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Tu potes Proctors comitesque Bull-dogs,
Tu, merry fellow, velut es levamen
Shuddering shall stand.
Full of his frolics.
Serus in Lunnum redeas, diuque
! Go it in Oxford!
For the Port Folio.
Oh think not of me when the trumpet of fame
When the glories of summer are glowing for thee,
ANSWER TO ROSA.
By truth firmly tried-and by trust unbetrayed,
I will not forget thee; 'till life's latest ray
And thy memory at once be my solace and pride.
For the Port Folio.
THE FINAL REST.
And made thec weeping in the dust to lie?
A sweet repose in yonder azure sky.
Which form’d thy hope, and cheerd thy youthful heart:
A sov'reign balm to heal the wounded part.
And fill’d thy bursting soul with sad dismay?
TO MY BOOKSELLER,
By Ben Jonson.
Call'st a book good, or bad, as it doth sell,
For the luck's sake it thus much favour have, To lie upon thy stall, till it be sought;
Not offered, as it made suit to be bought; Nor have
title-leaf on posts, or walls, Or in cleft sticks, advanced to make calls For termers, or some clerk-like serving man,
Who scarce can spell the hard names-whose knight less
If, without these vile arts, it will not sell,
Send it to Bucklersbury, there 'twill well.
JOHN'S ELEGY IN A COUNTRY TOWN,
OR THE ADDRESS OF THE CARRIER OF THE ILLINOIS GAZETTE, ON
THE FIRST DAY OF JANUARY, 1824.
The north wind, sighing, mourns the parting year;
The Editor has flown to scenes of glee-
And leaves the idle types to you and me!
Now glows th’enlivening bowl upon the sight,
And winged hours in pastime haste away,
To treat his patrons to the accustomed lay.
For long has custom, by a stern decree,
Fixed as the laws by Medes and Persians made,
The mutual tax by mutual kindness paid.
Remembers not the Carrier's weekly toil,
Skulks through the rain, or wades through miry soili
'Tis his to bring the richly freighted page,
Where shine the glories of the great and brave,
Or stand exposed the triumphs of the grave.
He brings the Message grave, the sage Debate,
The worn out Maxim, or the pithy Speech
And Politicians from the stump who preach.
But not alone of Message grave, or saye debate,
Of Man's high glories, or of Folly's reign,
From realms afar we stranger tidings gain.
Lo! the poor Spaniard, bless'd with genial clime,
With richly teeming soil, and spicy groves--
Plunged in unholy wars, unhallow'd loves!
Behold the land by gallant Cortes gain’d,
Where Freedom nobly struggles for her right, Where groaning crowds, by Superstition chain’d,
Break the vile links, and draw their sabres bright!
Their cause is hallow'd by the pious prayer,
Their wrongs are treasur’d in the patriot's mind, And Liberty shall reign triumphant there,
When despots cease to trample on mankind.
Shame to such despots! claiming homage, due
Alone to Him who rules the hosts on high, Who sleep on couches of ensanguin'd hue,
Lullid by the dying groan, the bursting sigh!
Now turn we to Columbia's wide domain,
Where Chiefs obedient own a people's swayWhere happy millions, smiling o'er the plain,
Inhale new blessings with each new-born day.
Such are the tidings by the Carrier brought,
Nor these alone engross the ample sheet: The Lover's song, the Poet's merry thought,
The Wit's last joke, enhance the weekly treat.
If Colin weds the amply courted dame,
From bed and board, if Dolly chance to flee, He gives impartial to the tongue of fame,
Frail Dolly's sin, and happy Colin's glee.
Nor can his labours this brief song display
None but th' initiated know them rightCarrier and Devil each alternate day,
And oft, alas! Compositor at night.
Let not ambition mock his useful toil,
His inky phiz, or name to fame unknown Nor patrons read with a disdainful smile,
The annual tribute of the punctual John.
No further seek his merits to disclose,
But draw your silver from its dark abode; The sparkling specie to his eye expose,
And speed the Carrier on his weary road.