Now to apply, begin we then; His wand ’s a modern author’s pen; The serpents round about it twin’d Denote him of the reptile kind-- Denote the rage with which he writes, His frothy slaver, venom’d bites. An equal semblance still to keep, Alike, too, both conduce to sleep-- This difference only, as the god Drove souls to Tartarus with his rod, With his goose-quill the scribbling elf, Instead of others, damns himself. And here my simile almost tript-- Yet grant a word by way of postscript. Moreover, Mercury had a failing; Well! what of that? out with it--stealing; In which all modern bards agree, Being each as great a thief as he. But even this deity’s existence Shall lend my simile assistance: Our modern bards! why, what a-pox Are they--but senseless stones and blocks? [Illustration] FOOTNOTES: [41] A popular school-book, by Andrew Tooke, Head Master of the Charter-house. [Illustration: ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING] [Illustration] Sure, ’twas by Providence design’d, Rather in pity than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind, To save him from Narcissus’ fate. [Illustration: STANZAS ON WOMAN] When lovely Woman stoops to folly, And finds, too late, that men betray-- What charm can soothe her melancholy? What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom--is, to die. [Illustration: TRANSLATION FROM SCARRÒN.] Thus, when soft Love subdues the heart, With smiling hopes and chilling fears, The soul rejects the aid of art, And speaks in moments more than years. [Illustration: STANZAS ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC] SEPTEMBER 13, 1759. Amidst the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart, Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure start. O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe Sighing we pay, and think e’en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breasts to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead, Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. [Illustration: EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.[42]] Here lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, Who long was a booksellers’ hack; He led such a damnable life in this world, I don’t think he’ll wish to come back. FOOTNOTES: [42] Edward Purdon was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of the army, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire’s Henriade, and died in 1767. [Illustration: TRANSLATION OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE.]