The poetical works of George Keate

TO The Right Honourable MARY LEPEL, Baroness Dowager HERVEY of Ickworth, Distinguished by her superior Accomplishments, as the Admirer and Protectress of every Elegant Art, THIS POEM Is with the greatest Respect Inscribed, By Her Ladyship's Obliged Humble Servant, George Keate.

From these dread walls, this melancholy Tow'r,
Doom'd the sad Victim of relentless Pow'r,
Where ruin sits in gloomy pomp array'd,
And circling horrors spread their mournful shade,
I send the tribute of a short'ning life,
The last memorial of a faithful Wife.
For ev'ry hope on this side Heav'n is fled,
And Death's pale banner waves around my head.
It yet perchance may cheer my Lord to know
That Suffolk's Daughter sinks not with her woe:

Beneath its weight I feel myself resign'd;
Tho' strong its pressure, stronger still my mind.
This duty paid to Thee, each care is o'er,
Nor my hard fortune shall distress me more.

Yet spite of all, one anxious thought survives,
For Thee, my Guilford, 'tis for Thee it lives.
Yes, Thou alone with Heav'n divid'st my heart,
Tho' all Heaven's due, yet Nature gives Thee part.
If Love be still a crime, I'm guilty still,
But to forget, depends not on our will.
Affection once deep rooted in the breast,
Is sometimes shook, tho' rarely dispossest;
The ruling passion there in triumph reigns,
It sooths my weakness, but augments my pains.
O'er the dear past my roving fancy flies,
And brings thy Image to my raptur'd eyes.

No Mourner's weeds, no Captive's chain it wears,
But bright in all its native charms appears;
Such Grace, such Virtue beaming from thy brows,
As stole my heart, and fix'd my virgin vows;
Such as Thou wert, when at the Altar's side
I gave Thee up my hand, a willing Bride:
How little then expected we to find
Our nuptial wreath by Death had been intwin'd!
Scenes different far from these gay Hope display'd!
Ah! how the false one sung, and how betray'd!
Each joy she promis'd perish'd in its birth,
And ev'ry flatt'ring blossom fell to earth!—
But from Man's weakness still some comfort slows,
'Tis that he nought beyond the present knows;
Heav'n draws a friendly curtain o'er his doom,
And hides in deepest shades each ill to come.—
Then be its Will ador'd, which, understood,
From seeming mischief draws forth certain good.

Nor in these lines suspect that I complain,
Tho' mem'ry loves to trace past time again.

Thus do I waste the solitary day,
With tedious pace thus creep my hours away;
And when the Moon, rob'd in her paler light,
Revisits mortals, and directs the night,
If then my weary'd strength some slumber shares,
The Soul reflecting wakes to all her cares:
Delusion o'er my Mind usurps command,
And rules each sense with Fancy's magic wand.
One moment tidings of Forgiveness brings,
Descending Mercy spreads her Cherub wings;
Our guards are vanish'd, ev'ry grief effac'd,
We meet again, embracing and embrac'd.—
O Bliss supreme!—but too supreme to last;
Ere words can find their way, the Vision's past:

It fleets, I call it back,—it will not hear,
And fearful shadows in its place appear.
The unrelenting Queen stalks fiercely by,
Fate on her brow, and Fury in her eye.—
Hark! the dread signal that compleats our woes!—
Hark! the loud shoutings of our barb'rous Foes!—
I see the axe rear'd high above thy head,—
It falls!—and Guilford's number'd with the dead.
Alas! how ghastly!—Ev'ry vein streams blood,
And the pale corpse sinks in the crimson flood.—
Could that sad form be once my soul's delight?—
Quick tear the mad'ning phantom from my sight.
Hold, hold your hands, ye ministers of fate,
Suspend the blow, lest Mercy come too late;
Let Innocence at last your pity move,
And spare my Lord, my Husband, and my Love!—
Northumberland! Thee, Thee could I upbraid,
And bid Thee view the ruin thou hast made.

This tragic picture thy ambition plann'd,
And all its colours own thy daring hand.
But thou art fall'n!—Nor shall my parting breath
Call out for Vengeance in the hour of death:
I as thou wert, am to the Scaffold doom'd,
Soon with my Ancestors must lie entomb'd;
With the World's transient contests I have done,
The hast'ning sands of Life are nearly run;
A moment such as this, is not the time
To blame thy weakness, or reproach thy crime!
May all remembrance of thy guilt subside,
And the dark Grave thy dust and frailties hide!

The searching eye of Heav'n, whose wisdom darts
Thro' all the mean disguises of our hearts,
And ev'ry silent motive, knows alone
With what reluctance I approach'd the Throne.

I never sigh'd for Grandeur's envy'd rays,
For regal Honours, or a Nation's praise.
My bosom never felt Ambition's fire;
For what exchange could Guilford's Wife desire?
The bloom of May beneath our feet was spread,
And all its roses deck'd our nuptial bed.
With Thee conjoin'd, each social joy I found;
With Thee conversing, Pleasure breath'd around.
To prize the world aright, and form the mind
To my lov'd books my leisure I resign'd:
Or absent thou, to cheer the ev'ning's gloom,
Encircled with my Maidens, ply'd the Loom.
Peace was my Sister, and my Friend Content,
The best Companions e'er to Mortals sent;
Plac'd at my side, they tun'd their soothing lyres,
And sung those carols Innocence inspires.
But when, obedient to a Father's pow'r,
And the last wish of Edward's dying hour,

Destructive counsel! I my home forsook,
Assum'd the Purple, and the Sceptre took,
Swift from my sight the heav'nly Pair withdrew,
And Friend and Sister bade me both adieu.

Let such as, flatter'd by a pompous name,
Risk their own quiet in pursuit of Fame,
Beware th'exchange; awhile their purpose turn,
And from a wretched Queen one moral learn.
It is the cheat of ev'ry worldly joy,
To tempt when distant, but possess'd to cloy;
Hence flows a truth of much import, 'tis this;
“Content's the highest pitch of human bliss.”
Strange we should then the proffer'd boon reject!
All know to seek it, yet the search neglect.
To no one soil, no station 'tis confin'd,
Springing, if cultur'd, in each steady mind,

Far from Ambition's fiery Tract it flies,
But lives with Virtue, and with Virtue dies!

O had our lot by kinder Stars been thrown
Beneath some lonely shade, to Fame unknown;
Far from those Scenes remov'd, where Pride resorts,
Far from the Cares, far from the Crimes of Courts,
Unconscious of the Thorns which wound the Great,
Our lengthen'd years had own'd a happier Fate:
Pleas'd with our Fortune, by ourselves approv'd,
Secure from Envy, and by all belov'd.
Whilst, from a busy, faithless World retir'd,
By no blind Folly vex'd, no Passion fir'd,
Calmly we then afar had heard the Strife,
The Noise, the Tumult that perplexes Life;
Smil'd at Contention's visionary plan,
And the vain Toils of self-deluded Man.

Yet cease, my heart, these plaintive murmurs cease;
For why, my Guilford, should I wound thy peace?
Why with imagin'd joys thy thoughts engage,
Since we are fetter'd on a tragic Stage?
But say, what Tyranny can reach the Soul?
What Terrors shake her, or what Force controul?
Immortal as the Pow'r from whence she springs,
Sick of her home, she mounts on Fancy's wings,
With inborn Freedom nourish'd, spurns her chains,
And roves unbounded thro' ideal scenes!
Ideal joys are all I now have left,
Of Thee,—a Crown,—and Liberty bereft;
Torn from the pleasures of domestic Life,
From each fond rapture of a virtuous Wife:
By all Hope here forsaken!—'tis in vain
That Reason whispers I should not complain:
A sigh will heave, in spite of all my pow'rs;
And sighs are due to Miseries like ours.—

Ha! meet no more!—How cruel the decree!—
Heart-rending sentence!—No—It must not be.
Down prison walls, each obstacle remove,
And let me clasp once more the Man I love!
One parting look a wretched Wife desires;
One parting kiss the seal of Death requires!—
And is there none to plead th'Unhappy's suit?—
—All ears are deaf, and ev'ry tongue is mute!—
Then, come the worst—Yet, howsoe'er distrest,
Still shall thy Image live within my breast;
My senses still that object shall pursue,
And each fond wish be offer'd up for You.
Tho', all unfeeling for this bleeding heart,
Our Foes dismiss to Heav'n thy nobler part,
Deep in the dust thy injur'd Form I'll trace,
And grudge th'unconscious Grave its cold embrace.—
But hold thy hand, presumptuous Woman, hold;
Too warm thy passion, as thy pen too bold.

Far other thoughts the present hour demands,
Lo! at my side the shadowy Monarch stands;
Aid me, great Teacher, this hard conflict end,
Tho' King of Terrors call'd, I'll hail thee Friend!
Since thou alone portray'st to mortal eyes
How weak, how baseless are the joys we prize:
Thou mock'st our useless toils, our mimic state,
And warn'st a brother, by a brother's fate!
Thy moral then shall not be lost on me,
Convinc'd, my Soul approves the just decree;
And unrepining quits this scene of Strife,
Which points thro' Virtue to a happier Life.

The Priest this morn, with ev'ry Art endu'd,
Th'accursed purpose hath again renew'd;
“Be ours,” he cries, “our better Faith embrace,
“And live Preserver of your falling Race.

“Tho' yet misled, stand forth the Child of Rome,
“The Queen, in mercy, will avert your doom.”
Merciful Queen!—Yet since thus greatly kind,
Tell us what mercy shall th'Apostate find?
Thy royal mandate may decide our fates,
But Peace alone on conscious Duty waits;
Who wars against it, does the work of hell,
And arms a demon he can never quell;
Whose shafts receiv'd, search the wide globe around,
Nor herb, nor balsam heals the fatal wound.
Bear back, false Winchester, thy proffer'd Bliss,
Weigh Crowns and Kingdoms with a deed like this,
Far, far too light in Wisdom's eye they seem,
Nor shake the scale, while Reason holds the beam.—
And can the, Guilford, deem me sunk so low,
So fondly wedded to this world of woe,
To think her bounty would my fears entice
To purchase fleeting breath at such a price?

Which when obtain'd, the poor precarious toy
A thousand ills might weaken, or destroy?—
No—Since I'm sworn a Sister to Mischance,
Let the Clouds gather, let the Storm advance,
Unmov'd, its bursting horrors I'll defy,
And steady to my Faith a Martyr die.
For Life's, alas! too like the transient Rose,
Which oft is blasted the same day it blows;
Its beauty from the wind a blight receives,
Or some foul canker taints its crimson Leaves!
Nor judge it hard to fall an early Flow'r,
Rescu'd perchance from some tempest'uous Shower,
From noxious Vapours arm'd with force to kill,
The noontide Sunbeam, or the ev'ning's Chill.
Howe'er the thought appal, Death's gloomy road
By ev'ry mortal foot must once be trod!
Deep thro' the vale of tears Man's journey lies,
And sorrow best prepares him for the Skies!—

O then, my Husband, I conjure thee, hear,
If Suffolk's Daughter e'er to Thee was dear,
By ev'ry wish of happiness to come,
By ev'ry hope beyond the mould'ring Tomb;
If anxious that thy better fame should soar,
And shine applauded when the man's no more:
Let not the wily Churchman win thine ear,
Or sooth thy weakness by his fraudful care;
But arm'd with Constancy's unfailing shield,
As God's own soldier valiant, scorn to yield.
So when Religion, stript of each disguise,
In ancient purity again shall rise,
To her true throne once more shall be restor'd,
And rule by Reason, stronger than the Sword,
Posterity our merits may attest,
And our fair deeds by all good men be blest.
In distant times, then shall old people tell
How firmly Guilford and his Consort fell.

To all their list'ning family relate,
How our Faith triumph'd, tho' our Woes were great.
Then shall each Youth and Maid our names revere,
Grace our sad Story with a gen'rous tear,
And give our dust this Requiem with a sigh,
“Peace guard the Shrine where Virtue's Children lie.”

O thou Supreme, on whom we all depend,
Our common Parent, and our common Friend,
Who deign'st to watch us from thy distant skies,
Bidding the pray'rs of humbled suff'rers rise,
Ruler of heav'n, stretch forth thy mighty hand,
And save from civil rage my native Land.
Let Rome's ambitious Sons no more prevail,
Blast all their hopes, and let their counsels fail.
Raise up some Prince to perfect that great plan
Thy servant Edward (under Thee) began;

That Error's clouds dispers'd, may ne'er return,
And thy pure Light with fires rekindled burn.
So Peace, sad fugitive, again shall smile,
And fix her dwelling on this prosper'd Isle.—
Whilst for myself one only boon I crave,
Support that Fortitude thy Mercy gave;
The heart thou mad'st, preserve severely just,
Firm in its fate, and steady to its trust.
There, whilst it beats, thy praise shall ever reign,
Live, whilst it lives, and flow in ev'ry vein:
Praise the sole tribute I have left to give,
Nay, all a God from Mortals can receive.

Come then, my Lord, my Husband, and my Love,
(For Death alone those titles shall remove)
With decent courage meet thy certain doom,
Nor shrink with horror at the op'ning tomb.

What from the Grave can Virtue have to fear?
'Tis peace, 'tis refuge from the worst despair:
All strife, all human contests 'twill adjust,
Nor can the hand of Pow'r insult the dust!—
Religion sitting by the mourner's side
Inspires that comfort which the World deny'd;
And, 'midst our woes, of this one truth we're sure,
Whate'er is mortal cannot long endure.
Our Pains, as well as Joys, soon find an end,
And, tir'd of both, we call our Shroud a Friend!—
Meet it as such, my Guilford, nor thy Soul
O'er-awe with fancy, or with fear controul.
Think, 'twill the rigour of thy lot repay,
Think, 'tis a passport to the Realms of day.
On Faith's strong pinions thou shalt wing thy flight,
And (the World conquer'd) with the Blest unite.
The pomp of death, the Scaffold, and the Steel,
The man recoiling, may an instant feel,

For Nature will be heard; but be thy mind
Warm with its future prospects, and resign'd.—
What then remains for me?—Ah! wherefore ask?—
Fain would my trembling pen avoid the task;
Here would it stop, nor wake thy suff'rings more,
But idle Ceremony now is o'er;
These tear-stain'd lines must their whole purpose tell,
And bid my dying Lord a last farewell.
A last! a long farewell!—Oh cruel sound,
It pains, it tears, it harrows up my wound.
Alas! the transient dream!—Down, rebel heart,—
Yet, keen their pangs that must for ever part!—
A thousand, thousand things I had to say,
But the fleet minutes suffer no delay.
Might these fond eyes once more that Form behold,
These Arms, tho' 'twere in death, my Love enfold?
A Woman's weakness sure might be forgiven,
And this last frailty be absolv'd by Heav'n,—

'Twas a rash wish;—no—shun me,—for I fear
A final interview we could not bear!
Ere yet a little space, this scene will close,
And end the malice of our ruthless foes.
Arm'd as we are for Fate, we'll die content;
Fortune hath done its worst,—its Rage is spent.
To happier Mansions we shall soon remove,
And meet in bliss, for we shall meet Above,
Crown'd with eternal Peace, we then shall own
How poor the contest for a worldly Throne!
No feuds, no treasons can our joys molest,
Or shake th'immortal triumphs of the Blest!—
And see, our wish'd-for Haven is not far,
This hope shall cheer us like a guiding Star;
Safe in our sea-beat Bark we'll stem the flood
And spread each sail to meet the coming Good.—
Descend, my Guardian Angel, from the skies,
In my firm breast let dauntless Virtue rise;

Loose, loose all ties that hold me captive here,
And from my mem'ry blot what most was dear.—
Yes, my Deliv'rer, yes, I find thy aid;
Each passion's calm, and all the storm is laid.
I felt its influence, Guilford, as I spoke;
The complicated chain at length is broke;
Life's vain Enchantments all have ta'en their flight,
And Earth diminish'd fades before my sight;
One last, sad, parting sigh is left for You:
The rest is Heav'n's:—a long—long—long Adieu!

TO A LADY

Going to bathe in the Sea.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXV.

Venus, most Histories agree,
Sprang from the Ferment of the Sea;
Yet I confess I'm always loth
To think such Beauty was but Froth;
Or, that the Ocean, which more odd is,
Should from a Bubble spawn a Goddess.
Tho' hence, my Laura, learned Fellows,
Of such its wond'rous pow'rs still tell us,
That ev'ry Mother brings her Daughter
To dip in this specific Water,

Expecting from the briny wave
Charms which it once to Venus gave.

These charms, my Laura, strive to gain;
And that you may not bathe in vain
I'll here, as well as I am able,
Give you a Moral to this Fable.

Would you a Goddess reign o'er all?
From the wide Flood its virtues call;
Free from each stain your bosom keep,
Clear be it as this azure Deep,
Which no capricious passion knows,
But duly ebbs, and duly flows;
Tho' sometimes ruffled, calm'd as soon,
Still constant to its faithful Moon,
At whose dear sight with Pride it swells,
And to each Shore its chaste Love tells:

Heedless of ev'ry change of weather
That wafts a straw, or coxcomb-feather,
Which only on the Surface play,
And unobserv'd are wash'd away.

Reflect, that lodg'd within its breast
The modest Pearl delights to rest,
Thence charms us by its virgin white,
Or pours its Blushes on our sight.
In Yours, thus ever may we trace
Each tempting Charm, each blushing Grace;
To these let Judgment value give,
And in that seat of Beauty live.

This Moral keep before your eyes,
Plunge—and a New-born Venus rise.

TO A Young LADY,

Who admirably supported the Character of a Judge, at Mrs. Phipps's Masquerade in Hampshire, 1765.

That Law's a dull, laborious thing
All people readily allow;
To love it few their minds can bring,
To me, it ne'er had Charms till now.

But when the Judge's look and mien,
So well the sprightly Fergus hit,
Quite chang'd was then this Study seen,
For each man wish'd to follow it.

Had Montesquieu but heard this Maid
Decide so smartly ev'ry Cause,
He'd not have scrupled to have said,
“She speaks the Spirit of the Laws!”

TO A FRIEND, On New-Year's Day, 1766.

As Rivers tow'rd th'ingulphing Ocean glide,
So Time, my Friend, moves on its steady Tide:
Still flows—for whom?—Us Loit'rers on the Shore;
To all that are departed, Time's no more!
In its Abimes what Myriads swept from view!
The Course they took, we also must pursue.—
Then, as adown its hast'ning Stream we sail,
Let Wisdom waft us with propitious Gale;
To Virtue yield the Helm, for when she steers
We shun all dangers and avoid all fears:

Beneath her guidance safe, it matters not
What share of future Life shall be our lot.
Enjoy the present with a cheerful Mind,
Nor let aught charm that leaves a Pang behind,
Should the dark Storm our Passage overcast,
Hope's radiant beams shall light us to the last!—
And if more years the righteous Heav'ns decree,
If many circling days like This you see,
Still may they happy as your wishes prove,
And stronger twist the bands of Friendship and of Love!

PROLOGUE, On opening of the new Theatre, at Southampton, 1766.

Spoken by the Manager.

As new-sprung Flow'rs rear up the tender head,
And to the parent Sun their foliage spread,
In us, just budding, the same action view,
Op'ning, we turn with Gratitude to You.
You are our Sun, You have the pow'r to raise ;
We feel your Comfort, and reflect your Praise.
By You protected, we may here take root,
Warm'd by Your smiles here too may boldly shoot;

And that we more may flourish ev'ry hour,
Cherish us often—with a Golden Show'r.

But Metaphor apart, behold in Me
The Guardian of this Stage.—This magic Key
Unlocks the various scene, and brings to view,
Whate'er the pens of ablest Poets drew:
I shew the Living, summon up the Dead,
And bid them by mine Art before you tread;
Provoke your laughter, fire your breasts with glory,
Or ask your tears to grace some tragic story.—
As yet, you little know how great my store,
Of Kings and Queens I here have many a score;
Aye, and materials too for making more.—
Stories of ancient Times I also trade in,
Of Heroes, have a large assortment laid in,
And can at will take down as best may suit us,
A Cato, Falstaff, Mahomet, or Brutus.—

There , is lock'd up my Light'ning—there , my Thunder,
My Devils here —for those we must keep under.
Behind are Children ready to be strangled,
Couples just fit in love to be entangled,
Traitors that on the Rack ne'er think of pain,
Virgins oft ravish'd, that quite chaste remain,
Women, who tho' they're murder'd, still survive,
Nay what's more strange, by often dying, thrive;
Ghosts, that can eat and drink in Poison's spite,
And men who bear a stabbing ev'ry night.

When Comedy's your taste, I can give birth
To Wit, to Satire, or good-humour'd Mirth:
I've griping Fathers,—old fantastic Mothers,—
Kind envious Sisters,—and designing Brothers;—

Sly Knaves, who e'en their bosom-friends would cozen—
With Beaux, Coquets, and Coxcombs by the dozen;
So that come when you will, you're always sure
Of seeing here, the World in miniature.
Whilst I, still zealous in the Drama's cause,
Cherish no greater wish than your Applause.

The Theatre was built by subscription.

Pointing to the upper parts of the Stage.

Pointing to beneath the Stage.

A CARD TO DAVID GARRICK, Esq.

On his playing Hamlet, after his Return from Italy in 1766.

From Death's long sleep had Shakespear rose,
And seen Thee paint his Muse of fire,
Portray so well young Hamlet's woes;
What could the Poet more desire?

Thine Eye the Soul's great purpose bears,
With Thee we melt, with Thee we freeze;
You guide our Spirits, and our Tears,
And rule our Passions, as you please.

ON Seeing Mrs. Garrick in a Country Dance.

[_]

WRITTEN AT BATH IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXVI.

Light as The Hours that round Apollo play
And with gay Steps lead on the op'ning Day;
Amanda mingling in the Dance is seen,
From all distinguish'd, smilingly serene;
Each Motion's Ease, and Elegance, and Grace:—
Read how she charms—in each Beholder's Face.

Alluding to the Picture of Guido's Aurora.

TO BIDDY AT BATH.

[_]

Written in 1766, after Mr. and Mrs. Garrick's Return to England.

Biddy, say—for you have been
Much abroad, and much have seen,
Cross'd the Channel to and fro,
Pass'd the Alps, and River Po,

View'd with speculative Glance
Boasted Italy, and France,
Notic'd ev'ry Thing most curious,
What was genuine, what was spurious;
Full as good are your Remarks,
As those made by travell'd Sparks;
Nay, in yours I more confide,
Making Nature still your Guide,
On your soft, green Cushion lying,
Men and Manners slyly spying,
Shamming oft a cunning Sleep,
Better at their Ways to peep,
Nicely comb'd, and nicely curl'd—
Bid, what think you of the World?—

What is all its Noise? its Strife?
What the paltry Views of Life?

Are they not a Flash, a Jest?
But a Pantomime at best?
Change of Scene, a painted Cheat,
Aim'd to mimic something great?

Thro' the Globe, and through each Nation
All is Whim, and all is Fashion;
Blockheads oft on slightest Claim
Rise to Honors, Wealth, and Fame;
Most Men to Self-int'rest bend,
Quit their Ease to gain their End,
On the Gallop, on the Fret,
Something unattain'd to get!
While they think no Creature sees them,
Death pursuing with his Besom,
Sweeps them all in little heaps,
Which the neighb'ring Church-yard keeps;

And thus daily clears the Stage,
That new Actors may engage.—

But does not your rage rise quick?
As a Dog are you not sick?
When you see that Men of Parts
Hate a Rival from their Hearts?
And keep under, or neglect
Merit which they should protect?
Commentators still disputing,
Not with Ink, but Gall, refuting?
Critic Wits their Time misusing,
And their Talents in abusing?
Tho' when they have spit their Spite,
'Tis not worth a Straw, who's right!—
Vain are Learning's Pow'rs, but when
Candour guides the Heart and Pen!

When instructing, they dispense
Fruits of sweet Benevolence!—

Biddy, you amidst this Scuffle
Han't one Care your Coat to ruffle;
Pillow'd with Content and Ease,
All your Aim is how to please;
And to such a Wish kind Heav'n
A Reward hath ever giv'n!
You see none but happy Folks,
Hear your Master's sprightly Jokes,
View him practise all those Parts
Which can chill, or melt our Hearts;
Or in hours of festive leisure,
Spreading Wit, and social Pleasure:
Whilst your Mistress, whom each Grace
Still attends from place to place,

In whose cultivated Mind
Ev'ry charm of Sense we find,
Deigns your Merit to approve,
And rewards you with her Love.—

Nor will soon your Joys decay;
Tho' each Dog must have his Day,
At the call of Fate you'll go
To Elysian Scenes below
Where your Cousin Cerberus,
Whose three Mouths make such a Fuss,
Shall on your account stop Two,
Barking soft, to welcome you,
And conduct you to the Shade
Where pale Proserpine array'd
Sits majestic; with surprize
She shall mark your Air and Size,

Charm'd, her little Guest shall treat
With new Teeth, new Eyes and Feet,
Teach you all the puppy Tricks
Play'd on t'other side of Styx,
Of each fav'rite Dog get rid,
Fondling only gentle Bid.

A beautiful little Dog, which Mrs. Garrick had for many Years, well known to all her Friends, as an old, and remarkable Favorite.

THE ALPS.

A POEM.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXIII.

TO The Reverend DR. EDWARD YOUNG, Rector of Welwyn, in Hertfordshire: Whose Genius, Learning, and Virtues, have so long gained him The Admiration and Esteem of the Public, THIS POEM Is inscribed by the Hand of Friendship, As a Memorial of the Affectionate Regard of The AUTHOR.

Bright Goddess, I obey! with rapture hear,
Thy summoning voice, O Fancy, Parent sweet
Of ev'ry Muse, and fairest of the Train,
Who on th'Aonian Hill with ceaseless Song
Inspire true Harmony.—Lo! where She comes
Adown yon sloping cliff with graceful step
Winding a devious path, across her neck
Her Lyre loose hung, and her dishevel'd hair,
And Robe refulgent with unnumber'd hues,
Light floating on the wind.—Immortal Nymph,

These scenes are oft thy haunt, o'er Nature's works
For ever ranging, various as themselves.
Now Tempe charms, and now the balmy Gales
That sportive play along the peaceful shore
Of fertile Bajæ: soon thy sated eye
Tir'd with their flow'ry beauties, seeks the Heath
Barren and pathless, where with guilt appall'd
Stalks the lone Murd'rer: Then thou rid'st the Storm,
And midst the crash of Elements wakeful sit'st
On some rude Rock ('gainst which the foaming Deep
Breaks fearful,) list'ning to the fruitless shrieks
Of shipwreck'd Mariners; or, if the Past
Delight thee more, wing'st thy excursive soul
To hover o'er His tomb whose loss thou mourn'st,
That favour'd Child who sleeps on Avon's banks,
Crown'd with eternal Fame.—O should my feet
Not too unhallow'd seem, with joy I'd tread
Thy steps o'er hill and vale, with thee ascend

The craggy summit of yon Mountains bound
In ever during Frost, or from its source
Trace the free torrent to the op'ning Lake.

In this wild scene of Nature's true Sublime
What prospects rise! Rocks above Rocks appear,
Mix with th'incumbent clouds, and laugh to scorn
The proudest boasts of art. In fleecy snow
Some mantled, others their enormous backs
Heave high, with forests crown'd; nor midst the view
Are wanting those who their insulting heads
Barren and bleak, uprear as in contempt
Of vegetative laws. Nor yet are they
Unfruitful, deep within their quarries lie
The Marble various vein'd; and the rich Ore
Winds its slow growth: nor here unfrequent found
The Crystal, catching from its min'ral bed
A changeful tinge, yellow, or red, or green,

Azure, or violet; wanting strength alone
To be the gem it mimics. On these heights
Blooms many a modest flowret scarcely known
E'en to the vale beneath, tho' sweet as those
That, when proud Rome was Mistress of the World,
Adorn'd the shrines of Flora. Many a shrub
Of sov'reign use, and medicinal herb
Spread forth their humble leaves, by careless foot
Of shepherd trampled, till some chance disclose
Their latent virtues. Heaven, to sooth the ills
Which sap this mortal Frame, hath strew'd the Earth
With Plants like these, nor from its Children here
Withheld its hand. The trickling Rill presents
Slow bubbling out a salutary Draught,
With Ore impregnated, its mazy path
Tinging like gold; others or warm, or hot,
Sulphureous, form a strength-restoring Bath
In nooks impervious to the mid-day Sun.—

Here the fleet Roebuck darts, as thro' the woods
The hunter's horn re-echoes; Here the Wolf
Prowls savage, shunning, save by want compell'd,
The haunts of Men: tardy and cautious moves
The cumbrous Bear; the fearful Lev'ret too
In his white hue confiding, on the snow
Rests fearless and unmark'd; while o'er the cliffs
Most rude, and cas'd by winter's icy hand,
Wild as the scene he loves, the Ibex bounds.

From this proud Eminence Europa pours
Her amplest Rivers down, whose gentle springs
Or on the Glaciers, or St. Gothard's top,
Or midst the Grisons complicated states
First rising, swell with many an added stream,
And in their passage Provinces remote

Adorn and fertilize. From hence along
The Plains of Lombardy the rapid Po,
With haste impetuous, rushes on to meet
The Adriatic. Raging as he goes,
O'er intercepting rocks the Danube rolls
With many a River leagu'd, eager to seek
The distant Euxine. The tumultous Rhone,
Mingling its waters with the Leman lake,
Precipitates its course thro' cities fair
And purple vineyards, till the sea ingulph
Th'augmented torrent. Here the double Rhine
Blends its twin streams yet slender, and from Coire
In circuit sweeps to Constance, then adown
The rugged cliffs of Lauffen furious pours
The boiling Cataract, with thund'ring roar
Far echo'd: in its dashing fall the Foam

Snatch'd by the eddying winds, disperses round
A misty Show'r. The Empire now It skirts,
Wide and more wide expanding, and (too just
An emblem this of human glory) sinks
In Belgic sands, unnotic'd, and forgot!—
Here smaller Fountains ope their gelid stores,
And Springs unnumber'd burst, but who can search
Their secret sources? to recount their names
Were task too hard. Yet in my verse shall flow
The winding Russ, the far resounding Arve,
The Adda much distain'd, the wandring Aar,
And the bright Tessin's clear tho' rapid stream.

These as they glide along survey their banks
With mountains circled that appear to bend
Beneath the woods they bear. The mournful Larch
Its drooping foliage hangs: the stately Pines,
Their boughs together mix'd, in close array

(Wedg'd like the ancient Phalanx,) from the axe
Rear their tall heads secure; on craggy cliffs
Rooted, or over Precipices dread
Waving their umbrage broad: while other Hills,
Tho' painful their ascent, spread their steep sides
Rich in the gifts of Ceres, where the plow
Might seem a stranger; yet the barren Rock.
That but a quarry shews, on its wide top
Expands fair pastures, where the Villager,
What time the Snow beneath the vernal Sun
Dissolves, leads up his flocks, to pass the heats
In rural cares, 'till the dark short'ning day,
And the rough blast, which herald-like precedes
Th'approach of winter, warns him to the Vale.

Lo! where yon Summits court our steps, how wild
The rocky path! now their rude points reflect
The darting Sunbeam, and anon are lost

In clouds and passing vapours!—Their ascent
Must not affright; Nature like some coy Fair,
Spreads not her Charms at once, but hides them half
From timid Gazers.—On thy Brow, Saleve ,
(Thy well-known Brow, that hath so often woo'd
My pensive mind) I catch with greedy eye
Th'enchanting Landscape, beyond fiction fair;
Where towns, and castles lie dispers'd, and woods,
And ruddy vineyards, where its proudest boast,
Geneva's Turrets rise; and yon blue Lake
A far-stretch'd mirror spreads: its Bosom shews
Th'inverted prospect, circled in with hills
And cliffs, a Theatre immense!—But this
No peril wears to him who dares attempt

The Glaciers slippery track, or climbs the Steeps
Of Tourne, or St. Gothard, or hath join'd
The toiling passengers o'er Cenis Mount,
Or great St. Bernard: Scarce the aching sight
Sustains the view, Rocks beyond Rocks arise,
In ever varying shapes. There piles of Snow
And dashing Cat'racts chill; here a thick Mist
Steals on us while we gaze, and all below
Like one wide Ocean shows!—It breaks,—it fleets,—
A new Creation bursts upon our sight,
Clear and more clear emerging: Now distinct
On the far Plain behold the lab'ring Ox,
The busied Husbandman, and shepherd Boys
Tending their fleecy fold.—From heights like these
How little they appear!—diminish'd!—faint!—
Nay all beneath how small!—Nor will the Muse,
Best-heard instructess, in her verse forbear
To wreath the moral lay—So looks the World

To him whose philosophic mind hath curb'd
Its visionary hopes; as he ascends
The rock of Virtue, all Life's envy'd toys,
Lov'd, nay, ador'd before, shrink from the sight;
Pausing, he wonders they could charm so long,
Then to the senseless Pageant bids farewel!

Thrice happy Regions! could we mount the Winds
And post around the Globe, where should we find
A calmer dwelling? While destructive War,
With Discord leagu'd, rings her infernal peal
And fires the mad'ning Crowd, thy Vallies hear
No sounds but those of Peace; fecure the Swain
Bears plenty to his fields, nor fears a foe
Shall reap the harvest.—Italy may boast
Its rip'ning Sun, its azure Skies;—how sweet
Are Arno's fruitful Banks!—how proudly smile
Thy Hills, imperial Florence!—nor to me

Unknown thy Myrtle Shades, thy Orange Groves,
Parthenope : yet far more pleas'd I range
These Scenes romantic, by th'endearing voice
Of Liberty allur'd. Here reigns Content,
And Nature's Child Simplicity, long since,
Exil'd from polish'd realms. Here ancient Modes
And ancient Manners sway; the honest Tongue
The Heart's true meaning speaks, nor masks with guile
A double purpose: Industry supplies
The little Temp'rance asks; and rosy Health
Sits at the frugal board.—If banish'd hence
Be Luxury, and all the finer Arts
Which swell her train, say, Tenants of these Climes,
What lose ye?—Rather tell how great your gain.—
No Grandeur, plac'd beyond your reach, torments,
No splendid objects light Ambition's fire,

Or point the stings of Envy. What but these
Fill Courts with sighs? and lay such aching heads
On beds of state?—By these, vain Man misled,
Restless, pursues imaginary joys,
Which melt in air, and mock his grasp, nor stops
Till Death unfold his error; happier ye
Tread unaffected Wisdom's paths, and share
Life's real blessings. Fortune's niggard hand
Withholds in vain, those treasures which she pours
Lavish to others, Heav'n o'erpays the loss,
And gives you minds superior to her charms.

Whene'er Affliction visits, she calls forth
Virtues that from the Sunshine of Success
Shrink their diminish'd pow'rs; severely kind
Her lessons! ye have heard her chast'ning voice,
Ye brave Helvetii; tho' the olive wreath

Has long adorn'd your annals, time hath been
When blood hath stain'd them red; when Civil Strife,
Waving its crimson Banner, call'd to arms,
And bade the Furies who await its nod,
Spread Desolation.—Oft your little States
Have shook with danger, felt the hostile foot
Of foreign Legions, felt th'oppressive yoke
Of tyrant Rule; then were ye dauntless seen,
Zealous to curb the insolence of Pow'r,
And claim what Nature gave.—From Morat's Plain
What glorious Laurels sprung ! when the rich Spoils
Of routed Burgundy bestrew'd the dust,
And harness'd Knights in many a glitt'ring heap,
Magnificent in ruin, press'd the field:

Vain were their vaunted arms, the rising Sun
Now shew'd those faces pale, which erst had glow'd
With fond presage of Conquest!—But if love
Of old Renown survive, here yet remains
A nobler Monument to charm: Come ye
Whose souls can feel for others, come and tread
In luxury of thought, the woody sides
Of Lucern's Lake, that washes with its streams
States not unknown to Fame. Tho' the sight meet
Nor trophy'd Pillar, nor the Victor's Arch,
(Sad register of slaughter!) we may view
A soil that nurtur'd Heroes: Men who dar'd,
Spite of Tyrant's menace, to throw off
Chains that disgrac'd their Country, and restore
Its Happiness with Freedom. Yes, my Muse,
Partake this Country's transport, let the tear
Steal from thine eye as thou record'st the names

Of Melchtal, Furst, and Stauffach ; now indulge
The grateful Ardour, as thou read'st the Tale
In Sculpture rude, or on th'Historic wall
Which artless hands have cloath'd. The task is thine
To sing the brave, and lift th'aspiring Soul
To deeds of brightest Fame. Entranc'd I'll fit
Upon Mongarten's hill, and as I view
The spot by Valour memoriz'd, hear Thee tell
The high achievements of these Patriot Chiefs,
And the scant Troops they led; hear thee describe
'Gainst what a Host they fought, how firm they stood,
To Death determin'd, this important Pass,
Their bulwark, to defend, and how repuls'd,
Presumptuous Leopold, by thousands back'd,
Retir'd an abject fugitive, dismay'd

To find what noble Minds by Justice rouz'd
Can dare for Liberty.—Hence shrunk the sway
Of humbl'd Austria; Hence the various leagues
Which bind these realms of Brothers, Hence the smile
Each conscious visage wears!—Illustrious Shades!
Long, long enjoy the honours ye receive
From this confed'rate Land, teach it to prize
The blessings ye bequeath'd, and give them pure
To late Posterity. In times remote,
Enamour'd of your worth, some Bard perchance
More equal to the Theme, shall rise, and give
Your Names the lasting Triumph they demand!

Amidst these Scenes stupendous, where the Soul
Feels all her faculties in wonder lost,
Contemplative I'll roam thro' winding walks
Of shadowy Pines that court the breeze, and hear
The Torrent down its stony channel sweep

With terror-striking roar: nor would I fail
At dewy Eve to wander, when the Sun
To his pale Sister's milder rule resigns
The cloudlesss Skies, who as she rises, spreads
Her silver beams, and the snow-mantled tops
Of yonder mountains with a yellow Hue
Faint tinges, one expanded Sheet of light
Dissusing: while the Shades from rock to rock
Irregularly thrown, with solemn gloom
Diversify the whole.—This tranquil hour,
This awful silence, Meditation's due,
Forbids the mind to view with careless eye
Creation's works, or uninstructed gaze.

Yet Nature smiles not always: there are times
When her Throne totters, and her ancient Realm
Shakes from its deep foundations. Hollow blasts
Heard from the turbid West, proclaim at hand

The Alpine Tempest.—All the dark'ning air
A gloomy silence holds, and clouds surcharg'd,
Press lab'ring 'gainst the Mountain's side; alarm'd
The Swain in haste seeks shelter, nor too soon,
For the Storm bursts.—Lo! where along the vale
A dusky Vapour sweeps, and on its wings
Rides Devastation.—Now the op'ning Skies
Pour forth a deluge, Rivers break their bounds,
And Torrents swell:—Down rolls the tow'ring Oak
From its high cliff up-rent, and the deep voice
Of Thunder roars tremendous, echo'd back
From Alp to Alp, and distant dies away
In faint, low murmurs:—Night perhaps at last
Augments the Horror, greater deem'd, from sight
Each object shut; save while the transient Glare
Of the red Light'ning shoots, or where its fires
Have on a hill remote in ruin wrap'd
Some lonely Cottage: Meteor like, the gleam

Darts thro' the void; pale the sad Owner stands,
Himself scarce sav'd, and mourns his little All:
In vain! leagu'd with auxiliar winds, the Storm
Howls loud, and wafts the ruddy blaze to Heav'n.

Far other views chill Winter's hand displays,
When o'er the plains, and o'er the rocks, he spreads
His hoary mantle; when the thick'ning Air
Descends in feather'd Flakes. Each prospect round
How wild! how shapeless!—Now, Streams wont to flow
With hasty currents, lazy creep, beneath
Th'incumbent Snow. The tall Fir's loaded branch
Waves like the Ostrich plume; the fleecy show'r,
Whirl'd in its falling, forms unreal hills,
And faithless Levels.—Cautious be his steps
Who thro' these regions journeys while they wear
Their cold and dreary aspect, left the Beam
Of some air-kindled Vapour, streaming low

Its lucid exhalation, should mislead
The Traveller night-wand'ring, like the Star
That bright above the Arctic Circle yields
A seeming friendly ray, but only serves
To light the frozen Pilot to his fate.—
Nor let him unadvis'd the sloping side
Of the steep Mountain climb, lest from above
The snowy Piles o'erwhelm him; frequent now,
At dead of Night, remote their sullen sound
Strikes on the startled ear.—Nor scarce more safe
In the broad eye of Day the passage lies,
Looking Security: by eddying winds
Or agitating sounds, the loosen'd snow

First mov'd, augmenting slides, then nodding o'er
The headlong-steep, plunges in air, and rolls
With one vast length of Ruin to the vale.—
Aghast beneath it the pale Victim sees
The falling Promontory—fees—and dies!—
Amidst its horrors from the house of Death
Let me recall one true, one wretched Pair,
To the cold Tomb untimely sunk. The Tale
I've heard from Shepherds, as they pointed out
The spot their story noted, and have dropt
For hapless Love a sympathizing tear.

In a lone Vale, wash'd by th'impetuous Arve,
Beneath the shade its tallest mountain threw,
Matilda dwelt; the sole remaining hope

Her ancient Father knew, whose fruitful fields,
Cover'd with Flocks and Herds, spread wide around.
Her's was each blushing charm which Youth can boast
Or Nature's hand bestow; bright as the bloom
Of May, and mildly sweet as the soft gales
Whose vernal wings fan the first op'ning Flow'rs:
Nor was her mind less fair!—Each neighb'ring Swain
Had sigh'd and languish'd, on the tender bark
Inscrib'd Matilda's name, or to her ear
Whisper'd his love,—in vain!—None, none were heard
Save young Rodolpho, whose prevailing form
Had won her to his favour: on his brow
Sat native comeliness, and manly Fire
O'er all diffus'd its lustre. Yet with her
His gen'rous mind most sway'd, where shone each thought
That Delicacy knows, far more refin'd
Than suits the happy!—Much he had convers'd
With rev'rend Age, and learn'd from thence to prize

A rural Life; learn'd to prefer the Peace
Of his own woods, to the discordant din
Of populous cities.—What but Fate could bar
Their wishes?—luckless Fate!—The morn was fix'd
To seal their plighted faith, the Bridegroom rose
With all a Bridegroom's transport, call'd his Friends
To join the festive train, and hasten forth
To greet th'expecting Maid; still as he went
Anticipating Fancy's magic hand
The thousand raptures drew which youthful breasts
Feel at approaching bliss.—Alas! how quick
Treads Woe in Pleasure's footsteps!—Now pursue
The fated Youth, tho' words are far too weak
To speak his horror, when, nor well-known Farm,
Nor wonted Flocks he saw, but in their place
A pond'rous Mound of snow.—At early Dawn
From the near Alp the cumb'rous Ruin fell,
And crush'd her Father's roof. To lend their aid

Th'assembled Villagers were met, and now
From the cold mass had brought once more to light
Th'ill-starr'd Matilda; lovely still!—for still
A blush was on her cheek, and her clos'd eye
Shew'd but as Sleep. Around her head she wore
Her bridal Ornaments, deck'd as she was
To wait the nuptial hour.—Ah! deck'd in vain,
The Grave thy Marriage bed!—On the sad Scene
Rodolpho gazes, stands awhile aghast,
The Semblance of Despair; his swelling breast,
Torn by conflicting Passions, from his tongue
Utt'rance withholds. He rolls his haggard eyes
On all around, as he would ask, if e'er
Griefs such as his were known?—Then o'er the dead
A moment pausing, on her lips imprints
A thousand frantic kisses, her cold hand
With ardour seizes, and in broken sounds
Calls on Matilda's name.—With that last word

The struggling soul a passage finds, and down
He sinks in Death, pale as the ambient snow!—

Tho' Perils wait the Foot that o'er these Heights
Pursues its path, yet Charity hath strove
To sooth their rigour, and supply those aids
The ruthless scene denies. Amid the wilds
See where the cloyster'd Hermit opens wide
His hospitable gate to welcome in
The sick'ning Pilgrim, and afford Repose
To the way-weary Stranger, who partake
The profser'd bounty; then renew'd in Strength,
Departing, bid the pious Mansion peace!

Here, Fancy, my conductress, let us rest,
Enough our toil, for we have trodden paths

New to the Muse. Yet ere thy hast'ning wings
Are spread for other Climes, here sit awhile,
Glance o'er the Wonders of this various Land,
And take one farewell look.—The active Mind
What can controul? free as the vagrant Air,
It scorns all bounds, and darts into the Shades
Of dim Futurity!—E'en while I gaze
On you, ye Mountains wild, ye sky-crown'd Rocks,
Sublimely great, that have defy'd the waste
Of rolling Ages, brav'd so many Storms,
Unhurt, unshaken, in the Round of Time,
I view your period; when internal War
Rends your Foundations, when your Mines shall flame,
And your Volcanos bursting from beneath
Spread wider Conflagration.—Then your Woods
Shall blaze with horror,—Then your lofty Heads
Smould'ring consume, and like the Snows they bore
All sink dissolv'd!—Where are the Rivers now

That water'd Europe? where the thousand Streams,
The thousand Fountains, and ten thousand Rills,
Your Caverns nourish'd?—Rather might I ask,
Where is the Ocean?—Where the mighty Deeps
That girt this pendent Globe?—Where the firm Earth,
Or changeful Moon?—For when your strength shall fail,
Ye Hills coeval with the World, say what
Shall scape the gen'ral Doom?—Through all its works
The Universe itself shall feel, and sigh
For Dissolution. Chaos then once more
Shall reign triumphant—grace your Fall—and round
Your noble Ruin pour substantial Night.

A species of Wild-Goat inhabiting the coldest parts of the Alps.

The famous fall of the Rhine.

A high Mountain about four or five miles distant from Geneva, rising perpendicularly above the Arve, and commanding a delightful view of the Lake, and the different Countries that lie round it.

The ancient name of Naples.

It was at this place that, 1476, Charles le Hardi, last duke of Burgundy, was defeated by the Swiss. The splendor of the great army he commanded, is mentioned by Historians as very remarkable.

The three Heroes who planned the Liberty of Switzerland; of whom sufficient mention hath already been made in the Preface to The Helvetiad.

This ball or mass of Snow is called the Avalanche; it is frequently of a prodigious size, and rolls from the Alps in particular seasons, rendering the passages very dangerous. Historians who have written of these countries, mention innumerable instances of the ravages and mischiefs produced by it.

It is the commonly received opinion in these countries, that any sudden agitation of the air, such as the firing a gun, loud shouting, &c. will at certain times occasion the Avalanche.

On some of the mountains there are Convents and Hospitals for the relief of such Passengers as want assistance.

EPILOGUE TO THE Dramatic Romance of CYMON.

Spoken by Mrs. Abington, At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1767.

Enter, peeping in at the Stage-door.

Is the Stage clear?—bless me!—I've such a dread!
It seems enchanted ground where'er I tread! (coming forward.)

What Noise was that?—Hush!—'twas a false alarm;—
I'm sure there's no one here will do me harm:
Amongst you can't be found a single Knight,
Who would not do an injur'd Damsel right.—

Well,—Heav'n be prais'd, I'm out of Magic reach,
And have once more regain'd the pow'r of Speech:
Aye, and I'll use it—for it must appear
That my poor Tongue is greatly in arrear.—
There's not a Female here but shar'd my woe,
Ty'd down to Yes, or still more hateful No.
No, is expressive,—but I must confess,
If rightly question'd, I'd use only Yes.—

In Merlin's walk this broken Wand I found,
Which to Two Words my speaking Organs bound.
Suppose upon the Town I try his spell,—
Ladies, don't stir!—you use your Tongues too well!
How tranquil ev'ry Place, when by my skill,
Folly is mute, and even Slander still!
Old Gossips speechless—Bloods would breed no Riot,
And all the Tongues at Jonathan's lie quiet!
Each grave Profession must new-bush the wig,
Nothing to say, 'twere needful they look big!

The Reverend Doctor might the Change endure,
He would sit still, and have his Sinecure!
Nor could Great Folks much hardship undergo,
They do their Bus'ness with an Aye, or No!—
But come, I only jok'd—Dismiss your Fear;
Tho' I've the Pow'r, I will not use it here.
I'll only keep my Magic as a Guard,
To awe each Critic who attacks our Bard.
I see some Malcontents their fingers biting,
Snarling, “the Ancients never knew such writing;—
“The Drama's lost!—The Managers exhaust us
“With Op'ras, Monkies, Mab, and Dr. Faustus!”—
Dread Sirs, a word,—the Public Taste is fickle,
All palates in their turn we strive to tickle;
Our Cat'rers vary, and you'll own at least,
It is Variety that makes the Feast.
If this fair Circle smile, and the Gods thunder,
I with this Wand will keep the Critics under.

A LITTLE ODE, TO A LITTLE MAID,

On her first going out after her Birth.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXVII.

Little Zephyrs, Loves, and Graces,
Bid each chilling wind be laid,
Shelter'd in your warm embraces,
See where comes my little Maid.

With your guardian-wings protect her,
Ev'ry motion hover o'er;
Through her little Path direct her,
She ne'er ventur'd out before.

Forth she comes, a new-born Creature,
How her little blue Eyes range!
Wonder fits on ev'ry Feature,
All around is gay and strange.

Could'st thou, little Maid, but paint me
What thy little Fancy warms,
Or thy little Tongue acquaint me,
'Midst this glitter, what most charms.

To a Stranger all's inviting,
All a morning Beauty wears;
Be the World, as now delighting,
Taste its Joys, but not its Cares!

Over these I draw a Curtain,
Leave their sad approach to Chance;
Not a Truth than this more certain,
“Bliss is built on Ignorance.“—

Pity, gentlest Child of Heav'n,
Little Maid, will Thee attend;
Innocence is also given
As thy Guardian, as thy Friend:

She shall wake thine heart to Pleasures
Such as Virtue can disclose;
Give Thee Love and Friendship's treasures,
Strew thy Path with many a Rose.

As in Years, in Wisdom growing,
Never from her side depart;
Through thy future Life still showing
She had form'd thy youthful Heart.

Let the false World ne'er confound Thee,
From its Vices turn thine ear;
Shun the bad Examples round Thee,
Give them but a Sigh!—a Tear!—

Thus self-guarded, thus defended,
Thy Experience shall confess,
Spite of what's by Fools pretended,
Virtue is true Happiness!

Such a blameless Tract pursuing,
Thy perfection'd Sense shall tell,
Oft this little Ode reviewing,
Little Maid, I wish'd Thee well.

TO A LADY,

With a present of a Stilton Cheese.

[_]

WRITTEN FROM THE TEMPLE, M.DCC.LXVII.

These hasty lines, Madam, were first meant to greet you,
And then for a Favour will humbly intreat you,
Nay, hang all preamble—I plainly will ask it,
They're to beg you'll accept of the Cheese in this basket.
A Cheese for a Lady's an odd present truly!
And you'll think that we Templars have ne'er study'd duly
The Cases of Gallantry, or never saw
What the ablest of Judges have laid down as Law;

In Cupid's Reports, folio seventy-six,
Under Title Presentment this Doctrine they fix,
“If some token you'd offer the Fair, you should seek,
“Or the Rose, or the Lily, to rival her cheek,
“Or send her a Myrtle, or send her a Dove,
“As the emblem of Truth, or the image of Love.”—
This may sometimes be right,—but to further my suit
I've a Case on my Table that none can confute,
Brother Bayes has inform'd us, when Pallas came down
To befriend the Usurpers who stole Brentford's Crown,
When to Grief and Despair they were ready to yield,
She produc'd them a Cheese she had brought in her shield .—
Tis so fully in point, that with this thought I'll close,
“Sure that must be good which a Goddess bestows.”—

Nor be you offended she ne'er sent you one,
Consider what for you already is done;
If when in her Dairy, her Cheese she forgot,
Enough of her Favours are thrown to your lot.
Whilst you use them discreetly, you'll ne'er fail to please
And I'll still, as her proxy, transmit you the Cheese.

See the Play of the Rehearsal.

TO ARDELIA,

On her producing some Essence of Roses.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXVII.

Whilst you boast your Essence of Roses,
By your Friends, tho' its Fragrance be tasted,
With its sweets you enrapture their noses,
Yet nought of its Substance is wasted.

It resembles the poor Widow's Cruise,
Which the Prophet had fill'd with his Blessing,
Replenish'd, tho' always in use,
And still the same Virtue possessing.

'Tis thus with a well-tutor'd Mind,
Bright Thoughts and fine Sense it discloses;
Tho' pouring its Sweets on Mankind,
Undiminish'd remains as your Roses.

Happy you! who this Mystery knowing,
Have such vary'd Talents to bless;
Can Pleasure be ever bestowing,
And giving, have nothing the less!

A POEM TO THE MEMORY OF THE CELEBRATED Mrs. CIBBER.

------ Sidereæ Raptus lugebat Alumanæ. Claud. de Rap. Prof. Lib. iii.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXVI.

What visionary Form on yonder Heaps
Of Earth, sits hov'ring o'er a new-made Grave,
In this dim Cloister painful Vigils keeps,
And wild with frantic Sorrow seems to rave?

The Sexton's Lamp still glimmers: On the ground
Each instrument of Sepulture is thrown,
And near her many a Bone lies scatter'd round,
The mingled Reliques of a Race unknown!

100

Long flows the Veil, whose Shade conceals her Face;
Now high as yon proud Roof her Groan ascends;
Now bursting Tears her silent Sorrows grace,
Now low in Dust the heart-struck Mourner bends.

“Say, Grief's sequester'd Victim, whence thy Woe?
“Why heaves thy Breast beneath this Load of Care?
“Why thus the haunts of cheerful Life forego?
“And in these lonely Mansions seek Despair?

“It is the Cause,—It is the Cause,” she cries,
“Will not this Scene the fatal Story tell?
“Learn from yon Train the Tale my voice denies,
“Or ask the Summons of that pausing Bell?

“It calls my Cibber to her House of Clay,
“Who now no more our Passions will engage;
“Rich in Theatric Glory, snatch'd away,
“The darling Daughter of the British Stage.

101

“She comes, my Juliet comes—O cruel Force!—
“Torn from my Arms by Heav'n's relentless Doom.—
“Now chang'd indeed!—An undissembled Corse!
“Too soon to fill an undissembled Tomb!”

I turn,—My eye the length'ning Cloister roves,
Thick flaring Tapers pour upon my Sight;
With solemn Pace the black Procession moves,
And wrapt in tenfold Darkness frowns the Night.

Sorrowing, I see the holy Rites begin;
Resign'd, the sad sepulchral office hear:
A thousand soft ideas stir within,
And ask once more the tributary Tear.

But when (the sable Robe of Death remov'd)
In Earth's cold Womb the sad Remains were laid;
Let those whose eyes have stream'd o'er all they lov'd,
Conceive the anguish of this nameless Maid!

102

Eager she sought to catch a parting Look,
Fix'd in expressive Silence o'er the Dead:
Then sighing deep, the drear Abode forsook,
And thro' the monumental Region fled.

“Might I, thou gen'rous Friend, that Face behold!
“Can'st thou a Partner in thy Tears refuse?
“Can'st thou—” but while her Robe I strove to hold,
Her falling Veil disclos'd the Tragic Muse.

“Divine Melpomene! art thou,” I cry'd,
“From Fancy's Regions drawn, this Train to join?
“Tut'ress of virtuous Grief, why seek to hide
“Sorrows, which claim Preeminence o'er mine?

“Yes,” she reply'd, “from happier Realms I came,
“To see my Cibber laid in hallow'd Rest;
“By her, to noblest Heights I rais'd my Fame,
“By her, enlarg'd my Empire in the Breast.

103

“My Thoughts must still the plaintive Theme pursue,
“Her fond Remembrance ever there remain;
“E'en now her wond'rous Pow'rs rise fresh to View,
“And point Reflection's Dart with keener Pain!

“Clos'd are those Eyes which knew each vary'd Art,
“And all my Meaning with such Force inspir'd;
“Call'd Tears of Pity from the melting Heart,
“Froze with wild Horror, or with Rapture fir'd!

“By Death's cold hand those Features now are bound,
“That once could ev'ry change of Passion wear!
“Mute is that Voice, whose more than magic Sound
“Stole like soft Music on the ravish'd ear!

“Those Limbs are fix'd, in funeral weeds array'd,
“Which boasted once each Elegance of Dress,
“And all those captivating Charms display'd,
“That grace the Sculptures of exulting Greece!—

104

“What Suppliant now shall haughty Pyrrhus bend?
“What tender Wife of faithless Jaffier melt?
“What Daughter Softness to Cordelia lend?
“What Mother feel the Pangs that Constance felt?

“What false Calista shall bewail her Fate?
“What poor, deceiv'd Monimia now complain?
“Who, Isabella, can thy Woes relate?
“Or heat to giddy Whirls Alicia's Brain?—

“O gentle Cibber! long thy Loss I'll mourn;
“And oft at night, by strong Affection led,
“To this lone Place with grateful Tears return,
“And o'er thy Dust ambrosial Odours shed!—

“Yet am I not of ev'ry Hope bereft;
“Nor stifled in the Tomb my Taper dies;
“Still to relume the Blaze a Pritchard's left,
“Whose Breath shall send it flaming to the Skies.

105

“From Judgment's aid its value Genius reaps,
“Correct as Nature, hence her Scenes engage;
“Whether Cresphontes' humbled Queen she weeps,
“Or rolls the Thunders of a Zara's Rage.

“But yet while fondly thus her Pow'rs I praise,
“In these she bids a happy Rival share;
“Too frequent from my Cypress Groves she strays,
“Nor scorns Thalia's humbler Wreaths to wear!—

“O may she long retain her wonted Fire!—
“Nor Shakespear Garrick's Aid in vain implore!
“For ah!—When these content with Fame, retire,
“The Tragic Muse, like Cibber, is no more!”

106

THE FAN. TO ARDELIA.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXVIII.

Go, Trifler, and speed to my Love,
Propitious, go practise thine Art;
Thou may'st haply an Advocate prove,
And tell how she reigns in my Heart.

As thy Sticks the gay Colours they bear,
Unfold with the Touch of her Hands;
So my Breast, when I muse on my Fair,
With each Wish of Affection expands.—

107

From her a new Grace shall be caught,
Go, seize it, and prosperous be;
But fan in return each kind Thought
That Ardelia bestows upon me.

108

A FAREWELL EPILOGUE;

INTENDED FOR Mrs. PRITCHARD At her last Appearance on the Stage, after the Play of Macbeth, which she had for her Benefit, the 25th of April 1768.

As Pilgrims parting for another Land
Turn back, and bless the hospitable Hand
That smooth'd th'uneven Way; like them I now
Turn, and to all my gen'rous Patrons bow.—

109

The Queen deceas'd, my mimic Life is o'er,
In borrow'd Character I come no more,
The Scene at length is clos'd!—The Voice of Age
Warns me to quit the Tumult of the Stage;
This little Spot, where almost Forty Years
I have my Portion had of Plots, and Cares.—

What strange Vicissitudes I here have known!
Now high on Fortune's Wheel, now tumbled down;
Bound to my Tragi-comic strange Vocation,
I've daily chang'd my Time of Life, and Station.—
One Night a fashionable Toast I shine,
The next some waiting Woman's Lot is mine;

110

Then chang'd again, I rise the grave Coquet,
And all the flippant Abigail forget;
Doom'd thro' each varying Character to pass,
And for its Likeness dress at Nature's Glass.—
O'er almost ev'ry Kingdom here I've reign'd;
Here have to Rocks, and Prison Walls complain'd.
When I recall (by adverse Fortune crost)
The Husbands I have bury'd!—Children lost!—
The vast Variety of Woes I've prov'd!
How oft been cheated,—flatter'd—slighted—lov'd!
Marry'd,—dethron'd—felt ev'ry kind of Death!—
I almost wonder I have still my Breath;
Nay,—that I throve so well—and now stand here
To own your Bounty with a gushing Tear.—

That gushing Tear what I now feel must tell,
Severe the Task to bid you all farewel!—

111

Your fost'ring smiles first warm'd me to aspire,
Worn in your service, grateful I retire;
No longer this fair Circle shall I see!
The Falling Curtain separates you and me!
Yet if with Justness I have play'd my Part,
If for the Public I have strain'd my Art,
That Public's Candour nothing shall efface;
And may its Plaudit, my last Exit grace!

The following Lines were written at the Request of Mrs. Pritchard; but Mr. Garrick having, unknown to her, composed some on the same Occasion, which he had offered to her before these were sent her, the Author immediately withdrew them, that she might be at perfect Liberty to receive this last Favor from her celebrated Cotemporary, whose very uncommon Theatric Powers had, as well as her own, for so many years reciprocally set off and embellished each other's Talents.

Mrs. Pritchard did not live above five Months after her Retirement—She had been thirty-eight years on the Stage. Her very extraordinary Powers, and her infinite Variety, gave her the justest Claim to be remembred as one of the most distinguished Actresses that perhaps any Country ever produced; and her uncommon Talents for the Theatre, were not more the admiration of the Public, than the Amiableness of her private-Life was that of her Acquaintance.

112

TO THE THAMES.

[_]

Written from the Temple, to Ardelia, in M.DCC.LXVIII.

Gentle Thames, whose Waters lave
Duly, these collegiate Walls,
Stop, an instant, stop thy Wave;
Tis a Lover's Voice that calls.

E'er that Time can measure o'er
One short Hour, thy silver Stream
Shall salute the peaceful Shore,
Where resides my Muse's Theme.—

113

Gentle River! well I know
What a Love thy Moon bears thee:
How thy Springs obedient flow,
Pouring Truth, and Harmony.

Such a mutual Passion reigns
In Ardelia's Breast and mine;
She's the Orb that swells my Veins,
To her Influence I resign!—

Let thy undulating Tide
With the sportive Sun-beam play:
Close beneath her Window glide,
Bid thy Cygnets mark thy Way.

Should'st thou haply see my Fair,
Lure her to thy view awhile;
Tidings of my Welfare bear,
Waft a Sigh, and steal a Smile.—

114

Go,—and Plenty round thee pour,
I'll thy Course no longer stay:
Blessing many a distant Shore,
Beauteous River! haste away.

115

THE SWORD-KNOT:

TO Mrs. WILBRAHAM BOOTLE.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXVIII.

Be ever sworn, my Sword, to Honour's Cause,
While round thy Hilt these golden Folds are ty'd,
These Folds, the pleasing Token of Applause,
That waking others Envy, wake my Pride.

For they were work'd by Hands that serve a Mind
Where lives each Grace that can embellish Life;
Where ev'ry Virtue may its Image find,
To form the Friend, the Parent, and the Wife!

116

Nor small my Boast, that while the Fair-one wrought
With artful Elegance, this Knot I wear,
Her Goodness deign'd to waste on me a Thought,
Destin'd for me her Toil, and deem'd me worth her Care.

117

THE POWER OF FANCY.

TO ARDELIA.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXVIII.

Why neglected hangs thy Lyre,
To thy Call my Muse attending?
Once more strike the trembling Wire,
Gentle Maid, thy Graces lending.

See, where Echo on the Plain
Waits to steal thy Notes of Pleasure;
Strike, whilst I suggest the Strain,
Charm the Ear with artful Measure.

118

Sing of Fancy, young and gay,
Sing her magic Operations;
Those, by which she bears such sway
O'er our Sense, and o'er our Passions.

Paint her (for thou know'st her Pow'rs)
Friend to Man, the World endearing;
Solace of his drooping Hours,
All his vary'd Labours cheering!—

View'd with her each Object brightens
Wheresoe'er our Footsteps rove;
All Life's virtuous Deeds she heightens,
Gilding Friendship, gilding Love.

Taller springs the Sky-topp'd Mountain,
More inviting waves the Wood,
Cooler flows the Silver Fountain,
Prouder swells the rapid Flood.

119

Thee, my Love, she oft retraces,
On my Heart long fix'd before;
Gives Thee daily some new Graces,
Rooting Passion more and more.

By her Spells my Mind surrounded,
Now she takes me in her Train;
Led by Her I soar unbounded,
Over Nature's wide Domain!

She th'ideal Flight pursuing
Scenes of Times unborn discloses;
Many a future Prospect strewing
With imaginary Roses!—

Then at Fancy's radiant Shrine
Oft I'll bow, my Pray'r addressing;
Thou, Ardelia, too wilt join,
Ask, and share with me her Blessing.

120

Thro' her Regions let us roam,
Down Illusion's Current gliding;
Seek a visionary Home,
Still in imag'd Joys confiding.

Life's reliev'd from half its Cares,
Fancy as our Guardian giv'n;
For within her Arms she bears
Hope, the Darling Child of Heav'n.

121

FERNEY : AN EPISTLE TO MONSR DE VOLTAIRE.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXVIII.

123

While manly Praise th'Historic Wreath bestows,
And Beauty's Sorrows grace thy fabled Woes,
While ardent Youth, and well-instructed Age
Alike confess the Wonders of thy Page,
Shall these intruding Lines the Poet greet,
And pierce the Shades that guard his calm Retreat?

124

That calm Retreat, his happier Taste improv'd,
Those Attic Bow'rs, by ev'ry Muse belov'd;
Where native Roses blooming Genius sheds,
Where Rural Elegance a Carpet spreads,
Where Art, with sweet Simplicity combin'd,
Shines the fair Emblem of the Planter's mind?
While o'er the distant Scene stretch'd to the Skies
Earth's Giant Offspring to the Sight arise;
The tow'ring Alps uprear their stately Mound,
And shapeless Piles th'extended Prospect bound,

Here, join'd in Nature's beauteous Landscape, see
The endless Charms of wild Variety.
The Harvests wave, the purple Vineyards glow,
Or trackless Mountains heave their load of Snow.
Their tops unseen in thick'ning Air they shroud,
And mix their Fleeces with each passing Cloud.

125

Rocks far remov'd, in savage Greatness rise,
Like rough-hewn Columns, to support the Skies;
Cool slope the Vales, wide spread the mantling Woods,
Bright shine the Streams that seek the distant Floods.
Here a small Ocean's peaceful Waters sleep ,
There raving Torrents emulate the Deep .
Unnumber'd Villas smile on ev'ry side,
The seats of Prudence, unimpair'd by Pride;
No Spot neglected, where the grateful Soil
Can pay with rich Increase the Peasant's toil;
Content and Peace fix here their prosp'rous reign,
And silent Liberty defends the Plain.

Midst Scenes like these, the Friend of human Kind
Can range the Vast of Science, unconfin'd;

126

For distant Flights can wing th'excursive Soul,
Or glance with Light'ning's speed from Pole to Pole;
Whether thro' Nature's devious Paths he strays,
Pursues the Planet's course, the Comet's blaze;
Or less advent'rous, quits th'Aërial height
To fix on mortal Woes a Mortal's sight;
Strip the bar'd Heart of each dark Veil it wears,
Expose its Hopes, its Conflicts, and its Cares;
By bold Examples fire the youthful blood,
Appal the wicked, or confirm the Good;
Submit each dang'rous Wish to Reason's Laws,
And arm our Passions in our Virtue's cause.—

While Views like these, Voltaire, thy Bosom warm
The Shades of Solitude have pow'r to charm.
From Courts withdrawn, where'er thy footsteps bend,
The Train thou lov'st, a faithful Train attend:

127

Swift at the beck'ning of thy magic Hand
They come, and Fancy leads th'ideal Band.
Wit's lighter Offspring seeks the sunny Glade,
While Satire skulks behind th'obscurer Shade;
Near him, his Sister, Comic Maid, is seen,
Who checks, with laughing Eyes, his rigid Mien;
Combin'd, o'er Worlds an Empire they maintain,
And ev'ry Vice and Folly wears their Chain.

Th'Heroic Muse majestic sweeps along,
And thoughtful meditates her lofty Song;
Unroll'd she bears on high Fame's bright Record,
And marks the Deeds of Gallic Henry's Sword .

See too, Voltaire, what Wonders meet thine Eyes,
Behold where Palaces, and Temples rise,

128

Where wak'd by Thee, by Thee conven'd to Fame,
The mighty Dead their ancient Semblance claim;
Where laurel'd Chiefs, where awful Sages move,
And transient Monarchs dignify the grove.

Lo! there, that Bane of Freedom, Love, and Truth,
The dire Seraglio barr'd on Zara's youth!
Too soon shall Fate a Brother lost restore,
And claim the Parent who shall chide no more!—
Yet will not Chance at last her Hopes befriend?
And happier hours the Close of Life attend?
For her the Mosque its thousand Lamps displays,
For her the Crown prepares its regal blaze,
For her with Gems resplendent, flames the Throne,
And crowding Millions wait for her alone—
They wait in vain!—no Queen shall greet their Eyes!
Beneath Suspicion's frantic Steel she dies,

129

While pausing o'er the Wound his Madness gave,
The gen'rous Prince rejoins her in the Grave.

There good Alvarez Son by Death reprov'd,
Restores Alzira to her First-Belov'd;
By one great Act redeems his Errors past,
And owns, his noblest Triumphs were his last.

What proud Assembly throngs yon hallow'd Dome?
Why nods the sculptur'd Roof? why shakes the Tomb?
What daring Form the bounds of Death has crost?
What great Event demands that sceptred Ghost?
It speaks—oh! veil thy Terrors, awful Shade,
And join in long Repose the glorious Dead!
Obey'd already see thy dire Command!
Behold thy Son in speechless Horror stand!

130

On that drear Vault his blasted sight he bends,
Whence pale in Death Semiramis ascends.—
Attend, ye pitying Magi, hide the Scene,
Hide the last Conflicts of a murder'd Queen!
Oh, bid the guiltless Youth's Distraction cease,
And close his wretched Mother's eyes in Peace!

Behold the North its barb'rous Legions pour,
Fate heads their March, and China is no more.
What Passions Zamti's rev'rend Bosom shake,
Who combats Nature while his Heart-strings break!
Tho' down his Cheek parental Sorrows roll,
Confucius' Morals fix his patriot Soul;
In vain his Wife, his lov'd Idame, brings
A Claim that mocks the feebler Claim of Kings,
In Honor firm, he seeks his Country's Good,
And yields the Son's, to save the Prince's blood.

131

Ill-fated Herod! spar'd by haughty Rome
To meet thy sum of Wretchedness at Home!
Happy! had Cæsar's Arm withheld thy Right,
Or hurl'd thee headlong from Ambition's Height!
No more in Smiles thy faded Cheek is drest,
Despair, and jealous Rage usurp thy Breast.
Go, Tyrant, seek thy martyr'd Queen in vain,
While Madness tells thee that she lives again!
Still, still thy Thoughts her injur'd Worth pursue,
Her matchless Beauty rises still to view;
Such Worth, such Beauty, thou shalt long deplore,
For know, fond Prince, the Dead return no more!

Hark! whence the Groans that pierce yon Cloister's Round!
Death, agonizing Death, is in the Sound!

132

'Tis Mecca's Chief—I know the hoary Sage—
That faithful Barrier 'gainst Mohammed's rage,
Who long Religion's, Virtue's Champion stood,
Now falt'ring marks each painful Step with blood.—
Too strong the fleeting Soul's convulsive Strife!
Too swift the Streams that drain the Fount of Life!
He sinks—and, harder Fate!—survives to know
His own misguided Offspring dealt the Blow.

Lo! where Messene's captive Queen appears
Serene in Grief, magnificent in Tears!
Haste, Poliphontes! haste, the Shrine's prepar'd,
Go, meet the fatal, but the just Reward
Thy ripen'd Crimes demand!—Not Hymen now
But Death intwines the Chaplet for thy Brow!
Thy Prince has burst his Prison's dark abodes,
He shines confest the Son of Grecian Gods:

133

To peaceful Rites the shouts of War succeed,
Egysthus conquers, and the Guilty bleed:
Foremost th'Oppressor meets th'avenging Blow,
And Furies howl his nuptial Song below!

But soft awhile—The tranquil Scene disowns
The Pride of Empire now, the Pomp of Thrones;
Behold uprear'd before yon rustic Bow'rs
A shrine of Moss, with intermingled Flow'rs,
And thither led to seal their plighted Truth,
An exil'd Virgin and a Scythian Youth!
Yet ere the Bride concludes th'ill-omen'd Rite
Her once-lov'd Persian flashes on her sight.—
Return, unconscious Prince! where Glory calls,
Go seek Ecbatana's deserted Walls!
To Courts where Pleasures lead their Train, return,
Ere Scythia's Echoes learn from thee to mourn!

134

Pass one short Hour—the cruel task is thine
To part those Hands which willing Parents join!
To fix a blameless Pair's eternal Doom,
And change their festive Altar to their Tomb!

Tho' Forms like these, Voltaire, around thee rove,
And haunt the Limits of thy magic Grove,
Such Sights alone poetic Eyes can share;
Viewless, they mock the vulgar Gaze with air!—
With careless thoughts let others range the Glade,
Ascend the Slope, or pierce the verdant Shade,
Thro' parted Woods the wand'ring Streams pursue,
And Mountains fading to aërial Blue;
To charm their Sense let Scenes like these combine;
To wake the Dead, and talk with Kings, is Thine,

Some fav'ring Planet grac'd his natal Morn,
Whose Mind the Muses with each Grace adorn!

135

In all his Paths they strew fresh op'ning Flowers,
Fresh bloom for him Imagination's Bow'rs:
To Pleasures there, from anxious Life he runs,
Forgets its Sorrows, and its Tumult shuns.
By some lov'd Object while his Soul is caught,
Indulging all the Luxury of Thought,
He peoples Deserts, ranges Worlds unknown,
And bids arise Creations of his own;
Enamour'd still of Nature's glowing Theme,
Entranc'd by Fancy's ever flatt'ring Dream,
Thro' all her visionary Realms he flies,
And wakes to meet—Life's dull Realities.

Yet why to Learning's Walks thy Steps confine?
The Paths of social Gaiety are thine;
Thine sprightly Wit, thine Elegance and Ease,
With ev'ry Art, with ev'ry Wish to please.—
But plac'd by Fate on Britain's distant Shore
I talk of Pleasures I can share no more!

136

Yet shall their fond Impression ne'er depart;
Their fix'd Record within a grateful Heart
In Mem'ry's Characters shall stand confest,
Which Time retracing deepens in my Breast.

Say why, reproachful to a polish'd Age,
Ungen'rous Contests should the Learn'd engage?
The Bards of ancient days bade Discord cease,
The Muse's Sons were still the Sons of Peace;
With Olive crown'd, to Virtue's cause confin'd,
In social Bands the blameless Minstrels join'd.—
Now, chang'd the Scene—With Poets, Poets jar,
And waste Parnassus is the Field of War.

Yes! jealous Wits may still for Empire strive,
Still keep the Flames of critic Rage alive:
Our Shakespeare yet shall all his Rights maintain,
And crown the Triumphs of Eliza's Reign.

137

Above Controul, above each classic Rule,
His Tutress Nature, and the World his School.
On daring Pinions borne, to him was giv'n
Th'aerial Range of Fancy's brightest Heav'n,
To bid rapt Thought o'er noblest Heights aspire,
And wake each Passion with a Muse of Fire.—
Revere his Genius—To the Dead be just,
And spare the Laurels that o'ershade the Dust.—
Low sleeps the Bard, in cold Obstruction laid,
Nor asks the Chaplet from a Rival's Head.
O'er the drear Vault, Ambition's utmost Bound,
Unheard shall Fame her airy Trumpet sound!
Unheard alike, nor Grief, nor Transport raise,
Thy Blast of Censure, or thy Note of Praise!
As Raphael's own Creation grac'd his Hearse,
And sham'd the Pomp of ostentatious Verse,

138

Shall Shakespeare's Honours by himself be paid,
And Nature perish ere his Pictures fade.—

Thou too, sweet Ferney, shall preserve a Name,
And boast like Tempe's Vale eternal Fame:
In Ages hence thy Groves will still be known,
The Nine have blest, and mark'd them for their own,
At their intreaty, Time (whose vengeful Hand
No frail Memorials rais'd by Men withstand,
Whose ruthless Eye beholds with like Disdain
The low-brow'd Cottage, and the tow'ring Fane)
His friendly Wings around these Bow'rs shall cast,
Protect their Shades, and bid their Beauties last.
To these its Praise Egeria's Grot shall yield,
Alcinous' Gardens, and th'Ennæan Field,

139

No more Adonis' fabled Rites be paid,
But Poets pass the quite forgotten Shade.

As he, whose steps to those fair Climes are led,
Where smiling Naples rears her stately Head,
Ascends the Cliff where Nature's grateful Hands
Have plac'd the Laurel Virgil's Fame demands;
Eager to view the mould'ring Walls that guard
The sacred Ashes of th'immortal Bard:
In Years remote, thus wand'ring from his Home
To seek thee, Ferney, shall the Stranger come!
But while thy Scenes his roving Eyes employ
Sad Thoughts shall rise, and cloud his dawning Joy;
Sighing, perhaps, he'll say—“The great Voltaire
“Once plann'd these Walks, and made their Shades his Care!—
“Yet, far sublimer Tasks his Genius knew!
“'Twas His to grace the Cheek with Pity's Dew!

140

“To slumb'ring Conscience sound the dread Alarm!
“Or pour in Virtue's Praise th'harmonious Charm!—
“'Twas thus his ripen'd Taste,—his feeling Heart,
“Embellish'd Nature,—and ennobled Art!”

Ferney, a Chateau and Gardens, erected and laid out by Mr. De Voltaire, in the Neighbourhood of Geneva, which commands the Variety of Prospect mentioned in the beginning of this Poem.

The Lake of Geneva.

The Rhone and the Arve, which unite just below the Lake.

The Henriade.

Zayre.

Alzire.

Semiramis.

L'Orphelin de la Chine.

Mariamne.

Le Fanatisme, ou Mahomet.

Merope.

Les Scythes.

The Transfiguration, that well-known Picture of Raphael, was carried before his Body to the Grave; doing more real Honour to his Memory, than either his Epitaph in the Pantheon, the famous Distich of Cardinal Bembo, or all the other adulatory Verses written on the same occasion.

141

TO ARDELIA.

[_]

WRITTEN AT MARGATE IN M.DCC.LXVIII.

As I pensively walk'd o'er the Steep
At whose Foot the broad Wave dashes hoarse,
And beheld the white Sails of the Deep
'Midst the Billows pursuing their Course;

Ah! Wand'rers, I said with a sigh,
Far happier's the Vessel in Port,
Which dreads not like you the dark Sky,
Nor lives of each Tempest the Sport!

142

To new Worlds, and new Climates go steer,
Still rove like the Heart unconfin'd;
You have Rocks, and have Quicksands to fear,
And your Hopes are all built on the Wind!—

By my Stars at last guided to Peace,
I trust to the Ocean no more;
'Tis Time that Life's Tumult should cease:
My Bark is moor'd close to the Shore.

With thy Sunshine, Ardelia, while blest
No Storms can my Steadiness move;
Your Bosom's my Harbour of Rest,
And the Anchor that holds me, your Love.

143

PROLOGUE TO THE Play of KING JOHN, Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1769.

The Bard whose Scenes this Night your Thoughts engage,
Has somewhere told us, All the World's a Stage,
Where all in one great Farce their Talents try,
Are born,—love,—wed,—grow covetous—and die.
From hence I think we fairly may infer
That Nature is, or should be, Manager;
And yet, in Nature's spite we ev'ry Day
Cast our own Parts ourselves, and spoil her Play;

144

Some vain Conceit disturbs her steady Plan,
And Art debauches that strange Creature Man:
Hence, e'er Life's Curtain drops, this Truth is plain,
That few the Characters they take,—sustain.

See, Cato-like, in Freedom's boasted Cause,
The mad'ning Patriot raves of dying Laws,
With ready Lash pursues the venal Tribe;—
But what's the Sequel?—Exit—with a Bribe.

Not less a Play'r the Methodist appears,
In some hir'd Barn his casual Stage he rears;
Prophane, loquacious, insolent, and loud,
The grave Jack-pudding of a sniv'ling Crowd;
Them of their Sins and Dangers he acquaints:
Pockets their Cash—then leaves them to the Saints.—

The Prude austere, who shuns each forward Spark,
Meets less reserv'd, her Footman in the Dark;

145

Misers would lib'ral seem, Coquettes sincere,
False Wits sententious, Hypocrites severe.
What on Life's Stage can Parts like these command?—
The Mark of Scorn let Affectation stand!

If then the finish'd Man can sometimes err,
And make Mistakes on the World's Theatre,
Desert himself as various Passions call,
And prove at last no Character at all,
We ask your Candour if in us appears
Th'imperfect Growth of unexperienc'd years;
Tho' Buds, yet Learning like the Sun, has Pow'r
To rear the Stem, and paint the future Flow'r!—
If John should not each Stroke of Guilt impart,
Nor Constance triumph o'er the feeling Heart,
Think in Life's happy Morn we cannot know
The sad Extent of Baseness, or of Woe!

146

Boys as we are, to us each Scene is new,
Tho' sometimes wrong, e'en there we copy you:
To bold Attempts be then indulgence shewn,
And learn to pity Faults so like your own.

147

EPILOGUE TO THE Play of KING JOHN, Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1769.

Spoken by Lady Constance.

Spite of Court Tricks, of Sorrows, Madness, Pain,
I've brush'd thro' all, and am myself again.—
O Ladies! what can not our Sex perform?—
A bustling Woman lives thro' ev'ry Storm.
Have I not dash'd my Character with Spirit?
To bully two such Kings was no small Merit.
Around the World to find the Wretch I'd search,
Who dares to leave a Woman in the Lurch.—

148

My Son the Dupe of regal Baseness made,
Myself amus'd by Hopes, cajoll'd, betray'd,
My Jointure lost—a Widow—and not young!
I had no Weapon left me but my Tongue.—

Should any Fair be here whose Nerves are weak,
Who, when Man blusters, is afraid to speak,
Whose gentle Bosom no Resentment fires,
But with her Eau de Luce in Hand expires;
She'll think, no doubt, my Voice too loudly thunders;
Trust me, this female Instrument does Wonders.
Those who turn o'er the page of ancient Story,
Must own the Tongue was ever Woman's glory.—
Who has not heard of fam'd Xantippe's Lute,
That play'd her philosophic Husband mute?
Or her's whose artful Notes so well could slander
Her Rival, and subdue great Alexander?—

149

What gifts of Speech had Egypt's Queen to boast?
Who talk'd—till Antony the World well lost!—
Think of the Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc,
There was an enterprizing, female Spark!
Whole Armies she harangu'd, whole Hosts withstood:
Her Tongue was surely more than Flesh and Blood!—
Tho' last, not least, shall Bess of England stand,
Who box'd her Courtiers with her own fair Hand,
To female Rules profess'd a brave dislike,
Her Majesty could swear, as well as strike.

Ladies, might I advise, let's urge our Pow'r,
Dethrone usurping Man, or take him low'r.
He'd only have us learn the gentler Arts
Of studying Graces, and subduing Hearts;
These are but Schemes to trifle Life away,
Our nobler Aim is—Universal Sway.

150

TO ARDELIA.

New Year's Day, 1770.

Welcome to the new-born Year,
Lo! it comes by Hope attended;
Future Seasons too appear,
All with future Pleasures blended.

Mark, Ardelia, mark their Brow,
With how sweet a Smile they greet us!—
O may ever Time as now,
With so kind an Aspect meet us!

151

Doom'd with Thee my Course to bend
Ev'ry Path of Life's inviting;
Thou, my Wife, Companion, Friend,
All is Sunshine, all delighting.

Unregarded Seasons roll'd,
E'er my Choice had Thee selected;
Now they Happiness unfold,
Not a moment flies neglected.

'Tis not Fortune, 'tis not State,
'Tis not what the World so prizes;
In the Mind can Bliss create;—
Far above such Toys it rises!

'Tis the Joy exalted Hearts
Feel, while each to each a Blessing;
And by all endearing Arts,
Ever still their Love expressing.

152

Such the Pleasures we partake;
And if lengthen'd Years be giv'n,
Virtue join'd with Peace, shall make
Home a temporary Heav'n!

153

EPILOGUE TO THE Play of MACBETH.

Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1770.

Spoken by Lady Macbeth.

As I was rising from the Arms of Death
Before my Epilogue to get some Breath,
I could not but reflect, what Shame, what Woe
Ambition's Votaries are doom'd to know!
And thought the World, that is, the Town, in me
A Picture of its own sweet self might see;
We beg t'except the present Company.

154

You all have heard my poor dead Husband say
The Weird Sisters marshall'd him his Way;
And that he follow'd them he sore repented;
Men are bewitch'd who will not be contented!
Yet by the Sorceries of Fame,—Pow'r,—Riches,
We are all Hag-rid—They are to us The Witches.
Our Brain's the Cauldron, where they pour in Notions
That make us quite boil over with Commotions.
Now Titles, Jewels in the Charm they dab,
And a rich Nabob makes it thick and slab:
Next, Jointures, Pin-money, and Rule delight us,
And nothing that's of Woman born can fright us;
We mount their Broom-sticks, post o'er Sea and Land,
Foul must be fair—the World at our Command;
Nay, what's impossible we would attain,
And Birnam Wood must come to Dunsinane.—

155

But should these Witches who my Spouse misled
Deceive us too, and knock our Hopes on the Head,
'Tis dismal Work!—Of Phantoms we're made Fools,
Ghosts spoil our Meals, and push us from our Stools;
At ev'ry knocking we affrighted stare,
And our dup'd Sense sees Daggers in the Air;
To wound us more, Reflection only tells
We've fallen Victims to our own poor Spells!—

What think you, Ladies?—Is the Picture striking?
Say, have I pencil'd it to all your Liking?
No Answer!—Then I must conclude 'twill do;
It suits our Sex, tho', Ladies, none of you.
May you whom no such dangerous Phrenzy fires,
Keep within lawful Bounds all vain Desires.
'Tis in the Calm of Life true Joys abound;
There Truth, there heart-felt Peace, there Virtue's found!—

156

Trust not the Tempest, it may fatal prove,
And root up Conscience, Happiness, and Love!—
Be sure resist when wild Ambition twitches,
And warn'd by my Example, dread—The Witches.

157

AN ADDRESS FROM THE THAMES.

Presented to Messrs. Adam, On the Day when they first came to their new House in the Adelphi, 1771.

'Twas as The Brothers at that Pile arriv'd
Where ancient Elegance and Taste reviv'd,
Midst the broad Tide beneath that circling flows,
Stretch'd on a sedgy Couch, Old Thames arose;
'Round him his Swans their snowy Plumage rear'd,
A golden Trident at his Side appear'd;

158

Upon his Moss-grown Urn his Arm was spread,
And drooping Oziers crown'd his hoary Head—
Wide o'er Augusta's Tow'rs his Eyes he threw;
His Time-worn Features brighten'd at the View.
'Twas then Th'Adelphi caught his ravish'd Sight,
He gaz'd—he smil'd—Still fixing with Delight
Thrice he the Brothers hail'd, and thus began,
While down his Beard the trickling Water ran.

“You whom Arts and Genius crown,
“Welcome, welcome to your own;
“You, who out of Ruin raise
“All the Taste of ancient Days!
“From my oozy Bed I came
“To be Witness of your Fame!
“Rude, but grateful is my Strain,
“Men like you adorn my Reign.
“Long and happy here reside
“Great Supporters of my Pride.

159

“Time has been when o'er my Strand
“Proudest Nobles of the Land
“Dwellings rais'd with Cost profuse,
“Not for Elegance, but Use;
“Cumbrous Loads that mov'd my Rage!
“Labours of a darken'd Age!—
“You, their partial Plan resine,
“Elegance and Use combine.—
“Happy on my Banks reside
“Great Supporters of my Pride.

“Jealous, have I heard too long
“Tiber flow in ev'ry Song,
“Arno's Torrent, Brenta's Stream
“Live each lavish Muse's Theme:
“They shall triumph now no more,
“Equal Glories grace my Shore.

160

“Rear'd by you, shall many a Pile
“O'er my Silver Waters smile;
“Happy on my Banks reside
“Great Supporters of my Pride.

“As in Homage, ev'ry Morn
“I'll your Noble Work adorn,
“On my chrystal Bosom show
“Hills that nod, and Skies that glow;
“Pouring forth at each Return
“Health, and Plenty from my Urn.—
“Long and happy here reside
“Great Supporters of my Pride!
“You whom Arts and Genius crown,
“Once more, welcome to your own.”

He ceas'd, yet turn'd to take a parting Look,
Then with an out-stretch'd Hand his Trident took,

161

And wav'd it round;—Obedient to his Will.
His Swans drew close, the ambient Tide lay still;
And whilst aloft th'attentive Brothers stood,
Down sunk the ancient Monarch of the Flood.

162

THE CONTENTED MAID.

A SONG.

I

Let me live remov'd from Noise,
Remov'd from Scenes of Pride and Strife,
And only taste those tranquil Joys
Which Heav'n bestows on rural Life!
Innocence shall guide my Youth,
Whilst Nature's Paths I still pursue,
Each Step I take be mark'd with Truth,
And Virtue ever be my View.—

163

II

Adieu, ye Gay, adieu, ye Great,
I see you all without a Sigh;
Contented with my happier Fate
In Silence let me live and die!
Sweet Peace I'll court to follow me,
And woo the Graces to my Cell,
For all the Graces love to be
Where Innocence and Virtue dwell.

164

TO ARDELIA,

On her Recovery from a long Illness.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXXI.

'Tis not Illusion!—The dread Storm subsides!—
The cheering Sunbeam darts athwart the Gloom;
Returning Hope each imag'd Woe derides,
And pointing forward marks a happier Doom!

'Tis not Illusion!—From the Tempest spar'd,
Restor'd Ardelia rises to my Sight;
My Breast to throb with Suff'rings long prepar'd,
Once more feels Peace, nor throbs but with Delight.

165

It was not thus, when late in Devon's Vales
I view'd rich Nature with neglectful Eye;
Damp'd with a gushing Tear the Summer Gales,
And burthen'd ev'ry Echo with a Sigh!

O! Mem'ry turn not back!—The Terror's past;—
'Twas the hard Struggle of deep-lab'ring Care;
'Twas Death's dark Shade o'er Life's gay prospect cast,
'Twas Horror, almost bordering on Despair!—

Could it be less?—When all I held most dear,
She, whose sweet Converse bless'd each social Hour,
Shook by Disease, alarm'd my ev'ry Fear,
Drooping untimely, like a blighted Flow'r!

Yet look not back!—See thy Ardelia now
In her own pleasing Form once more appears;
Distress no longer sits upon her Brow,
But Health's enliv'ning Grace each Feature wears.

166

O welcome! thou dear Guardian of my Peace,
Thou best of Women, and thou steadiest Friend!
Smile thou but happy, ev'ry Care shall cease,
For Joy and Comfort on thy Smiles attend.

Th'eternal Spring which Tempe boasts so much,
Nor all the Pleasures of the Paphian Grove,
Can the charm'd Soul so exquisitely touch
As the sweet Sense of Love requiting Love!

And yet what Anguish oft such Love awakes?
How like the Compass is the Heart that's true!
Mine with each Motion, as the Needle, shakes,
But ever faithful, trembling turns to You.

Still shine its Polar Star, still live its Guide;
Thy Influence gives it Virtue, gives it Fame:
By Choice, by Sentiment, by Heaven ally'd,
Our Course, our Fortunes, and our Views the same!

167

That Pow'r Divine which trac'd the Lot of each
Shall still, Ardelia, still protect our Days;
Its Mercies shewn to Thee will ever teach
Unbounded Trust, inspire unbounded Praise.

Let us the Storms of Life with Firmness bear,
For Storms will rise, and Man was born to feel;
Fix'd be each Hope on His parental Care,
Who never wounds but with Design to heal.

168

TO Mrs. BLAKE, With a Pair of Hand-Screens.

These Hand-Screens, Dear Cousin, I send, and desire
They may hang by your Chair, and insure you from Fire,
They will shield you from Flames that might otherwise hurt,
And drive back each Spark that's too forward and pert:

169

Most attentively zealous in all you command,
They'll your Wishes obey, if you move but your Hand.—
I have giv'n them in Charge, that they still persevere
To guard those good Features I so much revere,
Where Beauty once reign'd, and strong character'd tells
The still fairer Mind that behind them still dwells;
Where the Look of Good Sense, and the Smile of Content
Mark the Triumph of Life that in Virtue is spent!—
And what Triumph is yours!—who round you behold
Five Sisters, whose Value no Muse can unfold!
Who bound by those Wreaths which Affection hath wove,
All their Days and their Years spend in Friendship and Love.—

'Tis a Picture so charming, so sweet to the Sight,
That the oftner I see it, it gives fresh Delight;

170

Its Lines are so just, and its Colours so true,
It was painted by Virtue one sees at first View;
'Tis a Hand I most rev'rence—So, let us agree
That my Screens ne'er shall cover this Picture from me.

The Eldest of Six Sisters living together in Great Russell-Street, well known, and universally esteemed, for that Family Affection and general Benevolence, by which their Lives have been governed and characterized.

171

CUPID's REMONSTRANCE, AN EPILOGUE,

Spoken at Drury-Lane Theatre, 1772, By Miss Hopkins, in the Character of Cupid.

My Arrows blunted, and unstrung my Bow,
What can poor Cupid do? or whither go?—
So mighty once, where'er I aim'd my Dart
It pierc'd the Bosom, and inflam'd the Heart;
But Times are chang'd!—Now, all's so hard within
My utmost Efforts cannot raze the Skin.—

172

Good Folks, behold my Rival —These Indentures
Now settle,—sign,—and seal all Love Adventures.
By Passion quite unmov'd your modern Lover
Wraps his Affections in this Sheep-skin Cover;
Int'rest, not Choice decides, Wedlock is bought,
As for the Party, 'tis not worth a Thought:
Girls argue thus, “If I dislike my Man,
“A Sep'rate Maintenance shall be my Plan;
“Or should Another charm, I'm free to choose,
“For Doctors Commons will undo the Noose.—”
Hearts now are ty'd with Knots that slip with Ease,
To slacken, or disjoin whene'er they please:
Hence new Subscription Balls, hence new Pantheons
Strip new Dianas, and make new Acteons;
Hence Bills are daily read in both the Houses,
To sep'rate faithless Wives, from faithless Spouses;

173

Nay, my old Gall'ry Friends untye their Fetters,
And cross the Breed, to imitate their Betters.

Thus turn'd adrift, deserted and forlorn,
The few who dare protect me, meet with Scorn;
Nay more—to prove this Town not made for me,
They have Black-ball'd me at the Coterie.—
My Pow'r extinct, think you I'll e'er endure
To live among you on a Sinecure?
Not I in faith;—I'll hence to Justice Brass,
And to my Paphian Parish,—beg a Pass.

Pulling out a Marriage Settlement.

174

A BURLESQUE ODE,

On the Author's clearing a new House of Workmen.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXXII.

Midst the fair Range of Buildings which new-rear'd,
The Bloomsbury, and St. Giles Gang divide,
A Crew of Workmen who no Mortal fear'd,
Sat idling by th'unfinish'd Chimney's side.
A dusky Smoak the smould'ring Shavings pour,
Bruis'd empty Porter-Pots bestrew the Floor,
And while their Tools lie useless on the Ground,
In wonted Chorus thus the Song goes round.

175

“Let Confusion mark our Toil,
What we cannot mend we'll spoil;
Let our worthy Masters gain,
Do,—and then undo, again.
Fling about the Iron Crow,
Give this finish'd Part a Blow,
Glue a little, saw a bit,
Plane this Pannel, t'other split,
Making, marring is our Duty,
Ne'er for Line or Plummet care,
Damn the Compass, damn the Square,
Crooked is the Line of Beauty.”

A pickled Dog then rose, and told
What House best Purl, and Spirits sold,
Of many an Alehouse-gambol play'd,
Of Matches fought, and Wagers laid,

176

Nay, more, and which worst is,
How oft he scap'd Justice,
How he'd blast a Man's eyes with a jirk,
How down two Pair of Stairs,
He once kick'd Two Surveyors,
Who dar'd to examine his Work.
How he damn'd Sir John Fielding, and gave him the Lie,
How for Wilkes he got drunk
Till his Cash was all sunk,
And went to Gaol for—Liberty.

Each roar'd Applause, and all the Caitiff Throng,
Renewing first their Quids, renew'd their Song.

“Let Confusion mark our Toil,
What we cannot mend we'll spoil;

177

Let our worthy Masters gain,
Do,—and then, undo again.
Fling about the iron Crow,
Give this finish'd Part a Blow,
Glue a little, saw a bit,
Plane this Pannel, t'other split,
Making, marring is our Duty;
Ne'er for Line, or Plummet care,
Damn the Compass, damn the Square,
Crooked is the Line of Beauty.”

What Toils await the trifling Race of Man!
Who multiply their Cares the most they can;
Still sighing after something more,
They want a Shelf, they want a Door,

178

Heav'ns! what a Fuss about it!
'Tis done—In Joiners who'd confide?
The Shelf's awry, the Door's too wide;
They'd better been without it!—

While unheeded fly the Moments,
Giv'n to Pleasure, lost in Prate,
Others feel them linger tedious,
Weigh'd with Anguish, black with Fate.
My giddy Pen forgot to say,
It chanc'd 'twas Execution Day,
The hanging hour was past;
A half-scar'd Mason rushing in,
Exclaim'd “To idle thus is sin,
I saw him breathe his last.—
Poor Jack upon the three-legg'd Tree!
A Pretty Carpenter was He!

179

Good lack!—
Poor Jack!—
Gone in a Crack!—
There's more of Us will follow Thee.—

Tho' 'tis my Belief
That the Dog was a Thief
And both given to drinking and raking,
Yet he knew well his Trade,
All Advantages made,
But mistook for House building, House breaking.

Fix'd Terror glar'd in ev'ry Workman's Face,
Each knowing Jack's was nearly his own Case,
All rose, and search'd their Tools in sullen Mood,
While the grim Mason thus his Tale pursu'd:

180

“Thro' St. Giles moving slowly
(All the gaping Crowd intent)
Jack with Looks that pictur'd Sorrow,
Suck'd an Orange as he went.
High, and low,
Above, below,
From Garret Tops
Down to the Shops
'Twas all one staring Face to view the mournful Show,

Ye Chips of the Block
What had been your Shock
Had you seen when to Tyburn he came?
How he chang'd Colour often
As he look'd at his Coffin,
And his Coat that reproach'd him with Shame,
For his Coat, and his Coffin were both ready made,
Being stolen, or borrow'd in Jack's way of Trade.

181

As he stood in the Cart
It quite pierc'd my Heart
To see him so tremble and snivel;
Soon the Slip-Knot was ty'd,
So he pray'd, sang, and cry'd;
And I hope he's not gone to the Devil.”—

As when a Macaroni of high note
Trips thro' the Streets in a short-skirted Coat,
With Self-applause humming an Op'ra Air,
If chance some Chimney-Sweeper unaware
Should turn short on him, and his Dollship brush,
Or some rude Porter's Load his Nosegay crush,
Ah what can hide, what heal the Shame!
His Coat, his Nosegay gave him Fame!
No more his Looks their wonted Ease confess,
But on his alter'd Brow is pictur'd pale Distress:
So chang'd the Features of this miscreant Crew,
Who by the Story warn'd their several Tasks renew.

182

Labour now resumes his Reign,
All are busy once again;
Hurry, Hurry,
Bustle, Bustle,
Workmen against Workmen justle.—

Hear you not the Iron Crow?
See you not the Glue-Pot flare?
Sharper far the Echoes grow,
Dust and Shavings choak the Air!
With Sounds that split the Ear they nail and wedge,
And jagged Saws set all one's Teeth on Edge!—

Come and aid me, meek ey'd Patience,
Teach me to support Delay;
Thou, O Time, at length relieve me,
Drive these Wretches far away.—

183

And lo! good Heaven! their loitring Course is run,
All's puzzled out at last, their destin'd Labor's done.

Off, behold the vile troop pack,
Each his Budget at his Back,
Error stamping all their Notions,
Error guiding all their Motions;—
Nay,—move quick, ye idle Train,
Ne'er, oh ne'er return again!—
They close the Door—but parting go
To cause some other Person Woe.
Ah luckless Mortal! for thy Heart I grieve,
Which with unnumber'd Cares this Caitiff Crew shall rive.

And now the Sound of Discord's o'er,
Who can my ill-form'd House restore?
Heal its Defects? its Faults amend?
Who, Adam? who but thee, my Friend?

184

Ah hither haste
With all your Taste,
And round my Walls your Graces fling,
Wave but your Hand,
At your Command
Shall Beauty from Disorder spring.

None but a Hercules was able
To clear the foul Augean Stable,
And not a Soul but him, one reads,
Who with a genuine, Classic Club
Could every other Creature drub,
And boldly dar'd to lop the Hydra's fifty Heads.

What is this Hydra but False-Taste?
Deform'd, unfashion'd, and ungrac'd,
Whose fifty Mouths for many an Age
O'er Britain's Fabrics spit their Rage:

185

But Thou hast lain its Fury low,
It sinks when Genius gives the Blow!
Strike deep—Th'Herculean Conquest now maintain,
Nor let this hateful Monster breathe again.

186

PROLOGUE, TO THE Play of JULIUS CÆSAR, Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1774.

Or Boy, or Man, who has not seen in Town
A Comic Print—The World turn'd upside down?
Where ev'ry System, ev'ry Law's revers'd;
By new-born Infants are the Aged nurs'd,
Who dandling both their Parents on their Knee,
Teach them, with Rod in hand, their A, B, C
There Pigs ill-usage will no longer brook,
But murder, rosin, spit, and roast the Cook.

187

Grooms by their Horses saddled, scour the Plain;
By the meek House lamb is the Butcher slain.
Women the Breeches wear, and shine in Arms,
While at their Toilets Men improve their Charms.
Each Species change,—Beasts in the Sea delight,
Fish fly about in Air,—Day turns to Night,
And all's to what it should be—Opposite.

This, which was Satire held in Days of Yore,
Ill suits not Seventeen Hundred Seventy Four,
As I conceive the World on a just Survey,
Will seem to all full as much topsey turvey.
As for Example—Courtier,—Patriot, trace,
One is a Man in Power,—one out of Place;
Observe awhile this Whirligig go round,
The flaming Patriot's at the Levee found,
The Courtier chang'd too makes as great a Stir,
And without Mercy—roasts the Minister.—

188

Should we the Scenes of private Life pursue,
What Contradictions open to the View!
Out of their Element one half appear,
Colours which Nature ne'er design'd them, wear.
Some grow mere Devils to avoid Restraint,
The Devil in Compliment becomes a Saint.—
See Youth trick'd out with Affectation's Plume,
See Age its youthfull Follies reassume;
See Dames of fifty-five new Ogles glance,
And gouty threescore go to School to dance—
Oh!—had the World but right End upward stood,
Think ye, my candid Friends, we ever should,
A Band of Striplings, personate to you
Scenes which for Heroes only Shakespeare drew?
Beneath this Roof to Truth, and Virtue led,
Tutor'd in Science, and to Learning bred;
That we should shut our Books, and boldly prate
Of injur'd Freedom and a falling State?

189

Of the World's Sovereign urge the bloody Doom?
Or fix the Fortune of Imperial Rome?

Bold is the Task—If haply we succeed,
Crown with applauding Hands the perilous Deed
Or should we fail, that Failure we implore
You'll 'mongst the Follies rank of—Seventy Four.

190

TO Miss DUVAL,

On her Marriage with Monsr. JOLY, of GENEVA.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXXIV.

Heedless of Seas, or adverse Winds that rise,
By ev'ry tender Sentiment enchain'd,
Lur'd by a Bridegroom's Name, the Lover flies
To claim that Heart which Merit only gain'd.

For, gentle Lucy, thy well-tutor'd Mind
Ne'er sought with Wealth or Pomp thy Days to share;
Wish'd but Life's peaceful, virtuous Walks to find,
Nor deem'd its idle Pageants worth thy Care.

191

Thine was each self-approving Joy that rose
From filial Duty piously discharg'd;
Which Friendship, or Humanity disclose;
For all these Graces still thy Mind enlarg'd.

Such, good-starr'd Youth, such is the Heart you've won;
What greater Treasure than an Heart like this?—
A Life so calm, so pure, so well begun,
Gives thee firm Promise of domestic Bliss.

Take then thy Lucy,—be her Guardian,—Friend,
Shield her within thine Arms from Fortune's Frown;
Her Weakness 'gainst a faithless World defend,
And prize that Merit which discern'd thine own.—

Go, well-match'd Pair, blest in each other's Love,
Go spread your fair Example far around;
And as Years roll'd on Years shall onward move,
In Hymen's Bands be none more happy found!—

192

Yet, gentle Lucy, where is Joy unmix'd?
Sighing the Muse thy parting Step pursues;
Sighs her own Loss; that Chance thy Lot hath fix'd
Where all its subject Lake Geneva views.

Enchanting Spot! to me long-known, endear'd;
Where prudent Laws Ambition's Pow'r restrain,
By Wisdom rul'd, as first by Wisdom rear'd,
Where Virtue sways, and simplest Manners reign!

As thro' these Scenes by thy lov'd Husband's Side
Thou stray'st, where Nature's Beauties scatter'd lie,
Or mark'st th'eternal Alps in Circuit wide
(Once my fond Theme!) all mingling with the Sky:

Then, for thy steady Friendship well I know,
Which Time nor Absence e'er can wear away;
Then sometimes, Lucy, one kind Thought bestow
On Him, who sorrowing sends this parting Lay.

193

THE MONUMENT IN ARCADIA:

A DRAMATIC POEM, IN TWO ACTS.

ET IN ARCADIA EGO.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXXIII.

195

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE LADY VISCOUNTESS PRIMEROSE, THIS POEM IS INSCRIBED, IN GRATEFUL TESTIMONY OF THE FRIENDSHIP WITH WHICH SHE HAS LONG HONORED HER LADYSHIP'S MOST OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, GEO. KEATE.

201

Persons of the Drama.

DORASTUS, a rich Shepherd, living as a Hermit.
LYSANDER, a young Spartan, Lover of Euphemia.
MUSIDORUS, an Arcadian Shepherd.
EUPHEMIA, betrothed to Lysander.
DELIA, Friend to Euphemia.
DAPHNE, Daughter of Musidorus.
LAURA, Daughter of Musidorus.
ARCADIANS.

Scene, ARCADIA.

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ACT I.

SCENE—A beautiful Prospect of Arcadia; Shepherds Dwellings dispersed at a Distance, and a Wood on one Side.
Enter LYSANDER, EUPHEMIA, and DELIA.
LYSANDER.
Thanks to the Gods! our cheerful Steps at last
Have reach'd these happy Climes; where refug'd Virtue,
'Midst laughing Vales, o'er-arch'd by cloudless Skies,
Enjoys a calm Retreat. And now, lov'd Maid!

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Whom I have follow'd, and would follow still
To Earth's remotest Bounds; 'tis Time to claim
That bright Reward, which, before Delia here,
Your lov'd Companion Delia, you have sworn,
Soon as my Voice had welcom'd your Arrival,
Should crown my willing Service.

EUPHEMIA.
Gen'rous Youth!
Whose fond Compliance with a Maid's Request
Has led you far from home; the Boon you ask
Will poorly pay your Virtues; take my Hand,
And know I give it but to pledge a Heart
By ev'ry Title yours.

DELIA.
Unshaken, long
Remain this Union!—Now! Euphemia, now
Behold your Hopes accomplish'd!—Breathe we not

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A purer Air? And does not this bright Scene,
Which opens round us, realize the Truth
Of all Aranthe said?

EUPHEMIA.
It does, it does;
Peace to her Shade! And, Delia, we shall bless
The friendly Path we trod; though scarcely yet
Lysander knows why I so long forbore
To crown his Love, and in this distant Clime
Would only wed.

LYSANDER.
It was enough for me
To know your Wish; contented to be blest
On your own Terms. But oft I've heard you say,
Your dying Mother, poor Aranthe! left
These Counsels in your ear, with that sad Sigh
Which never more is heard.

206

EUPHEMIA.
Her Care alone
Rear'd me to what I am; yet I ne'er knew
A Parent's Fondness. She was of Arcadia;
And when the Spartan Arms, with fierce descent,
Sought these defenceless Shades, was forc'd away
With other Captives. Then, all pale with Tears,
Lest Violence should seize what Choice deny'd,
She gave the Plund'rer, what he ask'd, her Hand,
And yielded to his Wish.—Vows thus constrain'd
Ne'er draw down Blessings. Fifteen tedious Years
She felt a lordly Husband's rigid Sway;
Till Fate dissolv'd her Bondage, and restor'd
Her Liberty.

LYSANDER.
Euphemia, you relate
What moves my Wonder; for till now, I deem'd
You were Aranthe's Child.

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EUPHEMIA.
I thought so too:
But mark the Sequel.—Freedom came too late:
Worn by Dissimulation's irksome Task
For Years repeated, slow-consuming Care
Subdu'd at last her Frame. Arcadia's Vales
She now no more could visit; that fond Hope
Through long Captivity sustain'd the Soul,
Which sunk to find it lost.

LYSANDER.
Not long the Mourner
Surviv'd her Husband?

EUPHEMIA.
Scarcely half the Space
Of ten sad Moons. The Lamp of Life each Day
Burnt fainter; and a sudden Stroke its Light
Almost extinguishing, she call'd me to her,
And bade me bring the Friend whom most I lov'd,

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My Delia, with me. To our Ears she then,
By interrupted Words with Pain brought forth,
Unlock'd her Heart;—Told me, a Mother's Name
Was but assum'd, that He whom she espous'd
Might treat me gently;—That my infant Years
Were to her Care confided;—That her All
She had bequeath'd me;—And her dying Wish
Was, that when Time should favor the Intent,
I'd seek Arcadia.—“If, my Child!” she cry'd,
“Thy Lot be Happiness, 'twill meet thee there;
“Be Hope thy Guide: The righteous Gods, perhaps,
“May there restore”—But what—was all conceal'd;
For Death that instant seiz'd her Pow'rs of Speech,
And left me lost in Darkness and Distress.

DELIA.
Nor till her Spirit fled, ceas'd she to fix,
Though Utt'rance was deny'd, on my fair Friend
Looks forcible as Language.—We have search'd,

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Where'er Conjecture wings its dubious Flight,
To trace her Meaning, or descry from whence
Euphemia drew her Birth; but ev'ry Path
Perplex'd and tangled, still in Darkness ends.

LYSANDER.
Some Cause forbade, or she had ne'er so long
Conceal'd the Story, which her parting Breath
Could not enough disclose. But say, my Love,
Did not Aranthe oft' at other Times
Discourse the Beauties of her native Land,
The more to tempt you to this Pilgrimage?

EUPHEMIA.
Oh, frequent! frequent! It was oft' her Subject,
And she would tell such Wonders of Arcadia,
So boast its joyous Skies, where Love, where Truth,
And fair Simplicity reign'd undisturb'd,
That all entranc'd I heard her, and my Soul
Dwelt on her Story, till it pin'd to see

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These Heav'n-distinguish'd Regions.—To myself,
In secret, then I vow'd, that I would ne'er
But in Arcadia wed.—It was for this
Arcadia was so oft my Theme, when first
You grac'd me with your Notice; 'twas for this
I hither led you; and at some near Shrine
My Vow shall be confirm'd.

LYSANDER.
Blest be the Night,
When forth I led you from detested Sparta,
Ne'er to behold it more! Detested Sparta!
Where the firm Virtue of our rigid Fathers,
Which nerv'd their Arm, and gave th'admiring World
A Line of Heroes, is debas'd by Vice,
Or crush'd by pow'rful Faction.—To forget
The Cloud that shades my Country, be my Task;
Since thence I've borne a Prize, in whom I view
The Graces of the purest Times.

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EUPHEMIA.
No more!
Already you o'erpay me.

LYSANDER.
Bounteous Maid!
My Tongue would beggar Language, should it speak
The Transport I now feel to call Thee mine,
And to enfold Thee thus.—Whatever Joys
This Clime shall offer, they can nothing add
To mine, possessing Thee.

DELIA.
Behold! a Troop
Of Swains advancing! Haply, we from them
May gain all due Intelligence.

LYSANDER.
Yet hold!
They seem assembled on some Ceremony;

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'Twere best at Distance mark them;—For a while
Let us withdraw beneath these bow'ring Shades.

[They retire into the Wood.
Enter—MUSIDORUS, DAPHNE, LAURA, and a Number of Arcadian Shepherds and Shepherdesses, bearing in their Hands Garlands of Flowers.
They advance, singing.
CHORUS.
Give the Hour to sober Pleasures;
Cheerful Hearts are Life's best Treasures:
Let the choral Song go round;
Echo shall our Joys resound.

MUSIDORUS.
Onward, Arcadians! bear your flow'ry Wreaths,
Twin'd with the fairest Sweets of ev'ry Kind
That scent the Ev'ning Air, and with them deck

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The sacred Pines of Pan; while the deep Grove
Tells to the distant Hills our festive Rites.—
'Tis wisely done to make the most of Life:
Whilst Temp'rance sits the Guardian of our Sports,
Each grateful Smile that dimples o'er the Cheek
Is Tribute paid the Gods!

FIRST ARCADIAN.
Let such as tread
The busy Haunts of Men, where Envy shoots
Its poison'd Arrows, wear their Brow o'ercast;
Our Vales are only Witnesses of Joy,
And Mirth well-authoriz'd; Our fertile Soil
A happier Sun-shine warms; and the press'd Grape,
Pouring from Goblets deep its purple Stream,
Drives off imagin'd Ills, and the cheer'd Mind
Attunes to Harmony.

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AIR.

Gloomy Care can ne'er controul
Joys that wait the temp'rate Bowl;
Welcome all its pure Delights,
Blameless Days, and peaceful Nights.

In our Cup her radiant Wings
Fancy dips, and brighter springs;
To her the Pow'r is giv'n
To soar beyond the Pride of Kings,
And form on ev'ry Spot a Heav'n.

LYSANDER, EUPHEMIA, and DELIA, appear from the Wood.
LYSANDER.
Forgive us, Shepherds,
If we as Strangers peradventure press
Somewhat abruptly on you. Wide is spread
The Fame of your fair Clime; and it hath hither

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Allur'd our Steps, inquisitive to learn
That true Simplicity which marks your Lives,
And makes them deem'd so happy.

MUSIDORUS.
You are welcome
To these pacific Shades, and doubly so
As being Strangers: But if chance you come
From Scenes of artful Life, where Pomp displays
Its splendid Fallacies, ours scarce will charm.—
Yet here Content resides, and rural Ease;
With ev'ry Blessing which the bounteous Pan
Bestows on virtuous Toils.

LYSANDER.
Deem not that we
So ill have read the World, that our fool'd Sense
Is caught by Pageantry.—Nought charms so much
As the bright Lustre of an upright Mind,
Active, and steady.—And in lonely Vales,

216

And Roofs unnotic'd, oft' such Virtues dwell
As Courts with Pride might boast; though all unseen
Their Graces bloom, save by a circling few,
And Heav'n's approving Eye.

FIRST ARCADIAN.
Your Reas'ning, Youth,
Bespeaks a Mind well tutor'd; and your Chance
Hath thrown you amongst Men, who know to prize
The Heart that points to Virtue.—Freely share
Whate'er these Plains afford. Say, will you join
Our festive Rites? Or, rather, do you seek
Rest and Refreshment?—Long perchance hath been
Your Way; and these your fair Companions tire.

LYSANDER.
True—long hath been our Way; but we have made it
Pleasure, not Toil.—You shall at Leisure know
Whate'er in the small Circle of our Lives

217

May win your Ear. Suffice it now to say
What beyond Rest, beyond your proffer'd Care,
Sits nearest at my Heart, is, that you guide
Our Steps, to where before some hallow'd Shrine,
This beauteous Maid and I may swear till Death
A lasting Union.—Long, too long, my Bliss
Hath been delay'd; and tedious seems to creep
Each lazy Minute now, till I can boast
Alliance with her Virtues.

MUSIDORUS.
Such a Place
Stands in the Covert of yon Wood; be mine
The Task to lead you thither.—Leagues of Love,
Approv'd by Virtue, from their starry Thrones
The Gods behold well pleas'd!—Go you before,
My Daughters, and with virgin Hands adorn
The nuptial Altar.—Shepherds, you'll pursue
Your purpos'd Sports: we shall at Eve rejoin.

[Exeunt Daphne and Laura.

218

LYSANDER.
Here, my Euphemia, our long Voyage ends,
Safe in the wish'd-for Port we ride in Peace,
Anchor'd by Love and Friendship.—Gen'rous Swain!
Your hospitable Kindness asks more Praise
Than my poor Tongue can give; a Time may come
When I may better speak it.

MUSIDORUS.
Nay! no more;
I act but as I ought.—Benevolence
Is due from Man, to Man!—Come, Lady, on;
The Altar now attends your maiden Vows;
Be thrifty of the Hour, the Day wears fast.

[Exeunt Musidorus, Lysander, Euphemia, and Delia.
FIRST ARCADIAN.
Now with light Foot to sportive Measures beat,
Strike ev'ry sprightly Note, that ere we join

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In yonder hallow'd Grove, we to the Dance
May add new Graces, and avow our Zeal.

A DANCE of Arcadians.
After the Dance, the Chorus repeated.
Give the Hour to sober Pleasures;
Cheerful Hearts are Life's best Treasures:
Let the choral Song go round;
Echo shall our Joys resound.
[Exeunt.
SCENE—A wild rocky Entrance to a Cave; on one Side of which is seen a Wood.
DORASTUS enters from the Cave. After looking attentively around, he comes slowly forward.

Hail! to the Ev'ning Sun, which from the West
Empurples all the Sky, and this my Cave
Gilds with its parting Rays; this moss-grown Cave,

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Long by my Footsteps worn!—For since the Arms
Of the fell Spartans tore my Child away,
(Sole Pledge of a dear Union) with the Friend
To whom her dying Mother gave the Charge
To train her Infancy; and ev'ry Hope
To trace their Fate is vain; I've shun'd the Plain,
Nor mingled with the Gay.—In these lone Shades
I wake my Mind to Truth; and as the Stream
Of Life flows gently on, pursue that Peace
Philosophy inspires, and patient wait
Th'Appointment of the Gods!—But I must hence—
The length'ning Shadows warn me now to seek
In the near Valley such sweet-smelling Flow'rs
As give their Perfumes to the Ev'ning Gale,
And strew them round yon vacant Tomb I've rear'd
To sooth a Father's Sorrows.—There's in Grief
A melancholy Pleasure, which indulg'd,
Becalms the Soul;—and such this Task to me.—

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O much-lamented Maid! if from this World
Escap'd, thou sit'st a Spirit in Air, accept
A Parent's pious Off'ring;—Or if still
Thou draw'st the Breath of Bondage, or art doom'd
To tread the flinty Ways of Life, may Heav'n
Give thee proportion'd Virtue!—Yet a while,
A transient Space, Time's friendly Hand shall guide
Each Suff'rer to his Rest, and all our Cares
Shall melt to nothing, like the Morning Dew.

[Exit.

END OF THE FIRST ACT.

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ACT II.

A RURAL SCENE.
Enter LYSANDER, EUPHEMIA, DELIA, MUSIDORUS, DAPHNE, and LAURA.
As they are all advancing from the End of the Stage, DAPHNE and LAURA sing the following

DUET.

Hymen pleas'd your Faith surveys;
All his peaceful Blessings share!
Purest Friendship crown your Days!
Joy attend you, happy Pair!

LYSANDER.
Thanks, courteous Fair-ones, Thanks; I little hop'd
Such Bride-maids for my Love; but you are all

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As bounteous as your Skies; and your kind Care
Shall bind us both your Debtors.—You, good Shepherd,
Who with your Daughters at the Shrine of Pan
Have witness'd to our Vows, shall see, I trust,
That they were seal'd with Truth, and only join'd
Hearts of congenial Mould.

MUSIDORUS.
May circling Years
Still firmer bind them! and the Hand of Death
Alone dissolve this Union!

EUPHEMIA.
Heav'n so grant!—
Most freely, Shepherd, I accept your Grace,
And proffer'd Services; wrapt in Delight
To meet already in this stranger Land
Such hospitable Smiles.

DAPHNE.
Nor here is seen

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A Smile the Heart avows not; our plain Life
Disdains those Arts and Falshoods, which they say
Are practis'd by the Great-ones of the World.—
Ambition walks not here; nor is here known
Envy, its fell Associate.—Rural Cares
Employ the fleeting Day, and one firm Chain
Of social Harmony unites us all.—
Our temp'rate Board gives Cheerfulness and Health;
And there Contentment sits, and bids us scorn
What cheated Man calls Luxury.

LAURA.
Nor yet
Shall our calm Plains abuse your Hopes; the Eye
As well as Mind is solac'd.—Nature blooms
In youthful Beauty round us, from her Urn
Scatt'ring unnumber'd Treasures. Mark how glows
The vivid Landscape; and the burthen'd Earth
Pants with the gay Profusion.

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EUPHEMIA.
A new World
Springs up before me. See, Lysander, see
What vary'd Sweets shall strew our future Paths
Beneath this better Sun.

LYSANDER.
Rooted I stand,
And lost in Admiration thank the Gods
For all their Bounty to me; chief for Thee
Their noblest Boon, thou Crown of my Desires!
Thou lovely Charmer!—O my Friends, excuse
A young Man's Transport; when you better know
This Maiden's Excellence, you will confess
My Tongue no Flatt'rer—for she wears a Heart
So pure, so spotless, that it might be shrin'd
In Crystal, and have all its Movements scann'd!

MUSIDORUS.
My Bosom shares your Transport—Gentle Lady,

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Beneath the Umbrage of yon tufted Trees,
Which shade the Margin of the azure Stream
That steals along its Side, our Dwelling stands,
Rustic and simple; thick around it shoots
The flaunting Woodbine; and each fragrant Flow'r
Adorns the verdant Scene.—There I've prepar'd
A cheerful Welcome;—All our rural Sports
My Daughters shall relate, and teach you too,
If so you like, to tend our fleecy Folds;
For all are Shepherds here.

EUPHEMIA.
Something but now,
As o'er the Lawn we pass'd, Laura discours'd
Of a grey Hermit, whose religious Life
Gain'd him such Love, that each Arcadian deem'd
His Blessing prosp'rous; fain on this Day's Act
Would I implore it.

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MUSIDORUS.
Lady, he you mean
Dwells at the mossy Foot of yonder Rock,
The good Dorastus; Shepherd once himself,
And Master still of many a Flock; but he,
Long from our Plains sequester'd, mourns retir'd
A Loss that weighs his grey Hairs down.—All here
View him with filial Love; for he's to all
A Friend, a Father.—Thither I'll conduct you
As homeward now we pass.

LYSANDER.
We will attend;
Yet tarry but a Space, while from those Trees
Of clust'ring Roses, that invite the Touch,
I pluck some crimson Buds, and twist a Wreath
For my Euphemia's Brow; she has not yet
Receiv'd her bridal Garland.

[Exit.
EUPHEMIA.
On this Bank

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Await we his Return. Sit, my fair Maids;
And, Delia, calm the Flutt'rings of my Heart
By some soft Strain.—Give me that cheering Song
Aranthe so much lov'd.

DELIA.

'Tis well devis'd,
Nor foreign to the Moment.—I obey.

SONG.

All the Splendor which Wealth can display
Is so vain, that it quickly must cloy;
Like a Bubble, it soon melts away,
If Hope does not heighten the Joy.

Sweet Passion! without thee, the Soul
In the Midst of Fruition would tire;
Into Times yet unborn thou canst roll,
And expand on the Wings of Desire.

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It was Hope that first planted my Vine,
And its Clusters luxuriously spread;
Rear'd my Fig-tree, whose Branches intwine,
And so gratefully shadow my Head.

Hope comforts the Mourner's sad State,
Sooths the Wretch who is struggling with Pain,
Bids the Captive support his hard Fate,
And to Home turns his Eyes back again.

Bright Charmer! ah! live in my Breast,
Round my Temples thy Garland still bind;
Thou shalt calm all my Sorrows to rest,
And cheer with thy Sunshine my Mind.

EUPHEMIA.
Kind Delia, take my Thanks.—I feel the Truth

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Thy Strain inspires; for see Lysander comes,
Who round the little Region of my Heart
Bids Hope triumphant live.

LYSANDER re-enters, with a Chaplet of Roses in his Hand.
LYSANDER.
Euphemia, wear
This blooming Wreath, in Honor of the Day,
And as an Emblem of our twin'd Affections.— [Presents her the Chaplet.

This hath a transient Date, but they, I trust,
Shall never know Decay.—Now let us speed
To seek the Hermit's Cave; good Shepherd, on.

[Exeunt.

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The Scene opening discovers a Wood. In the Middle of the Stage is a Monument, with the Statue of a Nymph lying on it. Upon its Base appears this Inscription, in large Characters, I TOO WAS AN ARCADIAN. DORASTUS is seen standing near the Tomb, with a Basket of Flowers in his Hand, singing the following

AIR.

My Woes, O Mem'ry! cease to trace;
Ah! curse no more the Spartan Race!
Come, meek-ey'd Patience, calm my Mind,
And make it to its Fate resign'd.—
This fancy'd Form, this empty Tomb
Relieves the Rigour of my Doom.

Enter MUSIDORUS, LYSANDER, EUPHEMIA, DELIA, DAPHNE, and LAURA.
MUSIDORUS.
Behold the good old Man!—On the still Air

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How sweetly floats his plaintive Voice!—Beside
This Wood he dwells, and here at setting Sun
Sings his accustom'd Dirge, as Mem'ry drops
A Sigh o'er happier Scenes that Time hath clos'd.

LYSANDER.
Say, what yon Pile which he bestrews with Flow'rs?
It seems a Tomb, and that fair sculptur'd Form
Declares it such; as does the Epitaph,
“I too was an Arcadian.”

MUSIDORUS.
He bewails
A Daughter torn away, on whom he built
The Comfort of his Age; it is for her
This mournful Pile is rear'd, these Rites perform'd.—
But soft!—A Moment ends them; let us not
Invade his Privacy.

[They keep retired on one Side of the Stage.

233

DORASTUS continues the Air, strewing the Flowers round the Tomb.

Gentle Spirit, Peace be thine!
This sad Office still be mine;
These fond Marks of Love receive,
All a drooping Sire can give.

During the Song, Lysander discourses with Musidorus; —Euphemia, with Daphne and Laura. She often fixes her Eyes on the Monument, with Marks of Emotion. The Song ended, they advance.
MUSIDORUS.
Good Ev'n, Dorastus,
And heard be all thy Orisons!—Behold
I bring with me a Pair, who even now
At yonder consecrated Altar seal'd
The Bond of wedded Faith.—Far is their Home,
Beyond the Southern Mountains; but Desire
To visit these our Plains hath urg'd their Steps

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Hither, to sojourn with us.—Lo! they sue
Your Grace and Welcome; and will prove, I judge,
Worthy your Courtesy.—Their bridal Bed
My Daughters have prepar'd; and I myself
Shall be their this Night's Host; a secret Impulse
Hath won me to their Service.

LYSANDER.
Strangers here,
Each Mark of Hospitality must charm;
And sooth to say, this our kind Patron's Care
Hath far outstrip'd my Hope.—Might we obtain
Thy Pray'rs, respected Hermit, nothing then
Remains to crown our Fortune.

DORASTUS.
If the Blessing
Of an old Man by many a Sorrow worn,
And bow'd by many a Year, can aught avail,
O take it, freely take it.—May the Act

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Of this fair Day be prosper'd! may a Length
Of Happiness be yours! a virtuous Race
To both endear the World! and all your Paths,
Your Ev'ning Paths of Life, be spread with Flow'rs
That never grew in mine!

LYSANDER.

Ah! much I grieve
That your's have prov'd uneven!—For your Wishes
Count me your Debtor.—My Euphemia too,
My Bride shall thank you; for her Heart is gentle,
And grateful as the Flow'r that pays with Sweets
The genial Summer's Bounty!—

As he turns to Euphemia, he finds her looking towards the Tomb with a melancholy Attention.

Ha! my Love,
Whence this Amaze? why dost thou bend thy Sight
On yonder Tomb? and wherefore on thy Brow
Sits a descriptive Sorrow, that hath drank

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The Lustre of thine Eyes, and damp'd the Joy
Which sparkled there but now?—Say, why is this?
What the strange Cause?

EUPHEMIA.
The Cause is in myself;
O my Lysander! I have fool'd my Sense
With visionary Hope, and now awake
To meet my Error.

LYSANDER.
Nay! explain, Euphemia.

EUPHEMIA.
This good Man's Sigh has op'd my Eyes; this Scene
Of Death has undeceiv'd me.—Blind to think
That there was any Ground, where Mortals tread,
On which Affliction walks not!—Ev'ry Clime
Engenders human Woe; and fam'd Arcadia
Is pregnant with the same disastrous Fortune
That other Regions know.

237

DORASTUS.
Our Life, fair Lady,
Must needs be chequer'd thus.

LYSANDER.
Alas! my Love,
Let us enjoy the Good, nor with vain Search
Anticipate Misfortune; come it will,
Though Wisdom stand as Guard; and e'en these Shade.
Must sometimes own its Pow'r.

EUPHEMIA.
Mistaken Maid!
Is this the Land where Pleasure only reign'd?
Was it for this I pac'd so long a Way?
Abandon'd Sparta? and so far allur'd
Thy wand'ring Steps, Lysander, here to meet
The Face of Sorrow?—Where is that Content
Aranthe boasted? Where that Peace, she said
Should greet our Coming?—Ah! could she delude
That Hope she so long nourish'd?

238

DORASTUS.
Heard I aright?
Or did false Sounds abuse me?—Spake you not
Of Sparta, and Aranthe, courteous Lady?
Pray you say on; for to my Ear you utter'd
A Name well known.—Aranthe! knew you her?
And lives she yet?

LYSANDER.
Ah no! she is no more!
With pious Hand these Maidens clos'd her Eyes,
Bathing her Corse with Tears.

EUPHEMIA.
In her I lost
The best of Women, whose indulgent Care
No Time shall wear away.—Her latest Wish
Was I should seek Arcadia, where herself
Had sometime known a happier Destiny
Than Sparta's Walls afforded.

239

DORASTUS.
You are then
Her daughter, doubtless; you perhaps have oft
Heard her relate—

EUPHEMIA.
Good Hermit, you mistake;
I am no Child of her's, though many a Year
Such I was deem'd, till her last Breath unveil'd
The Error, and declar'd I was a Pledge
Intrusted to her Care in infant Years,
By whom was unexplain'd, for Death's cold Grasp
Broke off th'unfinish'd Tale,—and I had walk'd
The World, a friendless Orphan, and alone,
But for this virtuous Youth, to whom I've giv'n
That Love his Merit claim'd.—But why on me
Is cast that Look of Eagerness?—Why heaves
Thy lab'ring Bosom thus?—or whence those Tears
That tremble in thine Eye?

240

DORASTUS.
O Nature!—Nature!
Who with thy pow'rful, and invisible Hand
Shak'st my whole Frame with Tumult,—can I think
This Conflict, these Forebodings of a Father
Are rais'd, or felt in vain?—The Stroke's too great!
Pray you your Arm a Moment.—Yes—it must—
Those Features wear the radiant Hue of Truth!—
There cannot be Deceit.—It is—It is
My long-lost Child restor'd.—

EUPHEMIA.
All-ruling Gods!
Have ye upheld me through the Maze of Life
Unknowing, and unknown, in this far Land
To guide me to a Parent?

LYSANDER.
All's explain'd;
This was Aranthe's Meaning, this the Cause

241

She urg'd so strong your Coming, hoping still
Some Chance might bring about this blest Event
Th'indulgent Gods have prosper'd.

DORASTUS.
Gen'rous Youth!
Whose Graces have endear'd thee to my Child,
Whose Truth and Friendship won her, let my Arms
Embrace thee as a Son.—A Father's Blessing,
Pour'd from a Heart with Gratitude o'ercome,
Shall now enforce the rest.—Alas! too quick
My Spirits bound!—Prithee resolve my Mind
A few fond Questions more.

[They withdraw to the Bottom of the Stage.
MUSIDORUS.
See, my Children,
The Virtuous still are happy!—This is she
So long reputed dead, for whom was rear'd
The Statue, and the Tomb; for whom these Shades

242

So oft' have echo'd with a Father's Sighs;
Sighs now repaid with Transports!

LAURA.
Nor in vain
Have we intwin'd the festive Wreath. This Night
Shall social Pleasure beam from ev'ry Eye,
And Sounds of Joy be heard along the Vale.

DAPHNE.
See where, returning from the hallow'd Grove,
The Shepherds cross the Plain. I'll be myself
Of this Event the Harbinger; 'twill prove
Most welcome to them all.

[Exit.
DORASTUS, LYSANDER, EUPHEMIA, and DELIA, come forward.
DORASTUS.
Enough, enough;
My stormy Life at last sinks to a Calm.

243

Come Death now when it will, I'll meet it smiling,
Upheld by this lov'd Pair.

LYSANDER.
Long live to see
Our mutual happiness! and be repaid,
In the bright Virtues of your new-found Daughter,
The Suff'rings you've endur'd!

DORASTUS.
Great Providence!
How just are all thy Ways!—Never let Man,
Howe'er he be distress'd, abandon Hope;
For in the Moment when the Cloud is blackest,
When the big Storm rolls loudest o'er his Head,
The Hand of Heav'n perhaps supports his Steps,
And guides him back to Peace!—'Twas but this Morn,
Stung with Remembrance of my former Woes,
I curs'd the Sons of Sparta; ere Day close

244

A Spartan Hand leads back the Child I lost,
And quite atones the Wrongs his Country did me!

EUPHEMIA.
Justly I stand reprov'd.—Henceforth I'll own
Each Murmur is a Crime, and Discontent
Ingratitude to Heav'n.

DORASTUS.
Forbear to think
This Earth can teem Perfection; Far beyond
Those azure Rocks, that kiss the sloping Sky,
A happier Region lies, to which compar'd
Our Spot, is as the dank and tainted Gale
To th'unsully'd Breath of Morning.—There the Toils
Of lab'ring Virtue cease! and thither oft'
She turns her patient Eye, and seeks her Crown!—
'Tis there, Euphemia, and 'tis there alone
Perfection may be hop'd; on this Side, all
Is mutable and frail!

245

EUPHEMIA.
Yet 'tis not strange
The Mind that's tutor'd to expect too much
Should sigh at Disappointment.

DORASTUS.
That, my Child,
Is Life's grand Error;—We delude ourselves,
And charge the Cheats of Fancy to the World.—
Man in his visionary Hour conceives
Joys never destin'd for him, then sits down
In sullen Discontent, to think he loses
That which he ne'er possess'd.—Go, wiser you
My Children, curb your Wishes, taste with Thanks
That Good the Gods allot you; and remember,
Howe'er our Paths are chequer'd by Misfortune,
Life still has many Pleasures for the Virtuous.

MUSIDORUS.
The neighb'ring Swains, whom Delia has inform'd

246

Of what has chanc'd, with Looks of Transport haste
To greet your happier Fortune.

A Number of Arcadians enter with Daphne, and surround Dorastus with Marks of Congratulation.
DORASTUS.
Ah! how sweet
Their Steps who speak of Peace!—I have, my Friends,
A Heart that reads your Purpose in your Eye,
And registers your Love—A Heart, the Gods
Have quite o'erwhelm'd with Mercy!—Thanks to all
Who share with me this Joy; and double Thanks
To thee, kind Musidorus, whom this Night
We all will sojourn with, and cheer the Board
Thy lib'ral Hand has spread.—Rich Flocks, and Herds,
And wide-spread Pastures, shall be giv'n to-morrow
In Dowry with this Maid.—You, Delia, too
Shall now become my Care.—Let us away,
The Ev'ning Star is ris'n,—and as we pass

247

Let all our choral Youth their Voices join
In Notes that deep-felt Gratitude inspires.

CHORUS.
Mighty Pan! to Thee we owe
All the Happiness we know;—
Let our Lives still peaceful glide;
Give us Virtue for our Guide.

[Exeunt.

248

EPILOGUE.

Mortals, who this Drama view,
Own you not its Moral true?—
Virtuous Minds should ne'er despair;
They are Heav'n's peculiar Care,
Who teaches suff'ring Man to know
Hope's the Counterpoise of Woe.

But if Hope unlicens'd reigns,
Wildly seeks ideal Plains,
Pictures Joys it ne'er can meet,
Paths ne'er trod by human Feet;
Then, ah! then expect to find
Arcadia's only in the Mind.

249

TO The Messrs. ADAM,

On their late successful Lottery.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXXIV.

As Genius and Merit indulg'd a short Sally,
To mark the dull Wit and Abuse of Change-Alley,
They saw the Weeds spring which by Envy were sown,
And heard the shrill Clarion which Malice had blown;
Tho' such Schemes to o'erthrow The Adelphi were laid,
Yet unruffled they look'd, and walk'd on undismay'd

250

Into Jonathan's Room, to see what was decided,
Where o'er her own Wheels Madam Fortune presided;
Who soon finding out that the Brothers were there,
Bade them come from the Crowd, and sit down by her Chair:
When thus she address'd them,—“I've mark'd with Delight
“Your Patience, your Spirit, and both will requite;
“Ne'er regard the Abuse of this profligate Town,
“The Adelphi shall stand, and record your Renown,
“Tho' Men trump up each Day some incredible Story
“To tarnish your Fame, and o'ershadow your Glory;
“Yet not more to you, than to me they're unkind,
“Undiscerning they call me, and still paint me blind,
“Swear I foster the Fool, give the Worthless Success;
“But that all this is Scandal they now shall confess:
So saying, her Bandage she tore from her Eyes,
And gave to the Adams her most-valu'd Prize.—

251

“There, take it,” she cry'd—“let the World now declare
“That Genius and Merit henceforth are my Care;
“Go, prosper again—Shine unfetter'd and free,
“Whilst Envy and Malice shall curse you and me.”

252

EPILOGUE FOR THE First Part of HENRY IV.

Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1777.

Spoken by Hostess Quickly.
The Hostess is discovered in her Bar-Room leaning on a Table—a Bell rings without several Times; FRANCIS the Drawer, after being repeatedly called for behind the Scenes, enters hastily.
FRANCIS.
Anon, Anon—I'm coming in a Crack—
Mistress, your Keys—Sir John calls out for Sack—
He huffs and blusters, now the Battle's o'er,
Ten Times as loud as e'er he did before!

253

HOSTESS.

A Murrain in his Guts—there is no Peace
For this great Lump of Roguery and Grease—
Go serve him, Francis—I'll enjoy my Rest, [Exit Francis.

Nor move for such a noisy, swaggering Guest.—
There's not a Woman in Eastcheap, I'm sure,
That could the Bustle I go thro', endure!
The Prince, Heav'n bless him!—he's so free and kind,
He'd ev'ry Creature to his Service bind.—
Sir John oft' says, perhaps 'tis but in Sport,
When Hal is King, he'll send for one to Court.—
Egad, and if he does, he need not fear [rises.

But he'll have ta'en the right Sow by the Ear;
Dame Quickly, as his Majesty shall see,
Can be a Match for all the Quality.—

254

First then, to give the Ton, and be polite,
I'll sleep all Day, and go abroad all Night;
For 'tis decreed there now can be no Fun,
Spirit, or Joy, in aught beneath the Sun.—
Next, to keep Pace with fashionable People,
I'll have my Hair whirl'd up like our Church Steeple,
Bolster'd and cramm'd with Wool, at least a Peck;
Whilst Two great Sausage Curls shall cross my Neck:
To rival e'en the highest I will venture,
And of my Figure make my Face the Centre.
Then shall my Crest with spangled Plumes be spread,
And a whole Green Stall nod upon my Head;
All Fruits and Flowers too—for 'tis but reason
A Lady's Head should ever be in Season.—
For a slim pinch'd-in Stay I'll change my Jump,
And my Hips saddle with a nice Cork Rump;
Thus thro' the Circles of the Gay I'll swing,
And be from Top, to Bottom,—quite the Thing:

255

Become a public Object—public Toast—
And furnish Scandal for the Morning Post.—
Then I'll send Cards to ev'ry Soul I know,
No Matter who they are, or Friend, or Foe;
They'll put their best Cloaths on, and swell my Show.
Cards the best Knowledge of the World can teach,
And render needless the eight parts of Speech—
All Sorts of Characters they mix together,
Strange Birds, of ev'ry Nest, and ev'ry Feather.
When one collects a Crowd of Young and Old,
And twice as many as one's House should hold,
Tho' each in turn is stifled, stew'd, and frighted,
Nay squeez'd to Death, yet all go Home delighted.—

But hold, Dame Quickly—say you this attain,
Compute—and by the Change count what you'll gain.—

256

Where is your Time for Rest? for Peace? for sleeping?—
A Public House you surely still are keeping.—
Egad, if that's the Case—no Court for me—
I'll stay where Benchfulls of old Friends I see,
My old Trade still in Eastcheap I'll pursue,
And hope each Night such Customers as You.

257

A PETITION FROM Mrs. DELANY's Citron-Tree ,

TO HER GRACE The Dutchess Dowager of Portland.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXXVIII.

Those who the ancient Bards explore,
Know Trees have mov'd in Days of Yore,
And, by the Pow'r of Music led,
Have scamper'd from their native Bed.

258

Thus Portland, by like magic Sway,
Portland, whom all the Arts obey,
Bless'd with the same harmonious Skill,
Makes all Things migrate at her Will;
Great Nature's Cells her Pow'r unlocks,
Her Caverns opens, strips her Rocks,

259

Tears from the Mine the ripen'd Ore,
Calls ev'ry Shell from ev'ry Shore;
Nor even can th' o'erwhelming Deep
Its coral Beds, or Treasures keep,
For Portland's Art unlinks the Chain
That bound them in its wild Domain;

260

Whilst Nature's Self o'erjoy'd beholds
How she her secret Steps unfolds,
Unravels ev'ry mystic Clue,
And each Distinction points to View;
With greater Charms than e'er could fire
The boasted Notes of Orpheus' Lyre,
Together bringing to our Wonder
What Realms and Oceans plac'd asunder;
Nor is it strange—since all agree
True Taste is truest Harmony.—

If Witness then of these your Pow'rs,
If shelter'd too in Bullstrode's Bow'rs,
Where Art and Nature both contend,
And both their various Labors blend;
If in your Gall'ry doom'd a Place,
And station'd often near your Grace;

261

None sure can wonder when they see
Your Magic influence even me.—
It op'rates far beyond Belief,
I feel it now in ev'ry Leaf—
Each Fibre quivers—nay it shoots
Down from my Blossoms to my Roots.—
Yes, Noble Dame! your Arts prevail,
And give me Force to tell my Tale;
Force, your protecting Care to bless,
And e'en my future Hopes express.

From Citron-Groves on distant Shores,
Round which the wide Atlantic roars,
Torn from my Parent Tree, I came
A little Seed consign'd to Fame;
Consign'd to Fame—for some kind Star,
When from my Home I'd wander'd far,

262

At last on fair Hibernia's Land
Led me to Good Delany's Hand;
Delany's Hand, whose Touch can give
New Grace and Bloom,—she bade me live.—
I rooted, nor wish'd more to stir;
And who would not, to live with Her?—
Rear'd by her Smiles, I daily grew,
And spread my Beauty to her View;
But Plants, like Men, it is allow'd,
Have all their Sunshine, and their Cloud!
My friendly Guardian call'd away,
On Britain's Coast to fix her Stay,
My cheering Sunshine lost! no more
My Leaves their wonted Verdure wore,
No more with Joy my Blossoms spread,
Sorrowing I droop'd, and hung my Head,
'Till gracious Portland deign'd to be
Protectress of my Misery;

263

Bade me once more the Ocean cross,
My Spirits rais'd, retriev'd my Loss;
And, ever be her Name ador'd,
My Mistress to my Sight restor'd.—

Whilst now I glow with wonted Charms,
And Gratitude each Fibre warms,
More favor'd sure no Plant can shine!
But a still happier Lot is mine!
For lo! your faithful Friend for me
Prepares a glorious Destiny;
She makes me on her Table rise,
And notes me with inquiring Eyes,
My Texture marks, my Form surveys,
And views me with parental Gaze,
Then with her artful Scissars traces
My Shape, my Colour, and my Graces,

264

Unlike what Poets give The Fates,
For theirs destroy, but her's creates!—
I see another Self—and start,
Shudd'ring with Wonder at her Art.—
'Tis done—and she hath seal'd my Doom,
And fix'd me in Eternal Bloom.

So Bacchus once, as Bards relate,
Compleated Ariadne's Fate,
And, as short Life to Beauty's giv'n,
Fix'd her a Starry Crown in Heav'n;
Surrounded with a radiant Blaze,
For future Worlds t'admire, and gaze.—

Then, Noble Lady, may I sue,
And one Request prefer to you?
Whilst my own Fame I raptur'd trace,
I feel a Wish for all my Race.

265

O could my Sister Plants, and Flow'rs,
That spring beneath your beauteous Bow'rs,
Before the Good Delany stand,
And share the Magic of her Hand!
She'd give to others, as to me,
A Kind of Immortality!

To those who never have had the pleasure of seeing the valuable Work of Art of Mrs. Delany's, alluded to in these Lines, to make them the better understood, it will be necessary to inform the Reader, that this extraordinary Lady, at a very advanced period of Life, began a Flora, on a plan peculiarly her own, formed by applying coloured Papers together, so as to give the just representation of the Plant, or Flower she purposed to describe.—Her unwearied perseverance in this pursuit, hath in the course of about six years, made her the Authoress of by far the largest Flora that ever was executed by the same hand.—Her just attention to Nature, added to her great knowledge in Painting, have enabled her to produce such effects by this Invention, as Painting could hardly attain; such effects as those only, who have been eye-witnesses of her wonderful skill, can form any just Idea of.—Though this accomplishment, as well as the many others she possesses, are but the Embellishments of a character, which all the engaging Virtues of Life have rendered respectable.

Mrs. Delany, whilst in Ireland, was presented with a Citron, the Seeds of which she had planted, and reared to a Tree, which, at the time of her leaving that kingdom, was in its perfection. When she was become enamoured of this new Work of her's, she often wished to perpetuate this Tree left behind her; and intimating such wish to the Dutchess Dowager of Portland,—her noble Friend, with that benevolence which distinguishes her exalted character, contrived to get the Tree sent over to Bullstrode.—When it was recovered from the accidents of so long a journey, it was placed in her Gallery; and on Mrs. Delany's being struck with the beauty of the Plant, she was informed by her Grace, that it was the identical Tree she had so long wished for.

The Author having the honour of visiting Bullstrode, just as Mrs. Delany had finished the Portrait of a branch of her favorite Citron-Tree, and hearing the history of it, it excited in him the desire of commemorating an event, which gave him an opportunity of recording the Abilities of so amiable a Lady as Mrs. Delany, and the discerning and attentive Friendship of so distinguished a Character as the Dutchess Dowager of Portland.

266

To the Memory of Dr. JOHN HOADLY, Chancellor of Winchester.

ADDRESSED TO RICHARD VERNON SADLEIR, Esq.

When Themes of Joy the willing Muse invite,
All Fancy's Regions open to her Sight,
Sportive and unconstrain'd she glides along,
And meditates at Ease her cheerful Song;
Her teeming Thoughts with bright Conceptions glow,
Ideas crowd, and Lines spontaneous flow.—
Not so, when Sorrow bids her take the Lyre!
The Pow'rs of Fiction then no more inspire;

267

The sad Reality that wrings her Heart
O'erclouds her Spirit, and impedes her Art;
Sighs check the Verse she would to Friendship pay,
And Tears bedew her tributary Lay.

To you, dear Sadleir, on whose lib'ral Breast
Her tend'rest Touches Nature hath imprest,
Whose gen'rous Mind feels ev'ry Suff'rer's Ills,
Whose virtuous Course each social Duty fills,
These Lines I dedicate—For well you know
What to a Friend so dear—so lov'd—we owe;
To You, who shar'd with me his serious Hours,
And the wide Compass of his sprightly Pow'rs;
Saw by his Life Religion's Charms convey'd,
And the good Man in ev'ry Act display'd.

England must long revere a Hoadly's Name,
Thy Prelate, Winchester, hath fix'd its Fame!

268

Meek, unaspiring, virtuous, and sincere,
Firm in Opinion, in his Tenets clear,
Fearless, a literary War he wag'd,
And Prejudice and Error both engag'd;
Tho' Party-Rage his Doctrines loud assail'd,
He wrote for Truth—and in her Cause prevail'd;
And, full of Days and Honor, liv'd to see
Th'enlighten'd Realm by what he taught, more free;
Liv'd, in that Friend, whom now we mourn, t'admire
All that parental Fondness could desire;
A Son, who clos'd his Eyes, who o'er him rear'd
The Record of a Father he rever'd;
And, Lot severe to us! was by Heav'n's Will
Doom'd the same Grave himself so soon to fill!—

And shalt thou, Gentle Spirit! sink to Dust,
And I survive?—nor to thy Worth be just?

269

Shall it be only water'd by those Eyes
Which with fresh Tears thy widow'd Love supplies?
Shall her fond Heart, to all thy Virtues true,
Alone with Sighs those Virtues lost review?
Forbid it Friendship—Ev'ry Muse forbid
In the dark Tomb that Hoadly's Name be hid,
Who liv'd a favor'd Suitor of ye all,
For ev'ry Muse with Pleasure heard his Call.—
Engaging Hoadly!—The rare Lot was thine,
Or grave, or gay, transcendently to shine!
Thy ready Pen could picture deep Distress,
Or all the Force of comic Life impress;
Folly and Vice with Satire keen alarm,
Tho' rarely us'd thy Wit, unless to charm!—
But why erect thy Fame on shining Parts?
'Twas thine to win, nay, captivate all Hearts:
Thy happy Spirits flow'd in steady Course,
From the pure Spring of Virtue's sacred Source;

270

It was thy Wish to check each Mourner's Sigh,
Thy Aim to wipe the Tear from ev'ry Eye;
And to such Views the noblest Triumph's giv'n,
E'en here on Earth begins the hop'd-for Heav'n!—
Thy Looks serene announc'd that Triumph gain'd;
Peace and Benevolence in Smiles there reign'd.
'Midst Pains severe still cheerful and resign'd!
Tho' bow'd thy Body, yet unbent thy Mind!
Calmly consid'ring Death as a Repose;
And when the Mortal sunk,—the Angel rose!—

Spirit Benign! enjoy a hallow'd Rest!
Thy Worth acknowledg'd, and thy Mem'ry blest.
And oft, my Sadleir, when our Hoadly's Loss
Shall be our Theme, and Life's gay Moments cross,
Oft as his absent Friendship we deplore;
(And who have better known?—who lov'd him more?)

271

Let us, since fleeting Time so rapid flies,
And rends the brittle Chain of human Ties,
This strength'ning Link broke off, with firmer Clasp
Those Parts which yet remain unsever'd, grasp.—
In the sweet Counsels of congenial Minds,
Man still the surest Source of Comfort finds:
Be it our Aim, that, e'en to Life's Extreme,
Nor Change, nor Chance shall lessen our Esteem;
Of one Dear Friend by Fate's Decree bereft,
We'll value more the few we still have left.

272

A NUPTIAL ODE, ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND,

On the Marriage of his Daughter.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LXXX.

I

Sweet is the Music of the Muse's Lyre,
When splendid Themes her magic Notes inspire,
Whether she sings embattled Hosts,
And gives to perish'd Annals Fame,
Or of some favor'd Hero boasts,
And raptur'd, consecrates his Name,
Or bids obedient Passions wait her Call,
The Sigh to Sorrow heave, the Tear to Mis'ry fall!

273

II

But far more sweet her Song, when all her Art
Aims to give Transport to the human Heart;
When she in soothing Strains reveals
Whate'er sublimest Virtue knows,
All that each soft Affection feels,
And Life's most happy Hour bestows,
With Reason's Voice the Woes of Man disarms,
Paints Love's exalted Joys, and Friendship's sacred Charms.

III

With ravish'd Eye she views this Festive Day,
And dedicates to Thee, my Friend, her Lay.—
She marks the Torch of Hymen blaze,
And sees around the chosen Band,
And Thee, with fond parental Gaze,
Lead up a Daughter by the Hand,
All rob'd in White, with Looks of artless Truth
And ev'ry blushing Grace that waits on virgin Youth.

274

IV

Such modest Semblance Virtue only wears,
And such alone th'ingenuous Mind declares;
Then onward lead her—Anxious waits
The Bridegroom to receive his Prize,
While ev'ry Hope his Breast elates,
And Transport dances in his Eyes;
To Honor's noblest Feelings ever true,
A Lover worthy Her—A Choice most worthy You.

V

Now at the Altar, lo! the Ring is giv'n,
The mutual Vow is pledg'd—Confirm it Heav'n!—
Genii, who conduct our Pleasures,
Join the Hymeneal Train,
Pour around them Love's best Treasures,
Heart to Heart still more enchain;
And let the Muse, twining the Myrtle Wreath,
To Thee, my valu'd Friend, her fond Prediction breath.

275

VI

Oh! if aright she reads the Book of Fate,
New Joys for thee shall This Day's Act create;
The Virtues of this wedded Pair
Shall warm your Hopes, shall live your Theme;
The Future, brightest Sunshine wear,
The Past, be shadow'd as a Dream;
To Thee, each Mark of cordial Love be shown,
And they, like me, shall prize, that Worth I long have known.

276

ADVICE TO A LITTLE GIRL,

The Author's Daughter, On her being honored with some Instruction By Mrs. DELANY In cutting out Paper.

[_]

WRITTEN AT BULLSTRODE, M.DCC.LXXX.

With that Benevolence which condescends
To glide its Knowledge to the youthful Heart,
O'er thee, my Child, the Good Delany bends,
Directs thy Scissars, and reveals her Art.

Ah! seize the happy Moment!—She can shew
The mazy Path mysterious Nature treads;
Can steal her varied Grace, her varied Glow,
And all the changeful Beauties that she spreads.

277

Then mark thy kind Instructress, watch her Hand,
Her Judgment, her inspiring Touch attain;
Thy Scissars, make like her's, a Magic Wand!—
Tho' much I fear thy Efforts will be vain.—

Failing in this, my Child, forbear the Strife;
Another Path to Fame by her is shown;—
Try by the Pattern of her honor'd Life,
With equal Virtue to cut out thine own.

END OF THE SECOND VOLUME.

University of Virginia Library

II. VOL. II.

AN EPISTLE FROM LADY JANE GRAY, TO LORD GUILFORD DUDLEY,

Supposed to have been written in the Tower, a few Days before they suffered.

TO A LADY

Going to bathe in the Sea.

TO A Young LADY,

Who admirably supported the Character of a Judge, at Mrs. Phipps's Masquerade in Hampshire, 1765.

TO A FRIEND, On New-Year's Day, 1766.

PROLOGUE, On opening of the new Theatre, at Southampton, 1766.

A CARD TO DAVID GARRICK, Esq.

On his playing Hamlet, after his Return from Italy in 1766.

ON Seeing Mrs. Garrick in a Country Dance.

TO BIDDY AT BATH.

THE ALPS.

A POEM.

EPILOGUE TO THE Dramatic Romance of CYMON.

Spoken by Mrs. Abington, At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1767.

A LITTLE ODE, TO A LITTLE MAID,

On her first going out after her Birth.

TO A LADY,

With a present of a Stilton Cheese.

TO ARDELIA,

On her producing some Essence of Roses.

A POEM TO THE MEMORY OF THE CELEBRATED Mrs. CIBBER.

THE FAN. TO ARDELIA.

A FAREWELL EPILOGUE;

INTENDED FOR Mrs. PRITCHARD At her last Appearance on the Stage, after the Play of Macbeth, which she had for her Benefit, the 25th of April 1768.

TO THE THAMES.

THE SWORD-KNOT:

TO Mrs. WILBRAHAM BOOTLE.

THE POWER OF FANCY.

TO ARDELIA.

FERNEY : AN EPISTLE TO MONSR DE VOLTAIRE.

TO ARDELIA.

PROLOGUE TO THE Play of KING JOHN, Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1769.

EPILOGUE TO THE Play of KING JOHN, Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1769.

TO ARDELIA.

New Year's Day, 1770.

EPILOGUE TO THE Play of MACBETH.

Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1770.

Spoken by Lady Macbeth.

AN ADDRESS FROM THE THAMES.

Presented to Messrs. Adam, On the Day when they first came to their new House in the Adelphi, 1771.

THE CONTENTED MAID.

A SONG.

I

II

TO ARDELIA,

On her Recovery from a long Illness.

TO Mrs. BLAKE, With a Pair of Hand-Screens.

CUPID's REMONSTRANCE, AN EPILOGUE,

Spoken at Drury-Lane Theatre, 1772, By Miss Hopkins, in the Character of Cupid.

A BURLESQUE ODE,

On the Author's clearing a new House of Workmen.

PROLOGUE, TO THE Play of JULIUS CÆSAR, Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1774.

TO Miss DUVAL,

On her Marriage with Monsr. JOLY, of GENEVA.

THE MONUMENT IN ARCADIA:

A DRAMATIC POEM, IN TWO ACTS.

Persons of the Drama.

ACT I.

ACT II.

DUET.

SONG.

AIR.

EPILOGUE.

TO The Messrs. ADAM,

On their late successful Lottery.

EPILOGUE FOR THE First Part of HENRY IV.

Acted at Mr. Newcomb's at Hackney, 1777.

A PETITION FROM Mrs. DELANY's Citron-Tree ,

TO HER GRACE The Dutchess Dowager of Portland.

To the Memory of Dr. JOHN HOADLY, Chancellor of Winchester.

ADDRESSED TO RICHARD VERNON SADLEIR, Esq.

A NUPTIAL ODE, ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND,

On the Marriage of his Daughter.

I

II

III