The raree-show thought proper to retire;
Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair
Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air;

For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher

Such, Thomas, is the way to write!

Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite;
Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky:
No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.

Thus should an honest laureate write of kings--
Not praise them for imaginary things;

I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme
Call every king a character sublime;

For conscience will not suffer me to wander
So very widely from the paths of candor.
I know full well some kings are to be seen,
To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen,
Should that bold verse declare they wanted brains.
I won't say that they never brains possessed—
They may have been with such a present blessed,
And therefore fancy that some still remains;

For every well-experienced surgeon knows,
That men who with their legs have parted,
Swear that they 've felt a pain in all their toes,
And often at the twinges started;

They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain!
Fancying the toes were all come back again.

If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned,
Can fancy those same toes at times returned;

So kings, in matters of intelligences,

May fancy they have stumbled on their senses.

Yes, Tom-mine is the way of writing ode-
Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!

the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard.-P. P.

Strange disappointment in thy looks I read;
And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry,
"Is this an action, Peter, this a deed

To raise a monarch to the sky?

Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng,
Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"

Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels
On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels—
Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife,
But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact—
Thy Cæsar never did an act

More wise, more glorious in his life.

Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings,

Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house:

And may they never do more foolish things

Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.

THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN

[ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]

WHILE at the helm of state you ride,

Our nation's envy, and its pride;

While foreign courts with wonder gaze,

And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view

Your bard a greater man than you?

Which that he is you can not doubt,

When you have read the sequel out.

You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,

Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between

Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great;
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I!

The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest;
But latest hours must surely fall
'Fore him who never dines at all.

Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admired by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare With all my castles-in the air?

We're often taught it doth behoove us
To think those greater who 're above us:
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you, twice two story;
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.

Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted:
This too doth in my favor speak;
Your levee is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.

Nor in the manner of attendance,

Doth your great bard claim less ascendance.

Familiar you to admiration

May be approached by all the nation;

While I, like the Mogul in Indo,

Am never seen but at my window.

If with my greatness you're offended,

The fault is easily amended;

For I'll come down, with wondrous ease,

Into whatever place you please.

I'm not ambitious; little matters

Will serve us great, but humble creatures.

Suppose a secretary o' this isle, Just to be doing with a while; Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop: Or I can foreign treaties dish up. If the good genius of the nation Should call me to negotiation,

Tuscan and French are in my head,

Latin I write, and Greek-I read.

If you should ask, what pleases best?

To get the most, and do the least.
What fittest for ?—You know, I'm sure;
I'm fittest for-a sine-cure.

THE FRIEND OF HUMANITY AND THE KNIFE

GRINDER.**

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.†

ANTI-JACOBIN.

"NEEDY Knife-grinder! whither are you going?
Rough is the road, your wheel is out of order-
Bleak blows the blast; your hat has got a hole in 't,
So have your breeches!

Some stanzas of the original poem, by Southey, are here subjoined:

THE WIDOW.

SAPPHICS.

Cold was the night wind; drifting fast the snows fell;
Wide were the downs, and shelterless and naked ;
When a poor wand'rer struggled on her journey,
Weary and way-sore.

Drear were the downs, more dreary her reflections;
Cold was the night wind, colder was her bosom :
She had no home, the world was all before her.
She had no shelter.

Fast o'er the heath a chariot rattled by her:
"Pity me!" feebly cried the poor night wanderer,
"Pity me, strangers! lest with cold and hunger

Here I should perish."

The "Friend of Humanity" was intended for MR. TIERNEY, M. P. for Southwark, who in early times was among the more forward of the Reformers. "He was," says Lord Brougham, "an assiduous member of the Society of Friends of the People, and drew up the much and justly celebrated Petition in which that useful body laid before the House of Commons all the more striking particulars of its defective title to the office of representing the people, which that House then, as now, but with far less reason, assumed.

"Weary Knife-grinder! little think the proud ones,
Who in their coaches roll along the turnpike-
road, what hard work 'tis crying all day 'Knives and
"Scissors to grind O!'

Tell me, Knife-grinder, how came you to grind knives?
Did some rich man tyrannically use you?
Was it the squire ? or parson of the parish?
Or the attorney?

"Was it the squire, for killing of his game? or
Covetous parson, for his tithes distraining?
Or roguish lawyer, made you lose your little
All in a lawsuit ?

"(Have you not read the Rights of Man, by Tom Paine ?) Drops of compassion tremble on my eyelids,

Ready to fall, as soon as you have told your

Pitiful story."

KNIFE-GRINDER.

"Story! God bless you! I have none to tell, sir,
Only last night a-drinking at the Chequers,
This poor old hat and breeches, as you see, were
Torn in a scuffle.

"Constables came up, for to take me into Custody; they took me before the justice; Justice Oldmixon put me in the parish

Stocks for a vagrant.

"I should be glad to drink your Honor's health in
A pot of beer, if you will give me sixpence;
But for my part, I never love to meddle

With politics, sir."

FRIEND OF HUMANITY.

"I give thee sixpence! I will see thee damned first— Wretch! whom no sense of wrongs can rouse to vengeanceSordid, unfeeling, reprobate, degraded,

Spiritless outcast!"

[Kicks the Knife-grinder, overturns his wheel, and exit in a transport of Repub lican enthusiasm and universal philanthropy.]