TextGrid Repository

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VOL. VI.

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A COLLECTION OF POEMS IN SIX VOLUMES.

BY SEVERAL HANDS.

LONDON: Printed by J. HUGHS, For R. and J. DODSLEY, at Tully's-Head in Pall-Mall. MDCCLVIII.

HYMN TO THE NAIADS.
MDCCXLVI.
[]HYMN TO THE NAIADS.

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By Dr. AKENSIDE.

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ARGUMENT.

The Nymphs who preſide over ſprings and rivulets are ad⯑dreſſed at day-break in honour of their ſeveral functions, and of the relations which they bear to the natural and to the moral world. Their origin is deduced from the firſt allegorical deities, or powers of nature; according to the doctrine of the old mythological poets, concerning the gene⯑ration of the Gods and the riſe of things. They are then ſucceſſively conſidered, as giving motion to the air and ex⯑citing ſummer-breezes; as nouriſhing and beautifying the vegetable world; as contributing to the fulneſs of na⯑vigable rivers, and conſequently to the maintenance of commerce; and by that means, to the maritime part of mi⯑litary power. Next is repreſented their favourable in⯑fluence upon health, when aſſiſted by rural exerciſe: which introduces their connection with the art of phyſic, and the happy effects of mineral, medicinal ſprings. Laſtly, they are celebrated for the friendſhip which the Muſes bear them, and for the trae inſpiration which temperance only can receive; in oppoſition to the enthuſiaſm of the more licentious poets.

O'ER yonder eaſtern hill the twilight throws
Her duſky mantle; and the God of day,
With bright Aſtraea ſeated by his ſide,
Waits yet to leave the ocean. Tarry, Nymphs.
Ye Nymphs, ye blue-ey'd progeny of Thames,
Who now the mazes of this rugged heath
 [...]race with your fleeting ſteps; who all night long
 [...]epeat, amid the cool and tranquil air,
 [...]our lonely murmurs, tarry; and receive
 [...]y offer'd lay. To pay you homage due,
 [...]eave the gates of ſleep; nor ſhall my lyre
[4] Too far into the ſplendid hours of morn
Ingage your audience: my obſervant hand
Shall cloſe the ſtrain ere any ſultry beam
Approach you. To your ſubterranean haunts
Ye then may timely ſteal; to pace with care
The humid ſands; to looſen from the ſoil
The bubbling ſources; to direct the rills
To meet in wider channels; or beneath
Some grotto's dripping arch, at height of noon
To ſlumber, ſhelter'd from the burning heaven.

Where ſhall my ſong begin, ye Nymphs? or end?
Wide is your praiſe and copious—Firſt of things,
Firſt of the lonely powers, ere Time aroſe,
Were Love and Chaos: Love, the ſire of Fate;
Elder than Chaos. Born of Fate was Time,
Who many ſons and many comely births
Devour'd, relentleſs father: till the child
Of Rhea drove him from the upper ſky,
And quell'd his deadly might. Then ſocial reign'd
The kindred powers, Tethys, and reverend Ops,
And ſpotleſs Veſta; while ſupreme of ſway
Remain'd the cloud-compeller. From the couch
Of Tethys ſprang the ſedgy-crowned race,
Who from a thouſand urns, o'er every clime,
Send tribute to their parent; and from them
Are ye, O Naiads: Arethuſa fair,
And tuneful Aganippe; that ſweet name,
Banduſia; that ſoft family which dwelt
[5] With Syrian Daphne; and the honour'd tribes
Belov'd of Paeon. Liſten to my ſtrain,
Daughters of Tethys: liſten to your praiſe.

You, Nymphs, the winged offspring, which of old
Aurora to divine Aſtraeus bore,
Owns; and your aid beſeecheth. When the might
Of Hyperion, from his noontide throne,
Unbends their languid pinions, aid from you
They aſk: Favonius and the mild South-weſt
From you relief implore. Your ſallying ſtreams
Freſh vigour to their weary wings impart.
Again they fly, diſporting; from the mead
Half-ripen'd and the tender blades of corn,
To ſweep the noxious mildew; or diſpel
Contagious ſteams, which oft the parched earth
Breathes on her fainting ſons. From noon to eve,
Along the river and the paved brook,
Aſcend the chearful breezes; hail'd of bards
Who, faſt by learned Cam, the Mantuan lyre
Sollicit; nor unwelcome to the youth
Who on the heights of Tibur, all inclin'd
O'er ruſhing Anio, with a pious hand
The reverend ſcene delineates, broken fanes,
Or tombs, or pillar'd aqueducts, the pomp
Of ancient time; and haply, while he ſcans
The ruins, with a ſilent tear revolves
The fame and fortune of imperious Rome.
You too, O Nymphs, and your unenvious aid
[6] The rural powers confeſs; and ſtill prepare
For you their grateful treaſures. Pan commands,
Oft as the Delian king with Sirius holds
The central heavens, the father of the grove
Commands his Dryads over your abodes
To ſpread their deepeſt umbrage. well the God
Remembereth how indulgent ye ſupplied
Your genial dews to nurſe them in their prime.

Pales, the paſture's queen, where'er ye ſtray,
Purſues your ſteps, delighted; and the path
With living verdure clothes. Around your haunts
The laughing Chloris, with profuſeſt hand,
Throws wide her blooms, her odours. Still with you
Pomona ſeeks to dwell: and o'er the lawns,
And o'er the vale of Richmond, where with Thames
Ye love to wander, Amalthea pours
Well-pleas'd the wealth of that Ammonian horn,
Her dower; unmindful of the fragrant iſles
Nyſaean or Atlantic. Nor can'ſt thou,
(Albeit oft, ungrateful, thou doſt mock
The beverage of the ſober Naiad's urn,
O Bromius, O Lenaean) nor can'ſt thou
Diſown the powers whoſe bounty, ill repaid,
With nectar feeds thy tendrils. Yet from me,
Yet, blameleſs Nymphs, from my delighted lyre,
Accept the rites your bounty well may claim;
Nor heed the ſcoffings of the Edonian band.

For better praiſe awaits you. Thames, your ſire,
[7] As down the verdant ſlope your duteous rills
Deſcend, the tribute ſtately Thames receives,
Delighted; and your piety applauds;
And bids his copious tide roll on ſecure,
For faithful are his daughters; and with words
Auſpicious gratulates the bark which, now
His banks forſaking, her adventurous wings
Yields to the breeze, with Albion's happy gifts
Extremeſt iſles to bleſs. and oft at morn,
When Hermes, from Olympus bent o'er earth
To bear the words of Jove, on yonder hill
Stoops lightly-ſailing; oft intent your ſprings
He views: and waving o'er ſome new-born ſtream
His bleſt pacific wand, "And yet," he cries,
"Yet," cries the ſon of Maia, "though recluſe
"And ſilent be your ſtores, from you, fair Nymphs,
"Flows wealth and kind ſociety to men.
"By you my function and my honour'd name
"Do I poſſeſs; while o'er the Boetic vale,
"Or through the towers of Memphis, or the palms
"By ſacred Ganges water'd, I conduct
"The Engliſh merchant: with the buxom fleece
"Of fertile Ariconium while I clothe
"Sarmatian kings; or to the houſehold Gods
"Of Syria, from the bleak Cornubian ſhore,
"Diſpenſe the mineral treaſure which of old
"Sidonian pilots ſought, when this fair land
"Was yet unconſcious of thoſe generous arts
[8] "Which wiſe Phoenicia from their native clime
"Tranſplanted to a more indulgent heaven."

Such are the words of Hermes: ſuch the praiſe,
O Naiads, which from tongues coeleſtial waits
Your bounteous deeds. From bounty iſſueth power:
And thoſe who, ſedulous in prudent works,
Relieve the wants of nature, Jove repays
With generous wealth and his own ſeat on earth,
Fit judgments to pronounce, and curb the might
Of wicked men. Your kind unfailing urns
Not vainly to the hoſpitable arts
Of Hermes yield their ſtore. For, O ye Nymphs,
Hath he not won the unconquerable queen
Of arms to court your friendſhip? You ſhe owns
The fair aſſociates who extend her ſway
Wide o'er the mighty deep; and grateful things
Of you ſhe uttereth, oft as from the ſhore
Of Thames, or Medway's vale, or the green banks
Of Vecta, ſhe her thundering navy leads
To Calpe's foaming channel, or the rough
Cantabrian coaſt; her auſpices divine
Imparting to the ſenate and the prince
Of Albion, to diſmay barbaric kings,
The Iberian, or the Celt. The pride of kings
Was ever ſcorn'd by Pallas: and of old
Rejoic'd the virgin, from the brazen prow
Of Athens o'er Aegina's gloomy ſurge,
To drive her clouds and ſtroms; o'erwhelming all
[9] The Perſian's promis'd glory, when the realms
Of Indus and the ſoft Ionian clime,
When Lybia's torrid champain and the rocks
Of cold Imaüs join'd their ſervile bands,
To ſweep the ſons of liberty from earth.
In vain: Minerva on the brazen prow
Of Athens ſtood, and with the thunder's voice
Denounc'd her terrours on their impious heads,
And ſhook her burning Aegis. Xerxes ſaw:
From Heracleum, on the mountain's height
Thron'd in his golden car, he knew the ſign
Coeleſtial; felt unrighteous hope forſake
His faltering heart, and turn'd his face with ſhame.

Hail, ye who ſhare the ſtern Minerva's power;
Who arm the hand of liberty for war;
And give, in ſecret, the Britannic name
To awe contending monarchs: yet benign,
Yet mild of nature; to the works of peace
More prone, and lenient of the many ills
Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid
Hygeia well can witneſs; ſhe who ſaves,
From poiſonous cates and cups of pleaſing bane,
The wretch devoted to the entangling ſnares
Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him ſhe leads
To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To ſpread the toils,
To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn
At dawn of day to ſummon the loud hounds,
She calls the lingering ſluggard from his dreams:
[10] And where his breaſt may drink the mountain-breeze,
And where the fervour of the ſunny vale
May beat upon his brow, through devious paths
Beckons his rapid courſer. Nor when eaſe,
Cool eaſe and welcome ſlumbers have becalm'd
His eager boſom, does the queen of health
Her pleaſing care withold. His decent board
She guards, preſiding; and the frugal powers
With joy ſedate leads in: and while the brown
Ennaean dame with Pan preſents her ſtores;
While changing ſtill, and comely in the change,
Vertumnus and the Hours before him ſpread
The garden's banquet; you to crown his feaſt,
To crown his feaſt, O Naiads, you the fair
Hygeia calls: and from your ſhelving ſeats,
And groves of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring,
To ſlake his veins: till ſoon a purer tide
Flows down thoſe loaded channels; waſheth off
The dregs of luxury, the lurking ſeeds
Of crude diſeaſe; and through the abodes of life
Sends vigour, ſends repoſe. Hail, Naiads: hail,
Who give, to labour, health; to ſtooping age,
The joys which youth had ſquander'd. Oft your urns
Will I invoke; and, frequent in your praiſe,
Abaſh the frantic Thyrſus with my ſong.

For not eſtrang'd from your benignant arts
Is he, the God, to whoſe myſterious ſhrine
My youth was ſacred, and my votive cares
[11] Are due; the learned Paeon. Oft when all
His cordial treaſures he hath ſearch'd in vain;
When herbs, and potent trees, and drops of balm
Rich with the genial influence of the ſun,
(To rouze dark fancy from her plaintive dreams,
To brace the nerveleſs arm, with food to win
Sick appetite, or huſh the unquiet breaſt
Which pines with ſilent paſſion) he in vain
Hath prov'd; to your deep manſions he deſcends.
Your gates of humid rock, your dim arcades,
He entereth; where impurpled veins of ore
Gleam on the roof; where through the rigid mine
Your trickling rills inſinuate. There the God
From your indulgent hands the ſteaming bowl
Wafts to his pale-ey'd ſuppliants; wafts the ſeeds
Merallic and the elemental ſalts
Waſh'd from the pregnant glebe. They drink: and ſoon
Flies pain; flies inauſpicious care: and ſoon
The ſocial haunt or unfrequented ſhade
Hears Io, Io Paean; as of old,
When Python fell. And, O propitious Nymphs,
Oft as for hapleſs mortals I implore
Your ſalutary ſprings, thro' every urn
O ſhed ſelected atoms, and with all
Your healing powers inform the recent wave.

My lyre ſhall pay your bounty. Nor diſdain
That humble tribute. Though a mortal hand
Excite the ſtrings to utterance, yet for themes
[12] Not unregarded of coeleſtial powers,
I frame their language; and the Muſes deign
To guide the pious tenour of my lay.
The Muſes (ſacred be their gifts divine)
In early days did to my wondering ſenſe
Their ſecrets oft reveal: oft my rais'd ear
In ſlumber felt their muſic: oft at noon
Or hour of ſunſet, by ſome lonely ſtream,
In field or ſhady grove, they taught me words
Of power from death and envy to preſerve
The good man's name, whence yet with grateful mind [...]
And offerings unprofan'd by ruder eye,
My vows I ſend, my homage, to the ſeats
Of rocky Cirrha, where with you they dwell:
Where you their chaſte companions they admit
Through all the hallow'd ſcene: where oft intent,
And leaning o'er Caſtalia's moſſy verge,
They mark the cadence of your confluent urns,
How tunefull yielding gratefulleſt repoſe
To their conſorted meaſure: till again,
With emulation all the ſounding choir,
And bright Apollo, leader of the ſong,
Their voices through the liquid air exalt,
And ſweep their lofty ſtrings: thoſe awful ſtrings,
That charm the mind of Gods: that fill the courts
Of wide Olympus with oblivion ſweet
Of evils, with immortal reſt from cares;
Aſſuage the terrours of the throne of Jove;
[13] And quench the formidable thunderbolt
Of unrelenting fire. With ſlacken'd wings,
While now the ſolemn concert breathes around,
Incumbent o'er the ſceptre of his lord
Sleeps the ſtern eagle; by the number'd notes,
Poſſeſs'd; and ſatiate with the melting tone:
Sovereign of birds. The furious God of war,
His darts forgetting and the rapid wheels
That bear him vengeful o'er the embattled plain,
Relents, and ſooths his own fierce heart to eaſe,
Unwonted eaſe. The ſire of Gods and men,
In that great moment of divine delight,
Looks down on all that live; and whatſoe'er
He loves not, o'er the peopled earth and o'er
The interminated ocean, he beholds
Curs'd with abhorrence by his doom ſevere,
And troubled at the ſound. Ye, Naiads, ye
With raviſh'd ears the melody attend
Worthy of ſacred ſilence. But the ſlaves
Of Bacchus with tempeſtuous clamours ſtrive
To drown the heavenly ſtrains; of higheſt Jove,
Irreverent; and by mad preſumption fir'd
Their own diſcordant raptures to advance
With hoſtile emulation. Down they ruſh
From Nyſa's vine-impurpled cliff, the dames
Of Thrace, the Satyrs, and the unruly Fauns,
With old Silenus, through the midnight gloom
Toſſing the torch impure, and high in air
[14] The brandiſh'd Thyrſus, to the Phrygian pipe's
Shrill voice, and to the claſhing cymbals, mix'd
With ſhrieks and frantic uproar. May the Gods
From every unpolluted ear avert
Their orgies! If within the ſeats of men,
Within the ſeats of men, the walls, the gates
Which Pallas rules, if haply there be found
Who loves to mingle with the revel-band
And hearken to their accents; who aſpires
From ſuch inſtructers to inform his breaſt
With verſe; let him, fit votariſt, implore
Their inſpiration. He perchance the gifts
Of young Lyaeus, and the dread exploits,
May ſing in apteſt numbers: he the fate
Of ſober Pentheus, he the Paphian rites,
And naked Mars with Cytheraea chain'd,
And ſtrong Alcides in the ſpinſter's robe,
May celebrate, applauded. But with you,
O Naiads, far from that unhallow'd rout,
Muſt dwell the man whoe'er to praiſed themes
Invokes the immortal Muſe. the immortal Muſe
To your calm habitations, to the cave
Corycian or the Delphic mount, will guide
His footſteps; and with your unſullied ſtreams
His lips will bathe: whether the eternal lore
Of Themis, or the majeſty of Jove,
To mortals he reveal; or teach his lyre
The unenvied guerdon of the patriot's toils,
[15] In thoſe unfading iſlands of the bleſt,
Where ſacred bards abide. Hail, honour'd Nymphs;
Thrice hail. for you the Cyrenaïc ſhell,
Behold, I touch, revering. To my ſongs
Be preſent ye with favourable feet,
And all profaner audience far remove.

ODE To the Right Honourable FRANCIS Earl of HUNTINGDON.
MDCCXLVII.

By the Same.

I. 1.THE wiſe and great of every clime,
Through all the ſpacious walks of Time,
Where'er the Muſe her power diſplay'd,
With joy have liſten'd and obey'd.
For, taught of heaven, the ſacred Nine
Perſuaſive numbers, forms divine,
To mortal ſenſe impart:
They beſt the ſoul with glory fire;
They nobleſt counſels, boldeſt deeds inſpire;
And high o'er Fortune's rage inthrone the fixed heart.

[16]I. 2.Nor leſs prevailing is their charm
The vengeful boſom to diſarm;
To melt the proud with human woe,
And prompt unwilling tears to flow.
Can wealth a power like this afford?
Can Cromwell's arts, or Marlborough's ſword;
An equal empire claim?
No, HASTINGS. Thou my words wilt own:
Thy breaſt the gifts of every Muſe hath known;
Nor ſhall the giver's love diſgrace thy noble name.

I. 3.The Muſe's awful art,
And the fair function of the poet's tongue,
Ne'er ſhalt thou bluſh to honour; to aſſert
From all that ſcorned vice or ſlaviſh fear hath ſung.
Nor ſhall the blandiſhment of Tuſcan ſtrings
Warbling at will in pleaſure's myrtle bower;
Nor ſhall the baſer notes to Celtic kings
By lying minſtrels paid in evil hour,
Move Thee to ſpurn the heavenly Muſe's reign.
A different ſtrain,
And other themes
From her prophetic ſhades and hallow'd ſtreams
(Thou well can'ſt witneſs) meet the purged ear:
Such, as when Greece to her immortal ſhell
Rejoicing liſten'd, godlike ſounds to hear;
To hear the ſweet inſtructreſs tell
[17] (While men and heroes throng'd around)
How life its nobleſt uſe may find,
How beſt for freedom be reſign'd;
And how, by glory, virtue ſhall be crown'd.

II. 1.Such was the * Chian father's ſtrain
To many a kind domeſtic train,
Whoſe pious hearth and genial bowl
Had chear'd the reverend pilgrim's ſoul:
When, every hoſpitable rite
With equal bounty to requite,
He ſtruck his magic ſtrings;
And pour'd ſpontaneous numbers forth,
And ſeiz'd their ears with tales of ancient worth,
And fill'd their muſing hearts with vaſt heroic things.

II. 2.Now oft, where happy ſpirits dwell,
Where yet he tunes his charming ſhell,
Oft near him, with applauding hands,
The genius of his country ſtands.
To liſtening gods he makes him known,
That man divine, by whom were ſown
The ſeeds of Graecian fame:
Who firſt the race with freedom fir'd;
From whom Lycurgus Sparta's ſons inſpir'd;
From whom Plataean palms and Cyprian trophies came.

[18]II. 3.O nobleſt, happieſt age!
When Ariſtides rul'd, and Cimon fought;
When all the generous fruits of Homer's page
Exulting Pindar ſaw to full perfection brought.
O Pindar, oft ſhalt thou be hail'd of me:
Not that Apollo fed thee from his ſhrine;
Not that thy lips drank ſweetneſs from the bee;
Nor yet that, ſtudious of thy notes divine,
Pan danc'd their meaſure with the ſylvan throng:
But that thy ſong
Was proud to unfold
What thy baſe rulers trembled to behold;
Amid corrupted Thebes was proud to tell
The deeds of Athens and the Perſian ſhame:
Hence on thy head their impious vengeance fell,
But thou, O faithful to thy fame,
The Muſe's law did'ſt rightly know;
That who would animate his lays,
And other minds to virtue raiſe,
Muſt feel his own with all her ſpirit glow.

III. 1.Are there, approv'd of later times,
Whoſe verſe adorn'd a * tyrant's crimes?
Who ſaw majeſtic Rome betray'd,
And lent the imperial ruffian aid?
[19] Alas! not one polluted bard,
No, not the ſtrains that Mincius heard,
Or Tibur's hills reply'd,
Dare to the Muſe's ear aſpire;
Save that, inſtructed by the Graecian lyre,
With freedom's ancient notes their ſhameful taſk they hide.

III. 2.Mark, how the dread Pantheon ſtands,
Amid the domes of modern hands:
Amid the toys of idle ſtate,
How ſimply, how ſeverely great!
Then turn, and, while each weſtern clime
Preſents her tuneful ſons to Time,
So mark thou Milton's name;
And add, "Thus differs from the throng
"The ſpirit which inform'd thy awful ſong,
"Which bade thy potent voice protect thy country's fame."

III. 3.Yet hence barbaric zeal
His memory with unholy rage purſues;
While from theſe arduous cares of public weal
She bids each bard begone, and reſt him with his Muſe.
O fool! to think the man, whoſe ample mind
Muſt graſp at all that yonder ſtars ſurvey;
Muſt join the nobleſt forms of every kind,
The world's moſt perfect image to diſplay,
Can e'er his country's majeſty behold,
Unmov'd or cold!
[20] O fool! to deem
That He, whoſe thought muſt viſit every theme,
Whoſe heart muſt every ſtrong emotion know
By nature planted, or by fortune taught;
That He, if haply ſome preſumptuous foe,
With falſe ignoble ſcience fraught,
Shall ſpurn at freedom's faithful band;
That He their dear defence will ſhun,
Or hide their glories from the ſun,
Or deal their vengeance with a woman's hand!

IV. 1.I care not that in Arno's plain,
Or on the ſportive banks of Seine,
From public themes the Muſe's quire
Content with poliſh'd eaſe retire.
Where prieſts the ſtudious head command,
Where tyrants bow the warlike hand
To vile ambition's aim,
Say, what can public themes afford,
Save venal honours to an hateful lord,
Reſerv'd for angry heaven and ſcorn'd of honeſt fame?

IV. 2.But here, where freedom's equal throne
To all her valiant ſons is known;
Where all are conſcious of her cares,
And each the power, that rules him, ſhares;
Here let the bard, whoſe daſtard tongue
Leaves public arguments unſung,
[21] Bid public praiſe farewell:
Let him to fitter climes remove,
Far from the heroe's and the patriot's love,
And lull myſterious monks to ſlumber in their cell.

IV. 3.O HASTINGS, not to all
Can ruling heav'n the ſame endowments lend:
Yet ſtill doth nature to her offspring call,
That to one general weal their different powers they bend,
Unenvious. Thus alone, though ſtrains divine
Inſorm the boſom of the Muſe's ſon;
Though with new honours the patrician's line
Advance from age to age; yet thus alone
They win the ſuffrage of impartial fame.
The poet's name
He beſt ſhall prove,
Whoſe lays the ſoul with nobleſt paſſions move.
But thee, O progeny of heroes old,
Thee to ſeverer toils thy fate requires:
The fate which form'd thee in a choſen mould,
The grateful country of thy ſires,
Thee to ſublimer paths demand;
Sublimer than thy ſires could trace,
Or thy own EDWARD teach his race,
Though Gaul's proud genius ſank beneath his hand.

V. 1.From rich domains and ſubject farms,
They led the ruſtic youth to arms;
[22] And kings their ſtern atchievements fear'd;
While private ſtrife their banners rear'd.
But loftier ſcenes to thee are ſhown,
Where empire's wide-eſtabliſh'd throne
No private maſter fills:
Where, long foretold, The People reigns:
Where each a vaſſal's humble heart diſdains;
And judgeth what he ſees; and, as he judgeth, wills.

V. 2.Here be it thine to calm and guide
The ſwelling democratic tide;
To watch the ſtate's uncertain frame,
And baffle faction's partial aim:
But chiefly, with determin'd zeal,
To quell that ſervile band, who kneel
To freedom's baniſh'd foes;
That monſter, which is daily found
Expert and bold thy country's peace to wound;
Yet dreads to handle arms, nor manly counſel knows.

V. 3.'Tis higheſt heaven's command,
That guilty aims ſhould ſordid paths purſue;
That what enſnares the heart ſhould curb the hand,
And virtue's worthleſs foes be falſe to glory too.
But look on freedom. ſee, through every age,
What labours, perils, griefs, hath ſhe diſdain'd!
What arms, what regal pride, what prieſtly rage,
Have her dread offspring conquer'd or ſuſtain'd!
[23] For Albion well have conquer'd. Let the ſtrains
Of happy ſwains,
Which now reſound
Where Scarſdale's cliffs the ſwelling paſtures bound,
Bear witneſs. there, oft let the farmer hail
The ſacred orchard which imbowers his gate,
And ſhew to ſtrangers paſſing down the vale,
Where Candiſh, Booth, and Oſborne ſate;
When burſting from their country's chain,
Even in the midſt of deadly harms,
Of papal ſnares and lawleſs arms,
They plann'd for freedom this her awful reign.

VI. 1.This reign, theſe laws, this public care,
Which Naſſau gave us all to ſhare,
Had ne'er adorn'd the Engliſh name,
Could fear have ſilenc'd freedom's claim.
But fear in vain attempts to bind
Thoſe lofty efforts of the mind
Which ſocial good inſpires;
Where men, for this, aſſault a throne,
Each adds the common welfare to his own;
And each unconquer'd heart the ſtrength of all acquires.

VI. 2.Say, was it thus, when late we view'd
Our fields in civil blood imbrued?
When fortune crown'd the barbarous hoſt,
And half the aſtoniſh'd iſle was loſt?
[24] Did one of all that vaunting train,
Who dare affront a peaceful reign,
Durſt one in arms appear?
Durſt one in counſels pledge his life?
Stake his luxurious fortunes in the ſtrife?
Or lend his boaſted name his vagrant friends to chear?

VI. 3.Yet, HASTINGS, theſe are they
Who challenge to themſelves thy country's love
The true; the conſtant: who alone can weigh,
What glory ſhould demand, or liberty approve!
But let their works declare them. Thy free powers,
The generous powers of thy prevailing mind,
Not for the taſks of their confederate hours,
Lewd brawls and lurking ſlander, were deſign'd.
Be thou thy own approver. Honeſt praiſe
Oft nobly ſways
Ingenuous youth:
But, ſought from cowards and the lying mouth,
Praiſe is reproach. Eternal GOD alone
For mortals fixeth that ſublime award.
He, from the faithful records of his throne,
Bids the hiſtorian and the bard
Diſpoſe of honour and of ſcorn;
Diſcern the patriot from the ſlave;
And write the good, the wiſe, the brave,
For leſſons to the multitude unborn.

ODE To the Right Reverend BENJAMIN Lord Biſhop of WINCHESTER.

[25]

By the Same.

I. 1.FOR toils which patriots have endur'd,
For treaſon quell'd and laws ſecur'd,
In every nation Time diſplays
The palm of honourable praiſe.
Envy may rail; and faction fierce
May ſtrive: but what, alas, can Thoſe
(Though bold, yet blind and ſordid foes)
To gratitude and love oppoſe,
To faithful ſtory and perſuaſive verſe?

[26]I. 2.O nurſe of freedom, Albion, ſay,
Thou tamer of deſpotic ſway,
What man, among thy ſons around,
Thus heir to glory haſt thou found?
What page, in all thy annals bright,
Haſt thou with purer joy ſurvey'd
Than that where truth, by Hoadly's aid,
Shines through the deep unhallow'd ſhade
Of kingly fraud and ſacerdotal night?

I. 3.To him the Teacher bleſs'd
Who ſent religion, from the palmy field
By Jordan, like the morn to cheer the weſt,
And lifted up the veil which heaven from earth conceal'd,
To Hoadly thus He utter'd his beheſt:
"Go thou, and reſcue my diſhonour'd law
"From hands rapacious and from tongues impure:
"Let not my peaceful name be made a lure
"The ſnares of ſavage tyranny to aid:
"Let not my words be impious chains to draw
"The free-born ſoul, in more than brutal awe,
"To faith without aſſent, allegiance unrepaid."

II. 1.No cold nor unperforming hand
Was arm'd by heaven with this command.
The world ſoon felt it: and, on high,
To William's ear with welcome joy
[27] Did Locke among the bleſt unfold
The riſing hope of Hoadly's name:
Godolphin then confirm'd the fame;
And Somers, when from earth he came,
And valiant Stanhope the fair ſequel told.*

II. 2.Then drew the lawgivers around,
(Sires of the Graecian name renown'd)
And liſtening aſk'd, and wondering knew,
What private force could thus ſubdue
The vulgar and the great combin'd;
Could war with ſacred folly wage;
Could a whole nation diſengage
From the dread bonds of many an age,
And to new habits mould the public mind.

II. 3.For not a conqueror's ſword,
Nor the ſtrong powers to civil founders known,
Were his: but truth by faithful ſearch explor'd,
And ſocial ſenſe, like ſeed, in genial plenty ſown.
[28] Wherever it took root, the ſoul (reſtor'd
To freedom) freedom too for others ſought.
Not monkiſh craft the tyrant's claim divine,
Not regal zeal the bigot's cruel ſhrine
Could longer guard from reaſon's warfare ſage;
Not the wild rabble to ſedition wrought,
Nor ſynods by the papal Genius taught,
Nor St. John's ſpirit looſe, nor Atterbury's rage.

III. 1.But where ſhall recompence be found?
Or how ſuch arduous merit crown'd?
For look on life's laborious ſcene:
What rugged ſpaces lie between
Adventurous virtue's early toils
And her triumphal throne! The ſhade
Of death, mean time, does oft invade
Her progreſs; nor, to us diſplay'd,
Wears the bright heroine her expected ſpoils.

III. 2.Yet born to conquer is her power:
—O Hoadly, if that favourite hour
On earth arrive, with thankful awe
We own juſt heaven's indulgent law,
And proudly thy ſucceſs behold;
We 'attend thy reverend length of days
With benediction and with praiſe,
And hail Thee in our public ways
Like ſome great ſpirit fam'd in ages old.

[29]III. 3.While thus our vows prolong
Thy ſteps on earth, and when by us reſign'd
Thou join'ſt thy ſeniors, that heroic throng
Who reſcued or preſerv'd the rights of human kind,
O! not unworthy may thy Albion's tongue
Thee ſtill, her friend and benefactor, name:
O! never, Hoadly, in thy country's eyes,
May impious gold, or pleaſure's gaudy prize,
Make public virtue, public freedom, vile;
Nor our own manners tempt us to diſclaim
That heritage, our nobleſt wealth and fame,
Which Thou haſt kept intire from force and factious guile.

INSCRIPTIONS.

By the Same.

I. For a GROTTO.TO me, whom in their lays the ſhepherds call
Actaea, daughter of the neigbouring ſtream,
This cave belongs. The fig-tree and the vine,
Which o'er the rocky entrance downward ſhoot,
[30] Were plac'd by Glycon. He with cowſlips pale,
Primroſe, and purple Lychnis, deck'd the green
Before my threſhold, and my ſhelving walls
With honeyſuckle cover'd. Here at noon,
Lull'd by the murmur of my riſing fount,
I ſlumber: here my cluſtering fruits I tend;
Or from the humid flowers, at break of day,
Freſh garlands weave, and chace from all my bounds
Each thing impure or noxious. Enter-in,
O ſtranger, undiſmay'd. nor bat nor toad
Here lurks: and if thy breaſt of blameleſs thoughts
Approve thee, not unwelcome ſhalt thou tread
My quiet manſion: chiefly, if thy name
Wiſe Pallas and the immortal Muſes own.

II. For a Statue of CHAUCER at WOODSTOCK.SUCH was old Chaucer. ſuch the placid mien
Of him who firſt with harmony inform'd
The language of our fathers. Here he dwelt
For many a cheerful day. theſe ancient walls
Have often heard him, while his legends blithe
He ſang; of love, or knighthood, or the wiles
Of homely life: through each eſtate and age,
The faſhions and the follies of the world
[31] With cunning hand portraying. Though perchance
From Blenheim's towers, O ſtranger, thou art come
Glowing with Churchill's trophies; yet in vain
Doſt thou applaud them, if thy breaſt be cold.
To him, this other heroe; who, in times
Dark and untaught, began with charming verſe
To tame the rudeneſs of his native land.

III.WHOE'ER thou art whoſe path in ſummer lies
Through yonder village, turn thee where the grove
Of branching oaks a rural palace old
Imboſoms. there dwells Albert, generous lord
Of all the harveſt round. and onward thence
A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
Faſt by a ſilent riv'let. Humbly walk,
O ſtranger, o'er the conſecrated ground;
And on that verdant hilloc, which thou ſee'ſt
Beſet with oſiers, let thy pious hand
Sprinkle freſh water from the brook and ſtrew
Sweet-ſmelling flow'rs. for there doth Edmund reſt,
The learned ſhepherd; for each rural art
Fam'd, and for ſongs harmonious, and the woes
Of ill-requited love. The faithleſs pride
Of fair Matilda ſank him to the grave
[32] In manhood's prime. But ſoon did righteous heaven
With tears, with ſharp remorſe, and pining care,
Avenge her falſhood. nor could all the gold
And nuptial pomp, which lur'd her plighted faith
From Edmund to a loftier huſband's home,
Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aſide
The ſtrokes of death. Go, traveller; relate
The mournful ſtory. haply ſome fair maid
May hold it in remembrance, and be taught
That riches cannot pay for truth or love.

IV.O YOUTHS and virgins: O declining eld:
O pale misfortune's ſlaves: O ye who dwell
Unknown with humble quiet; ye who wait
In courts, or fill the golden ſeat of kings:
O ſons of ſport and pleaſure: O thou wretch
That weep'ſt for jealous love, or the ſore wounds
Of conſcious guilt, or death's rapacious hand
Which left thee void of hope: O ye who roam
In exile; ye who through the embattled field
Seek bright renown; or who for nobler palms
Contend, the leaders of a public cauſe;
Approach: behold this marble. Know ye not
The features? Hath not oft his faithful tongue
[33] Told you the faſhion of your own eſtate,
The ſecrets of your boſom? Here then, round
His monument with reverence while ye ſtand,
Say to each other: "This was Shakeſpear's form;
"Who walk'd in every path of human life,
"Felt every paſſion; and to all mankind
"Doth now, will ever that experience yield
"Which his own genius only could acquire."

V.

GULIELMUS III. FORTIS, PIUS, LIBERATOR, CUM INEUNTE AETATE PATRIAE LABENTI ADFUISSET SALUS IPSE UNICA; CUM MOX ITIDEM REIPUBLICAE BRITANNICAE VINDEX RENUNCIATUS ESSET ATQUE STATOR; TUM DENIQUE AD ID SE NATUM RECOGNOVIT ET REGEM FACTUM, UT CURARET NE DOMINO IMPOTENTI CEDERENT PAX, FIDES; FORTUNA, GENERIS HUMANI.

AUCTORI PUBLICAE FELICITATIS P. G. A. M. A.

VI. For a Column at RUNNYMEDE.[34]THOU, who the verdant plain doſt traverſe here,
While Thames among his willows from thy view
Retires; O ſtranger, ſtay thee, and the ſcene
Around contemplate well. This is the place
Where England's ancient barons, clad in arms
And ſtern with conqueſt, from their tyrant king
(Then render'd tame) did challenge and ſecure
The charter of thy freedom. Paſs not on
Till thou have bleſs'd their memory, and paid
Thoſe thanks which God appointed the reward
Of public virtue. and if chance thy home
Salute thee with a father's honour'd name,
Go, call thy ſons: inſtruct them what a debt
They owe their anceſtors; and make them ſwear
To pay it, by tranſmitting down intire
Thoſe ſacred rights to which themſelves were born.

ODE.

[35]

By the Same.

I.IF rightly tuneful bards decide,
If it be fix'd in love's decrees,
That beauty ought not to be tried
But by its native power to pleaſe,
Then tell me, youths and lovers, tell,
What fair can Amoret excell?

II.Behold that bright unſullied ſmile,
And wiſdom ſpeaking in her mien:
Yet (ſhe ſo artleſs all the while,
So little ſtudious to be ſeen)
We nought but inſtant gladneſs know,
Nor think to whom the gift we owe.

III.But neither muſic, nor the powers
Of youth and mirth and frolick cheer,
Add half that ſunſhine to the hours,
Or make life's proſpect half ſo clear,
As memory brings it to the eye
From ſcenes where Amoret was by.

[36]IV.Yet not a ſatiriſt could there
Or fault or indiſcretion find;
Nor any prouder ſage declare
One virtue, pictur'd in his mind,
Whoſe form with lovelier colours glows
Than Amoret's demeanor ſhows.

V.This ſure is beauty's happieſt part:
This gives the moſt unbounded ſway:
This ſhall inchant the ſubject heart
When roſe and lily fade away;
And She be ſtill, in ſpite of time,
Sweet Amoret in all her prime.

ODE TO THE TIBER.
WRITTEN ABROAD.

[]

By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Eſq On entering the CAMPANIA of ROME, at OTRICOLI, MDCCLV.

I.HAIL ſacred Stream, whoſe waters roll
Immortal thro' the claſſic page!
To Thee the Muſe-devoted ſoul,
Tho' deſtin'd to a later age
And leſs indulgent clime, to Thee,
Nor thou diſdain, in runic lays
Weak mimic of true harmony,
His grateful homage pays.
Far other ſtrains thine elder ear
With pleas'd attention wont to hear,
When he, who ſtrung the Latian lyre,
And he, who led th' Aonian quire
[38] From Mantua's reedy lakes with oſiers crown'd,
Taught Echo from thy banks with tranſport to reſound.
Thy banks?—alas, is this the boaſted ſcene,
This dreary, wide, uncultivated plain,
Where ſick'ning Nature wears a fainter green,
And Deſolation ſpreads her torpid reign?
Is this the ſcene where Freedom breath'd,
Her copious horn where Plenty wreath'd,
And health at opening day
Bade all her roſeate breezes fly,
To wake the ſons of Induſtry,
And make their fields more gay?

II.Where is the villa's rural pride,
The ſwelling dome's imperial gleam,
Which lov'd to grace thy verdant ſide,
And tremble in thy golden ſtream?
Where are the bold, the buſy throngs,
That ruſh'd impatient to the war,
Or tun'd to peace triumphal ſongs,
And hail'd the paſſing car?
Along the ſolitary * road,
Th' eternal flint by Conſuls trod,
We muſe, and mark the ſad decays
Of mighty works, and mighty days!
For theſe vile waſtes, we cry, had Fate decreed
That Veii's ſons ſhould ſtrive, for theſe Camillus bleed?
[39] Did here, in after-times of Roman pride,
The muſing ſhepherd from Soracte's height
See towns extend where'er thy waters glide,
And temples riſe, and peopled farms unite?
They did. For this deſerted plain
The Hero ſtrove, nor ſtrove in vain;
And here the ſhepherd ſaw
Unnumber'd towns and temples ſpread,
While Rome majeſtic rear'd her head.
And gave the nations law.

III.Yes, Thou and Latium once were great.
And ſtill, ye firſt of human things,
Beyond the graſp of time or fate
Her fame and thine triumphant ſprings.
What tho' the mould'ring columns fall,
And ſtrow the deſart earth beneath,
Tho'ivy round each nodding wall
Entwine it's fatal wreath,
Yet ſay, can Rhine or Danube boaſt
The numerous glories thou haſt loſt?
Can ev'n Euphrates' palmy ſhore,
Or Nile, with all his myſtic lore,
Produce from old records of genuine fame
Such heroes, poets, kings, or emulate thy name?
Ev'n now the Muſe, the conſcious Muſe is here;
From every ruin's formidable ſhade
Eternal Muſic breathes on Fancy's ear,
[40] And wakes to more than form th' illuſtrious dead.
Thy Caeſars, Scipios, Catos riſe,
The great, the virtuous, and the wiſe,
In ſolemn ſtate advance!
They fix the philoſophic eye,
Or trail the robe, or lift on high
The light'ning of the lance.

IV.But chief that humbler happier train
Who knew thoſe virtues to reward
Beyond the reach of chance or pain
Secure, th' hiſtorian and the bard.
By them the hero's generous rage
Still warm in youth immortal lives;
And in their adamantine page
Thy glory ſtill ſurvives.
Thro' deep Savannahs wild and vaſt,
Unheard, unknown thro' ages paſt,
Beneath the ſun's directer beams
What copious torrents pour their ſtreams!
No fame have they, no fond pretence to mourn,
No annals ſwell their pride, or grace their ſtoried urn.
Whilſt Thou, with Rome's exalted genius join'd,
Her ſpear yet lifted, and her corſlet brac'd,
Can'ſt tell the waves, can'ſt tell the paſſing wind
Thy wond'rous tale, and chear the liſt'ning waſte.
Tho' from his caves th' unſeeling North
Pour'd all his legion'd tempeſts forth,
[41] Yet ſtill thy laurels bloom:
One deathleſs glory ſtill remains,
Thy ſtream has roll'd thro' LATIAN plains,
Has waſh'd the walls of ROME.

ELEGIES.

By the Same.

ELEGY I. Written at the CONVENT of HAUT VILLERS in CHAMPAGNE, 1754.

SILENT and clear, thro' yonder peaceful vale,
While Marne's ſlow waters weave their mazy way,
See, to th' exulting ſun, and foſt'ring gale,
What boundleſs treaſures his rich banks diſplay!

Faſt by the ſtream, and at the mountain's baſe,
The lowing herds thro' living paſtures rove;
Wide waving harveſts crown the riſing ſpace;
And ſtill ſuperior nods the viny grove.

[42]

High on the top, as guardian of the ſcene,

Imperial Sylvan ſpreads his umbrage wide;

Nor wants there many a cot, and ſpire between,

Or in the vale, or on the mountain's ſide,

To mark that Man, as tenant of the whole,
Claims the juſt tribute of his culturing care,
Yet pays to Heaven, in gratitude of ſoul,
The boon which heaven accepts, of praiſe and prayer.

O dire effects of war! the time has been
When Deſolation vaunted here her reign;
One ravag'd deſart was yon beauteous ſcene,
And Marne ran purple to the frighted Seine.

Oft at his work the toilſome day to cheat
The ſwain ſtill talks of thoſe diſaſtrous times
When Guiſe's pride, and Conde's ill-ſtar'd heat
Taught chriſtian zeal to authorize their crimes:

Oft to his children ſportive on the graſs
Does dreadful tales of worn Tradition tell,
Oft points to Epernay's ill-fated paſs
Where Force thrice triumph'd, and where Biron fell.

O dire effects of war!—may ever more
Thro' this ſweet vale the voice of Diſcord ceaſe!
A Britiſh bard to Gallia's fertile ſhore
Can wiſh the bleſſings of eternal peace.

[43]

Yet ſay, ye monks, (beneath whoſe moſs-grown ſeat,

Within whoſe cloiſter'd cells th' indebted Muſe

Awhile ſojourns, for meditation meet,

And theſe looſe thoughts in penſive ſtrain purſues,)

Avails it aught, that War's rude tumults ſpare
Yon cluſter'd vineyard, or yon golden field,
If niggards to yourſelves, and fond of care,
You ſlight the joys their copious treaſures yield?

Avails it aught that Nature's liberal hand
With every bleſſing grateful man can know
Cloaths the rich boſom of yon ſmiling land,
The mountain's ſloping ſide, or pendant brow,

If meagre Famine paint your pallid cheek,
If breaks the midnight bell your hours of reſt,
If'midſt heart-chilling damps, and winter bleak,
You ſhun the chearful bowl, and moderate feaſt!

Look forth, and be convinc'd! 'tis Nature pleads,
Her ample volume opens on your view,
The ſimple-minded ſwain, who running reads,
Feels the glad truth, and is it hid from you?

Look ſorth, and be convinc'd. Yon proſpects wide
To Reaſon's ear how forcibly they ſpeak,
Compar'd with thoſe how dull is letter'd Pride,
And Auſtin's babbling Eloquence how weak!

[44]

Temp'rance, not Abſtinence, in every bliſs

Is Man's true joy, and therefore Heaven's command

The wretch who riots thanks his God amiſs:

Who ſtarves, rejects the bounties of his hand.

Mark, while the Marne in yon full channel glides,
How ſmooth his courſe, how Nature ſmiles around!
But ſhould impetuous torrents ſwell his tides,
The fairy landſkip ſinks in oceans drown'd.

Nor leſs diſaſtrous ſhould his thrifty urn
Neglected leave the once well-water'd land,
To dreary waſtes yon paradiſe would turn,
Polluted ooze, or heaps of barren ſand.

ELEGY II. On ^* the MAUSOLEUM of AUGUSTUS. To the Right Honourable George Buſſy Villiers, Viſcount Villiers.
Written at ROME. 1756.

AMID theſe mould'ring walls, this marble round,
Where ſlept the Heroes of the Julian name,
Say, ſhall we linger ſtill in thought profound,
And meditate the mournful paths to fame?

[45]

What no' no cypreſs ſhades, in funeral rows,

No ſculptur'd urns, the laſt records of Fate,

O'er the ſhrunk terrace wave their baleful boughs,

Or breathe in ſtoried emblems of the great;

Yet not with heedleſs eye will we ſurvey
The ſcene tho' chang'd, nor negligently tread;
Theſe variegated walks, however gay,
Were once the ſilent manſions of the dead.

In every ſhrub, in every flow'ret's bloom
That paints with different hues yon ſmiling plain,
Some Hero's aſhes iſſue from the tomb,
And live a vegetative life again.

For matter dies not, as the Sages ſay,
But ſhifts to other forms the pliant maſs,
When the free ſpirit quits it's cumb'rous clay,
And ſees, beneath, the rolling Planets paſs.

Perhaps, my Villiers, for I ſing to Thee,
Perhaps, unknowing of the bloom it gives,
In yon fair ſcyon of Apollo's tree
The ſacred duſt of young Marcellus lives.

Pluck not the leaf—'twere ſacrilege to wound
Th' ideal memory of ſo ſweet a ſhade;
In theſe ſad ſeats an early grave he found,
And * the firſt rites to gloomy Dis convey'd.

[46]

Witneſs ^† thou Field of Mars, that oft hadſt known

His youthful triumphs in the mimic war,

Thou heardſt the heart-felt univerſal groan

When o'er thy boſom roll'd the funeral car.

Witneſs ‡ thou Tuſcan ſtream, where oft he glow'd
In ſportive ſtruglings with th' oppoſing wave,
Faſt by the recent tomb thy waters flow'd
While wept the wiſe, the virtuous, and the brave.

O loſt too ſoon!—yet why lament a fate
By thouſands envied, and by Heaven approv'd;
Rare is the boon to thoſe of longer date
To live, to die, admir'd, eſteem'd, belov'd.

Weak are our judgments, and our paſſions warm,
And ſlowly dawns the radiant morn of truth,
Our expectations haſtily we form,
And much we pardon to ingenuous youth.

Too oft we ſatiate on th' applauſe we pay
To riſing Merit, and reſume the Crown;
Full many a blooming genius. ſnatch'd away,
Has fallen lamented who had liv'd unknown.

For hard the taſk, O Villiers, to ſuſtain
Th' important burthen of an early fame;
Each added day ſome added worth to gain,
Prevent each wiſh, and anſwer every claim.

[47]

Be thou Marcellus, with a length of days!

But O remember, whatſo'er thou art,

The moſt exalted breath of human praiſe

To pleaſe indeed much echo from the heart.

Tho' thou be brave, be virtuous, and be wiſe,
By all, like him, admir'd, eſteem'd, belov'd,
'Tis from within alone true Fame can riſe,
The only happy is the Self-approv'd.

ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable George Simon Harcourt, Viſc. Newnham.
Written at ROME. 1756.

YES, noble Youth, 'tis true; the ſofter arts,
The ſweetly-ſounding ſtring, and pencil's power,
Have warm'd to rapture even heroic hearts,
And taught the rude to wonder, and adore.

For Beauty charms us, whether ſhe appears
In blended colours; or to ſoothing ſound
Attunes her voice; or fair proportion wears
In yonder ſwelling dome's harmonious round.

[48]

All, all ſhe charms; but not alike to all

'Tis given to revel in her bliſsful bower;

Coercive ties, and Reaſon's powerful call

Bid ſome but taſte the ſweets, which ſome devour.

When Nature govern'd, and when Man was young,
Perhaps at will th' untutor'd Savage rov'd,
Where waters murmur'd, and where cluſters hung
He fed, and ſlept beneath the ſhade he lov'd.

But ſince the Sage's more ſagacious mind,
By Heaven's permiſſion, or by Heaven's command,
To poliſh'd ſtates has ſocial laws aſſign'd,
And general good on partial duties plann'd,

Not for ourſelves our vagrant ſteps we bend
As heedleſs Chance, or wanton Choice ordain;
On various ſtations various taſks attend,
And Men are born to trifle or to reign.

As chaunts the woodman, whilſt the Dryads weep;
And falling foreſts fear th' uplifted blow,
As chaunts the ſhepherd, whilſt he tends his ſheep,
Or weaves to pliant forms the oſier bough,

To me 'tis given, whom Fortune loves to lead
Thro' humbler toils to life's ſequeſter'd bowers;
To me 'tis given to wake th' amuſive reed,
And ſooth with ſong the ſolitary hours.

[49]

But Thee ſuperior ſoberer toils demand,

Severer paths are thine of patriot fame;

Thy birth, thy friends, thy king, thy native land,

Have given thee honors, and have each their claim.

Then nerve with fortitude thy feeling breaſt
Each wiſh to combat, and each pain to bear;
purn with diſdain th' inglorious love of reſt,
Nor let the ſyren Eaſe approach thine ear.

Beneath yon cypreſs ſhade's eternal green
See proſtrate Rome her wond'rous ſtory tell,
Mark how ſhe roſe the world's imperial queen,
And tremble at the proſpect how ſhe fell!

Not that my rigid precepts would require
A painful ſtrugling with each adverſe gale,
Forbid thee liſten to th' enchanting Lyre,
Or turn thy ſteps from Fancy's flowery vale.

Whate'er of Greece in ſculptur'd braſs ſurvives,
Whate'er of Rome in mould'ring arcs remains,
Whate'er of Genius on the canvaſs lives,
Or flows in poliſh'd verſe, or airy ſtrains,

Be theſe thy leiſure; to the choſen few,
Who dare excel, thy foſt'ring aid afford;
Their arts, their magic powers with honors due
Exalt; but be thyſelf what they record.

ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER.
Written at ROME 1756.

[50]

FROM Latian fields, the manſions of Renown,
Where fix'd the Warrior God his fated ſeat;
Where infant Heroes learnt the martial frown,
And little hearts for genuine glory beat;

What for my friend, my ſoldier, ſhall I frame?
What nobly-glowing verſe that breathes of arms,
To point his radiant path to deathleſs fame,
By great examples, and terrific charms?

Quirinus firſt, with bold, collected bands,
The ſinewy ſons of ſtrength, for empire ſtrove;
Beneath his thunder bow'd th' aſtoniſh'd lands,
And temples roſe to Mars, and to Feretrian Jove.

[51]

War taught contempt of death, contempt of pain,

And hence the Fabii, hence the Decii come:

War urg'd the ſlaughter, tho' ſhe wept the ſlain,

Stern War, the rugged nurſe of virtuous Rome.

But not from antique fables will I draw,
To fire thy feeling ſoul, a dubious aid,
Tho' now, ev'n now, they ſtrike with rev'rent awe,
By Poets or Hiſtorians ſacred made.

Nor yet to thee the babling Muſe ſhall tell
What mighty Kings with all their legions wrought,
What cities ſunk, and ſtoried nations fell
When Caeſar, Titus, or when Trajan fought,

From private worth, and Fortune's private ways
Whilſt o'er yon hill th' exalted a Trophy ſhows
To what vaſt heights of incorrupted praiſe
The great, the ſelf-ennobled Marius roſe.

From ſteep Arpinum's rock-inveſted ſhade,
From hardy Virtue's emulative ſchool
His daring flight th' expanding Genius made,
And by obeying nobly learnt to rule.

Abaſh'd, confounded, ſtern Iberia groan'd,
And Afric trembled to her utmoſt coaſts;
When the proud land its deſtin'd Conqueror own'd
In the new Conſul, and his veteran hoſts.

[52] Yet Chiefs are madmen, and Ambition weak,
And mean the joys the laurel'd harveſts yield,
If Virtue fail. Let Fame, let Envy ſpeak
Of Capſa's walls, and Sextia's watry field.

But ſink for ever, in oblivion caſt,
Diſhoneſt triumphs, and ignoble ſpoils.
Minturnae's Marſh ſeverely paid at laſt
The guilty glories gain'd in civil broils.

Nor yet his vain contempt the Muſe ſhall praiſe
For ſcenes of poliſh'd life, and letter'd worth;
The ſteel-rib'd Warrior wants not Envy's ways
To darken theirs, or call his merits forth,

Witneſs yon Cimbrian Trophies!—Marius, there
Thy ample pinion found a ſpace to fly
As the plum'd eagle ſoaring ſails in air,
In upper air, and ſcorns a middle ſky.

Thence too thy Country claim'd thee for her own,
And bade the Sculptor's toil thy acts adorn,
To teach in characters of living ſtone
Eternal leſſons to the youth unborn.

For wiſely Rome her warlike Sons rewards
With the ſweet labours of her Artiſts' hands;
He wakes her Graces, who her empire guards,
And both Minervas join in willing bands.

[53] O why, Britannia, why untrophied paſs
The patriot deeds thy godlike Sons diſplay,
Why breathes on high no monumental braſs,
Why ſwells no Arc to grace Culloden's day?

Wait we 'till faithleſs France ſubmiſſive bow
Beneath that Hero's delegated ſpear,
Whoſe light'ning ſmote Rebellion's haughty brow,
And ſcatter'd her vile rout with horror in the rear?

O Land of Freedom, Land of Arts, aſſume
That graceful dignity thy merits claim;
Exalt thy Heroes like imperial Rome,
And build their virtues on their love of fame.

So ſhall the modeſt worth, which checks my friend,
Forget its bluſh when rous'd by Glory's charms;
From breaſt to breaſt the generous warmth deſcend,
And ſtill new trophies riſe, at once, to Arts, and Arms.

ELEGY V. TO a FRIEND Sick.
Written at ROME 1756.

[54]

'TWAS in this b iſle, O Wright indulge my lay,
Whoſe naval form divides the Tuſcan flood,
In the bright dawn of her illuſtrious day
Rome fix'd her Temple to the healing God.

Here ſtood his altars, here his arm he bared,
And round his myſtic ſtaff the ſerpent twin'd,
Through crowded portals hymns of praiſe were heard,
And victims bled, and ſacred ſeers divin'd.

On every breathing wall, on every round
Of column, ſwelling with proportion'd grace,
Its ſtated ſeat ſome votive tablet found,
And ſtoried wonders dignified the place.

[55]

Oft from the balmy bleſſings of repoſe,

And the cool ſtillneſs of the night's deep ſhade,

To light and health th' exulting Votariſt roſe,

Whilſt fancy work'd with med'cine's powerful aid.

Oft in his dreams (no longer clogg'd with fears
Of ſome broad torrent, or ſome headlong ſteep,
With each dire form Imagination wears
When harraſs'd Nature ſinks in turbid ſleep)

Oft in his dreams he ſaw diffuſive day
Through burſting glooms its chearful beams extend;
On billowy clouds ſaw ſportive Genii play,
And bright Hygeia from her heaven deſcend.

What marvel then, that man's o'erflowing mind
Should wreath-bound columns raiſe, and altars fair,
And grateful offerings pay, to Powers ſo kind,
Tho' fancy-form'd, and creatures of the Air.

Who that has writh'd beneath the ſcourge of pain,
Or felt the burthen'd languor of diſeaſe,
But would with joy the ſlighteſt reſpite gain,
And idolize the hand which lent him eaſe?

To Thee, my friend, unwillingly to thee
For truths like theſe the anxious Muſe appeals.
Can Memory anſwer from affliction free,
Or ſpeaks the ſufferer what, I fear, he feels?

[56]

No, let me hope ere this in Romely grove

Hygeia revels with the blooming Spring,

Ere this the vocal ſeats the Muſes love

With hymns of praiſe, like Paeon's temple, ring.

It was not written in the book of Fate
That, wand'ring far from Albion's ſea-girt plain,
Thy diſtant Friend ſhould mourn thy ſhorter date,
And tell to alien woods and ſtreams his pain.

It was not written. Many a year ſhall roll,
If aught th' inſpiring Muſe aright preſage,
Of blameleſs intercourſe from Soul to Soul,
And friendſhip well matur'd from Youth to Age.

ELEGY VI. To another FRIEND.
Written at ROME 1756.

BEHOLD, my friend, to this ſmall c orb confin'd,
The genuine features of Aurelius' face;
The father, friend, and lover of his kind,
Shrunk to a narrow coin's contracted ſpace.

[57]

Not ſo his fame; for erſt did heaven ordain

Whilſt ſeas ſhould waft us, and whilſt ſuns ſhould warm,

On tongues of men, the friend of man ſhould reign,

And in the arts he lov'd the patron charm.

Oft as amidſt the mould'ring ſpoils of Age,
His moſs-grown monuments my ſteps purſue;
Oft as my eye revolves the hiſtoric page,
Where paſs his generous acts in fair review,

Imagination graſps at mighty things,
Which men, which angels might with rapture ſee;
Then turns to humbler ſcenes its ſafer wings,
And, bluſh not whilſt I ſpeak it, thinks on thee.

With all that firm benevolence of mind
Which pities whilſt it blames th' unfeeling vain,
With all that active zeal to ſerve mankind,
That tender ſuffering for another's pain,

Why wert not thou to thrones imperial rais'd,
Did heedleſs Fortune ſlumber at thy birth,
Or on thy virtues with indulgence gaz'd,
And gave her grandeurs to her ſons of earth?

Happy for thee, whoſe leſs diſtinguiſh'd ſphere
Now chears in private the delighted eye,
For calm Content, and ſmiling Eaſe are there,
And, Heaven's divineſt gift, ſweet Liberty.

[58]

Happy for me, on life's ſerener flood

Who ſail, by talents as by choice reſtrain'd,

Elſe had I only ſhar'd the general good,

And loſt the friend the Univerſe had gain'd.

The LYRIC MUSE to Mr. MASON.
On the Recovery of the Right Honourable the Earl of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illneſs.

By the Same.

MASON, ſnatch the votive Lyre,
D'Arcy lives, and I inſpire.
'Tis the Muſe that deigns to aſk,
Can thy hand forget it's taſk?
Or can the Lyre it's ſtrains refuſe
To the Patron of the Muſe?

Hark, what notes of artleſs love
The feather'd poets of the grove,
Grateful for the bowers they fill,
Warble wild on Sion hill;
In tuneful tribute duely paid
To the Maſter of the ſhade!

And ſhall the Bard ſit fancy-proof
Beneath the hoſpitable roof,
[59] Where every menial face affords
Raptur'd thoughts that want but words?
And the Patron's dearer part,
The gentle ſharer of his heart,
Wears her wonted charms again.
Time, that felt Affliction's chain,
Learns on lighter wings to move;
And the tender pledge of love,
Sweet Amelia, now is preſt
With double tranſport to her breaſt.
Sweet Amelia, thoughtleſs why,
Imitates the general joy;
Innocent of care or guile
See the lovely Mimic ſmile,
And, as the heart-felt raptures riſe,
Catch them from her Mother's eyes.

Does the noiſy town deny
Soothing airs, and exſtacy?
Sion's ſhades afford retreat,
Thither bend thy pilgrim feet.
There bid th' imaginary train,
Coinage of the Poet's brain,
Not only in effects appear,
But forms, and limbs, and features wear.
Let feſtive Mirth, with flowrets crown'd,
Lightly tread the meaſured round;
[60] And Peace, that ſeldom knows to ſhare
The Stateſman's friendly bowl, be there;
While roſy Health, ſuperior gueſt,
Looſe to the Zephyrs bares her breaſt;
And, to add a ſweeter grace,
Give her ſoft Amelia's face.

Maſon, why this dull delay?
Haſte, to Sion haſte away.
There the Muſe again ſhall aſk,
Nor thy hand forget its taſk;
Nor the Lyre it's ſtrains refuſe
To the Patron of the Muſe.

On the IMMORTALITY of the SOUL.
TRANSLATED From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWN, Eſq

By SOAME JENNYNS, Eſq

BOOK I.

TO all inferior animals 'tis giv'n
T' enjoy the ſtate allotted them by Heaven;
No vain reſearches e'er diſturb their reſt,
No fears of dark futurity moleſt.
[61] Man, only Man ſollicitous to know
The ſprings whence Nature's operations flow,
Plods thro' a dreary waſte with toil and pain,
And reaſons, hopes, and thinks, and lives in vain;
For ſable Death ſtill hov'ring o'er his head,
Cuts ſhort his progreſs, with his vital thread,
Wherefore, ſince Nature errs not, do we find
Theſe ſeeds of Science in the human mind,
If no congenial fruits are predeſign'd?
For what avails to Man this pow'r to roam
Thro' ages paſt, and ages yet to come,
T' explore new worlds o'er all th' aetherial way,
Chain'd to a ſpot, and living but a day?
Since all muſt periſh in one common grave,
Nor can theſe long laborious ſearches ſave.
Were it not wiſer far, ſupinely laid,
To ſport with Phyllis in the noontide ſhade?
Or at thy jovial feſtivals appear,
Great Bacchus, who alone the ſoul can clear
From all that it has felt, and all that it can fear?

Come on then, let us feaſt: let Chloe ſing,
And ſoft Neaera touch the trembling ſtring;
Enjoy the preſent hour, nor ſeek to know
What good or ill to-morrow may beſtow.
But theſe delights ſoon pall upon the taſte;
Let's try then if more ſerious cannot laſt:
Wealth let us heap on wealth, or fame purſue,
Let pow'r and glory be our points in view;
[62] In courts, in camps, in ſenates let us live,
Our levees crowded like the buzzing hive:
Each weak attempt the ſame ſad leſſon brings,
Alas, what vanity in human things!

What means then ſhall we try? where hope to find
A friendly harbour for the reſtleſs mind?
Who ſtill, you ſee, impatient to obtain
Knowledge immenſe, (ſo Nature's laws ordain)
Ev'n now, tho' fetter'd in corporeal clay,
Climbs ſtep by ſtep the proſpect to ſurvey,
And ſeeks, unweary'd, Truth's eternal ray.
No fleeting joys ſhe aſks, which muſt depend
On the frail ſenſes, and with them muſt end;
But ſuch as ſuit her own immortal fame,
Free from all change, eternally the ſame.

Take courage then, theſe joys we ſhall attain;
Almighty Wiſdom never acts in vain;
Nor ſhall the ſoul, on which it has beſtow'd
Such pow'rs, e'er periſh, like an earthly clod;
But purg'd at length from foul corruption's ſtain,
Freed from her priſon, and unbound her chain,
She ſhall her native ſtrength, and native ſkies regain:
To heav'n an old inhabitant return,
And draw nectareous ſtreams from truth's perpetual urn.

Whilſt life remains, (if life it can be call'd
T' exiſt in fleſhly bondage thus enthrall'd)
Tir'd with the dull purſuit of worldly things,
The ſoul ſcarce wakes, or opes her gladſome wings,
[63] Yet ſtill the godlike exile in diſgrace
Retains ſome marks of her celeſtial race;
Elſe whence from Mem'ry's ſtore can ſhe produce
Such various thoughts, or range them ſo for uſe?
Can matter theſe contain, diſpoſe, apply?
Can in her cells ſuch mighty treaſures lye?
Or can her native force produce them to the eye?

Whence is this pow'r, this foundreſs of all arts,
Serving, adorning life, thro' all its parts,
Which names impos'd, by letters mark'd thoſe names,
Adjuſted properly by legal claims,
From woods, and wilds collected rude mankind,
And cities, laws, and governments deſign'd?
What can this be, but ſome bright ray from heaven,
Some emanation from Omniſcience given?

When now the rapid ſtream of Eloquence
Bears all before it, paſſion, reaſon, ſenſe,
Can its dread thunder, or its lightning's force
Derive their eſſence from a mortal ſource?
What think you of the bard's enchanting art,
Which, whether he attempts to warm the heart
With fabled ſcenes, or charm the ear with rhyme,
Breathes all pathetic, lovely, and ſublime?
Whilſt things on earth roll round from age to age,
The ſame dull force repeated; on the ſtage
The poet gives us a creation new,
More pleaſing, and more perfect than the true;
[64] The mind, who always to perfection haſtes,
Perfection, ſuch as here ſhe never taſtes,
With gratitude accepts the kind deceit,
And thence foreſees a ſyſtem more compleat.
Of thoſe what think you, who the circling race
Of ſuns, and their revolving planets trace,
And comets journeying thro' unbounded ſpace?
Say, can you doubt, but that th' all-ſearching ſoul,
That now can traverſe heav'n from pole to pole,
From thence deſcending viſits but this earth,
And ſhall once more regain the regions of her birth?

Cou'd ſhe thus act, unleſs ſome Power unknown,
From matter quite diſtinct, and all her own,
Supported, and impell'd her? She approves
Self-conſcious, and condemns; ſhe hates, and loves,
Mourns, and rejoices, hopes, and is afraid,
Without the body's unrequeſted aid:
Her own internal ſtrength her reaſon guides,
By this ſhe now compares things, now divides;
Truth's ſcatter'd fragments piece by piece collects,
Rejoins, and thence her edifice erects;
Piles arts on arts, effects to cauſes ties,
And rears th' aſpiring fabric to the ſkies:
From whence, as on a diſtant plain below,
She ſees from cauſes conſequences flow,
And the whole chain diſtinctly comprehends,
Which from th' Almighty's throne to earth deſcends:
[65] And laſtly, turning inwardly her eyes,
Perceives how all her own ideas riſe,
Contemplates what ſhe is, and whence ſhe came,
And almoſt comprehends her own amazing frame.
Can mere machines be with ſuch pow'rs endued,
Or conſcious of thoſe pow'rs, ſuppoſe they cou'd?
For body is but a machine alone
Mov'd by external force, and impulſe not its own.

Rate not th' extenſion of the human mind
By the plebeian ſtandard of mankind,
But by the ſize of thoſe gigantic few,
Whom Greece and Rome ſtill offer to our view;
Or Britain well-deſerving equal praiſe,
Parent of heroes too in better days.
Why ſhou'd I try her num'rous ſons to name
By verſe, law, eloquence conſign'd to fame?
Or who have forc'd fair Science into ſight
Long loſt in darkneſs, and afraid of light.
O'er all ſuperior, like the ſolar ray
Firſt Bacon uſher'd in the dawning day,
And drove the miſts of ſophiſtry away;
Pervaded nature with amazing force,
Following experience ſtill throughout his courſe,
And finiſhing at length his deſtin'd way
To Newton he bequeath'd the radiant lamp of day.

Illuſtrious ſouls! if any tender cares
Affect angelic breaſts for man's affairs,
[66] If in your preſent happy heav'nly ſtate,
You're not regardleſs quite of Britain's fate,
Let this degen'rate land again be bleſt
With that true vigour, which ſhe once poſſeſt;
Compel us to unfold our ſlumb'ring eyes
And to our ancient dignity to riſe.
Such wond'rous pow'rs as theſe muſt ſure be giv'n
For moſt important purpoſes by heav'n;
Who bids theſe ſtars as bright exemples ſhine
Beſprinkled thinly by the hand divine,
To form to virtue each degenerate time,
And point out to the ſoul its origin ſublime.
That there's a ſelf which after death ſhall live,
All are concern'd about, and all believe;
That ſomething's ours, when we from life depart
This all conceive, all feel it at the heart;
The wiſe of learn'd antiquity proclaim
This truth, the public voice declares the ſame;
No land ſo rude but looks beyond the tomb
For future proſpects in a world to come.
Hence, without hopes to be in life repaid,
We plant ſlow oaks poſterity to ſhade;
And hence vaſt pyramids aſpiring high
Lift their proud heads aloſt, and time defy.
Hence is our love of ſame, a love ſo ſtrong,
We think no dangers great, or labors long,
By which we hope our beings to extend,
And to remoteſt times in glory to deſcend.

[67]For fame the wretch beneath the gallows lies
Diſowning every crime for which he dies;
Of life profuſe, tenacious of a name,
Fearleſs of death, and yet afraid of ſhame.
Nature has wove into the human mind
This anxious care for names we leave behind,
T' extend our narrow views beyond the tomb,
And give an earneſt of a life to come:
For, if when dead, we are but duſt or clay,
Why think of what poſterity ſhall ſay?
Her praiſe, or cenſure cannot us concern,
Nor ever penetrate the ſilent urn.

What mean the nodding plumes, the fun'ral train,
And marble monument, that ſpeaks in vain,
With all thoſe cares, which ev'ry nation pays
To their unfeeling dead in diff'rent ways!
Some in the ſlower-ſtrewn grave the corpſe have lay'd,
And annual obſequies around it pay'd,
As if to pleaſe the poor departed ſhade;
Others on blazing piles the body burn,
And ſtore their aſhes in the faithful urn;
But all in one great principle agree
To give a fancy'd immortality.
Why ſhou'd I mention thoſe, whoſe ouzy ſoil
Is render'd fertile by th' o'erflowing Nile,
Their dead they bury not, nor burn with fires,
No graves they dig, erect no ſun'ral pires,
[68] But, waſhing firſt th' embowel'd body clean,
Gums, ſpice, and melted pitch they pour within;
Then with ſtrong fillets bind it round and round,
To make each flaccid part compact, and ſound;
And laſtly paint the varniſh'd ſurface o'er
With the ſame features, which in life it wore:
So ſtrong their preſage of a future ſtate,
And that our nobler part ſurvives the body's fate.

Nations behold remote from reaſon's beams,
Where Indian Ganges rolls his ſandy ſtreams,
Of life impatient ruſh into the fire,
And willing victims to their gods expire!
Perſuaded the looſe ſoul to regions flies,
Bleſt with eternal ſpring, and cloudleſs ſkies.

Nor is leſs fam'd the oriental wife
For ſtedfaſt virtue, and contempt of life:
Theſe heroines mourn not with loud female cries
Their huſbands loſt, or with o'erflowing eyes,
But, ſtrange to tell! their funeral piles aſcend,
And in the ſame ſad flames their ſorrows end;
In hopes with them beneath the ſhades to rove,
And there renew their interrupted love.

In climes where Boreas breathes eternal cold,
See numerous nations, warlike, fierce, and bold,
To battle all unanimouſly run,
Nor fire, nor ſword, nor inſtant death they ſhun:
[69] Whence this diſdain of life in ev'ry breaſt,
But from a notion on their minds impreſt,
That all, who for their country die, are bleſt.
Add too to theſe the once prevailing dreams,
Of ſweet Elyſian groves, and Stygian ſtreams:
All ſhew with what conſent mankind agree
In the firm hope of Immortality.
Grant theſe th' inventions of the crafty prieſt,
Yet ſuch inventions never cou'd ſubſiſt,
Unleſs ſome glimm'rings of a future ſtate
Were with the mind coaeval, and innate:
For ev'ry fiction, which can long perſuade,
In truth muſt have its firſt foundations laid.

Becauſe we are unable to conceive,
How unembody'd ſouls can act, and live,
The vulgar give them forms, and limbs, and faces,
And habitations in peculiar places;
Hence reaſoners more refin'd, but not more wiſe,
Struck with the glare of ſuch abſurdities,
Their whole exiſtence fabulous ſuſpect,
And truth and falſehood in a lump reject;
Too indolent to learn what may be known,
Or elſe too proud that ignorance to own.
For hard's the taſk the daubing to pervade
Folly and fraud on Truth's fair form have laid;
Yet let that taſk be ours; for great the prize;
Nor let us Truth's caeleſtial charms deſpiſe,
Becauſe that prieſts, or poets may diſguiſe.

[70] That there's a God from Nature's voice is clear,
And yet what errors to this truth adhere?
How have the fears and follies of mankind
Now multiply'd their gods, and now ſubjoin'd
To each the frailties of the human mind?
Nay ſuperſtition ſpread at length ſo wide,
Beaſts, birds, and onions too were deify'd.

Th' Athenian ſage revolving in his mind
This weakneſs, blindneſs, madneſs of mankind,
Foretold, that in maturer days, tho' late,
When Time ſhould ripen the decrees of Fate,
Some God would light us, like the riſing day,
Thro' error's maze, and chaſe theſe clouds away.
Long ſince has Time fulfill'd this great decree,
And brought us aid from this divinity.

Well worth our ſearch diſcoveries may be made
By Nature, void of the caeleſtial aid:
Let's try what her conjectures then can reach,
Nor ſcorn plain Reaſon, when ſhe deigns to teach.

That mind and body often ſympathize
Is plain; ſuch is this union Nature ties:
But then as often too they diſagree,
Which proves the ſoul's ſuperior progeny.
Sometimes the body in full ſtrength we find,
Whilſt various ails debilitate the mind;
At others, whilſt the mind its force retains,
The body ſinks with ſickneſs and with pains:
[71] Now did one common fate their beings end,
Alike they'd ſicken, and alike they'd mend.
But ſure experience, on the ſlighteſt view,
Shews us, that the reverſe of this is true;
For when the body oft expiring lies,
Its limbs quite ſenſeleſs, and half clos'd its eyes,
The mind new force, and eloquence acquires,
And with prophetic voice the dying lips inſpires.

Of like materials were they both compos'd,
How comes it, that the mind, when ſleep has clos'd
Each avenue of ſenſe, expatiates wide
Her liberty reſtor'd, her bonds unty'd?
And like ſome bird who from its priſon flies,
Claps her exulting wings, and mounts the ſkies.

Grant that corporeal is the human mind,
In muſt have parts in infinitum join'd;
And each of theſe muſt will, perceive, deſign,
And draw confus'dly in a diff'rent line;
Which then can claim dominion o'er the reſt,
Or ſtamp the ruling paſſion in the breaſt?

Perhaps the mind is form'd by various arts
Of modelling, and figuring theſe parts;
Juſt as if circles wiſer were than ſquares;
But ſurely common ſenſe aloud declares
That ſite, and figure are as foreign quite
From mental pow'rs, as colours black or white.

Allow that motion is the cauſe of thought,
With what ſtrange pow'rs muſt motion then be fraught?
[72] Reaſon, ſenſe, ſcience, muſt derive their ſource
From the wheel's rapid whirl, or pully's force;
Tops whip'd by ſchool-boys ſages muſt commence,
Their hoops, like them, be cudgell'd into ſenſe,
And boiling pots o'erflow with eloqeunce.
Whence can this very motion take its birth?
Not ſure from matter, from dull clods of earth;
But from a living ſpirit lodg'd within,
Which governs all the bodily machine:
Juſt as th' Almighty Univerſal Soul
Informs, directs, and animals the whole.

Ceaſe then to wonder how th' immortal mind
Can live, when from the body quite disjoin'd;
But rather wonder, if ſhe e'er cou'd die,
So fram'd, ſo faſhion'd for eternity;
Self-mov'd, not form'd of parts together ty'd,
Which time can diſſipate, and force divide;
For beings of this make can never die,
Whoſe pow'rs within themſelves, and their own eſſence lie.

If to conceive how any thing can be
From ſhape abſtracted and locality
Is hard; what think you of the Deity?
His Being not the leaſt relation bears,
As far as to the human mind appears,
To ſhape, or ſize, ſimilitude or place,
Cloath'd in no form, and bounded by no ſpace.
Such then is God, a Spirit pure refin'd
From all material droſs, and ſuch the human mind.
[73] For in what part of eſſence can we ſee
More certain marks of Immortality?
Ev'n from this dark confinement with delight
She looks abroad, and prunes herſelf for flight;
Like an unwilling inmate longs to roam
From this dull earth, and ſeek her native home.

Go then forgetful of its toil and ſtrife,
Purſue the joys of this fallacious life;
Like ſome poor fly, who lives but for a day
Sip the freſh dews, and in the ſunſhine play,
And into nothing then diſſolve away.
Are theſe our great purſuits, is this to live?
Theſe all the hopes this much-lov'd world can give!
How much more worthy envy is their fate,
Who ſearch for truth in a ſuperior ſtate?
Not groping ſtep by ſtep, as we purſue,
And following reaſon's much entangled clue,
But with one great, and inſtantaneous view.

But how can ſenſe remain, perhaps you'll ſay,
Corporeal organs if we take away!
Since it from them proceeds, and with them muſt decay.
Why not? or why may not the ſoul receive
New organs, ſince ev'n art can theſe retrieve?
The ſilver trumpet aids th' obſtructed ear,
And optic glaſſes the dim eye can clear;
Theſe in mankind new faculties create,
And lift him far above his native ſtate;
[74] Call down revolving planets from the ſky,
Earth's ſecret treaſures open to his eye,
The whole minute creation make his own,
With all the wonders of a world unknown.

How cou'd the mind, did ſhe alone depend
On ſenſe, the errors of thoſe ſenſes mend?
Yet oft, we ſee thoſe ſenſes ſhe corrects,
And oft their information quite rejects.
In diſtances of things, their ſhapes and ſize,
Our reaſon judges better than our eyes.
Declares not this the ſoul's preheminence
Superior to, and quite diſtinct from ſenſe?
For ſure 'tis likely, that, ſince now ſo high
Clog'd and unfledg'd ſhe dares her wings to try,
Loos'd, and mature, ſhe ſhall her ſtrength diſplay,
And ſoar at length to Truth's refulgent ray.

Inquire you how theſe pow'rs we ſhall attain,
'Tis not for us to know; our ſearch is vain:
Can any now remember or relate
How he exiſted in the embryo ſtate?
Or one from birth inſenſible of day
Conceive ideas of the ſolar ray?
That light's deny'd to him, which others ſee,
He knows, perhaps you'll ſay,—and ſo do we.

The mind contemplative finds nothing here
On earth, that's worthy of a wiſh or fear:
He, whoſe ſublime purſuit is God and truth,
Burns, like ſome abſent and impatient youth,
[75] To join the object of his warm deſires,
Thence to ſequeſter'd ſhades, and ſtreams retires,
And there delights his paſſion to rehearſe
In wiſdom's ſacred voice, or in harmonious verſe.

To me moſt happy therefore he appears,
Who having once, unmov'd by hopes or fears,
Survey'd this ſun, earth, ocean, clouds, and flame,
Well ſatisfy'd returns from whence he came.
Is life a hundred years, or e'er ſo few,
'Tis repetition all, and nothing new:
A ſair, where thouſands meet, but none can ſtay,
An inn, where travellers bait, then poſt away;
A ſea, where man perpetually is toſt,
Now plung'd in bus'neſs, now in trifles loſt:
Who leave it firſt, the peaceful port firſt gain;
Hold then! no farther launch into the main:
Contract your ſails; liſe nothing can beſtow
By long continuance, but continu'd woe:
The wretched privilege daily to deplore
The funerals of our friends, who go before:
Diſeaſes, pains, anxieties, and cares,
And age ſurrounded with a thouſand ſnares.

But whither hurry'd by a generous ſcorn
Of this vain world, ah, whither am I borne?
Let's not unbid th' Almighty's ſtandard quit,
Howe'er ſevere our poſt, we muſt ſubmit.

Cou'd I a firm perſuaſion once attain
That after death no being wou'd remain;
[76] To thoſe dark ſhades I'd willingly deſcend,
Where all muſt ſleep, this drama at an end:
Nor life accept, altho' renew'd by Fate
Ev'n from its earlieſt, and its happieſt ſtate.

Might I from Fortune's bounteous hand receive
Each boon, each bleſſing in her pow'r to give,
Genius, and ſcience, morals, and good-ſenſe,
Unenvy'd honors, wit and eloquence,
A numerous offspring to the world well known
Both for paternal virtues, and their own;
Ev'n at this mighty price I'd not be bound
To tread the ſame dull circle round, and round;
The ſoul requires enjoyments more ſublime,
By ſpace unbounded, undeſtroy'd by time.

BOOK II.

GOD then thro' all creation gives, we find,
Sufficient marks of an indulgent mind,
Excepting in ourſelves; ourſelves of all
His works the chief on this terreſtrial ball,
His own bright image, who alone unbleſt
Feel ills perpetual, happy all the reſt.
But hold preſumptuous! charge not heav'n's decree
With ſuch injuſtice, ſuch partiality.

Yet true it is, ſurvey we life around,
Whole hoſts of ills on ev'ry ſide are found;
Who wound not here and there by chance a foe,
But at the ſpecies meditate the blow:
[77] What millions periſh by each others hands
In war's fierce rage? or by the dread commands
Of tyrants languiſh out their lives in chains,
Or loſe them in variety of pains?
What numbers pinch'd by want, and hunger die,
In ſpite of Nature's liberality?
(Thoſe, ſtill more numerous, I to name diſdain,
By lewdneſs, and intemperance juſtly ſlain;)
What numbers guiltleſs of their own diſeaſe
Are ſnatch'd by ſudden death, or waſte by ſlow degrees?

Where then is Virtue's well deſerv'd reward!—
Let's pay to Virtue ev'ry due regard,
That ſhe enables man, let us confeſs,
To bear thoſe evils, which ſhe can't redreſs,
Gives hope, and conſcious peace, and can aſſuage
Th' impetuous tempeſts both of luſt, and rage;
Yet ſhe's a guard ſo far from being ſure,
That oft her friends peculiar ills endure:
Where Vice prevails ſevereſt is their fate,
Tyrants purſue them with a three-fold hate;
How many ſtruggling in their country's cauſe,
And from their country meriting applauſe,
Have fall'n by wretches fond to be inſlav'd,
And periſh'd by the hands themſelves had ſav'd?

Soon as ſuperior wotth appears in view,
See knaves, and fools united to purſue!
The man ſo form'd they all conſpire to blame,
And Envy's pois'nous tooth attacks his fame;
[78] Shou'd he at length, ſo truly good and great,
Prevail, and rule with honeſt views the ſtate,
Then muſt he toil for an ungrateful race,
Submit to clamor, libels, and diſgrace,
Threaten'd, oppos'd, defeated in his ends,
By foes ſeditious, and aſpiring friends.
Hear this, and tremble! all who wou'd be great,
Yet know not what attends that dang'rous wretched ſtate.

Is private life from all theſe evils free?
Vice of all kinds, rage, envy there we ſee,
Deceit, that Friendſhip's maſk inſidious wears,
Quarrels, and feuds, and law's entangling ſnares.

But there are pleaſures ſtill in human life,
Domeſtic eaſe, a tender loving wife,
Children, whoſe dawning ſmiles your heart engage,
The grace, and comfort of ſoft-ſtealing age:
If happineſs exiſts, 'tis ſurely here,
But are theſe joys exempt from care and fear?
Need I the miſeries of that ſtate declare,
When diff'rent paſſions draw the wedded pair?
Or ſay how hard thoſe paſſions to diſcern,
Ere the die's caſt, and 'tis too late to learn?
Who can inſure, that what is right, and good,
Theſe children ſhall purſue? or if they ſhou'd,
Death comes, when leaſt you fear ſo black a day,
And all your blooming hopes are ſnatch'd away.

We ſay not, that theſe ills from Virtue flow,
Did her wiſe precepts rule the world, we know
[79] The golden ages wou'd again begin,
But 'tis our lot in this to ſuffer, and to ſin.

Obſerving this, ſome ſages have decreed
That all things from two cauſes muſt proceed;
Two principles with equal pow'r endu'd,
This wholly evil, that ſupremely good.
From this ariſe the miſeries we endure,
Whilſt that adminiſters a friendly cure;
Hence life is checquer'd ſtill with bliſs, and woe,
Hence tares with golden crops promiſcuous grow,
And poiſonous ſerpents make their dread repoſe
Beneath the covert of the fragrant roſe.

Can ſuch a ſyſtem ſatisfy the mind?
Are both theſe Gods in equal pow'r conjoin'd,
Or one ſuperior? Equal if you ſay,
Chaos returns, ſince neither will obey;
Is one ſuperior? good, or ill muſt reign,
Eternal joy, or everlaſting pain.
Whiche'er is conquer'd muſt entirely yield,
And the victorious God enjoy the field:
Hence with theſe fictions of the Magi's brain!
Hence ouzy Nile, with all her monſtrous train!

Or comes the Stoic nearer to the right?
He holds, that whatſoever yields delight,
Wealth, fame, externals all, are uſeleſs things;
Himſelf half ſtarving happier far than kings.
'Tis fine indeed to be ſo wond'rous wiſe!
By the ſame reas'ning too he pain denies;
[80] Roaſt him, or flea him, break him on the wheel,
Retract he will not, tho' he can't but feel:
Pain's not an ill, he utters with a groan;
What then? an inconvenience 'tis, he'll own:
What? vigour, health, and beauty? are theſe good?
No: they may be accepted, not purſued:
Abſurd to ſquabble thus about a name,
Quibbling with diff'rent words, that mean the ſame.
Stoic, were you not fram'd of fleſh and blood,
You might be bleſt without external good;
But know, be ſelf-ſufficient as you can,
You are not ſpirit quite, but frail, and mortal man.

But ſince theſe ſages, ſo abſurdly wiſe,
Vainly pretend enjoyments to deſpiſe,
Becauſe externals, and in Fortune's pow'r,
Now mine, now thine, the bleſſings of an hour;
Why value then, that ſtrength of mind, they boaſt,
As often varying, and as quickly loſt?
A head-ach hurts it, or a rainy day,
And a ſlow fever wipes it quite away.

See a one whoſe councils, one b whoſe conqu'ring hand
Once ſav'd Britannia's almoſt ſinking land:
Examples of the mind's extenſive pow'r,
Examples too how quickly fades that flow'r.
c Him let me add, whom late we ſaw excel
In each politer kind of writing well;
[81] Whether he ſtrove our follies to expoſe
In eaſy verſe, or droll, and hum'rous proſe;
Few years alas! compel his throne to quit
This mighty monarch o'er the realms or wit,
See ſelf-ſurviving he's an ideot grown!
A melancholy proof our parts are not our own.

Thy tenets, Stoic, yet we may forgive,
If in a future ſtate we ceaſe to live.
For here the virtuous ſuffer much, 'tis plain;
If pain is evil, this muſt God arraign;
And on this principle confeſs we muſt,
Pain can no evil be, or God muſt be unjuſt.

Blind man! whoſe reaſon ſuch ſtrait bounds confine,
That ere it touches truth's extremeſt line,
It ſtops amaz'd, and quits the great deſign.
Own you not, Stoic, God is juſt and true?
Dare to proceed; ſecure this path purſue:
'Twill ſoon conduct you far beyond the tomb,
To future juſtice, and a life to come.
This path you ſay is hid in endleſs night,
'Tis ſelf-conceit alone obſtructs your ſight;
You ſtop, ere half your deſtin'd courſe is run,
And triumph, when the conqueſt is not won;
By this the Sophiſts were of old miſled:
See what a monſtrous race from one miſtake is bred!

Hear then my argument:—confeſs we muſt,
A God there is, ſupremely wiſe and juſt:
[82] If ſo, however things affect our ſight,
As ſings our bard, whatever is, is right.
But is it right, what here ſo oft appears,
That vice ſhou'd triumph, virtue ſink in tears?
The inference then, that cloſes this debate,
Is, that there muſt exiſt a future ſtate.
The wiſe extending their enquiries wide
See how both ſtates are by connection ty'd;
Fools view but part, and not the whole ſurvey,
So crowd exiſtence all into a day.
Hence are they led to hope, but hope in vain,
That Juſtice never will reſume her reign;
On this vain hope adulterers, thieves rely,
And to this altar vile aſſaſſins fly.
"But rules not God by general laws divine?
"Man's vice, or virtues change not the deſign:"
What laws are theſe? inſtruct us if you can:—
There's one deſign'd for brutes, and one for man:
Another guides inactive matter's courſe,
Attracting, and attracted by its force:
Hence mutual gravity ſubſiſts between
Far diſtant worlds, and ties the vaſt machine.

The laws of life why need I call to mind,
Obey'd by birds, and beaſts of ev'ry kind;
By all the ſandy deſart's ravage brood,
And all the num'rous offspring of the flood;
Of theſe none uncontroul'd, and lawleſs rove,
But to ſome deſtin'd end ſpontaneons move:
[83] Led by that inſtinct, heav'n itſelf inſpires,
Or ſo much reaſon, as their ſtate requires;
See all with ſkill acquire their daily food,
All uſe thoſe arms, which Nature has beſtow'd;
Produce their tender progeny, and feed
With care parental, whilſt that care they need;
In theſe lov'd offices compleatly bleſt,
No hopes beyond them, nor vain fears moleſt.

Man o'er a wider field extends his views;
God thro' the wonders of his works purſues,
Exploring thence his attributes, and laws,
Adores, loves, imitates th' Eternal Cauſe;
For ſure in nothing we approach ſo nigh
The great example of divinity,
As in benevolence: the patriot's ſoul
Knows not ſelt-center'd for itſelf to roll,
But warms, enlightens, animates the whole:
Its mighty orb embraces firſt his friends,
His country next, then man; nor here it ends,
But to the meaneſt animal deſcends.

Wiſe Nature has this ſocial law confirm'd,
By forming man ſo helpleſs. and unarm'd;
His want of others' aid, and pow'r of ſpeech
T'implore that aid this leſſon daily teach:
Mankind with other animals compare,
Single how weak, and impotent they are!
But view them in their complicated ſtate,
Their pow'rs how wond'rous, and their ſtrength how great,
[84] When ſocial virtue individuals joins,
And in one ſolid maſs, like gravity combines?
This then's the firſt great law by Nature giv'n,
Stamp'd on our ſouls, and ratify'd by Heav'n;
All from utility this law approve,
As ev'ry private bliſs muſt ſpring from ſocial love.

Why deviate then ſo many from this law?
See paſſions, cuſtom, vice, and folly draw!
Survey the rolling globe from Eaſt to Weſt,
How few, alas! how very few are bleſt?
Beneath the frozen poles, and burning line,
What poverty, and indolence combine,
To cloud with Error's miſts the human mind?
No trace of man, but in the form we find.

And are we free from error, and diſtreſs,
Whom Heav'n with clearer light has pleas'd to bleſs?
Whom true Religion leads? (for ſhe but leads
By ſoft perſuaſion, not by force proceeds;)
Behold how we avoid this radiant ſun!
This proffer'd guide how obſtinately ſhun,
And after Sophiſtry's vain ſyſtems run!
For theſe as for eſſentials we engage
In wars, and maſſacres, with holy rage;
Brothers by brothers' impious hands are ſlain,
Miſtaken Zeal, how ſavage is thy reign!

Unpuniſh'd vices here ſo much abound,
All right, and wrong, all order they confound;
[85] Theſe are the giants, who the gods defy,
And mountains heap on mountains to the ſky;
Sees this th' Almighty Judge, or ſeeing ſpares,
And deems the crimes of man beneath his cares?
He ſees; and will at laſt rewards beſtow,
And puniſhments, not leſs aſſur'd for being ſlow.

Nor doubt I, tho' this ſtate confus'd appears,
That ev'n in this God ſometimes interferes;
Sometimes, leſt man ſhould quite his pow'r diſown,
He makes that pow'r to trembling nations known:
But rarely this; not for each vulgar end,
As Superſtition's idle tales pretend,
Who thinks all foes to God, who are her own,
Directs his thunder, and uſurps his throne.

Nor know I not, how much a conſcious mind
Avails to puniſh, or reward mankind;
Ev'n in this life thou, impious wretch, muſt feel
The Fury's ſcourges, and th' infernal wheel;
From man's tribunal, tho' thou hop'ſt to run,
Thyſelf thou can'ſt not, nor thy conſcience ſhun:
What muſt thou ſuffer, when each dire diſeaſe,
The progeny of Vice, thy fabric ſeize?
Conſumption, fever, and the wreaking pain
Of ſpaſms, and gout, and ſtone, a frightful train!
When life new tortures can alone ſupply,
Life thy ſole hope thou'lt hate, yet dread to die.

Shou'd ſuch a wretch to num'rous years arrive,
It can be little worth his while to live;
[86] No honors, no regards his age attend,
Companions fly; he ne'er cou'd have a friend:
His flatterers leave him, and with wild affright
He looks within, and ſhudders at the ſight:
When threatning Death uplifts his pointed dart,
With what impatience he applies to art,
Life to prolong amidſt diſeaſe and pains!
Why this, if after it no ſenſe remains?
Why ſhou'd he chuſe theſe miſeries to endure,
If Death cou'd grant an everlaſting cure?
'Tis plain there's ſomething whiſpers in his ear,
(Tho' fain he'd hide it) he has much to fear.

See the reverſe! how happy thoſe we find,
Who know by merit to engage mankind?
Prais'd by each tongue, by ev'ry heart belov'd,
For Virtues practis'd, and for Arts improv'd:
Their eaſy aſpects ſhine with ſmiles ſerene,
And all is peace, and happineſs within:
Their ſleep is ne'er diſturb'd by fears, or ſtrife,
Nor luſt, nor wine, impair the ſprings of life.

Him Fortune can not ſink, nor much elate,
Whoſe views extend beyond this mortal ſtate;
By age when ſummon'd to reſign his breath,
Calm, and ſerene, he ſees approaching death,
As the ſafe port, the peaceful ſilent ſhore,
Where he may reſt, life's tedious voyage o'er:
He, and he only, is of death afraid,
Whom his own conſcience has a coward made;
[87] Whilſt he, who Virtue's radiant courſe has run,
Deſcends like a ſerenely-ſetting ſun:
His thoughts triumphant Heav'n alone employs,
And Hope anticipates his future joys.

So good, ſo bleſt th' illuſtrious d Hough we find,
Whoſe image dwells with pleaſure on my mind;
The Mitre's glory, Freedom's conſtant friend,
In times which aſk'd a champion to defend;
Who after near a hundred virtuous years,
His ſenſes perfect, free from pains and fears,
Replete with life, with honors, and with age,
Like an applauded actor left the ſtage;
Or like ſome victor in th' Olympic games,
Who, having run his courſe, the crown of Glory claims.

From this juſt contraſt plainly it appears,
How Conſcience can inſpire both hopes and fears;
But whence proceed theſe hopes, or whence this dread,
If nothing really can affect the dead?
See all things join to promiſe, and preſage
The ſure arrival of a future age!
Whate'er their lot is here, the good and wiſe,
Nor doat on life, nor peeviſhly deſpiſe.
An honeſt man, when Fortune's ſtorms begin,
Has Conſolation always ſure within,
And, if ſhe ſends a more propitious gale,
He's pleas'd, but not forgetful it may fail.

Nor fear that he, who ſits ſo looſe to life,
Shou'd too much ſhun its labors, and its ſtrife;
[88] And ſcorning wealth, contented to be mean,
Shrink from the duties of this buſtling ſcene;
Or, when his country's ſafety claims his aid,
Avoid the fight inglorious, and afraid:
Who ſcorns life moſt muſt ſurely be moſt brave,
And he, who pow'r contemns, be leaſt a ſlave:
Virtue will lead him to Ambition's ends,
And prompt him to defend his country, and his friends,

But ſtill his merit you can not regard,
Who thus purſues a poſthumous reward;
His ſoul, you cry, is uncorrupt and great,
Who quite uninfluenc'd by a future ſtate,
Embraces Virtue from a nobler ſenſe
Of her abſtracted, native excellence,
From the ſelf-conſcious joy her eſſence brings,
The beauty, fitneſs, harmony of things.
It may be ſo: yet he deſerves applauſe,
Who follows where inſtructive Nature draws;
Aims at rewards by her indulgence giv'n,
And ſoars triumphant on her wings to heav'n.

Say what this venal virtuous man purſues,
No mean rewards, no mercenary views;
Not wealth uſurious, or a num'rous train,
Not fame by fraud acquir'd, or title vain!
He follows but where Nature points the road,
Riſing in Virtue's ſchool, till he aſcends to God.

But we th' inglorious common herd of man,
Sail without compaſs, toil without a plan;
[89] In Fortune's varying ſtorms for ever toſt,
Shadows purſue, that in purſuit are loſt;
Mere infants all, till life's extremeſt day,
Scrambling for toys, then toſſing them away.
Who reſts of Immortality aſſur'd
Is ſafe, whatever ills are here endur'd:
He hopes not vainly in a world like this,
To meet with pure uninterrupted bliſs;
For good and ill, in this imperfect ſtate,
Are ever mix'd by the decrees of Fate.
With Wiſdom's richeſt harveſt Folly grows,
And baleful hemlock mingles with the roſe;
All things are blended, changeable, and vain,
No hope, no wiſh we perfectly obtain;
God may perhaps (might human Reaſon's line
Pretend to fathom infinite deſign)
Have thus ordain'd things, that the reſtleſs mind
No happineſs compleat on earth may find;
And, by this friendly chaſtiſement made wiſe,
To heav'n her ſafeſt, beſt retreat may riſe.

Come then, ſince now in ſafety we have paſt
Thro' Error's rocks, and ſee the port at laſt,
Let us review, and recollect the whole.—
Thus ſtands my argument.—The thinking ſoul
Cannot terreſtrial, or material be,
But claims by Nature Immortality:
God, who created it, can make it end,
We queſtion not, but cannot apprehend
[90] He will; becauſe it is by him endued
With ſtrong ideas of all-perfect Good:
With wond'rous pow'rs to know, and calculate
Things too remote from this our earthly ſtate;
With ſure preſages of a life to come,
All falſe and uſeleſs; if beyond the tomb
Our beings ceaſe: we therefore can't believe
God either acts in vain, or can deceive.

If ev'ry rule of equity demands,
That Vice and Virtue from the Almighty's hands,
Shou'd due rewards, and puniſhments receive,
And this by no means happens whilſt we live,
It follows, that a time muſt ſurely come,
When each ſhall meet their well-adjuſted doom:
Then ſhall this ſcene, which now to human ſight
Seems ſo unworthy Wiſdom infinite,
A ſyſtem of conſummate ſkill appear,
And ev'ry cloud diſpers'd, be beautiful and clear.

Doubt we of this! what ſolid proof remains,
That o'er the world a wiſe Diſpoſer reigns?
Whilſt all Creation ſpeaks a pow'r divine,
Is it deficient in the main deſign?
Not ſo: the day ſhall come, (pretend not now
Preſumptuous to enquire or when, or how)
But after death ſhall come th' important day,
When God to all his juſtice ſhall diſplay;
Each action with impartial eyes regard,
And in a juſt proportion puniſh and reward.

The ARBOUR: An ODE to CONTENTMENT.

[91]

By Mr. THOMAS COLE.

TO theſe lone ſhades, where Peace delights to dwell,
May Fortune oft permit me to retreat;
Here bid the world, with all its cares, farewel,
And leave its pleaſures to the rich and great.

Oft as the ſummer's ſun ſhall chear this ſcene,
With that mild gleam which points his parting ray,
Here let my ſoul enjoy each eve ſerene,
Here ſhare its calm, 'till life's declining day.

No gladſome image then ſhould 'ſcape my ſight,
From theſe gay flow'rs, which border near my eye,
To yon bright cloud, that decks, with richeſt light,
The gilded mantle of the weſtern ſky.

With ample gaze, I'd trace that ridge remote,
Where op'ning cliffs diſcloſe the boundleſs main;
With earneſt ken, from each low hamlet note
The ſteeple's ſummit peeping o'er the plain.

What various works that rural landſcape fill,
Where mingling hedge-rows beauteous fields incloſe;
And prudent Culture, with induſtrious ſkill,
Her checker'd ſcene of crops and fallows ſhows?

[92]

How ſhould I love to mark that riv'let's maze,

Through which it works its untaught courſe along;

Whilſt near its graſſy banks the herd ſhall graze,

And blithſome milkmaid chaunt her thoughtleſs ſong?

Still would I note the ſhades of length'ning ſheep,
As ſcatter'd o'er the hill's ſlant brow they rove;
Still note the day's laſt glimm'ring luſtre creep
From off the verge of yonder upland grove.

Nor ſhould my leiſure ſeldom wait to view
The ſlow-wing'd rooks in homeward train ſucceed;
Nor yet forbear the ſwallow to purſue,
With quicker glance, cloſe ſkimming o'er the mead.

But moſtly here ſhould I delight t' explore
The bounteous laws of Nature's myſtic pow'r;
Then muſe on him who bleſſeth all her ſtore,
And give to ſolemn thoughts the ſober hour.

Let Mirth unenvy'd laugh with proud diſdain,
And deem it ſpleen one moment thus to waſte;
If ſo ſhe keep far hence her noiſy train,
Nor interrupt thoſe joys ſhe cannot taſte.

Far ſweeter ſtreams ſhall flow from Wiſdom's ſpring.
Than ſhe receives from Folly's coſtlieſt bowl;
And what delights can her chief dainties bring,
Like thoſe which feaſt the heavenly-penſive ſoul?

[93]

Hail Silence then! be thou my frequent gueſt;

For thou art wont my gratitude to raiſe,

As high as wonder can the theme ſuggeſt,

Whene'er I meditate my Maker's praiſe.

What joy for tutor'd Piety to learn,
All that my chriſtian ſolitude can teach,
Where weak-ey'd Reaſon's ſelf may well diſcern
Each clearer truth the goſpel deigns to preach?

No object here but may convince the mind,
Of more than thoughtful honeſty ſhall need;
Nor can Suſpenſe long queſtion here to find
Sufficient evidence to fix its creed.

'Tis God that gives this bow'r its aweful gloom;
His arched verdure does its roof inveſt;
He breathes the life of fragrance on its bloom;
And with his kindneſs makes its owner bleſt.

Oh! may the guidance of thy grace attend
The uſe of all thy bounty ſhall beſtow;
Leſt folly ſhould miſtake its ſacred end,
Or vice convert it into means of woe.

Incline and aid me ſtill my life to ſteer,
As conſcience dictates what to ſhun or chuſe;
Nor let my heart feel anxious hope or fear,
For aught this world can give me or refuſe.

[94]

Then ſhall not wealth's parade one wiſh excite,

For wretched ſtate to barter peace away;

Nor vain ambition's lure my pride invite,

Beyond contentment's humble path to ſtray.

What tho' thy wiſdom may my lot deny,
The treaſur'd plenty freely to diſpenſe;
Yet well thy goodneſs can that want ſupply
With larger portions of benevolence.

And ſure the heart that wills the gen'rous deed,
May all the joys of Charity command;
For ſhe beſt loves from notice to recede,
And deals her unſought gifts with ſecret hand.

Then will I ſometimes bid my fancy ſteal,
That unclaim'd wealth no property reſtrains;
Soothe with fictitious aid my friendly zeal,
And realize each goodly act ſhe feigns.

So ſhall I gain the gold without alloy;
Without oppreſſion, toil, or treach'rous ſnares;
So ſhall I know its uſe, its pow'r employ,
And yet avoid its dangers and its cares.

And ſpite of all that boaſtful wealth can do,
In vain would Fortune ſtrive the rich to bleſs,
Were they not flatter'd with ſome diſtant view
Of what ſhe ne'er can give them to poſſeſs.

[95]

E'en Wiſdom's high conceit great wants would feel,

If not ſupply'd from Fancy's boundleſs ſtore;

And nought but ſhame makes pow'r itſelf conceal,

That ſhe, to ſatisfy, muſt promiſe more.

But tho' experience will not fail to ſhow,
Howe'er its truth man's weakneſs may upbraid,
That what he moſtly values here below,
Owes half its reliſh to kind Fancy's aid;

Yet ſhould not Prudence her light wing command,
She may too far extend her heedleſs flight;
For Pleaſure ſoon ſhall quit her fairy-land
If Nature's regions are not held in ſight.

From Truth's abode, in ſearch of kind deceit,
Within due limits ſhe may ſafely roam;
If roving does not make her hate retreat,
And with averſion ſhun her proper home.

But thanks to thoſe, whoſe fond parental care,
To Learning's paths my youthful ſteps confin'd,
I need not ſhun a ſtate which lets me ſhare
Each calm delight that ſoothes the ſtudious mind.

While genius laſts, his fame ſhall ne'er decay,
Whoſe artful hand firſt caus'd its fruits to ſpread;
In laſting volumes ſtampt the printed lay,
And taught the Muſes to embalm the dead.

[96]

To him I owe each fair inſtructive page,

Where Science tells me what her ſons have known;

Collects their choiceſt works from ev'ry age,

And makes me wiſe with knowledge not my own.

Books rightly us'd may ev'ry ſtate ſecure:
From fortune's evils may our peace defend;
May teach us how to ſhun, or to endure,
The foe malignant, and the faithleſs friend.

Should rigid Want withdraw all outward aid,
Kind ſtores of inward comfort they can bring;
Should keen Diſeaſe life's tainted ſtream invade,
Sweet to the ſoul from them pure health may ſpring.

Should both at once man's weakly frame infeſt,
Some letter'd charm may ſtill relief ſupply;
'Gainſt all events prepare his patient breaſt,
And make him quite reſign'd to live, or die.

For tho' no words can time or fate reſtrain;
No ſounds ſuppreſs the call of Nature's voice;
Tho' neither rhymes, nor ſpells, can conquer pain,
Nor magic's ſelf make wretchedneſs our choice;

Yet reaſon, while it forms the ſubtile plan,
Some purer ſource of pleaſure to explore,
Muſt deem it vain for that poor pilgrim, man,
To think of reſting 'till his journey's o'er:

[97]

Muſt deem each fruitleſs toil, by heav'n deſign'd

To teach him where to look for real bliſs;

Elſe why ſhould heav'n excite the hope to find

What balk'd purſuit muſt here for ever miſs?

The GROTTO: An ODE to SILENCE.

By the Same.

COME, muſing Silence, nor refuſe to ſhed
Thy ſober influence o'er this darkling cell:
The deſart waſte and lonely plain,
Could ne'er confine thy peaceful reign;
Nor doſt thou only love to dwell
'Mid the dark manſions of the vaulted dead:
For ſtill at eve's ſereneſt hour,
All nature owns thy ſoothing pow'r:
Oft haſt thou deign'd with me to rove,
Beneath the calm ſequeſter'd grove;
Oft deign'd my ſecret ſteps to lead
Along the dewy pathleſs mead;
Or up the duſky lawn, to ſpy
The laſt faint gleamings of the twilight ſky.
Then wilt thou ſtill thy penſive vot'ry meet,
Oft as he calls thee to this gloomy ſeat:
[98] For here, with many a ſolemn myſtic rite,
Wert thou invok'd to conſecrate the ground,
Ere theſe rude walls were rear'd remote from ſight,
Or ere with moſs this ſhaggy roof was crown'd.

Hail! bleſſed parent of each purer thought,
That doth at once the heart exalt and mend!
Here wilt thou never fail to find
My vacant ſolitude inclin'd
Thy ſerious leſſons to attend.
For they I ween ſhall be with goodneſs fraught,
Whether thou bid me meditate
On man, in untaught nature's ſtate;
How far this life he ought to prize;
How far its tranſient ſcenes deſpiſe:
What heights his reaſon may attain,
And where its proud attempts are vain:
What toils his virtue ought to brave,
For Hope's rewarding joys beyond the grave:
Or if in man redeem'd thou bid me trace
Each wond'rous proof of heav'n's tranſcendent grace;
Then breathe ſome ſparks of that celeſtial fire,
Which in the raptur'd ſeraph glows above,
Where ſainted myriads crowd the joyful choir,
And harp their praiſes round the throne of love.
[99] The triſling ſohs of Levity and Pride
Hence ſhall thy aweful ſeriouſneſs exclude;
Nor ſhall loud Riot's thoughtleſs train
With ſrantic mirth this grott profane.
No foe to Peace ſhall here intrude.
For thou wilt kindly bid each found ſubſide,
Save ſuch as ſoothes the liſt'ning ſenſe,
And ſerves to aid thy influence:
Save where, ſoft-breathing o'er the plain,
Mild Zephyr waves the ruſtling grain:
Or where ſome ſtream, from rocky ſource,
Slow trickles down its ceaſeleſs courſe:
Or where the ſea's imperfect roar
Comes gently murm'ring from the diſtant ſhore.
But moſt in Philomel, ſweet bird of night,
In plaintive Philomel, is thy delight:
For ſhe, or ſtudious to prolong her grief,
Or oft to vary her exhauſtleſs lay,
With frequent pauſe, from thee ſhall ſeek relief,
Nor cloſe her ſtrain, till dawns the noiſy day.

Without thy aid, to happier taſteful art,
No deep inſtructive ſcience could prevail:
For only where thou doſt preſide,
Can wit's inventive pow'rs be tried;
And reaſon's better taſk would fail,
Did not thy haunts the ſerious theme impart.
[100] The critic, that with plodding head,
Toils o'er the learning of the dead;
The cloiſter'd hermit that explores,
By midnight lamp, religion's ſtores;
Each ſage that marks, with thoughtful gaze,
The lunar orb, or planet's maze;
And ev'ry bard, that ſtrays along
The ſylvan ſhade, intent on ſacred ſong;
Shall all to thee thoſe various praiſes give,
Which, through thy friendly aid, themſelves receive:
For tho' thou mayſt from glory's ſeats retire,
Where loud applauſe proclaims the honour'd name;
Yet doth thy modeſt wiſdom ſtill inſpire
Each nobler work that ſwells the voice of Fame.

The PICTURE of HUMAN LIFE.
Tranſlated from the GREEK of CEBES the THEBAN.

By Mr. T. SCOTT.

Et vitae monſtrata via eſt.

HOR.

WHILE Saturn's a fane with ſolemn ſtep we trod,
And view'd the b votive honours of the God,
[101] A pictur'd tablet, o'er the portal rais'd,
Attach'd our eye: in wonder loſt, we gaz'd.
The pencil there ſome ſtrange device had wrought,
And fables, all its own, diſguis'd the thought.
Nor camp it ſeem'd, nor city: the deſign,
Whoſe moral mock'd our labour to divine,
Was a wall'd court, where roſe another bound,
And, higher ſtill, a third ſtill leſs'ning ground.
The nether area open'd, at a gate
Where a vaſt crowd impatient ſeem'd to wait.
Within, a group of female figures ſtood,
In motley dreſs, a ſparkling multitude.
Without, in ſtation at the porch, was ſeen
A venerable form, in act and mien
Like ſome great teacher who with urgent tongue,
Authoritative, warn'd the ruſhing throng.
From doubt to doubt we wander'd; when appear'd
A ſire, who thus the hard ſolution clear'd.

Strangers, that allegoric ſeene, I gueſs,
Conquers your ſkill, our home-born wits no leſs.
A foreigner, long ſince, whoſe nobler mind
Learning's beſt culture to ſtrong genius join'd,
Here liv'd, convers'd, and ſhew'd th' admiring age
Another Samian or Elean ſage.
He rear'd this dome to Saturn's aweful name,
And gave that portrait to eternal fame.
He reaſon'd much, high argument he choſe,
High as his theme his great conceptions roſe.
[102] Such wiſdom flowing from a mouth but young
I heard aſtoniſh'd, and enjoy'd it long:
Him oft I heard this moral piece expound,
With nervous eloquence and ſenſe profound.
Father, if leiſure with thy will conſpire,
Yield, yield that comment to our warm deſire.
Free to beſtow, I warn you firſt, beware:
Danger impends, which ſummons all your care.
Wiſe, virtuous, bleſt, whoſe heart our precepts gain,
c Abandon'd, blind, and wretched, who diſdain.
For know, our purpos'd theme reſembles beſt
The fam'd Enigma of the Theban peſt:
Th' interpreter a plighted crown enjoy'd,
The ſtupid periſh'd, by the Sphinx deſtroy'd.
Count Folly as a Sphinx to all mankind,
Her problem, How is Good and Ill deſin'd?
Misjudging here, by Folly's law we die,
Not inſtant victims of her cruelty;
From day to day our reaſoning part ſhe wounds,
Devours its ſtrength, its nobleſt pow'rs confounds:
Awakes the laſh of d Puniſhment, and tears
The mind with pangs which guilty life prepares,
With oppoſite effect, where thoughtful ſkill
Diſcerns the boundaries of Good and Ill,
Folly muſt periſh; and th' illumin'd breaſt
To Virtue ſav'd, is like th' immortals bleſt.
[103] Give audience, then, with no unheeding ear.
O haſte, no heedleſs auditors ſtand here,
With ſtrong deſire, in dread ſuſpenſe we wait,
So great the bleſſing, and the bane ſo great.
Inſtant, he rais'd his oratorial hand,
And ſaid (our eye he guided with a wand)
Behold life's pencil'd ſcene, the natal gate,
The numbers thronging into mortal ſtate.
Which danger's path, and which to ſafety bears,
That ancient, Genius of mankind, declares.
See him aloft, benevolent he bends,
One hand is pointing, one a roll extends
Reaſon's imperial code; by heav'n impreſt
In living letters on the human breaſt.
Oppos'd to him, Deluſion plies her part,
With ſkin of borrow'd ſnow, and bluſh of art,
With hypocritic fawn, and eyes aſkance
Whence ſoft infection ſteals in every glance.
Her faithleſs hand preſents a cryſtal bowl,
Whoſe pois'nous draught intoxicates the ſoul.
Error and ignorance infus'd, compoſe
The fatal beverage which her fraud beſtows.
Is that the hard condition of our birth?
Muſt all drink Error who appear on earth?
All; yet in ſome their meaſure drowns the mind,
Others but taſte, leſs erring and leſs blind.

[104]e Th' Opinions, and Deſires, and Pleaſures riſe
Behind the gate, thick-glitt'ring on our eyes;
Thick as bright atoms in the ſolar ray,
Diverſe their drap'ry and profuſely gay.
Theſe tempting forms, each like a miſtreſs dreſt,
Our early ſteps with powerful charms arreſt:
Soon as we enter life, with various art
Of dalliance they aſſail th' unguarded heart.
All promiſe joy, we ruſh to their embrace;
To bliſs or ruin here begins our race.
Happy, thrice happy, who intruſt their youth,
To right Opinions, and aſcend to Truth:
Whom Wiſdom tutors, whom the Virtues hail,
And with their own ſubſtantial feaſt regale.
The reſt are harlots: by their flatt'ries won,
In chace of empty ſciences we run:
Or Fortune's vanities purſue, and ſtray
With ſenſual Pleaſure in more dang'rous way.
See the mad rounds their giddy followers tread,
Deluſion's cup ſtrong-working in their head.
Faſt as one ſhoal of fools have delug'd thro',
Succeeding ſhoals the buſy farce renew.
Who on that globe ſtands ſtretching to her flight?
Wild ſeems her aſpect, and bereav'd of ſight.
Fortune, blind, frantic, deaf. With reſtleſs wings
The world ſhe ranges, and her favours flings:
[105] Flings and reſumes, and plunders and beſtows,
Caprice divide the bleſſings and the woes.
Her grace unſtable as her tott'ring ball,
Whene'er ſhe ſmiles ſhe meditates our fall.
When moſt we truſt her, we are cheated moſt,
In deſolating loſs we mourn our boaſt:
Her cruel blaſt invades our haſty fruit,
And withers all our glory at the root.
What mean thoſe multitudes around her? Why
Such motley attitudes perplex our eye?
Some, in the act of wildeſt rapture, leap,
In agony ſome wring their hands, and weep.
Th' unreas'ning crowd; to paſſion's ſequel blind,
By paſſion fir'd and impotent of mind:
Competitors in clamorous ſuit, to ſhare
The toys ſhe toſſes with regardleſs air;
Trifles, for ſolid worth by moſt purſu'd,
Bright-colour'd vapours and fantaſtic good:
The pageantry of wealth, the blaze of fame,
Titles, an offspring to extend the name,
Huge ſtrength, or beauty which the ſtrong obey,
The victor's laurel, and deſpotic ſway.
Theſe, humour'd in their vows, with laviſh praiſe
The glory of the gracious goddeſs raiſe:
Thoſe other, loſers in her chance-full game,
Shorn of their all, or fruſtrate in their aim,
In murmurs of their hard miſhap complain,
And curſe her partial and malignant reign.

[106]Now, further ſtill in this low ſenſual ground,
Traverſe yon flow'ry mount's ſequeſter'd bound.
In the green centre of thoſe citron ſhades,
'Mong gardens, fountains, bow'ry walks, and glades,
Voluptuous Sin her pow'rful ſpells employs,
Souls to ſeduce, ſeducing ſhe deſtroys.
See! Lewdneſs, looſely zon'd, her boſom bares,
See! Riot her luxurious bowl prepares:
There ſtands Avidity, with ardent eye,
There dimpling Adulation ſmooths her lye.
There ſtation'd to what end?
In watch for prey,
Fortune's infatuate favourites of a day.
Theſe they careſs, they flatter, they entreat
To try the pleaſures of their ſoft retreat,
Life diſencumber'd, frolickſom, and free,
All eaſe, all mirth, and high felicity.
Whome'er by their inveigling arts they win
To tread that magic paradiſe of Sin,
In airy dance his jocund hours ſkim round,
Sparkles the bowl, the feſtal ſongs reſound:
His blood ferments, fir'd by the wanton glance,
And his looſe ſoul diſſolves in am'rous trance.
While circulating joys to joys ſucceed,
While new delights the ſweet delirium feed;
The prodigal, in raptur'd fancy, roves
O'er fairy fields and thro' Elyſian groves:
[107] Sees glitt'ring viſions in ſucceſſion riſe,
And laughs at Socrates the chaſte and wiſe.
'Till, ſober'd by diſtreſs, awake, confus'd,
Amaz'd, he knows himſelf a wretch abus'd;
A ſhort illuſion his imagin'd feaſt,
Himſelf the game, himſelf the ſlaughter'd beaſt.
Now, raving for his ſquander'd wealth in vain,
Slave to thoſe tyrant jilts he drags their chain:
Compell'd to ſuffer hard and hungry need,
Compell'd to dare each foul and deſp'rate deed.
Villain, or knave, he joins the ſharping tribe,
Robs altars, or is perjur'd for a bribe:
Stabs for a purſe, his country pawns for gold,
To every crime of blackeſt horror ſold.
Shiftleſs at length, of all reſource bereft,
In the dire gripe of Puniſhment he's left.

Obſerve this ſtrait-mouth'd cave: th' unwilling light
Juſt ſhews the diſmal deep deſcent to night.
In centry ſee theſe haggard crones, whoſe brows
Rude locks o'erhang, a frown their forehead plows:
Swarthy and foul their ſhrivell'd ſkin behold,
And ſlutt'ring ſhreds their vile deſence from cold.
High-brandiſhing her laſh, with ſtern regard,
Stands Puniſhment, an ever-waking ward;
While ſullen Melancholy mopes behind,
Fix'd, with her head upon her knees inclin'd:
And, frantic with remorſeful fury, there
Fierce Anguiſh ſtamps, and rends her ſhaggy hair.
[108] Who that ill-featur'd ſpectre of a man,
Shiv'ring in nakedneſs, ſo ſpare and wan?
And ſhe, whoſe eye agaſt with horror ſtares,
Whoſe meagre form a ſiſter's likeneſs bears?
Loud Lamentation, wild Deſpair. All theſe,
Fell vulturs, the devoted caitiff ſeize.
Ah dreadful durance! with theſe fiends to dwell!
What tongue the terrors of his ſoul can tell?
Worry'd by theſe foul fiends, the wretch begins
Sharp penance, wages of remember'd ſins:
Then deeper ſinks, plung'd in the pit of Woe,
Worſe ſuff'rings in worſe hell to undergo:
Unleſs, rare gueſt, Repentance o'er the gloom
Diffuſe her radiance, and repeal his doom.
She comes! meek-ey'd, array'd in grave attire,
See Right Opinion, join'd with Good Deſire,
Handmaids of Truth: with thoſe, an adverſe pair
(Falſe Wiſdom's minions, that deceiving fair)
Attend her ſolemn ſtep: the furies flee.
Come forth, ſhe calls, come forth to liberty,
Guilt-harraſs'd thrall: thy future lot decide,
And, pond'ring well, elect thy future guide.
Momentous option! chuſing right, he'll find
A ſovereign med'cine for his ulcer'd mind;
Led to True Wiſdom, whoſe cathartic bowl
Recovers and beatifies the ſoul.
Miſguided elſe, a counterfeit he'll gain,
Whoſe art is only to amuſe the brain:
[109] From vice to ſtudious folly now he flies,
From bliſs ſtill erring, ſtill betray'd by lies.
O heavens! where end the riſks we mortals run?
How dreadful this, and yet how hard to ſhun!
Say, father, what diſtinctive marks declare
That counterfeit of Wiſdom?
f View her there.
At yonder gate, with decent port, ſhe ſtands,
Her ſpotleſs form that ſecond court commands:
Styl'd Wiſdom by the crowd, the thinking few
Know her diſguiſe, the phantom of the true:
Skill'd in all learning, ſkill'd in every art
To grace the head, not meliorate the heart.
The ſav'd, who meditate their noble flight
From a bad world, to Wiſdom's lofty height,
Juſt touching at this inn, for ſhort repaſt,
Then ſpeed their journey forward to its laſt.
This the ſole path?
Another path there lies,
The plain man's path, without proud Science wiſe.
Who they, which traverſe this deluder's bound?
A buſy ſcene, all thought or action round.
Her lovers, whom her ſpecious beauty warms,
Who graſp, in viſion, Truth's immortal charms,
Vain of the glory of a falſe embrace:
Fierce ſyllogiſtic tribes, a wrangling race,
[110] Bards rapt beyond the moon on Fancy's wings,
And mighty maſters of the vocal ſtrings:
Thoſe who on labour'd ſpeeches waſte their oil,
Thoſe who in crabbed calculations toil,
Who meaſure earth, who climb the ſtarry road,
And human fates by heav'nly ſigns forebode,
Pleaſure's philoſophers, Lyceum's pride,
Diſdainful ſoaring up to heights untry'd.
All who in learned trifles ſpin their wit,
Or comment on the works by triflers writ.
Who are yon active females, like in face
To the lewd harlots, in the nether ſpace,
Vile agents of voluptuous Sin?
The ſame.
Admitted here?
Ev'n here, eternal ſhame!
They boaſt ſome rarer leſs ignoble ſpoils,
Art, wit, and reaſon, tangled in their toils.
And Fancy, with th' Opinions in her rear,
Enjoys theſe ſtudious walks, no ſtranger here:
Where wild hypotheſis, and learn'd romance
Too oft lead up the philoſophic dance.
Still theſe ingenious heads alas! retain
Deluſion's doſe, ſtill the vile dregs remain
Of ignorance with madding folly join'd,
And a foul heart pollutes th' embelliſh'd mind.
Nor will preſumption from their ſouls recede,
Nor will they from one vicious plague be freed,
[111] Till, weary of theſe vanities, they've found
Th' exalted way to Truth's enlighten'd ground,
Quaff'd her eathartic, and all cleans'd within,
By that ſtrong energy, from pride and ſin,
Are heal'd and ſav'd. But loit'ring here they ſpend
Life's precious hours in thinking to no end:
From ſcience up to ſcience let them riſe,
And arrogate the ſwelling ſtyle of wiſe,
Their wiſdom's folly, impotent and blind,
Which cures not one diſtemper of the mind.
Enough. Diſcover now the faithful road,
Which mounts us to the joys of Truth's abode.
Survey this ſolitary waſte, which rears
Nor buſh nor herb, nor cottage there appears.
At diſtance ſee you ſtrait and lonely gate
(No crowds at the forbidding entrance wait)
Its avenue a rugged rocky ſoil,
Travell'd with painful ſtep and tedious toil.
Beyond the wicket, tow'ring in the ſkies
See Difficulty's cragged mountain riſe,
Narrow and ſharp th' aſcent; each edge a brink,
Whence to vaſt depth dire precipices ſink.
Is that the way to Wiſdom? Dreadful way!
The landſkip frowns with danger and diſmay.
Yet higher ſtill, around the mountain's brow
Winds you huge rock, whoſe ſteep ſmooth ſides allow
No track. Its top two ſiſter figures grace,
Health's roſy habit glowing in their face.
[112] With arms protended o'er the verge they lean,
The promptitude of friendſhip in their mien.
The pow'rs of Continence and Patience, there
Station'd by Wiſdom, her commiſſion bear
To rouze the ſpirit of her fainting ſon
Thus far advanc'd, and urge and urge him on.
Courage! they call, the coward's ſloth diſdain,
Yet, yet awhile, the noble toil ſuſtain:
A lovely path ſoon opens to your ſight,
But ah! how climb'd that rock's bare ſlipp'ry height?
Theſe generous guides, who Virtue's courſe befriend,
In ſuccour of her pilgrim, ſwift deſcend,
Draw up their trembling charge; then, ſmiling, greet
With kind command to reſt his weary feet.
With their own force his panting breaſt they arm,
And with their own intrepid ſpirit warm:
Next, plight their guidance in his future way
To Wiſdom, and in rapt'rous view diſplay
The bliſsful road (there it invites your eyes)
How ſmooth and eaſy to the foot it lies,
Through beauteous land, from all annoyance clear,
Of thorny evil and perplexing fear.

g You lofty grove's delicious bow'rs to gain,
You croſs th' expanſe of this enamell'd plain;
A meadow with eternal beauty bright,
Beneath a purer heav'n, o'crſlow'd with light.
[113] Full in the centre of the plain, behold
A court far-flaming with its wall of gold
And gate of diamond, where the righteous reſt;
This clime their home, the country of the bleſt:
Here all the Virtues dwell, communion ſweet!
With Happineſs, who rules the peaceful ſeat.
In ſtation at th' effulgent portal, ſee
A beauteous form of mildeſt majeſty.
Her eyes how piercing! how ſedate her mien!
Mature in life, her countenance ſerene:
Spirit and ſolid thought each feature ſhows,
And her plain robe with ſtate unſtudy'd flows.
She ſtands upon a cube of marble, fix'd
As the firm rock, two lovely nymphs betwixt,
Her daughters, copies of her looks and air,
Here candid Truth, and ſweet Perſuaſion there:
She, ſhe is Wiſdom. In her ſtedfaſt die,
Behold th' expreſſive type of certainty:
Certain her way, and permanent the deed
Of gift ſubſtantial to her friends decreed.
She gives the confidence erect and clear,
She gives magnanimous contempt of fear,
And bids th' invulnerable mind to know
Her ſafety from the future ſhafts of woe.
O treaſure, richer than the ſea or land!
But why without the walls her deſtin'd ſtand?
There ſtanding, ſhe preſents her potent bowl,
Divine cathartic, which reſtores the ſoul.
[114] This aſks a comment.
In ſome dire diſeaſe,
Machaon's ſkill firſt purges off the lees:
Then clear and ſtrong the purple current flows,
And life, renew'd in every member glows:
But if the patient all controul deſpiſe,
Juſt victim of his ſtubborn will he dies.
So Wiſdom, by her rules, with healing art
Expells Deluſion's miſchiefs from the heart;
Blindneſs, and error, and high-boaſting pride,
Intemp'rance, luſt, fierce wrath's impetuous tide,
Hydropic avarice, all the plagues behind
Which in the firſt mad court oppreſs'd the mind.
Thus purg'd, her pupil thro' the gate ſhe brings,
The Virtues hail their gueſt, the gueſt enraptur'd ſings.
Behold the ſpotleſs band, celeſtial charms!
Scene that with awe chaſtiſes whom it warms:
No harlotry, no paint, no gay exceſs,
But beauty unaffected as their dreſs.
See Knowledge graſping a refulgent ſtar,
See Fortitude in panoply of war:
Juſtice her equal ſcale aloft diſplays,
And rights both human and divine ſhe weighs.
There Moderation, all the pleaſures bound
In brazen chains her dreaded feet ſurround.
There bounteous Liberality expands
To want, to worth, her ever-loaded hands.
[115] The florid hue of Temperance, her ſide
Adorn'd by Health a nymph in blooming pride.
Lo, ſoft-ey'd Meekneſs holds a curbing rein,
Anger's high-mettled ſpirit to reſtrain:
While Moral Order tunes her golden lyre,
And white-rob'd Probity compleats the choir.
O faireſt of all fair! O bliſsful ſtate!
What hopes ſublime our raviſh'd ſoul dilate!
Subſtantial hopes, if by the doctrine taught,
The faſhion'd manners are to habit wrought.
Yes, 'tis reſolv'd. We'll every nerve employ.
Live, then, reſtor'd; and reap the promis'd joy.
But whither do the Virtues lead their truſt?
To Happineſs, rewarder of the juſt.

Look upward to the hill beyond the grove,
A ſovereign pile extends its front above:
Stately and ſtrong, the lofty caſtle ſtands,
Its boundleſs proſpect all the courts commands.
Within the porch, high on a jaſper throne,
Th' Imperial Mother by her form is known;
Bright as the morn, when ſmiling on the hills
Earth, air, and ſea with vernal joy ſhe fills.
Rich without laviſh coſt her veſt behold
In colours of the ſky, and fring'd with gold:
A tiar, wreath'd with every flow'r that blows
Of livelieſt tints, around her temples glows:
Eternal bloom her ſnowy temples binds,
Fearleſs of burning ſuns and blaſting winds.
[116] Now, with a crown of wond'rous pow'r, her hand
(Aſſiſtant, round her, all the Virtues ſtand)
Adorns her hero, honourable meed
Of conqueſts won by many a valiant deed.
What conqueſts?
Formidable beaſts ſubdu'd:
Lab'ring he fought, he routed, he purſu'd.
Once, a weak prey, beneath their force he cowr'd,
O'erthrown, and worry'd, and well-nigh devour'd:
Till rouz'd from his inglorious ſloth, poſſeſt
With generous ardour kindling in his breaſt,
Lord of himſelf, the victor now conſtrains
Thoſe hoſtile monſters in his pow'rful chains.
Explain thoſe ſavage beaſts at war with man.
Error and Ignorance, which head the van,
Heart-gnawing Grief, and loud-lamenting Woe,
Incontinence, a wild-deſtroying foe,
Rapacious Avarice; cruel numbers more
O'er all he triumphs now, their ſlave before.
O great atchievements! more illuſtrious far
Theſe triumphs, than the bloody wreaths of war.
But, ſay; what ſalutary pow'r is ſhed
By the fair crown, which decks the hero's head?
Moſt beatific. For poſſeſſing this
He lives, rich owner of man's proper bliſs:
Bliſs independent or on wealth or pow'r,
Fame, birth, or beauty, or voluptuous hour.
[117] His hope's divorc'd from all exterior things,
Within himſelf the fount of pleaſure ſprings;
Springs ever in the ſelf-approving breaſt,
And his own honeſt heart's a conſtant feaſt.
Where, next, his ſteps?
He meaſures back his way,
Conducted by the Virtues, to ſurvey
His firſt abode. The giddy crowd, below,
Waſting their wretched ſpan in crime they ſhow;
How in the whirl of paſſions they are toſt,
And, ſhipwreck'd on the lurking ſhelves, are loſt:
Here fierce Ambition haling in her chain
The mighty, there a deſpicable train
Impure in Luſt's inglorious fetter bound,
And ſlaves of Avarice rooting up the ground:
Thralls of Vain-glory, thralls of ſwelling Pride,
Unnumber'd fools, unnumber'd plagues beſide.
All-pow'rleſs they to burſt the galling band,
To ſpring aloft, and reach you happy land,
Entangled, impotent the way to find,
The clear inſtruction blotted from their mind
Which the Good Genius gave; Guilt's gloomy fears
Becloud their ſuns and ſadden all their years.
I ſtand convinc'd, but yet perplex'd in thought
Why to review a well-known ſcene he's brought.
Scene rudely known. Uncertain and confus'd,
His judgment by illuſions was abus'd.
[118] His evil was not evil, nor his good
Aught elſe but vanity miſunderſtood.
Confounding good and evil, like the throng,
His life, like theirs, was action always wrong.
Enlighten'd now in the true bliſs of man,
He ſhapes his alter'd courſe by Wiſdom's plan:
And, bleſt himſelf, beholds with weeping eyes
The madding world an hoſpital of ſighs.
This retroſpection ended, where ſucceeds
His courſe?
Where'er his wiſe volition leads.
Where'er it leads, ſafety attends him ſtill:
Not ſafer, ſhould he on Apollo's hill,
Among the Nymphs, among the vocal Pow'rs,
Dwell in the Sanctum of Corycian bow'rs:
Honour'd by all, the friend of human kind,
Belov'd phyſician of the ſin-ſick mind;
Not Eſculapius more, whoſe pow'r to ſave
Redeems his patient from the yawning grave.
But never more ſhall his old reſtleſs foes
Awake his fears, nor trouble his repoſe?
Never. In righteous habitude inur'd,
From Paſſion's baneful anarchy ſecur'd,
In each enticing ſcene, each inſtant hard,
That ſovereign antidote his mind will guard:
Like him, who, of ſome virtuous drug poſſeſt,
Graſps the fell viper coil'd within her neſt,
[119] Hears her dire hiſſings, ſees her terrors riſe,
And, unappall'd, deſtruction's tooth defies.
You troops in motion from the mount explain,
Various to view; for there a goodly train,
With garlands crown'd, advance with comely pace,
Noble their port, and in each tranquil face
Joys ſparkles: others, a bare-headed throng,
Batter'd and gaſh'd, drag their ſlow ſteps along,
Captives of ſome ſtrange female crew.
The crown'd,
Long ſeeking, ſafe arriv'd at Wiſdom's bound,
Exult in her imparted grace. h The reſt,
Thoſe on whom Wiſdom, unprevailing, preſt
Her healing aid; rejected from her care,
In evil plight their wicked days they wear:
Thoſe too, who Difficulty's hill had gain'd,
There baſely ſtopp'd, by daſtard ſloth detain'd:
Apoſtate now, in thorny wilds they rove,
Purſuing ſuries ſcourge the caitiff drove;
Sorrows which gnaw, remorſeful Thoughts which tear,
Blindneſs of mind, and heart-oppreſſing Fear,
With all the contumelious rout of Shame,
And every ill, and every hateful name.
Relaps'd to Lewdneſs, and her ſenſual Queen,
Unbluſhing at themſelves, but drunk with ſpleen,
Wiſdom's high worth their canker'd tongues diſpraiſe,
Revile her children, and blaſpheme her ways.
[120] Deluded wretches, (thus their madneſs cries)
Dull mopes, weak dupes of philoſophic lies,
Uncomforted, unjoyous, and unbleſt,
Loſt from the pleaſures here at large poſſeſt.
What pleaſures boaſt they?
Pleaſures of the ſtews,
Pleaſures which Riot's frantic bowls infuſe.
Theſe high fruition their groſs ſouls repute,
And man's chief good to ſink into a brute.
But who that lovely bevy, blithe and gay,
So ſmoothly gliding down the hilly way?

i Thoſe are th' Opinions, who have guided right
The unexperienc'd to the plain of light:
Returning, new adventurers to bring,
The bleſſings of the laſt-arriv'd they ſing.
Why ingreſs yielded to their favour'd ward
Among the Virtues, to themſelves debarr'd?
Opinion's foot is never never found
Where Knowledge dwells, 'tis interdicted ground,
At Wiſdom's gate th' Opinions muſt reſign
Their charge, thoſe limits their employ confine.
Thus trading barks, ſkill'd in the wat'ry road,
To diſtant climes convey their precious load,
Then turn their prow, light bounding o'er the main,
And with new traffic ſtore their keels again.
Thus far is clear. But yet untold remains
What the Good Genius to the crowd ordains,
[121] Juſt on the verge of life.
k He bids them hold
A ſpirit with erected courage bold.
Never (he calls) on Fortune's faith rely,
Nor graſp her dubious gifts as property.
Let not her ſmile tranſport, her frown diſmay,
Nor praiſe, nor blame, nor wonder at her ſway
Which reaſon never guides: 'tis fortune ſtill,
Capricious chance and arbitrary will,
Bad bankers, vain of treaſure not their own,
With fooliſh rapture hug the truſted loan:
Impatient, when the pow'rful bond demands
Its unremember'd cov'nant from their hands.
Unlike to ſuch, without a ſigh reſtore
What Fortune lends: anon ſhe'll laviſh more,
Repenting of her bounty ſnatch away,
Yea ſeize your patrimonial fund for prey.
Embrace her proffer'd boon, but inſtant riſe,
Spring upward, and ſecure a laſting prize,
The gift which Wiſdom to her ſons divides;
Knowledge, whoſe beam the doubting judgment guides.
Scatters the ſenſual fog, and clear to view
Diſtinguiſhes falſe int'reſt from the true.
Flee, flee to this, with unabating pace,
Nor parly for a moment at the place
Where Pleaſure and her Harlots tempt, nor reſt
But at Falſe Wiſdom's inn, a tranſient gueſt:
[122] For ſhort refection, at her table ſit,
And taſte what ſcience may your palate hit:
Then wing your journey forward, till you reach
True Wiſdom, and imbibe the truths ſhe'll teach.

Such is th' advice the friendly Genius gives,
He periſhes who ſcorns, who follows lives.
And thus this moral piece inſtructs; if aught
Is myſtic ſtill, reveal your doubting thought.
Thanks, generous Sire; tell, then, the tranſient bait,
The Genius grants us at Falſe Wiſdom's gate.
l Whate'er in arts or ſciences is found
Of ſolid uſe, in their capacious round,
Theſe, Plato reaſons, like a curbing rein,
Unruly youth from devious ſtarts reſtrain.
Muſt we, ſolicitous our ſouls to ſave,
Aſſiſtance from theſe previous ſtudies crave?
Neceſſity there's none. We'll not deny
Their merit in ſome leſs utility:
But they contribute, we averr, no part
To heal the manners and amend the heart.
An author's meaning, in a tongue unknown,
May glimmer thro' tranſlation in our own:
Yet maſters of his language, we might gain
Some trivial purpoſes by tedious pain.
So in the ſciences, tho', rudely taught,
We may attain the little that we ought;
[123] Yet, accurately known they might convey
More light not wholly uſeleſs in its way.
But Virtue may be reach'd, thro' all her rules,
Without the curious ſubtleties of ſchools.
How! not the learn'd excel the common ſhoal,
In pow'rful aids to meliorate the ſoul?
Blind as the crowd alas! to good and ill,
Intangled by the like corrupted will,
What boaſts the man of letters o'er the reſt?
Skill'd in all tongues, of all the arts poſſeſt,
What hinders but he ſink into a ſot,
A libertine or villain in a plot,
Miſer, or knave, or whatſoe'er you'll name
Of mortal lunacy and reaſon's ſhame.
How, then, for living right
Avail thoſe ſtudies, and their vaunted light
Beyond the vulgar?
Nothing. But diſcloſe
The cauſe from whence this ſtrange appearance grows.
Held by a potent charm in this retreat
They dwell, content with nearneſs to the ſeat
Of Virtuous Wiſdom.
Near, methinks, in vain:
Since numbers, oft, from out the nether plain,
'Scap'd from the ſnares of Lewdneſs and Exceſs,
Undevious to her lofty ſtation preſs,
Yet paſs theſe letter'd clans.
[124] What, then, are theſe
In moral things, advantag'd o'er the lees
Of human race? in moral things, we find
Theſe duller or leſs tractable of mind.
Decypher that.
Pride, pride averts their eyes
From offer'd light: in ſelf-ſufficience wiſe,
Altho' unknowing, they preſume to know:
Clogg'd with that vain conceit they creep below,
Nor can mount up to you exalted bound,
True Wiſdom's manſion, by the humble found.
Not found by theſe, till the vain viſions ſpread,
By Falſe Opinion, in the learned head,
Repentance ſcatter; and, deceiv'd no more,
They own th' illuſion which deceiv'd before,
That for True Wiſdom they embrac'd her ſhade,
And hence the healing of their ſouls delay'd.

Strangers, theſe leſſons, oft revolving, hold
Faſt to your hearts, and into habit mould:
To this high ſcope life's whole attention bend,
Deſpiſe aught elſe as erring from your end.
Do thus, or unavailing is my care,
And all th' inſtruction dies away in air.

The DROPSICAL MAN.[125]By Mr. W. TAYLOR.
A JOLLY, brave toper, who cou'd not forbear
Tho' his life was in danger, old port and ſtale beer,
Gave the doctors the hearing—but ſtill wou'd drink on,
Till the dropſy had ſwell'd him as big as a tun.
The more he took phyſic the worſe ſtill he grew,
And tapping was now the laſt thing he cou'd do.
Affairs at this criſis, and doctors come down,
He began to conſider—ſo ſent for his ſon.
Tom, ſee by what courſes I've ſhorten'd my life,
I'm leaving the world ere I'm forty and five;
More than probable 'tis, that in twenty-four hours,
This manor, this houſe, and eſtate will be yours;
My early exceſſes may teach you this truth,
That 'tis working for death to drink hard in one's youth.
Says Tom, (who's a lad of a generous ſpirit,
And not like young rakes who 're in haſte to inherit.)
Sir, don't be diſhearten'd; altho' it be true,
Th' operation is painful, and hazardous too,
'Tis no more than what many a man has gone thro'.
And then, as for years, you may yet be call'd young,
Your liſe after this may be happy and long.
Don't flatter me, Tom, was the father's reply,
With a jeſt in his mouth and a tear in his eye;
Too well by experience, my veſſels, thou know'ſt,
No ſooner are tap'd, but they give up the ghoſt.

PARADISE REGAIN'D.

[126]

By H. T.

I.SEEK not for Paradiſe with curious eye
In Aſiatic climes, where Tigris' waves
Mix'd with Euphrates in tumultuous joy,
The ſpacious plains of Babylonia laves.

II.'Tis gone with all its charms; and like a dream,
Like Babylon itſelf, is ſwept away;
Beſtow one tear upon the mournful theme,
But let it not thy gentle heart diſmay.

III.For know where-ever love and virtue guide,
They lead us to a ſtate of heav'nly bliſs,
Where joys unknown to guilt and ſhame preſide,
And pleaſures unalloy'd each hour increaſe.

IV.Behold that grove, whoſe waving boughs admit,
Thro' the live colonade the fruitful hill,
A moving proſpect with fat herds replete,
Whoſe lowing voices all the valley fill.

[127]V.

There, thro' the ſpiry graſs where glides the brook,

(By yon tall poplar which erects its head

Above the verdure of the neighb'ring oak,)

And gently murmurs o'er th' adjoining mead;

VI.Philander and Cleora, happy pair,
Taſte the cool breezes of the gentle wind;
Their breaſts from guilt, their looks are free from care,
Sure index of a calm contented mind.

VII.'Tis here in virtuous love the ſtudious fair
Informs her babes, nor ſcorns herſelf t' improve,
While in his ſmile ſhe lives, whoſe pleaſing care
Diſpenſes knowledge from the lips of love.

VIII.No wild deſires can ſpread their poiſon here,
No diſcontent their peaceful hours attend;
Falſe joys, nor flatt'ring hopes, nor ſervile fear,
Their gentle minds with jarring paſſions rend.

IX.Here oft in pleaſing ſolitude they rove,
Recounting o'er the deeds of former days;
With inward joy their well-ſpent time approve,
And feel a recompence beyond all praiſe.

X.Or in ſweet converſe thro' the grove, or near
The fountain's brink, or where the arbour's ſhade
Beats back the heat, fair Virtue's voice they hear,
More muſical by ſweet digreſſions made.

[128]XI.

With calm dependence ev'ry good they taſte,

Yet feel their neighbour's wants with kind regret,

Nor chear themſelves alone, (a mean repaſt!)

But deal forth bleſſings round their happy ſeat.

XII.'Tis to ſuch virtue, that the pow'r ſupreme
The choiceſt of his bleſſings hath deſign'd,
And ſhed them plenteous over ev'ry clime,
The calm delights of an untainted mind.

XIII.Ere yet the ſad effects of fooliſh pride,
And mean ambition ſtill employ'd in ſtrife,
And luxury did o'er the world preſide,
Deprav'd the taſte, and pall'd the joys of life.

XIV.For ſuch the Spring, in richeſt mantle clad,
Pours forth her beauties thro' the gay parterre;
And Autumn's various boſom is o'erſpread
With all the bluſhing fruits that crown the year.

XV.Or Summer tempts, in golden beams array'd,
Which o'er the fields in borrow'd luſtre glow,
To meditate beneath the cooling ſhade
Their happy ſtate, and whence their bleſſings flow.

XVI.E'en rugged Winter varies but their joy,
Painting the cheek with freſh vermilion-hue;
And thoſe rough froſts which ſofter frames annoy
With vig'rous health their ſlack'ning nerves renew.

[129]XVII.

From the dark boſom of the dappled Morn

To Phoebus ſhining with meridian light,

Or when mild Ev'ning does the ſky adorn,

Or the pale Moon rides thro' the ſpangled night,

XVIII.The varying ſcenes in ev'ry virtuous ſoul
Each pleaſing change with various pleaſures bleſs,
Raiſe chearful hopes, and anxious fears controul,
And form a Paradiſe of inward peace.

To the Right Hon. Sir ROBERT WALPOLE.

— Quo cenſet amiculus, ut ſi

Caecus iter monſtrare velit. —

HOR.

By the Honourable Mr. D—

THO' ſtrength of genius by experience taught
Gives thee to ſound the depths of human thought,
To trace the various workings of the mind,
And rule the ſecret ſprings that rule mankind;
Rare gift! yet, Walpole, wilt thou condeſcend
To liſten, if thy unexperienc'd friend
Can aught of uſe impart, tho' void of ſkill,
And raiſe attention by ſincere good will:
[130] For friendſhip ſometimes want of parts ſupplies,
The heart may furniſh what the head denies.
As, when the rapid Rhine o'er ſwelling tides
To grace old Ocean's coaſt in triumph rides,
Tho' rich in ſource, he drains a thouſand ſprings,
Nor ſcorns the tribute each ſmall riv'let brings:
So thou ſhalt hence abſorb each feeling ray,
Each dawn of meaning in thy brighter day;
Shalt like, or where thou canſt not like, excuſe,
Since no mean intereſt ſhall prophane the Muſe;
No malice wrapt in truth's diſguiſe offend,
No flattery taint the freedom of a friend.

When firſt a generous mind ſurveys the great,
And views the crowds that on their fortune wait,
Pleas'd with the ſhew, (tho' little underſtood,)
He only ſeeks the power, to do the good:
Thinks, till he tries, 'tis godlike to diſpoſe,
And gratitude ſtill ſprings when bounty flows;
That ev'ry grant ſincere affection wins,
And where our wants have end, our love begins.
But they who long the paths of ſtate have trod,
Learn from the clamours of the murm'ring crowd,
Which cramm'd, yet craving, ſtill their gates beſiege,
'Tis eaſier far to give, than to oblige.
This of thy conduct ſeems the niceſt part,
The chief perfection of the ſtateſman's art,
To give to fair aſſent a fairer face,
Or ſoften a refuſal into grace.
[131] But few there are, that can be freely kind,
Or know to fix the favours on the mind;
Hence ſome whene'er they wou'd oblige, offend,
And while they make the fortune, loſe the friend:
Still give unthank'd; ſtill ſquander, not beſtow,
For great men want not what to give, but how.
The race of men that follow courts, 'tis true,
Think all they get, and more than all, their due;
Still aſk, but ne'er conſult their own deſerts,
And meaſure by their intereſt, not their parts.
From this miſtake ſo many men we ſee
But ill become the thing they wiſh to be:
Hence diſcontent and freſh demands ariſe,
More power, more favour in the great man's eyes:
All feel a want, tho' none the cauſe ſuſpects,
But hate their patron for their own defects.
Such none can pleaſe, but who reforms their hearts,
And when he gives them places, gives them parts.
As theſe o'erprize their worth, ſo ſure the great
May ſell their favours at too dear a rate.
When merit pines while clamour is prefer'd,
And long attachment waits among the herd;
When no diſtinction, where diſtinction's due,
Marks from the many the ſuperior few;
When ſtrong cabal conſtrains them to be juſt,
And makes them give at laſt, becauſe they muſt,
What hopes that men of real worth ſhou'd prize
What neither friendſhip gives, nor merit buys.
[132] The man who juſtly o'er the whole preſides,
His well-weigh'd choice with wiſe affection guides:
Knows when to ſtop with grace, and when advance,
Nor gives from importunity, or chance;
But thinks how little gratitude is ow'd,
When favours are extorted, not beſtow'd.
When ſafe on ſhore ourſelves, we ſee the crowd
Surround the great, importunate and loud,
Thro' ſuch a tumult 'tis no eaſy taſk,
To drive the man of real worth to aſk;
Surrounded thus, and giddy with the ſhew
'Tis hard for great men rightly to beſtow;
From hence ſo few are ſkill'd in either caſe,
To aſk with dignity, or give with grace.
Sometimes the great, ſeduc'd by love of parts,
Conſult our genius, but neglect our hearts;
Pleas'd with the glittering ſparks that genius flings,
They lift us tow'ring on the eagle's wings:
Mark out the flights by which themſelves begun.
And teach our dazzled eyes to bear the ſun,
'Till we forgot the hand that made us great,
And grow to envy, not to emulate.
To emulate a generous warmth implies,
To reach the virtues that make great men riſe;
But envy wears a mean malignant face,
And aims not at their virtues but their place.
Such to oblige, how vain is the pretence,
When ev'ry favour is a freſh offence,
[133] By which ſuperior power is ſtill imply'd,
And while it helps the fortune, hurts the pride.
Slight is the hate neglect or hardſhips breed,
But thoſe who hate from envy, hate indeed.
Since ſo perplex'd the choice, whom ſhall we truſt?
Methinks, I hear thee cry, the brave, the juſt;
The man by no mean fears or hopes controul'd,
Who ſerves thee from affection, not for gold!
We love the honeſt, and eſteem the brave,
Deſpiſe the coxcomb, but deteſt the knave;
No ſhew of parts the truly wiſe ſeduce,
To think that knaves can be of real uſe.
The man who contradicts the public voice,
And ſtrives to dignify a worthleſs choice,
Attempts a taſk that on the choice reflects,
And lends us light to point out new defects.
One worthleſs man that gains what he pretends,
Diſguſts a thouſand unpretending friends;
And ſince no art can make a counter paſs,
Or add the weight of gold to mimic braſs,
When princes to bad ore their image join,
They more debaſe the ſtamp than raiſe the coin;
Be thine that care, true merit to reward,
And gain that good; nor will the taſk be hard.
Souls found alike ſo quick by nature blend,
An honeſt man is more than half thy friend.
Him no mere views, no haſte to riſe ſhall ſway,
Thy choice to ſully, or thy truſt betray.
[134] Ambition here ſhall at due diſtance ſtand,
Nor is wit dangerous in an honeſt hand:
Beſides, if failings at the bottom lie,
He views thoſe failings with a lover's eye.
Tho' ſmall his genius, let him do his beſt,
Our wiſhes and belief ſupply the reſt:
Let others barter ſervile faith for gold,
His friendſhip is not to be bought or ſold.
Fierce oppoſition he unmov'd ſhall face,
Modeſt in favour, daring in diſgrace;
To ſhare thy adverſe fate alone pretend,
In power a ſervant, out of power a friend.
Here pour thy favours in an ample flood,
Indulge thy boundleſs thirſt of doing good.
Nor think that good alone to him confin'd;
Such to oblige is to oblige mankind.
If thus thy mighty maſter's ſteps thou trace,
The brave to cheriſh, and the good to grace,
Long ſhalt thou ſtand from rage and faction free,
And teach us long to love the king and thee;
Or fall a victim, dangerous to the foe,
And make him tremble when he ſtrikes the blow;
While honour, gratitude, affection join,
To deck thy cloſe, and brighten thy decline.
Illuſtrious doom! the great when thus diſplac'd,
With friendſhip guarded, and with virtue grac'd,
In aweful ruin, like Rome's ſenate, fall
The prey and worſhip of the wond'ring Gaul.

[135]No doubt to genius ſome reward is due,
(Excluding that were ſatirizing you):
But yet believe thy undeſigning friend,
When truth and genius for thy choice contend,
Tho' both have weight, when in the balance caſt,
Let probity be firſt, and parts the laſt.

On theſe foundations if thou dar'ſt be great,
And check the growth of folly and deceit,
When party rage ſhall drop thro' length of days,
And calumny be ripen'd into praiſe,
Then future times ſhall to thy worth allow
That ſame, which envy wou'd call flattery now.

Thus far my zeal, tho' for the taſk unfit,
Has pointed out the rocks where others ſplit:
By that inſpir'd, tho' ſtranger to the Nine,
And negligent of any fame but thine,
I take that friendly, but ſuperfluous part,
That acts from nature what I teach from art.

To a LADY on a LANDSCAPE of her Drawing.

By Mr. PARRAT.

BEHOLD the magic of Thereſa's hand!
A new creation blooms at her command.
Touch'd into life the vivid colours glow,
Catch the warm ſtream, and quicken as they flow.
[136] The raviſh'd ſight the pleaſing landſcape fills,
Here ſink the vallies, there riſe the hills.
Not with more horror nods bleak Calpe's height,
Than herethe pictur'd rock aſtounds the ſight.
Not Thames more devious-winding leaves his ſource,
Than here the wand'ring rivers ſhape their courſe.
Obliquely lab'ring runs the gurgling rill;
Still murm'ring runs, or ſeems to murmur ſtill.
An aged oak, with hoary moſs o'erſpread,
Here lifts aloft it's venerable head;
There overſhadowing hangs a ſacred wood,
And nods inverted in the neighb'ring flood.
Each tree as in it's native foreſt ſhoots,
And bluſhing bends with Autumn's golden fruits.
Thy pencil lends the roſe a lovelier hue,
And gives the lily fairer to our view.
Here fruits and flow'rs adorn the varied year,
And paradiſe with all its ſweets is here.
There ſtooping to its fall a tow'r appears,
With tempeſts ſhaken, and a weight of years.
The daiſied meadow, and the woodland green,
In order riſe, and fill the various ſcene.

Some parts, in light magnificently dreſs'd,
Obtruſive enter, and ſtand all confeſs'd.
Whilſt others decently in ſhades are thrown,
And by concealing make their beauties known,
Alternate thus, and mutual is their aid,
The lights owe half their luſtre to the ſhade.

[137]

So the bright fires that light the milky way,

Loſt and extinguiſh'd in the ſolar ray;

In the ſun's abſence pour a flood of light,

And borrow all their brightneſs from the night.

To cheat our eyes how well doſt thou contrive;
Each object here ſeems real and alive.
Not more reſembling life the figures ſtand,
Form'd by Lyſippus, or by Phidias' hand.
Unnumber'd beauties in the piece unite;
Ruſh on the eye, and crowd upon the ſight.
At once our wonder and delight you raiſe,
We view with pleaſure, and with rapture praiſe.

ODE to CUPID on VALENTINE's Day.

By the Same.

COME thou roſy-dimpled boy,
Source of ev'ry heart-felt joy,
Leave the bliſsful bow'rs awhile,
Paphos and the Cyprian iſle:
Viſit Britain's rocky ſhore,
Britons too thy pow'r adore,
Britons hardy, bold, and free,
Own thy laws, and yield to thee,
Source of ev'ry heart-felt joy,
Come thou roſy-dimpled boy.

[138]Haſte to Sylvia, haſte away,
This is thine, and Hymen's day;
Bid her thy ſoft bondage wear,
Bid her for Love's rites prepare.
Let the nymphs with many a flow'r
Deck the ſacred nuptial bow'r.
Thither lead the lovely fair,
And let Hymen too be there.
This is thine, and Hymen's day,
Haſte to Sylvia, haſte away.

Only while we love we live,
Love alone can pleaſure give;
Pomp and pow'r, and tinſel ſtate,
Thoſe falſe pageants of the great,
Crowns and ſcepters, envied things,
And the pride of Eaſtern kings,
Are but childiſh empty toys,
When compar'd to Love's ſweet joys,
Love alone can pleaſure give,
Only while we love, we live.

To the Honourable and Reverend F. C.

IN frolick's hour, ere ſerious thought had birth,
There was a time, my dear C—s, when
The Muſe wou'd take me on her airy wing
[137] And waft to views romantic; there preſent
Some motley viſion, ſhade and ſun: the cliff
O'erhanging, ſparkling brooks, and ruins grey;
Bad me meanders trace, and catch the form
Of varying clouds, and rainbows learn to paint.

Sometimes Ambition, bruſhing by, wou'd twitch
My mantle, and with winning look ſublime
Allure to follow. What tho' ſteep the track,
Her mountain's top wou'd overpay when climb'd
The ſcaler's toil; her temple there was fine,
And lovely thence the proſpects. She cou'd tell
Where laurels grew, whence many a wreath antique;
But more advis'd to ſhun the barren twig,
(What is immortal verdure without fruit?)
And woo ſome thriving art: her num'rous mines
Were open to the ſearcher's ſkill and pains.

Caught by th' harangue, heart beat, and flutt'ring pulſe
Sounded irregular marches to be gone—
What, pauſe a moment when Ambition calls?
No, the blood gallops to the diſtant goal,
And throbs to reach it. Let the lame ſit ſtill.
When Fortune gentle, at the hill's verge extreme,
Array'd in decent garb, but ſomewhat thin,
Smiling approach'd, and what occaſion aſk'd,
Of climbing? She already provident
Had cater'd well, if ſtomach cou'd digeſt
Her viands, and a palate not too nice.
[140] Unfit ſhe ſaid, for perilous atrempt,
That manly limb requir'd, and ſinews tough.

She took, and lay'd me in a vale remote,
Amid the gloomy ſcene of fir and yew,
On poppy beds, where Morpheus ſtrew'd the ground:
Obſcurity her curtain round me drew,
And ſyren Sloth a dull quietus ſung.

Sithence no fairy lights, no quick'ning ray,
Nor ſtir of pulſe, nor objects to entice
Abroad the ſpirits; but the cloyſter'd heart
Sits ſquat at home, like pagod in a nitch
Obſcure, or grandees with nod-watching eye,
And folded arms, in preſence of the throne,
Turk, or Indoſtan.—Cities, forums, courts
And prating ſanhedrims, and drumming wars,
Affect no more than ſtories told to bed
Lethargic, which at intervals the ſick
Hears and forgets, and wakes to doze again.
Inſtead of converſe and variety,
The ſame trite round, the ſame ſta le ſilent ſcene:
Such are thy comforts, bleſſed Solitude!
But Innocence is there, but Peace all kind,
And ſimple Quiet with her downy couch,
Meads lowing, tune of birds, and lapſe of ſtreams,
And Saunter, with a book, and warbling Muſe,
In praiſe of hawthorns.—Life's whole buſineſs this!
Is it to baſk i' th' ſun? if ſo, a ſnail
Were happy crawling on a ſouthern wall.

[141]Why ſits Content upon a cottage-ſill
At eventide, and bleſſeth the coarſe meal
In ſooty corner? why ſweet ſlumbers wait
Th' hard pallet? not becauſe from haunt remote
Sequeſter'd in a dingle's buſhy lap:
'Tis labour makes the peaſant's ſav'ry fare,
And works out his repoſe: for eaſe muſt aſk
The leave of diligence to be enjoy'd.

Oh! liſten not to that enchantreſs Eaſe
With ſeeming ſmile, her palatable cup
By ſtanding grows inſipid; and beware
The bottom, for there's poiſon in the lees.
What health impair'd, and crowds inactive maim'd?
What daily martyrs to her ſluggiſh cauſe!
Leſs ſtrict devoir the Ruſs and Perſian claim
Deſpotic; and as ſubjects long inur'd
To ſervile burden, grow ſupine and tame,
So fares it with our ſov'reign and her train.

What tho' with lure fallacions ſhe pretend
From worldly bondage to ſet free, what gain
Her votaries? What avails from iron chains
Exempt, if roſy fetters bind as faſt.

Beſtir, and anſwer your creation's end.
Think we that man with vig'rous pow'r endow'd,
And room to ſtretch, was deſtin'd to ſit ſtill?
Sluggards are Nature's rebels, ſlight her laws,
Nor live up to the terms on which they hold
Their vital leaſe. Laborious terms and hard,
[142] But ſuch the tenure of our earthly ſtate!
Riches and fame are Induſtry's reward;
The nimble runner courſes Fortune down,
And then he banquets, for ſhe feeds the bold.

Think what you owe your country, what yourſelf.
If ſplendor charm not, yet avoid the ſcorn
That treads on lowly ſtations. Think of ſome
Aſſiduous booby mounting o'er your head,
And thence with ſaucy grandeur looking down:
Think of (Reflexion's ſtab!) the pitying friend
With ſhoulder ſhrug'd, and ſorry. Think that Time
Has golden minutes, if diſcreetly ſeiz'd:
And if ſome ſad example, indolent,
To warn and ſcare be wanting—think of me.

To the Reverend T— T—, D.D.

—FRench pow'r, and weak allies, and war, and want—
No more of that, my friend; you touch a ſtring
That hurts my ear. All politics apart,
Except a gen'rous wiſh, a glowing prayer
For Britiſh welfare, commerce, glory, peace.
Give party to the winds: it is a word,
A phantom ſound, by which the cunning great
Whiſtle to their dependents: a decoy
To gull th' unwary, where the maſter ſtands
[143] Encouraging his minions, his train'd birds,
Fed and careſs'd their ſpecies to betray.
See with what hollow blandiſhment and art
They lead the winged captive to the ſnare:
Fools! that in open aether might have ſoar'd,
Free as the air they cut; ſip'd pureſt rills,
Din'd with the Thames, or bath'd in cryſtal lakes.

We wear no badges, no dependence own:
Who truly loves thee, deareſt Liberty,
A ſilken fetter will uneaſy ſit.
Heav'n knows it is not Inſolence that ſpeaks!
The tribute of reſpect to greatneſs due
Not the brib'd ſycophant more willing pays.
Still, ſtill as much of party be retain'd,
As principle requires, and ſenſe directs:
Elſe our vain bark, without a rudder, floats
The ſcorn and paſtime of each veering gale.

This gentle ev'ning let the ſun deſcend
Untroubled, while it paints your ambient hills
With faded luſtre, and a ſweet farewel.
Here is our ſeat: that caſtle oppoſite,
Proud of it's woody brow, adorns the ſcene.
Dictate, O vers'd in books, and juſt of taſte,
Dictate the pleaſing theme of our diſcourſe.
Shall we trace Science from her Eaſtern home
Chaldaean; or the banks of Nile, where Thebes,
Nurſing her daughter arts, majeſtic ſtood,
And pour'd forth knowledge from an hundred gates?
[144] There firſt the marble learn'd to mimic life,
The pillar'd temple roſe, and pyramids,
Whoſe undecaying grandeur laughs at Time;
Birth-place of letters, where the ſun was ſhewn
His radiant way, and heav'ns were taught to roll.
There too the Muſes tun'd their earlieſt lyre
Warbling ſoft numbers to Serapis' ear;
'Till chac'd by tyrants, or a milder clime
Inviting, they remov'd with pilgrim harps,
And all their band of harmony to Greece.
As when a flock of linnets, if perchance
Deliver'd from the falcon's talon, fly
With trembling wing to cover, and renew
Their notes; tell ev'ry buſh of their eſcape,
And thrill their merry thanks to Liberty.
The tuneful tribe, pleas'd with their new abode,
Poliſh'd the rude inhabitants, whence tales
Of liſt'ning woods, and rocks that danc'd to ſound.
Hear the full chorus lifting hymns to Jove!
Linus and Orpheus catch the ſtrain, and all
The raptur'd audience utter loud applauſe.

A ſong, believe me, was no trifle then:
Weighty the Muſe's taſk, and wide her ſway:
Her's was religion, the reſounding fanes
Echoed her language; polity was her's
And the world bow'd to legiſlative verſe.

As ſtates increas'd, and governments were form'd,
Her aid leſs uſeful, ſhe retir'd to grots
[145] And ſhady bow'rs, content to teach and pleaſe.
Under her laurel frequent bards repos'd;
Voluble Pindar troll'd his rapid ſong,
Or Sappho breath'd her ſpirited complaint:
Here the ſtage buſkin, there the lyric choir,
And Homer's epic trumpet. Happy Greece,
Bleſs'd in her offspring! Seat of eloquence,
Of arts and reaſon; patriot-virtue's ſeat!
Did the ſun thither dart uncommon rays!
Did ſome preſiding genius hover o'er
That animated ſoil with brooding wings!
The ſad reverſe might ſtart a gentle tear—
Go, ſearch in Athens for herſelf, enquire
Where are her orators, her ſages now:
Her arſenal overturn'd, her walls in duſt,
But far leſs ruin'd than her ſoul decay'd.
The ſtone inſcrib'd to Socrates, debas'd
To prop a reeling cott: Minerva's ſhrine
Poſſeſs'd by thoſe who never heard her name.
Upon the mount where old Muſaeus ſung,
Sits the grim turban'd captain, and exacts
Harſh tribute; on the ſpot where Plato taught
His heav'nly ſtrains ſublime, a ſtupid Turk
Is preaching ignorance and Mahomet.
Turn next to Rome: is that the clime, the place,
Where once, as Fame reports, Auguſtus liv'd?
What magic has transform'd her, ſhrunk her nerves?
A wither'd laurel, and a mould'ring arch!—
[146] Cou'd the pure crimſon tide, the nobleſt blood
That ever flow'd, to ſuch a puddle turn?
She ends, like her long Appian, in a marſh;
Or Jordan's river pouring his clear urn
Into the black Aſphaltus' ſlimy lap.
Patrons of wit, and victors of mankind,
Bards, warriors, worthies (revolution ſtrange)
Are pimps and fidlers, mountebanks and monks.
In Tully's beehive, magazine of ſweets,
The lazy drones are buzzing or aſleep.

But we forgive the living for the dead;
Indebted more to Rome than we can pay.
Of a long dearth prophetic, ſhe lay'd in
A feaſt for ages.—O thou banquet nice,
Where the ſoul riots with ſecure exceſs!
What felt delight! what pleaſing uſeful hours
Repeated owe we to her letter'd ſons!
We by their favour Tiber's walks enjoy,
Their temples trace, and ſhare their noble games;
Enter the crowded theatre at will,
Go to the forum, hear the conſul plead,
Are preſent in the thund'ring Capitol
When Tully ſpeaks; at ſofter hours attend
Harmonious Virgil to his Mantuan farm,
Or Baian, and with happy Horace talk
In myrtle groves by Teverone's caſcade.

Hail, precious pages! that amuſe and teach,
Exalt the genius, and improve the breaſt.
[147] Ye ſage hiſtorians all your ſtores unfold,
Reach your clear ſteady mirror—in that glaſs
The forms of good and ill are well portray'd.

But chiefly thou, divine Philoſophy,
Shed thy bleſs'd influence; with thy train appear
Of graces mild, far be the Stoic boaſt,
The Cynic's ſnarl, and churliſh pedantry.
Bright viſitant, if not too high my wiſh,
Come in the lovely dreſs you wore, a gueſt
At Plato's table, or at Tuſculum,
The Roman feaſting his ſelected friends.
Tamer of pride! at thy ſerene rebuke
See crouching inſolence, ſpleen and revenge
Before thy ſhining taper diſappear.
Tutor of human life, auſpicious guide,
Whoſe faithful clue unravels ev'ry Muſe,
Whoſe conduct ſmooths the rougheſt paths; whoſe voice
Controuls each ſtorm, and bids the roar be ſtill:
O condeſcend to gild my darkſome roof:
Let me know thee—the Delphic oracle
Is then obey'd—and I ſhall know myſelf.

VACATION.[148]By — Eſq
HENCE ſage, myſterious law,
That ſit'ſt with rugged brow, and crabbed look
O'er thy black-letter'd book,
And the night-watching ſtudent ſtrik'ſt with awe;
Away with thy dull train,
Slow-pac'd Advice, Surmiſe, and ſquint-ey'd Doubt;
Dwell with the noiſy-rout
Of buſy men, 'mid cities and throng'd halls,
Where Clamour ceaſeleſs bawls,
And enmity and ſtrife thy ſtate ſuſtain.
But on me thy bleſſings pour,
Sweet Vacation. Thee, of yore,
In all her youth and beauty's prime,
Summer bore to aged Time,
As he one ſunny morn beheld her
Tending a field of corn: the elder
There 'mid poppies red and blue,
Unſuſpected nearer drew,
And, with ſoftly-ſliding pace
Haſt'ning to a ſtol'n embrace,
[149] Fill'd her with thee; and joy and mirth
Hung on thy auſpicious birth.
Come, ſweet goddeſs; full of play,
Ever unconfin'd and gay,
Bring the leiſure-hours with thee
Leading on the Graces three
Dancing; nor let aught detain
The Holidays, a ſmiling train.
Whoſe fair brows let Peace ſerene
Crown with olive-branches green.
Bring too Health with ruddy cheek,
Lively air, and count'nance ſleek,
Attended, as ſhe's wont to be,
With all her jolly company
Of exerciſes, chace, and flight,
Active ſtrength, and cunning ſleight,
Nimble feats, and playful bouts,
Leaps of joy, and chearful ſhouts,
Tricks and pranks and ſports and games
Such as youthful Fancy frames.
And, O kind goddeſs, add to theſe
Chearful Content, and placid Eaſe;
Not her who fondly ſitteth near,
Dull Indolence in elbow'd chair;
But Eaſe who aids th' harmonious Nine,
Tuning their inſtruments divine,
And without whom, in lofty ſtrain,
Phaebus' client tries in vain
[150] To raiſe his feeble voice above
The crowd, and catch the ear of Jove.
And do thou, Vacation, deign
To let me paſs among thy train;
So may I thy vot'ry true,
All thy flow'ry paths purſue,
Pleaſed ſtill with thee to meet
In ſome friendly rural ſeat;
Where I gladſome oft' ſurvey
Nature in her beſt array,
Woods and lawns and lakes between,
Fields of corn and hedges green,
Fallow grounds of tawny hue,
Diſtant hills, and mountains blue;
On whoſe ridge far off appears
A wood (the growth of many years)
Of aweful oak, or gloomy pine,
Above th' horizon's level line
Riſing black: ſuch thoſe of old
Where Britiſh druids wont to hold
Solemn aſſemblies, and to keep
Their rites, unfolding myſt'ries deep,
Such that fam'd Dodona's grove,
Sacred to prophetic Jove.
Oft' I admire the verdant ſteep,
Spotted white with many a ſheep,
While, in paſtures rich below
Among the grazing cattle, ſlow
[151] Moves the bull with heavy tread
Hanging down his lumpiſh head,
And the proud ſteed neigheth oft'
Shaking his wanton mane aloft.
Or, traverſing the wood about,
The jingling packhorſe-bells remote
I hear, amid the noontide ſtillneſs,
Sing thro' the air with braſſy ſhrillneſs;
What time the waggon's cumbrous load
Grates along the grav'lly road:
There onward, dreſs'd in homely guiſe,
Some unregarded maiden hies,
Unleſs by chance a trav'ling 'ſquire,
Of baſe intent and foul deſire,
Stops to inſnare, with ſpeech beguiling,
Sweet innocence and beauty ſmiling.
Nor fail I joyful to partake
The lively ſports of country wake,
Where many a lad and many a laſs
Foot it on the cloſe-trod graſs.
There nimble Marian of the green
Matchleſs in the jig is ſeen,
Allow'd beyond compare by all,
The beauty of the ruſtic ball:
While, the tripping damſels near,
Stands a lout with waggiſh leer;
He, if Marian chance to ſhew
Her taper leg and ſtocking blue,
[152] Winks and nods and laughs aloud,
Among the merry-making crowd,
Utt'ring forth, in aukward jeer,
Words unmeet for virgin's ear.
Soon as ev'ning clouds have ſhed
Their wat'ry ſtore on earth's ſoft bed,
And thro' their flowing mantles thin,
Clear azure ſpots of ſky are ſeen,
I quit ſome oak's cloſe-cover'd bow'r
To taſte the boon of new-fall'n ſhow'r,
To pace the corn-field's graſſy edge
Cloſe by a freſh-blown ſweet-bri'r hedge;
While at every green leaf's end
Pearly drops of rain depend,
And an earthy fragrance 'round
Riſes from the moiſten'd ground.
Sudden a ſun-beam darting out,
Brightens the landſkip all about,
With yellow light the grove o'erſpreads,
And tips with gold the haycocks' heads;
Then, as mine eye is eaſtward led,
Some fair caſtle rears its head,
Whoſe height the country round commands,
Well known mark to diſtant lands,
There the windows glowing bright
Blaze from afar with ruddy light
Borrow'd from clouds of ſcarlet dye,
Juſt as the ſun hath left the ſky.
[153] But if chill Eurus cut the air
With keener wing, I then repair
To park or woodland, ſhelter meet,
Near ſome noble's ancient ſeat,
Where long winding walks are ſeen
Stately oaks and elms between,
Whoſe arms promiſcuous form above
High over-arch'd a green alcove;
While the hoarſe-voic'd hungry rook
Near her ſtick-built neſt doth croak,
Waving on the topmoſt bough;
And the maſter ſtay below
Bellows loud with ſavage roar,
Stalking all his hinds before.
Thus muſing, night with even pace
Steals on, o'erſhad' wing nature's face;
While the bat with duſky wings
Flutters round in giddy rings,
And the buzzing chaffers come
Cloſe by mine ear with ſolemn hum.
Homeward now my ſteps I guide
Some riſing graſſy bank beſide,
Studded thick with ſparks of light
Iſſuing from many a glow-worm bright;
While village-cur with minute bark
Alarms the pilf'rer in the dark,
Save what light the ſtars convey,
Cluſter'd in the milky way,
[154] Or ſcatter'd numberleſs on high
Twinkling all o'er the boundleſs ſky,
Then within doors let me meet
The viol touch'd by finger neat,
Or, ſoft ſymphonies among,
Wrap me in the ſacred ſong,
Attun'd by Handel's matchleſs ſkill,
While Attention mute and ſtill
Fixes all my ſoul to hear
The voice harmonious, ſweet and clear.
Nor let ſmooth-tongu'd Converſe fail,
With many a well-deviſed tale.
And ſtories link'd, to twiſt a chain
That may awhile old Time detain,
And make him reſt upon his ſcythe
Pleas'd to ſee the hours ſo blithe:
While, with ſweet attractive grace,
The beauteous houſe-wife of the place
Wins the heart of ev'ry gueſt
By courteous deeds, and all conteſt
Which ſhall readieſt homage ſhew
To ſuch ſov'reign ſweetneſs due.
Theſe delights, Vacation, give
And I with thoe will chuſe to live.

To a LADY very handſome, but too fond of DRESS.

[155]

By the Same.

PRYTHEE why ſo fantaſtick and vain!
What charms can the toilet ſupply?
Why ſo ſtudious, admirers to gain?
Need beauty lay traps for the eye?
Becauſe that thy breaſt is ſo fair,
Muſt thy tucker be ſtill ſetting right?
And canſt thou not laughing forbear,
Becauſe that thy teeth are ſo white?

Shall ſovereign beauty deſcend
To act ſo ignoble a part,
Whole hours at the looking-glaſs ſpend,
A ſlave to the dictates of art?
And cannot thy heart be at reſt
Unleſs thou excelleſt each fair
In trinkets and trumpery dreſs'd?
Is not that a ſuperfluous care?

[156]Vain, idle attempt! to pretend
The lilly with whiteneſs to deck!
Does the rich ſolitaire recommend
The delicate turn of thy neck?
The gloſſy bright hue of thy hair
Can powder or jewels adorn?
Can perfumes or vermilions compare
With the breath or the bluſh of the morn?

When, embarraſs'd with baubles and toys,
Thou'rt ſet out ſo enormouſly fine,
Over-doing thy purpoſe deſtroys,
And to pleaſe thou haſt too much deſign:
Little know'ſt thou, how beauty beguiles;
How alluring the innocent eye;
What ſweetneſs in natural ſmiles,
And what charms in ſimplicity lye.

Thee Nature with beauty has clad,
With genuine ornaments dreſs'd;
Nor can Art an embelliſhment add
To ſet off what already is beſt:
Be it thine, ſelf-accompliſh'd to reign;
Bid the toilet be far ſet apart,
And diſmiſs with an honeſt diſdain
That impertinent Abigail, Art.

ANACREON. ODE III.

[157]

Tranſlated by the Same.

IN the dead of the night, when with labour oppreſs'd
All mortals enjoy the calm bleſſing of reſt,
Cupid knock'd at my door, I awoke with the noiſe,
And "who is it (I call'd) that my ſleep thus deſtroys?

"You need not be frighten'd, he anſwered mild,
"Let me in; I'm a little unfortunate child;
"'Tis a dark rainy night; and I'm wet to the ſkin;
"And my way I have loſt; and do, pray, let me in."

I was mov'd with compaſſion; and ſtriking a light,
I open'd the door; when a boy ſtood in ſight,
Who had wings on his ſhoulders: the rain from him dripp'd,
With a bow and with arrows too he was equipp'd.

I ſtirr'd up my ſire, and cloſe by its ſide
I ſet him down by me: with napkins I dried,
I chaf'd him all over, kept out the cold air,
And I wrung with my hands the wet out of his hair.

He from wet and from cold was no ſooner at eaſe,
But taking his bow up, he ſaid, "if you pleaſe
"We will try it; I would by experiment know
"If the wet hath not damag'd the ſtring of my bow.

[158]

Forthwith from his quiver an arrow he drew,

To the ſtring he apply'd it, and twang went the yew;

The arrow was gone; in my boſom it center'd:

No ſting of a hornet more ſharp ever enter'd.

Away ſkipp'd the urchin, as briſk as a bee,
And laughing, "I wiſh you much joy friend, quoth he:
"My bow is undamag'd, for true went the dart;
"But you will have trouble enough with your heart."

An Imitation of HORACE, Ode II. Book III. Anguſtam amice, &c.

By Mr. TITLEY, to Dr. BENTLEY.

HE that would great in ſcience grow,
By whom bright Virtue is ador'd,
At firſt muſt be content to know
An humble roof, an homely board.

With want, and rigid college laws
Let him inur'd betimes, comply;
Firm to religion's ſacred cauſe,
The learned combat let him try;

[159]

Let him her envied praiſes tell,

And all his eloquence diſcloſe

The fierce endeavours to repel,

And ſtill the tumult of her foes.

Him early form'd, and ſeaſon'd young
Subtle oppoſers ſoon will fear,
And tremble at his artful tongue,
Like Parthians at the Roman ſpear.

Grim death th' inevitable lot
Which fools and cowards ſtrive to fly,
Is with a noble pleaſure ſought
By him who dares for truth to die,

With pureſt luſtre of her own
Exalted Virtue ever ſhines,
Nor as the vulgar ſmile or frown
Advances now and now declines.

A glorious and immortal prize,
She on her hardy ſon beſtows,
She ſhews him heaven, and bids him riſe,
Tho' pain, and toil, and death oppoſe:
With lab'ring ſlight he wings th' obſtructed way,
Leaving both common ſouls and common clay.

A Reply to a Copy of Verſes made in Imita⯑tion of Ode II. Book III. of HORACE, Anguſtam amice pauperiem pati, &c.
And ſent by Mr. TITLEY to Dr. BENTLEY.

[160]

By Dr. BENTLEY.

WHO ſtrives to mount Parnaſſus' hill,
And thence poetick laurels bring,
Muſt firſt acquire due force, and ſkill,
Muſt fly with ſwans, or eagle's wing.

Who nature's treaſures wou'd explore,
Her myſteries and arcana know,
Muſt high, as lofty Newton ſoar,
Muſt ſtoop, as delving Woodward low.

Who ſtudies ancient laws and rites,
Tongues, arts, and arms, and hiſtory,
Muſt drudge like Selden days and nights,
And in the endleſs labour die.

Who travels in religious jars
Truth mixt with error, ſhade with rays,
Like Whiſton wanting pyx or ſtars,
In ocean wide or ſinks or ſtrays.

[161]

But grant our heroe's hope long toil

And comprehenſive genius crown,

All ſciences, all arts his ſpoil,

Yet what reward, or what renown?

Envy, innate in vulgar ſouls,
Envy ſteps in and ſtops his riſe,
Envy, with poiſon'd tarniſh fouls
His luſtre, and his worth decries;

He lives inglorious, or in want,
To college and old books confin'd,
Inſtead of learn'd he's call'd pedant,
Dunces advanc'd, he's left behind:
Yet left content, a genuine ſtoic he,
Great without patron, rich without South-ſea.

Inſcription on a GROTTO of Shells at CRUX-EASTON, the Work of Nine young Ladies,

By Mr. POPE.

HERE ſhunning idleneſs at once and praiſe,

This radiant pile nine rural ſiſters raiſe;

The glitt'ring emblem of each ſpotleſs dame,

Clear as her ſoul, and ſhining as her frame;

[162] Beauty which Nature only can impart,

And ſuch a poliſh as diſgraces Art;

But Fate diſpos'd them in this humble ſort,

And hid in deſarts what wou'd charm a court.

VERSES occaſioned by ſeeing a GROTTO built by Nine Siſters.

SO much this building entertains my ſight,

Nought but the builders can give more delight,

In them the maſter-piece of Nature's ſhown,

In this I ſee Art's maſter-piece in ſtone.

O! Nature, Nature, thou haſt conquer'd Art;

She charms the ſight alone, but you the heart.

N. H.

An EXCUSE for INCONSTANCY, 1737.By the Rev. Dr. LISLE.
WHEN Phoebus's beams are withdrawn from our ſight,
We admire his fair ſiſter, the regent of night;
Tho' languid her beauty, tho' feeble her ray,
Yet ſtill ſhe's akin to the God of the day.
[163] When Suſan, like Cynthia, has finiſh'd her reign,
Then Charlotte, like Phoebus, ſhall ſhine out again.
As Catholic bigots fall humble before
The pictures of thoſe whom in heart they adore,
Which tho' known to be nothing but canvaſs and paint,
Yet are ſaid to enliven their zeal to the ſaint;
So to Suſan I bow, charming Charlotte, for ſhe
Has juſt beauty enough to remind me of thee.
Inconſtant and faithleſs in love's the pretence
On which you arraign me: pray hear my defence.
Such cenſures as theſe to my credit redound;
I acknowledge, and thank a good appetite for't,
When ven'ſon and claret are not to be found,
I can make a good meal upon mutton and port.
Tho' a Highclear's ſo fine that a prince wou'd not ſcorn it,
Tho' nature and taſte have combin'd to adorn it,
Yet the artiſt that owns it wou'd think it ſevere,
Were a law made to keep him there all round the year.
How enrag'd wou'd the rector of b Boſcoville look,
If the king ſhou'd enjoin him to read but one book;
And how wou'd his audience their fortune bemoan,
The gave 'em no ſermons but what were his own.
'Tis variety only makes appetite laſt,
And by changing our diſhes we quicken our taſte.

To VENUS. A RANT, 1732.

[164]

Set to Muſic by Dr. HAYES.

By the Same.

RECITATIVE.O Goddeſs moſt rever'd above,
Bright parent of almighty Love,
Whoſe pow'r th' immortal Gods confeſs,
Hear and approve my fond addreſs:
In melting ſoftneſs I thy doves outvie,
Then teach me like thy ſwans to ſing and fly;
So I thy vot'ry will for ever be;
My ſong, my life I'll conſecrate to thee.

AIR.Give me numbers ſtrong and ſweet,
Glowing language, pointed wit;
Words that might a Veſtal move,
And melt a frozen heart to love.
Bid, bid thy blind boy
All his vigour employ;
[165] On his wings wou'd I ſoar up to fame:
'Tis but juſt, if he ſcorch
My breaſt with his torch,
In my wit too he kindle a flame.

RECITATIVE.Trophies to Chaſtity let others raiſe,
In notes as cold as the dull thing they praiſe,
To rage like mine more ſprightly themes belong;
Gay youth inſpires, and beauty claims my ſong;
Me all the little Loves and Graces own;
For I was born to worſhip them alone.

AIR.Tell not me the joys that wait
On him that's rich, on him that's great:
Wealth and wiſdom I deſpiſe:
Cares ſurround the rich and wiſe.
No, no,—let love, let life be mine;
Bring me women, bring me wine:
Speed the dancing hours away,
And mind not what the grave ones ſay;
Speed, and gild 'em as they fly
With love and freedom, wit and joy;
Bus'neſs, title, pomp, and ſtate,
Give 'em to the fools I hate.

The POWER of MUSIC. A SONG.
Imitated from the SPANISH.

[166]

By the Same.

Set to MUSIC by Dr. HAYES.

I.WHEN Orpheus went down to the regions below,
Which men are forbidden to ſee,
He tun'd up his lyre, as old hiſtories ſhew,
To ſet his Euridice free.

II.All hell was aſtoniſh'd a perſon ſo wiſe
Shou'd raſhly endanger his life,
And venture ſo far,—but how vaſt their ſurpriſe?
When they heard that he came for his wife.

III.To find out a puniſhment due to his fault,
Old Pluto had puzzled his brain,
But hell had not torments ſufficient, he thought,
—So he gave him his wife back again.

IV.But pity ſucceeding found place in his heart,
And pleas'd with his playing ſo well,
He took her again in reward of his art;
Such merit had muſic in hell!

LETTER from SMYRNA to his Siſters at CRUX-EASTON, 1733.

[167]

By the Same.

THE hero who to Smyrna bay
From Eaſton, Hants, purſu'd his way,
Who travers'd ſeas, and hills and vales,
To fright his ſiſters with his tales,
Sing heavenly Muſe; for what befel
Thou ſaw'ſt, and only thou can'ſt tell.
Say firſt (but one thing I premiſe,
I'll not be chid for telling lies;
Beſides, my grannum us'd to ſay
I always had a knack that way,
So, if the love of truth be in ye,
Read Strabo, Diodorus, Pliny—
But like ſome authors I could name,
Wrapt in myſelf I loſe my theme.)
Say firſt, thoſe very rocks we ſpy'd,
But left 'em on the ſtarboard ſide,
Where Juno urg'd the Trojan's ſate.
Shield us, ye Gods, from female hate!
[168] Then how precarious was the doom
Of Caeſar's line, and mighty Rome,
Snatch'd from the very jaws of ruin,
And ſav'd, poor c Die, for thy undoing.
What ſaw we on Sicilian ground?
(A ſoil in ancient verſe renown'd)
The ſelf-ſame ſpot, or Virgil ly'd,
On which the good Anchiſes dy'd;
The fields where Ceres' daughter ſported,
And where the pretty Cyclops courted.
The nymph hard-hearted as the rocks,
Refus'd the monſter, ſcorn'd his flocks,
And took a ſhepherd in his ſtead,
With nought but love and worth to plead;
An inſtance of a generous mind
That does much honour to your kind,
But in an age of fables grew,
So poſſibly it mayn't be true.
While on the ſummit Aetna glows,
His ſhivering ſides are chill'd with ſnows.
Beneath, the painted landſkip charms;
Here infant Spring in Winter's arms
Wantons ſecure; in youthful pride
Stands Summer laughing by her ſide;
Ev'n Autumn's yellow robes appear,
And one gay ſcene diſcloſes all the year.

[169]Hence to rude Cerigo we came,
Known once by Cytherea's name;
When Ocean firſt the goodeſs bore,
She roſe on this diſtinguiſh'd ſhore.
Here firſt the happy Paris ſtopp'd,
When Helen from her lord elop'd.
With pleas'd reflection I ſurvey'd
Each ſecret grott, each conſcious ſhade;
Envy'd his choice, approv'd his flame,
And fondly wiſh'd my lot the ſame.
O were the cauſe reviv'd again!
For charming Queenſbury liv'd not then,
The radiant fruit, had ſhe been there,
Would ſcarce have fallen to Venus' ſhare;
Saturnia's ſelf had wav'd her claim,
And modeſt Pallas bluſh'd for ſhame;
All had been right: the Phyrgian ſwain
Had ſigh'd for her, but ſigh'd in vain;
The fair Oenone joy'd to find,
The pains ſhe felt repaid in kind;
No rape reveng'd, no room for ſtrife,
Atrides might have kept his wife,
Old Troy in peace and plenty ſmil'd—
But the d beſt poem had been ſpoil'd.

How did my heart with joy run o'er,
When to the fam'd Cecropian ſhore,
Wafted by gentle breezes, we
Came gliding thro' the ſmooth ſtill ſea!
[170] While backward rov'd my buſy thought
On deeds in diſtant ages wrought;
On tyrants gloriouſly withſtood;
On ſeas diſtain'd with Perſian blood;
On trophies rais'd o'er hills of ſlain
In Marathon's unrival'd plain.
Then, as around I caſt my eye,
And view'd the pleaſing proſpect nigh,
The land for arms and arts renown'd,
Where wit was honour'd, poets crown'd;
Whoſe manners and whoſe rules refin'd
Our ſouls, and civiliz'd mankind;
Or (yet a loftier pitch to raiſe
Our wonder, and compleat its praiſe)
The land that e Plato's maſter bore—
How did my heart with joy run o'er!

Now coaſting on the eaſtern ſide,
We peep'd where Peneus rolls his tide:
Where Arethuſa came t' appeaſe
The ſhepherd that had loſt his bees,
And led him to Cyrene's grott;
'Tis a long tale, and matters not.
Dryden will tell you all that paſt;
See, Virgil's Georgics, book the laſt.
I ſpeak on't, but to let you know
This grott ſtill ſtands in ſtatu quo;
Of which if any doubts remain,
I've proof, as follows, clear and plain.
[171] Here, ſiſters, we ſuch honours met!
Such honours I ſhall ne'er forget.
The Goddeſs (no uncommon caſe)
Proud, I ſuppoſe, to ſhew her place,
Or piqu'd perhaps at your renown,
Sent Boreas to invite us down;
And he ſo preſs'd it, that we us'd
Some pains to get ourſelves excus'd.
My brother ſhipmates, all in haſte
Declar'd, that ſhells were not their taſte;
And I had f ſomewhere ſeen, you know,
A ſiner grott than ſhe could ſhew.

Hence let the Muſe to Delos roam,
Or Nio, fam'd for Homer's tomb;
To Naxos, known in ancient time,
For Bacchus' love, for Theſeus' crime.
Can ſhe the Leſbian vine forget
Whence Horace reinforc'd his wit?
Where the fam'd harp Arion ſtrung
Nor play'd more ſweet than Sapho ſung?
Could the old bards revive again,
How would they mourn th' inverted ſcene!
Scarce with the barren waſte acquainted,
They once ſo beautifully painted.

And here, 'twixt friends, I needs muſt ſay,
But let it go no farther, pray,
Theſe ſung-up, cry'd up countries are
Diſpleaſing, rugged, black, and bare;
[172] And all l've yet beheld or known
Serve only to endear my own.

The matters I ſhall next diſcloſe,
'Tis likely may be wrapp'd in proſe;
But verſe methought would ſuit theſe better,
Beſides, it lengthens out my letter.
Read then, dear girls, with kind regard,
What comes ſo far, what comes ſo hard;
And to our mother too make known,
How travelling has improv'd her ſon.

Let not malicious critics join
Pope's homeſpun rhimes in rank with mine,
Form'd on that very ſpot of earth,
Where Homer's ſelf receiv'd his birth;
Add, as I ſaid, t' enhance their worth,
The pains they coſt in bringing forth;
While his, as all mankind agrees,
Tho' wrote with care, are wrote with eaſe.

Part of a LETTER to my Siſters at CRUX-EASTON, wrote from CAIRO in EGYPT, AUGUST 1734.

By the Same.

WHILE you, my dear girls, in your paradiſe ſtray,
Diverting with innocent freedom the day,
I wander alone in a barbarous land,
Half bak'd by the ſun, half blind by the ſand.
[173] Then your wood too and grotto ſo ſwim in my ſight,
They give me no reſpite by day nor by night;
No ſooner aſleep but I'm dreaming of you;
I am juſt wak'd from one,—wou'd to God it were true.

Methought I was now a fine gentleman grown,
And had got, Lord knows how, an eſtate of my own;
Good-bye to plain Tom, I was rais'd a peg higher;
Some call'd me his worſhip, and others the ſquire.
'Twas a place, I remember, exactly like Eaſton,
A ſcene for an emperor's fancy to feaſt on.
There I built a fine houſe with great coſt and great care,
(Your la'ſhips have form'd many ſuch in the air)
Not of ſtucco, nor brick, but as good Portland ſtone,
As Kent wou'd deſire to be working upon.
The apartments not ſmall, nor monſtrouſly great,
But chiefly for uſe, and a little for ſtate;
So begilt, and becarv'd, and with ornaments grac'd,
That ev'ry one ſaid, I'd an excellent taſte.
Here I liv'd like a king, never hoarded my pelf,
Kept a coach for my ſiſters, a nag for myſelf,
With ſomething that's good when our Highclear friends come,
And, ſpite of 'ſquire Herbert, a fire in each room.
A canal made for profit as well as for pleaſure,
That's about, let me ſee, two acres in meaſure;
Both the eye to delight, and the table to crown,
With a jack, or a perch, when my uncles come down.
An exceeding great wood, that's been ſet a great while,
In length near a league, and in breadth near a mile.
[174] There ev'ry dear girl her bright genius diſplays,
In a thouſand fine whimſies a thouſand fine ways.
O how charming the walks to my fancy appear!
What a number of temples and grottos are here!
My ſoul was tranſported to ſuch an extreme,
That I leap'd up in raptures,—when lo! 'twas a dream;
Then vexing I chid the impertinent day
For driving ſo ſweet a deluſion away.
Thus ſpectres ariſe, as by nurſe-maids we're told,
And hie to the place where they buried their gold:
There hov'ring around until morning remain;
Then ſadly return to their torments again.

LETTER from MARSEILLES to my Siſters at CRUX-EASTON, MAY 1735.

By the Same.

SCENE, the ſtudy at Crux-Eaſton. Molly and Fanny are ſitting at work; enter to them Harriot in a paſſion.

HARRIOT.

LORD! ſiſter, here's the butcher come,
And not one word from brother Tom;
The punctual ſpark, that made his boaſt
He'd write by ev'ry other poſt!
[175] That ever I was ſo abſurd
To take a man upon his word!
Quoth Frances, Child, I wonder much
You cou'd expect him to keep touch;
'Tis ſo, my dear, with all mankind;
When out of ſight you're out of mind.
Think you he'd to his ſiſters write?
Was ever girl ſo unpolite!
Some fair Italian ſtands poſſeſs'd,
And reigns ſole miſtreſs in his breaſt;
To her he dedicates his time,
And fawns in proſe, or ſighs in rhyme;
She'll give him tokens of her love,
Perhaps not eaſy to remove;
Such as will make him large amends
For loſs of ſiſters, and of friends.

Cries Harriot, when he comes to France,
I hope in God he'll learn to dance,
And leave his aukward habits there,
I'm ſure he has enough to ſpare.

O cou'd he leave his faults, ſaith Fanny,
And bring the good alone, if any,
Poor brother Tom, he'd grow ſo light,
The wind might rob us of him quite!
Of habits he may well get clear;
Ill humours are the faults I fear,
For in my life I ne'er ſaw yet
A creature half ſo paſſionate.
[176] Good heav'ns! how did he rave and tear,
On my not going you know where;
I ſcarcely yet have got my dread off:
I thought he'd bite my ſiſter's head off.
'Tween him and Jenny what a clatter
About a fig, a mighty matter!
I cou'd recount a thouſand more,
But ſcandal's what I moſt abhor.

Molly, who long had patient ſate,
And heard in ſilence all their chat,
Obſerving how they ſpoke with rancour,
Took up my cauſe, for which I thank her.
What eloquence was then diſplay'd,
The charming things that Molly ſaid,
Perhaps it ſuits not me to tell;
But faith! ſhe ſpoke extremely well.
She firſt, with much ado, put on
A prudiſh face, then thus begun.

Heyday! quoth ſhe, you let your tongue
Run on moſt ſtrangely, right or wrong;
'Tis what I never can connive at;
Beſides, conſider whom you drive at,
A perſon of eſtabliſh'd credit,
Nobody better, tho' I ſaid it,
In all that's good, ſo tried and known,
Why, girls, he's quite a proverb grown,
His worth no mortal dares diſpute:
Then he's your brother too to boot.

[177]At this ſhe made a moment's pauſe,
Then with a ſigh reſum'd the cauſe.
Alas! my dears, you little know
A ſailor's toil, a trav'ler's woe;
Perhaps this very hour he ſtrays
A lonely wretch thro' deſart ways;
Or ſhipwreck'd on a foreign ſtrand,
He falls beneath ſome ruffian's hand;
Or on the naked rock he lies,
And pinch'd by famine waſtes and dies:
Can you this hated brother ſee
Floating, the ſport of wind and ſea?
Can you his feeble accents hear,
Tho' but in thought, nor drop a tear?
He faintly ſtrives, his hopes are fled,
The billows booming o'er his head;
He mounts upon the waves again,
He calls on us, but calls in vain;
To death preſerves his friendſhip true,
And mutters out a kind adieu.
See, now he riſes to our ſight,
Now ſinks in everlaſting night.

Here Fanny's colour roſe and fell,
And Harriot's throat began to ſwell;
One ſidled to the window quite,
Pretending ſome unuſual ſight,
The other left the room outright;
While Molly laugh'd, her ends obtain'd,
To think how artfully ſhe feign'd.

The HISTORY of PORSENNA, King of RUSSIA.
IN TWO BOOKS.

[178]

By the Same.

Arva, beata

Petamus arva, divites et inſulas,

HOR. Epod. 16.

BOOK I.

IN Ruſſia's frozen clime ſome ages ſince
There dwelt, hiſtorians ſay, a worthy prince,
Who to his people's good conſin'd his care,
And fix'd the baſis of his empire there;
Inlarg'd their trade, the lib'ral arts improv'd,
Made nations happy, and himſelf belov'd;
To all the neighb'ring ſtates a terror grown,
The dear delight, and glory of his own.
Not like thoſe kings who vainly ſeek renown
From countries ruin'd, and from battles won;
Thoſe mighty Nimrods, who mean laws deſpiſe,
Call murder but a princely exerciſe,
And if one bloodleſs ſun ſhou'd ſteal away,
Cry out with Titus, they have loſt a day;
[179] Who, to be more than men, themſelves debaſe
Beneath the brute, their Maker's form deface,
Raiſing their titles by their God's diſgrace.
Like fame to bold Eroſtratus we give,
Who ſcorn'd by leſs than ſacrilege to live;
On holy ruins rais'd a laſting name,
And in the temples's fire diffus'd his ſhame.
Far diff'rent praiſes, and a brighter fame,
The virtues of the young Porſenna claim;
For by that name the Ruſſian king was known,
And ſure a nobler ne'er adorn'd the throne.
In war he knew the deathful ſword to wield,
And ſought the thickeſt dangers of the field,
A bold commander, but, the ſtorm o'erblown,
He ſeem'd as he were made for peace alone;
Then was the golden age again reſtor'd,
Nor leſs his juſtice honour'd than his ſword.
All needleſs pomp, and outward grandeur ſpar'd,
The deeds that grac'd him were his only guard;
No private views beneath a borrow'd name;
His and the public intereſt were the ſame.
In wealth and pleaſure let the ſubject live,
But virtue is the king's prerogative;
Porſenna there without a rival ſtood,
And wou'd maintain his right of doing good.
Nor did his perſon leſs attraction wear,
Such majeſty and ſweetneſs mingled there;
[180] Heav'n with uncommon art the clay refin'd,
A proper manſion for ſo fair a mind;
Each look, each action bore peculiar grace,
And love itſelf was painted on his face.
In peaceful time he ſuffer'd not his mind
To ruſt in ſloth, tho' much to peace inclin'd;
Nor wanton in the lap of pleaſure lay,
And loſt to glory loiter'd life away;
But active riſing ere the prime of day,
Thro' woods and lonely deſarts lov'd to ſtray;
With hounds and horns to wake the furious bear,
Or rouze the tawny lion from his laire;
To rid the foreſt of the ſavage brood,
And whet his courage for his country's good.

One day, as he purſued the dang'rous ſport,
Attended by the nobles of his court,
It chanced a beaſt of more than common ſpeed
Sprang from the brake, and thro' the deſart fled.
The ardent prince impetuous as the wind
Ruſh'd on, and left his lagging train behind.
Fir'd with the chaſe, and full of youthful blood,
O'er plains, and vales, and woodland wilds he rode,
Urging his courſer's ſpeed, nor thought the day
How waſted, nor how intricate the way;
Nor, till the night in duſky clouds came on,
Reſtrain'd his pace, or found himſelf alone.
Miſſing his train, he ſtrove to meaſure back
The road he came, but cou'd not find the track;
[181] Still turning to the place he left before,
And only lab'ring to be loſt the more.
The bugle horn, which o'er his ſhoulders hung,
So loud he winded, that the foreſt rung;
In vain, no voice but echo from the ground,
And vocal woods, made mock'ry of the ſound.

And now the gath'ring clouds began to ſpread
O'er the dun face of night a deeper ſhade;
And the hoarſe thunder growling from afar,
With herald voice proclaim'd th' approaching war;
Silence awhile enſued,—then by degrees
A hollow wind came mutt'ring thro' the trees.
Sudden the full fraught ſky diſcharg'd its ſtore,
Of rain and rattling hail a mingled ſhow'r;
The active lightning ran along the ground;
The fiery bolts by fits were hurl'd around,
And the wide foreſts trembled at the ſound.
Amazement ſeiz'd the prince;—where cou'd he fly?
No guide to lead, no friendly cottage nigh.
Penſive and unreſolv'd awhile he ſtood,
Beneath the ſcanty covert of the wood;
But drove from thence ſoon ſallied forth again,
As chance directed, on the dreary plain;
Conſtrain'd his melancholy way to take
Thro' many a loathſome bog, and thorny brake,
Caught in the thicket, floundring in the lake.
Wet with the ſtorm, and wearied with the way,
By hunger pinch'd, himſelf to beaſts a prey;
[182] Nor wine to chear his heart, nor fire to burn,
Nor place to reſt, nor proſpect to return.
Drooping and ſpiritleſs, at life's deſpair
He bade it paſs, not worth his farther care;
When ſuddenly he ſpied a diſtant light,
That faintly twinkled thro' the gloom of night,
And his heart leap'd for joy, and bleſs'd the welcome ſight.
Oft-times he doubted, it appear'd ſo far,
And hung ſo high, 'twas nothing but a ſtar,
Or kindled vapour wand'ring thro' the ſky,
But ſtill preſs'd on his ſteed, ſtill kept it in his eye;
Till, much fatigue, aad many dangers paſt,
At a huge mountain he arriv'd at laſt.
There lighting from his horſe, on hands and knees
Grop'd out the darkſome road, by ſlow degrees,
Crawling or clamb'ring o'er the rugged way;
The thunder rowls above, the flames around him play,
Joyful at length he gain'd the ſteepy height,
And found the rift whence ſprang the friendly light,
And here he ſtopp'd to reſt his wearied feet,
And weigh the perils he had ſtill to meet;
Unſheath'd his truſty ſword, and dealt his eyes
With caution round him to prevent ſurprize,
Then ſummon'd all the forces of his mind,
And ent'ring boldy caſt his fears behind;
Reſolv'd to puſh his way, whate'er withſtood,
Or periſh bravely as a monarch ſhou'd.

[183]While he the wonders of the place ſurvey'd,
And thro' the various cells at random ſtray'd,
In a dark corner of the cave he view'd
Somewhat, that in the ſhape of woman ſtood;
But more deform'd than dreams can repreſent
The midnight hag, or poet's fancy paint
The Lapland witch, when ſhe her broom beſtrides,
And ſcatters ſtorms and tempeſts as ſhe rides.
She look'd as nature made her to diſgrace
Her kind, and caſt a blot on all the race;
Her ſhrivel'd ſkin with yellow ſpots beſmear'd
Like mouldy records ſeem'd; her eyes were blear'd;
Her feeble limbs with age and palſy ſhook;
Bent was her body, haggard was her look.
From the dark nook outcrept the filthy crone,
And propp'd upon her crutch came tott'ring on.

The prince in civil guiſe approach'd the dame,
Told her his piteous caſe, and whence he came,
And till Aurora ſhou'd the ſhades expel,
Implor'd a lodging in her friendly cell.
Mortal, whoe'er thou art, the fiend began,
And as ſhe ſpake a deadly horror ran
Thro' all his frame; his cheeks the blood forſook,
Chatter'd his teeth, his knees together ſtruck.
Whoe'er thou art, that with preſumption rude
Dar'ſt on our ſacred privacy intrude,
And without licence in our court appear,
Know, thou'rt the firſt that ever enter'd here.
[184] But ſince thou plead'ſt excuſe, thou'rt hither brought
More by thy fortune than thy own default,
Thy crime, tho' great, an eaſy pardon finds,
For mercy ever dwells in royal minds;
And wou'd you learn from whoſe indulgent hand
You live, and in whoſe aweful preſence ſtand,
Know farther, thro' you wide extended plains
Great Eolus the king of tempeſts reigns,
And in this lofty palace makes abode,
Well ſuited to his ſtate, and worthy of the God.
The various elements his empire own,
And pay their humble homage at his throne;
And hither all the ſtorms and clouds reſort,
Proud to increaſe the ſplendor of his court.
His queen am I, from whom the beauteous race
Of winds aroſe, ſweet fruit of our embrace!
She ſcarce had ended, when, with wild uproar,
And horrid din, her ſons impetuous pour
Around the cave; came ruſhing in amain
Lybs, Eurus, Boreas, all the boiſt'rous train;
And cloſe behind them on a whirlwind rode
In clouded majeſty the bluſt'ring God.
Their locks a thouſand ways were blown about;
Their cheeks like full-blown bladders ſtrutted out;
Their boaſting talk was of the feats th' had done,
Of trees uprooted, and of towns o'erthrown;
And when they kindly turn'd them to accoſt
The prince, they almoſt pierc'd him with their froſt.

[185]The gaping hag in fix'd attention ſtood,
And at the cloſe of ev'ry tale cried—good,
Bleſſing with outſtretch'd arms each darling ſon,
In due proportion to the miſchief done.
And where, ſaid ſhe, does little Zephyr ſtray?
Know ye, my ſons, your brother's rout to-day?
In what bold deeds does he his hours employ?
Grant heav'n no evil has befall'n my boy!
Ne'er was he known to linger thus before.
Scarce had ſhe ſpoke, when at the cavern door
Came lightly tripping in a form more fair
Than the young poet's fond ideas are,
When fir'd with love, he tries his utmoſt art
To paint the beauteous tyrant of his heart.

A ſatin veſt his ſlender ſhape confin'd,
Embroider'd o'er with flow'rs of ev'ry kind,
Flora's own work, when firſt the goddeſs ſtrove
To win the little wanderer to her love.
Of burniſh'd ſilver were his ſandals made,
Silver his buſkins, and with gems o'erlaid;
A ſaffron-colour'd robe behind him flow'd,
And added grace and grandeur as he trod.
His wings than lillies whiter to behold,
Sprinkled with azure ſpots, and ſtreak'd with gold;
So thin their form, and of ſo light a kind,
That they for ever danc'd, and flutter'd in the wind.
Around his temples with becoming air,
In wanton ringlets curl'd his auburn hair,
[186] And o'er his ſhoulders negligently ſpread;
A wreath of fragrant roſes crown'd his head.

Such his attire, but O! no pen can trace,
No words can ſhew the beauties of his face;
So kind! ſo winning! ſo divinely fair!
Eternal youth and pleaſure flouriſh there;
There all the little loves and graces meet,
And ev'ry thing that's ſoft, and ev'ry thing that's ſweet.

Thou vagrant, cried the dame in angry tone,
Where cou'dſt thou loiter thus ſo long alone?
Little thou car'ſt what anxious thoughts moleſt,
What pangs are lab'ring in a mother's breaſt.
Well do ye ſhew your duty by your haſte,
For thou of all my ſons art always laſt:
A child leſs fondled wou'd have fled more faſt.
Sure 'tis a curſe on mothers, doom'd to mourn,
Where beſt they love, the leaſt and worſt return.

My dear mamma, the gentle youth replied,
And made a low obeiſance, ceaſe to chide,
Nor wound me with your words, for well you know,
Your Zephyr bears a part in all your woe;
How great muſt be his ſorrow then to learn
That he himſelf's the cauſe of your concern!
Nor had I loiter'd thus had I been free,
But the fair princeſs of Felicity
Intreated me to make ſome ſhort delay,
And aſk'd by her who cou'd refuſe to ſtay?

[187]Surrounded by the damſels of her court
She ſought the ſhady grove, her lov'd reſort;
Freſh roſe the graſs, the flow'rs were mix'd between,
Like rich embroid'ry on a ground of green,
And in the midſt, protected by the ſhade,
A cryſtal ſtream in wild meanders play'd;
While in its banks, the trembling leaves among,
A thouſand little birds in concert ſung,
Cloſe by a mount with fragrant ſhrubs o'ergrown,
On a cool moſſy couch ſhe laid her down;
Her air, her poſture, all conſpir'd to pleaſe;
Her head upon her ſnowy arm at eaſe.
Reclin'd a ſtudied careleſſneſs expreſs'd;
Looſe lay her robe, and naked heav'd her breaſt.
Eager I flew to that delightful place,
And pour'd a ſhow'r of kiſſes on her face;
Now hover'd o'er her neck, her breaſt, her arms,
Like bees o'er flow'rs, and taſted all their charms;
And then her lips, and then her cheeks I tried,
And fann'd, and wanton'd round on ev'ry ſide.
O Zephyr, cried the fair, thou charming boy,
Thy preſence only can create me joy;
To me thou art beyond expreſſion dear,
Nor can I quit the place while thou art here.
Excuſe my weakneſs, madam, when I ſwear
Such gentle words join'd with ſo ſoft an air,
Pronounc'd ſo ſweetly from a mouth ſo fair,
[188] Quite raviſh'd all my ſenſe, nor did I know
How long I ſtaid, or when, or where to go.

Mean while the damſels debonnair and gay,
Prattled around, and laugh'd the time away:
Theſe in ſoft notes addreſs'd the raviſh'd ear,
And warbled out ſo ſweet, 'twas heav'n to hear;
And thoſe in rings, beneath the greenwood ſhade,
Danc'd to the melody their fellows made,
Some ſtudious of themſelves, employ'd their care
In weaving flow'ry wreaths to deck their hair;
While others to ſome fav'rite plant convey'd
Refreſhing ſhow'rs, and chear'd its drooping head.
A joy ſo general ſpread thro' all the place,
Such ſatisfaction dwelt on ev'ry face,
The nymphs ſo kind, ſo lovely look'd the queen,
That never eye beheld a ſweeter ſcene.

Porſenna, like a ſtatue fix'd appear'd,
And wrapp'd in ſilent wonder gaz'd and heard;
Much he admir'd the ſpeech, the ſpeaker more,
And dwelt on ev'ry word, and griev'd to find it o'er.
O gentle youth, he cried, proceed to tell,
In what fair country does this princeſs dwell;
What regions unexplor'd, what hidden coaſt
Can ſo much goodneſs, ſo much beauty boaſt?

To whom the winged god with gracious look,
Numberleſs ſweets diffuſing while he ſpoke,
Thus anſwer'd kind—Theſe happy gardens lie
Far hence remov'd, beneath a milder ſky;
Their name—The kingdom of Felicity.
[189] Sweet ſcenes of endleſs bliſs, enchanted ground,
A ſoil for ever ſought, but ſeldom found;
Tho' in the ſearch all human kind in vain
Weary their wits, and waſte their lives in pain;
In diff'rent parties, diff'rent paths they tread,
As reaſon guides them, or as follies lead;
Theſe wrangling for the place they ne'er ſhall ſee,
Debating thoſe, if ſuch a place there be;
But not the wiſeſt, nor the beſt can ſay
Where lies the point, or mark the certain way.
Some few, by Fortune favour'd for her ſport,
Have ſail'd in ſight of this delightful port;
In thought already ſeiz'd the bleſs'd abodes,
And in their fond delirium rank'd with gods.
Fruitleſs attempt! all avenues are kept
By dreadful foes, ſentry that never ſlept.
Here fell Detraction darts her pois'nous breath
Fraught with a thouſand ſtings, and ſcatters death;
Sharp-ſighted Envy there maintains her poſt,
And ſhakes her flaming brand, and ſtalks around the coaſt.
Theſe on the helpleſs bark their fury pour,
Plunge in the waves, or daſh againſt the ſhore;
Teach wretched mortals they were doom'd to mourn,
And ne'er muſt reſt but in the ſilent urn.

But ſay, young monarch, for what name you bear
Your mien, your dreſs, your perſon, all declare;
And tho' I ſeldom fan the frozen north,
Yet I have heard of brave Porſenna's worth;
[190] My brother Boreas thro' the world has flown,
Swelling his breath to ſpread forth your renown;
Say, wou'd you chooſe to viſit this retreat,
And view the world where all theſe wonders meet?
Wiſh you ſome friend o'er that tempeſtuous ſea
To bear you ſafe! behold that friend in me.
My active wings ſhall all their force employ,
And nimbly waft you to the realms of joy;
As once to gratify the god of Love,
I bore fair Pſyche to the Cyprian grove;
Or as Jove's bird deſcending from an high,
Snatch'd the young Trojan trembling to the ſky.
There perfect bliſs thou may'ſt for ever ſhare,
'Scap'd from the buſy world, and all its care;
There in the lovely princeſs ſhalt thou find
A miſtreſs ever blooming, ever kind.
All ecſtacy on air Porſenna trod,
And to his boſom ſtrain'd the little god;
With grateful ſentiments his heart o'erflow'd,
And in the warmeſt words millions of thanks beſtow'd.

When Eolus in ſurly humour broke
Their ſtrict embrace, and thus abruptly ſpoke.
Enough of compliment; I hate the ſport
Of meanleſs words; this is no human court;
Where plain and honeſt are diſcarded quite,
For the more modiſh title of polite;
Where in ſoft ſpeeches hypocrites impart
The venom'd ills that lurk beneath the heart;
[191] In friendſhip's holy guiſe their guilt improve,
And kindly kill with ſpecious ſhew of love.
For us,—my ſubjects are not us'd to wait,
And waſte their hours to hear a mortal prate;
They muſt abroad before the riſing ſun,
And hie 'em to the ſeas: there's miſchief to be done.
Excuſe my plainneſs, Sir, but buſineſs ſtands,
And we have ſtorms and ſhipwrecks on our hands.

He ended frowning, and the noiſy rout,
Each to his ſeveral cell went puffing out.
But Zephyr, far more courteous than the reſt,
To his own bow'r convey'd the royal gueſt;
There on a bed of roſes neatly laid,
Beneath the fragrance of a myrtle ſhade,
His limbs to needful reſt the prince applied,
His ſweet companion ſlumb'ring by his ſide.

BOOK II.

NO ſooner in her ſilver chariot roſe
The ruddy morn, than ſated with repoſe
The prince addreſs'd his hoſt; the God awoke,
And leaping from his couch, thus kindly ſpoke.
This early call, my lord, that chides my ſtay,
Requires my thanks, and I with joy obey.
Like you I long to reach the bliſsful coaſt,
Hate the ſlow night, and mourn the moments loſt.
[192] The bright Roſinda, lovelieſt of the fair
That crowd the princeſs' court, demands my care;
Ev'n now with fears and jealouſies o'erborn
Upbraids, and calls me cruel and forſworn.
What ſweet rewards on all my toils attend,
Serving at once my miſtreſs and my friend;
Juſt to my love and to my duty too,
Well paid in her, well pleas'd in pleaſing you.
This ſaid, he led him to the cavern gate,
And claſp'd him in his arms, and pois'd his weight;
Then ballancing his body here and there,
Stretch'd forth his agile wings, and launch'd in air;
Swift as the fiery meteor from on high
Shoots to its goal, and gleams athwart the ſky.
Here with quick fan his lab'ring pinions play;
There glide at eaſe along the liquid way;
Now lightly ſkim the plain with even flight;
Now proudly ſoar above the mountain's height.

Spiteful Detraction, whoſe envenom'd hate
Sports with the ſuff'rings of the good and great,
Spares not our prince, but with opprobrious ſneer
Arraigns him of the heinous ſin of fear;
That he, ſo tried in arms, whoſe very name
Infus'd a ſecret panic where it came,
Ev'n he, as high above the clouds he flew,
And ſpied the mountains leſs'ning to the view,
Nought round him but the wide expanded air,
Helpleſs, abandon'd to a ſtripling's care,
[193] Struck with the rapid whirl, and dreadful height,
Confeſs'd ſome faint alarm, ſome little fright.

The friendly God, who inſtantly divin'd
The terrors that poſſeſs'd his fellow's mind,
To calm his troubled thoughts, and cheat the way,
Deſcrib'd the nations that beneath them lay,
The name, the climate, and the ſoil's increaſe,
Their arms in war, their government in peace;
Shew'd their domeſtic arts, their foreign trade,
What int'reſt they purſued, what leagues they made.
The ſweet diſcourſe ſo charm'd Porſenna's ear,
That loſt in joy he had no time for fear.

From Scandinavia's cold inclement waſte
O'er wide Germania's various realms they paſt,
And now on Albion's fields ſuſpend their toil,
And hover for awhile, and bleſs the ſoil.
O'er the gay ſcene the prince delighted hung,
And gaz'd in rapture, and forgot his tongue;
Till burſting forth at length. Behold, cried he,
The promis'd iſle, the land I long'd to ſee;
Thoſe plains, thoſe vales, and fruitful hills declare
My queen, my charmer muſt inhabit there.
Thus rav'd the monarch, and the gentle guide,
Pleas'd with his error, thus in ſmiles replied.

I muſt applaud, my lord, the lucky thought;
Ev'n I, who know th' original, am caught,
And doubt my ſenſes, when I view the draught.
[194] The ſlow-aſcending hill, the lofty wood
That mantles o'er its brow, the ſilver flood
Wand'ring in mazes thro' the flow'ry mead,
The herd that in the plenteous paſtures feed,
And ev'ry object, ev'ry ſcene excites
Freſh wonder in my ſoul, and fills with new delights:
Dwells chearful Plenty there, and learned Eaſe,
And Art with Nature ſeems at ſtrife to pleaſe.
There Liberty, delightful goddeſs, reigns,
Gladdens each heart, and gilds the fertile plains;
There firmly ſeated may ſhe ever ſmile,
And ſhow'r her bleſſings o'er her fav'rite iſle:
But ſee, the riſing ſun reproves our ſtay.
He ſaid, and to the ocean wing'd his way,
Stretching his courſe to climates then unknown,
Nations that ſwelter in the burning zone;
There in Peruvian vales a moment ſtaid,
And ſmooth'd his wings beneath the citron ſhade;
Then ſwift his oary pinions plied again,
Croſs'd the new world, and ſought the Southern main;
Where many a wet and weary league o'erpaſt,
The wiſh'd for paradiſe appear'd at laſt.

With force abated now they gently ſweep
O'er the ſmooth ſurface of the ſhining deep;
The Dryads hail'd them from the diſtant ſhore,
The Nereids play'd around, the Tritons ſwam before,
While ſoft Favonius their arrival greets,
And breathes his welcome in a thouſand ſweets.

[195]Nor pale diſeaſe, nor health-conſuming care,
Nor wrath, nor foul revenge can enter there;
No vapour's foggy gloom imbrowns the ſky;
No tempeſts rage, no angry lightnings fly;
But dews, and ſoft-refreſhing airs are found,
And pure aetherial azure ſhines around.
Whate'er the ſweet Sabaean ſoil can boaſt,
Or Mecca's plains, or India's ſpicy coaſt;
What Hybla hills, or rich Oebalia's fields,
Or flow'ry vale of fam'd Hymettus yields;
Or what of old th' Heſperian orchard grac'd;
All that was e'er delicious to the taſte,
Sweet to the ſmell, or lovely to the view,
Collected there with added beauty grew.
High-tow'ring to the heav'ns the trees are ſeen,
Their bulk immenſe, their leaf for ever green;
So cloſely interwove, the tell-tale ſun
Can ne'er deſcry the deeds beneath them done,
But where by fits the ſportive gales divide
Their tender tops, and fan the leaves aſide.
Like a ſmooth carpet at their feet lies ſpread
The matted graſs, by bubbling fountains fed;
And on each bough the feather'd choir employ
Their melting notes, and nought is heard but joy.
The painted flow'rs exhale a rich perfume,
The fruits are mingled with eternal bloom,
And Spring and Autumn hand in hand appear,
Lead on the merry months, and join to cloath the year.
[196] Here, o'er the mountain's ſhaggy ſummit pour'd,
From rock to rock the tumbling torrent roar'd,
While beauteous Iris in the vale below
Paints on the riſing fumes her radiant bow.
Now thro' the meads the mazy current ſtray'd,
Now hid its wand'rings in the myrtle ſhade;
Or in a thouſand veins divides its ſtore,
Viſits each plant, refreſhes ev'ry flow'r;
O'er gems and golden ſands in murmurs flows,
And ſweetly ſoothes the ſoul, and lulls to ſoft repoſe.

If hunger call, no ſooner can the mind
Expreſs her will to needful food inclin'd,
But in ſome cool receſs, or op'ning glade,
The ſeats are plac'd, the tables neatly laid,
And inſtantly convey'd by magic hand
In comely rows the coſtly diſhes ſtand;
Meats of all kinds that nature can impart,
Prepar'd in all the niceſt forms of art.
A troop of ſprightly nymphs array'd in green,
With flow'ry chaplets crown'd, come ſcudding in;
With fragrant bloſſoms theſe adorn the feaſt,
Thoſe with officious zeal attend the gueſt;
Beneath his feet the ſilken carpet ſpread,
Or ſprinkle liquid odours o'er his head.
Others in ruby cups with roſes bound
Delightful! deal the ſparkling nectar round;
Or weave the dance, or tune the vocal lay;
The lyres reſound, the merry minſtrels play,
[197] Gay health, and youthful joys o'erſpread the place,
And ſwell each heart, and triumph in each face.
So when embolden'd by the vernal air,
The buſy bees to blooming fields repair;
For various uſe employ their chymic pow'r;
One culls the ſnowy pounce, one ſucks the flow'r;
Again to diff'rent works returning home,
Same * ſteeve the honey, ſome erect the comb;
All for the general good in concert ſtrive,
And ev'ry ſoul's in motion, ev'ry limb's alive.

And now deſcending from his flight, the God
On the green turf releas'd his precious load;
There, after mutual ſalutations paſt,
And endleſs friendſhip vow'd, they part in haſte;
Zephyr impatient to behold his love,
The prince in raptures wand'ring thro' the grove;
Now ſkipping on, and ſinging as he went,
Now ſtopping ſhort to give his tranſports vent;
With ſudden guſts of happineſs oppreſs'd,
Or ſtands entranc'd, or raves like one poſſeſs'd;
His mind afloat, his wand'ring ſenſes quite
O'ercome with charms, and frantic with delight;
From ſcene to ſcene by random ſteps convey'd,
Admires the diſtant views, explores the ſecret ſhade,
Dwells on each ſpot, with eager eye devours
The woods, the lawns, the buildings, and the bow'rs;
New ſweets, new joys at ev'ry glance ariſe,
And ev'ry turn creates a freſh ſurprize.

[198]Cloſe by the borders of a riſing wood,
In a green vale a cryſtal grotto ſtood;
And o'er its ſides, beneath a beech en ſhade,
In broken falls a ſilver fountain play'd.
Hither, attracted by the murm'ring ſtream,
And cool receſs, the pleas'd Porſenna came,
And on the tender graſs reclining choſe
To wave his joys awhile, and take a ſhort repoſe.
The ſcene invites him, and the wanton breeze
That whiſpers thro' the vale, the dancing trees,
The warbling birds, and rills that gently creep,
All join their muſic to prolong his ſleep.

The princeſs for her morning walk prepar'd;
The female troops attend, a beauteous guard.
Array'd in all her charms appear'd the fair;
Tall was her ſtature, unconfin'd her air;
Proportion deck'd her limbs, and in her face
Lay love inſhrin'd, lay ſweet attractive grace
Temp'ring the aweful beams her eyes convey'd,
And like a lambent flame around her play'd.
No foreign aids, by mortal ladies worn,
From ſhells and rocks her artleſs charms adorn;
For grant that beauty were by gems increas'd,
'Tis render'd more ſuſpected at the leaſt;
And foul defects, that wou'd eſcape the ſight,
Start from the piece, and take a ſtronger light.
Her cheſnut hair in careleſs rings around
Her temples wav'd, with pinks and jes'mine crown'd,
[199] And, gather'd in a ſilken cord behind,
Curl'd to the waiſt, and floated in the wind;
O'er theſe a veil of yellow gauſe ſhe wore,
With amaranths and gold embroider'd o'er.
Her ſnowy neck half naked to the view
Gracefully fell; a robe of purple hue
Hung looſely o'er her ſlender ſhape, and tried
To ſhade thoſe beauties, that it cou'd not hide.

The damſels of her train with mirth and ſong
Frolick behind, and laugh and ſport along.
The birds proclaim their queen from ev'ry tree;
The beaſts run friſking thro' the groves to ſee;
The Loves, the Pleaſures, and the Graces meet
In antic rounds, and dance before her feet.
By whate'er fancy led, it chanc'd that day
They thro' the ſecret valley took their way,
And to the cryſtal grot advancing ſpied
The prince extended by the fountain's ſide.

He look'd as, by ſome ſkilful hand expreſs'd,
Apollo's youthful form retir'd to reſt;
When with the chaſe fatigued he quits the wood
For Pindus' vale, and Aganippe's flood;
There ſleeps ſecure, his careleſs limbs diſplay'd
At eaſe, encircled by the laurel ſhade;
Beneath his head his ſheaf of arrows lie,
His bow unbent hangs negligently by.
The ſlumb'ring prince might boaſt an equal grace,
So turn'd his limbs, ſo beautiful his face.

[200]Waking he ſtarted from the ground in haſte,
And ſaw the beauteous choir around him plac'd;
Then, ſummoning his ſenſes, ran to meet
The queen, and laid him humbly at her feet.
Deign, lovely princeſs, to behold, ſaid he,
One, who has travers'd all the world to ſee
Thoſe charms, and worſhip thy divinity:
Accept thy ſlave, and with a gracious ſmile
Excuſe his raſhneſs, and reward his toil.
Stood motionleſs the fair with mute ſurprize,
And read him over with admiring eyes;
And while ſhe ſtedfaſt gaz'd, a pleaſing ſmart
Ran thrilling thro' her veins, and reach'd her heart.
Each limb ſhe ſcann'd, conſider'd ev'ry grace,
And ſagely judg'd him of the phoenix' race.
An animal like this ſhe ne'er had known,
And thence concluded there cou'd be but one;
The creature too had all the phoenix' air;
None but the phoenix cou'd appear ſo fair.
The more ſhe look'd, the more ſhe thought it true,
And call'd him by that name, to ſhew ſhe knew.

O handſome phoenix, for that ſuch you are
We know; your beauty does your breed declare;
And I with ſorrow own thro' all my coaſt
No other bird can ſuch perfection boaſt;
For nature form'd you ſingle and alone:
Alas! what pity 'tis there is but one!
[201] Were there a queen ſo fortunate to ſhew
An aviary of charming birds like you,
What envy wou'd her happineſs create
In all, who ſaw the glories of her ſtate!

The prince laugh'd inwardly, ſurpriz'd to find
So ſtrange a ſpeech, ſo innocent a mind.
The compliment indeed did ſome offence
To reaſon, and a little wrong'd her ſenſe;
He cou'd not let it paſs, but told his name,
And what he was, and whence, and why he came;
And hinted other things of high concern
For him to mention, and for her to learn;
And ſhe 'ad a piercing wit, of wond'rous reach
To comprehend whatever he cou'd teach.
Thus hand in hand they to the palace walk,
Pleas'd and inſtructed with each others talk.

Here, ſhou'd I tell the furniture's expence,
And all the ſtructure's vaſt magnificence,
Deſcribe the walls of ſhining ſaphire made,
With emerald and pearl the floors inlaid,
And how the vaulted canopies unfold
A mimic heav'nd, and flame with gems and gold;
Or how Felicity regales her gueſt,
The wit, the mirth, the muſic, and the feaſt;
And on each part beſtow the praiſes due,
'Twould tire the writer, and the reader too.
My amorous tale a ſofter path purſues:
Love and the happy pair demand my Muſe.
[202] O cou'd her art in equal terms expreſs
The lives they lead, the pleaſures they poſſeſs!
Fortune had ne'er ſo plenteouſly before
Beſtow'd her gifts, nor can ſhe laviſh more.
'Tis heav'n itſelf, 'tis ecſtacy of bliſs,
Uninterrupted joy, untir'd exceſs;
Mirth following mirth the moments dance away;
Love claims the night, and friendſhip rules the day,

Their tender care no cold indiff'rence knows;
No jealouſies diſturb their ſweet repoſe;
No ſickneſs, no decay; but youthful grace,
And conſtant beauty ſhines in either face.
Benumming age may mortal charms invade,
Flow'rs of a day that do but bloom and fade;
Far diff'rent here, on them it only blows
The lilly's white, and ſpreads the bluſhing roſe;
No conqueſt o'er thoſe radiant eyes can boaſt;
They like the ſtars ſhine brighter in its froſt;
Nor fear its rigour, nor its rule obey;
All ſeaſons are the ſame, and ev'ry month is May.

Alas! how vain is happineſs below!
Man ſoon or late muſt have his ſhare of woe;
Slight are his joys, and fleeting as the wind;
His griefs wound home, and leave a ſting behind.
His lot diſtinguiſh'd from the brute appears
Leſs certain by his laughter than his tears;
For ignorance too oft our pleaſure breeds,
But ſorrow from the reas'ning ſoul proceeds.

[203]If man on earth in endleſs bliſs cou'd be,
The boon, young prince, had been beſtow'd on thee.
Bright ſhone thy ſtars, thy Fortune flouriſh'd fair,
And ſeem'd ſecure beyond the reach of care,
And ſo might ſtill have been, but anxious thought
Has daſh'd thy cup, and thou muſt taſte the draught.

It ſo befel, as on a certain day
This happy couple toy'd their time away,
He aſk'd how many charming hours were flown,
Since on her ſlave her heav'n of beauty ſhone.
Should I conſult my heart, cried he, the rate
Were ſmall, a week wou'd be the utmoſt date:
But when my mind reflects on actions paſt,
And counts its joys, time muſt have fled more faſt.
Perhaps I might have ſaid, three months are gone.
Three months! replied the fair, three months alone!
Know that three hundred years have roll'd away,
Since at my feet the lovely phoenix lay.
Three hundred years! re-echo'd back the prince,
A whole three hundred years compleated ſince
I landed here! O! whither then are flown
My deareſt friends, my ſubjects, and my throne?
How ſtrange, alas! how alter'd ſhall I find
Each earthly thing, each ſcene I left behind!
Who knows me now? on whom ſhall I depend
To gain my rights? where ſhall I find a friend?
My crown perhaps may grace a foreign line,
A race of kings, that know not me nor mine;
[204] Who reigns may wiſh my death, his ſubjects treat
My claim with ſcorn, and call their prince a cheat.
Oh had my life been ended as begun!
My deſtin'd ſtage, my race of glory run,
I ſhou'd have died well pleas'd; my honour'd name
Had liv'd, had flouriſh'd in the liſt of fame;
Reflecting now my mind with horror ſees
The ſad ſurvey, a ſcene of ſhameful eaſe,
The odious blot, the ſcandal of my race,
Scarce known, and only mention'd with diſgrace.

The fair beheld him with impatient eye,
And red with anger made this warm reply.
Ungrateful man! is this the kind return
My love deſerves; and can you thus with ſcorn
Reject what once you priz'd, what once you ſwore
Surpaſs'd all charms, and made ev'n glory poor?
What gifts have I beſtow'd, what favours ſhewn!
Made you partaker of my bed and throne;
Three centuries preſerv'd in youthful prime,
Safe from the rage of death, and injuries of time.
Weak arguments! for glory reigns above
The feeble ties of gratitude and love;
I urge them not, nor wou'd requeſt your ſtay;
The phantom glory calls, and I obey;
All other virtues are regardleſs quite,
Sunk and abſorb'd in that ſuperior light.
Go then, barbarian, to thy realms return,
And ſhew thyſelf unworthy my concern;
[205] Go, tell the world, your tender heart cou'd give
Death to the princeſs, by whoſe care you live.

At this a deadly pale her cheeks o'erſpread,
Cold trembling ſeiz'd her limbs, her ſpirits fled;
She ſunk into his arms: the prince was mov'd,
Felt all her griefs, for ſtill he greatly lov'd.
He ſigh'd, he wiſh'd he could forget his throne,
Confine his thoughts, and live for her alone;
But glory ſhot him deep, the venom'd dart
Was fix'd within, and rankled at his heart;
He cou'd not hide its wounds, but pin'd away
Like a ſick flow'r, and languiſh'd in decay.
An age no longer like a month appears,
But ev'ry month becomes a hundred years.

Felicity was griev'd, and cou'd not bear
A ſcene ſo chang'd, a ſight of ſo much care.
She told him with a look of cold diſdain,
And ſeeming eaſe, as women well can feign,
He might depart at will; a milder air
Wou'd mend his health; he was no pris'ner there;
She kept him not, and wiſh'd he ne'er might find
Cauſe to regret the place he left behind;
Which once he lov'd, and where he ſtill muſt own,
He had at leaſt ſome little pleaſure known.

If theſe prophetic words awhile deſtroy
His peace, the former ballance it in joy.
He thank'd her for her kind concern, but choſe
To quit the place, the reſt let heav'n diſpoſe.
[206] For Fate, on miſchiefs bent, perverts the will,
And firſt infatuates whom it means to kill.

Aurora now, not, as ſhe wont to riſe,
In gay attire ting'd with a thouſand dies,
But ſober-ſad in ſolemn ſtate appears,
Clad in a duſky veil bedew'd with tears.
Thick mantling clouds beneath her chariot ſpread,
A faded wreath hangs drooping from her head.
The ſick'ning ſun emits a feeble ray,
Half drown'd in fogs, and ſtruggling into day.
Some black event the threat'ning ſkies foretel.
Porſenna roſe to take his laſt farewel.
A curious veſt the mournful princeſs brought,
And armour by the Lemnian artiſt wrought;
A ſhining lance with ſecret virtue ſtor'd,
And of reſiſtleſs force a magic ſword;
Capariſons and gems of wond'rous price,
And loaded him with gifts and good advice;
But chief ſhe gave, and what he moſt wou'd need,
The fleeteſt of her ſtud, a flying ſteed.
The ſwift Grifippo, ſaid th' afflicted fair,
(Such was the courſer's name) with ſpeed ſhall bear,
And place you ſafely in your native air;
Aſſiſt againſt the foe, with matchleſs might
Ravage the field, and turn the doubtful fight;
With care protect you till the danger ceaſe,
Your truſt in war, your ornament in peace.
[207] But this, I warn, beware; whate'er ſhall lay
To intercept your courſe, or tempt your ſtay,
Quit not your ſaddle, nor your ſpeed abate,
Till ſafely landed at your palace gate.
On this alone depends your weal or woe;
Such is the will of Fate, and ſo the Gods foreſhew.
He in the ſofteſt terms repaid her love,
And vow'd, nor age, nor abſence ſhou'd remove
His conſtant faith, and ſure ſhe cou'd not blame
A ſhort divorce due to his injur'd fame.
The debt diſcharg'd, then ſhou'd her ſoldier come
Gay from the field, and fluſh'd with conqueſt, home;
With equal ardour her affection meet,
And lay his laurels at his miſtreſs' feet.
He ceas'd, and ſighing took a kind adieu;
Then urg'd his ſteed; the fierce Grifippo flew;
With rapid force outſtripp'd the lagging wind,
And left the bliſsful ſhores, and weeping fair behind;
Now o'er the ſeas purſued his airy flight,
Now ſcower'd the plains, and climb'd the mountain's height.

Thus driving on at ſpeed the prince had run
Near half his courſe, when, with the ſetting ſun,
As thro' a lonely lane he chanc'd to ride,
With rocks and buſhes fenc'd on either ſide,
He ſpied a waggon full of wings, that lay
Broke and o'erturn'd acroſs the narrow way.
The helpleſs driver on the dirty road
Lay ſtruggling, cruſh'd beneath th' incumbent load.
[208] Never in human ſhape was ſeen before
A wight ſo pale, ſo feeble, and ſo poor.
Compariſons of age would do him wrong,
For Neſtor's ſelf, if plac'd by him, were young.
His limbs were naked all, and worn ſo thin,
The bones ſeem'd ſtarting thro' the parchment ſkin.
His eyes half drown'd in rheum, his accents weak,
Bald was his head, and furrow'd was his cheek.

The conſcious ſteed ſtopp'd ſhort in deadly fright,
And back recoiling ſtretch'd his wings for flight.
When thus the wretch with ſupplicating tone,
And rueful face, began his piteous moan,
And, as he ſpake, the tears ran trickling down.
O gentle youth, if pity e'er inclin'd
Thy ſoul to gen'rous deeds, if e'er thy mind
Was touch'd with ſoft diſtreſs, extend thy care
To ſave an old man's life, and eaſe the load I bear.
So may propitious heav'n your journey ſpeed,
Prolong your days, and all your vows ſucceed.

Mov'd with the pray'r the kind Porſenna ſtaid,
Too nobly-minded to refuſe his aid,
And, prudence yielding to ſuperior grief,
Leap'd from his ſteed, and ran to his relief;
Remov'd the weight, and gave the pris'ner breath,
Juſt choak'd, and gaſping on the verge of death.
Then reach'd his hand, when lightly with a bound
The grizly ſpectre vaulting from the ground,
[209] Seiz'd him with ſudden gripe, th' aſtoniſh'd prince,
Stood horror-ſtruck, and thoughtleſs of defence.

O king of Ruſſia, with a thund'ring ſound
Bellow'd the ghaſtly fiend, at length thou'rt found.
Receive the ruler of mankind, and know,
My name is Time, thy ever-dreaded foe.
Theſe feet are founder'd, and the wings you ſee
Worn to the pinions in purſuit of thee;
Thro' all the world in vain for ages ſought,
But Fate has doom'd thee now, and thou art caught.
Then round his neck his arms he nimbly caſt,
And ſeiz'd him by the throat, and graſp'd him faſt;
Till forc'd at length the ſoul ſorſook its ſeat,
And the pale breathleſs corſe fell bleeding at his feet.

Scarce had the curſed ſpoiler left his prey,
When, ſo it chanc'd, young Zephyr paſs'd that way;
Too late his preſence to aſſiſt his friend,
A ſad, but helpleſs witneſs of his end.
He chafes, and fans, and ſtrives in vain to cure
His ſtreaming wounds; the work was done too ſure.
Now lightly with a ſoft embrace uprears
The lifeleſs load, and bathes it in his tears;
Then to the bliſsful ſeats with ſpeed conveys,
And graceful on the moſſy carpet lays
With decent care, cloſe by the fountain's ſide,
Where firſt the princeſs had her phoenix ſpied.
There with ſweet flow'rs his lovely limbs he ſtrew'd,
And gave a parting kiſs, and ſighs and tears beſtow'd.

[210]To that ſad ſolitude the weeping dame,
Wild with her loſs, and ſwoln with ſorrow, came.
There was ſhe wont to vent her griefs, and mourn
Thoſe dear delights that muſt no more return.
Thither that morn with more than uſual care
She ſped, but O what joy to find him there!
As juſt arriv'd, and weary with the way,
Retir'd to ſoft repoſe her hero lay.
Now near approaching ſhe began to creep
With careful ſteps, loth to diſturb his ſleep;
Till quite o'ercome with tenderneſs ſhe flew,
And round his neck her arms in tranſport threw.
But, when ſhe found him dead, no tongue can tell
The pangs ſhe felt; ſhe ſhriek'd, and ſwooning fell.
Waking, with loud laments ſhe pierc'd the ſkies,
And fill'd th' affrighted foreſt with her cries.
That fatal hour the palace gates ſhe barr'd,
And fix'd around the coaſt a ſtronger guard;
Now rare appearing, and at diſtance ſeen,
With crowds of black misfortunes plac'd between;
Miſchiefs of ev'ry kind, corroding care,
And fears, and jealouſies, and dark deſpair.
And ſince that day (the wretched world muſt own
Theſe mournful truths by ſad experience known)
No mortal e'er enjoy'd that happy clime,
And ev'ry thing on earth ſubmits to Time.

The EVER-GREEN.

[211]

WHEN tepid breezes fan'd the air,
And violets perfum'd the glade,
Penſive and grave my charming fair
Beneath yon ſhady lime was laid.

Flouriſh, ſaid I, thoſe favour'd boughs,
And ever ſoothe the pureſt flames!
Witneſs to none but faithful vows!
Wounded by none but faithful names!

Yield every tree that crowns the grove
To this which pleas'd my wandering dear!
Range where ye will, ye bands of love,
Ye ſtill ſhall ſeem to revel here.

Lavinia ſmil'd—and whilſt her arm
Her fair reclining head ſuſtain'd,
Betray'd ſhe felt ſome freſh alarm;
And thus the meaning ſmile explain'd.

When ſummer ſuns ſhine forth no more,
Will then this lime its ſhelter yield?
Protect us when the tempeſts roar,
And winter drives us from the field?

[212]

Yet faithful then the fir ſhall laſt—

I ſmile, ſhe cry'd, but ah! I tremble,

To think when my fair ſeaſon's paſt,

Which Damon then will moſt reſemble.

ANSWER.

TOO timorous maid! can time or chance
A pure ingenuous flame controul?
O lay aſide that tender glance,
That melts my frame, that kills my ſoul!

Were but thy outward charms admir'd,
Frail origin of female ſway!
My flame like other flames inſpir'd,
Might then like other flames decay:

But whilſt thy mind ſhall ſeem thus fair,
Thy ſoul's unfading charms be ſeen;
Thou may'ſt reſign that ſhape and air,
Yet find thy ſwain—an ever-green.

CANDOUR.

THE warmeſt friend, I ever prov'd,
My bittereſt foe I ſee:
The kindeſt maid I ever lov'd,
Is falſe to love and me.

[213]

But ſhall I make the angry vow,

Which tempts my wavering mind?

Shall dark ſuſpicion cloud my brow,

And bid me ſhun mankind?

Avaunt, thou hell-born fiend! no more
Pretend my ſteps to guide;
Let me be cheated o'er and o'er,
But let me ſtill confide.

If this be folly, all my claim
To wiſdom I reſign;
But let no ſage preſume to name
His happineſs with mine.

LYSANDER to CLOE.

'TIS true, my wiſh will never find
Another nymph ſo fair, ſo true;
Since all that's bright, and all that's kind,
In thoſe expreſſive eyes I view.

And I with grateful zeal could haſte,
To China for the mereſt toy;
Could ſcorch on Lybia's barren waſte,
To give my dear a moment's joy.

[214]

But fickle as the wave or wind,

I once may ſlight thoſe lovely arms;

Pardon a free ingenuous mind,

I do not half deſerve thy charms.

If I in any praiſe excel,
'Tis in ſoft ſcenes to paint my flame;
But Cloe's ſweetneſs bids me tell,
I ſhall not long remain the ſame.

I know its ſeaſon will expire,
Replac'd by cool eſteem alone;
Nor more thy matchleſs breaſt admire
Than I deteſt and ſcorn my own.

This interval my fate allows,
And friendſhip dictates all I ſay;
O ſhun to hear my future vows,
When giddy love reſumes the lay.

So ſome poor maniac can foreſee
The random hours of madneſs nigh;
He mourns the fates' ſevere decree,
And cautions whom he loves to fly.

CLOE to LYSANDER.

[215]

OF vagrant loves, and fickle flames
Lyſander's Muſe may tell,
And ſure ſuch artleſs freedom claims
His Cloe's beſt farewel.

Whene'er his heart becomes the theme
We ſee his fancy ſhine;
But let not vain Lyſander dream
That e'er that heart was mine.

Can he that fondly hopes to move,
With caution chill his lay?
Can he who feels the power of love,
Foretel that love's decay?

Why teize believing nymphs in vain,
Go ſeek ſome pathleſs vale,
And liſten to thy vocal ſtrain
Soft echoing down the dale.

While artleſs Cloe hence retir'd,
Shall this ſad maxim prove;
No boſom, once with love inſpir'd,
Could ever ceaſe to love.

To the Memory of an agreeable LADY bury'd in Marriage to a Perſon undeſerv⯑ing her.

[216]

'TWAS always held, and ever will,
By ſage mankind, diſcreeter
T' anticipate a leſſer ill
Than undergo a greater.

When mortals dread diſeaſes, pain,
And languiſhing conditions;
Who don't the leſſer ills ſuſtain
Of phyſic and phyſicians?

Rather than loſe his whole eſtate
He that but little wiſe is,
Full gladly pays four parts in eight
To taxes and exciſes.

With numerous ills in ſingle life
The batchelor's attended;
Such to avoid, he takes a wife—
And much the caſe is mended.

Poor Gratia, in her twentieth year,
Foreſeeing future woe,
Choſe to attend a monkey here,
Before an ape below.

An ELEGY, written on VALENTINE Morning.

[217]

By ****

HARK, thro' the ſacred ſilence of the night,
Loud Chanticleer doth ſound his clarion ſhrill,
Hailing with ſong the firſt pale gleam of light,
That floats the dark brow of you eaſtern hill.

Bright ſtar of morn, oh! leave not yet the wave,
To deck the dewy frontlet of the day,
Nor thou, Aurora, quit Tithonus' cave,
Nor drive retiring darkneſs yet away,

Ere theſe my ruſtic hands a garland twine,
Ere yet my tongue indite a ſimple ſong,
For her I mean to hail my Valentine,
Sweet maiden, faireſt of the virgin throng.

Sweet is the morn, and ſweet the gentle breeze
That fans the fragrant boſom of the ſpring,
Sweet chirps the lark. and ſweeter far than theſe
The gentle love-ſong gurgling turtles ſing.

Oh let the flowers be fragrant as the morn,
And as the turtle's ſong my ditty ſweet;
Thoſe flowers my woven chaplet muſt adorn,
That ditty muſt my waking charmer greet.

[218]

And thou, bleſt ſaint, whom choral creatures join

In one enlivening ſymphony to hail,

Oh be propitious, gentle Valentine,

And let each holy tender ſigh prevail.

Oh give me to approach my ſleeping love,
And ſtrew her pillow with the freſheſt flowers,
No ſigh unhallow'd ſhall my boſom move,
Nor ſtep prophane pollute my true-love's bowers.

At ſacred diſtance only will I gaze,
Nor bid my unreproved eye refrain,
Mean while my tongue ſhall chaunt her beauty's praiſe,
And hail her ſleeping with the gentleſt ſtrain.

"Awake my fair, awake, for it is time;
Hark, thouſand ſongſters riſe from yonder grove,
And riſing carol this ſweet hour of prime,
Each to his mate, a roundelay of love.

All nature ſings the hymeneal ſong,
All nature follows, where the ſpring invites;
Come forth my love, to us theſe joys belong,
Ours is the ſpring, and all her young delights.

For us ſhe throws profuſely forth her flowers,
Which in freſh chaplets joyful I will twine;
Come forth my fair, oh do not loſe theſe hours,
But wake, and be my faithful Valentine.

[219]

Full many an hour, all lonely have I ſigh'd,

Nor dared the ſecret of my love reveal,

Full many a fond expedient have I tried

My warmeſt wiſh in ſilence to conceal.

And oft to far retired ſolitude
All mournfully my ſlow ſtep have I bent,
Luxurious there indulg'd my muſing mood,
And there alone have given my ſorrows vent.

This day reſolv'd I dare to plight my vow.
This day, long ſince the feaſt of love decreed,
Embolden'd will I ſpeak my flame, nor thou
Refuſe to hear how ſore my heart does bleed."

Yet if I ſhould behold my love awake,
Ah frail reſolves, ah whither will ye fly?
Full well I know I ſhall not ſilence break,
But ſtruck with awe almoſt for fear ſhall die.

Oh no, I will not truſt a fault'ring ſpeech
In broken phraſe an awkward tale to tell,
A tale, whoſe tenderneſs no tongue can reach,
Nor ſofteſt melody can utter well.

But my meek eye, beſt herald to my heart,
I will compoſe to ſoft and downcaſt look,
And at one humble glance it ſhall impart
My love, nor fear the language be miſtook.

[220]

For ſhe ſhall read (apt ſcholar at this lore)

With what fond paſſion my true boſom glows,

How hopeleſs of return I ſtill adore,

Nor dare the boldneſs of my wiſh diſcloſe.

Should ſhe then ſmile,—yet ah! ſhe ſmiles on all,
Her gentle temper pities all diſtreſs;
On every hill, each vale, the ſun-beams fall,
Each herb, and flow'r, each tree, and ſhrub they bleſs.

Alike all nature grateful owns the boon,
The univerſal ray to all is free;
Like fond Endymion ſhould I hope the moon,
Becauſe among the reſt ſhe ſhines on me?

Hope, vain preſumer, keep, oh keep away:
Ev'n if my woe her gentle boſom move,
Pity ſome look of kindneſs may diſplay;
But each ſoft glance is not a look of love.

Yet heav'nly viſitant, thou doſt not quit
Thoſe bow'rs where angels ſweet diviſion ſing,
Nor deigneſt thou on mortal ſhrine to ſit
Alone, for round thee ever on the wing,

Glad choirs of loves attend, and hov'ring wait
Thy mild command; of theſe thy blooming train
Oh bid ſome ſylph in morning dreams relate,
Ere yet my love awake, my ſecret pain.

The DOWAGER.

[221]

By the Same.

WHERE aged elms in many a goodly row
Give yearly ſhelter to the conſtant crow,
A manſion ſtands:—long ſince the pile was rais'd,
Whoſe Gothic grandeur the rude hind amaz'd.
For the rich ornament on ev'ry part,
Confeſs'd the founder's wealth, and workman's art:
Tho' as the range of the wide court we tread,
The broken arch now totters o'er the head;
And where of old roſe high the ſocial ſmoke,
Now ſwallows build, and lonely ravens croak.
Tho' Time, whoſe touch each beauty can deface,
Has torn from ev'ry tow'r the ſculptur'd grace;
Tho' round each ſtone the ſluggard ivy crawls,
Yet ancient ſtate ſits hov'ring on the walls.

Where wont the feſtal chorus to reſound,
And jocund dancing frequent beat the ground,
Now Silence ſpreads around her gloomy reign,
Save when the maſtiff clanks his iron chain,
Save when his hoarſe bark echoes dire alarm,
Fierce to protect the place from midnight harm,
Its only guard; no revel ſounding late
Drives the night villain from the lonely gate.
An hallow'd matron and her ſimple train
Theſe ſolemn battlements alone contain
An hoary dowager, whoſe placid face
Old age has deck'd with lovely aweful grace;
[222] With almoſt vernal bloom her cheek ſtill ſtrow'd,
As beauty ling'ring left her lov'd abode;
That lov'd abode, where join'd with truth and ſenſe
She form'd the features to mute eloquence,
And bade them charm the ſtill attentive throng,
Who watch'd the ſacred leſſons of her tongue.
For not thro' life the dame had liv'd retir'd,
But once had ſhone, e'en 'midſt a court admir'd:
What time the lov'd poſſeſſor of her charms
Returning from the war in victor arms,
Call'd from his monarch's tongue the plauſive praiſe,
While honour wreath'd him with unfading bays.
She, happy partner of each joyful hour,
Then walk'd ſerene amid the pomp of pow'r:
While all confeſs'd no warrior's wiſh could move
For fairer prize, than ſuch accompliſh'd love:
Nor to that love could aught more tranſport yield,
Than graceful valour from the victor field.
Thus flouriſh'd once the beauteous and the brave;
But mortal bliſs meets ſtill th' untimely grave:
Aurelius died—his relict's pious tear
O'er his lov'd aſhes frequent flow'd ſincere,
Each decent rite with due obſervance paid,
Each ſolemn requiem offer'd to his ſhade,
Plac'd 'mid the brave his urn in holy ground,
And bade his hallow'd banners wave around.
Then left the gaudy ſcenes of pomp and power,
While prudence beckon'd to that ancient bower,
[223] And thoſe paternal fields, the ſole remains
Of ample woods and far-extended plains,
Which tyrant cuſtom rudely tore away
To diſtant heirſhip an expected prey.
Serene ſhe ſought the far-retired grove,
Once the bleſs'd manſion of her happy love,
Pleas'd with the thought, that memory oft would raiſe
A ſolemn proſpect of thoſe blooming days
Aurelius gave: her pious purpoſe now
To keep ſtill conſtant to her ſacred vow;
In lonely luxury her ſorrows feed,
And paſs her life in widow's decent weed.
One pledge of love her comfort ſtill remain'd,
Whom in this ſolitude ſhe careful train'd
To virtuous lore; and while as year by year
New graces made Aurelia ſtill more dear;
Full many an hour unheeded ſhe would trace
The father's ſemblance in the daughter's face;
While tender ſighs oft heav'd her faithful breaſt,
And ſudden tears her laſting love expreſt.
Thus long ſhe dwelt in innate virtues great,
Amid the villagers in ſacred ſtate:
For ev'ry grace to which ſubmiſſion bows,
The pow'r which conſcious dignity beſtows,
She felt ſuperior; for from ancient race
She gloried her long anceſtry to trace;
And ever bade Aurelia's thought aſpire
To ev'ry grace, each ray of ſacred ſire,
[224] That full of heav'n-born dignity informs
The mortal breaſt which ardent virtue warms;
Then led her to the venerable hall
Where her ſucceſſive ſires adorn'd the wall,
And arched windows with their blazon bright
Shed thro' the herald glow a ſolemn light:
There clad in rough habiliments of war
Full many a hero bore a glorious ſcar;
There in the civic fur, the ſons of peace,
Whoſe counſels bade their country's tumults ceaſe;
While by their ſide, gracing the ancient ſcene,
Hung gentle ladies of moſt comely mien.
Then eager thro' the well-known tale ſhe run,
In what fair cauſe each honour had been won,
What female grace each virgin had poſſeſs'd
To charm to gentle love the manly breaſt;
Pleas'd to obſerve how long her gen'rous blood
Thro' fair and brave had paſs'd a ſpotleſs flood.
Mean while the young Aurelia's boſom fir'd
With emulation, by each tale inſpir'd,
In eager tranſport frequent breath'd her prayer
The graces of her anceſtry to ſhare:
Nor breath'd in vain, her fond maternal guide
Cheriſh'd with care each ſpark of virtuous pride;
And ever as ſhe gave a leſſon new,
Would point ſome old example to her view:
Inflam'd by this, her mind was quickly fraught
With each ſage precept, that her mother taught.

[225]The goodly dame thus bleſs'd in her employ
Felt each ſoft tranſport of parental joy,
And liv'd content, her utmoſt wiſh fulfill'd
In the fair proſpect of a virtuous child:
Reſign'd ſhe waited now the aweful hour
When death ſhould raiſe her to that heav'nly bow'r,
Where with her lov'd Aurelius ſhe might ſhare
The pleaſing taſk, to watch with guardian care
Their offspring's ſteps, and hov'ring o'er her head,
The gracious dew of heavenly peace to ſhed;
Nor fear'd her decency of life would prove
An added bliſs to all the joys above.

ODE to the Honourable ****

By the late Mr. F. COVENTRY.

NOW Britain's ſenate, far renown'd,
Aſſembles full an aweful band!
Now Majeſty with golden circle crown'd,
Mounts her bright throne, and waves her gracious hand.
"Ye chiefs of Albion with attention hear,
"Guard well your liberties, review your laws,
"Begin, begin th' important year,
"And boldly ſpeak in Freedom's cauſe."
Then ſtarting from her ſummer's reſt
Glad Eloquence unbinds her tongue.
She feels rekindling raptures wake her breaſt,
And pours the ſacred energy along.
'Twas here great Hampden's patriot voice was heard,
Here Pym, Kimbolton fir'd the Britiſh ſoul,
[226] When Pow'r her arm deſpotic rear'd
But felt a ſenate's great controul.
'Twas here the pond'ring worthies ſat,
Who fix'd the crown on William's head,
When awe-ſtruck tyranny renounc'd the ſtate,
And bigot JAMES his injur'd kingdoms fled.
Thee, generous youth, whom nature, birth adorn,
The Muſe ſelects from yon aſſembled throng:
O thou to ſerve thy country born,
Tell me, young hero of my ſong,
Thy genius now in faireſt bloom,
And warm with fancy's brighteſt rays,
Why ſleeps thy ſoul unconſcious of it's doom?
Why idly fleet thy unapplauded days?
Thy country beckons thee with lifted hand,
Ariſe, ſhe calls, awake thy latent flame,
Ariſe, 'tis England's high command,
And ſnatch the ready wreaths of fame.
Be this thy paſſion; greatly dare
A people's jarring wills to ſway,
With curſt Corruption wage eternal war,
That where thou goe'ſt, applauding crowds may ſay,
"Lo, that is he, whoſe ſpirit-ruling voice
"From her wild heights can call Ambition down,
"Can ſtill Sedition's brutal noiſe,
"Or ſhake a tyrant's purple throne:"
Then chiefs, and ſages yet unborn
Shall boaſt thy thoughts in diſtant days,
With thee fair Hiſtory her leaves adorn,
And laurell'd bards proclaim thy laſting praiſe.

To Miſs ****.

[227]

By Miſs ELISA CARTER.

I.THE midnight moon ſerenely ſmiles
O'er nature's ſoft repoſe,
No lowring cloud obſcures the ſkies,
Nor ruffling tempeſt blows.

II.Now every paſſion ſinks to reſt,
The throbbing heart lies ſtill,
And varying ſchemes of life no more
Diſtract the labouring will.

III.In ſilence huſh'd, to reaſon's voice
Attends each mental power;
Come dear Amanda, and enjoy
Reflection's favourite hour.

IV.Come, while this peaceful ſcene invites;
Let's ſearch this ample round;
Where ſhall the lovely fleeting form
Of Happineſs be found?

V.Does it amidſt the frolic mirth
Of gay aſſemblies dwell?
Or hide beheath the ſolemn gloom
That ſhades the hermit's cell?

[228]VI.

How oft the laughing brow of joy

A ſick'ning heart conceals,

And thro' the cloiſter's deep receſs

Invading ſorrow ſteals.

VII.In vain thro' beauty, fortune, wit,
The fugitive we trace!
It dwells not in the faithleſs ſmile
That brightens Clodio's face.

VIII.Howe'er our varying notions rove,
All yet agree, in one,
To place its being in ſome ſtate,
At diſtance from our own.

IX.O blind to each indulgent gift
Of power, ſupremely wiſe,
Who fancy happineſs in aught
That Providence denies.

X.Vain is alike the joy we ſeek,
And vain what we poſſeſs,
Unleſs harmonious reaſon tunes
The paſſions into peace.

XI.To temp'rate bounds, to few deſires,
Is happineſs confin'd,
And deaf to folly's noiſe attends
The muſic of the mind.

To Chloe, written on the Author's Birth Day.

[229]

THE minutes, the hours, the days, and the years,
That fill up the current of Time,
Neither flowing with hopes, neither ebbing with fears,
Unheeded roll'd on to my prime.

In infancy prattling, in youth full of play,
Still pleas'd with whatever was new:
I bad the old cripple fly ſwifter away,
To o'ertake ſome gay trifle in view.

But when Chloe with ſweetneſs and ſenſe in her look,
Firſt taught me the leſſon of love;
Then I counted each ſtep the wing'd fugitive took,
And bade him more leiſurely move.

Stop, runaway, ſtop, nor thy journey purſue,
For Chloe has gi'en me her heart;
To enjoy it thy years will prove many two few,
If you make ſo much haſte to depart.

Still, ſtill he flies on—ſtill, ſtill let him flee,
He never can cancel my joy:
That conqueſt, O Death, is reſerved for thee,
But Time cannot change, or deſtroy.

Lady MARY W, to Sir W Y***

[230]

I.DEAR Colin, prevent my warm bluſhes,
Since how can I ſpeak without pain;
My eyes have oft told you their wiſhes,
Ah! can't you their meaning explain?
My paſſion wou'd loſe by expreſſion,
And you too might cruelly blame:
Then don't you expect a confeſſion
Of what is too tender to name.

II.Since yours is the province of ſpeaking,
Why ſhou'd you expect it of me?
Our wiſhes ſhou'd be in our keeping,
'Till you tell us what they ſhou'd be.
Then quickly why don't you diſcover?
Did your breaſt feel tortures like mine,
Eyes need not tell over and over
What I in my boſom confine.

Sir W* Y*'s Anſwer.

I.GOOD madam, when ladies are willing,
A man muſt needs look like a fool;
For me I wou'd not give a ſhilling
For one that is kind out of rule.
[231] At leaſt you might ſtay for my offer,
Not ſnatch like old maids in deſpair,
If you've liv'd to theſe years without proffer,
Your ſighs are now loſt in the air.

II.You might leave me to gueſs by your bluſhing,
And not ſpeak the matter ſo plain;
'Tis ours to purſue and be puſhing,
'Tis yours to affect a diſdain.
That you're in a pityful taking,
By all your ſweet ogles I ſee;
But the fruit that will fall without ſhaking
Indeed is too mellow for me.

Miſs SOPER's Anſwer to a Lady, who invited her to retire into a monaſtic Life at St. CROSS, near WINCHESTER.

I.IN vain, miſtaken maid, you'd fly
To deſart and to ſhade;
But ſince you call, for once I'll try
How well your vows are made.

II.To noiſe and cares let's bid adieu,
And ſolitude commend;
But how the world will envy you,
And pity me your friend.

[232]III.

You, like rich metal hid in earth,

Each ſwain will dig to find;

But I expect no ſecond birth,

For droſs is left behind.

REPENTANCE.

By the Same.

I.ALL attendants apart
I examin'd my heart,
Laſt night when I lay'd me to reſt.
And methinks I'm inclin'd
To a change of my mind,
For you know ſecond thoughts are the beſt.

II.To retire from the crowd
And make ourſelves good,
By avoiding of every temptation,
Is in truth to reveal
What we'd better conceal,
That our paſſions want ſome regulation.

III.It will much more redound
To our praiſe to be found
In a world ſo abounding with evil,
Unſpotted and pure,
Tho' not ſo demure;
And to wage open war with the devil.

[233]IV.In bidding farewel
To the thoughts of a cell,
I'll prepare for a militant life;
And if brought to diſtreſs,
Why then—I'll confeſs,
And do penance in ſhape of a wife.

A SONG.

By T. P***CY.

O Nancy, wilt thou go with me,
Nor ſigh to leave the flaunting town:
Can ſilent glens have charms for thee,
The lowly cot and ruſſet gown?
No longer dreſs'd in ſilken ſheen,
No longer deck'd with jewels rare,
Say can'ſt thou quit each courtly ſcene,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?

O Nancy! when thou'rt far away,
Wilt thou not caſt a wiſh behind?
Say canſt thou face the parching ray,
Nor ſhrink before the wintry wind?
O can that ſoft and gentle mien
Extremes of hardſhip learn to bear,
Nor ſad regret each courtly ſcene,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?

[234]O Nancy! can'ſt thou love ſo true,
Thro' perils keen with me to go,
Or when thy ſwain miſhap ſhall rue,
To ſhare with him the pang of woe?
Say ſhould diſeaſe or pain befal,
Wilt thou aſſume the nurſe's care,
Nor wiſtful thoſe gay ſcenes recall
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?

And when at laſt thy love ſhall die,
Wilt thou receive his parting breath?
Wilt thou repreſs each ſtruggling ſigh,
And chear with ſmiles the bed of death?
And wilt thou o'er his breathleſs clay
Strew flow'rs, and drop the tender tear,
Nor then regret thoſe ſcenes ſo gay,
Where thou wert faireſt of the fair?

CYNTHIA, an Elegiac POEM.

By the Same.

— Libeat tibi Cynthia mecum

Roſcida muſcoſis antra tenere jugis.

PROPERT.

BENEATH an aged oak's embow'ring ſhade,
Whoſe ſpreading arms with gray moſs fringed were,
Around whoſe trunk the claſping ivy ſtray'd;
A love lorn youth oft penſive wou'd repair.

[235]

Faſt by, a Naïd taught her ſtream to glide,

Which thro' the dale a winding channel wore

The ſilver willow deck'd its verdant ſide,

The whiſp'ring ſedges wav'd along the ſhore.

Here oft, when Morn peep'd o'er the duſky hill;
Here oft when Eve bedew'd the miſty vale;
Careleſs he laid him all beſide the rill,
And pour'd in ſtrains like theſe his artleſs tale.

Ah! would he ſay—and then a ſigh would heave:
Ah Cynthia! ſweeter then the breath of morn,
Soft as the gentle breath that fans at eve,
Of thee bereft how ſhall I live forlorn?

Ah! what avails this ſweetly ſolemn bow'r,
That ſilent ſtream where dimpling eddies play;
Yon thymy bank bedeck'd with many a flow'r,
Where maple-tufts exclude the beam of day.

Robb'd of my love, for how can theſe delight,
Tho' laviſh Spring her ſmiles around has caſt!
Deſpair, alas! that whelms the ſoul in night,
Dims the ſad eye and deadens every taſte.

[236]

As droops the lilly at the blighting gale;

Or ^* crimſon-ſpotted cowſlip of the mead,

Whoſe tender ſtalk (alas! their ſtalk ſo frail)

Some haſty foot hath bruis'd with heedleſs tread:

As droops the woodbine, when ſome village hind
Hath fell'd the ſapling elm it fondly bound;
No more it gadding dances in the wind,
But trails its fading beauties on the ground:

So droops my ſoul, dear maid, downcaſt and ſad,
For ever! ah! for ever torn from thee:
Bereft of each ſweet hope, which once it had,
When love, when treacherous love firſt ſmil'd on me.

Return bleſt days, return ye laughing hours,
Which led me up the roſeat ſteep of youth;
Which ſtrew'd my ſimple path with vernal flow'rs,
And bade me court chaſte Science and fair Truth.

Ye know, the curling breeze, or gilded fly
That idly wantons in the noon-tide air,
Was not ſo free, was not ſo gay as I,
For ah! I knew not then or love, or care.

[237]

Witneſs ye winged daughters of the year,

If e'er a ſigh had learnt to heave my breaſt!

If e'er my cheek was conſcious of a tear,

'Till Cynthia came and rob'd my ſoul of reſt.

O have you ſeen, bath'd in the morning dew,
The budding roſe its infant bloom diſplay;
When firſt its virgin tints unfold to view,
It ſhrinks and ſcarcely truſts the blaze of day.

So ſoft, ſo delicate, ſo ſweet ſhe came,
Youth's damaſk glow juſt dawning on her cheek:
I gaz'd, I ſigh'd, I caught the tender flame,
Felt the fond pang, and droop'd with paſſion, weak.

Yet not unpitied was my pain the while;
For oft beſide yon ſweet-briar in the dale,
With many a bluſh, with many a melting ſmile,
She ſate and liſten'd to the plaintive tale.

Ah me! I fondly dreamt of pleaſures rare,
Nor deem'd ſo ſweet a face with ſcorn cou'd glow;
How could you cruel then pronounce deſpair,
Chill the warm hope, and plant the thorn of woe?

What tho' no treaſures canker in my cheſt,
Nor crowds of ſuppliant vaſſals hail me lord!
What tho' my roof can boaſt no princely gueſt,
Nor ſurfeits lurk beneath my frugal board!

[238]

Yet ſhould Content, that ſhuns the gilded bed,

With ſmiling Peace, and Virtue there forgot,

And roſe-lip'd Health, which haunts the ſtraw-built ſhed,

With cherub Joy, frequent my little cot:

Led by chaſte Love, the decent band ſhould come,
O charmer would'ſt thou deign my roof to ſhare?
Nor ſhould the Muſes ſcorn our ſimple dome,
Or knit in myſtic dance, the Graces fair.

The wood-land nymphs, and gentle fays, at eve
Forth from the dripping cave and moſſy dell,
Should round our hearth fantaſtic meaſures weave,
And ſhield from miſchief by their guardian ſpell.

Come then bright maid, and quit the city throng,
Have rural joys no charm to win the ſoul?
—She proud, alas! derides my lowly ſong,
Scorns the fond vow, and ſpurns the ruſſet ſtole.

Then Love begone, thy thriftleſs empire yield,
In youthful toils I'll loſe the unmanly pain:
With echoing horns I'll rouſe the jocund field,
Urge the keen chace, and ſweep along the plain.

Or all in ſome lone moſs-grown tow'r ſublime
With midnight lamp I'll watch pale Cynthia round,
Explore the choiceſt rolls of ancient Time,
And heal with Wiſdom's balm my hapleſs wound.

[239]

Or elſe I'll roam—Ah no! that ſigh profound,

Tells me that ſtubborn love diſdains to yield;

Nor flight, nor Wiſdom's balm can heal the wound,

Nor pain forſake me in the jocund field.

DIALOGUE to CHLORINDA.

By Mr. ALSOP.

CEASE, Chlorinda, ceaſe to chide me,
When my paſſion I relate:
Why ſhou'd kindneſs be denied me?
Why ſhou'd love be pay'd with hate?

If the fruit of all my wiſhes
Muſt be, to be treated ſo;
What cou'd you do more than this is
To your moſt outragious foe?

Simple Strephon, ceaſe complaining,
Talk no more of fooliſh love;
Think not e'er my heart to reign in,
Think not all you ſay can move.

Did I take delight to fetter
Thrice ten thouſand ſlaves a day,
Thrice ten thouſand times your betters
Gladly would my rule obey.

[240]

Strive not faireſt, to unbind me;
Let me keep my pleaſing chain:
Charms that firſt to love inclin'd me,
Will for ever love maintain.

Wou'd you ſend my heart a roving?
Firſt to love I muſt forbear.
Wou'd you have me ceaſe from loving?
You muſt ceaſe from being fair.

Strephon, leave to talk thus idly;
Let me hear of love no more:
You miſtake Chlorinda widely,
Thus to teize her o'er and o'er.

Seek not her who ſtill forbids you;
To ſome other tell your moan:
Chuſe where'er your fancy leads you,
Let Chlorinda but alone.

If Chlorinda ſtill denies me
That which none but ſhe can give,
Let the whole wide world deſpiſe me,
'Tis for her alone I live.

Grant me yet this one poor favour,
With this one requeſt comply;
Let us each go on for ever,
I to aſk, and you deny.

[241]

Since, my Strephon, you ſo kind are,
All pretenſions to reſign;
Truſt Chlorinda.—You may find her
Leſs ſevere than you divine.

Strephon ſtruck with joy beholds her,
Wou'd have ſpoke but knew not how;
But he look'd ſuch things as told her
More than all his ſpeech cou'd do.

To CHLORINDA.

By the Same.

SEE, Strephon, what unhappy fate
Does on thy fruitleſs paſſion wait,
Adding to flame freſh fuel:
Rather than thou ſhould'ſt favour find,
The kindeſt ſo [...] on earth's unkind,
And the beſt nature cruel.

The goodneſs, which Chlorinda ſhews,
From mildneſs and good breeding flows,
But muſt not love be ſtil'd:
Or elſe 'tis ſuch as mothers try,
When wearied with inceſſant cry,
They ſtill a froward child.

She with a graceful mien and air,
Genteely civil, yet ſevere,
Bids thee all hopes give o'er.
Friendſhip ſhe offers, pure and free;
And who, with ſuch a friend as ſhe,
Cou'd want, or wiſh for more?

[242]The cur that ſwam along the flood,
His mouth well fill'd with morſel good,
(Too good for common cur!)
By viſionary hopes betray'd,
Gaping to catch a fleeting ſhade,
Loſt what he held before.

Mark, Strephon, and apply this tale,
Leſt love and friendſhip both ſhou'd fail;
Where then wou'd be thy hope?
Of hope, quoth Strephon, talk not, friend;
And for applying—know, the end
Of ev'ry cur's a rope.

The Fable of IXION. To CHLORINDA.

By the Same.

IXION, as the poets tell us,
Was one of thoſe pragmatic fellows,
Who claim a right to kiſs the hand
Of the beſt lady in the land;
Demonſtrating by dint of reaſon,
That impudence in love's no treaſon.

He let his fancy ſoar much higher;
And ventur'd boldly to aſpire
To Juno's high and mighty grace,
And woo'd the goddeſs face to face.
[243] What mortal e'er had whims ſo odd,
To think of cuckolding a God?
For ſhe was both Jove's wife and ſiſter,
And yet the raſcal wou'd have kiſs'd her.

How he got up to heav'n's high palace,
Not one of all the poets tell us;
It muſt be therefore underſtood,
That he got up which way he cou'd.
Nor is it, that I know, recorded,
How bows were made, and ſpeeches worded;
So, leaving this to each one's gueſs,
I'll only tell you the ſucceſs.

But firſt I ſtop awhile to ſhew

What happen'd lately here below.

Chlorinda, who beyond compare
Of all the fair ones is moſt fair;
Chlorinda, by the Gods deſign'd
To be the pattern of her kind,
With every charm of face and mind;
Glanc'd light'ning from her eyes ſo blue,
And ſhot poor Strephon through and through.
He, over head and ears her lover,
Try'd all the ways he cou'd to move her;
He ſigh'd, and vow'd, and pray'd and cry'd,
And did a thouſand things beſide:
She let him ſigh, and pray, and cry on—
But now hear more about Ixion.

[244]The Goddeſs, proud, (as folks report her)
Diſdain'd that mortal wight ſhou'd court her,
And yet ſhe choſe the fool to flatter,
To make him fancy ſome great matter,
And hope in time he might get at her;
Grac'd him with now and then a ſmile,
But inly ſcorn'd him all the while;
Reſolv'd at laſt a trick to ſhew him,
Seeming to yield and ſo undo him.

Now which way, do ye think, ſhe took?
(For do't ſhe wou'd by hook or crook)
Why, thus I find it in my book.

She call'd a pretty painted cloud,
The brighteſt of the wand'ring crowd,
For ſhe you know is queen o' th' air,
And all the clouds and vapours there
Governs at will, by nod or ſummons,
As Walpole does the houſe of commons.
This cloud which came to her ſtark naked,
She dreſs'd as fine as hands cou'd make it.
From her own wardrobe out ſhe brought
Whate'er was dainty, wove or wrought.
A ſmock which Pallas ſpun and gave her
Once on a time to gain her favour;
A gown that ha'n't on earth its fellow,
Of fineſt blue and lin'd with yellow,
Fit for a Goddeſs to appear in,
And not a pin the worſe for wearing.
[245] A quilted petticoat beſide,
With whalebone hoop ſix fathom wide.
With theſe ſhe deck'd the cloud d'ye ſee?
As like herſelf, as like cou'd be:
So like, that cou'd not I or you know
Which was the cloud, and which was Juno.
Thus dreſs'd ſhe ſent it to the villain,
To let him act his wicked will on:
Then laugh'd at the poor fool aloud,
Who for a Goddeſs graſp'd the cloud.

This you will ſay was well done on her
T' expoſe the tempter of her honour—
But more of him you need not hear;
Only to Strephon lend an car.

He never entertain'd one thought
With which a Goddeſs could find fault;
His ſpotleſs love might be forgiven
By ev'ry ſaint in earth and heav'n.
Juno herſelf, tho' nice and haughty,
Wou'd not have judg'd his paſſion naughty.
All this Chlorinda's ſelf confeſs'd,
And own'd his flame was pure and chaſte,
Read what his teeming Muſe brought forth,
And prais'd it far beyond its worth:
Mildly receiv'd his fond addreſs,
And only blam'd his love's exceſs:
Yet ſhe, ſo good, ſo ſweet, ſo ſmiling,
So full of truth, ſo unbeguiling,
[246] One way or other ſtill devis'd,
To let him ſee he was deſpis'd:
And when he plum'd, and grew moſt proud,
All was a vapour, all a cloud.

A TALE. To CHLORINDA.

By the Same.

DAME Venus, a daughter of Jove's,
And amongſt all his daughters moſt fair,
Loſt, it ſeems, t' other day the two doves,
That wafted her car thro' the air.

The dame made a heavy ſad rout,
Ran about heav'n and earth to condole 'em;
And ſought high and low to find out,
Where the biddyes were ſtray'd, or who ſtole'em.

To the God, who the ſtragglers ſhou'd meet,
She promis'd moſt tempting fine pay,
Six kiſſes than honey more ſweet,
And a ſeventh far ſweeter than they.

The propoſal no ſooner was made,
But it put all the Gods in a flame;
For who wou'd not give all he had
To be kiſs'd by ſo dainty a dame.

[247]

To Cyprus, to Paphos they run,

Where the Goddeſs oft us'd to retire;

Some rode round the world with the ſun,

And ſearch'd every country and ſhire.

But with all their hard running and riding,
Not a God of 'em claim'd the reward;
For no one cou'd tell tale or tiding,
If the doves were alive or were ſtarv'd.

At laſt the ſly ſhooter of men
Young Cupid, (I beg the God's pardon)
Mamma, your blue birds I have ſeen
In a certain terreſtrial garden.

Where, where, my dear child, quickly ſhew,
Quoth the dame, almoſt out of her wits:
Do but go to Chlorinda's, ſays Cu,
And you'll find 'em in ſhape of pewits.

Is it ſhe that hath done me this wrong?
Full well I know her, and her arts;
She has follow'd the thieving trade long,
But I thought ſhe dealt only in hearts.

I ſhall ſoon make her know, ſo I ſhall—
And with that to Jove's palace ſhe run,
And began like a bedlam to bawl,
I am cheated, I'm robb'd, I'm undone.

[248]

Chlorinda, whom none can approach

Without loſing his heart or his ſenſes,

Has ſtol'n the two doves from my coach,

And now flaunts it at Venus' expences.

She has chang'd the poor things to pewits,
And keeps 'em like ord'nary fowls:
So when ſhe robs men of their wits,
She turns 'em to aſſes or owls.

I cou'd tell you of many a hundred
Of figure, high ſtation, and means,
Whom ſhe without mercy has plunder'd,
Ever ſince ſhe came into her teens.

But her thefts upon earth I'd have borne,
Or have let 'em all paſs for mere fable;
But nothing will now ſerve her turn,
But the doves out of Venus's ſtable.

Is it fit, let your mightyſhip ſay,
That I, like ſome pitiful flirt,
Shou'd tarry within doors all day,
Or elſe trudge it afoot in the dirt?

Is it fit that a mortal ſhou'd trample
On me who am ſtyl'd queen of beauty?
O make her, great Jove, an example,
And teach Nimble-fingers her duty.

[249]

Sir Jove when he heard her thus rage,

For all his great gravity, ſmil'd;

And then, like a judge wiſe and ſage,

He began in terms ſober and mild.

Learn, daughter, to bridle your tongue,
Forbear to traduce with your prattle
The fair, who has done you no wrong,
And ſcorns to purloin goods and chattel,

She needs neither gewgaw, nor trinket,
To carry the world all before her;
Her deſerts, I wou'd have you to think it,
Are enough to make all men adore her.

Your doves are elop'd, I confeſs,
And chuſe with Chlorinda to dwell;
But blame not the lady for this;
For ſure 'tis no crime to excel.

As for them, I applaud their high aims;
Having ſerv'd from the time of their birth
The faireſt of heavenly dames,
They would now ſerve the faireſt on earth.

ODE on Lyric POETRY.

[250]

By Mr. MARRIOT.

I. 1.INMATE of ſmoaking cots, whoſe ruſtic ſhade,
Within its humble bed,
Her twittering progeny contains,
The ſwallow ſweeps the plains,
Or lightly ſkims from level lakes the dew.
The ringdove ever true
In plaintive accents tells of unrelenting fate,
Far from the raven's croak, and bird of night
That ſhrieking wings her flight
When, at his mutter'd rite,
Hid in the duſky deſart vale,
With ſtarting eye, and viſage pale
The grimly wizard ſees the ſpectres riſe unholy;
But haunts the woods that held her beauteous mate,
And wooes the Echo ſoft with murmurs melancholy.

I. 2.Sublime alone the feather'd monarch flies,
His neſt dark miſts upon the mountains ſhrow'd;
In vain the howling ſtorms ariſe,
When borne on outſtretch'd plume aloft he ſprings
Daſhing with many a ſtroke the parting cloud,
Or to the buoyant air commits his wings
Floating with even ſail adown the liquid ſkies;
Then darting upward, ſwift his wings aſpire,
Where thunders keep their gloomy ſeat,
And lightnings arm'd with heaven's avenging ire.
[251] None can the dread artillery meet,
Or thro' the airy region rove,
But he who guards the throne of Jove,
And graſps the flaming bolt of ſacred fire.

I. 3.Know, with young Ambition bold,
In vain, my Muſe, thy dazled eyes explore
Diſtant aims, where wont to ſoar,
Their burning way the kindling ſpirits hold.
Heights too arduous wiſely ſhun;
Humbler flights thy wings attend;
For heaven-taught Genius can alone aſcend
Back to her native ſky,
And with directed eagle eye
Pervade the lofty ſpheres, and view the blazing ſun.

II. 1.But hark! o'er all the flower-enamell'd ground
What muſic breaths around!
I ſee, I ſee the virgin train
Unlock their ſtreams again,
Rolling to many a vale their liquid lapſe along.
While at the warbled ſong
Which holds entranc'd Attention's wakeful ear,
Broke are the magic bands of iron ſleep.
Love, wayward child, oft wont to weep,
In tears his robe to ſteep
Forgets; and Care that counts his ſtore,
Now thinks each mighty buſineſs o'er;
[252] While ſits on ruin'd cities, war's wide-waſting glory,
Ambition, ceaſing the proud pile to rear,
And ſighs; unfiniſh'd leaving half her ample ſtory.

II. 2.Then once more, ſweet enthuſiaſt, happy lyre,
Thy ſoothing ſolace deign awhile to bring.
I ſtrive to catch the ſacred fire,
And wake thee emulous' on Granta's plain,
Where all the Muſes haunt his hallow'd ſpring,
And where the Graces ſhun the ſordid train
Scornful of heaven-born arts which thee and peace inſpire;
On life's ſequeſter'd ſcenes they ſilent wait,
Nor heed the baſeleſs pomp of power,
Nor ſhining dreams that crowd at Fortune's gate;
But ſmooth th' invitable hour
Of pain, which man is doom'd to know,
And teach the moral mind to glow
With pleaſures plac'd beyond the ſhaft of Fate.

II. 3.But, alas! th' amuſive reed
Ill ſuits the lyre that aſks a maſter's hand,
And fond fancies vainly feed
A breaſt that life's more active ſcenes demand.
Sloth ignoble to diſclaim
'Tis enough: the lyre unſtring.
At other feet the victor palm I fling
In Granta's glorious ſhrine;
Where crown'd with radiance divine
Her ſmiles ſhall nurſe the Muſe; the Muſe ſhall lift her fame.

ARION, an ODE.

[253]

By the Same.

I.QUEEN of each ſacred found, ſweet child of air,
Who ſitting thron'd upon the vaulted ſky,
Doſt catch the notes which undulating fly,
Oft wafted up to thy exalted ſphere,
On the ſoft boſom of each rolling cloud,
Charming thy liſt'ning ear
With ſtrains that bid the panting lover die;
Or laughing mirth, or tender grief inſpire,
Or with full chorus loud
Which liſt our holy hope, or fan the hero's fire:
Enchanting Harmony, 'tis thine to chear
The ſoul by woe which ſinks oppreſt,
From ſorrow's eye to wipe the tear,
And on the bleeding wound to pour the balmy reſt.

II.'Twas when the winds were roaring loud,
And Ocean ſwell'd his billows high,
By ſavage hands condemned to die,
Rais'd on the ſtem the trembling Leſbian ſtood
All pale he heard the tempeſt blow,
As on the watry grave below
He fix'd his weeping eye.
Ah! hateful luſt of impious gold,
What can thy mighty rage with-hold,
Deaf to the melting powers of Harmony!
[254] But ere the bard unpitied dies,
Again his ſoothing art he tries,
Again he ſweeps the ſtrings,
Slowly ſad the notes ariſe,
While thus in plaintive ſounds the ſweet muſician ſings.

III.From beneath the coral cave
Circled with the ſilver wave,
Where with wreaths of emerald crown'd
Ye lead the feſtive dance around,
Daughters of Venus, hear, and ſave.
Ye Tritons, hear, whoſe blaſt can ſwell
With mighty ſounds the twiſted ſhell;
And you, ye ſiſter Syrens, hear,
Ever beauteous, ever ſweet,
Who lull the liſt'ning pilot's ear
With magic ſong, and ſoftly breath'd deceit.
By all the Gods who ſubject roll
From guſhing urns their tribute to the main,
By him who bids the winds to roar,
By him whoſe trident ſhakes the ſhoar,
If e'er for you I raiſe the ſacred ſtrain
When pious mariners your power adore,
Daughters of Nereus, here and ſave.

IV,He ſung, and from the coral cave,
Circled with the ſilver wave,
With pitying ear
The Nereids hear,
[255] Gently the waters flowing,
The winds now ceas'd their blowing,
In ſilence liſtening to their tuneful lay.
Around the bark's ſea-beaten ſide,
The ſacred dolphin play'd,
And ſportive daſh'd the briny tide,
The joyous omen ſoon the bard ſurvey'd.
Nor fear'd with bolder leap to try the watry way.
On his ſcaly back now riding,
O'er the curling billow gliding,
Again with bold triumphant hand
He bade the notes aſpire,
Again to joy attun'd the lyre,
Forgot each danger paſt, and reach'd ſecure the land.

HORACE, Book 2. Ode II. Quid bellioſus Cantaber, &c.

Imitated by Lord B—H. — PAUL to FAZ.

I.NEVER dear Faz, torment thy brain
With idle fears of France or Spain,
Or any thing that's foreign:
What can Bavaria do to us,
What Pruſſia's monarch, or the Ruſs,
Ore'en prince Charles of Lorrain.

[256]II.Let us be chearful whilſt we can,
And lengthen out the ſhort-liv'd ſpan,
Enjoying every hour,
The moon itſelf we ſee decay,
Beauty's the worſe for every day,
And ſo 's the ſweeteſt flower.

III.How oft, dear Faz, have we been told,
That Paul and Faz are both grown old,
By young and wanton laſſes?
Then, ſince our time is now ſo ſhort,
Let us enjoy the only ſport
Of toſſing off our glaſſes.

IV.From White's we'll move th' expenſive ſcene,
And ſteal away to Richmond Green;
There free from noiſe and riot,
Polly each morn ſhall fill our tea,
Spread bread and butter—and then we
Each night get drunk in quiet.

V.Unleſs perchance earl L— comes,
As noiſy as a dozen drums,
And makes an horrid pother;
Elſe might we quiet ſit and quaff,
And gently chat, and gayly laugh
At this and that and t' other.

[257]VI.Br— ſhall ſettle what's to pay,
Adjuſt accompts by algebra;
I'll always order dinner—
Br— tho' ſolemn, yet is ſly,
And leers at Poll with roguiſh eye
To make the girl a ſinner.

VII.Powell, d'ye hear, let's have the ham,
Some chicken and a chine of lamb—
And what elſe?—let's ſee—look ye—
Br— muſt have his damn'd boullie,
B— fattens on his fricaſſee
I'll have my water-ſuchy.

VIII.When dinner comes we'll drink about,
No matter who is in, or out,
'Till wine or ſleep o'ertake us;
Each man may nod, or nap, or wink,
And where it is our turn to drink,
Our neigh bour then ſhall wake us.

IX.Thus let us live in ſoft retreat,
Nor envy, nor deſpiſe the great,
Submit to pay our taxes;
With peace or war be well content,
'Till eas'd by a good parliament
'Till Scroop his hand relaxes.

[258]X.Never enquire about the Rhine;
But fill your glaſs, and drink your wine;
Hope things may mend in Flanders:
The Dutch we know are good allies,
So are they all with ſubſidies,
And we have choice commanders.

XI.Then here's the King, God bleſs his grace,
Tho' neither you nor I have place,
He hath many a ſage adviſer;
And yet no treaſon's ſure in this,
Let who will take the pray'r amiſs,
God ſend 'em all much wiſer.

A PANEGYRIC on ALE.

— Mea nec Falernae

Temperant vites, neque Formiani

Pocula colles.

HOR.

By T. W*****

BALM of my cares, ſweet ſolace of my toils,
Hail, juice benignant! o'er the coſtly cups
Of riot-ſtirring wine, unwholſome draught,
Let Pride's looſe ſons prolong the waſteful night:
My ſober ev'ning let the tankard bleſs,
With toaſt imbrown'd, and fragrant nutmeg fraught,

[259]While the rich draught with oft repeated whiffs
Tobacco mild improves: divine repaſt!
Where no crude ſurfeit, or intemperate joys
Of lawleſs Bacchus reign: but o'er my ſoul
A calm Lethean creeps: in drowſy trance
Each thought ſubſides, and ſweet oblivion wraps
My peaceful brain, as if the magic rod
Of leaden Morpheus o'er mine eyes had ſhed
It's opiate influence. What tho' ſore ills
Oppreſs, dire want of chill-diſpelling coals,
Or chearful candle, ſave the makeweight's gleam
Hap'ly remaining; heart-rejoicing ale
Chears the ſad ſcene, and ev'ry want ſupplies.

Meantime not mindleſs of the daily taſk
Of tutor ſage, upon the learned leaves
Of deep Smiglecius much I meditate;
While ale inſpires, and lends her kindred aid
The thought-perplexing labour to purſue,
Sweet Helicon of logic!—But if friends
Congenial call me from the toilſome page,
To pot-houſe I repair, the ſacred haunt,
Where, Ale, thy votaries in full reſort
Hold rites nocturnal. In capacious chair
Of monumental oak, and antique mould,
That long has ſtood the rage of conqu'ring Time
Inviolate, (not in more ample ſeat
Smokes roſy juſtice, when th' important cauſe,
Whether of henrooſt or of mirthful rape,
[260] In all the majeſty of paunch, he tries:)
Studious of eaſe, and provident I place
My gladſome limbs, while in repeated round
Returns repleniſh'd the ſucceſſive cup,
And the briſk fire conſpires to genial joy.
Nor ſeldom to relieve the ling'ring hours
In innocent delight, amufive putt
On ſmooth joint-ſtool in emblematic play
The vain viciſſitudes of fortune ſhews.
Nor reck'ning, name tremendous, me diſturbs,
Nor, call'd-for, chills my breaſt with ſudden fear,
While on the wonted door (expreſſive mark!)
The frequent penny ſtands deſcrib'd to view
In ſnowy characters, a graceful row.
Hail Ticking! ſureſt guardian of diſtreſs,
Beneath thy ſhelter pennyleſs I quaff
The chearing cup: tho' much the poet's friend
Ne'er yet attempted in poetic ſtrain,
Accept this humble tribute of my praiſe.
Nor proctor thrice with vocal heel alarms
Our joys ſecure, nor deigns the lowly roof
Of pot-houſe ſnug to viſit: wiſer he
The ſplendid tavern haunts, or coffee-houſe
Of James or Juggins, where the grateful breath
Of mild tobacco ne'er diffus'd its balm;
But the lewd ſpendthrift, falſely deem'd polite,
While ſteams around the fragrant Indian bowl
Oft damns the vulgar ſons of humbler Ale:
[261] In vain—the proctor's voice alarms their joy;
Juſt fate of wanton pride, and vain exceſs!

Nor leſs by day delightful is thy draught,
Heart-eaſing Ale, whoſe ſorrow-ſoothing ſweets
Oft I repeat in vacant afternoon,
When tatter'd ſtockings aſk my mending hand
Not unexperienc'd, while the tedious toil
Slides unregarded. Let the tender ſwain
Each morn regale on nerve-relaxing tea,
Companion meet of languor-loving nymph:
Be mine each morn with eager appetite
And hunger undiſſembled, to repair
To friendly butt'ry, there on ſmoaking cruſt
And foaming Ale to banquet unreſtrain'd,
Material breakfaſt! Thus in ancient times
Our anceſtors robuſt with liberal cups
Uſher'd the morn, unlike the languid ſons
Of modern days; nor ever had the might
Of Britons brave decay'd, had thus they fed,
With Engliſh Ale improving Engliſh worth.
With ale irriguous, undiſmay'd I hear
The frequent dun aſcend my lofty dome
Importunate: whether the plaintive voice
Of laundreſs ſhrill awake my ſtartled ear,
Or taylor with obſequious bow advance;
Or groom invade me with defying look
And fierce demeanor, whoſe emaciate ſteeds
Had panted oft beneath my goring ſteel:
In vain they plead or threat; all-powerful Ale
[262] Excuſes new ſupplies, and each deſcends
With joyleſs pace and debt-deſpairing looks.
E'en Sp—y with indignant bow retires,
Sterneſt of duns! and conquer'd quits the field.

Why did the gods ſuch various bleſſings pour
On helpleſs mortals, from their grateful hands
So ſoon the ſhort liv'd-bounty to recal?
Thus while, improvident of future ill
I quaff the luſcious tankard unreſtrain'd,
And thoughtleſs riot in ambroſial bliſs,
Sudden (dire fate of all things excellent!)
The unpiting burſar's croſs affixing hand
Blaſts all my joys, and ſtops my glad career.
Nor now the friendly pot-houſe longer yields
A ſure retreat when ev'ning ſhades the ſkies,
Nor * Sheppard, ruthleſs widow, now vouchſafes
The wonted truſt, and * Winter ticks no more.
Thus Adam exil'd from the bliſsful ſcenes
Of Eden griev'd, no more in hallow'd bow'r
On nect'rine fruits to feaſt, freſh ſhade or vale
No more to viſit, or vine-mantled grot;
But all forlorn the naked wilderneſs,
And unrejoicing ſolitudes to trace.
Thus too the matchleſs bard, whoſe lay reſounds
The Splendid Shilling's praiſe, in nightly gloom
Of loneſome garret pin'd for chearful Ale:
Whoſe ſteps in verſe Miltonic I purſue,
Mean follower! like him with honeſt love
Of Ale divine inſpir'd, and love of ſong.
[263] But long may bounteous Heaven with watchful care
Avert his hapleſs fate! enough for me,
That burning with congenial flame I dar'd
His guiding ſteps at diſtance to purſue,
And ſing his fav'rite theme in kindred ſtrains.

ODE to the Genius of ITALY, occaſioned by the Earl of CORKE's going Abroad.

By Mr. J. DUNCOMBE.

OTHOU that on a pointleſs ſpear reclin'd
In duſk of eve oft tak'ſt thy lonely way
Where Tyber's ſlow, neglected waters ſtray,
And pour'ſt thy fruitleſs ſorrows to the wind,
Grieving to ſee his ſhore no more the ſeat
Of arts and arms, and liberty's retreat.

Italia's Genius, rear thy drooping head,
Shake off thy trance, and weave an olive crown,
For ſee! a noble gueſt appears, well known
To all thy worthies, tho' in Britain bred;
Guard well thy charge, for know, our poliſh'd iſle
Reluctant ſpares thee ſuch a ſon as BOYLE.

There, while their ſweets thy myrtle groves diſpenſe,
Lead to the Sabine or the Tuſcan plain,
Where playſul Horace tun'd his amorous ſtrain,
And Tully pour'd the ſtream of eloquence;
Nor fail to crown him with that ivy bloom
Which graceful mantles o'er thy Maro's tomb.

[264]At that bleſt ſpot, from vulgar cares refin'd,
In ſome ſoft viſion or indulgent dream
Inſpire his fancy with a glorious theme,
And point new ſubjects to his generous mind,
At once to charm his country, and improve
The laſt, the youngeſt object of his love.

But O! mark well his tranſports in that ſhade
Where circled by the bay's unfading green,
Amidſt a rural and ſequeſter'd ſcene
His much-lov'd Pliny reſts his honour'd head:
There, rapt in ſilence, will he gaze around,
And ſtrow with ſweeteſt flowers the hallow'd ground.

But ſee! the ſage, to mortal view confeſt,
Thrice waves the hand, and ſays, or ſeems to ſay,
"The debt I owe thee how ſhall I repay?
"Welcome to Latium's ſhore, illuſtrious gueſt!
"Long may'ſt thou live to grace thy native iſle,
"Humane in thought and elegant in ſtyle!

"While on thy conſort I with rapture gaze
"My own Calphurnia riſes to my view:
"That bliſs unknown but to the virtuous few,
"Briton! is thine; charm'd with domeſtic praiſe
"Thine are thoſe heart-felt joys that ſweeten life,
"The ſon, the friend, the daughter and the wiſe."

Content with ſuch approof, when genial Spring
Bids the ſhrill black-bird whiſtle in the vale,
Home may he haſten with a proſperous gale,
And Health protect him with her foſt'ring wing;
So ſhall Britannia to the wind and ſea
Entruſt no more her fav'rite ORRERY.

To C* P**, Eſq

[265]

FROM friendſhip's cradle up the verdant paths
Of youth, life's jolly ſpring; and now ſublim'd
To its full manhood and meridian ſtrength,
Her lateſt ſtage, (for friendſhip ever hale
Knows not old age, diſeaſes, and decay,
But burning keeps her ſacred fire, 'till death's
Cold hand extinguiſh) at this ſpot, this point,
Here, P***, we ſocial meet, and gaze about,
And look back to the ſcenes our paſtime trod
In nature's morning, when the gameſome hours
Had ſliding feet, and laugh'd themſelves away.
Luxurious ſeaſon! vital prime! where Thames
Flows by Etona's walls, and chearful ſees
Her ſons wide ſwarming; or where ſedgy Cam
Bathes with ſlow pace his academic grove,
Pierian walks!—O never hope again,
(Impoſſible! untenable!) to graſp
Thoſe joys again; to feel alike the pulſe
Dancing, and fiery ſpirits boiling high:
Or ſee the pleaſure that with careleſs wing
Swept on, and flow'ry garlands toſs'd around
Diſporting! Try to call her back—as well
Bid yeſterday return, arreſt the flight
Of Time; or muſing by a river's brink,
Say to the wave that huddles ſwiftly by
For ever, from thy fountain roll anew.

The merriment, the tale, and heartfelt laugh
That echo'd round the table, idle gueſts,
[266] Muſt riſe, and ſerious inmates take their place.
Reflection's daughters, ſad and world-worn thoughts
Diſlodging Fancy's empire—Yet who knows
Exact the balance of our loſs and gain?
Who knows how far a rattle may outweigh
The mace or ſcepter? But as boys reſign
The plaything, bauble of their infancy,
So fares it with maturer years: they ſage,
Imagination's any regions quit,
And under Reaſon's banner take the field,
With reſolution face the cloud or ſtorm,
While all their former rainbows die away.
Some to the palace with regardful ſtep,
And courtly blandiſhment reſort, and there
Advance obſequious; in the ſunſhine baſk
Of princely grace, catch the creating eye,
Parent of honours:—in the ſenate ſome
Harangue the full-bench'd auditory, and wield
Their liſt'ning paſſions (ſuch the pow'r, the ſway
Of Reaſon's eloquence!)—or at the bar,
Where Cowper, Talbot, Sommers, Yorke before
Pleaded their way to glory's chair ſupreme,
And worthy fill'd it. Let not theſe great names
Damp, but incite: nor Murray's praiſe obſcure
Thy younger merit. Know, theſe lights, ere yet
To noon-day luſtre kindled, had their dawn.
Proceed familiar to the gate of Fame,
Nor think the taſk ſevere, the prize too high
Of toil and honour, for thy father's ſon.

Epiſtle from the late Lord Viſcount B—GB—KE to Miſs LUCY A—K—NS.[267]DEAR thoughtleſs CLARA to my verſe attend,
Believe for once thy lover and thy friend;
Heaven to each ſex has various gifts aſſign'd,
And ſhewn an equal care of human-kind;
Strength does to man's imperial race belong,
To yours that beauty which ſubdues the ſtrong;
But as our ſtrength when miſapply'd, is loſt,
And what ſhould ſave, urges our ruin moſt.
Juſt ſo, when beauty proſtituted lies,
Of bawds the prey, of rakes th' abandon'd prize,
Women no more their empire can maintain,
Nor hope, vile ſlaves of luſt, by love to reign,
Superior charms but make their caſe the worſe,
And what ſhould be their bleſſing, prove their curſe.
Oh nymph! that might reclin'd on Cupid's breaſt,
Like Pſyche, ſooth the God of love to reſt;
Or, if ambition mov'd thee, Jove enthral,
Brandiſh his thunder, and direct its fall;
Survey thyſelf, contemplate ev'ry grace
Of that ſweet form, of that angelic face,
Then CLARA ſay, were thoſe delicious charms
Meant for lewd brothels, and rude ruffians arms?
No CLARA, no! that perſon, and that mind,
Were form'd by nature, and by heaven deſign'd
[268] For nobler ends; to theſe return, tho' late,
Return to theſe, and ſo avert thy fate.
Think CLARA, think, (nor will that thought be vain)
Thy ſlave, thy HARRY, doom'd to drag his chain
Of love, ill-treated and abus'd, that he
From more inglorious chains might reſcue thee.
Thy drooping health reſtor'd; by his fond care,
Once more thy beauty its full luſtre wear;
Mov'd by his love, by his example taught,
Soon ſhall thy ſoul, once more with virtue fraught,
With kind and gen'rous truth thy boſom warm,
And thy fair mind, like thy fair perſon charm.
To virtue thus, and to thyſelf reſtor'd,
By all admir'd, by one alone ador'd,
Be to thy HARRY ever kind and true,
And live for him, who more than dies for you.

The CHEAT's APOLOGY.

By Mr. ELLIS.

'Tis my vocation, Hal!

SHAKESPEAR.

LOOK round the wide world each profeſſion you'll find
Hath ſomething diſhoneſt, which myſt'ry they call;
Each knave points another, at home is ſtark blind,
Except but his own, there's a cheat in them all:
When tax'd with impoſture the charge he'll evade,
And like Falſtaff pretend he but lives by his trade.

[269]The hero ambitious (like Philip's great ſon,
Who wept when he found no more miſchief to do)
Ne'er ſcruples a neighbouring realm to o'er-run,
While ſlaughters and carnage his ſabre imbrue.
Of rapine and murder the charge he'll evade,
For conqueſt is glorious, and fighting his trade.

The ſtateſman, who ſteers by wiſe Machiavel's rules,
Is ne'er to be known by his tongue or his face;
They're traps by him us'd to catch credulous fools,
And breach of his promiſe he counts no diſgrace;
But policy calls it, reproach to evade,
For flatt'ry's his province, cajoling his trade.

The prieſt will inſtruct you this world to deſpiſe,
With all its vain pomp, for a kingdom on high;
While earthly preferments are chiefly his prize,
And all his purſuits give his doctrine the lye;
He'll plead you the goſpel your charge to evade:
The lab'rer's entitled to live by his trade.

The lawyer, as oft on the wrong ſide as right,
Who tortures for fee the true ſenſe of the laws,
While black he by ſophiſtry proves to be white,
And falſhood and perjury liſts in his cauſe;
With ſteady aſſurance all crime will evade:
His client's his care, and he follows his trade.

[270]The ſons of Machaon, who thirſty for gold
The patient paſt cure viſit thrice in a day,
Write largely the Pharmacop league to uphold,
While poverty's left to diſeaſes a prey;
Are held in repute for their glitt'ring parade:
Their practice is great, and they ſhine in their trade.

Since then in all ſtations impoſture is found,
No one of another can juſtly complain;
The coin he receives will paſs current around,
And where he is couſen'd he couſens again:
But I, who for cheats this apology made,
Cheat myſelf by my rhyming, and ſtarve by my trade.

SONG.

By the Same.

AS Chloe ply'd her needle's art,
A purple drop the ſpear
Made from her heedleſs finger ſtart,
And from her eyes a tear.

Ah! might but Chloe by her ſmart
Be taught for mine to feel;
Mine caus'd by Cupid's piercing dart,
More ſharp than pointed ſteel!

[271]

Then I her needle would adore,

Love's arrow it ſhould be,

Indu'd with ſuch a ſubtle pow'r

To reach her heart for me.

Another.

By the Same.

SUE venal Belinda to grant you the bleſſing
As Jove courted Danae, or vain's your addreſſing;
For love, ſhe aſſerts, all that's gen'rous inſpires,
And therefore rich tokens of love ſhe requires.

Such ſuitors as nothing but ardours are boaſting,
Will ne'er reach Elyſium, but ever he coaſting,
Like pennyleſs ghoſts deny'd paſſage by Charon,
They'll find, without fee, unrelenting the fair one.

But give me the nymph not ungrateful to wooing,
Who love pays with love, and careſſes with cooing,
By whom a true heart is accepted as ſterling,
And Cupid alone makes her lover her darling.

To Mr. GRENVILLE on his intended Reſignation,

By RICHARD BERENGER, Eſq

A Wretch tir'd out with Fortune's blows,
Reſolv'd at once to end his woes;
And like a thoughtleſs ſilly elf,
In the next pond to drown himſelf.

[272]'Tis fit, quoth he, my life ſhould end,
The cruel world is not my friend;
I have  [...] meat, nor drink, nor cloaths,
But want each joy that wealth beſtows;
Be [...]des, I hold my life my own,
And when I pleaſe may lay it down;
A wretched hopeleſs thing am I,
Forgetting, as forgot, I'll die.

Not ſo, ſaid one who ſtood behind,
And heard him thus diſcloſe his mind;
Conſider well pray what you do,
And think what numbers live in you:
If you go drown, your woes to eaſe,
Pray who will keep your lice and fleas?
On yours alone their lives depend,
With you they live, with you muſt end.

On great folks thus the little live,
And in their ſunſhine baſk and thrive:
But when thoſe ſuns no longer ſhine,
The hapleſs inſects droop and pine.

Oh GRENVILLE then this tale apply,
Nor drown yourſelf leſt I ſhould die:
Compaſſionate your louſe's caſe,
And keep your own to ſave his place.

To Mr. GARRICK, on his erecting a Temple and Statue to SHAKESPEAR.[273]By the Same.
— Viridi in campo ſignum de marmore ponam
Propter aquam, tardis ingens ubi ſlexibus errat
Thameſis, et multâ praetexit arundine ripas;
In medio mihi SHAKESPEAR erit, templumque tenebit.
VIRGIL.
WHERE yonder trees riſe high in chearful air,
Where yonder banks eternal verdure wear,
And opening flow'rs diffuſing ſweets around
Paint with their vivid hues the happy ground;
While Thames majeſtic rolls the meads between,
And with his ſilver current crowns the ſcene;
There GARRICK, ſatiate of well-earn'd applauſe,
From crowds, and ſhouting theatres withdraws:
There courts the Muſe, turns o'er th' inſtructive page,
And meditates new triumphs for the ſtage.
Thine, SHAKESPEAR, chief—for thou, muſt ever ſhine
His pride, his boaſt, unequal'd and divine.
There too thy vot'ry to thy merit juſt,
Hath rais'd the dome, and plac'd thy honour'd buſt,
Bidding the pile to future times proclaim
His veneration for thy mighty name.
A place more fit his zeal could never find
Than this fair ſpot, an emblem of thy mind—
As hill and dale there charm the wond'ring eye
Such ſweet variety thy ſcenes ſupply—
[274] Like the tall trees ſublime thy genius tow'rs,
Sprightly thy fancy, as the opening flow'rs;
While copious as the tide Thames pours along
Flow the ſweet numbers of thy heav'nly ſong
Serenely pure, and yet divinely ſtrong—
Look down, great ſhade, with pride this tribute ſee,
The hand that pays it makes it worthy thee—
As fam'd Apelles was allow'd alone
To paint the form auguſt of Philip's ſon,
None but a GARRICK can, O bard divine!
Lay a fit offering on thy hallow'd ſhrine.
To ſpeak thy worth is his peculiar boaſt,
He beſt can tell it, for he feels it moſt.
Bleſt bard! thy fame thro' every age ſhall grow,
Till nature ceaſe to charm, or Thames to flow.
Thou too, with him, whoſe fame thy talents raiſe,
Shalt ſhare our wonder, and divide our praiſe;
Blended with his thy merits riſe to view,
And half thy SHAKESPEAR's fame to thee is due:
Unleſs the actor with the bard conſpire,
How impotent his ſtrength, how faint his fire!
One boaſts the mine, one brings the gold to light,
And the Muſe triumphs in the actor's might.
Too weak to give her own conceptions birth,
Till all-expreſſive action call them forth.
Thus the ſweet pipe, mute in itſelf, no ſound
Sends forth, nor breathes its pleaſing notes around;
But if ſome ſwain with happy ſkill endu'd,
Inſpire with animating breath the wood,
[275] Wak'd into voice, it pours its tuneful ſtrains,
And harmony divine enchants the plains.
Quod ſpiro, et placeo, ſi placeo tuum eſt —
HOR.

On the Birth-Day of SHAKESPEAR. A CENTO.
Taken from his Works.By the Same
‘Naturâ ipſâ valere, et mentis viribus excitari, et quaſiquodam divino ſpiritu afflari. CICERO.’
—PEACE to this meeting,
Joy and fair time, health and good wiſhes!
Now, worthy friends, the cauſe why we are met,
Is in celebration of the day that gave
Immortal Shakeſpear to this favour'd iſle,
The moſt repleniſhed ſweet work of nature,
Which from the prime creation e'er ſhe fram'd.
O thou divineſt nature! how thyſelf thou blazon'ſt
In this thy ſon! form'd in thy prodigality,
To hold thy mirror up, and give the time
Its very form, and preſſure! When he ſpeaks
Each aged ear plays truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite raviſhed,
So voluble is his diſcourſe—Gentle
As Zephyr blowing underneath the violet,
Not wagging its ſweet head—yet as rough,
(His noble blood enchaff'd) as the rude wind,
That by the top doth take the mountain pine,
[276] And make him ſtoop to th' vale.—'Tis wonderful
That an inviſible inſtinct ſhou'd frame him
To loyalty, unlearn'd; honour untaught;
Civility not ſeen in other; knowledge
That wildly grows in him, but yields a crop
As if it had been ſown. What a piece of work!
How noble in faculty! infinite in reaſon!
A combination and a form indeed,
Where every God did ſeem to ſet his ſeal.
Heav'n has him now—yet let our idolatrous fancy
Still ſanctify his relicts; and this day
Stand aye diſtinguiſh'd in the kalendar
To the laſt ſyllable of recorded time:
For if we take him but for all in all
We ne'er ſhall look upon his like again.

An ODE to SCULPTURE.LED by the Muſe, my ſtep pervades
The ſacred haunts, the peaceful ſhades,
Where Art and Sculpture reign:
I ſee, I ſee, at their command,
The living ſtones in order ſtand,
And marble breathe through ev'ry vein!
Time breaks his hoſtile ſcythe; he ſighs
To find his pow'r malignant fled;
"And what avails my dart, he cries,
"Since theſe can animate the dead?
"Since wak'd to mimic life, again in ſtone
"The patriot ſeems to ſpeak, the heroe frown?"
[277] There Virtue's ſilent train are ſeen,
Faſt fix'd their looks, erect their mien.
Lo! while, with more than ſtoic ſoul,
The a Attic ſage exhauſts the bowl,
A pale ſuffuſion ſhades his eyes,
Till by degrees the marble dies!
See there the injur'd b poet bleed!
Ah! ſee he droops his languid head!
What ſtarting nerves, what dying pain,
What horror freezes ev'ry vein!
Theſe are thy works, O Sculpture! thine to ſhew
In rugged rock a feeling ſenſe of woe.
Yet not alone ſuch themes demand
The Phydian ſtroke, the Daedal hand;
I view with melting eyes
A ſofter ſcene of grief diſplay'd,
While from her breaſt the duteous maid
Her infant ſire with food ſupplies.
In pitying ſtone ſhe weeps, to ſee
His ſqualid hair, and galling chains:
And trembling, on her bended knee,
His hoary head her hand ſuſtains;
While ev'ry look, and ſorrowing feature prove,
How ſoft her breaſt, how great her filial love.
Lo! there the wild c Aſſyrian queen,
With threat'ning brow, and frantic mien!
[278] Revenge! revenge! the marble cries,
While fury ſparkles in her eyes.
Thus was her aweful form beheld,
When Babylon's proud ſons rebell'd;
She left the woman's vainer care,
And flew with looſe diſhevell'd hair;
She ſtretch'd her hand, imbru'd in blood,
While pale Sedition trembling ſtood;
In ſudden ſilence, the mad crowd obey'd
Her aweful voice, and Stygian Diſcord fled!
With hope, or fear, or love, by turns,
The marble leaps, or ſhrinks, or burns,
As Sculpture waves her hand;
The varying paſſions of the mind
Her faithful handmaids are aſſign'd,
And riſe or fall by her command.
When now life's waſted lamps expire,
When ſinks to duſt this mortal frame,
She, like Prometheus graſps the fire;
Her touch revives the lambent flame;
While phoenix-like, the ſtateſman, bard, or ſage,
Spring freſh to life, and-breathe through every age.
Hence, where the organ full and clear,
With loud hoſannas charms the ear,
Behold (a priſm within his hands)
Abſorb'd in thought, great d Newton ſtands;
[279] Such was his ſolemn wonted ſtate,
His ſerious brow, and muſing gait,
When, taught on eagle-wings to fly,
He trac'd the wonders of the ſky;
The chambers of the ſun explor'd,
Where tints of thouſand hues are ſtor'd;
Whence ev'ery flower in painted robes is dreſt,
And varying Iris ſteals her gaudy veſt.
Here, as Devotion, heav'nly queen,
Conducts her beſt, her fav'rite train,
At Newton's ſhrine they bow!
And while with raptur'd eyes they gaze,
With Virtue's pureſt veſtal rays,
Behold their ardent boſoms glow!
Hail, mighty Mind! hail, aweful name!
I feel inſpir'd my lab'ring breaſt;
And lo! I pant, I burn for fame!
Come, Science, bright ethereal gueſt,
Oh come, and lead thy meaneſt, humbleſt ſon,
Through Wiſdom's arduous paths to fair renown.
Could I to one faint ray aſpire,
One ſpark of that celeſtial fire,
The leading cynoſure, that glow'd
While Smith explor'd the dark abode,
Where Wiſdom ſate on Nature's ſhrine,
How great my boaſt! what praiſe were mine!
Illuſtrious ſage! who firſt could'ſt tell
Wherein the powers of Muſic dwell;
And ev'ry magic chain untie,
That binds the ſoul of Harmony!
[280] To thee, when mould'ring in the duſt,
To thee ſhall ſwell the breathing buſt:
Shall here (for this reward thy merits claim)
"Stand next in place to Newton, as in ſame."

True RESIGNATION.Aequam memento rebus in arduis
Servare mentem.
HORAT.
By Mr. H****
WHEN Colin's good dame, who long held him a tug,
And defeated his hopes by the help of the jug,
Had taken too freely the chearuping cup,
And repeated the doſe till it laid her quite up;
Colin ſent for the doctor: with ſorrowful face
He gave him his fee, and he told him her caſe.
Quoth Galen, I'll do what I can for your wife;
But indeed ſhe's ſo bad, that I fear for her liſe.
In counſel there's ſafety—e'en ſend for another;
For if ſhe ſhou'd die, folks will make a ſtrange pother,
And ſay that I loſt her for want of good ſkill—
Or of better advice—or, in ſhort, what they will.
Says Colin, your judgment there's none can diſpute;
And if phyſic can cure her—I know yours will do't.
But if, after all, ſhe ſhou'd happen to die,
And they ſay that you kill'd her—I'll ſwear 'tis a lye:
'Tis the huſband's chief buſineſs, whatever enſue;
And whoever finds fault—I'll be ſhot—if I do.

An EPISTLE from the King of PRUSSIA, to Monſieur VOLTAIRE. 1757.[281]CROYEZ que ſi j'etois, Voltaire,
Particulier aujourdhui,
Me contentant du neceſſaire,
Je verrois envoler la Fortune legere,
Et m'en mocquerois comme lui.
Je connois l'ennui des grandeurs,
Le fardeau des devoirs, le jargon des flateurs,
Et tout l'amas des petiteſſes,
Et leurs genres et leurs eſpeces,
Dont il faut s'occuper dans le ſein des honneurs.
Je mepriſe la vaine gloire,
Quoique Poëte et Souverain,
Quand du ciſeau fatal retranchant mon deſtin
Atropos m'aura vu plongé dans la nuit noire,
Que m'importe l'honneur incertain
De vivre apres ma mort an temple de Memoire:
Un inſtant de bonheur vaut mille ans dans l'hiſtoire,
Nos deſtins ſont ils donc ſi beaux?
Le doux Plaiſir et la Molleſſe,
La vive et naïve Allegreſſe
Ont toujours fui des grands, la pompe, et les faiſceaux,
Nes pour la liberté leurs troupes enchantreſſes
Preferent l'aimable pareſſe
Aux auſteres devoirs guides de nos travaux.
[282] Auſſi la Fortune volage
N'a jamais cauſé mes ennuis,
Soit qu'elle m'agaçe, ou qu'elle m'outrage,
Je dormirai toutes les nuits
En lui refuſant mon hommage.
Mais notre etat nous fait loi,
Il nous oblige, il nous engage
A meſurer notre courage,
Sur ce qu'exige notre emploi.
Voltaire dans ſons hermitage,
Dans un païs dont l'heritage
Eſt ſon antique bonne foi,
Peut s'addonner en paix a la vertu du ſage
Dont Platon nous marque la loi.
Pour moi menacé du naufrage,
Je dois, en affrontant l'orage,
Penſer, vivre, et mourir en Roi.
Tranſlated into Engliſh.By JOHN GILBERT COOPER, Eſq
VOLTAIRE, believe me, were I now
In private life's calm ſtation plac'd,
Let Heav'n for nature's wants allow,
With cold indiff'rence would I view
Changing Fortune's winged haſte,
And laugh at her caprice like you.
Th' inſipid farce of tedious ſtate,
Imperial duty's real weight,
[283] The faithleſs courtier's ſupple bow,
The ſickle multitude's careſs,
And the great Vulgar's Littleneſs,
By long experience well I know;
And, tho' a Prince and Poet born,
Vain blandiſhments of glory ſcorn.
For when the ruthleſs ſhears of Fate
Have cut my life's precarious thread,
And rank'd me with th' unconſcious dead,
What wil't avail that I was great,
Or that th' uncertain tongue of Fame
In Mem'ry's temple chaunts my name?
One bliſsful moment whilſt we live
Weighs more than ages of renown;
What then do Potentates receive
Of good, peculiarly their own?
Sweet Eaſe and unaffected Joy,
Domeſtic Peace, and ſportive Pleaſure,
The regal throne and palace fly,
And, born for liberty, prefer
Soft ſilent ſcenes of lovely leiſure,
To, what we Monarchs buy ſo dear,
The thorny pomp of ſcepter'd care.
My pain or bliſs ſhall ne'er depend
On fickle Fortune's caſual flight,
For, whether ſhe's my foe or friend,
In calm repoſe I'll paſs the night;
And ne'er by watchful homage own
I court her ſmile, or fear her frown.
[284] But from our ſtations we derive
Unerring precepts how to live,
And certain deeds each rank calls forth,
By which is meaſur'd human worth.
Voltaire, within his private cell
In realms where ancient honeſty
Is patrimonial property,
And ſacred Freedom loves to dwell,
May give up all his peaceful mind,
Guided by Plato's deathleſs page,
In ſilent ſolitude reſign'd
To the mild virtues of a Sage;
But I, 'gainſt whom wild whirlwinds wage
Fierce war with wreck-denouncing wing,
Muſt be, to face the tempeſt's rage,
In thought, in life, in death a King.

At ſeeing ^* Archbiſhop WILLIAMS's Monument in CARNARVONSHIRE.

IN that remote and ſolitary place,
Which the ſeas waſh, and circling hills embrace,
Where thoſe lone walls amid the groves ariſe,
All that remains of thee, fam'd Williams, lies.
Thither, ſequeſter'd ſhade, creation's nook,
The wand'ring Muſe her penſive journey took,
[285] Curious to trace the ſtateſman to his home,
And moralize at leiſure o'er his tomb:
She came not, with the pilgrim, tears to ſhed,
Mutter a vow, or trifle with a bead,
But ſuch a ſadneſs did her thoughts employ,
As lives within the neighbourhood of joy.
Reflecting much upon the mighty ſhade,
His glories, and his miſeries, ſhe ſaid:

"How poor the lot of the once-honour'd dead!
Perhaps the duſt is Williams', that we tread.
The learn'd, ambitious, politic, and great,
Stateſman, and prelate, this alas! thy fate.
Cou'd not thy Lincoln yield her paſtor room,
Cou'd not thy York ſupply thee with a tomb?
Was it for this thy lofty genius ſoar'd,
Careſs'd by monarchs and by crowds ador'd?
For this, thy hand o'er rivals cou'd prevail,
Graſping by turns the croſier and the † ſeal?
Who dar'd on Laud's meridian pow'r to frown.
And on aſpiring Buckingham look down.
This thy gay morn,—but ere the day decline
Clouds gather, and adverſity is thine:
Doom'd to behold thy country's fierce alarms,
What had thy trembling age to do with arms?
Thy lands dragoon'd, thy palaces in duſt,
Why was thy life protracted to be curſt?
Thy king in chains,—thyſelf by lawleſs might
Strip't of all pow'r, and exil'd from thy right.

[286]

Awhile the venerable hero ſtood,

And ſtemm'd with quiv'ring limbs the boiſt'rous flood;

At length, o'er-match'd by injuries and time,

Stole from the world, and ſought his native clime.

Cambria for him with moans her region fills:
She wept his downfal from a thouſand hills:
Tender embrac'd her prelate tho' undone,
Stretch'd out the mother rocks to hide her ſon:
Search'd, while alive, each vale for his repaſt,
And, when he died, receiv'd him in her breaſt.
Envied Ambition! what are all thy ſchemes,
But waking miſery, or pleaſing dreams,
Sliding and tottering on the heights of ſtate!
The ſubject of this verſe declares thy fate.
Great as he was, you ſee how ſmall the gain,
A burial ſo obſcure, a Muſe ſo mean.

Extempore Verſes upon a Trial of Skill be⯑tween the two great Maſters of Defence, Meſſieurs FIGG and SUTTON.

By Dr. BYROM.

I.LONG was the great Figg, by the prize-fighting ſwains,
Sole monarch acknowledg'd of Mary-bone plains:
To the towns, far and near, did his valour extend,
And ſwam down the river from Thame to Graveſend;
[287] Where liv'd Mr. Sutton, pipemaker by trade,
Who hearing that Figg was thought ſuch a ſtout blade,
Reſolv'd to put in for a ſhare of his fame,
And ſo ſent to challenge the champion of Thame.

II.With alternate advantage two trials had paſt,
When they fought out the rubbers on Wedneſday laſt.
To ſee ſuch a conteſt the houſe was ſo full
There hardly was room left to thruſt in your ſkull.
With a prelude of cudgells we firſt were ſaluted,
And two or three ſhoulders moſt handſomely fluted;
Till weary at laſt with inferior diſaſters,
All the company cry'd, come, the maſters, the maſters.

III.Whereupon the bold Sutton firſt mounted the ſtage,
Made his honours as uſual and yearn'd to engage;
Then Figg, with a viſage ſo fierce, yet ſedate,
Came, and enter'd the liſts, with his freſh-ſhaven pate;
Their arms were encircled with armigers too,
With a red ribbon Sutton's, and Figg's with a blue.
Thus adorn'd the two heroes, 'twixt ſhoulder, and elbow,
Shook hands, and went to't, and the word it was Bilboe.

IV.Sure ſuch a concern in the eyes of ſpectators,
Was never yet ſeen in our amphi-theatres.
Our commons and peers from the ſeveral places,
To half an inch diſtance all pointed their faces;
While the rays of old Phoebus, that ſhot thro' the ſky-light,
Seem'd to make on the ſtage a new kind of twilight;
[288] And the Gods without doubt, if one cou'd but have ſeen 'em,
Were peeping there thro' to do juſtice between 'em.

V.Figg ſtruck the firſt ſtroke, and with ſuch a vaſt fury,
That he broke his huge weapon in twain, I aſſure you;
And if his brave rival this blow had not warded,
His head from his ſhoulders had been quite diſcarded.
Figg arm'd him again, and they took t'other tilt,
And then Sutton's blade ran away from it's hilt;
The weapons were frighted, but as for the men,
In truth they ne'er minded, but at it again.

VI.Such a force in their blows, you'd have thought it a wonder
Every ſtroke they receiv'd did not cleave 'em aſunder.
Yet ſo great was their courage, ſo equal their ſkill,
That they both ſeem'd as ſafe as a thief in a mill;
While in doubtful attention dame Victory ſtood,
And which ſide to take cou'd not tell for her blood,
But remain'd like the aſs 'twixt the bundles of hay,
Without ever ſtirring an inch either way.

VII.Till Jove to the Gods ſignified his intention
In a ſpeech that he made 'em too tedious to mention;
But the upſhot on't was, that at that very bout,
From a wound in Figg's ſide the hot blood ſpouted out;
Her ladyſhip then ſeem'd to think the caſe plain,
But Figg ſtepping forth with a ſullen diſdain,
Shew'd the gaſh, and appeal'd to the company round,
If his own broken ſword had not given him the wound.

[289]VIII.That bruiſes, and wounds a man's ſpirit ſhou'd touch,
With danger ſo little, with honour ſo much!
Well, they both took a dram, and return'd to the battle,
And with a freſh fury they made the ſwords rattle;
While Sutton's right arm was obſerved to bleed,
By a touch from his rival, ſo Jove had decreed;
Juſt enough for to ſhew that his blood was not icor,
But made up, like Figg's, of the common red-liquor.

IX.Again they both ruſh'd with as equal a fire on,
'Till the company cry'd, hold, enough of cold iron,
To the quarter-ſtaff now, lads. So firſt having dram'd it,
They took to their wood, and i' faith never ſham'd it:
The firſt bout they had was ſo fair, and ſo handſome,
That to make a fair bargain, was worth a king's ranſom;
And Sutton ſuch bangs on his neighbour imparted,
Wou'd have made any fibres, but Figg's to have ſmarted.

X.Then after that bout they went on to another,
But the matter muſt end on ſome faſhion, or other;
So Jove told the Gods he had made a decree,
That Figg ſhou'd hit Sutton a ſtroke on the knee.
Tho' Sutton diſabled as ſoon as he hit him
Wou'd ſtill have fought on, but Jove wou'd not permit him;
'Twas his fate, not his fault, that conſtrain'd him to yield,
And thus the great Figg became lord of the field.

A Letter from Cambridge to a young Gentle⯑man at Eton School.

[290]

By Dr. LITTLETON.

THO' plagu'd with algebraic lectures,
And aſtronomical conjectures,
Wean'd from the ſweets of poetry
To ſcraps of dry philoſophy,
You ſee, dear ſir, I've found a time
T' expreſs my thoughts to you in rhime.
For why, my friend, ſhou'd diſtant parts,
Or times, disjoin united hearts,
Since, tho' by intervening ſpace
Depriv'd of ſpeaking face to face,
By faithful emiſſary letter
We may converſe as well, or better?
And not to ſtretch a narrow fancy,
To ſhew what pretty things I can ſay,
(As ſome will ſtrain at ſimile,
Firſt work it fine, and then apply;
Tag Butler's rhimes to Prior's thoughts,
And chuſe to mimick all their faults,
By head and ſhoulders bring in a ſtick,
To ſhew their knack at hudibraſtic,)
I'll tell you as a friend, and crony,
How here I ſpend my time, and money;
[291] For time, and money, go together
As ſure as weathercock, and weather;
And thrifty guardians all allow
This grave reflection to be true,
That whilſt we pay ſo dear for learning
Thoſe weighty truths we've no concern in,
The ſpark who ſquanders time away
In vain purſuits, and fruitleſs play,
Not only proves an arrant blockhead,
But, what's much worſe, is out of pocket.
Whether my conduct bad, or good is,
Judge from the nature of my ſtudies.

No more majeſtic Virgil's heights,
Nor tow'ring Milton's loftier flights,
Nor courtly Flaccus's rebukes,
Who banters vice with friendly jokes,
Nor Congreve's life, nor Cowley's fire,
Nor all the beauties that conſpire
To place the greeneſt bays upon
Th' immortal brows of Addiſon;
Prior's inimitable eaſe,
Nor Pope's harmonious numbers pleaſe;
Homer indeed (for critics ſhew it)
Was both philoſopher, and poet,
But tedious philoſophic chapters
Quite ſtifle my poetic raptures,
And I to Phoebus bade adieu
When firſt I took my leave of you.
[292] Now algebra, geometry,
Arithmetic, aſtronomy,
Optics, chronology, and ſtatics,
All tireſome parts of mathematics;
With twenty harder names than theſe
Diſturb my brain, and break my peace.
All ſeeming inconſiſtencies
Are nicely ſolv'd by a's, and b's;
Our eye-ſight is diſprov'd by priſms,
Our arguments by ſyllogiſms.
If I ſhou'd confidently write
This ink is black, this paper white,
Or to expreſs myſelf yet fuller
Shou'd ſay that black, or white's a colour;
They'd contradict it, and perplex one
With motion, rays, and their reflexion,
And ſolve th' apparent falſehood by
The curious texture of the eye.
Shou'd I the poker want, and take it,
When't looks as hot, as fire can make it,
And burn my finger, and my coat,
They'd flatly tell me, 'tis not hot;
The fire, ſay they, has in't, tis true,
The pow'r of cauſing heat in you;
But no more heat's in fire that heats you,
Than there is pain in ſtick that beats you.

Thus too philoſophers expound
The names of odour, taſte, and ſound;
[293] The ſalts, and juices in all meat
Affect the tongues of them that eat,
And by ſome ſecret poignant power
Give them the taſte of ſweet, and ſour.
Carnations, violets, and roſes
Cauſe a ſenſation in our noſes;
But then there's none of us can tell
The things themſelves have taſte, or ſmell.
So when melodious Maſon ſings,
Or Gethring tunes the trembling ſtrings,
Or when the trumpet's briſk alarms
Call forth the chearful youth to arms,
Convey'd thro' undulating air
The muſic's only in the ear.

We're told how planets roll on high,
How large their orbits, and how nigh;
I hope in little time to know
Whether the moon's a cheeſe, or no;
Whether the man in't, as ſome tell ye,
With beef and carrots fills his belly;
Why like a lunatic confin'd
He lives at diſtance from mankind;
When he at one good hearty ſhake,
Might whirl his priſon off his back;
Or like a maggot in a nut
Full bravely eat his paſſage out.
Who knows what vaſt diſcoveries
From ſuch inquiries might ariſe?
[294] But feuds, and tumults in the nation
Diſturb ſuch curious ſpeculation.
Cambridge from furious broils of ſtate,
Foreſees her near-approaching fate;
Her ſureſt patrons are remov'd,
And her triumphant foes approv'd.

No more! this due to friendſhip take,
Not idly writ for writing's ſake;
No longer queſtion my reſpect,
Nor call this ſhort delay neglect;
At leaſt excuſe it, when vou ſee
This pledge of my ſincerity
For one who rhimes to make you eaſy,
And his invention ſtrains to pleaſe you,
To ſhew his friendſhip cracks his brains,
Sure is a mad-man if he feigns.

The INDOLENT.

WHAT ſelf ſufficiency and falſe content
Benumb the ſenſes of the indolent!
Dead to all purpoſes of good, or ill,
Alive alone in an unactive will.
His only vice in's no good action lies,
And his ſole virtue is his want of vice.
Buſineſs he deems too hard, trifles too eaſy,
And doing nothing finds himſelf too buſy.
[295] Silence he cannot bear, noiſe is diſtraction,
Noiſe kills with buſtle, ſilence with reflection;
No want he feels,—what has he to purſue?
To him 'tis leſs to ſuffer, than to do.

The buſy world's a fool; the learn'd a ſot,
And his ſole hope to be by all forgot:
Wealth is procur'd with toil, and kept with fear,
Knowledge by labour purchas'd coſts too dear;
Friendſhip's a clog, and family a jeſt,
A wife but a bad bargain at the beſt;
Honour a bubble, ſubject to a breath,
And all engagements vain ſince null'd by death;
Thus all the wiſe eſteem, he can deſpiſe,
And caring not, 'tis he alone is wiſe:
Yet, all his wiſh poſſeſſing, finds no reſt,
And only lives to know, he never can be bleſt.

The SONG of SIMEON paraphraſed.By Mr. MERRICK.
'TIS enough—the hour is come
Now within the ſilent tomb;
Let this mortal frame decay
Mingled with its kindred clay;
Since thy mercies oft of old
By thy choſen ſeers foretold,
[296] Faithful now and ſtedfaſt prove,
God of truth and God of love!
Since at length my aged eye,
Sees the day-ſpring from on high.
Son of rightcouſneſs, to thee
Lo! the nations bow the knee,
And the realms of diſtant kings
Own the healing of thy wings.
Thoſe whom death had overſpread
With his dark and dreary ſhade,
Lift their eyes, and from afar
Hail the light of Jacob's ſtar;
Waiting till the promis'd ray
Turn their darkneſs into day.
See the beams intenſely ſhed
Shine o'er Sion's favour'd head.
Never may they hence remove,
God of truth and God of love!

On the Invention of LETTERS.TELL me what Genius did the art invent,
The lively image of the voice to paint;
Who firſt the ſecret how to colour ſound,
And to give ſhape to reaſon, wiſely found;
With bodies how to cloath ideas, taught;
And how to draw the picture of a thought;
[297] Who taught the hand to ſpeak, the eye to hear,
A ſilent language roving far and near;
Whoſe ſofteſt noiſe outſtrips loud thunder's ſound,
And ſpreads her accents thro' the world's vaſt round:
A voice heard by the deaf, ſpoke by the dumb,
Whoſe echo reaches long, long time to come;
Which dead men ſpeak as well as thoſe alive—
Tell me what Genius did this art contrive.

The ANSWER.THE noble art to Cadmus owes its riſe,
Of painting words, and ſpeaking to the eyes;
He firſt in wonderous magic fetters bound
The airy voice, and ſtop'd the flying ſound:
The various figures by his pencil wrought,
Gave colour, form, and body to the thought.

On WIT.

TRUE wit is like the brilliant ſtone
Dug from the Indian mine;
Which boaſts two various powers in one
To cut as well as ſhine.

Genius, like that, if poliſh'd right,
With the ſame gifts abounds;
Appears at once both keen and bright,
And ſparkles while it wounds.

On a SPIDER.

[298]

ARTIST, who underneath my table
Thy curious texture haſt diſplay'd;
Who, if we may believe the fable,
Wert once a fair ingenious maid:

Inſidious, reſtleſs, watchful ſpider,
Fear no officious damſel's broom,
Extend thy artful fabric wider,
And ſpread thy banners round my room.

Swept from the rich man's coſtly ceiling,
Thou'rt welcome to my homely roof;
Here may'ſt thou find a peaceful dwelling,
And undiſturb'd attend thy woof.

Whilſt I thy wond'rous fabric ſtare at,
And think on hapleſs poet's fate;
Like thee confin'd to lonely garret,
And rudely baniſh'd rooms of ſtate.

And as from out thy tortur'd body
Thou draw'ſt thy ſlender ſtring with pain,
So does he labour, like a noddy,
To ſpin materials from his brain.

[299]

He for ſome fluttering tawdry creature,

That ſpreads her charms before his eye;

And that's a conqueſt little better

Than thine o'er captive butterfly.

Thus far 'tis plain we both agree,
Perhaps our deaths may better ſhew it;
'Tis ten to one but penury
Ends both the ſpider and the poet.

The PLAY-THING chang'd.

KITTY's charming voice and face,
Syren-like, firſt caught my fancy;
Wit and humour next take place,
And now I doat on ſprightly Nancy.

Kitty tunes her pipe in vain,
With airs moſt languiſhing and dying;
Calls me falſe ungrateful ſwain,
And tries in vain to ſhoot me ſlying.

Nancy with reſiſtleſs art,
Always humorous, gay, and witty;
Has talk'd herſelf into my heart,
And quite excluded tuneful Kitty.

Ah Kitty! Love, a wanton boy,
Now pleas'd with ſong, and now with prattle,
Still longing for the neweſt toy,
Has chang'd his whiſtle for a rattle.

The FABLE of JOTHAM: To the BOROUGH-HUNTERS.
JUDGES, Chap ix. ver. 8.

[300]

By RICHARD OWEN CAMBRIDGE, Eſq

‘Jotham's fable of the trees is the oldeſt that is extant, and as beautiful as any which have been made ſince that time. ADDISON’

OLD Plumb, who tho' bleſt in his Kentiſh retreat,
Still thrives by his oilſhop in Leadenhall-ſtreet,
With a Portugal merchant, a knight by creation,
From a borough in Cornwall receiv'd invitation.
Well-aſſured of each vote, well equip't from the alley,
In queſt of election-adventures they ſally.
Tho' much they diſcours'd, the long way to beguile,
Of the earthquakes, the Jews, and the change of the ſtile,
Of the Iriſh, the ſtocks, and the lott'ry committee,
They came ſilent and tired into Exeter city.

"Some books, prithee landlord, to paſs a dull hour;
"No nonſenſe of parſons, or methodiſts ſour,
"No poetical ſtuff—a damn'd jingle of rhimes,
"But ſome pamphlet that's new, and a touch on the times."

"O Lord! ſays mine hoſt, you may hunt the town round,
"I queſtion if any ſuch thing can be found:
"I never was aſk'd for a book by a gueſt;
"And I'm ſure I have all the great folk in the Weſt.
"None of theſe to my knowledge e'er call'd for a book;
"But ſee Sir, the woman with fiſh, and the cook;
"Here's the fatteſt of carp, ſhall we dreſs you a brace?
"Would you have any ſoals, or a mullet, or plaice?"

[301]"A place, quoth the knight, we muſt have to be ſure,
"But firſt let us ſee that our borough's ſecure.
"We'll talk of the place when we've ſettled the poll:
"They may dreſs us for ſupper the mullet and ſoal.
"But do you, my good landlord, look over your ſhelves,
"For a book we muſt have, we're ſo tired of ourſelves."

"In troth, Sir, I ne'er had a book in my life,

"But the prayer book and bible I bought for my wife."

"Well! the bible muſt do; but why don't you take in

"Some monthly collection? the new magazine?"

The bible was brought and laid out on the table,

And open'd at Jotham's moſt appoſite fable;

Sir Freeport began with this verſe, tho' no rhime—
"The trees of the foreſt went forth on a time,
(To what purpoſe our candidates ſcarce could expect,
For it was not, they found, to tranſplant—but ELECT)
"To the olive and fig-tree their deputies came,
"But by both were refus'd, and their anſwer the ſame:
"Quoth the olive, ſhall I leave my fatneſs and oil
"For an unthankful office, a dignified toil?
"Shall I leave, quoth the fig-tree, my ſweetneſs and fruit,
"To be envy'd, or ſlav'd in ſo vain a purſuit?
"Thus rebuff'd and ſurpriz'd they apply'd to the vine,
"He anſwer'd: ſhall I leave my grapes and my wine,
"(Wine the ſovereign cordial of god and of man)
"To be made or the tool or the head of a clan?
"At laſt, as it always falls out in a ſcramble,
"The mob gave the cry for a bramble! a bramble!
[302] "A bramble for ever! O! chance unexpected!
"But bramble prevail'd and was duly elected."

"O! ho! quoth the knight with a look moſt profound,
"Now I ſee there's ſome good in good books to be found.
"I wiſh I had read this ſame bible before:
"Of long miles at the leaſt'twould have ſav'd us fourſcore.
"You, Plumb, with your olives and oil might have ſtaid,
"And myſelf might have tarried my wines to unlade.
"What have merchants to do from their buſineſs to ramble!
"Your electioneer-errant ſhould ſtill be a bramble."

Thus ended at once the wiſe comment on Jotham,

And our citizens' jaunt to the borough of Gotham.

An Elegy written in an empty Aſſembly-Room.

By the Same.

— Semperque relinqui

Sola ſibi —

VIRG.

ADVERTISEMENT. This poem being a parody on the moſt remarkable paſſages in the well-known epiſtle of Eloiſa to Abelard, it was thought unneceſſary to tranſcribe any lines from that poem, which is in the hands of all, and in the memory of moſt readers.

IN ſcenes where HALLET's genius has combin'd
With BROMWICH to amuſe and chear the mind;
Amid this pomp of coſt, this pride of art,
What mean theſe ſorrows in a female heart?

[303]Ye crowded walls, whoſe well-enlighten'd round
With lovers ſighs and proteſtations ſound,
Ye pictures flatter'd by the learn'd and wiſe,
Ye glaſſes ogled by the brighteſt eyes,
Ye cards, which beauties by their touch have bleſt,
Ye chairs, which peers and miniſters have preſt,
How are ye chang'd! like you my fate I moan,
Like you, alas! neglected and alone—
For ah! to me alone no card is come,
I muſt not go abroad—and cannot be at home.

Bleſt be that ſocial pow'r, the firſt who pair'd
The erring footman with th' unerring card.
'Twas VENUS ſure; for by their faithful aid
The whiſp'ring lover meets the bluſhing maid:
From ſolitude they give the chearful call
To the choice ſupper, or the ſprightly ball:
Speed the ſoft ſummons of the gay and fair,
From diſtant Bloomſbury to Groſvenor's ſquare;
And bring the colonel to the tender hour,
From the parade, the ſenate, or the Tower.

Ye records, patents of our worth and pride!
Our daily leſſon, and our nightly guide!
Where'er ye ſtand diſpos'd in proud array,
The vapours vaniſh, and the heart is gay;
But when no cards the chimney-glaſs adorn,
The diſmal void with heart-felt ſhame we mourn;
Conſcious neglect inſpires a ſullen gloom,
And brooding ſadneſs fills the ſlighted room.

[304]If but ſome happier female's card I've ſeen,
I ſwell with rage, or ſicken with the ſpleen;
While artful pride conceals the burſting tear,
With ſome forc'd banter or affected ſneer:
But now grown deſp'rate, and beyond all hope,
I curſe the ball, the d—ſs, and the pope.
And as the loads of borrow'd plate go by,
Tax it! ye greedy miniſters, I cry.

How ſhall I feel when Sol reſigns his light,
To this proud ſplendid goddeſs of the night!
Then when her aukward gueſts in meaſure beat
The crowded floors, which groan beneath their feet!
What thoughts in ſolitude ſhall then poſſeſs
My tortur'd mind, or ſoften my diſtreſs!
Not all that envious malice can ſuggeſt
Will ſooth the tumults of my raging breaſt.
(For Envy's loſt amidſt the numerous train,
And hiſſes with her hundred ſnakes in vain)
Though with contempt each deſpicable ſoul
Singly I view,—I muſt revere the whole.

The methodiſt in her peculiar lot,
The world forgetting, by the world forgot,
Though ſingle happy, tho' alone is proud,
She thinks of heav'n (ſhe thinks not of a crowd)
And if ſhe ever feels a vap'riſh qualm,
Some * drop of honey, or ſome holy balm,
[305] The pious prophet of her ſect diſtils,
And her pure ſoul ſeraphic rapture fills;
Grace ſhines around her with ſereneſt beams,
And whiſp'ring W*** prompts her golden dreams.

Far other dreams my ſenſual ſoul employ,
While conſcious nature taſtes unholy joy:
I view the traces of experienc'd charms,
And claſp the regimentals in my arms.
To dream laſt night I clos'd my blubber'd eyes;
Ye ſoft illuſions, dear deceits ariſe:
Alas! no more; methinks I wand'ring go
To diſtant quarters 'midſt the Highland ſnow:
To the dark inn where never wax-light burns,
Where in ſmoak'd tap'ſtry faded DIDO mourns;
To ſome aſſembly in a country town,
And meet the colonel—in a parſon's gown—
I ſtart—I ſhriek—

O! could I on my waking brain impoſe,
Or but forget at leaſt my preſent woes!
Forget 'em—how!—each rattling coach ſuggeſts
The loath'd ideas of the crowding gueſts.
To viſit—were to publiſh my diſgrace;
To meet the ſpleen in ev'ry other place;
To join old maids and dowagers forlorn;
And be at once their comfort and their ſcorn!
For once, to read—with this diſtemper'd brain,
Ev'n modern novels lend their aid in vain.
[306] My MANDOLINE—what place can muſic find
Amid the diſcord of my reſtleſs mind?

How ſhall I waſte this time which ſlowly flies!
How lull to ſlumber my reluctant eyes!
This night the happy and th' unhappy keep
Vigils alike,—N*** has murder'd ſleep.

The FAKEER: A TALE.

By the Same.

A FAKEER (a religious well known in the Eaſt
Not much like a parſon, ſtill leſs like a prieſt)
With no canting, no ſly jeſuitical arts,
Field-preaching, hypocriſy, learning or parts;
By a happy refinement in mortification,
Grew the oracle, ſaint, and the pope of his nation.
But what did he do this eſteem to acquire?
Did he torture his head or his boſom with fire?
Was his neck in a portable pillory cas'd?
Did he faſten a chain to his leg or his waiſt?
No. His holineſs roſe to this ſovereign pitch
By the merit of running long nails in his breech.

A wealthy young Indian, approaching the ſhrine,
Thus in banter accoſts the prophetic divine:
This tribute accept for your int'reſt with FO,
Whom with torture you ſerve, and whoſe will you muſt know;
[307] To your ſuppliant diſcloſe his immortal decree;
Tell me which of the heav'ns is allotted for me.

FAKEER.

Let me firſt know your merits.

INDIAN.

I ſtrive to be juſt:

To be true to my friend, to my wife, to my truſt:

In religion I duly obſerve ev'ry form:

With an heart to my country devoted and warm:

I give to the poor, and I lend to the rich—

FAKEER.

But how many nails do you run in your breech?

INDIAN.

With ſubmiſſion I ſpeak to your rev'rence's tail;

But mine has no taſte for a ten-penny nail.

FAKEER.

Well! I'll pray to our prophet and get you prefer'd;

Though no farther expect than to heaven the third.

With me in the thirtieth your ſeat to obtain,

You muſt qualify duly with hunger and pain.

INDIAN.

With you in the thirtieth! you impudent rogue!

Can ſuch wretches as you give to madneſs a vogue!

Though the prieſthood of FO on the vulgar impoſe,

By ſquinting whole years at the end of their noſe,

Though with cruel devices of mortification

They adore a vain idol of modern creation,

[308] Does the God of the heav'ns ſuch a ſervice direct?

Can his mercy approve a ſelf-puniſhing ſect?

Will his wiſdom be worſhip'd with chains and with nails?

Or e'er look for his rites in your noſes and tails?

Come along to my houſe and theſe penances leave,

Give your belly a feaſt, and your breech a reprieve.

This reas'ning unhing'd each fanatical notion;
And ſtagger'd our ſaint, in his chair of promotion.
At length with reluctance he roſe from his ſeat:
And reſigning his nails and his fame for retreat;
Two weeks his new life he admir'd and enjoy'd:
The third he with plenty and quiet was cloy'd.
To live undiſtinguiſh'd to him was the pain,
An exiſtence unnotic'd he could not ſuſtain.
In retirement he ſigh'd for the fame-giving chair:
For the crowd to admire him, to rev'rence and ſtare:
No endearments of pleaſure and eaſe could prevail;
He the ſaintſhip reſum'd, and new larded his tail.

Our FAKEER repreſents all the vot'ries of fame;
Their ideas, their means, and their end is the ſame:
The ſportſman, the buck; all the heroes of vice,
With their gallantry, lewdneſs, the bottle and dice;
The poets, the critics, the mataphyſicians,
The courtier, the patriot, all politicians;
The ſtateſman begirt with th' importunate ring,
(I had almoſt compleated my liſt with the king)
All labour alike to illuſtrate my tale;
All tortur'd by choice with th' inviſible nail.

To Mr. WHITEHEAD, On his being made POET LAUREAT.

[309]

By the Same.

'TIS ſo—tho' we're ſurpriz'd to hear it:
The laurel is beſtow'd on merit.
How huſh'd is ev'ry envious voice!
Confounded by ſo juſt a choice,
Tho' by preſcriptive right prepar'd
To libel the ſelected bard.

But as you ſee the ſtateſman's fate
In this our democratic ſtate,
Whom virtue ſtrives in vain to guard
From the rude pamphlet and the card;
You'll find the demagogues of Pindus
In envy not a jot behind us:
For each Aonian politician
Whoſe element is oppoſition,
Will ſhew how greatly they ſurpaſs us,
In gall and wormwood at Parnaſſus.

Thus as the ſame detracting ſpirit
Attends on all diſtinguiſh'd merit,
When 'tis your turn, obſerve, the quarrel
Is not with you, but with the laurel.

Suppoſe that laurel on your brow,
For cypreſs chang'd, funereal bough!
[310] See all things take a diff'rent turn!
The very critics ſweetly mourn,
And leave their ſatire's pois'nous ſting
In plaintive elegies to ſing:
With ſolemn threnody and dirge
Conduct you to Elyſium's verge.
At Weſtminſter the ſurpliced dean
The ſad but honorable ſcene
Prepares. The well-attended herſe
Bears you amid the kings of verſe.
Each rite obſerv'd, each duty paid,
Your fame on marble is diſplay'd,
With ſymbols which your genius ſuit,
The maſk, the buſkin, and the flute:
The laurel crown aloft is hung:
And o'er the ſculptur'd lyre unſtrung
Sad allegoric figures leaning—
(How folks will gape to find their meaning!)
And a long epitaph is ſpread
Which happy You will never read.
But hold—The change is ſo inviting
I own, I tremble while I'm writing.
Yet, WHITEHEAD, 'tis too ſoon to loſe you;
Let critics flatter or abuſe you,
O! teach us, ere you change the ſcene
To Stygian banks from Hippocrene,
How free-born bards ſhould ſtrike the ſtrings,
And how a Briton write to kings.

Verſes on the Proſpect of planting ARTS and LEARNING in AMERICA.

[311]

By the late Dr. BERKELEY, Biſhop of CLOYNE.

THE Muſe, diſguſted at an age and clime,
Barren of every glorious theme,
In diſtant lands now waits a better time,
Producing ſubjects worthy fame:

In happy climes, where from the genial ſun
And virgin earth ſuch ſcenes enſue,
The force of art by nature ſeems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true:

In happy climes the ſeat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men ſhall not impoſe for truth and ſenſe,
The pedantry of courts and ſchools:

There ſhall be ſung another golden age,
The riſe of empire and of arts,
The good and great inſpiring epic rage,
The wiſeſt heads and nobleſt hearts.

Not ſuch as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as ſhe bred when freſh and young,
When heav'nly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets ſhall be ſung.

[312]

Weſtward the courſe of empire takes its way;

The four firſt acts already paſt,

A fifth ſhall cloſe the drama with the day;

Time's nobleſt offspring is the laſt.

To Mr. MASON.

By WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, Eſq

I.BELIEVE me, MASON, 'tis in vain
Thy fortitude the torrent braves;
Thou too muſt bear th' inglorious chain;
The world, the world will have its ſlaves.
The choſen friend, for converſe ſweet,
The ſmall, yet elegant retreat,
Are peaceful unambitious views
Which early fancy loves to form.
When aided by th' ingenuous Muſe,
She turns the philoſophic page,
And ſees the wiſe of every age
With Nature's dictates warm.

II.But ah! to few has fortune given
The choice, to take or to refuſe;
To fewer ſtill indulgent heaven
Allots the very will to chuſe,
And why are varying ſchemes prefer'd?
Man mixes with the common herd
[313] By cuſtom guided to purſue
Or wealth, or honors, fame, or eaſe,
What others wiſh he wiſhes too,
Nor from his own peculiar choice,
'Till ſtrengthen'd by the public voice,
His very pleaſures pleaſe.

III.How oft, beneath ſome hoary ſhade
Where Cam glides indolently ſlow,
Haſt thou, as indolently laid,
Prefer'd to heaven thy fav'rite vow,
"Here, here forever let me ſtay,
"Here calmly loiter life away,
"Nor all thoſe vain connections know
"Which fetter down the free-born mind
"The ſlave of intereſt, or of ſhow;
"Whilſt yon gay tenant of the grove,
"The happier heir of Nature's love,
"Can warble unconfin'd."

IV.Yet ſure, my friend, th' eternal plan
By truth unerring was deſign'd;
Inferior parts were made for man,
But man himſelf for all mankind.
Then by th' apparent judge th' unſeen;
Behold how rolls this vaſt machine
To one great end, howe'er withſtood,
[314] Directing it's impartial courſe.
All labour for the general good.
Some ſtem the wave, ſome till the ſoil,
By choice the bold, th' ambitious toil,
The indolent by force.

V.That bird, thy fancy frees from care,
With many a fear, unknown to thee,
Muſt rove to glean his ſcanty fare
From field to field, from tree to tree,
His lot, united with his kind,
Has all his little joys confin'd;
The Lover's and the Parent's ties
Alarm by turns his anxious breaſt,
Yet, bound by fate, by inſtinct wiſe,
He hails with ſongs the riſing morn,
And pleas'd at Evening's cool return
He ſings himſelf to reſt.

VI.And tell me, has not Nature made
Some ſtated void for thee to fill,
Some ſpring, ſome wheel which aſks thy aid
To move, regardleſs of thy will?
Go then, go feel with glad ſurprize
New bliſs from new attentions riſe;
Till, happier in thy wider ſphere,
Thou quit thy darling ſchemes of eaſe;
Nay, glowing in the full career
Ev'n wiſh thy virtuous labours more;
Nor 'till the toilſome day is o'er
Expect the night of peace.

ODE. To INDEPENDENCY.

[315]

By Mr. MASON.

I.HERE, on my native ſhore reclin'd,
While Silence rules this midnight hour,
I woo thee, GODDESS. On my muſing mind
Deſcend, propitious Power!
And bid theſe ruffling gales of grief ſubſide:
Bid my calm'd ſoul with all thy influence ſhine;
As you chaſt Orb along this ample tide
Draws the long luſtre of her ſilver line,
While the huſh'd breeze its laſt weak whiſper blows,
And lulls old HUMBER to his deep repoſe.

II.Come to thy Vot'ry's ardent pray'r,
In all thy graceful plainneſs dreſt;
No knot confines thy waving hair,
No zone thy floating veſt.
Unſullied Honor decks thine open brow,
And Candor brightens in thy modeſt eye:
Thy bluſh is warm Content's aetherial glow,
Thy ſmile is Peace; thy ſtep is Liberty:
Thou ſcatter'ſt bleſſings round with laviſh hand,
A Spring with careleſs fragrance fills the land.

[316]III.As now o'er this lone beach I ſtray;
Thy * fav'rite Swain oft ſtole along,
And artleſs wove his Doric lay,
Far from the buſy throng.
Thou heard'ſt him, Goddeſs, ſtrike the tender ſtring,
And badſt his ſoul with bolder paſſions move:
Strait theſe reſponſive ſhores forgot to ring,
With Beauty's praiſe, or plaint of ſlighted Love;
To loftier flights his daring Genius roſe,
And led the war, 'gainſt thine, and Freedom's foes.

IV.Pointed with Satire's keeneſt ſteel,
The ſhafts of Wit he darts around;
Ev'n † mitred Dulneſs learns to feel,
And ſhrinks beneath the wound.
In aweful poverty his honeſt Muſe
Walks forth vindictive thro' a venal land:
In vain Corruption ſheds her golden dews,
In vain Oppreſſion lifts her iron hand;
He ſcorns them both, and, arm'd with truth alone,
Bids Luſt and Folly tremble on the throne.

V.Behold, like him, immortal Maid,
The Muſes veſtal fires I bring:
Here at thy feet the ſparks I ſpread;
Propitious wave thy wing,
[317] And fan them to that dazzling blaze of Song,
That glares tremendous on the Sons of Pride.
But, hark, methinks I hear her hallow'd tongue!
In diſtant trills it echos o'er the tide;
Now meets mine ear with warbles wildly free,
As ſwells the Lark's meridian ecſtacy.

VI."Fond Youth! to MARVELL's patriot fame,
"Thy humble breaſt muſt ne'er aſpire.
"Yet nouriſh ſtill the lambent flame;
"Still ſtrike thy blameleſs Lyre:
"Led by the moral Muſe ſecurely rove;
"And all the vernal ſweets thy vacant Youth
"Can cull from buſy Fancy's fairy grove,
"O hang their foliage round the fane of Truth:
"To arts like theſe devote thy tuneful toil,
"And meet its fair reward in D'ARCY's ſmile."

VII."'Tis he, my Son, alone ſhall chear
"Thy ſick'ning ſoul; at that ſad hour,
"When o'er a much-lov'd Parent's bier,
"Thy duteous Sorrows ſhower:
"At that ſad hour, when all thy hopes decline;
"When pining Care leads on her pallid train,
"And ſees thee, like the weak, and widow'd Vine,
"Winding thy blaſted tendrils o'er the plain.
"At that ſad hour ſhall D'ARCY lend his aid,
"And raiſe with Friendſhip's arm thy drooping head.

[318]VIII.This fragrant wreath, the Muſes meed,
"That bloom'd thoſe vocal ſhades among,
"Where never Flatt'ry dar'd to tread,
"Or Intereſt's ſervile throng;
"Receive, my favor'd Son, at my command,
"And keep, with ſacred care, for D'ARCY's brow:
"Tell him, 'twas wove by my immortal hand,
"I breath'd on every flower a purer glow;
"Say, for thy ſake, I ſend the gift divine
"To him, who calls thee HIS, yet makes thee MINE."

ODE. On MELANCHOLY. To a FRIEND.

By the Same.

I.AH! ceaſe this kind perſuaſive ſtrain,
Which, when it flows from Friendſhip's tongue,
However weak, however vain,
O'erpowers beyond the Siren's ſong:
Leave me, my friend, indulgent go,
And let me muſe upon my woe.
Why lure me from theſe pale retreats?
Why rob me of theſe penſive ſweets?
Can Muſick's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand, ſupply
[319] A charm ſo ſuited to my mind,
As blows this hollow guſt of wind,
As drops this little weeping rill
Soft-tinkling down the moſs-grown hill,
Whilſt thro' the weſt, where ſinks the crimſon Day,
Meek Twilight ſlowly ſails, and waves her banners grey?

II.Say, from Affliction's various ſource
Do none but turbid waters flow?
And cannot Fancy clear their courſe?
For Fancy is the friend of Woe.
Say, mid that grove, in love-lorn ſtate,
When yon poor Ringdove mourns her mate,
Is all, that meets the ſhepherd's ear,
Inſpir'd by anguiſh, and deſpair?
Ah no, fair Fancy rules the Song:
She ſwells her throat; ſhe guides her tongue;
She bids the waving Aſpin-ſpray
Quiver in Cadence to her lay;
She bids the fringed Oſiers bow,
And ruſtle round the lake below,
To ſuit the tenor of her gurgling ſighs,
And ſooth her throbbing breaſt with ſolemn ſympathies.

III.To thee, whoſe young and poliſh'd brow
The wrinkling hand of Sorrow ſpares;
Whoſe cheeks, beſtrew'd with roſes, know
No channel for the tide of tears;
[320] To thee yon Abbey dank, and lone,
Where Ivy chains each mould'ring ſtone
That nods o'er many a Martyr's tomb,
May caſt a formidable gloom.
Yet Some there are, who, free from fear,
Could wander thro' the cloyſters drear,
Could rove each deſolated Iſle,
Tho' midnight thunders ſhook the pile;
And dauntleſs view, or ſeem to view,
(As faintly flaſh the lightnings blue)
Thin ſhiv'ring Ghoſts from yawning charnels throng,
And glance with ſilent ſweep the ſhaggy vaults along.

IV.But ſuch terrific charms as theſe,
I aſk not yet: My ſober mind
The fainter forms of ſadneſs pleaſe;
My ſorrows are of ſofter kind.
Thro' this ſtill valley let me ſtray,
Wrapt in ſome ſtrain of penſive GRAY:
Whoſe lofty Genius bears along
The conſcious dignity of Song;
And, ſcorning from the ſacred ſtore
To waſte a note on Pride, or Power,
Roves, when the glimmering twilight glooms,
And warbles mid the ruſtic tombs:
He too perchance (for well I know,
His heart would melt with friendly woe)
He too perchance, when theſe poor limbs are laid,
Will heave one tuneful ſigh, and ſooth my hov'ring Shade.

ODE.

[321]

By Mr. GRAY.

ΦΩΝΑΝΤΑ ΣΥΝΕΤΟΙΣΙ —

PINDAR, Olymp. II.

I. 1.AWAKE, Aeolian lyre, awake,
And give to rapture all thy trembling ſtrings.
From Helicon's harmonious ſprings
A thouſand rills their mazy progreſs take:
The laughing flowers, that round them blow,
Drink life and fragrance as they flow.
Now the rich ſtream of muſic winds along
Deep, majeſtic, ſmooth, and ſtrong,
Thro' verdant vales, and Ceres' golden reign:
Now rowling down the ſteep amain,
Headlong, impetuous, ſee it pour:
The rocks, and nodding groves rebellow to the roar.

I. 2.Oh! Sovereign of the willing ſoul,
Parent of ſweet and ſolemn-breathing airs,
Enchanting ſhell! the ſullen Cares,
And franctic Paſſions hear thy ſoft controul.
On Thracia's hills the Lord of War
Has curb'd the fury of his car,
[322] And drop'd his thirſty lance at thy command.
Perching on the ſcept'red hand
Of Jove, thy magic lulls the feather'd king
With ruffled plumes, and flagging wing:
Quench'd in dark clouds of ſlumber lie
The terror of his beak, and light'nings of his eye.

I. 3.Thee the voice, the dance, obey,
Temper'd to thy warbled lay.
O'er Idalia's velvet-green
The roſy-crowned Loves are ſeen
On Cytherea's day,
With antic Sports, and blue-eyed Pleaſures,
Friſking light in frolic meaſures;
Now purſuing, now retreating,
Now in circling troops they meet:
To briſk notes in cadence beating
Glance their many-twinkling feet.
Slow melting ſtrains their Queen's approach declare:
Where'er ſhe turns the Graces homage pay.
With arms ſublime, that float upon the air,
In gliding ſtate ſhe wins her eaſy way:
O'er her warm cheek, and riſing boſom, move
The bloom of young Deſire, and purple light of Love.

II. 1.Man's feeble race what Ills await,
Labour, and Penury, the racks of Pain,
Diſeaſe, and Sorrow's weeping train,
And Death, ſad refuge from the ſtorms of Fate!
[323] The fond complaint, my Song, diſprove,
And juſtify the laws of Jove.
Say, has he giv'n in vain the heav'nly Muſe?
Night, and all her ſickly dews,
Her Spectres wan, and Birds of boding cry,
He gives to range the dreary ſky:
Till down the eaſtern cliffs afar
Hyperion's march they ſpy, and glitt'ring ſhafts of war.

II. 2.In climes beyond the ſolar road,
Where ſhaggy forms o'er ice-built mountains roam,
The Muſe has broke the twilight-gloom
To chear the ſhiv'ring Native's dull abode.
And oft, beneath the od'rous ſhade
Of Chili's boundleſs foreſts laid,
She deigns to hear the ſavage Youth repeat,
In looſe numbers wildly ſweet,
Their feather-cinctured Chiefs, and duſky Loves.
Her track, where'er the Goddeſs roves,
Glory purſue, and generous Shame,
Th' unconquerable Mind, and Freedom's holy flame.

II. 3.Woods, that wave o'er Delphi's ſteep,
 [...]es, that crown th' Egaean deep,
 [...]ields, that cool Iliſſus laves,
Or where Maeander's amber waves
 [...] lingering Lab'rinths creep,
How do your tuneful Echo's languiſh,
Mute, but to the voice of Anguiſh!
[324] Where each old poetic Mountain
Inſpiration breath'd around;
Ev'ry ſhade and hallow'd Fountain
Murmur'd deep a ſolemn ſound:
Till the ſad Nine in Greece's evil hour
Left their Parnaſſus for the Latian plains.
Alike they ſcorn the pomp of tyrant-Power,
And coward Vice, that revels in her chains.
When Latium had her lofty ſpirit loſt,
They ſought, oh Albion! next, thy ſea-encircled coaſt.

III. 1.Far from the ſun and ſummer-gale,
In thy green lap was Nature's Darling laid,
What time, where lucid Avon ſtray'd,
To Him the mighty Mother did unveil
Her aweful face: The dauntleſs Child
Stretch'd ſorth his little arms, and ſmil'd.
This pencil take (ſhe ſaid) whoſe colours clear
Richly paint the vernal year:
Thine too theſe golden keys, immortal Boy!
This can unlock the gates of Joy;
Of Horrour that, and thrilling Fears,
Or ope the ſacred ſource of ſympathetic Tears.

III. 2.Nor ſecond He, that rode ſublime
Upon the ſeraph-wings of Extaſy,
The ſecrets of th' Abyſs to ſpy.
He paſs'd the flaming bounds of Rlace and Time:
[325] The living Throne, the ſaphire-blaze,
Where Angels tremble while they gaze,
He ſaw; but blaſted with exceſs of light,
Cloſed his eyes in endleſs night.
Behold, where Dryden's leſs preſumptuous car,
Wide o'er the fields of Glory bear
Two Courſers of ethereal race,
With necks in thunder cloath'd, and long-reſounding pace.

III. 3.Hark, his hands the lyre explore!
Bright-eyed Fancy hovering o'er
Scatters from her pictur'd urn
Thoughts, that breathe, and words, that burn.
But ah! 'tis heard no more—
Oh! Lyre divine, what daring Spirit
Wakes thee now? tho' he inherit
Nor the pride, nor ample pinion,
That the Theban Eagle bear
Sailing with ſupreme dominion
Thro' the azure deep of air:
Yet oft before his infant eyes would run
Such forms, as glitter in the Muſe's ray
With orient hues, unborrow'd of the Sun:
Yet ſhall he mount, and keep his diſtant way
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate,
Beneath the Good how far—but far above the Great.

ODE.

[326]

By the Same.

The following Ode is founded on a tradition current in Wales, that EDWARD the Firſt, when he compleated the conqueſt of that country, ordered all the Bards, that fell into his hands, to be put to death.

I. 1.'RUIN ſeize thee, ruthleſs King!
'Confuſion on thy banners wait,
'Tho' fann'd by Conqueſt's crimſon wing
'They mock the air with idle ſtate.
'Helm, nor Hauberk's twiſted mail,
'Nor even thy virtues, Tyrant, ſhall avail
'To ſave thy ſecret ſoul from nightly fears,
'From Cambria's curſe, from Cambria's tears!'
Such were the ſounds, that o'er the creſted pride
Of the firſt Edward ſcatter'd wild diſmay,
As down the ſteep of Snowdon's ſhaggy ſide
He wound with toilſome march his long array.
Stout Gloſter ſtood aghaſt in ſpeechleſs trance:
To arms! cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quiv'ring lance.

[327]I. 2.On a rock, whoſe haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the ſable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet ſtood;
(Looſe his beard, and hoary hair
Stream'd, like a meteor, to the troubled air)
And with a Maſter's hand, and Prophet's fire,
Struck the deep ſorrows of his lyre.
'Hark, how each giant-oak, and deſert cave,
'Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
'O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
'Revenge on thee in hoarſer murmurs breathe;
'Vocal no more, ſince Cambria's fatal day,
'To high-born Hoel's harp, or ſoft Llewellyn's lay.

I. 3.'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
'That huſh'd the ſtormy main:
'Brave Urien ſleeps upon his craggy bed:
'Mountains, ye mourn in vain
'Modred, whoſe magic ſong
'Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-top'd head.
'On dreary Arvon's ſhore they lie,
'Smear'd with gore, and ghaſtly pale:
'Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens ſail;
'The famiſh'd Eagle ſcreams, and paſſes by.
'Dear loſt companions of my tuneful art,
[328] 'Dear, as the light, that viſits theſe ſad eyes,
'Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart,
'Ye died amidſt your dying country's cries—
'No more I weep. They do not ſleep.
'On yonder cliffs, a grieſly band,
'I ſee them ſit, they linger yet,
'Avengers of their native land:
'With me in dreadful harmony they join,
'And weave with bloody hands the tiſſue of thy line.

II. 1."Weave the warp, and weave the woof,
"The winding-ſheet of Edward's race,
"Give ample room, and verge enough
"The characters of hell to trace.
"Mark the year, and mark the night,
"When Severn ſhall re-echo with affright
"The ſhrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,
"Shrieks of an agonizing King!
"She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs,
"That tear'ſt the bowels of thy mangled Mate,
"From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs
"The ſcourge of Heav'n. What Terrors round him wait!
"Amazement in his van, with Flight combin'd,
"And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

II. 2."Mighty Victor, mighty Lord,
"Low on his funeral couch he lies!
"No pitying heart, no eye afford
"A tear to grace his obſequies.
[329] Is the ſable Warriour fled?
"Thy ſon is gone. He reſts among the Dead.
"The Swarm, that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
"Gone to ſalute the riſing Morn.
"Fair laughs the Morn, and ſoft the Zephyr blows,
"While proudly riding o'er the azure realm
"In gallant trim the gilded Veſſel goes;
"Youth on the prow, and Pleaſure at the helm;
"Regardleſs of the ſweeping Whirlwind's ſway,
"That, huſh'd in grim repoſe, expects his evening-prey.

II. 3." * Fill high the ſparkling bowl,
"The rich repaſt prepare,
"Reft of a crown, he yet may ſhare the feaſt:
"Cloſe by the regal chair
"Fell Thirſt and Famine ſcowl
"A baleful ſmile upon their baffled Gueſt.
"Heard ye the din of battle bray,
"Lance to lance, and horſe to horſe?
"Long Years of havock urge their deſtined courſe,
"And thro' the kindred ſquadrons mow their way.
"Ye Towers of Julius, London's laſting ſhame,
"With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
"Revere his Conſort's faith, his Father's fame,
"And ſpare the meek Uſurper's holy head.
[330] "Above, below, the roſe of ſnow,
"Twined with her bluſhing foe, we ſpread:
"The briſtled Boar in infant-gore
"Wallows beneath the thorny ſhade.
"Now, Brothers, bending o'er th' accurſed loom,
"Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.

III. 1."Edward, lo! to ſudden fate
"(Weave we the woof. The thread is ſpun)
" * Half of thy heart we conſecrate.
"(The web is wove. The work is done.)"
'Stay, oh ſtay! nor thus forlorn
'Leave me unbleſſed, unpitied, here to mourn:
'In yon bright track, that fires the weſtern ſkies,
'They melt, they vaniſh from my eyes.
'But oh! what ſolemn ſcenes on Snowdon's height
'Deſcending ſlow their glitt'ring ſkirts unroll?
'Viſions of glory, ſpare my aching ſight,
'Ye unborn Ages, crowd not on my ſoul!
'No more our long-loſt Arthur we bewail.
'All-hail †, ye genuine Kings, Britannia's Iſſue, hail!

III. 2.'Girt with many a Baron bold,
'Sublime their ſtarry fronts they rear;
'And gorgeous Dames, and Stateſmen old
'In bearded majeſty, appear.
[331] 'In the midſt a Form divine!
'Her eye proclaims her of the Briton-Line;
'Her lyon-port, her awe-commanding face,
'Attemper'd ſweet to virgin-grace.
'What ſtrings ſymphonious tremble in the air,
'What ſtrains of vocal tranſport round her play!
'Hear from the grave, great Talieſſin *, hear;
'They breathe a ſoul to animate thy clay.
'Bright Rapture calls, and ſoaring, as ſhe ſings,
'Waves in the eye of Heav'n her many-colour'd wings;

III. 3.'The verſe adorn again
'Fierce War, and faithful Love,
'And Truth ſevere, by fairy Fiction dreſt.
'In buſkin'd meaſures move
'Pale Grief, and pleaſing Pain,
'With Horrour, Tyrant of the throbbing breaſt.
'A Voice, as of the Cherub-Choir,
'Gales from blooming Eden bear;
'And diſtant warblings leſſen on my ear,
'That loſt in long futurity expire.
'Fond impious Man, think'ſt thou, yon ſanguine cloud,
'Rais'd by thy breath, has quench'd the Orb of day?
'To-morrow he repairs the golden flood,
'And warms the nations with redoubled ray.
[332] 'Enough for me: With joy I ſee
'The different doom our Fates aſſign.
'Be thine Deſpair, and ſcepter'd Care,
'To triumph, and to die, are mine.'
He ſpoke, and headlong from the mountain's height
Deep in the roaring tide he plung'd to endleſs night.

[figure]

Appendix A POSTSCRIPT.

[333]

HAVING now, by the advice and aſſiſtance of my friends, brought this Collection of POEMS to a com⯑petent ſize, it has been thought proper that the further pro⯑greſs of its growth ſhould here be ſtop'd. From the looſe and fugitive pieces, ſome printed, others in manuſcript, which for forty or fifty years paſt have been thrown into the world, and careleſsly left to periſh; I have here, according to the moſt judicious opinions I could obtain in diſtinguiſh⯑ing their merits, endeavour'd to ſelect and preſerve the beſt. The favourable reception which the former volumes have met with, demands my warmeſt acknowledgments, and calls for all my care in compleating the Collection; and in this reſpect, if it appear that I have not been altogether negligent, I ſhall hope to be allow'd the merit, which is all I claim, of having furniſh'd to the Public an elegant and polite Amuſement. Little more need be added, than to return my thanks to ſeveral ingenious friends, who have obligingly contributed to this Entertainment. If the reader ſhould happen to find, what I hope he ſeldom will, any pieces which he may think unworthy of having been inſerted; as it would ill become me to attribute his diſlike of them to his own want of Taſte, ſo I am too con⯑ſcious of my own deficiencies not to allow him to im⯑pute the inſertion of them to mine.

R. DODSLEY.

Appendix B INDEX to the Sixth Volume.

[334]

HYmn to the Naiades, 1746 Page 1
Ode to the Right Hon. Francis E. of Huntingdon, 1747 15
Ode to the Right Rev. Benja⯑min Lord Biſhop of Win⯑cheſter 25
Inſcriptions,
- 1. For a Grotto 29
- 2. For a Statue of Chaucer at Woodſtock 30
- 3. 31
- 4. 32
- 5. 33
- 6. For a Column at Runny⯑mede 34
Ode 35
Ode to the Tiber 37
Elegies,
- 1. Written at the Convent of Haut Villiers in Cham⯑pagne, 1754 41
- 2. On the Mauſoleum of Auguſtus. To the Right Hon. George Buſſy Villers, Viſcount Villers, written at Rome, 1756 44
- 3. To the Right Hon. George Simon Harcourt, Viſcount Newnham, written at Rome, 1756 47
- 4. To an Officer, written at Rome, 1756 50
- 5. To a Friend Sick, written at Rome, 1756 54
- 6. To another Friend, writ⯑ten at Rome, 1756 56
The Lyric Muſe to Mr. Maſon 58
On the Immortality of the Soul, in two Books 60, 76
The Arbour: an Ode to Con⯑tentment 91
The Grotto: an Ode to Silence 97
The Picture of Human Life 100
The Dropſical Man 125
Paradiſe regain'd 126
To the Right Hon. Sir Robert Walpole 129
To a Lady on a Landſcape of her Drawing 135
Ode to Cupid on Valentine's Day 137
To the Hon. and Rev. F C. 138
To the Rev. T*** T**, D.D. 142
Vacation 148
To a Lady very handſome, but too ſond of Dreſs 155
Anacreon. Ode III. 157
An Imitation of Horace, Ode II. Book III. 158
A Reply to a Copy of Verſes made in Imitation of Ode II. Book III. of Horace 160
[335] Inſcription on a Grotto of Shells at Crux-Eaſton, the Work of Nine young Ladies 161
Verſes occaſioned by ſeeing a Grotto built by Nine Siſters 162
An Excuſe for Inconſtancy, 1737 ibid.
To Venus. A Rant, 1732 164
The Power of Muſic. A Song. Imitated from the Spaniſh 166
Letter from Smyrna to his Siſ⯑ters at Crux-Eaſton, 1733 167
Part of a Letter to my Siſters at Crux-Eaſton, wrote from Cairo in Egypt, Auguſt 1734 172
Leter from Marſeilles to my Siſters at Crux-Eaſton, May 1735 174
The Hiſtory of Porſenna, King of Ruſſia, in two Books 178
The Ever-Green 211
Anſwer 212
Candour ibid.
Lyſander to Cloe 213
Cloe to Lyſander 215
To the Memory of an agreeable Lady buried in Marriage to a Perſon undeſerving her 216
An Elegy, written on Valen⯑tine Morning 217
The Dowager 221
Ode to the Hon. *** 225
To Miſs *** 227
To Chloe, written on the Au⯑thor's Birth Day 229
Lady Mary W***, to Sir W*** Y*** 230
Sir W** Y***'s Anſwer ibid.
Miſs Soper's Anſwer to a Lady, who invited her to retire into a monaſtic Life at St. Croſs, near Wincheſter 231
Repentance 232
A Song 233
Cynthia, an Elegiac Poem 234
Dialogue to Chlorinda 239
To Chlorinda 241
The Fable of Ixion. To Chlo⯑rinda 242
A Tale. To Chlorinda 246
Ode on Lyric Poetry 250
Arion. an Ode 253
Horace, Book II. Ode II. 255
A Panegyric on Ale 258
Ode to the Genius of Italy, occaſioned by the Earl of Corke's going Abroad 263
To C*** P***, Eſq 265
Epiſtle from the late Lord Viſe. B—gb—ke to Miſs Lucy A—k—ns 267
The Cheat's Apology 268
Song 270
Another 271
To Mr. Grenville on his in⯑tended Reſignation ibid.
To Mr. Garrick, on his erecting a Temple and Statue to Shakeſpear 273
On the Birth-Day of Shake⯑ſpear. A Cento. Taken from his Works 275
[336] An Ode to Sculpture 276
True Reſignation 280
Epiſtle from the King of Pruſſia to Mr. Voltaire 281
At ſeeing Archbiſhop Williams's Monument in Carnarvonſhire 284
Extempore Verſes upon a Trial of Skill between the two great Maſters of Defence, Meſſieurs Figg and Sutton 286
A Letter from Cambridge to a young Gentleman at Eton School 290
The Indolent 294
The Song of Simeon paraphraſed 295
On the Invention of Letters 296
The Anſwer 297
On Wit ibid.
On a Spider 298
The Play-Thing chang'd 299
The Fable of Jotham: To the Borough-Hunters 300
An Elegy written in an empty Aſſembly-Room 302
The Fakeer: A Tale 306
To Mr. Whitehead, on his being made Poet Laureat 309
Verſes on the Proſpect of planting Arts and Learning in America 311
To Mr. Maſon 312
Ode. To Independency 315
Ode. On Melancholy. To a Friend 318
Ode 321
Ode 326
Poſtſcript 333

The END.

Notes

Homer.

Octavius Caeſar.

Mr. Locke died in 1704, when Mr. Hoadly was begin⯑ning to diſtinguiſh himſelf in the cauſe of civil and religious liberty: Lord Godolphin in 1712, when the doctrines of the Jacobite faction were chiefly favour'd by thoſe in power: Lord Somers in 1716, amid the practices of the nonjuring clergy againſt the proteſtant eſtabliſhment; and lord Stanhope in 1721, during the controverſy with the lower houſe of convocation.

The Flaminian way.

It is now a garden belonging to Marcheſe di Corré.

He is ſaid to be the firſt perſon buried in this monument.

†

Quantos ille virum magnum mavortis ad urbem

Campus aget gemitus!

‡

— Vel quae, Tyberine, videbis

Funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem.

VIRG.

The trophies of Marius, now erected before the Capitol.

The Inſula Tiberina, where there are ſtill ſome ſmall remains of the famous temple of Aeſculapius.

The medal of Marcus Aurelius.

Lord Somers.

Duke of Marlborough.

Dean Swift.

Biſhop of Worceſter.

This temple was probably in the city of Thebes, for Cebes was a Theban.

Devout offerings, for the moſt part in diſcharge of vows.

The Caſelian and Salmaſian editions read [...] wicked, inſtead of [...] bitter. JOHNSON.

Vid. ℣. 186.

The firſt court, or the ſenſual life.

The ſecond court, or the ſtudious life.

The third court, or the virtuous life.

Apoſtates.

The diſtinction between Opinion and Knowledge.

The inſtructions of the Genius.

Natural knowledge, how far uſeful, and when un⯑profitable and hurtful.

The ſeat of the honourable R. H—t.

Wotton, the author's pariſh in the iſle of Wight.

Dido.

Iliad.

Socrates.

At Crux-Eaſton.

Or ſtive, ſtipant.

— On her left breaſt

A mole cinque-ſpotted: like the crimſon drops

I' th' bottom of a cowſlip.

Shakeſpear's Cymbeline, Act 3 [...]

Noted alehouſes in Oxford.

Socrates, who was condemned to die by poiſon.

Seneca, born at Corduba, who according to Pliny, was trator, poet, and philoſopher. He bled to death in the bath.

‘Semiramis, cum ei circa cultum capitis ſui occupatae nun⯑datum eſſet Babylonem difeciſſe; alterâ parte crinium adhuc ſolutâ protinus ad eam expugnandam cucurrit: nec prius de⯑corem capillorum in ordinem quam tantam urbem in poteſta⯑tem ſuam redegit: quocircà ſtatua ejus Babylone poſita eſt &c. Val. Max. de Ira.’

A noble ſtatue of Sir Iſaac Newton, erected in Trinity. College chapel, by Dr. Smith.

John Williams was conſecrated biſhop of Lincoln No⯑vember 11. 1621. was tranſlated to York December 4. 1641. and died March 25. 1649. and was buried at Landegay near Bangor.

†

He was made lord keeper of the great ſeal July 20. 1621.

The title of a book of modern devotion.

Andrew Marvell, born at Kingſton upon Hull in the year 1620.

†

Parker, biſhop of Oxford.

Richard the Second, (as we are told by Archbiſhop Scroop, Thomas of Walſingham, and all the older Writers,) was ſtarved to death. The ſtory of his aſſaſſination by Sir Piers of Exon, is of much later date.

Eleanor of Caſtile, died a few years after the conqueſt of Wales. The heroic proof ſhe gave of her affection for her Lord is well known. The monuments of his regret, and ſorrow for the loſs of her, are ſtill to be ſeen in ſeveral parts of England.

†

Acceſſion of the line of Tudor.

Talieſſin, Chief of the Bards, flouriſh'd in the VIth Century. His works are ſtill preſerved, and his memory held in high veneration among his Countrymen.

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Citation Suggestion for this Object: TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 4979 A collection of poems in six volumes By several hands pt 6. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-DA94-E

HYMN TO THE NAIADS.MDCCXLVI.[]HYMN TO THE NAIADS.

ODE To the Right Honourable FRANCIS Earl of HUNTINGDON.MDCCXLVII.

ODE To the Right Reverend BENJAMIN Lord Biſhop of WINCHESTER.

INSCRIPTIONS.

I. For a GROTTO.

II. For a Statue of CHAUCER at WOODSTOCK.

III.

IV.

V.

VI. For a Column at RUNNYMEDE.

ODE.

ODE TO THE TIBER.WRITTEN ABROAD.

ELEGIES.

ELEGY I. Written at the CONVENT of HAUT VILLERS in CHAMPAGNE, 1754.

ELEGY II. On * the MAUSOLEUM of AUGUSTUS. To the Right Honourable George Buſſy Villiers, Viſcount Villiers.Written at ROME. 1756.

ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable George Simon Harcourt, Viſc. Newnham.Written at ROME. 1756.

ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER.Written at ROME 1756.

ELEGY V. TO a FRIEND Sick.Written at ROME 1756.

ELEGY VI. To another FRIEND.Written at ROME 1756.

The LYRIC MUSE to Mr. MASON.On the Recovery of the Right Honourable the Earl of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illneſs.

On the IMMORTALITY of the SOUL.TRANSLATED From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWN, Eſq

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

The ARBOUR: An ODE to CONTENTMENT.

The GROTTO: An ODE to SILENCE.

The PICTURE of HUMAN LIFE.Tranſlated from the GREEK of CEBES the THEBAN.

The DROPSICAL MAN.

PARADISE REGAIN'D.

To the Right Hon. Sir ROBERT WALPOLE.

To a LADY on a LANDSCAPE of her Drawing.

ODE to CUPID on VALENTINE's Day.

To the Honourable and Reverend F. C.

To the Reverend T— T—, D.D.

VACATION.

To a LADY very handſome, but too fond of DRESS.

ANACREON. ODE III.

An Imitation of HORACE, Ode II. Book III. Anguſtam amice, &c.

A Reply to a Copy of Verſes made in Imita⯑tion of Ode II. Book III. of HORACE, Anguſtam amice pauperiem pati, &c.And ſent by Mr. TITLEY to Dr. BENTLEY.

Inſcription on a GROTTO of Shells at CRUX-EASTON, the Work of Nine young Ladies,

VERSES occaſioned by ſeeing a GROTTO built by Nine Siſters.

An EXCUSE for INCONSTANCY, 1737.

To VENUS. A RANT, 1732.

The POWER of MUSIC. A SONG.Imitated from the SPANISH.

LETTER from SMYRNA to his Siſters at CRUX-EASTON, 1733.

Part of a LETTER to my Siſters at CRUX-EASTON, wrote from CAIRO in EGYPT, AUGUST 1734.

LETTER from MARSEILLES to my Siſters at CRUX-EASTON, MAY 1735.

The HISTORY of PORSENNA, King of RUSSIA.IN TWO BOOKS.

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

The EVER-GREEN.

ANSWER.

CANDOUR.

LYSANDER to CLOE.

CLOE to LYSANDER.

To the Memory of an agreeable LADY bury'd in Marriage to a Perſon undeſerv⯑ing her.

An ELEGY, written on VALENTINE Morning.

The DOWAGER.

ODE to the Honourable ****

To Miſs ****.

To Chloe, written on the Author's Birth Day.

Lady MARY W***, to Sir W*** Y***

Sir W***** Y*****'s Anſwer.

Miſs SOPER's Anſwer to a Lady, who invited her to retire into a monaſtic Life at St. CROSS, near WINCHESTER.

REPENTANCE.

A SONG.

CYNTHIA, an Elegiac POEM.

DIALOGUE to CHLORINDA.

To CHLORINDA.

The Fable of IXION. To CHLORINDA.

A TALE. To CHLORINDA.

ODE on Lyric POETRY.

ARION, an ODE.

HORACE, Book 2. Ode II. Quid bellioſus Cantaber, &c.

A PANEGYRIC on ALE.

ODE to the Genius of ITALY, occaſioned by the Earl of CORKE's going Abroad.

To C*** P****, Eſq

Epiſtle from the late Lord Viſcount B—GB—KE to Miſs LUCY A—K—NS.

The CHEAT's APOLOGY.

SONG.

Another.

HYMN TO THE NAIADS.
MDCCXLVI.
[]HYMN TO THE NAIADS.

ODE To the Right Honourable FRANCIS Earl of HUNTINGDON.
MDCCXLVII.

ODE TO THE TIBER.
WRITTEN ABROAD.

ELEGY II. On ^* the MAUSOLEUM of AUGUSTUS. To the Right Honourable George Buſſy Villiers, Viſcount Villiers.
Written at ROME. 1756.

ELEGY III. To the Right Honourable George Simon Harcourt, Viſc. Newnham.
Written at ROME. 1756.

ELEGY IV. To an OFFICER.
Written at ROME 1756.

ELEGY V. TO a FRIEND Sick.
Written at ROME 1756.

ELEGY VI. To another FRIEND.
Written at ROME 1756.

The LYRIC MUSE to Mr. MASON.
On the Recovery of the Right Honourable the Earl of HOLDERNESSE from a dangerous Illneſs.

On the IMMORTALITY of the SOUL.
TRANSLATED From the LATIN of ISAAC HAWKINS BROWN, Eſq

The PICTURE of HUMAN LIFE.
Tranſlated from the GREEK of CEBES the THEBAN.

A Reply to a Copy of Verſes made in Imita⯑tion of Ode II. Book III. of HORACE, Anguſtam amice pauperiem pati, &c.
And ſent by Mr. TITLEY to Dr. BENTLEY.

The POWER of MUSIC. A SONG.
Imitated from the SPANISH.

The HISTORY of PORSENNA, King of RUSSIA.
IN TWO BOOKS.

Lady MARY W, to Sir W Y***

Sir W* Y*'s Anſwer.

To C* P**, Eſq

On the Birth-Day of SHAKESPEAR. A CENTO.
Taken from his Works.

At ſeeing ^* Archbiſhop WILLIAMS's Monument in CARNARVONSHIRE.

The FABLE of JOTHAM: To the BOROUGH-HUNTERS.
JUDGES, Chap ix. ver. 8.