Nay, I have heard, that in Parnaffus
For truth a current whisper passes,
That Dalfton fometimes has been known
• To publish her works as his own.'
Minerva read, and every god
Approv'd-Jove gave the critick nod:
Apollo and the facred Nine

Were charm'd, and fmil'd at ev'ry line;
And Mars, who little understood,
Swore, d--n him, if it was not good.
Venus alone fat all the while

Silent, nor deign'd a fingle fmile.

All were furpriz'd; fome thought her ftupid:
Not fo her confident, Squire Cupid;
For well the little rogue difcern'd
At what his mother was concern'd;
Yet not a word the urchin said,
But hid in Hebe's lap his head.
At length the rifing choler broke
From Venus' lips-and thus fhe spoke.

• That poetry fo cramm'd with wit,
• Minerva, fhould your palate hit,
• I wonder not; nor that fome prudes]
(For fuch there are above the clouds)
Should wish the prize of beauty torn
From her they view with envious fcorn.

• Me poets never please, but when

Juftice and truth direct their pen.

This Dalfton-formerly I've known him;
Henceforth for ever I difown him;

For Homer's wit fhall I despise

• In him who writes with Homer's eyes. A poem on the fairest fair

At Bath, and Betty's name not there! • Hath not this poet seen those glances In which my wicked urchin dances ?

• Nor

• Nor that dear dimple, where he treats • Himself with all Arabia's fweets;

In whofe foft down while he reposes, In vain the lilies bloom, or rofes, • To tempt him from a sweeter bed • Of fairer white or livelier red ?

• Hath he not feen, when some kind gale Has blown afide the cambrick veil,

That feat of paradife, where Jove

Might pamper his almighty love?

Our milky way lefs fair does fhew:

• There fummer's feen 'twixt hills of fnow. • From her lov'd voice whene'er fhe speaks, • What foftnefs in each accent breaks!

And when her dimpled smiles arise, • What sweetness sparkles in her eyes! • Can I then bear,' enraged she said, Slights offer'd to my fav'rite maid;

The nymph whom I decreed to be

The representative of me?'

The goddess ceas'd-the gods all bow'd,

Not one the wicked bard avow'd,

Who, while in Beauty's praise he writ,

Dar'd Beauty's goddefs to omit:
For now their godfhips recollected,
'Twas Venus' felf he had neglected,
Who in her visits to this place,
Had ftill worn Betty Dalfton's face.

ELEGY.

WRITTEN AMONG THE RUINS OF PONTEFRACT CASTLE,

R1

BY DR. LANGHORNE,

IGHT fung the bard, that all-involving Age,
With hand impartial, deals the ruthless blow;
That war, wide-wafting, with impetuous rage,
Lays the tall spire and sky-crown'd turret low.

A pile ftupendous, once of fair renown,

This mould'ring mass of shapeless ruin rofe; Where nodding heights of fractur'd columns frown, And birds obfcene in ivy-bow'rs repose:

Oft the pale matron, from the threat'ning wall,
Sufpicious, bids her heedlefs children fly;

Oft, as he views the meditated fall,

Full swiftly fteps the frighted peafant by.

But more respectful views th' hiftorick fage,
Mufing, these awful relicks of decay,
That once a refuge form'd from hostile rage,
In Henry's and in Edward's dubious day.

He, penfive, oft reviews the mighty dead,

That erft have trod this defolated ground;
Reflects how here unhappy Sal'fbury bled,
When Faction aim'd the death-difpenfing wound.

Reft, gentle Rivers! and ill-fated Gray!
A flow'r or tear oft ftrews your humble grave,
Whom Envy flew, to pave Ambition's way,
And whom a monarch wept in vain to save.

Ah!

Ah! what avail'd th' alliance of a throne?

The pomp of titles what, or pow'r rever'd ? Happier! to these the humble life unknown,

With virtue honour'd, and by peace endear'd.

Had thus the fons of bleeding Britain thought,
When hapless here inglorious Richard lay,
Yet many a prince, whose blood full dearly bought
The shameful triumph of the long-fought day;

Yet many a hero, whose defeated hand

In death refign'd the well-contested field,
Had in his offspring fav'd a finking land,
The tyrant's terror, and the nation's fhield.

Ill could the Muse indignant grief forbear,
Should Mem'ry trace her bleeding country's woes
Ill could fhe count, without a bursting tear,
Th' inglorious triumphs of the varied rofe!

While York, with conqueft and revenge elate,
Infulting, triumphs on St. Alban's plain,
Who views, nor pities Henry's hapless fate,
Himself a captive, and his leaders flain ?

Ah, prince! unequal to the toils of war,
To ftem ambition, Faction's rage to quell;
Happier! from these had Fortune plac'd thee far,
In fome lone convent, or fome peaceful cell.

For what avail'd that thy victorious queen
Repair'd the ruins of that dreadful day?

That vanquish'd York, on Wakefield's purple green,
Proftrate, amidst the common flaughter, lay?

1

In vain fair Vict'ry beam'd the gladd'ning eye,

And, waving oft her golden pinions, smil'd; Full foon the flatt'ring goddess meant to fly,

Full rightly deem'd unfteady Fortune's child.

Let Towton's field--but cease the difmal tale;
For much it's horrors would the Muse appal :
In fofter ftrains fuffice it to bewail

The patriot's exile, or the hero's fall.

Thus Silver Wharf, whofe chryftal-fparkling urn
Reflects the brilliance of his blooming shore,
Still, melancholy-mazing, feems to mourn,
But rolls, confus'd, a crimson wave no more.

E

RE yellow Autumn from our plains retir'd,
And gave to wint'ry ftorms the varied year,
The fwallow-race, with forefight clear infpir'd,
To fouthern climes prepar'd their course to steer.

On Damon's roof a grave affembly fate;

His roof, a refuge to the feather'd kind: With ferious look he mark'd the nice debate, And to his Delia thus addrefs'd his mind.

Obferve yon twitt'ring flock, my gentle maid;
Obferve, and read the wond'rous ways of Heav'n!
With us thro' fummer's genial reign, they stay'd,
And food and lodging to their wants were giv'n.

* A river near the fcene of battle, in which were flain 35,000 men.

• But