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" When Time, who steals our years away,

“Shall steal our pleasures too ;
“ The mem'ry of the past will stay,
“ And former joys renew."


" Another race succeed to bliss,
“And bow the knee, at Fashion's shrine;
“ From partial Beauty snatch the kiss,
“ That once was yours, and once was mine.”


As o'er the past, retentive mem'ry flies,
And former objects of delusion rise;
Let this gay haunt still pensively recall,
The moon-lit walk, and decorated hall;

The soft alcove, with each allurement fraught,
(Where Hogarth painted, or Roubilliac wrought,*)
And oft those shades in London's sultry heat,
To jaded commerce lent a cool retreat,
When titled wealth, of balls and banquets tir'd,
Some “pert Miss Jenny," with delight inspird;
While “ young Squire Richard," valiant in his wine,
Jeer'd the poor Tradesman, or the grave Divine.
Let fancy then, the distant scene review,

(Now gone, and vanish'd like a rainbow's hue,)

When the spruce Templar of his clients free,
With amber snuff-box, and perfumed toupée ;
From Law's dull logic snatch'd a golden hour,

With blushing damsels in the festive bower;

While honest industry, releas’d from toil,

Smild at the folly of each reckless broil;
With heart-felt glee, enjoy'd a brief repose,
As the bright star, or brilliant rocket rose.

* The gardens were formerly ornamented with the works of these celebrated artists.



And later yet, tho' now from life retird,

Recall the belles, our fathers once admir'd;

When lamps unnumber'd in the midnight air,

Bestow'd fresh lustre on th' assembled fair ;

While Jews and Gentiles, join'd the mirthful train,
And Three per Cents were drowned in Champagne.
Tho' much too solemn, for our feeble rhyme,

Mark, ere too late, the hollow voice of Time ;

“Where vanish’d-say-that dissipated crowd, “ Vain, thoughtless, brave, tho' arrogant and proud ? 6 Where are the Belcours ? where the Rangers now? “Where the gay Cynthias objects of each vow? “Where the Lotharios, and the Townleys gone, 6 Who led the fashion, or who gave the ton ? “No longer courted, and no more carest,

“In the cold tomb, they all forgotten rest.

“Then, hear the Monarch, thro' each clime renown'd,

“ Midst all the splendors that his throne surround;
Howe'er, (he sighs, the muzy web is spun,
All-allis vanity beneath the sun.
The moral true! yet ere with pleasure cloyd,
By youth's warm tide, and fairy visions buoy'd ;


Prophets, and Sages, may harangue in vain,
For “ Carpe Diemlaughs at future pain.
And thro' each age and dynasty the same,
Howe'er Discretion may our folly blame ;
From Highland forests to Killarney's lake,
Whate'er the path, thro' Providence, we take,
(E’en rashly vent'ring, as a short reprieve,
To court the Muses, and the verse to weave ;)

Some wizard's spell too oft we all obey, That hush'd in grim repose expects his ev’ning prey.



“ The days of man are but as grass; for he flourisheth as a flower of the


As soon as the wind goeth over it, it is gone; and the place thereof < shall know it no more.”

Psalm ciii.

My early friends have pass'd away,
“ Like dew-drops in the morning,
“ Unconscious of the light of day ;
“ Or night's dark hour returning ;
“ The angry dart, who can withstand,
“Of sullen Time's unsparing hand ?”

Tho' not boasting a proud or historical name,

For ages adorning the annals of fame,

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