'Tis pass'd, and all is silence, o'er that scene, Which of forensic eloquence has been The fit arena; where with subtle brain, Counsel have plied in nicely fitting train Their logic's art, or press'd their rhetoric's aid This to convince, the other to persuade A doubting jury, where with anxious care, Lest they in vain Justitia's sword should bear, The upright guardians of our country's laws, With practised eye, in each successive cause, Watching the varying points, the tangled clue Of facts explaining to the jury's view, Have shown their power, unsullied to maintain The sway of Justice, in her peaceful reign. Can it be fitting, think ye, e'er to bend Justice to Pleasure's gay voluptuous end? Is such a time for mirth and revelry, Is't in a Christian country we should see The gay Assize Ball? Reader, pray reflect, (If thou'rt a woman) can this be correct? I know the warmth and kindness of your nature, Mercy and pity gleam from every feature; Your sex's innate modesty will aid My words far more than countless offerings paid To Fashion's shrine! Oh, think me not too vile For your attention; stay the withering smile That seems to say, "This is some scribbler's cant; Some low born Reptile's Methodistic rant; Or else, some Fallen Star, condemn'd to dwell With swaggering ostlers, or to bear the bell In drunken riots; banish'd from the sphere Where one of us, he once had his career, Now dares, in hate, his slanderous venom raise, In envious longing for his bygone days." Pardon me if I break discretion's chain In daring thus your pretty selves t' arraign, To curb your pleasures, and to draw the rein Of better feelings, o'er your giddy race. Look on this picture first, then try to face The other! Here, with art's consummate care, Deck'd and adorn'd with gold, her jewell'd hair Glistening as sunbeams o'er the rippling tide Reflected from some towering mountain's side, Proud beauty seeks, with brightly flashing een, The miscall'd glories of that heartless scene; Where Weippert[1] proudly wakes his dulcet strains, And pleasure's cold, unfeeling sceptre reigns. Turn to the other; mark that darkening gate, That fearful structure, brooding o'er the fate Of fellow creatures! There in loathsome cell A wretched felon counts each passing bell That marks the hours, as in their noiseless speed They near the fatal morn, and bid him heed His soul's salvation, ere that sun shall rise, Which last on earth shall meet his dying eyes. Say, can ye still unfeelingly forbear To shed for pity's sake one sorrowing tear. I know that youthful blood beats high to thread Those mystic mazes, fairies love to tread; This is but Nature's province, she bestows Your limbs and beauty, these she bids you use At proper seasons; will ye dare abuse Her precious favours? that can never be The time for dances and frivolity,