Upstarts and mushrooms, proud, relentless hearts;
Thou blank of sciences! thou dearth of arts!
Such foes as learning once was doom'd to see;
Huns, Goths, and Vandals, were but types of thee.
Proceed, great Bristol, in all righteous ways,
And let one Justice heighten yet thy praise;
Still spare the catamite, and swinge the whore,
And be whate'er Gomorrha was before.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN AT THE REVIVAL OF SHAKESPEARE'S KING HENRY VI. AT THE THEATRE ROYAL IN DRURYLANE.

Printed before the Play, from a spurious copy.

TO-NIGHT a patient ear, ye Britons, lend,
And to your great forefathers' deeds attend.
Here cheaply warn'd, ye blest descendants, view
What ills on England, Civil Discord drew.
To wound the heart, the martial Muse prepares;
While the red scene with raging slaughter glares.
Here, while a monarch's sufferings we relate,
Let generous grief his ruin'd grandeur wait.
While Second Richard's blood for vengeance calls,
Doom'd for his grandsire's guilt poor Henry falls.
In civil jars avenging judgment blows,
And royal wrongs entail a people's woes.
Henry, unvers'd in wiles, more good, than great,
Drew on by nieekness his disasterous fate.

Thus when you see this land by faction tost,
Her nobles slain, her laws, her freedom lost;

Let this reflection from the action flow,

We ne'er from foreign foes could ruin know.
Oh, let us then intestine discord shun,
We ne'er can be, but by ourselves, undone.

EPITAPH ON A YOUNG LADY.

CLOS'D are those eyes that beam'd seraphic fire; Cold is that breast which gave the world desire ; Mute is the voice where winning softness warm'd, Where music melted, and where wisdom charm'd, And lively wit, which decently confin'd,

No prude e'er thought impure, no friend unkind. Could modest knowledge, fair untrifling youth, Persuasive reason, and endearing truth,

Could honour, shown in friendships most refin'd, And sense, that shields the' attempted virtuous mind,

The social temper never known to strife,

The heightening graces that embellish life;
Could these have e'er the darts of death defied,
Never, ah! never had Melinda died;

Nor can she die-e'en now survives her name,
Immortaliz'd by friendship, love, and fame:

EPITAPH ON MRS. JONES,

GRANDMOTHER TO MRS. BRIDGET JONES, OF
LLANELLY IN CARMARTHENSHIRE.

IN her, whose relics mark this sacred earth,
Shone all domestic and all social worth :

First, Heav'n her hope with early offspring crown'd:
And hence a second race rose numerous round.
Heav'n to industrious virtue blessing lent,
And all was competence, and all content.
Though frugal care, in Wisdom's eye admir'd,
Knew to preserve what industry acquir'd;
Yet, at her board, with decent plenty blest,
The journeying stranger sat a welcome guest.
Prest on all sides, did trading neighbours fear
Ruin, which hung o'er exigence severe ?
Farewell the friend, who spar'd the' assistant loan-
A neighbour's woe or welfare was her own.
Did piteous lazars oft attend her door?

She gave-farewell, the parent of the poor.

Youth, age, and want, once cheer'd, now sighing swell,

Bless her lov'd name, and weep a last farewell.

THE

VOLUNTEER LAUREAT.

A POEM ON HER MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, 1731-2.

No. I.

TWICE twenty tedious moons have roll'd away,
Since Hope, kind flatterer! tun'd my pensive lay,
Whispering, that you, who rais'd me from despair,
Meant, by your smiles, to make life worth my care;
With pitying hand an orphan's tears to skreen,
And o'er the motherless extend the queen.
"Twill be the prophet guides the poet's strain!
Grief never touch'd a heart like your's in vain :
Heaven gave you pow'r, because you love to bless,
And pity, when you feel it, is redress.

Two fathers join'd to rob my claim of one!
My mother too thought fit to have no son!
The Senate next, whose aid the helpless own,
Forgot my infant wrongs, and mine alone!
Yet parents pityless, nor peers unkind,
Nor titles lost, nor woes mysterious join'd,
Strip me of hope-by Heaven thus, lowly laid,
To find a Pharaoh's daughter in the shade.

You cannot hear unmov'd, when wrongs implore,
Your heart is woman, though your mind be more;
Kind, like the power who gave you to our pray❜rs,
You would not lengthen life to sharpen cares;
They, who a barren leave to live bestow,
Snatch but from death to sacrifice to woe.

Hated by her from whom my life I drew, Whence should I hope, if not from Heav'n and you? Nor dare I groan beneath affliction's rod, My Queen my mother, and my father-GOD. The pitying Muses saw me wit pursue; A Bastard son, alas! on that side too, Did not your eyes exalt the poet's fire, And what the Muse denies, the Queen inspire, While rising thus your heavenly soul to view, I learn, how angels think, by copying you. Great Princess! 'tis decreed-once every year I march, uncall'd, your Laureat Volunteer; Thus shall your poet his low genius raise, And charm the world with truths too vast for praise. Nor need I dwell on glories all your own, Since surer means to tempt your smiles are known; Your poet shall allot your Lord his part, And paint him in his noblest throne-your heart. Is there a greatness that adorns him best, A rising wish, that ripens in his breast! Has he foremeant some distant age to bless, Disarm oppression, or expel distress? Plans he some scheme to reconcile mankind, People the seas, and busy every wind? Would he by pity the deceiv'd reclaim, And smile contending factions into shame ? Would his example lend his laws a weight, And breathe his own soft morals o'er a state? The Muse shall find it all, shall make it seen, And teach the world his praise, to charm his Queen. Such be the annual truths my verse imparts, Nor frown, fair favourite of a people's hearts! Happy if plac'd, perchance, beneath your eye, My Muse, unpension'd, might her pinions try;