stray.
But O, my Maker!  with protecting Pow’r,
From Danger shields me in the noon-day Hour,
With Arms of Mercy, guardian like, defends
From mid-day Evils and from mid-night Fiends,

Bids all my hours in Peace and Safety run,
From early Morning to the parting Sun.
When meek ey’d Eve in languid beams of Light
By less’ning Prospects tells the coming Night,
In grateful Song, O let me hymn his Praise

September 12, 1776. No. 576.

 An EPITAPH.

O!  Reader!  if thou has’t a Tear,
I pray thee pay it’s Tribute here;
For underneath this humble Stone,
(By Illness shrunk to Skin and Bone)
And blending now with kindred Clay,

A FAIR-ONE lies to Worms a Prey,
Who never knew her Parent’s Name,
Nor how, nor when, nor where she came.
Her Form, her Nose, her Eyes, her Hair,
Were beauteous all beyond Compare,

Yet ne’er the Objects of her Care:
Her Temper still one Level kept;
She never laugh’d—nor ever wept;
Nor e’er was known to give offence,
Or show, in Talk a Want of Sense:

   But lest your Tears too fast should flow,
And rise beyond a decent Pitch,
   It is but just to let you know,
The buried Fair’s——A GRAYHOUND BITCH.

September 19, 1776. No. 577.

The FORTUNE-HUNTERS.
A Fable from Æsop.

HOMER and MILTON, Bards divine!
In Strength and Dignity may shine,
With all the force of Verse impart,
The noblest feelings to the Heart;
Alarm each Passion—Love or Rage,

Immortal live from Age to Age,
Their Verse and Judgment all approve
—But Æsop is the Bard I love:
His simple Fables are of Use,
Their MORALS still some Good produce;

They fix upon the human mind
More forceably, tho’ less refin’d:
By many I could prove this true,
But humbly hope that One will do.
    HORATIO, sinking under Age,

Just quitting Life’s tumultuous Stage,
Call’d his two Sons:—His Sons repair
Their Father’s last Behest to hear.—
    “My Sons, th’expiring Father said,
“A TREASURE’S in the Vineyard laid,

“Turn up the Earth and you’ll find it true”
—He spake, and bid them both Adieu!
    The Hope of Wealth now fill’d each Breast,
The Spade and Pick-ax never rest,
Each Turf was turn’d and ev’ry Stone,

But as the TREASURE there was none;
At least it did not then appear,—
But when the SPRING re-crown’d the Year,
The Vines by far more fruitful grew,
The cluster’d Grapes more fair to view;

The TREASURE was no more conceal’d,
But shone—by INDUSTRY reveal’d,
                        M O R A L.
    Ye FORTUNE-HUNTERS mark the Lay,
And trifle Time no more away,

Let INDUSTRY employ you mind,
And each a FORTUNE soon may find.

September 19, 1776. No. 577.

Epitaph on GEORGE FAULKNER, Printer, and Alderman of 
the city of Dublin.

TURN, gentle stranger, and this urn revere,
O’er which Hibernia saddens with a tear.
Here sleeps GEORGE FAULKNER, printer! once so dear
To hum’rous Swift, and Chesterfield’s gay peer;
So dear to his wrong’d country, and her laws;

So dauntless when imprison’d in her cause!
No alderman e’er grac’d a weightier board,
No wit e’er jok’d more freely with a lord:
None could with him in anecdotes confer,
A perfect annal book in Elzevir.

   What’er of glory life’s first sheets presage,
What’er the splendor of the title-page;
Leaf after leaf, tho’ learned lore ensues,
Close as thy types, and various as thy news,
Yet, GEORGE, as we see one lot awaits them all,

Gigantic folios, or octavos small;
One universal FINIS claims his rank,
And every volumn closes in a blank!
            DÆMON TYPOGRAPHICUS.

September 26, 1776. No. 578.

The melancholy News of General WOLFE’S Fall gave rise to the 
following inimitable Prologue of Mr. Lloyd, to the Comedy
of TERENCE, THE BROTHERS, which was acted at Westminster School, some time after the Decease of that most eminent military Character—For the Satisfaction of our English Readers we have subjoin’d the Translation, written by BELMONT FORTEN.

PROLOGUS in ADELPHOS.

CUM Patres Populumque dolor communis haberet,
Fleret et Æmilium maxima Roma suum,
Funebres inter Ludos, his dicitur ipsis
Scenis extinctum condecorasse Ducem.
Ecquis adest, Scenam nocte hac qui spectet eandem,

Nec nobis Luctum sentiet esse parem?
Utcumque arrifit pulchris VICTORIA coeptis,
Qua Sol extremas visit uterque plagas,
Successus etiam medio de fonte Butannis
Surgit amari aliquid legitimusque Dolor.

Si famae generosa Sitis, si bellica Virtus,
Ingenium foelix, intemerata fides,
Difficules Laurus, ipsoque in flore juventae,
Heu!  nimium lethi praecipitata Dies,
Si quid habent pulchrum haec, vel si quid amabile jure,

Esto tua haec, WOLFI, Laus, propriumque Decus.
Nec moriere omnis—Quin usque Corona vigebit,
 Unanimis Britonum quam tibi nectit Amor.
Regia quin Pietas, Marmor tibi nobile ponet
Quod tua perpetuis praedicet acta notis.

Confluet huc Studio visendi martia pubes,
Sentiet et flamma Corda calere pari;
Dumque legit medits cecidisse heroa triumphis,
Dicet, sic detur vincere, sic moriar. 

TRANSLATION.  By BELMONT FORTEN.

AT brave Æmilius much lamented Fate
One common Sorrow held the Roman States
In solemn Shews, ’tis said, these very Scenes
Old Rome employ’d to honour his remains.
And is there one who hears the Roman Muse,

Beholds these Scenes, and with attention views,
Will think Our grief less genuine than theirs,
Or BRITISH less sincere than Roman tears?
Our brave Æmilius, WOLFE, undaunted Soul!
 (Whose Fame VICTORIA spread from Pole to Pole)

Fate snatch’d from us amid his glorious Deeds;
We feel the Stroke and Britain nobly bleeds.
If generous Thirst of Fame—if martial Fire,
A godlike mind that greatly cou’d aspire;
If Conquest hard to win—Unshaken Truth,

And Oh, curs’d Death thy blast on Mars own Youth!
If aught in this an Heroe’s Worth displays,
Be thine, O WOLFE!  the Honor, and the praise!
Immortal Chief!  thy Fame shall ever bloom
In British Soil, and triumph o’er the Tomb.

Thy Monument the Royal Bounty rear,
In fadeless Type they war-like Deeds declare;
Here flock our British Youth with great desire,
And viewing this will catch thy godlike Fire;
Then reading on thy Glorious Fate descry,

Then with to conquer thus, and thus to die,
Like thee, heroic WOLFE!  in Fields of Victory.