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What profits that at distance, I behold

My wealthy neighbour's fragrant smoak ascend, If still the griping cormorants withhold

The fruits which rain and genial seasons send?

If those fell vipers of the public weal

Yei unrelenting on our bowels prey; If still the curse of penury we feel,

And in the midst of plenty pine away?

In every port the vessel rides secure,

Which wafts our harvest to a foreign shore; While we the pangs of pressing want endure,

The sons of strangers, riot on our store.

O generous Chatham, stop those fatal sails,
Once more with outstretch'd arm thy Britons

save ; The unheeding crew, but waits for favouring gales,

O stop them, e'er they stem the Etrurian wave.

So may thy languid limbs with strength be braced,

And glowing health support ihy active soul; With fair renown thy public virtue graced,

Far as thou bidst Britannia's thunder roll.

Then, joy to thee, and to thy children peace

The grateful hind shall drink from plenty's horn : And while they share the culturcd land's increase,

The poor shall bless the day when Pitt was born. THE ENTAIL.

A Fable.

In a fair summer's radiant morn,
A Butterfly divinely born,
Whose lineage dated from the mud
Of Noah's or Deucalion's flood,
Long hovering round a perfumed lawn,
By various gusts of odours drawn,
At last establish'd his repose
On the rich bosom of a Rose.

The palace pleased the lordly guest; What insect own’d a prouder nest ? The dewy leaves luxurious shed Their balmy odours o'er his head, And with their silken tap’stry fold His limbs enthroned on central gold, He thinks the thorns embattled round To guard his lovely castle's mound, And all the bush's wide domain Subservient to his fancied reign.

Such ample blessings swell’d the Fly, Yet in his mind's capacious eye,

He roll’d the change of mortal things; The common sale of Flies and Kings. With grief he saw how lands and honours Are apt to slide to various owners; Where Mowbrays dwelt, now Grocers dwell, And how Cits buy what Barons sell. Great Phæbus, Patriarch of my line, • Avert such shame from sons of thine ! To them confirm these roufs'-he said ; And then he swore on oath so dread, The stoutest Wasp that wears a sword, Had trembled to have heard the word ! • If Law can rivet down Entails, • These manors ne'er shall pass to snails, · I swear'-And then he smote his ermine . These towers were never built for vermine.'

A Caterpillar grovell’d near,
A subtile slow conveyancer,
Who summon'd, waddles with his quill
To draw the haughty Insect's will.
None but his heirs nust own the spot,
Begotton, or to be beyot:
Each leaf he binds, each bud he ties


eggs of Butterflies.

When lo! how Fortune loves to teaze
Those who would dictate her decrees!
A wanton boy was passing by ;
The wanton child beheld the Fly,

And eager ran to scize the prey-
But too impetuous in his play,
Crush'd the proud tenant of an 'hour,
And swept away the Mansion-flower.


As o'er the heath, amid his steel-clad Thanes

The royal Duncan rode in martial pride, Where, full to view, high topp'd with glittering

vanes, Macbeth's strong towers o'erhung the moun

tain's side.

In dusky mantle wrapp'd, a grisly form

Rush'd with a giant's stride across bis way; And thus, while howl'd around the rising storm,

In hollow thundering accents pour’d dismay.

Stop, O King' thy destin'd course,
Furl thy standard, turn thy horse,
Death besets this onward track,
Come no further,-quickly, back,

Hear'st thou not the raven's croak ?
See'st thou not the blasted oak?
Feelist thou not the loaded sky?
Read thy danger, King, and fly.

Lo, yon' castle banners glare
Bloody thr: ugh the troubled air;
Lo, what spectres on the roof
Frowning bid thee stand aloof!

Murder, like an eagle, waits
Perch'd above the gloomy gates,
Just in act to pounce his prey;
Come not near -away! away!

Let not plighted faith beguile;
Honour s semblance, beauty's smile :
Fierce Ambition's venom'd dart
Rankles in the fest'ring heart.

Treason, arm'd against thy life,
Points his dagger, whets his knife,
Drugs his stupifying bowl,
Steels his unrelenting soul.

Now 'tis time ; ere guilty night
Closes round thee, speed thy flight.
If the threshold once be crost,
Duncan! thou’rt for ever lost.



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