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

Quod si non hic tantus fructus ostenderetur, & si ex his Studiis delectatio sola peteretur; tamen, ut opinor, hanc animi remissionem humanissimam & liberalissimam judicaretis.

Cic.

Hymn to the MORNING

Awake my Soul, and with the constant Morn,
Carol th' ALMIGHTY's Praise; awake and tune
The vocal Shell to sympathetic Sounds,
And heav'nly Confort. See! the radiant Sun
Stains with etherial Gold the varied East,
And vast Expanse; behold! with Giant stride
He'advances ruddy, and with him returns

The sweet Vicissitude of Day, and all
Th'obsequious Train of filial Colours. Now
The vivid Green extends her welcome Sway
O'er the sequester'd Lawns, and smiling Meads:
And now the purpled Violet resumes
Its costly Dye; and all th'extended Plains
Confess th' ALMIGHTY's Hand, of Ornament
Profuse. Behold! with fleshy Pink they smile
Enamel'd, and the Daisy's dwarfy Bloom
Of pallid Hue, and gorgeous Marygold.

ON ev'ry grassy Sprig a pearly Drop
Hangs wav'ring, and with varied Ray proclaims
Its great Progenitor. The liquid Gem,
Pendent and tremulous, with rival Gleam
Mimicks the Lustre of its Parent Orb.
Vain Man's best Emblem! who with BORROW'D LIGHT
Which Ev'ry Touch Destroys, against his God
Dares wage an impious and gigantic War.

FROM downy Nest of artificial Weft
The sedulous Airlings rise, and to their Task
Hye joious. Or with gamesome Wing they cut
The yielding Fluent, and with transient Touch
Skim the moist Element in sportive Whirl:
Or else to studious Wand'rer's curious View
Delightful, they collect their grainy Food
And masticative Stones. But heark! the Grove,
Respondent to the tuneful Choir, resound
Celestial Symphony. The speckled Thrush
Of various Note, and Blackbirds piercing Sound,
Conjoin'd to Philomela's parting Lay,
Mournfully sweet, conspire to usher in
The pompous Morn. Nor shall my only Voice
Be wanting in the general Hymn: Of Song
Unskilful, yet with grateful Hand I'll touch
The trembling String, and chant th' ALMIGHTY's Praise.
Vagrant, like the industrious Bee, I'll cull

Nature's choice Sweets, and still with prying Ken
Descry the Wonders of her fruitful Womb.

BUT see! the great Exemplar of my Verse,
The Lab'rer Bee, assiduous rife. Behold!
From waxen Cell and more inglorious Ease,
Active he hastens and with hov'ring Buzz
Extracts mellific Juice. From Bloom to Bloom
He wanders dainty, and with nice Discern
Rejects each vulgar Sweet. Hail, mighty Chief!
Hyblæan Wand'rer, hail! Still may'st thou sip
The pure and elemental Dews; whilst I,
With daring Song, and more advent'rous Foot,
Attempt the steepy Heights, where Milton first,
Great Chieftain, solitary trod; and taught
The list'ning World, what Michael's potent Arm
In Fight could do, and human Wit atchieve.

To Mr. --- at London.

An Imitation of Horace.

SOME praise Augusta's lofty Spires,
Affecting Kindred with the Skies;
Another Sot her Streets admires,
The glorious Dirt, th'enchanting Noise;
Where Fops repugnant met, agree alone
In this; that all are wand'ring, all are wrong.

SOME again, with rapt'rous Tongue,
Extol Soft WINDSOR's Green Retreats;
Taught by POPE's romantic Song,
Sequester'd Scenes and Muse's Seats.
But these, the Muse's Magpies, catch her Words;
Neglectful, what the noble Sense affords.

OTHERS make the crowded Mall,
And Theatre their bigot Theme;
Where Follies of all Kinds excel,
And painted Faces sit supreme:
Where idol Doxies, and affected Beaux
Reign first in Folly, as they're first in Cloaths.

FOR me, not Rich's utmost Art,
Not all the Dæmon's of the Stage,
Can from her dear Embrace dispart,
Can from my Oxford disengage:
Where Isis rolls her slow majestick Stream,
And charm'd by Song, forgets th'uxorious Tame.

SOMETIMES in pensive Mood I stray,
And trace her Honours to the Sourse:
Sometimes from neighbour Hills survey
The mystick Mazes of her Course.
Whence Oxford's tow'ry Head adorns the Scene,
And Blenheim dignifies the distant Plain.

BUT thou, my Friend, remember still
With gen'rous Wine to banish Care.
True Joys are few; then boldly fill:
The racy Juice will heal Dispair.
As Clouds don't always blacken Summer Skies,
So let not Care still ruffle youthful Joys.

When Drake, that brave undaunted Man,
Who first durst tempt the Southern Seas,
Extending Britain's wide Command
From farthest West to distant East,
Was landed on the dreary desert coast.
He thus the Comrades of his Toil accost.

“COME, my Boys, with rosy Wine
“Let the foaming Bowl be crown'd,
“Let us all in Mirth combine,
“And Britain's Monarch still go round.
“Britain and Drake reign Sov'reign of the Sea,
“Nor fear, where Drake and Britain lead the Way.

“LET earth-born Mortals of the Land
“On gaping Sots their Morals palm;
“We're taught more Wisdom by our Main,
“Where's sometimes Storm, and sometimes Calm.
“Then let's carouse; To-morrow we'll again
“Brave the rough Buffets of the boistrous Main.”

To SYLVIA.

Sent by the Author unknown.

As from the deep Recesses of a Grove,
The plaintive Philomela chants her Love;
Herself unseen, yet through the neighbouring Plain,
Delightful Shrills the melancholly strain:
So strives the Muse with bold Attempt to sing,
Harsh tho' her Voice, tho' feeble be her Wing,
Happy at last in this, that still unknown,
She trusts the Folly to herself alone.
Thrice happier still, if, with her faithful Strain
She can one Moment Sylvia's Ear detain;

And with the solitary Tea, can share
The Glory to divert the pensive Fair.

ACCEPT, bright Maid, this tributary Song;
To you the Labours of the Muse belong:
To you she sings; inspired by your name,
She kindles with the Poet's gen'rous Flame.
Nor scorn her Lay, because unseen, unknown,
She modest roams the gloomy Grove alone.
The gurgling Brook, which through some Wood does stray,
And in soft Musick glides the dusky Way;
Altho' from public View retir'd her Streams,
Which pendent Trees obscure from Phoebus Beams,
Yet not less pleasing is her num'rous Roar,
Less sweet her Nectar, or less cool her Shore.

To SYLVIA.

An Imitation of Anacreon.

OFT I string the Lydian Lyre,
Oft in noble Strains aspire
To sing the Glories of that Face,
Each secret Charm, each nameless Grace;
But still the disobedient Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

OFT with witty quaint Conceit,
I vainly strive to celebrate
That, which no Colours can reveal
Which we only see, and only feel:
But still the disobedient Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

FAREWELL, wild impetuous Ode;
Farewel, Phœbus, mighty God

Of well turn'd Wit; with all your Train,
The frantick Off-spring of the Brain.
But welcome, gentle Lyre, whose Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

TELL her, in soft pathetic Strains,
All my Anguish, all my Pains;
Tell her, I love, I rave, I die;
I dare not speak, I cannot fly.
Tell her, all this, ye gentle Strings, that move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

ANACREONTIQUE

IF Gold protracts the merry Scene,
And partial Death obeys its Pow'r;
With prudent Forecast, careful Mien,
I'll amass the shining Store.

AND if his grisley Godship come,
I'll divert the fatal Dart.

A Purse he wants—Behold the Sum—
He'll scrape obsequious, and depart.

BUT since reverseless Fates deny
This Virtue to the glitt'ring Ore;
Tell me, Mortal, tell me, why
Should I the gaudy Dust adore?

THEN let the ruddy God advance,
And some beauteous lovesome She;
With Mirth, and Joke, and Quirp, and Dance:
These alone have Joys for me.

FABLE

ONCE upon a Time, an Ass,
Bending beneath a pond'rous Mass
Of holy Lumber; Reliques, Bulls,
Saints Fingers, Teeth, and sacred Sculls;
Observ'd, where-e'er he came, the Crowd
With the profoundest Rev'rence bow'd,

And paid their Homage, as he pass'd,
Which to himself he Thought address'd.
Pleas'd with the Thought, the awkard Creature
Affects a State in ev'ry Feature,
Struts boldly on, assumes the God,
Receives their Incense with a Nod,
And graciously inclines his Ear
To the fond Rabble's senseless Pray'r;
Which once receiv'd, his Godship Jack
Brays harsh his Approbation back.

MORAL

SEE Scaurus comes; I rev'rent bow,
And give his Post the Honour due;
Which he, poor Ass, mistakes, as paid
To the Vacuity of his Head.

EPIGRAM

SCAURUS hates Greek, and is become
Mere Trojan in his Spight;
But why so fierce against the Men,
So learned and polite?

THE Trojans stole, and kept by Force
A Dame, elop'd from Duty;
But you can't plead e'en this Pretence
Of having stole one Beauty.

To a FRIEND, Who recommended a Wife to him.

I OWN, the Match, you recommend,
Is far above my mean Desert;
I own, you've acted like a Friend,
A hearty, kind, and gen'rous Part.

BUT Marriage, Sir,'s a serious Case;
Maturest Thought should chuse a Wife;
Tho' some aver, the wisest Way's
To think upon it all one's Life.

FABLE

A Rustick once, on Travel bent,
To Oxford's sacred Mansions went;
From Place to Place unheeded stray'd,
Where-e'er his wand'ring Fancy led.
By Chance at Length betray'd, he came
Near Bodley's ever-sacred Frame;
Where Two learn'd Clerks, in deep Debate,
Were settling Locke's and Ary's Fate.

SURROUNDED by a sneering Crowd,
The Stray in deep Attention stood.
Till up there step'd a pert young Blade,
And thus his coxcomb Wit display'd.

Well honest Hob, how like you this?
Our Oxford Quirps and Quiddities?
This Latin Tongue has Charms, unknown
To the harsh Accent of our own.
Besides, the Lads are brisk and tight.
Which think you, Sir, is in the Right?
That matters not, replies the Clown,
If I can tell, who's in the Wrong.
Conceditur, rejoins our Spark,
For if ti'n't Light, you know, 'tis Dark.
But I impatient wait to hear,
Which your deep Judgment shall declare.
Then mark, reply'd th'unletter'd Sage,
The Man, that fell into a Rage.
Without much Latin, I proclaim,
His Notions wrong, and he to blame.
Ill-Humour, more express than Words,
Of this a flagrant Proof affords;
And that he's vex'd, within to find
The plain Conviction of his Mind.

MORAL

HOW oft do angry Fools declare
Their Errors, in the learned War?
Obscure their Theme, their Matter deep,
From common Sense their Faults might keep.
But Passions, those unerring Signs,
Shew ev'ry Hob, where Truth inclines.

Cant Word for Aristotle.

SONG

Young Poets, in Love,
Will call from above
Cytherea, drest all in her Graces and Airs;
And will tell their fond dreams of Ida's soft Grove,
Of Cupids, of Doves, and of Carrs.

SOME Cloe beside,
Or Sylvia must hide
The Name of the Fair that possesses their Heart.
Thus sighing in Pomp of Poetical Pride,
They vainly make Shew of their Art.

NO Poet am I,
And no Dame of the Sky,
No Fiction shall ever disgrace my bright Flame;
That the Truth is most beautiful, none will deny,
When I tell them, that --- is her Name.

THEN fill up my Glass;
Here's a Health to the Lass:
As for Venus, I fairly now bid you Adieu;
Since on her you can never reflect any Praise,
I'll not labour to compliment you.

ANACREONTIQUE

Let others in Heroicks tell,
How Marlb'rough fought, or Ilium fell;
For me, I will, in humble Verse,
My soft Captivity rehearse.
NO hardy Foot, no Warrior Horse,
No batt'ring Rams, or Ships of Force

Could ever cause the sad Distress,
That ravages within my Breast:
But 'tis a diff'rent Kind of War,
That spreads it's sweet Destruction far,
And shot from beauteous Cælia's Eye,
Makes me not only love, but—die.

To SYLVIA.

WHEN deck'd in pompous Majesty, the Sun
The steepy Height of Heav'ns Ascent has won;
Too bright the Glory, and too fierce the Day,
The feeble Shepherd shuns the gorgeous Ray.
The same our Care, tho' different be our Fate:
He pipes secure beneath the Beeche's Height;
While I, alass! in vain retire from Love
To the cool Covert of the shady Grove.
In vain I fly! the Grove denies Relief
To the soft Torments of a Lover's Grief.
If with the new-born Light I chance to stray,
And through the Woodland shape my listless Way.

The matted Grass, the Leaves and pearly Dew
Breathe of the Morn, and utter nought but you.
Your Voice inspires the feather'd Songster's Throat.
Sweet through the Grove resounds the various Note;
Yet sweeter break the Accents from thy Tongue,
Than the soft Warbling of the tuneful Throng.
All's full of you; the Plants, the Flow'rs, the Trees,
The gurgling Rill, and soft etherial Breeze.
Through Nature's Works I find but fresh Alarms,
And trace th'unfinished Sketches of those matchless Charms.

ANACREONTIC

OLD Poets sing the Dame, to Stone
Converted by Jove's radiant Son:
How Progne builds her clayey Cell
In Chimnies, where she once did dwell.
For me, (did Fate permit to use,
Whatever Forms our Fancies chuse)

I'd be my lovely Sylvia's Glass,
Still to reflect her beauteous Face;
I'd be the pure and limpid Wave,
In which my Fair delights to lave;
I'd be her Garment, still to hide
Her snowy Limbs, with decent Pride;
I'd be the Girdle, to embrace
The gradual Taper of her Wast;
I'd be her Tippet, still to press
The snowy Velvet of her Breast;
But if the rigid Fates denied
Such Ornaments of Grace and Pride,
I'd be her very Shoe, that she
With scornful Tread might trample me.

TO SYLVIA, On Approach of Winter

Come, my Silvia, come away;
Youth and Beauty will not stay;
Let's enjoy the present now.

Heark, tempestuous Winter's Roar,
How it blusters at the Door,
Charg'd with Frosts, and Storms, and Snow.

SEATED near the crackling Fire,
Let's indulge our fond Desire,
Careless of rough Borea's Blast:
Let us teach the blooming Youth,
What Joys attend on Love and Truth;
How much they please, how long they last.

THE am'rous Warblers of the Grove,
That in sweet Carols chant their Love,
Can only sing, whilst Spring inspires;
But let us shew, no Age, no Time,
No warring Seasons, frozen Clime,
Can damp the Warmth of our Desires.

An EPISTLE To --- Esq.

Thou, whose warm Soul's still eager to commend
The feeble efforts of thy Rhimester Friend,
Ingenious ---, what on Cornwall's Coast
Dost thou devise? Of what new Labour boast?
High on a Clift, which e'en transcends the Flight
Of Shakespear's boldest Muse, dost thou delight
The studious Mind? Or on the subject Shore
Stray lonely, Nature's Secrets to explore?
What dost thou do? Into the Mine descend,
And view the kindred Ores their Masses blend?
Or else, in Search of Plants, excursive rove
Through the gay Mead and venerable Grove?

PERHAPS to Love and Gallantry inclin'd,
You now unbend and humanize the Mind
With Passions, gentle, soft, engaging, kind;

Which rise above the Pedant's dull Pretence,
And add a Grace and Elegance to Sense.
But no ---
I know you better; these can only find
A second Place in the exalted Mind.
From the vain World retir'd, you often rove,
And Court Self-Converse in the lonely Grove.
Or in the Silence of some awful Wood,
You con th'important Lesson to be good:
Descend into yourself, with Search severe,
And prune each latent evil, budding there:
Weigh ev'ry Thought; on what each Notion stands:
What Reason dictates, and your God commands.

On the Corruptions of the STAGE

Long did the Stage with nervous Sense delight,
Exalt the ravish'd Soul, and charm the Sight;
Whilst Shakespear, Row and all those Sons of Fame,
(Our greatest Glory, and our greatest Shame)

With lofty Buskin, or facetious Lay,
Held o'er the captive Mind despotic Sway.
With noble Ardor then they trod the Scene,
We came, we saw, we gaz'd ourselves to Men.

At length from Latian Shores, infectious Clime!
Came the soft Cadence and inervate Chime.
Amphion-like, those modern Sons of Art
Could chain the Sense and captivate the Heart.
Oh wond'rous Skill! but mark the Syren Rocks;
He Blocks to Men, they Men transform'd to Blocks.

NEXT Harlequin, ingenious Antique, came;
The same his Magic, and his Sourse the same.
With Kick facetious, or with witty Grin,
He rais'd our Laughter—but expos'd our Brain.
In vain Mercutio jests, poor Juliet mourns in vain.
Phogh! who can bear th'intolerable Strain!
Where strong and manly sense disturbs our Ease,
And Passions, too affecting e'er to please.

To burning Houses, Monsters, and Grimace,
To flying Bottles, Wands, and waving Seas,
To cheated Cuckolds, and the bold Rogere,
Illustrious Hero! pendent in the Air;
To these we fly, and leave those Sons of Spleen,
The Fools of Sense, to doat on Shakespear's Scene.

MACHEATH at last arose with vent'rous Wing,
And laugh'd away the Brethren of the String.
But whilst he cures the Head-Ake's trifling Pain,
With raging Frenzy he infects the Brain.
To awkard Imitations next we came,
The nauseous Snuffs of true poetick Flame.
From foreign Trifling and unmanly Tone,
We turn to downright Nonsense of our own.

A French Player at the Old House.

FINIS