“7 
1803.] 
CoBEy 
_ORIGINAL POETRY. 
en eS 
Jo MK. SIGMOND, a celebrated Dentift, at Bath, 
-on drawing one of the Author's Teeth, 
By Mr. PRATT. 
TO lofe a friend, who, in this vale of tears, 
Had been an honeft helpmate fifty years ! 
A friend, who all that time had firmly ftood, 
And proved, in hardeft duty, firm and good 5. 
So clofe our union, that we feem’d but one, 
Fleth of our-mutual flefh, and bone of bone: 
And when, full oft, on defperate fervice plac’d, 
Each tough encounter like a hero fac’d! 
Yet, O! from fuch a friend at length to 
part— 
Ye, whe e’er loft a tooth—O tell the fmart. 
Thrice every day—ftill eager for the fight, 
He waged the war, and fought with all his 
might; 
Prepared the muffin, touch’d the toaft fo nice, 
And help’dat dinner through each dainty flice 5 
And, O! what toils Herculean“did he brave, 
A ftout day labourer, and unwearied flave? 
Now the gigantic ox he piece-meal tore, 
And fang’d the ham of the Weftphalian boar 3 
Now to the mouth the tempting lamb he drew, 
And feized on all that cook or butcher flew. 
Yet, O! from fuch a friend at length to 
part— 
Ye, whoe’er loft a tooth—O tell the {mart ! 
A fanguine compact! but fince men muft 
eat, 
And [pite of Rrtsow * will not leave off meat, 
Poor hungry mortals go devouring on, 
And the long courfe of devaftation run ; 
And bleft the man, who fafely can depend, 
In deeds fo bloody, on a fearlefs friend ! 
Yet, O! from fuch a friend at length to 
part— 
Ye, whoe’er lofta tooth—O tell the {mart ! 
Then what to cruel Srcmonp fhall [ fay, 
Whofe ruthlefs forceps dragg’d this friend 
away 5 
And like the fatal furies with their fhears, 
Struck at the pride of half a hundred years ! 
And as the haplefs viétim bleeding lay 
And fhew’d the mortal figns of life’s decay, 
What fhall we fay to him whothvus could fever 
Such a deep-rooted favorite for ever ? 
Yet friends, alas! there are, who though 
they prov’d : 
For many a year deferving to be lov’d, 
Have falfe and hollow on the fudden turn’d, 
And tarnifh’d all the laurels they had earn’d, 
Such was the out-caft(—long an honor’d gueft-- 
Who ftung at length the lips he once poffefs’d. 
* Who has lately publifhed a very intereft- 
ing and curious Eflay on Abftinence frdm 
Animal Food, i 
/ 
Then thanks toS1emonp, whofe fagacipus 
eye 
Could the foul traitor in his frauds efpie— 
See him at length his wonted aid give o’er, 
Still fair in form, yet rotten at the core! 
Yes, StcmMonp, thanks! and could thy fkill 
erceive 
All the falfe friends, which like that. tooth 
deceive == 
Could’st thou deteét each changeling’s hollow 
art, 
And sda the rooted mifchief from the heart; 
Each lurking unfound flatterer make thy prey, 
And drag the fmiling traitor into day ; 
O could’ ft thou—ere the deadly poifon {pread— 
Check the foul venom ere all truth be dead, 
Could lancets, probes, or lotions cleanfe the 
fore, 
Ere falihood ulcerate each tainted pore, 
What meed, bleft Artift! could e’en Kings 
beftow ? 
Were they to give their thrones, they ftiil 
would owe! 
— LE 
MORAL AND NATURAL BEAUTY. 
GWEET is the voice that fooths my care, 
The voice of love, the voice of fong 5 
The lyre that ceiebrates the fair, 
And animates the warlike threng, 
Sweet is the counfel of a friend, 
Whofe bofom proves a pillow kind, 
Whofe mild perfuafion brings an end, 
To all the forrows of the mind. 
Sweet is the breath of balmy fpring 
That lingers in the primrofe vale ; 
The woodlark fweet, when on the wing 
His wild notes {well the rifing gale. 
Sweet is the breeze that curls the lakes, 
And early wafts the fragrant dew, 
Thro’ clouds of bevering vapours breaks, 
And clears the bright etherial blue. 
Sweet is the bean, the blooming pea, 
More fragrant -than Arabia’s gale 
That fleeps upon the tranquil fea, 
Or gently fwells the extended fail. 
Sweet is the walk where daies fpring, 
And cowflips feent the verdant mead ; 
The woodlands fweet where linnets fing, 
From every bold intruder freed. 
But far more fweet the virtuous deed ; 
The hand that kindly brings relief ; 
The heart that with the widow bleeds 
And fhares the drooping orphan’s grief. 
I love the tear, the pearl of woe, 
That decks the fympathifing eye, 
To fee the ftream of forrow flow, 
To hear the deeply heaving figh. 
White Webb Farm, A. Wicxkinson, M. D, 
Enfield Chace, May, 1803. 
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