Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Poems on Several Occasions

With some Select Essays in Prose. In Two Volumes. By John Hughes; Adorn'd with Sculptures

Hughes, John (1677-1720)

VOLUME the FIRST.

VOLUME the SECOND.

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

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2. VOLUME the SECOND.

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

DIALOGUE FROM THE French* of Monsieur De la Motte.*

Poet.
No, LOVE—I ne'er will love again;
Thy Tyrant Empire I abjure;
My weary Heart resolves to cure
Its Wounds, and ease the raging Pain.

Love.
Fool! canst thou fly my happy Reign?

Poet.
Iris recalls thee to her Arms.
She's false—I hate her perjur'd Charms;
No, Love—I ne'er will love again.

Love.
But know for thee I've toil'd to gain

Poet.
Daphné, the bright, the reigning Toast.
Daphné but common Eyes can boast;
No, Love—I ne'er will love again.

Love.
She who before scorn'd ev'ry Swain,

Poet.
Dircé, shall for One Sigh be thine.
Age makes her Rays too faintly shine;
No, Love—I ne'er will love again.

Love.
But shou'd I give thee Charms t'obtain
FLORA, the Young, the Bright, the Gay!
I see thee blush—now, Rebel, say,
No, Love—I ne'er will love again.

Poet.
No, charming God, prepare a Chain
Eternal for that Fair and me!
Yet still, know ev'ry Fair but she,
I've vow'd I ne'er will love again.

VENUS and ADONIS,

A CANTATA.

[_]

Set by Mr. HANDEL.

Recitative.

Behold where weeping Venus stands!
What more than Mortal Grief can move
The bright, th'Immortal Queen of Love?
She beats her Breast, She wrings her Hands;
And hark, She mourns, but mourns in vain,
Her Beauteous, Lov'd Adonis, slain.
The Hills and Woods her Loss deplore;
The Naids hear, and flock around;
And Echo sighs, with mimick Sound,
Adonis is no more!
Again the Goddess raves, and tears her Hair;
Then vents her Grief, her Love, and her Despair.

AIR.

Dear Adonis, Beauty's Treasure,
Now my Sorrow, once my Pleasure;
O return to Venus' Arms!

Venus never will forsake thee;
Let the Voice of Love o'ertake thee,
And revive thy drooping Charms.

Recitative.

Thus, Queen of Beauty, as thy Poets feign,
While thou didst call the Lovely Swain;
Transform'd by Heav'nly Pow'r,
The Lovely Swain arose a Flow'r,
And smiling, grac'd the Plain.
And now he blooms, and now he fades;
Venus and gloomy Proserpine
Alternate claim his Charms Divine;
By turns restor'd to Light, by turns he seeks the Shades.

AIR.

Transporting Joy,
Tormenting Fears,
Reviving Smiles,
Succeeding Tears,
Are Cupid's various Train.
The Tyrant Boy
Prepares his Darts,
With soothing Wiles,
With cruel Arts,
And Pleasure blends with Pain.

CANTATA. PASTORAL.

[_]

Set by Dr. Pepusch.

Recitative.

Young Strephon, by his Folded Sheep,
Sat wakeful on the Plains:
Love held his weary Eyes from Sleep,
While, silent in the Vale,
The list'ning Nightingale
Forgot her own, to hear his Strains.
And now the Beauteous Queen of Night,
Unclouded and Serene,
Sheds on the Neighb'ring Sea her Silver Light;
The Neighb'ring Sea was calm and bright;
The Shepherd sung inspir'd, and bless'd the lovely Scene.

AIR.

While the Sky and Seas are shining,
See, my Flora's Charms they wear;
Secret Night, my Joys divining,
Pleas'd my Amorous Tale to hear;
Smiles, and softly turns her Sphere.
While the Sky and Seas are shining,
See, my Flora's Charms they wear.

Recitative.

Ah foolish Strephon! change thy Strain;
The Lovely Scene false Joy inspires:
For look, thou fond, deluded Swain,
A rising Storm invades the Main!
The Planet of the Night,
Inconstant, from thy Sight
Behind a Cloud retires.
Flora is fled; thou lov'st in vain:
Ah Foolish Strephon! change thy Strain.

AIR.

Hope beguiling,
Like the Moon and Ocean smiling,
Does thy easy Faith betray.
Flora ranging,
Like the Moon and Ocean changing,
More Inconstant proves than they.

BEAUTY,

An ODE.

I

Fair Rival to the God of Day,
Beauty, to thy cœlestial Ray
A thousand sprightly Fruits we owe;
Gay Wit, and moving Eloquence,
And ev'ry Art t'improve the Sense,
And ev'ry Grace that shines below.

II

Not Phœbus does our Songs inspire,
Nor did Cyllenius form the Lyre,
'Tis thou art Musick's living Spring;
To Thee the Poet tunes his Lays,
And sweetly warbling Beauty's Praise,
Describes the Pow'r that makes him sing.

III

Painters from Thee their Skill derive,
By Thee their Works to Ages live,
For e'en thy Shadows give Surprize,
As when we view in Crystal Streams
The Morning Sun, and rising Beams
That seem to shoot from other Skies.

IV

Enchanting Vision! who can be
Unmov'd that turns his Eyes on thee?
Yet brighter still thy Glories shine,
And double Charms thy Pow'r improve,
When Beauty, drest in Smiles of Love,
Grows, like its Parent Heav'n, Divine!

MYRA.

A CANTATA.

[_]

Set by Dr. PEPUSCH.

AIR.

Love frowns in beauteous Myra's Eyes;
Ah, Nymph those cruel Looks give o'er.
While Love is frowning, Beauty dies,
And you can charm no more.

Recitative.

Mark, how when sullen Clouds appear,
And wintry Storms deface the Year,

The prudent Cranes no longer stay,
But take the Wing, and thro' the Air,
From the cold Region fly away,
And far o'er Land and Seas to warmer Climes repair.
Just so, my Heart—But see—Ah no!
She smiles—I will not, cannot go.

AIR.

Love and the Graces smiling,
In Myra's Eyes beguiling,
Again their Charms recover.
Wou'd you secure our Duty,
Let Kindness aid your Beauty,
Ye Fair, to sooth the Lover.

ALEXANDER's FEAST: OR, The Power of Musick .

An ODE in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day. By Mr. DRYDEN. Alter'd for Musick by Mr. HUGHES.

I. Recitative.

'Twas at the Royal Feast, for Persia won
By Philip's warlike Son;
Aloft in awful State,
The Godlike Hero sat
On his Imperial Throne:
His valiant Peers were plac'd around;
Their Brows with Roses and with Myrtles bound.

AIR.

Lovely Thais by his Side,
Blooming sat in Beauty's Pride.
Happy, happy, happy Pair!
None but the Brave deserves the Fair!

II. Recitative.

Timotheus plac'd on high,
Amid the tuneful Quire,
With flying Fingers touch'd the Lyre;
Trembling the Notes ascend the Sky,
And Heav'nly Joys inspire.
The Song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful Seats above;
(Such is the Pow'r of mighty Love!)
A Dragon's fiery Form bely'd the God;
Sublime on radiant Spires he rode,
When he to fair Olympia press'd,
And while he sought her snowy Breast;
Then round her slender Waste he curl'd,
And stamp'd an Image of himself, a Sov'reign of the World.
The list'ning Croud adore the lofty Sound,
A present Deity, they shout around;
A present Deity, the echoing Roofs rebound!

AIR.

With ravish'd Ears
The Monarch hears,
Assumes the God,
Affects the Nod,
And seems to shake the Spheres.

III. Recitative.

The Praise of Bacchus then the sweet Musician sung,
Of Bacchus ever Fair, and ever Young:
Behold he comes, the Victor God!
Flush'd with a purple Grace,
He shews his honest Face;
As when, by Tigers drawn, o'er India's Plains he rode,
While loud with Conquest and with Wine,
His jolly Troop around him reel'd along,
And taught the vocal Skies to join
In this applauding Song.

DUETTO.

Bacchus ever gay and young,

1.
First did Drinking Joys ordain:

2.
Bacchus' Blessings are a Treasure;

1.
Drinking is the Soldier's Pleasure:

2.
Rich the Treasure,

Both.

Sweet the Pleasure!
Sweet is Pleasure after Pain!

IV. Recitative.

Fir'd with the Sound, the King grew vain;
Fought all his Battles o'er again,
And thrice he routed all his Foes, and thrice he slew the Slain.

The Master saw the Madness rise,
His glowing Cheeks, his ardent Eyes;
And while he Heav'n and Earth defy'd,
He chose a mournful Muse,
Soft Pity to infuse;
Then thus he chang'd his Song, and check'd his Pride.

AIR.

See Darius Great and Good,
By too severe a Fate,
Fallen from his high Estate;
Behold his flowing Blood!
On Earth th'expiring Monarch lies,
With not a Friend to close his Eyes.

V. Recitative.

With downcast Looks the joyless Victor sat
Revolving in his alter'd Soul
The various Turns of Chance below;
And, now and then, a Sigh he stole,
And Tears began to flow.
The mighty Master smil'd to see
That Love was in the next Degree:
'Twas but a Kindred-Sound to move;
For Pity melts the Mind to Love.
Softly sweet in Lydian Measures,
Soon he sooth'd his Soul to Pleasures.

AIR.

[With Flutes.]
War is Toil and Trouble,
Honour is an airy Bubble,
Never ending, still beginning,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
If the World be worth thy winning,
Think, O think, it worth enjoying:
Lovely Thais sits beside thee,
Take the Good the Gods provide thee.

VI. Recitative.

The Prince, unable to conceal his Pain,
Gaz'd on the Fair,
Who caus'd his Care,
And sigh'd and look'd, sigh'd and look'd,
Sigh'd and look'd, and sigh'd again:
At length, with Love and Wine at once oppress'd,
The vanquish'd Victor sunk upon her Breast.

DUETTO.

1.
Phœbus, Patron of the Lyre,

2.
Cupid, God of soft Desire,

1.
Cupid, God of soft Desire,

2.
Phœbus, Patron of the Lyre,

1 & 2.
How victorious are your Charms?

1.
Crown'd with Conquest,

2.
Full of Glory,

1 & 2.
See a Monarch fall'n before ye,
Chain'd in Beauty's clasping Arms!

VII. Recitative.

Now strike the golden Lyre again;
A louder yet, and yet a louder Strain:
Break his Bands of Sleep asunder,
Rouze him, like a rattling Peal of Thunder.
Hark, hark, the horrid Sound
Has rais'd up his Head,
As awak'd from the Dead,
And amaz'd he stares around!

AIR.

[With Symphonies.]
Revenge, Revenge, Alecto cries,
See the Furies arise!
See the Snakes that they rear,
How they hiss in their Hair,
And the Sparkles that flash from their Eyes!

VIII. Recitative.

Behold a ghastly Band,
Each a Torch in his Hand!

Those are Grecian Ghosts, that in Battle were slain,
And unbury'd remain,
Inglorious on the Plain.
Give the Vengeance due
To the valiant Crew.
Behold how they toss their Torches on high,
How they point to the Persian Abodes,
And glitt'ring Temples of their Hostile Gods!

AIR.

The Princes applaud with a furious Joy;
And the King seiz'd a Flambeau, with Zeal to destroy;
Thais led the way,
To light him to his Prey,
And, like another Helen, fir'd another Troy.

IX. Recitative.

Thus, long ago,
Ere heaving Bellows learn'd to blow,
While Organs yet were mute;
Timotheus, to his breathing Flute,
And sounding Lyre,
Cou'd swell the Soul to Rage, or kindle soft Desire.
At last Divine Cecilia came,
Inventress of the vocal Frame;

The sweet Enthusiast, from her sacred Store,
Enlarg'd the former narrow Bounds,
And added Length to solemn Sounds,
With Nature's Mother-Wit, and Arts unknown before.

AIR.

Let old Timotheus yield the Prize,
Or Both divide the Crown;
He rais'd a Mortal to the Skies,
She drew an Angel down.

AN ODE TO THE Creator of the World.

Occasion'd by the FRAGMENTS of ORPHEUS.

Quid prius dicam solitis Parentis
Laudibus? ------
Qui mare & terras variisque mundum
Temperat horis?
Unde nil majus generatur ipso,
Nec viget quicquam simile aut secundum.
Horat.

I.

O muse unfeign'd! O true cœlestial Fire,
Brighter than that which rules the Day,
Descend! a mortal Tongue inspire
To sing some great immortal Lay;
Begin, and strike aloud the consecrated Lyre!
Hence ye profane! be far away!
Hence all ye impious Slaves that bow
To Idol Lusts, or Altars raise,
And to false Heroes give fantastick Praise!
And hence ye Gods, who to a Crime your spurious Beings owe!
But hear O Heav'n, and Earth, and Seas profound!
Hear ye unfathom'd Deeps below,

And let your echoing Vaults repeat the Sound;
Let Nature, trembling all around,
Attend her Master's awful Name,
From whom Heav'n, Earth, and Seas, and all the wide Creation came!

II.

He spoke the great Command, and Light,
Heav'n's eldest-born and fairest Child,
Flash'd in the lowring Face of ancient Night,
And, pleas'd with its own Birth, serenely smil'd.
The Sons of Morning, on the Wing,
Hov'ring in Choirs his Praises sing,
When from th'unbounded vacuous Space
A beauteous rising World they saw;
When Nature shew'd her yet unfinish'd Face,
And Motion took th'establish'd Law
To roll the various Globes on high;
When Time was taught his Infant Wings to try,
And from the Barrier sprung to his appointed Race.

III.

Supreme, Almighty, still the Same!
'Tis He, the great inspiring Mind,
That animates and moves this universal Frame,
Present at once in all, and by no Place confin'd.

Not Heav'n it self can bound his Sway,
Beyond th'untravell'd Limits of the Sky,
Invisible to Mortal Eye
He dwells in uncreated Day.
Without Beginning, without End; 'tis He
That fills th'unmeasur'd growing Orb of vast Immensity.

IV.

What Pow'r but His can rule the changeful Main,
And wake the sleeping Storm, or its loud Rage restrain?
When Winds their gather'd Forces try,
And the chas'd Ocean proudly swells in vain,
His Voice reclaims th'impetuous Roar;
In murm'ring Tides th'abated Billows fly,
And the spent Tempest dies upon the Shore.
The Meteor World is his, Heav'n's Wintry Store,
The moulded Hail, the feather'd Snow;
The Summer Breeze, the soft refreshing Show'r,
The loose divided Cloud, and many-colour'd Bow;
The crooked Lightning darts around,
His Sov'reign Orders to fulfill;
The shooting Flame obeys th'Eternal Will,
Lanch'd from his Hand, instructed where to kill,
Or rive the Mountain Oak, or blast th'unshelter'd Ground.

V.

Yet pleas'd to bless, indulgent to supply,
He, with a Father's tender Care,
Supports the num'rous Family
That peoples Earth and Sea and Air.
From Nature's Giant Race, th'enormous Elephant,
Down to the Insect Worm and creeping Ant;
From th'Eagle, Sov'reign of the Sky,
To each inferior Feather'd Brood;
From Crowns and purple Majesty
To humble Shepherds on the Plains,
His Hand unseen divides to All their Food,
And the whole World of Life sustains.

VI.

At one wide View His Eye surveys
His Works, in ev'ry distant Clime;
He shifts the Seasons, Months and Days,
The short-liv'd Offspring of revolving Time;
By turns they die, by turns are born;
Now chearful Spring the Circle leads,
And strows with Flow'rs the smiling Meads;
Gay Summer next, whom Russet Robes adorn,
And waving Fields of yellow Corn;
Then Autumn, who with lavish Stores the Lap of Nature spreads;

Decrepit Winter, laggard in the Dance,
(Like feeble Age opprest with Pain)
A heavy Season does maintain,
With driving Snows and Winds and Rain;
Till Spring, recruited to advance,
The various Year rolls round again.

VII.

But who, Thou great Ador'd! who can withstand
The Terrors of thy lifted Hand,
When long provok'd, thy Wrath awakes,
And conscious Nature to her Center shakes?
Rais'd by thy Voice, the Thunder flies,
Hurling pale Fear and wild Confusion round,
How dreadful is th'inimitable Sound,
The Shock of Earth and Seas, and Labour of the Skies!
Then where's Ambition's haughty Crest?
Where the gay Head of wanton Pride?
See! Tyrants fall, and wish the opening Ground
Wou'd take them quick to Shades of Rest,
And in their common Parent's Breast
From thee their bury'd Forms for ever hide;
In vain—for all the Elements conspire,
The shatter'd Earth, the rushing Sea,
Tempestuous Air, and raging Fire,
To punish vile Mankind and fight for Thee;

Nor Death it self can intercept the Blow,
Eternal is the Guilt, and without End the Woe.

VIII.

O Cyrus! Alexander! Julius! all
Ye mighty Lords that ever rul'd this Ball!
Once Gods of Earth, the living Destinies
That made a hundred Nations bow!
Where's yours Extent of Empire now?
Say where preserv'd your Phantom Glory lies?
Can Brass the fleeting Thing secure?
Enshrin'd in Temples does it stay?
Or in huge Amphitheatres endure
The Rage of rolling Time, and scorn Decay?
Ah no! the mouldring Monuments of Fame
Your vain deluded Hopes betray,
Nor shew th'ambitious Founder's Name,
Mix'd with your selves in the same Mass of Clay.

IX.

Proceed my Muse! Time's wasting Thread pursue,
And see at last th'unravell'd Clue,
When Cities sink, and Kingdoms are no more,
And weary Nature shall her Work give o'er.
Behold th'Almighty Judge on high!
See in his Hand the Book of Fate!
Myriads of Spirits fill the Sky
T'attend, with dread Solemnity,

The World's last Scene, and Time's concluding Date.
The feeble Race of short-liv'd Vanity
And sickly Pomp at once shall die;
Foul Guilt to Midnight Caves will shrink away,
Look back, and tremble in her Flight,
And curse at Heav'n's pursuing Light,
Surrounded with the Vengeance of that Day.
How will you then, ye Impious, 'scape your Doom,
Self-judg'd, abandon'd, overcome?
Your Clouds of painted Bliss shall melt before your Sight,
Yet shall you not the giddy Chace refrain,
Nor hope more solid Bliss t'obtain,
Nor once repeat the Joys you knew before;
But sigh, a long Eternity of Pain,
Tost in an Ocean of Desire, yet never find a Shore.

X.

But see where the mild Sovereign sits prepar'd
His better Subjects to reward!
Where am I now! what Pow'r Divine
Transports me! what immortal Splendors shine!
Torrents of Glory that oppress the Sight!
What Joys, cœlestial King! thy Throne surround!
The Sun, who with thy borrow'd Beams so bright,
Sees not his Peer in all the Starry Round,

Wou'd here diminish'd fade away,
Like his pale Sister of the Night,
When she resigns her delegated Light,
Lost in the Blaze of Day.
Here Wonder only can take Place;—
Then Muse, th'adventrous Flight forbear!
These Mystick Scenes thou canst no farther trace;
Hope may some boundless Future Bliss embrace,
But What, or When, or How, or Where,
Are Mazes all, which Fancy runs in vain;
Nor can the narrow Cells of human Brain
The vast immeasurable Thought contain.

TO Mr. ADDISON,

On his Tragedy of CATO.

Tho' Cato shines in Virgil's Epick Song,
Prescribing Laws among th'Elysian Throng;
Tho' Lucan's Verse, exalted by his Name,
O'er Gods themselves has rais'd the Heroe's Fame;

The Roman Stage did ne'er his Image see,
Drawn at full Length; a Task reserv'd for Thee.
By Thee we view the finish'd Figure rise,
And awful march before our ravish'd Eyes;
We hear his Voice, asserting Virtue's Cause;
His Fate renew'd our deep Attention draws,
Excites by Turns our various Hopes and Fears,
And all the Patriot in thy Scene appears.

On Tyber's Banks thy Thought was first inspir'd;
'Twas there, to some indulgent Grove retir'd,
Rome's ancient Fortunes rolling in thy Mind,
Thy happy Muse this manly Work design'd:
Or in a Dream thou saw'st Rome's Genius stand,
And, leading Cato in his sacred Hand,
Point out th'immortal Subject of thy Lays,
And ask this Labour, to record his Praise.

'Tis done—the Heroe lives, and charms our Age!
While nobler Morals grace the British Stage.
Great Shakespear's Ghost, the solemn Strain to hear,
(Methinks I see the laurell'd Shade appear!)
Will hover o'er the Scene, and wondring view
His Fav'rite Brutus rivall'd thus by You.
Such Roman Greatness in each Action shines,
Such Roman Eloquence adorns your Lines,
That sure the Sibyls Books this Year foretold;
And in some mystick Leaf was found inroll'd,

‘Rome, turn thy mournful Eyes from Africk's Shore,
‘Nor in her Sands thy Cato's Tomb explore!
‘When thrice Six hundred times the circling Sun
‘His annual Race shall thro' the Zodiack run,
‘An Isle remote his Monument shall rear,
‘And ev'ry generous Briton pay a Tear.

ADVICE to Mr. POPE.

On his intended Translation of HOMER's ILIAD, 1714.

O thou, who with a happy Genius born,
Canst tuneful Verse in flowing Numbers turn,
Crown'd on thy Windsor's Plains with early Bays,
Be early wise, nor trust to barren Praise.
Blind was the Bard that sung Achilles' Rage,
He sung and begg'd, and curs'd th'ungiving Age;
If Britain his translated Song wou'd hear,
First take the Gold—then charm the list'ning Ear,
So shall thy Father Homer smile to see
His Pension paid,—tho' late, and paid to Thee.

TO THE MEMORY of Mr. MILTON.

Homer's Description of Himself, under the Character of Demodocus the Musician, at the Feast of King Alcinous.

From the Eighth Book of the Odysses.

The Muse with Transport lov'd Him; yet to fill
His various Lot, She blended Good with Ill;
Depriv'd Him of his Eyes, but did impart
The Heav'nly Gift of Song, and all the tuneful Art.

To a Lady, with the Tragedy of CATO.

Two Shining Maids this Happy Work displays;
Each moves our Rapture, both divide our Praise:
In Marcia, we her Godlike Father trace;
While Lucia triumphs with each Softer Grace.
One strikes with Awe, and One gives chaste Delight;
That bright as Lightning, this serene as Light.

Yet by the Muse the shadow'd Forms were wrought,
And Both are Creatures of the Poet's Thought.

In Her that animates these Lines, we view
The Wonder greater, the Description true;
Each living Virtue, ev'ry Grace combin'd,
And Marcia's Worth with Lucia's Sweetness join'd.

Had She been born ally'd to Cato's Name,
Numidia's Prince had felt a real Flame;
And, pouring his resistless Troops from far,
With bolder Deeds had turn'd the doubtful War;
Cæsar had fled before his Conqu'ring Arms,
And Roman Muses sung her Beauty's Charms.

A FRAGMENT.

[Promiscuous Crouds to worthless Riches born]

Promiscuous Crouds to worthless Riches born,
Thy Pencil paints, 'tis true, yet paints with Scorn.
Sometimes the Fool, by Nature left half-made,
Mov'd by some happy Instinct asks thy Aid,
To give his Face to Reason some Pretence,
And raise his Looks with Supplemental Sense.

SERENATA, FOR TWO VOICES. On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the LORD COBHAM to Mrs. ANNE HALSEY.

DUETTO.

Wake th'harmonious Voice and String,
Love and Hymen's Triumph sing.
Sounds with secret Charms combining,
In melodious Union joining,
Best the wondrous Joys can tell,
That in Hearts united dwell.

Recitative.

FIRST VOICE.
To young Victoria's happy Fame,
Well may the Arts a Trophy raise,
Musick grows sweeter in her Praise,
And, own'd by Her, with Rapture speaks her Name.
To touch the brave Cleander's Heart,
The Graces all in Her conspire,

Love arms her with his surest Dart,
Apollo with his Lyre.

AIR.

The list'ning Muses all around her,
Think 'tis Phœbus' Strains they hear:
And Cupid, drawing near to wound her,
Drops his Bow, and stands to hear.

Recitative.

SECOND VOICE.
While Crouds of Rivals, with Despair
Silent admire, or vainly court the Fair,
Behold the happy Conquest of her Eyes,
A Heroe is the glorious Prize!
In Courts, in Camps, thro' distant Realms renown'd,
Cleander comes—Victoria, see,
He comes, with British Honour crown'd;
Love leads his eager Steps to Thee.

AIR.

In tender Sighs he Silence breaks,
The Fair his Flame approves.
Consenting Blushes warm her Cheeks,
She smiles,—she yields,—she loves.

Recitative.

FIRST VOICE.
Now Hymen at the Altar stands,
And while he joins their faithful Hands,

Behold! by ardent Vows drawn down,
Immortal Concord, heav'nly bright,
Array'd in Robes of purest Light,
Descends, th'auspicious Rites to crown.
Her Golden Harp the Goddess brings,
Its magick Sound
Commands a sudden Silence all around,
And Strains Prophetick thus attune the Strings.

DUETTO.

1 Voice.
The Swain his Nymph possessing,

2 Voice.
The Nymph her Swain caressing,

1 and 2.
Shall still improve the Blessing,
For ever kind and true.

Both.
While rolling Years are flying,
Love, Hymen's Lamp supplying,
With Fuel never dying,
Shall still the Flame renew.

HORATIUS, In Libro Primo Epistolarum.

TRANSLATED.

Tomorrow cheats us all. Why dost thou stay,
And leave undone what shou'd be done to Day?
Begin—the present Minute's in thy Pow'r;
But still t'adjourn, and wait a fitter Hour,
Is like the Clown, who at some River's Side
Expecting stands, in hopes the running Tide
Will all ere long be past—Fool! not to know,
It still has flow'd the same, and will for ever flow.

HYMN. Sung by the Children of Christ's Hospital, at the Entry of KING GEORGE into London, 1714.

I

Hear us, O GOD, this joyful Day!
Whole Nations join their Voice,
To Thee united Thanks to pay,
And in thy Strength rejoice.

II

For led by Thee, O King of Kings!
Our Sovereign George we see;
Thy Hand the Royal Blessing brings,
He comes, he reigns, by Thee!

III

Plenteous of Grace, pour from above
Thy Favours on his Head;
Truth, Mercy, Righteousness, and Love,
As Guards around him spread.

IV

With Length of Days, and Glory crown'd,
With Wealth and fair Increase,
Let him Abroad be far renown'd,
Still blest at Home with Peace.

A MONUMENTAL ODE. To the Memory of Mrs. Elizabeth Hughes,

Late Wife of Edward Hughes, Esq; of Hertingfordbury in the County of Hertford, and Daughter of Richard Harrison, Esq; of Balls in the same County. Obiit 15 Nov.* Mdcc xiv.*

I.

See! how those dropping Monuments decay!
Frail Mansions of the silent Dead,
Whose Souls to uncorrupting Regions fled,
With a wise Scorn their mouldring Dust survey.
Their Tombs are rais'd from Dust as well as they;
For see! to Dust they both return,
And Time consumes alike the Ashes and the Urn.

II.

We ask the Sculptor's Art in vain
To make us for a Space our selves survive;
In Parian Stone we proudly breathe again,
Or seem in figur'd Brass to live.
Yet Stone and Brass our Hopes betray,
Age steals the mimick Forms and Characters away.
In vain, O Ægypt, to the wondring Skies
With Giant Pride thy Pyramids arise;
Whate'er their vast and gloomy Vaults contain,
No Names distinct of their great Dead remain,
Beneath the Mass confus'd, in heaps thy Monarchs lie,
Unknown, and blended in Mortality.

III.

To Death our selves, and all our Works we owe.
But there is nought, O Muse, can save
Our Memories from Darkness and the Grave,
And some short After-life bestow?
That Task is mine, the Muse replies,
And hark! She tunes the sacred Lyre!
Verse is the last of human Works that dies,
When Virtue does the Song inspire.

IV.

Then look, Eliza, happy Saint, look down!
Pause from Immortal Joys a-while
To hear, and gracious with a Smile

100

The dedicated Numbers own;
Say how in thy Life's scanty Space,
So short a Space, so wondrous bright,
Bright as a Summer's Day, short as a Summer's Night,
Cou'dst thou find Room for ev'ry crouded Grace?
As if thy thrifty Soul foreknew,
Like a wise Envoy, Heav'n's Intent
Soon to recall whom it had sent,
And all its Task resolv'd at once to do.
Or wert thou but a Traveller below,
That hither didst a-while repair,
Curious our Customs and our Laws to know?
And, sick'ning in our grosser Air,
And tir'd of vain repeated Sights,
Our foolish Cares, our false Delights,
Back to thy native Seats wou'dst go?
Oh! since to us thou wilt no more return,
Permit thy Friends, the faithful Few
Who best thy numerous Virtues knew,
Themselves, not Thee to mourn.

V.

Now pensive Muse, enlarge thy Flight!
(By turns the pensive Muses love
The Hilly Heights and Shady Grove)
Behold where swelling to the Sight
Balls, a fair Structure, graceful stands!

101

And from yon verdant rising Brow
Sees Hertford's ancient Town, and Lands
Where Nature's Hand in slow Meanders leads
The Lee's clear Stream its Course to flow
Thro' flow'ry Vales, and moisten'd Meads,
And far around in beauteous Prospect spreads
Her Map of Plenty all below.
'Twas here—and sacred be the Spot of Earth!
Eliza's Soul, born first above,
Descended to an humbler Birth,
And with a Mortal's Frailties strove.
So, on some tow'ring Peak that meets the Sky,
When missive Seraphs downward fly,
They stop, and for a-while alight,
Put off their Rays Cœlestial-bright,
Then take some milder Form familiar to our Eye.

VI.

Swiftly Her Infant Virtues grew:
Water'd by Heav'n's peculiar Care
Her morning Bloom was doubly Fair,
Like Summer's Day-break, when we see
The fresh-dropp'd Stores of rosy Dew,
(Transparent Beauties of the Dawn)
Spread o'er the Grass their Cobweb-Lawn,
Or hang moist Pearls on ev'ry Tree.

102

Pleas'd with the lovely Sight a-while
Her Friends behold, and joyful smile,
Nor think the Sun's exhaling Ray
Will change the Scene ere Noon of Day,
Dry up the glist'ring Drops, and draw those Dews away.

VII.

Yet first, to fill her Orb of Life,
Behold, in each Relation dear,
The pious Saint, the duteous Child appear,
The tender Sister, and the faithful Wife.
Alas! But must one Circlet of the Year
Unite in Bliss, in Grief divide
The destin'd Bridegroom and the Bride?
Stop, gen'rous Youth, the gathering Tear,
That as you read these Lines or hear
Perhaps may start, and seem to say,
That short-liv'd Year was but a Day!
Forbear—nor fruitless Sorrowings now employ,
Think she was lent a-while, not giv'n,
(Such was th'appointed Will of Heav'n)
Then grateful call that Year an Age of virtuous Joy.

103

AN Allusion to HORACE. BOOK I. ODE XXII.

[_]

Printed at the breaking out of the Rebellion, in the Year 1715.

The Man that loves his King and Nation,
And shuns each vile Association,
That trusts his honest Deeds i'th' Light,
Nor meets in dark Cabals, by Night,
With Fools, who, after much Debate,
Get themselves hang'd, and save the State,
Needs not his Hall with Weapons store;
Nor dreads each Rapping at his Door;
Nor sculks, in fear of being known,
Or hides his Guilt in Parson's Gown;
Nor wants, to guard his gen'rous Heart,
The Poniard or the poison'd Dart;

104

And, but for Ornament and Pride,
A Sword of Lath might cross his Side.

If o'er St. James's Park he stray,
He stops not, pausing in his way;
Nor pulls his Hat down o'er his Face,
Nor starts, looks back, and mends his Pace:
Or if he ramble to the Tower,
He knows no Crime, and dreads no Power,
But thence returning, free as Wind,
Smiles at the Bars he left behind.
Thus, as I loiter'd t'other Day,
Humming—O every Month was May—
And, thoughtless how my Time I squander'd,
From Whitehall, thro' the Cockpit wander'd,
A Messenger, with surly Eye,
View'd me quite round, and yet pass'd by.

105

No sharper Look or rougher Mien
In Scotish Highlands e'er were seen;
Nor Ale and Brandy ever bred
More pimpled Cheeks, or Nose more red;
And yet, with both Hands in my Breast,
Careless I walk'd, nor shunn'd the Beast.

Place me among a hundred Spies,
Let all the Room be Ears and Eyes;
Or search my Pocket-Books and Papers,
No Word or Line shall give me Vapours.
Send me to Whigs as true and hearty,
As ever pity'd poor M---ty;

106

Let T---d, S---d, be there,
Or R---n W---e in the Chair.
Or send me to a Club of Tories,
That damn and curse at Marlbro's Glories,
And drink—but sure none such there are!—
The Devil, the Pope, and Rebel Mar;
Yet still my Loyalty I'll boast,
King GEORGE shall ever be my Toast;
Unbrib'd his glorious Cause I'll own,
And fearless scorn each Traitor's Frown.

Integer vitæ, scelerisque purus,
Non eget Mauris jaculis neque arcu,
Nec venenatis gravidâ sagittis,
Fusce, pharetrâ:

Sive per Syrtes iter æstuosas,
Sive facturus per inhospitalem
Caucasum, vel quæ loca fabulosus
Lambit Hydaspes.

Namque me sylvâ lupus in Sabinâ,
Dum meam canto Lalagen, & ultra
Terminum curis vagor expeditus,
Fugit inermem:

Quale portentum neque militaris
Daunia in latis alit æsculetis:
Nec Jubæ tellus generat, leonum
Arida nutrix.

Pone me pigris, ubi nulla, campis,
Arbor æstivâ recreatur aurâ:
Quod latus mundi nebulæ, malúsque
Jupiter urget:

Pone sub curru nimiùm propinqui
Solis, in terrâ domibus negatâ:
Dulcè ridentem Lalagen amabo,
Dulcè loquentem.

121

AN ODE [FOR TWO VOICES] FOR THE Birth-Day of Her Royal Highness THE PRINCESS of WALES, St. David's Day, the First of March, 1715–16.

[_]

Set to Musick by Dr. PEPUSCH. And Perform'd at the Anniversary Meeting of the Society of Ancient Britons, establish'd in Honour of Her Royal Highness's Birth-Day, and of the Principality of Wales.

Salve læta dies! meliorque revertere semper,
A populo rerum digna potente coli!
Ovid.

122

First Voice, Fame.
Second Voice, Cambria, or the Principality of WALES.

Both Voices,
with a Trumpet.
To Joy, to Triumphs dedicate the Day!

CAMBRIA.
Rise, Goddess of immortal Fame,
And, with thy Trumpet's swelling Sound,
To all Britannia's Realms around,
The double Festival proclaim.

FAME.
The Goddess of immortal Fame
Shall, with her Trumpet's swelling Sound,
To all Britannia's Realms around,
The double Festival proclaim.

123

BOTH VOICES.
O'er Cambria's distant Hills let the loud Notes rebound!
Each British Soul be rais'd, and ev'ry Eye be gay!
To Joy, to Triumphs dedicate the Day.

FAME.

Hail, Cambria! long to Fame well known!
Thy Patron-Saint looks smiling down,
Well pleas'd to see
His Day, prolifick of Renown,
Increas'd in Honours to himself, and Thee;
See Carolina's Natal Star arise,
And with new Beams adorn thy Azure Skies!
Tho' on her Virtues I shou'd ever dwell,
Fame cannot all her num'rous Virtues tell.
Bright in her self, and in her Offspring bright,
On Britain's Throne she casts diffusive Light;
Detraction from her Presence flies;
And while promiscuous Crouds in Rapture gaze;
E'en Tongues disloyal learn her Praise,
And murm'ring Envy sees her smile, and dies.

Happy Morn! such Gifts bestowing!
Britain's Joys from thee are flowing;
Ever thus Auspicious Shine!

124

Happy Isle! such Gifts possessing!
Britain, ever own the Blessing!
Carolina's Charms are thine.

CAMBRIA.
Nor yet, O Fame, dost thou display
All the Triumphs of this Day;
More Wonders yet arise to Sight!
See! o'er these Rites what mighty Pow'r presides;
Behold, to thee his early Steps he guides;
What noble Ardour does his Soul excite!
Henceforth, when to the listning Universe
Thou number'st o'er my Princes of Renown,
The second Hope of Britain's Crown,
When my great Edward's Deeds thou shalt rehearse,
And tell of Cressy's well-fought Plain,
Thy golden Trumpet sound again!
The brave Augustus shall renew thy Strain,
And Oudenarda's Fight immortalize the Verse.

125

AIR.
With a Harp.
Heav'nly Muses! tune your Lyres,
Far resounding;
Grace the Hero's glorious Name.
See! the Song new Life inspires!
Ev'ry Breast, with Joy abounding,
Seems to share the Hero's Flame.

FAME.
O thou, with ev'ry Virtue crown'd,
Britannia's Father, and her King renown'd!
Thus in thy Offspring greatly blest,
While thro' th'extended Royal Line,
Thou seest thy propagated Lustre shine,
What secret Raptures fill thy Breast!
So smiles Apollo, doubly Gay,
When in the Diamond, with full Blaze,
He views his own Paternal Rays,
And all his bright reflected Day.

CAMBRIA.
Hail Source of Blessings to our Isle!
While gloomy Clouds shall take their Flight,
Shot thro' by thy Victorious Light,
Propitious ever on thy Britons smile!

126

BOTH VOICES.
To Joy, to Triumphs dedicate the Day.

CAMBRIA.
Rise, Goddess of immortal Fame,
And, with thy Trumpet's swelling Sound,
To all Britannia's Realms around,
The double Festival proclaim.

FAME.
The Goddess of immortal Fame
Shall, with her Trumpet's swelling Sound,
To all Britannia's Realms around,
The double Festival proclaim.

BOTH VOICES.
O'er Cambria's distant Hills let the loud Notes rebound!
Each British Soul be rais'd, and ev'ry Eye be gay!
To Joy, to Triumphs dedicate the Day.

His Royal Highness, President of the Society.

Edward, the Black Prince.

133

ODE To the Right Honourable the Lord Chancellor COWPER . Anno MDCCXVII.

In allusion to Horace , Lib. II. Ode XX.

I

I'm rais'd, transported, chang'd all o'er!
Prepar'd, a tow'ring Swan, to soar
Aloft; See, see the Down arise,
And clothe my Back, and plume my Thighs!
My Wings shoot forth; now will I try
New Tracks, and boldly mount the Sky;
Nor Envy, nor Ill-fortune's Spite,
Shall stop my Course, or damp my Flight.

II

Shall I, obscure or disesteem'd,
Of Vulgar Rank henceforth be deem'd?
Or vainly toil my Name to save
From dark Oblivion and the Grave?
No—He can never wholly die,
Secure of Immortality,

134

Whom Britain's COWPER condescends
To own, and numbers with his Friends.

III

'Tis done—I scorn mean Honours now;
No common Wreaths shall bind my Brow.
Whether the Muse vouchsafe t'inspire
My Breast with the Cœlestial Fire;
Whether my Verse be fill'd with Flame,
Or I deserve a Poet's Name,
Let Fame be silent; only tell
That gen'rous COWPER loves me well.

IV

Thro' Britain's Realms I shall be known
By COWPER's Merit, not my own.
And when the Tomb my Dust shall hide,
Stripp'd of a Mortal's little Pride,
Vain Pomp be spar'd, and ev'ry Tear;
Let but some Stone this Sculpture bear:
Here lies his Clay, to Earth consign'd,
To whom great COWPER once was kind.

135

WHAT IS MAN?

O son of Man! O Creature of a Day!
Proud of vain Wisdom, with false Greatness gay!
Heir of thy Father's Vice, to whose bad Store
Thy guilty Days are spent in adding more;
Thou propagated Folly!—What in Thee
Cou'd Heav'n's Supreme, cou'd perfect Wisdom see,
To fix one Glance of his regarding Eye?
Why art Thou chose the Favourite of the Sky?
While Angels wonder at the Mercy known,
And scarce the Wretch himself, the Debt immense will own!

137

From BOILEAU, In his First Epistle to Lewis XIV .

What mean these Elephants, Arms, warlike Store,
And all these Ships, prepar'd to leave the Shore?
Thus Cyneas, faithful, old, experienc'd, wise,
Address'd King Pyrrhus;—thus the King replies;
'Tis Glory calls us hence; to Rome we go.
For what?—To conquer.—Rome's a Noble Foe,
A Prize for Alexander fit, or You;
But Rome reduc'd, what next, Sir, will you do?
The Rest of Italy my Chains shall wear.
And is that all?—No, Sicily lies near;
See how she stretches out her beauteous Arms,
And tempts the Victor with unguarded Charms!
In Syracusa's Port this Fleet shall ride.
'Tis well—and there you will at last abide?—
No; that subdu'd, again we'll hoist our Sails
And put to Sea; and, blow but prosp'rous Gales,
Carthage must soon be ours, an easy Prey,
The Passage open: What obstructs our Way?—
Then, Sir, your vast Design I understand,
To conquer all the Earth, cross Seas and Land,

139

O'er Africk's spacious Wilds your Reign extend,
Beneath your Sword make proud Arabia bend;
Then seek remoter Worlds, where Ganges pours
His swelling Stream; beyond Hydaspes' Shores,
Thro' Indian Realms to carry dire Alarms,
And make the hardy Scythian dread your Arms.
But say—this wondrous Race of Glory run,
When we return, say what shall then be done?
Then pleas'd, my Friend, we'll spend the joyful Day
In full Delight, and laugh our Cares away.
And why not now? Alas! Sir, need we roam
For this so far, or quit our Native Home?
No—let us now each valu'd Hour employ,
Nor for the future lose the present Joy.

140

AN IMAGE OF PLEASURE.

[_]

In Imitation of an Ode in Casimire.

I

Solace of Life, my sweet Companion Lyre!
On this fair Poplar Bough I'll hang thee high,
While the gay Fields all soft Delights inspire,
And not One Cloud deforms the smiling Sky.

II

While whisp'ring Gales, that court the Leaves and Flow'rs,
Play thro' thy Strings, and gently make them sound,
Luxurious I'll dissolve the flowing Hours
In balmy Slumbers on the Carpet Ground.

III

But see—what sudden Gloom obscures the Air!
What falling Show'rs impetuous change the Day!
Let's rise, my Lyre—Ah Pleasure false as fair!
How faithless are thy Charms, how short thy Stay!

141

THE PATRIOT.

To the Right Honourable William Lord Cowper, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain.

How Godlike is the Man, how truly Great,
Who 'midst contending Factions of the State,
In Council cool, in Resolution bold,
Nor brib'd by Hopes, nor by mean Fears controul'd,
And Proof alike against both Foes and Friends,
Ne'er from the Golden Mean of Virtue bends!
But wisely fix'd, nor to Extremes inclin'd,
Maintains the steady Purpose of his Mind.

So Atlas, pois'd on his broad Base, defies
The Shock of gath'ring Storms, and wintry Skies;
Above the Clouds, Serene, he lifts his Brow,
And sees unmov'd the Thunder break below.

But where's the Patriot, by these Virtues known,
Unsway'd by others Passions, or his own?

142

Just to his Prince, and to the Publick true,
That shuns, in all Events, each Partial View?
That ne'er forgets the Whole of Things to weigh,
And scorns the Short-liv'd Wisdom of a Day?

If there be One—hold Muse, nor more reveal—
(Yet Oh that Numbers cou'd his Name conceal!)
Thrice happy Britain, of such Wealth possest!
On thy firm Throne, great GEORGE, unshaken rest,
Safe in his Judgment, on his Faith rely,
And prize the Worth which Kingdoms cannot buy!

Rich in itself, the genuine Diamond shines,
And owes its Value to its Native Mines;
Yet set in Britain's Crown, drinks ampler Rays
Of the Sun's Light, and casts a wider Blaze.
With Pleasure we the well-plac'd Gem behold,
That adds a Lustre to the Royal Gold.

January 25, 1717–18.

143

The Second Scene of the First Act of ORESTES, A TRAGEDY.

Translated from Euripides.

144

ARGUMENT.

Orestes had kill'd his Mother Clytemnestra, in Revenge of his Father's Death, who was murder'd by Her. This Part of the Story is the Subject of the Electra of Sophocles, where, in the Conclusion of the Play, Clytemnestra is heard behind the Scene crying out in vain for Mercy, while her Son is executing his Revenge. Perhaps this Play was written first; and Euripides took up the Story where the other left off. The Reflexion on his Guilt in putting his Mother to Death, tho' a Criminal, with his own Hands, fill'd Orestes's Mind with so much Horror as afterwards caus'd his Distraction. In this Condition he is represented in the following Scene, lying on a Couch, and his Sister Electra, with a Chorus of Græcian Women, waiting near him.

I shall detain the Reader no longer than to observe, that the Tenderness of Electra, and the alternate Starts and Returns of Madness and Reason in Orestes, are touch'd with the most exquisite Strokes of Nature and Passion.

145

CHORUS, ORESTES, ELECTRA.
Chorus.
Draw near, Electra, to thy Brother's Couch;
See if he breathes; this long-protracted Rest
May end in Death, and fatally deceive thee.

Orestes,
waking.
O sweet refreshing Sleep! thou balmy Cure
Of Sickness and of Pain!
How has thy gentle Pow'r at length reliev'd me!
O soft Oblivion of surrounding Ills,
How grateful to th'Afflicted are thy Charms!
Where am I?—speak—inform me, tell me where?
How came I hither? for I know not how!
Alas! I've lately been bereft of Reason!
And now, no Track of former Thought remains.

146

Electra.
O my much-lov'd Orestes! O my Brother!
With Joy I've watch'd o'er thy late healing Slumbers.
Come—shall I help to raise thee from thy Couch?

Orestes.
Soft, I pray thee—first wipe away these Drops,
That sit all dewy o'er my Face.

Electra.
Ye Gods!
How pleasant is this Task to a Sister's Love!

Orestes.
Come, let me lean upon thee;—how canst thou bear me?—
Put forth thy Hand; remove the clotted Locks,
That shade my Sight; I scarcely yet can see—

Electra.
O my poor Brother; how has Sickness chang'd thee!
Thy Face, thy Beard, so long unwash'd, deform thee,
And spread an unknown Horror o'er thy Mien.

Orestes.
I'm weary;—lead me to my Couch again.
When my Fit leaves me, I am weak and faint,
And a cold Trembling runs thro' all my Limbs.

Electra.
How friendly is the Sick Man's Bed; tho' Pain
Dwell there, yet there he best may bear it.

147

Orestes.
O! help once more; and gently bend me forward.

Chorus.
The Sick are ever restless;
Uneasiness and Pain make them impatient.

Electra.
Wilt thou get up, and try again to walk?
Change will perhaps relieve thee.

Orestes.
I fain wou'd walk—and, seeming well awhile,
Delude my anxious Thoughts.

Electra.
Now hear me, Brother;
Hear me, while yet the cruel Furies leave thee,
This Pause from Grief, this Interval of Reason.

Orestes.
Speak quick thy News—if it be good, 'tis welcome;
If ill—I've Load enough; nor add thou more.

Electra.
Then know, thy Uncle Menelaus comes;
His Ship is in the Port—

Orestes.
What dost thou say?—
He comes, like dawning Light, to chear our Griefs,
And chace away the Blackness of Despair;
My Father's Brother, and his best-lov'd Friend!

148

Electra.
He's now arriv'd—and brings from conquer'd Troy
His beauteous Helen—

Orestes.
Say'st thou?—better far
He came alone—and he alone surviving;
But if with Helen—then he brings a Curse,
A heavy Curse—

Electra.
The Race of Tyndarus
Have thro' all Greece spread Infamy and Shame.

Orestes.
Beware then—shun the Deeds of impious Women.
Wear no false Face—Be good, as well as seem so—
Beware, I say—

Electra.
Alas! what means my Brother? You are chang'd.
Your Colour shifts—your Eyes look fiercely wild—
Your Fit returns—O Heav'ns! he's lost again.

Orestes.
Mother, forbear!—What! no Forgiveness—never?
O! take away those Furies—how they shake
Their Snaky Locks, and grin around me!

Electra.
Alas! poor Wretch; 'tis thy own Fear alarms thee.
Compose thyself: Why dost thou leave thy Couch?

149

Here are no Fiends; thou talk'st to shapeless Air.

Orestes.
Help, help me, Phœbus—See, those Dogs of Hell
With famish'd Jaws gape horrid to devour me!
Th'Infernal Priestesses look fiercely on me;
They thirst for Blood, and I'm the destin'd Victim!

Electra.
Nay, strive not—for I will not let thee go,
While these weak Arms can fold thee—

Orestes.
What art thou?
One of my curst Tormentors?—Hence—I know thee;
Thou grasp'st me thus to plunge me down to Hell.

Electra.
Oh! whence can wretched Mortals hope for Succour,
When Heav'n is deaf, and all the Gods our Foes!

Orestes.
Reach me the Weapons of the shooting God,
Apollo's Gift, the Shafts and horny Bow;
With these he bade me drive the Fiends away,
When cruel, they attack me—

Electra.
Can they feel?
Can deathless Beings feel a mortal Wound?

150

Orestes.

They shall—or leave my tortur'd Sight—behold!
Dost thou not see their feather'd Shafts fly round me?
Begone, ye Ministers of Wrath—Away! away!
The Guilt's not mine—Hence, thro' the yielding Skies,
Fly swift to Heav'n—and charge Apollo there,
Whose Oracle betray'd me—Ah! I faint;
My Spirits sink—Where am I now? Alas!
How have I left my Bed?—how stray'd I hither?
Oh—I perceive—once more the raging Waves
Have spent their Force—and all is calm again—
My Sister?—weeping too? Why dost thou turn
Thy Face away, thus muffled in thy Garment?
I grieve to think what I have made thee suffer;
I know, my Sickness bears too hard upon thee;
Yet weep not for my Crimes, unhappy Maid!
The Deed was mine—Thou only didst consent:
'Twas I that slew my Mother—Phœbus himself
Advis'd that impious Act—the Guilt be his,
Whose Words spoke Comfort, but who now forsakes me.
But oh! Electra, had our Father's Shade
Been present then—had I, before the God,
Ask'd his Consent, to strike the Murd'ress dead,
The pitying Manes sure had stop'd my hand,
Nor wou'd have wish'd for his own Life again,

151

Redeem'd by Guilt, so horrid in a Son.

Now wipe away thy Tears, lamenting Maid;
Tho' we're both wretched, Tears are shed in vain;
And when thou seest again my faltring Reason,
Be ready thou to rule my broken Sense,
And comfort my Affliction—And when thou
Shalt sink beneath thy pressing Woes, I'll strive
By soothing Words to mitigate thy Sorrows.
Such Offices become our fond Affection.

But now, retiring to thy own Apartment,
Let gentle Slumber close thy wakeful Eyes;
Then rise refresh'd; anoint thy wearied Limbs,
And with due Nourishment recruit thy Spirits.
Such ceaseless Watchings will exhaust thy Strength,
And make thy languid Life a Burden to thee.
Thou seest, all other Friends are fled; thou art
My only Solace in this dire Affliction.
Shou'dst thou forsake me too, I'm lost indeed.

Electra.

O no! thy Sister never will forsake thee;
Nor only will I live, but die with thee;
What Joy cou'd Life afford a wretched Woman,
Bereft of Father, Brother, every Friend?—

But if you so command, I will retire;
In the mean while, compose thyself to rest,
Reclin'd upon thy Couch; nor let vain Terrors

152

Rouze thee again—Thy own upbraiding Conscience
Is the revengeful Fiend, that haunts thy Breast!

ON THE BIRTH-DAY Of the Right Honourable The Lord Chancellor Parker .

July XXIII, MDCCXIX.

As Father Thames pours out his plenteous Urn
O'er common Tracts, with Speed his Waters flow;
But where some beauteous Palace does adorn
His Banks, the River seems to move more slow;

As if he stopp'd awhile, with conscious Pride,
Nor to the Ocean wou'd pursue his Race,
Till he reflect its Glories in his Tide,
And call the Water-Nymphs around to gaze.

153

So in Time's common Flood the huddled Throng
Of Months and Hours unheeded pass away,
Unless some gen'ral Good our Joy prolong,
And mark the Moments of some Festal Day.

Not fair July, tho' Plenty clothe his Fields,
Tho' Golden Suns make all his Mornings smile,
Can boast of aught that such a Triumph yields,
As that he gave a Parker to our Isle.

Hail happy Month! secure of lasting Fame!
Doubly distinguish'd thro' the circling Year:
In Rome a Heroe gave thee first thy Name;
A Patriot's Birth makes thee to Britain dear.

154

The XIVth Olympick of Pindar. TO Asopicus of Orchomenus .

I.

Ye heav'nly Graces, who preside
O'er Minyæa's happy Soil, that breeds,
Swift for the Race, the fairest Steeds;
And rule the Land, where with a gentle Tide
Your lov'd Cephisian Waters glide!
Since Orchomenus does to you belong,
Hear, Goddesses, and smiling aid the Song.

II.

Whatever Honours shine below,
Whatever Gifts can move Delight,
Or sooth the ravish'd Soul, or charm the Sight,
To You their Pow'r of pleasing owe.
Fame, Beauty, Wisdom you bestow;
Nor will the Gods the sacred Banquet own,
Nor on the Chorus look propitious down,
If you, your Presence have deny'd,
To rule the Banquet, and the Chorus guide.

155

III.

In Heav'n itself all own your happy Care;
Bless'd by your Influence divine,
There all is Good, and all is Fair:
On Thrones sublime you there illustrious shine;
Plac'd near Apollo with the golden Lyre,
You all his Harmony inspire,
And warbled Hymns to Jove perpetual sing,
To Jove, of Heav'n the Father and the King.

IV.

Now hear Aglaia, venerable Maid!
Hear thou, that tuneful Verse dost love,
Euphrosyne! Join your Cœlestial Aid,
Ye Daughters of immortal Jove!
Thalia too be present with my Lays;
Asopicus has rais'd his City's Name,
And, Victor in th'Olympick Strife, may claim
From you his just Reward of virtuous Praise.

V.

And thou, O Fame! this happy Triumph spread;
Fly to the Regions of the Dead,
Through Proserpine's dark Empire bear the Sound;
There seek Cleodamus below,
And let the pleas'd Paternal Spirit know,

156

How on the Plains of Pisa far renown'd,
His Son, his youthful Son, of matchless Speed,
Bore off from All the Victor's Meed,
And with an Olive Wreath his envy'd Temples crown'd.

In the City of Orchomenus there was a Temple dedicated to the Graces.

Written in a Window at Wallington-House. MDCCXIX.

Envy, if thy searching Eye
Thro' this Window chance to pry,
To thy Sorrow thou shalt find,
All that's Generous, Friendly, Kind,
Goodness, Virtue, ev'ry Grace,
Dwelling in this happy Place:
Then, if thou wou'dst shun this Sight,
Hence for ever take thy Flight.

157

THE SUPPLEMENT:

OR, A PICTURE in VERSE.

[_]

IMPERFECT.

Painter, give o'er; here ends thy feeble Art;
For how wilt thou describe th'Immortal Part?
Tho' Kneller's or tho' Raphael's Skill were thine,
Or Titian's Colours on the Cloth did shine,
The labour'd Piece must yet half-finish'd stand,
And mock the Weakness of the Master's Hand.

Colours are but the Phantoms of the Day,
With that they're born, with that they fade away;
Like Beauty's Charms, they but amuse the Sight,
Dark in themselves, till, by Reflexion bright,
With the Sun's Aid to rival him they boast,
But Light withdrawn in their own Shades are lost.
Then what are these t'express the living Fire,
The Lamp within, that never can expire?

158

That Work can only by the Muse be wrought;
Souls must paint Souls, and Thought delineate Thought.

Then Painter-Muse begin, and unconfin'd
Draw boldly first a large Extent of Mind:
Yet not a barren Waste, an empty Space,
For Crouds of Virtues fill up all the Place.
See! o'er the rest fair Piety presides,
As the bright Sun th'inferior Planets guides;
To the Soul's Pow'rs it vital Heat supplies,
And hence a thousand worthy Habits rise.
So when that genial Father of the Spring
Smiles on the Meads, and wakes the Birds to sing,
And from the heav'nly Bull his Influence sheds
On the Parterres and fruitful Garden Beds,
A thousand beauteous Births shoot up to Sight,
A thousand Buds unfolding meet the Light;
Each useful Plant does the rich Earth adorn,
And all the Flow'ry Universe is born.

O! cou'd my Verse describe this sacred Queen,
This first of Virtues, awful, yet serene,
Plain in her native Charms, nor too severe,
Free from false Zeal, and superstitious Fear;
Such and so bright, as by th'Effects we find
She dwells in this selected happy Mind,
The Source of ev'ry Good shou'd stand confest,
And all who see, applaud the Heav'n-born Guest!

159

Proceed, my Muse, next in the Picture place
Diffusive Charity to Human Race.
Justice thou need'st not in the Draught express,
Since ev'ry Greater still includes the Less.
What were the Praise if Virtue idly stood,
Content alike to do nor Harm nor Good?
Tho' shunning Ill, unactive and supine,
Like painted Suns, that warm not while they shine?
The nobler Soul such narrow Life disdains,
Flows out, and meets another's Joys and Pains,
Tasteless of Blessings, if possest alone,
And in imparted Pleasures seeks its own.
Hence grows the Sense of Friendship's generous Fires,
Hence Liberality the Heart inspires,
Hence Streams of Good in constant Actions flow,
And Man to Man becomes a God below!

A Soul thus form'd, and such a Soul is here,
Needs not the dangerous Test of Riches fear,
But, unsubdu'd to Wealth, may safely stand,
And count o'er Heaps with an unsully'd Hand.
Heav'n that knew this, and where t'intrust its Store,
And blessing One, oft' blesses many more,
First gave a Will to give, then fitly join'd
A liberal Fortune to a liberal Mind.

160

With such a graceful Ease her Bounty flows;
She gives, and scarce that she's the Giver knows,
But seems receiving most, when she the most bestows.
Rich in her self, well may she value more
Her Wealth within, the Mind's immortal Store;
Passions subdu'd, and Knowledge free from Pride,
Good Humour, ever to good Sense ally'd,
Well-season'd Mirth, and Wisdom unsevere,
An equal Temper, and a Heart sincere;
Gifts that alone from Nature's Bounty flow,
Which Fortune may display, but not bestow;
For Wealth but sets the Picture more in Sight,
And brings the Beauties or the Faults to Light.
How true th'Esteem, that's founded in Desert?
How pleasing is the Tribute of the Heart?
Here willing Duty ne'er was paid in vain,
And e'en Dependence cannot feel its Chain,
Yet whom She thus sets free She closer binds,
(Affection is the Chain of grateful Minds)
And, doubly blessing her adopted Care,
Makes them her Virtues with her Fortune share,
Leads by Example, and by Kindness guards,
And raises first the Merit She rewards.

Oft' too abroad She casts a friendly Eye,
As She wou'd Help to ev'ry Need supply.

161

The Poor near her almost their Cares forget,
Their Want but serves as Hunger to their Meat;
For, since her Soul's ally'd to Humankind,
Not to her House alone her Store's confin'd,
But passing on, its own full Banks o'erflows,
Enlarg'd, and deals forth Plenty as it goes.
Thro' some fair Garden thus a River leads
Its watry Wealth, and first th'Inclosure feeds,
Visits each Plant, and ev'ry Flow'r supplies;
Or, taught in sportive Fountains to arise,
Casts sprinkled Show'rs o'er ev'ry figur'd Green;
Or in Canals walks round the beauteous Scene,
Yet stops not there, but its free Course maintains,
And spreads gay Verdure thro' th'adjacent Plains;
The lab'ring Hinds with Pleasure see it flow,
And bless those Streams by which their Pastures grow.

O gen'rous Use of Pow'r! O virtuous Pride!
Ne'er may the Means be to such Souls deny'd,
Executors of Heav'n's all-bounteous Will,
Who well the great First-giver's Ends fulfil,
Who from Superior Heights still looking down
On glitt'ring Heaps, which scarce they think their own,
Despise the empty Show of useless State,
And only wou'd by doing Good be Great!

162

Now pause a while, my Muse, and then renew
The pleasing Task, and take a second View!
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
A Train of Virtues yet undrawn appear;
Here just Oeconomy, strict Prudence there;
Near Liberality they ever stand;
This guides her Judgment, That directs her Hand.
By these, see wild Profusion chas'd away,
And wanton Luxury, like Birds of Prey.
Whilst meek Humility, with Charms serene,
Forbids vain Pomp t'approach the hallow'd Scene;
Yet thro' her Veil the more attracts the Sight,
And on her Sister-Virtues casts a Light.

But wherefore starts the Painter-Muse, and why,
The Piece unfinish'd, throws the Pencil by?
Methinks, (she says,) Humility I hear,
With gentle Voice reproving, cry—Forbear!
Forbear, rash Muse! nor longer now commend,
Lest whom thou wou'dst describe, thou shou'dst offend,
And in her Breast a painful Glowing raise,
Who, conscious of the Merit, shuns the Praise.

297

THE ECSTASY.

AN ODE.

Me vero primum dulces ante omnia musæ
Accipiant, cœlique vias & sidera monstrent.
Virg.

299

I.

I leave Mortality's low Sphere.
Ye Winds and Clouds, come lift me high,
And on your airy Pinions bear
Swift thro' the Regions of the Sky.
What lofty Mountains downward fly!
And lo, how wide a Space of Air
Extends new Prospects to my Eye!
The gilded Fanes, reflecting Light,
And Royal Palaces, as bright,
(The rich Abodes
Of Heav'nly and of Earthly Gods)
Retire apace; whole Cities too
Decrease beneath my rising View.
And now far off the rolling Globe appears;

300

Its scatter'd Nations I survey,
And all the Mass of Earth and Sea;
Oh Object well deserving Tears!
Capricious State of Things below,
That changeful from their Birth no fix'd Duration know!

II.

Here new-built Towns, aspiring high,
Ascend, with lofty Turrets crown'd;
There others fall, and mouldring lie,
Obscure, or only by their Ruins found.
Palmyra's far-extended Waste I spy,
(Once Tadmor, ancient in Renown)
Her Marble Heaps, by the wild Arab shown,
Still load with useless Pomp the Ground.
But where is Lordly Babylon? where now
Lifts she to Heav'n her Giant Brow?
Where does the Wealth of Nineveh abound?
Or where's the Pride of Africk's Shore?
Is Rome's great Rival then no more?
In Rome herself behold th'Extreams of Fate,
Her Ancient Greatness sunk, her Modern boasted State!
See her luxurious Palaces arise
With broken Arches mix'd between!
And here what splendid Domes possess the Skies!
And there old Temples, open to the Day,
Their Walls o'ergrown with Moss display;

301

And Columns, awful in Decay,
Rear up their Roof-less Heads to form the various Scene.

III.

Around the Space of Earth I turn my Eye;
But where's the Region free from Woe?
Where shall the Muse one little Spot descry
The Seat of Happiness below?
Here Peace wou'd all its Joys dispense,
The Vines and Olives unmolested grow,
But lo! a purple Pestilence
Unpeoples Cities, sweeps the Plains,
Whilst vainly thro' deserted Fields
Her unreap'd Harvests Ceres yields,
And at the Noon of Day a Midnight Silence reigns.
There milder Heat the healthful Climate warms,
But Slaves to arbitrary Power,
And pleas'd each other to devour,
The mad Possessors rush to Arms.
I see, I see them from afar,
I view distinct the mingled War!
I see the charging Squadrons prest
Hand to Hand, and Breast to Breast.
Destruction, like a Vultur, hovers nigh;
Lur'd with the Hope of human Blood,
She hangs upon the Wing, uncertain where to fly,
But licks her drowthy Jaws, and waits the promis'd Food.

302

IV.

Here cruel Discord takes a wider Scene,
To exercise more unrelenting Rage;
Appointed Fleets their numerous Pow'rs engage,
With scarce a Space of Sea between.
Hark! what a brazen Burst of Thunder
Rends the Elements asunder!
Affrighted Ocean flies the Roar,
And drives the Billows to the distant Shore;
The distant Shore,
That such a Storm ne'er felt before,
Transmits it to the Rocks around;
The Rocks and hollow Creeks prolong the rolling Sound.

V.

Still greater Horrors strike my Eyes.
Behold convulsive Earthquakes there
A shatter'd Land in Pieces tear,
And ancient Cities sink, and sudden Mountains rise!
Thro' opening Mines th'astonish'd Wretches go,
Hurry'd to unknown Depths below.
The bury'd Ruin sleeps; and nought remains
But Dust above and desart Plains,
Unless some Stone this sad Inscription wear,
Rais'd by some future Traveller,
The Prince, his People, and his Kingdom here
One common Tomb contains.

303

VI.

Again, behold where Seas, disdaining Bound,
O'er the firm Land usurping ride,
And bury spacious Towns beneath their sweeping Tide.
Dash'd with the sudden Flood the vaulted Temples sound.
Waves roll'd on Waves, Deep burying Deep, lift high
A watry Monument, in which profound
The Courts and Cottages together lie.
E'en now the floating Wreck I spy,
And the wide Surface far around
With Spoils of plunder'd Countries crown'd.
Such, Belgia, was the Ravage and Affright,
When late thou saw'st thy ancient Foe
Swell o'er thy Digues, oppos'd in vain,
With deadly Rage, and rising in its Might
Pour down swift Ruin on thy Plains below.
Thus Fire, and Air, and Earth, and Main,
A never-ceasing Fight maintain,
While Man on ev'ry Side is sure to lose;
And Fate has furnish'd out the Stage of Life
With War, Misfortune, and with Strife;
'Till Death the Curtain drops, and shuts the Scene of Woes.

VII.

But why do I delay my Flight?
Or on such gloomy Objects gaze?
I go to Realms Serene with ever-living Light.
Haste, Clouds and Whirlwinds, haste a raptur'd Bard to raise;

304

Mount me Sublime along the shining Way,
Where Planets, in pure Streams of Æther driv'n,
Swim thro' the blue Expanse of Heav'n.
And lo! th'obsequious Clouds and Winds obey!
And lo! again the Nations downwards fly,
And wide-stretch'd Kingdoms perish from my Eye,
Heav'n! what bright Visions now arise!
What opening Worlds my ravish'd Sense surprise!
I pass Cerulean Gulphs, and now behold
New solid Globes their Weight, self-balanc'd, bear,
Unprop'd amidst the fluid Air,
And all, around the Central Sun, in circling Eddies roll'd.
Unequal in their Course, see they advance,
And form the Planetary Dance!
Here the pale Moon, whom the same Laws ordain
T'obey the Earth, and rule the Main;
Her Spots no more in shadowy Streaks appear;
But Lakes instead, and Groves of Trees,
The Wond'ring Muse transported sees,
And their tall Heads discover'd Mountains rear.
And now once more I downward cast my Sight,
When lo! the Earth, a larger Moon, displays.
Far off, amidst the Heav'ns, her silver Face,
And to her Sister-Moon by turns gives Light!
Her Seas are shadowy Spots, her Land a milky White.

305

VIII.

What Pow'r unknown my Course still upwards guides,
Where Mars is seen his ruddy Rays to throw
Thro' heat-less Skies that round him seem to glow?
And where remoter Jove o'er his four Moons presides?
And now I urge my Way more bold,
Unpierc'd by Saturn's chilling Cold,
And pass his Planetary Guards, and his bright Ring behold.
Here the Sun's Beams so faintly play,
The mingled Shades almost extinguish Day.
His Rays reverted hence the Sire withdraws,
For here his wide Dominions end;
And other Suns, that rule by other Laws,
Hither their bordering Realms extend.

IX.

And now far off thro' the blue Vacant borne,
I reach at last the Milky Road,
Once thought to lead to Jove's Supreme Abode,
Where Stars, profuse in Heaps, Heav'ns glittering Heights adorn.
Lost in each other's neighb'ring Rays,
They undistinguish'd shine in one promiscuous Blaze.
So thick the lucid Gemms are strown,
As if th'Almighty Builder here
Laid up his Stores for many a Sphere
In destin'd Worlds, as yet unknown.

306

Hither the nightly-wakeful Swain,
That guards his Folds upon the Plain,
Oft turns his gazing Eyes,
Yet marks no Stars, but o'er his Head
Beholds the streamy Twilight spread,
Like distant Morning in the Skies;
And wonders from what Source its dawning Splendors rise.

X.

But lo!—what's this I see appear?
It seems far off a pointed Flame;
From Earth-wards too the shining Meteor came.
How swift it climbs th'aerial Space!
And now it traverses each Sphere,
And seems some living Guest, familiar to the Place.
'Tis He—as I approach more near
The great Columbus of the Skies I know!
'Tis Newton's Soul, that daily travels here
In search of Knowledge for Mankind below.
O stay, thou happy Spirit, stay,
And lead me on thro' all th'unbeaten Wilds of Day;
As when the Sybil did Rome's Father guide
Safe thro' the downward Roads of Night,
And in Elysium blest his Sight
With Views till then to mortal Eyes deny'd.
Here let me, thy Companion, stray,
From Orb to Orb, and now behold
Unnumber'd Suns, all Seas of molten Gold;

307

And trace each Comet's wand'ring Way,
And now descry Light's Fountain-Head,
And measure its descending Speed;
Or learn how Sun-born Colours rise
In Rays distinct, and in the Skies
Blended in yellow Radiance flow,
Or stain the fleecy Cloud, or streak the watry Bow;
Or now diffus'd their beauteous Tinctures shed
On ev'ry Planet's rising Hills, and ev'ry verdant Mead.

XI.

Thus, rais'd sublime on Contemplation's Wings,
Fresh Wonders I wou'd still explore,
Still the great Maker's Pow'r adore,
Lost in the Thought—nor ever more
Return to Earth, and Earthly Things;
But here with native Freedom take my Flight,
An Inmate of the Heav'ns, adopted into Light!
So for a while the Royal Eagle's Brood
In his low Nest securely lies,
Amid the Darkness of the shelt'ring Wood,
Yet there with in-born Vigour hopes the Skies:
'Till fledg'd with Wings full-grown, and bold to rise,
The Bird of Heav'n to Heav'n aspires,
Soars 'midst the Meteors and Cœlestial Fires,
With generous Pride his humbler Birth disdains,
And bears the Thunder thro' th'Ætherial Plains.

University of Virginia Library

2. VOLUME the SECOND.

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

DIALOGUE FROM THE French of Monsieur De la Motte.

VENUS and ADONIS,

A CANTATA.

Recitative.

AIR.

Recitative.

AIR.

CANTATA. PASTORAL.

Recitative.

AIR.

Recitative.

AIR.

BEAUTY,

An ODE.

I

II

III

IV

MYRA.

A CANTATA.

AIR.

Recitative.

AIR.

ALEXANDER's FEAST: OR, The Power of Musick .

An ODE in Honour of St. Cecilia's Day. By Mr. DRYDEN. Alter'd for Musick by Mr. HUGHES.

I.

Recitative.

AIR.

II.

Recitative.

AIR.

III.

Recitative.

DUETTO.

IV.

Recitative.

AIR.

V.

Recitative.

AIR.

VI.

Recitative.

VII.

Recitative.

AIR.

VIII.

Recitative.

AIR.

IX.

Recitative.

AIR.

AN ODE TO THE Creator of the World.

Occasion'd by the FRAGMENTS of ORPHEUS.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

TO Mr. ADDISON,

On his Tragedy of CATO.

ADVICE to Mr. POPE.

On his intended Translation of HOMER's ILIAD, 1714.

TO THE MEMORY of Mr. MILTON.

Homer's Description of Himself, under the Character of Demodocus the Musician, at the Feast of King Alcinous.

From the Eighth Book of the Odysses.

To a Lady, with the Tragedy of CATO.

A FRAGMENT.

[Promiscuous Crouds to worthless Riches born]

SERENATA, FOR TWO VOICES. On the Marriage of the Right Honourable the LORD COBHAM to Mrs. ANNE HALSEY.

DUETTO.

Recitative.

AIR.

DIALOGUE FROM THE French* of Monsieur De la Motte.*

Late Wife of Edward Hughes, Esq; of Hertingfordbury in the County of Hertford, and Daughter of Richard Harrison, Esq; of Balls in the same County. Obiit 15 Nov.* Mdcc xiv.*