STANZAS

ON THE NEW HIPPODROME IN COVENT GARDEN.

Mutandus locus est, et deversoria nota

Præteragendus Equus.

HORACE, 15th Epist. B. I.

WHO will say, that the laws are no longer in force,
Recorded in Metamorphosean fable;

Since our Manager's raised to a Master of Horse,
And our Theatre sunk to a livery-stable ?

When beggar'd, they hit on this plan, we are told,
To jockey the town, and in clover to revel;
But now they are mounted, like beggars of old,
Or Blue Beard himself they will ride to the devil.
O Kemble, the Centaur, sage Houhnyihn elf!

Henceforth who will care for thy classic revivals? Rowe, Congreve, and Otway, may sleep on the shelf, Their brains are kick'd out by their quadruped rivals. Though Shakspeare may frown in your hall in disdain, You may laugh (if you can) without qualms or re

morses;

He swore all the world was a stage, and 'tis plain
No stage in the world can go on without horses.
Where'er with four legs native talent is bless'd,
The Manager's patronage doubly is due;
It goes twice as far, and has twice as much zest,
As where the dull rascals have only got two.

Away with the pit! turn it into a ring,
Thalia, Melpomene, joining the hoax,
Shall gallop in grand tragi-comedy swing,

While Kemble is cracking his whip and his jokes.
Don't cough and take snuff, Sir, and drag out each word,
Like bottles lugg'd up from some hollow old bin;
Sing, tumble, cut capers, be seen, felt, and heard,
And tip us Grimaldi's auricular grin.

In wisely attempting our stages to make

Of riding, not morals, the properest schools, Mr. Merryman's part it is fit you should take, The last of our actors-the first of our fools.

H.

EPIGRAM,

On hearing it observed that the Chancellor of the Exchequer had proved himself a bad Arithmetician.

FOR addition, PITT's talents let all men revere,
Since he adds to our debt thirty millions a year;
In subtraction his skill to suspect will be rash,
Which contrives from the Bank to subtract all the cash;
And tho' feeble his efforts to multiply men,

He can multiply taxes again and again;

In division what mortal will say he wants nous ?
Who so artfully works in dividing the house.

Then ye patriots be still! to your murmurs a truce!
What we were, what we are, think! and spare your

abuse,

For you all must agree that Will Pitt can reduce.

AN ELEGY.

WHY didst thou, Cynthio, tempt my wand'ring feet
To visit Sherbourn's ever-blissful grove?

Why didst thou call me to thy calm retreat,
The blest abode of Innocence and Love?

With anxious haste I bade the town adieu!

And fondly deem'd with conscious Peace to dwell!
I bade the sons of wealth their schemes pursue,
And sought, with eager steps, thy rural cell.

I found thee happiest of the village swains,
For she was thine whom most thou didst adore!
Elvira! pride of all the neighbouring plains,
For beauty fam'd-for ev'ry virtue more.
Far from the tumult of the madd'ning throng,
In careless ease I pass'd the tranquil day;
My pipe I tun'd, and rais'd the vocal song,
And every sylvan scene inspir'd the lay.
Ceres I sung, whose kind prolific hand,

Profuse of blessings, decks the varied scene;
Bids Autumn's ripen'd stores enrich the land,
And jocund Plenty crown the cheerful green.
Beauty was next my theme, and Love sincere ;
All potent Love! whose influence reigns confest;
With whom comes smiling Hope, and anxious Fear,
Alternate rulers of the human breast.

Ah! little thought I, while I heedless stray'd,
Or blithsome sung within the festive bow'r;
That danger lurk'd beneath the peaceful shade,
That there the tyrant god exerts his power!
Unconscious oft I view'd the rural fair,

And view'd without a pang each rising charm ;
The swift-wing'd minutes left no trace of care,
No soft sensations gave my breast alarm!
With ev'ry grace adorn'd, and native ease,

At length Lucinda caught my wond'ring eye; In her was center'd ev'ry power to please,

To melt the heart, and prompt the tender sigh! At once the soft contagion caught my breast; For what can Love's almighty pow'r controul! The ruling passion ev'ry thought possest,

And ev'ry fond idea fill'd my soul !

Fast by the stream that winds through Mivod's vale, There did I first my ardent vows impart;

She deign'd to listen to the artless tale,

The warm effusions of a faithful heart!

"Tis true she listen'd to my tender woes,
With patient ear she heard my fervent sighs;
Compassion soft within her bosom rose,

But yet she bade not gentle hope arise.

The changeful seasons twice their course have run, Yet still unchang'd her conq'ring pow'r I feel; Her image rises with the rising sun,

Nor can the shades of night her form conceal.

Ah! why Lucinda, did my wayward fate,
With force resistless doom my soul to prove,
Those cares, those heart-corroding cares, that wait
On anxious doubt, and unrequited love?

Whate'er my lot, on thee I still will tend,
I'll watch thy footsteps with redoubled zeal ;
On thee alone my utmost hopes depend,

Thy smiles alone can fix my future weal.

Full well, dear maid, thy wond'rous worth I know, The wealthiest swain might wish with thee to join; But I alas! have little to bestow,

Save a fond, faithful heart! and that is thine.

W. E.

EPITAPH *,

ON MRS. ELIZA SMITH.

BY THE LATE JACOB BRYANT, ESQ.

HERE flourish'd once, whilst Heaven did life impart,
A soul seraphic, and the purest heart;
With learning, candour, a capacious mind,
Blest with discernment, and a taste refin'd;
Soft and engaging converse; and the while
A pleasing look, and ever-winning smile.
Add each fair virtue, every grace full blown,
Known to the world, but to herself unknown.
From Wisdom's sacred fount she early drew
Knowledge divine, and practis'd what she knew.
To all alike her friendly help display'd:
Where Pity prompted, Charity obey'd.

Such was her worth; whate'er was wanting here
Is now completed in a happier sphere.

* In Egham church-yard.