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Why should this worthless tegument endure,
If its undying guest be lost for ever?
Oh, let us keep the soul embalmed and pure

In living virtue, that, when both must sever,
Although corruption may our frame consume,
The immortal spirit in the skies may bloom.

THE NEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.

BY GEORGE COLMAN.

A man in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Entering the field against the grimly foe,
Armed with a mortar and a pestle.

Yet some affirm, no enemies they are,
But meet just like prize-fighters in a fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a suffering patient saith),

Though the apothecary fights with Death, Still they are sworn friends to one another.

A member of this Esculapian line
Lived at Newcastle-upon-Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill,

Or make a bill;

Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;

Or chatter scandal by your bed,

Or [spread a plaster.]

His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he was solus:

All the old women called him "a fine man ;"-
His name was Bolus.

Benjamin Bolus, though in trade

(Which oftentimes will genius fetter),

Read works of fancy, it is said,

And cultivated the belles lettres.

And why should this be thought so odd?

Can't men have taste who cure a phthisic?

Of poetry, though patron god,

Apollo patronizes physic.

Bolus loved Verse, and took so much delight in't,

That his prescriptions he resolved to write in't.
No opportunity he e'er let pass

Of writing the directions on his labels
In dapper couplets, like Gay's fables;
Or rather like the lines in Hudibras.

Apothecary's verse! and where's the treason?
"Tis simply honest dealing, not a crime;
When patients swallow physic without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.

He had a patient lying at death's door,

Some three miles from the town, it might be four;
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,
In pharmacy that's called cathartical;

And, on the label of the stuff,

He wrote this verse,

Which one would think was clear enough
And terse:

"When taken,

To be well shaken."

Next morning early, Bolus rose,
And to the patient's house he goes
Upon his pad,

Who a vile trick of stumbling had :
It was indeed a very sorry hack;
But that's of course;

For what's expected from a horse
With an apothecary on his back?

Bolus arrived, and gave a doubtful tap,
Between a single and a double rap.

The servant lets him in with dismal face,
Long as a courtier's out of place-

Portending some disaster;
John's countenance as rueful looked and grim,
As if the apothecary had physic'd him,

And not his master.

"Well, how's the patient ?" Bolus said: John shook his head.

"Indeed!-hum! ha!-that's very odd! He took the draught?" John gave a nod. "Well, how? what then? speak out you dunce !" Why then," says John, we shook him once." "Shook him!-how ?" Bolus stammered out.

66

"We jolted him about."

516

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD.

"Zounds! shake a patient, man!—a shake won't do."
66 No, Sir, and so we gave him two."

"Two shakes! od's curse!

"Twould make the patient worse."

"It did so, Sir, and so a third we tried."

"Well, and what then?"

"Then, Sir, my master died."

LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD,
YORKSHIRE.

BY HERBERT KNOWLES.

"It is good for us to be here: if thou wilt, let us make here three tabernacles; one for thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.-Matt. xvii. 4.

Methinks it is good to be here;

If thou wilt, let us build-but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,

But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb.

Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no!

Affrighted, he shrinketh away;

For, see! they would pin him below,

In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey!

To Beauty? ah, no !-she forgets
The charms which she wielded before-

Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore.

Shall we build to the purple of Pride-
The trappings which dizen the proud?

Alas! they are all laid aside;

And here's neither dress nor adornment allow'd,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud.

To Riches? alas! 'tis in vain ;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squandered again;

And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid.

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford-
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?

Ah! here is a plentiful board!

But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here.

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have wither'd and died,

Or fled with the spirit above;

Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied.

Unto Sorrow?-The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,

Which compassion itself could relieve!

Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fearPeace, peace is the watchword, the only one here!

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?

Ah, no! for his empire is known,

And here there are trophies enow!

Beneath the cold dead, and around-the dark stone, Are the signs of a sceptre that none may disown!

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,

And look for the sleepers around us to rise;

The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;

And the third to the Lamb of the great sacrifice,

Who bequeath'd us them both when he rose to the skies

HOW-D'YE-DO AND GOOD-BYE.

BY THE HON WILLIAM SPENCER.

One day Good-bye met How-d'ye-do,

Too close to shun saluting;

But soon the rival sisters flew
From kissing to disputing.

"Away," says How-d'ye-do, "your mien
Appals iny cheerful nature:
No name so sad as yours is seen

In sorrow's nomenclature.

"Where'er I give one sunshine hour,

Your cloud comes in to shade it;

Where'er I plant one bosom flower,
Your mildew drops to fade it.

"Ere How-d'ye-do has tuned each tongue
To Hope's delighted measure,'
Good-bye on Friendship's ear has rung
The knell of parting pleasure!

"From sorrows past, my chemic skill
Draws smiles of consolation;
While you, from present joys, distil
The tears of separation."

Good-bye replied, "Your statement's true,
And well your cause you've pleaded;
But pray who'd think of How-d'ye-do,
Unless Good-bye preceded?

"Without my prior influence

Could yours have ever flourished? And can your hand one flower dispense, But those my tears have nourished?

"How oft,-if at the court of love
Concealment is the fashion,-
When How-d'ye-do has failed to move,
Good-bye reveals the passion?

"How oft when Cupid's fires decline,―
As every heart remembers,-
One sigh of mine, and only mine,
Revives the dying embers?

"Go, bid the timid lover choose,
And I'll resign my charter,

If he, for ten kind How-d'ye-do's,
One kind Good-bye would barter!

"From Love and Friendship's kindred source We both derive existence;

And they would both lose half their force
Without our joint assistance.

""Tis well the world our merit knows,

Since time, there's no denying,

One half in How-d'ye-doing goes,

And t'other in Good-byeing."

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