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Lo! there, thy triumphs, Taaff; thy palms, Portmore;
Tempt him to rein the steed, and stake his store.
Like a new bruifer on Broughtonick fand,
Amid the lifts our hero takes his ftand;
Suck'd by the fharper, to the peer a prey,
He rolls his eyes, that witnefs huge difmay;
When lo! the chance of one unlucky heat
Strips him of game, ftrong-beer, and fweet retreat.
How aukward now he bears difgrace and dirt,
Nor knows the poor's laft refuge, to be pert.
The shiftless beggar bears of ills the worft;
At once with dulness, and with hunger curs'd.

And feels the tasteless breast equestrian fires ?
And dwells fuch mighty rage in graver squires?

In all attempts, but for their country, bold,
Britain, thy confcript counsellors behold!
(For fome, perhaps, by fortune favour'd yet,
May gain a borough by a lucky bet)
Smit with the love of the laconick boot,
The cap and wig fuccinct, the filken fuit,
Mere modern Phaëtons ufurp the reins,
And scour in rival race Newmarket's plains.
See, fide by fide, the Jockey and Sir John,
Difcufs th' important point-of fix to one.
For O, my Mufe, the deep-felt blifs how dear,
How great the pride, to gain a Jockey's ear!

See, like a routed hoft, with headlong pace,
Thy members pour amid the mingling race!
All afk, what crowds the tumults could produce;

Is Bedlam or the Commons all broke loose ?'
Such noife and nonfenfe, betting, damning, finking,
Such emphasis of oaths, and claret-drinking!
Like school-boys freed, they run as chance directs,
Proud from a well-bred thing to rifque their necks.
The warrior's fcar not half fo graceful feems,
As, at Newmarket, diflocated limbs.

Thy

Thy fages hear, amid th' admiring crowd
Adjudge the ftakes, moft eloquently loud:
With critick skill, o'er dubious bets prefide,
The low difpute, or kindle, or decide;
All empty wifdom, and judicious prate,
Of distanc'd horfes, gravely fix the fate,
Guide the nice conduct of a daring match,

And o'er th' equeftrian rights with care paternal watch.
Mean time, no more the mimick patriots rise,
To guard Britannia's honour, warm and wife:
No more in fenates dare affert her laws,
Nor pour the bold debate in freedom's caufe;
Neglect the counfels of a finking land,

And know no roftrum, but Newmarket's ftand *.
Are these the fage directive powers, defign'd,
With the nice fearch of a fagacious mind,
In judgment's fcales the fate of realms to weigh,
Britannia's intereft, trade, and laws furvey?

O fay, when least their fapient schemes are cross'd,
Or when a nation, or a match is loft?

Who dams and fires with more exactnefs trace,
Than of their country's kings the facred race;
Think London journies are the worst of ills,
And fet their hands to articles for bills;
Strangers to all hiftorians fage relate,

Theirs are the memoirs of th' equestrian state;
Unfkill'd in Albion's past and prefent views,
Who Cheney's + records for Rapin peruse.

Go on, brave youths, till, in fome future age,
Whips fhall become the fenatorial badge;

* A kind of scaffold, where is held a confiftory, made up of feveral very eminent gentlemen, for determining doubtful cafes in the race, &c. This place might not improperly be called a Pandemonium.

The accurate and annual author of an hiftorical lift of the runninghorfes, &c.

Till England fee her thronging fenators
Meet all at Westminster, in boots and fpurs:
See the whole houfe, with mutual frenzy mad,
Her patriots all in leathern breeches clad;
Of bets, for taxes, learnedly debate,
And guide, with equal reins, a steed and state.
How would a virtuous Houhnhym neigh difdain,
To fee his brethren brook th' imperious rein;
Bear flavery's wanton whip, or galling goad,
Smoke thro' the glebe, or trace the destin'd road ;
And robb'd of manhood by the murderous knife,
Suftain each fordid toil of fervile life.

*

Yet O, what rage would touch his generous mind,
To fee his fons, of more than mortal kind;
A kind, with each ingenuous virtue blefs'd,
That fills the prudent head, or valorous breaft;
Afford diverfion to that monster base,
That meaneft fpawn of man's half-monkey race,
In whom pride, av'rice, ignorance confpire--
That hated animal, a Yahoo fquire!

How are th' adventurers of the British race
Chang'd from the chofen chiefs of ancient days;
Who, warm'd with genuine glory's honeft thirst,
Divinely labour'd in the Pythian duft.

Theirs was the wreath that lifted from the throng,
Theirs was the Theban bard's recording fong.

Mean time, to manly emulation blind,
Slaves to each vulgar vice that stains the mind,
Our British Therons iffue to the race,

Of their own generous courfers the difgrace.

What tho' the grooms of Greece ne'er took the odds,
They won no bets-but then they foar'd to gods;
And more an Hiero's palm, a Pindar's ode,
Than all th' united plates of George bestow'd.

* Vide Gulliver's Travels, voyage to the Houhnhyms.

Greece!

Greece how I kindle at thy magick name,

Feel all thy warmth, and catch the kindred flame!
Thy folemn fcenes and awful vifions rife,

In ancient grace, before my mufing eyes.
Here Sparta's fons in mute attention hang,
While fage Lycurgus pours the mild harangue :
There Xerxes' host, all pale with deadly fear,
Shrink at her fated hero's flathing spear.

*

Here, hung with many a lyre of filver ftring,
The laureat walks of sweet Iliffus spring :
And lo! where, rapt in beauty's heavenly dream,
Hoar Plato walks his oliv'd Academe.

Yet, ah! no more the feat of arts and arms
Delights with wisdom, or with virtue warms.
Lo! the ftern Turk, with more than Gothick rage,
Has blafted all the bays of ancient age:

No more her groves by facred feet are trod,
Each Attick Grace has left the lov'd abode.
Fall'n is fair Greece! by Luxury's pleafing bane
Seduc'd, the drags a barb'rous foreign chain.

Britannia, watch! O trim thy with'ring bays!
Remember thou hast rival'd Græcia's praise,
Great nurfe of works divine! Yet, oh, beware!
Left thou the fate of Greece, my country, fhare.
Recal thy wonted worth with confcious pride:
Thou too haft feen a Solon in a Hyde;

Haft bade thine Edwards and thine Henrys rear,

With Spartan fortitude, the British spear;
Alike haft feen thy fons deferve the meed,

Or of the moral, or the martial deed.

* Leonidas.

MARY,

MARY, QUEEN OF SCOTS

T

AN ELEGY.

BY MR. MICKLE.

Quod tibi vitæ fors detraxit,
Fama adjiciet pofthuma laudi;

Noftris longum tu dolor et honor.

HE balmy Zephyrs o'er the woodland stray,
And gently ftir the bofom of the lake:
The fawns that panting in the covert lay,
Now thro' the gloomy park their revels take.

Pale rife the rugged hills that skirt the north,
The wood glows yellow'd by the evening rays;
Silent and beauteous flows the filver Forth,

And Aman murmuring thro' the willows ftrays.

But, ah! what means this filence in the grove,
Where oft the wild notes footh'd the love-fick boy?
Why cease in Mary's Bower the fongs of Love;
The fongs of Love, of Innocence, and Joy?

When bright the lake reflects the setting ray,
The sportive virgins tread the flow'ry green;
Here by the moon, full oft in chearful May,

The merry bride-maids at the dance are seen.

But who these nymphs, that thro' the copfe appear,
In robes of white adorn'd with violet blue?
Fondly with purple flow'rs they deck yon bier,
And wave in folemn pomp
the boughs of yew.

T

BUCK.

Supreme

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