ON A FULL-LENGTH PORTRAIT OF BEAU MARSH.

Placed between the busts of Newton and Pope.

LORD CHESTERFIELD.

“IMMORTAL Newton never spoke

More truth than here you'll find;

Nor Pope himself e'er penn'd a joke
More cruel on mankind.

"The picture placed the busts between,
Gives satire all its strength;

Wis dom and Wit are little seen

But Folly at full length."

ON SCOTLAND.

CLEVELAND.

"HAD Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom; Nor forced him wander, but confined him home."

EPIGRAMS OF PETER PINDAR.

EDMUND BURKE'S ATTACK ON WARREN HASTINGS.

POOR Edmund sees poor Britain's setting sun:
Poor Edmund groans--and Britain is undone !

Reader! thou hast, I do presume

(God knows though) been in a snug room,

By coals or wood made comfortably warm,
And often fancied that a storm without,
Hath made a diabolic rout-

Sunk ships, tore trees up—done a world of harm.

Yes, thou hast lifted up thy tearful eyes,
Fancying thou heardst of mariners the cries;

And sigh'd, "How wretched now must thousands be?
Oh! how I pity the poor souls at sea!"

When, lo! this dreadful tempest, and his roar,
A zephyr in the key-hole of the door!

Now may not Edmund's howlings be a sigh

Pressing through Edmund's lungs for loaves and fishes,
On which he long hath looked with longing eye
To fill poor Edmund's not o'erburden'd dishes?

Give Mun a sup-forgot will be complaint;
Britain be safe, and Hastings prove a saint.

ON AN ARTIST

Who boasted that his pictures had hung near those of Sir Joshua Reynolds in the Exhibition.

A shabby fellow chanc'd one day to meet

The British Roscius in the street,

Garrick, on whom our nation justly bragsThe fellow hugg'd him with a kind embrace— "Good sir, I do not recollect your face,"

Quoth Garrick-"No!" replied the man of rags:

"The boards of Drury you and I have trod
Full many a time together, I am sure-"

"When?" with an oath, cried Garrick-"for by G-
I never saw that face of yours before!——
What characters, I pray,

Did you and I together play?"

"Lord!" quoth the fellow, "think not that I mock-
When you play'd Hamlet, sir-I play'd the cock."

ON THE CONCLUSION OF HIS ODES.
"Finish'd!" a disappointed artist cries,

With open mouth, and straining eyes;
Gaping for praise like a young crow for meat-
"Lord! why have you not mentioned me!"
Mention thee !

Thy impudence hath put me in a sweat

What rage for fame attends both great and small:
Better be d-n'd, than mention'd not at all!

THE LEX TALIONIS UPON BENJAMIN WEST

West tells the world that Peter can not rhymePeter declares, point blank, that West can't paint: West swears I've not an atom of sublime

I swear he hath no notion of a saint:

And that his cross-wing'd cherubim are fowls,
Baptized by naturalists, owls:

Half of the meek apostles, gangs of robbers;
His angels, sets of brazen-headed lubbers.

The Holy Scripture says, "All flesh is grass;
With Mr. West, all flesh is brick and brass;

Except his horse-flesh, that I fairly own
Is often of the choicest Portland stone.
I've said it too, that this artist's faces
Ne'er paid a visit to the graces :

That on expression he can never brag: Yet for this article hath he been studying, But in it never could surpass a puddingNo, gentle reader, nor a pudding-bag.

I dare not say, that Mr. West

Can not sound criticism impart:

I'm told the man with technicals is blest,
That he can talk a deal upon the art;
Yes, he can talk, I do not doubt it—
"About it, goddess, and about it.”

Thus, then, is Mr. West deserving praise―

And let my justice the fair laud afford; For, lo! this far-fam'd artist cuts both ways, Exactly like the angel Gabriel's sword; The beauties of the art his converse shows,

His canvas almost ev'ry thing that's bad! Thus at th' Academy, we must suppose,

A man more useful never could be had: Who in himself, a host, so much can do; Who is both precept and example too!

BARRY'S ATTACK UPON SIR JOSHUA REYNOLDS.

When Barry dares the President to fly on,
'Tis like a mouse, that, work'd into a rage,
Daring some dreadful war to wage,
Nibbles the tail of the Nemean lion.

Or like a louse, of mettle full,
Nurs'd in some giant's skull-
Because Goliath scratch'd him as he fed,
Employs with vehemence his angry claws,
And gaping, grinning, formidable jaws,
To carry off the giant's head!

ON THE DEATH OF MR. HONE, R. A.

There's one R.A. more dead! stiff is poor Hone-
His works be with him under the same stone:

I think the sacred art will not bemoan 'em;
But, Muse!-De mortuis nil nisi bonum—
As to his host, a trav'ler, with a sneer,
Said of his dead Small-beer.

Go, then, poor Hone! and join a numerous train
Sunk in Oblivion's wide pacific ocean;

And may its whale-like stomach feel no motion
To cast thee, like a Jonah, up again.

ON GEORGE THE THIRD'S PATRONAGE OF BENJAMIN

WEST.

Thus have I seen a child, with smiling face,

A little daisy in the garden place,

And strut in triumph round its fav'rite flow'r;
Gaze on the leaves with infant admiration,
Thinking the flow'r the finest in the nation,
Then pay a visit to it ev'ry hour:

Lugging the wat'ring-pot about,

Which John the gard'ner was oblig❜d to fill;
The child, so pleas'd, would pour the water out,
To show its marvelous gard'ning skill;

Then staring round, all wild for praises panting,
Tell all the world it was its own sweet planting;
And boast away, too happy elf,

How that it found the daisy all itself!

ANOTHER ON THE SAME.

In simile if I may shine agen-
Thus have I seen a fond old hen

With one poor miserable chick,
Bustling about a farmer's yard;
Now on the dunghill laboring hard,

Scraping away through thin and thick,
Flutt'ring her feathers--making such a noise!
Cackling aloud such quantities of joys,

As if this chick, to which her egg gave birth,
Was born to deal prodigious knocks,
To shine the Broughton of game cocks,
And kill the fowls of all the earth!

EPITAPH ON PETER STAGGS.

Poor Peter Staggs, now rests beneath this rail,
Who loved his joke, his pipe, and mug of ale;
For twenty years he did the duties well,
Of ostler, boots, and waiter at the “Bell.”
But Death stepp'd in, and order'd Peter Staggs
To feed his worms, and leave the farmers' nags.
The church clock struck one-alas! 'twas Peter's knel,
Who sigh'd, "I'm coming-that's the ostler's bell!"

TRAY'S EPITAPH.

Here rest the relics of a friend below,

Blest with more sense than half the folks I know:
Fond of his ease, and to no parties prone,
He damn'd no sect, but calmly gnaw'd his bone;
Perform'd his functions well in ev'ry way-
Blush, Christians, if you can, and copy Tray.