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.
TRANSLATION
OF A SOUTH AMERICAN ODE.
In all my Enna’s beauties blest,
Amidst profusion still I pine;
For though she gives me up her breast,
Its panting tenant is not mine.
EPITAPH
ON THOMAS PARNELL.
This tomb, inscrib’d to gentle Parnell’s name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his sweetly-moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleasure’s flowery way!
Celestial themes confess’d his tuneful aid;
And Heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow—
The transitory breath of fame below;
More lasting rapture from his works shall rise,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
DESCRIPTION
OF AN AUTHOR’S BED-CHAMBER.
Where the Red Lion, flaring o’er the way,
Invites each passing stranger that can pay—
Where Calvert’s butt, and Parsons’ black champagne,
Regale the drabs and bloods of Drury Lane—
There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug,
The muse found Scroggen, stretch’d beneath a rug.
A window, patch’d with paper, lent a ray,
That dimly show’d the state in which he lay:
The sanded floor that grits beneath the tread;
The humid wall with paltry pictures spread;
The royal game of goose was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The seasons, fram’d with listing, found a place,
And brave Prince William show’d his lamp-black face.[43]
The morn was cold—he views with keen desire
The rusty grate, unconscious of a fire;
With beer and milk arrears the frieze was scor’d,
And five crack’d tea-cups dress’d the chimney-board;
A night-cap deck’d his brows instead of bay,
A cap by night—a stocking all the day!