Midst shapeless mockeries of Greece and Rome, While these gay scenes her restless thoughts employ, Not such their HOME whom Love has taught to know From that blest source what real transports flow. HOME! 'tis the name of all that sweetens life; It speaks the warm affection of a wife, The lisping babe that prattles on the knee The spot where fond parental love may trace FROM MARTIAL. EPIGRAM 78. B. VIII. "THE simple truth I wish to hear, EVENING, THE Soft dews descending bathe the thirsty ground, And wand'ring glow-worms shed their emerald light. Now breathe the high romantic love-lorn tale, Let airy harps from every passing gale Steal heav'nly notes with soft enchanting kiss. The mingled charm shall cheat my ardent soul; L. A. THE BARBER. PARODY UPON GRAY'S CELEBRATED ODE OF "THE BARD *," BY THE HON. THOMAS ERSKINE. A Fragment of a Pindaric Ode, from an old Manuscript in the Museum, which Mr. GRAY certainly had in his Eye when he wrote his " BARD." I. RUIN seize thee, scoundrel Coe! Nor e'en thy chatt'ring, barber! shall avail As down the steep of Jackson's slippery lane He wound with puffing march his toilsome tardy, way. *This Parody was written at Trinity College, Cambridge, near two and forty years ago; and arose from the circumstance of the Author's Barber coming too late to dress him at his lodgings, at the shop of Mr. Jackson, an apothecary at Cambridge, where he lodged, till a vacancy in the College, by which he lost his dinner in the Hall: when, in imitation of the despairing Bard, who prophecied the destruction of King Edward's race, he poured forth his curses upon the whole race of Barbers, predicting their ruin in the simplicity of a future generation, 11. In a room, where Cambridge town Stream'd like an old wig to the troubled air ;) Hark! how each striking clock and tolling bell, Cold is Beau ** tongue, 'That sooth'd each virgin's pain; Bright perfumed M** has cropp'd his head: Each youth whose high toupee Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-capt head, Esplash'd with dirt and sun-burnt face; I see them sit; they linger yet, Avengers of fair Nature's hand; With me in dreadful resolution join, ⚫ TO CROP with one accord, and starve their cursed line. IV. "Weave the warp, and weave the woof, "Their lengthen'd lanthorn jaws to trace. "Mark the year, and mark the night, "When all their shops shall echo with affright, "Loud screams shall through St. James's turrets ring, "To see, like Eton boy, the King! "Puppies of France, with unrelenting paws "That scrape the foretops of our aching heads; "No longer England owns your fribblish laws, "No more her folly Gallia's vermin feeds. "They wait at Dover for the first fair wind, "Soup-meagre in the van, and snuff, roast-beef behind. V. "Mighty barbers, mighty lords, "Is the mealy 'prentice fled? "Poor Coe is gone, all supperless to bed. "The swarm that in thy shop each morning sat, "Comb their lank hair on forehead flat: "Fair laughs the moru, when all the world are beaux, "While vainly strutting through a silly land, "In foppish train the puppy barber goes, "Lace on his shirt, and money at command, "Regardless of the skulking bailiff's sway, "That hid in some dark court expects his ev'ning prey. |