Poetry

IN a mouldering cave where the wretched retreat, Britannia sat wasted with care; She mourned for her Wolfe, and exclaim’d against fate And gave herself up to despair. The walls of her cell she had sculptured around With the feats of her favorite son; And even the dust, as it lay on the ground, Was […]

Enter CRITIC and SNOW DROP.* CRITIC. PROLOGUES to magazines!-the man is mad, No magazine a prologue ever had; But let us hear what new and mighty things Your wonder working magic fancy brings. SNOW DROP. Bit by the muse in an unlucky hour, I’ve left myself at home, and turn’d a flower, And thus disguised