When we reflect upon our charming Queen,
Her wit, her beauty, her imperial mien,
Majestic Juno in her air we find,
The form of Venus, with Minerva's mind:
Who was so grac'd, she, she was fit alone
With royal James to fill the British throne.

A PASQUINADE STUCK UP AT NEW YORK, AUGUST 12TH, 1780 .

Of Arbuthnot, my friend, pray tell me the news;
What's done by his ships and their brave gallant crews?
Has the old English man shewn old English spunk
And the ships of the French burnt, taken, or sunk?

In truth, my good sir, there has been nothing like it.
'Tis easier to threaten a blow, than to strike it.
No ship has been taken, or frigate, or lugger:
Nor e'en a poor Frenchman for jacktars — — —
Though this was a promise so solemnly made

Heark, vain man, heark, what the Apostle saith,
And do not boast so much of thy great faith;
For though 'twere able mountains to remove,
'Tis nothing worth unless it work by love;
Love is the life of it, 'tis that alone
Which quickens it, or else 'tis dead, 'tis none.
That man who breaths not at the mouth a jot,
Whose heart no motion hath, whose pulse beats not.
We say is dead; the like we may infer
Concerning faith, that's dead which doth not stir:
If it be living, 'twill be active too,
What the heart thinks, mouth speaks, the hands will do.

Of the rude Indians, artless and untaught,
So brightest jewels are with trifles bought:
Deceiv'd Ixion's fate revers'd is show'd,
Imperial Juno giv'n for a cloud.

Madam, your lovely muse's late employ
Was read, with wonder, and a pride-mix'd joy:
Fortune, in vain, her batt'ring engines bends,
'Gainst souls, which such a wit-rais'd strength defends!
Secure, within, you outward storms defy,
And look, serenely, on a ruffled sky:
So Philomel , by night, disdaining rest,
Sings, o'er the pointed thorn, which galls her breast.

The busy ghosts, your fancy seems to hear,
Have no design to fright your list'ning ear:

Man is a creature love's society,
And cannot long alone be well,
Hence God made Eve that she
Might with him dwell.

From these two sprung
A numerous family,
That to a city grew ere long,
And that impli'd strength and stability.

But see how soon this city came to nought,
Being destroy'd with its own weight;
And by division brought
To ruine strait.

Then how can we,
A city have that's strong
Or permanent? It cannot be
What's made with hands should e're continue long.

I am no common earth-born Pug ;
My name is Seraphil:
Once, I was fair Liberia 's silph,
And am her servant, still.

With short, sharp, violent lights made vivid,
To southward far as the sight can roam;
Only the swirl of the surges livid,
The seas that climb and the surfs that comb.
Only the crag and the cliff to nor'ward,
And the rocks receding, and reefs flung forward,
And waifs wreck'd seaward and wasted shoreward
On shallows sheeted with flaming foam.

A grim, grey coast and a seaboard ghastly,
And shores trod seldom by feet of men —

I.

This comes to let Liberia know,
 That beauty is so much heav'n's care,
That all, fine women say, or do,
 Is mark'd, and treasur'd, in the air.

II.

Hence, I, a stranger to your sight,
 Whose hand, perhaps, you do not know,
Learn, all you do, by day, or night,
 As by these presents, I shall show.

III.

Your memory cannot but retain
 Some hint of little Pope 's bold muse,
Who, made, by lady's secrets, vain,
 Did, once, a tell-tale subject chuse.

IV.

Have you not read him, where he prates,

CANTO FIRST .

'T WAS on the twenty-fourth of May,
A pleasant, warm, sun-shiny day,
Militia folks paraded
With colours spread, with cannon too;
Such loud huzzas, such martial shew;
I thought the town invaded!

But when, on closer look, I spied
The Speaker march with gallant stride,
I knew myself mistaken:
For he, on Trenton's well-fought day,
To Burlington mistook his way,
And fairly sav'd his bacon.

With him a number more appear'd