Mr. Cooke's Original Poems with Imitations and Translations of Several Select Passages of the Antients, In Four Parts: To which are added Proposals For perfecting the English Language |
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 | Mr. Cooke's Original Poems |  |
TO The Right Honourable William Lord Talbot.
1
1. PART the First, CONTAINING ESSAYS, TALES, AND A RHAPSODY On Virtue and Pleasure.
3
AN ESSAY ON NOBILITY.
To His Grace the Duke of Somerset.
Glory by few is rightly understood,
What's truly glorious must be greatly good;
And what is glorious we may noble call;
The Deed is glorious, and 'tis noble all.
What's truly glorious must be greatly good;
And what is glorious we may noble call;
The Deed is glorious, and 'tis noble all.
Princes with Titles may their Creatures pay
For Acts too shameful for the Face of Day;
Heralds with Nobles may their Names enroll;
But who can give the Wretch a noble Soul?
Patents may pass to stile a Mortal Jove,
Or call a wealthy Hag the Queen of Love:
In such a Prince's Smiles himself who prides,
That makes a Noble of the Beast he rides?
If Nero reigns, of Honours he's the Spring,
Or he that knights his Beef, the pedant King.
For Acts too shameful for the Face of Day;
Heralds with Nobles may their Names enroll;
But who can give the Wretch a noble Soul?
Patents may pass to stile a Mortal Jove,
Or call a wealthy Hag the Queen of Love:
4
That makes a Noble of the Beast he rides?
If Nero reigns, of Honours he's the Spring,
Or he that knights his Beef, the pedant King.
Kings who of Honour nicely scan the Laws
No Nobles make for an ignoble Cause;
Men justly brave, and greatly good, they chuse,
And Honours give where they no Honour lose;
Our Seymours such, our Piercys such, of old;
And such our Kings who knew the Dross from Gold.
No Nobles make for an ignoble Cause;
Men justly brave, and greatly good, they chuse,
And Honours give where they no Honour lose;
Our Seymours such, our Piercys such, of old;
And such our Kings who knew the Dross from Gold.
They who of long Descent are Nobles born,
Should look on all that's base with Eyes of Scorn;
When the bright List of their great Sires they see,
Thence they should learn what they themselves should be,
By them with Emulation fir'd, should strive
To keep the Honours of their House alive:
As in a Train the virtuous Fires should run,
Enriching ev'ry Vein from Son to Son:
They, like the Blaze that mounts to meet the Sky,
Should catch th'Æthereal Flame, nor let it dy.
Should look on all that's base with Eyes of Scorn;
When the bright List of their great Sires they see,
Thence they should learn what they themselves should be,
By them with Emulation fir'd, should strive
To keep the Honours of their House alive:
As in a Train the virtuous Fires should run,
Enriching ev'ry Vein from Son to Son:
They, like the Blaze that mounts to meet the Sky,
Should catch th'Æthereal Flame, nor let it dy.
In you, my Lord, the noble Soul is seen,
That flys, like Saints from Sin, from all that's mean,
That dignifys the Titles, which you wear,
And shews what's truly great from what you are:
Without the least Advantages of Birth,
Nobles like you are Nobles of the Earth;
Virtues like thine demand the World's Regard;
And of those Virtues Glory's the Reward.
Glory's in England, Rome, and Greece, the same,
Tho chang'd the Clime, the Person, and the Name.
What Xenophon to Acts of Glory fir'd,
When Rome was great, her Atticus inspir'd:
Foremost in Arms behold th'illustrious Greek,
And lo! in all he writes the Graces speak,
In Arms, in Arts, in Virtue, well approv'd,
Friend to the Masters of those Arts he lov'd.
In troubled Times the noble Roman stood
The sure Asylum of the injur'd good;
Regardless he of Tyrants or their Pow'r,
The wise were welcome to his learned Bow'r;
The Academic and the Stoic Sage
There reason'd calm amidst a ruffled Age:
Oppress'd by Fortune and the Weight of Years,
Dearer the Roman Orator appears,
To him, than Cæsar, who usurp'd his Sway,
In Pride of Empire and his Blaze of Day.
That flys, like Saints from Sin, from all that's mean,
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And shews what's truly great from what you are:
Without the least Advantages of Birth,
Nobles like you are Nobles of the Earth;
Virtues like thine demand the World's Regard;
And of those Virtues Glory's the Reward.
Glory's in England, Rome, and Greece, the same,
Tho chang'd the Clime, the Person, and the Name.
What Xenophon to Acts of Glory fir'd,
When Rome was great, her Atticus inspir'd:
Foremost in Arms behold th'illustrious Greek,
And lo! in all he writes the Graces speak,
In Arms, in Arts, in Virtue, well approv'd,
Friend to the Masters of those Arts he lov'd.
In troubled Times the noble Roman stood
The sure Asylum of the injur'd good;
Regardless he of Tyrants or their Pow'r,
The wise were welcome to his learned Bow'r;
The Academic and the Stoic Sage
There reason'd calm amidst a ruffled Age:
Oppress'd by Fortune and the Weight of Years,
Dearer the Roman Orator appears,
To him, than Cæsar, who usurp'd his Sway,
In Pride of Empire and his Blaze of Day.
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What in th'illustrious Greek we noble see
Is noble, or in Atticus, or thee:
Thy gen'rous Views to future Days extend,
The Friend of Virtue, and of Arts the Friend.
Where Cam, in sacred Song immortal, flows,
Where Barrow, and his great Disciple rose,
Where Spenser, fruitful of Invention, sung,
Where Milton first his Lyre, and Dryden, strung,
Where meditated Lee the tragic Strain,
And Johnson first indulg'd his comic Vein,
Where Tillotson, that Tree of Wisdom, grew,
And Clarke, who ev'ry Branch of Knowledge knew,
That Seat of Learning shall your Bounty bless,
Shall you their Patron and their Sire confess,
While flows the Cam, and Sciences remain,
Till Fish forsake the Sea, and Herds the Plain.
Is noble, or in Atticus, or thee:
Thy gen'rous Views to future Days extend,
The Friend of Virtue, and of Arts the Friend.
Where Cam, in sacred Song immortal, flows,
Where Barrow, and his great Disciple rose,
Where Spenser, fruitful of Invention, sung,
Where Milton first his Lyre, and Dryden, strung,
Where meditated Lee the tragic Strain,
And Johnson first indulg'd his comic Vein,
Where Tillotson, that Tree of Wisdom, grew,
And Clarke, who ev'ry Branch of Knowledge knew,
That Seat of Learning shall your Bounty bless,
Shall you their Patron and their Sire confess,
While flows the Cam, and Sciences remain,
Till Fish forsake the Sea, and Herds the Plain.
7
AN ESSAY ON THE Antient and Modern State of Great Britain, and on the Posture of Affairs in Europe in the Years 1734, and 1735.
TO His Grace the Duke of Marlborough.
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Shall
France triumphant over Europe ride,
And spread her Arms extensive as her Pride,
Shall the loud Voice of War be hear'd again,
And Britain offer Terms of Peace in vain,
And not a Patriot Muse with Marlb'rough's Name
Rouse up her Country to assert her Fame?
Attend, illustrious Youth, O! bring thine Aid,
And with thy Grandsire's Toils the Land upbraid:
E'en Half the Glorys which his Toils have won
Would rank the Leader's Name with Philip's Son;
Not Philip's Son, surnam'd the Great, can claim
The foremost Honours in the Rolls of Fame;
Marlb'rough's and his, how diff'rent their Renown!
A Tyrant one, one pull'd a Tyrant down.
And spread her Arms extensive as her Pride,
Shall the loud Voice of War be hear'd again,
And Britain offer Terms of Peace in vain,
And not a Patriot Muse with Marlb'rough's Name
Rouse up her Country to assert her Fame?
Attend, illustrious Youth, O! bring thine Aid,
And with thy Grandsire's Toils the Land upbraid:
E'en Half the Glorys which his Toils have won
Would rank the Leader's Name with Philip's Son;
Not Philip's Son, surnam'd the Great, can claim
The foremost Honours in the Rolls of Fame;
Marlb'rough's and his, how diff'rent their Renown!
A Tyrant one, one pull'd a Tyrant down.
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Cast, noble Youth, indignant cast, thine Eye
On Europe's State, nor pass Britannia by;
Compare the present with the pass'd, and see
What once the Britons were, and what are we:
See the fam'd Land, whose gallant Sons advance
At once the Terror, and the Lords, of France:
What never-sading Honours Edward won!
And what in Cressey's Field his godlike Son!
Arm'd with paternal Vigour on he sprung,
As rouses from his Den the Lion's Young.
In Agencourt what our fifth Henry gain'd,
In Gaul who conquer'd, and in Gaul who reign'd!
These are the Monarchs which a Throne adorn;
True British Worthys these, and British born!
Harden'd in Camps, and in the Council wise,
On Honour, and on Fame, they fix'd their Eyes;
Where-e'er they summon'd they obey'd the Call,
To pitch the Battel, or to scale the Wall.
When Darkness bids the Din of War to cease,
And for a-while compells the Troops to Peace,
Back to the Camp their harrass'd Limbs they bear,
Their Strength with scanty Viands to repair:
Beneath the Night, and o'er the hostile Ground,
Behold the watchful Hero takes his Round,
Descrys the Motions of the Foe from far,
And wakeful meditates To-morrow's War:
He cheers the drooping, and the bold commends,
And Fellow-soldiers calls them all, and Friends:
Short are his Sleeps, if Sleep the Chief requires,
Who freted Roofs nor Beds of Down desires;
But cas'd in Steel, and stretch'd along the Field,
He makes a Pillow of his wounded Shield;
And vigilant in Sleep, tho void of Fear,
Close by his Side he lays his Sword and Spear:
His Slumbers soon the Trumpet's Clangor breaks;
From Dreams of Glory he to Glory wakes:
Such were our antient Heros, such our Kings;
No Shadows they of Pow'r, mere purple Things!
Heros were they who early sought Renown,
And with the Laurel Wreath adorn'd the Crown:
Nor less Eliza, bless'd heroic Maid,
Th'immortal Honours to thy Virtues pay'd;
Whose Veins were cherish'd with the richest Flood,
Where flow'd the noblest of the Tudor's Blood;
Who chose for England's Happyness to reign,
And fix'd her Wealth and Safety on the Main;
By whose Command the flying Tow'rs arose,
And wafted Terror to thy distant Foes.
When the proud Spaniard, in an evil Hour,
Boasted invincible his naval Pow'r,
Resolv'd to pull the Virgin's Glory down,
To Britain's Isle he sent his floating Town;
His floating Town the Virgin's Thunder try'd,
And gave vindictive to the Wind and Tyde:
So was the Pride of England's Flag maintain'd,
When Burleigh counsel'd, and Eliza reign'd:
Then with a lib'ral Hand the Subject gave
Whate'er the State requir'd, or Prince would have;
For well they knew the royal Maid's Desires
Were all confin'd to what the State requires;
She brought them Conquests Home, and brought them Peace,
Encrease of Empire, and the Trade's Encrease:
Beneath her Eye no blund'ring Statesman rose,
To grieve her Friends, and to elate her Foes,
To spread Oppression and Disgrace around,
To mock the injur'd, and the wife confound,
In medley Councils, when the Nations jar,
To hesitate when Glory calls to War:
No Bribes for wounded Honour could atone;
Nor skulk'd th'Oppressor then behind the Throne.
On Europe's State, nor pass Britannia by;
Compare the present with the pass'd, and see
What once the Britons were, and what are we:
See the fam'd Land, whose gallant Sons advance
At once the Terror, and the Lords, of France:
What never-sading Honours Edward won!
And what in Cressey's Field his godlike Son!
Arm'd with paternal Vigour on he sprung,
As rouses from his Den the Lion's Young.
In Agencourt what our fifth Henry gain'd,
In Gaul who conquer'd, and in Gaul who reign'd!
These are the Monarchs which a Throne adorn;
True British Worthys these, and British born!
Harden'd in Camps, and in the Council wise,
On Honour, and on Fame, they fix'd their Eyes;
Where-e'er they summon'd they obey'd the Call,
To pitch the Battel, or to scale the Wall.
When Darkness bids the Din of War to cease,
And for a-while compells the Troops to Peace,
Back to the Camp their harrass'd Limbs they bear,
Their Strength with scanty Viands to repair:
Beneath the Night, and o'er the hostile Ground,
Behold the watchful Hero takes his Round,
Descrys the Motions of the Foe from far,
And wakeful meditates To-morrow's War:
11
And Fellow-soldiers calls them all, and Friends:
Short are his Sleeps, if Sleep the Chief requires,
Who freted Roofs nor Beds of Down desires;
But cas'd in Steel, and stretch'd along the Field,
He makes a Pillow of his wounded Shield;
And vigilant in Sleep, tho void of Fear,
Close by his Side he lays his Sword and Spear:
His Slumbers soon the Trumpet's Clangor breaks;
From Dreams of Glory he to Glory wakes:
Such were our antient Heros, such our Kings;
No Shadows they of Pow'r, mere purple Things!
Heros were they who early sought Renown,
And with the Laurel Wreath adorn'd the Crown:
Nor less Eliza, bless'd heroic Maid,
Th'immortal Honours to thy Virtues pay'd;
Whose Veins were cherish'd with the richest Flood,
Where flow'd the noblest of the Tudor's Blood;
Who chose for England's Happyness to reign,
And fix'd her Wealth and Safety on the Main;
By whose Command the flying Tow'rs arose,
And wafted Terror to thy distant Foes.
When the proud Spaniard, in an evil Hour,
Boasted invincible his naval Pow'r,
Resolv'd to pull the Virgin's Glory down,
To Britain's Isle he sent his floating Town;
12
And gave vindictive to the Wind and Tyde:
So was the Pride of England's Flag maintain'd,
When Burleigh counsel'd, and Eliza reign'd:
Then with a lib'ral Hand the Subject gave
Whate'er the State requir'd, or Prince would have;
For well they knew the royal Maid's Desires
Were all confin'd to what the State requires;
She brought them Conquests Home, and brought them Peace,
Encrease of Empire, and the Trade's Encrease:
Beneath her Eye no blund'ring Statesman rose,
To grieve her Friends, and to elate her Foes,
To spread Oppression and Disgrace around,
To mock the injur'd, and the wife confound,
In medley Councils, when the Nations jar,
To hesitate when Glory calls to War:
No Bribes for wounded Honour could atone;
Nor skulk'd th'Oppressor then behind the Throne.
Treasures immense, rais'd on the People's Woe,
A peaceful Army, and a Fleet for Show,
A Nation's Debt unpay'd, a hireling Band,
The station'd Locusts of a groaning Land,
Kind Heav'n such Evils keep from England far,
Inglorious Uses of the Nerves of War!
A peaceful Army, and a Fleet for Show,
A Nation's Debt unpay'd, a hireling Band,
The station'd Locusts of a groaning Land,
Kind Heav'n such Evils keep from England far,
Inglorious Uses of the Nerves of War!
13
While arm'd, while fortify'd by Land and Wave,
Shall the proud Gaul our Arms unanswer'd brave?
Shall he the Scales of Europe's Int'rest hold,
And add his Sword, like Brennus, to his Gold,
While he sees laughing, of his Mirth the Theme,
The lighter Scale fly up, and kick the Beam?
Not so, in France when greater Lewis reign'd;
Britain oppos'd him, and his Pride restrain'd:
What was deny'd t'encrease great William's Praise
Was kep'd for Marlb'rough's Arms and Anna's Days.
Shall the proud Gaul our Arms unanswer'd brave?
Shall he the Scales of Europe's Int'rest hold,
And add his Sword, like Brennus, to his Gold,
While he sees laughing, of his Mirth the Theme,
The lighter Scale fly up, and kick the Beam?
Not so, in France when greater Lewis reign'd;
Britain oppos'd him, and his Pride restrain'd:
What was deny'd t'encrease great William's Praise
Was kep'd for Marlb'rough's Arms and Anna's Days.
Long had the Gallic Monarch broke his Bounds,
And like a Flood o'er-flow'd the neighb'ring Mounds;
Where-e'er his Armys march'd he spread Despair,
And chas'd the Austrian Eagle thro the Air;
To aim at universal Pow'r he dar'd;
And Britain's self the boastful Insult shar'd:
He bad Defyance bold with Sword and Shield,
Forgeting Agencourt and Cressey's Field.
Malb'rough steps forth to scourge the Scourge of Laws,
With Anna's Thunder arm'd in Europe's Cause:
He stops the Torrent in its rapid Course,
Repels its Fury, and restrains its Force,
Like Neptune shakes his Trident in his Ire,
Hush'd are the Billows, and the Waves retire.
And like a Flood o'er-flow'd the neighb'ring Mounds;
Where-e'er his Armys march'd he spread Despair,
And chas'd the Austrian Eagle thro the Air;
To aim at universal Pow'r he dar'd;
And Britain's self the boastful Insult shar'd:
He bad Defyance bold with Sword and Shield,
Forgeting Agencourt and Cressey's Field.
Malb'rough steps forth to scourge the Scourge of Laws,
With Anna's Thunder arm'd in Europe's Cause:
He stops the Torrent in its rapid Course,
Repels its Fury, and restrains its Force,
14
Hush'd are the Billows, and the Waves retire.
The Point of War no longer wakes the Day;
The Song of Triumph's sung, the grateful Lay;
Lewis submits, and all his Insults cease;
And Europe tastes again the Sweets of Peace.
The Song of Triumph's sung, the grateful Lay;
Lewis submits, and all his Insults cease;
And Europe tastes again the Sweets of Peace.
Soon as the Gallic Pow'r has heal'd the Scars
Of the deep Wounds receiv'd in Anna's Wars,
He sounds a Charge, and from the Cannon's Mouth
Hurls bold Defyance to the North and South:
Again the Austrian Eagle trembling flys,
And with Reluctance leaves th'Italian Skys;
To drive him thence while France and Spain combine,
He seeks a Refuge on the Banks of Rhine:
Mean-while behold the Russian Arms advance,
To fix the Pole, and blast the Hopes of France:
A Woman's Form, inspir'd with Peter's Soul,
Resolves at once to save and to controul;
See her of Europe's State the Bulwark stand,
And keep the Ballance with an equal Hand.
Of the deep Wounds receiv'd in Anna's Wars,
He sounds a Charge, and from the Cannon's Mouth
Hurls bold Defyance to the North and South:
Again the Austrian Eagle trembling flys,
And with Reluctance leaves th'Italian Skys;
To drive him thence while France and Spain combine,
He seeks a Refuge on the Banks of Rhine:
Mean-while behold the Russian Arms advance,
To fix the Pole, and blast the Hopes of France:
A Woman's Form, inspir'd with Peter's Soul,
Resolves at once to save and to controul;
See her of Europe's State the Bulwark stand,
And keep the Ballance with an equal Hand.
Blush, blush, ye Pow'rs unfaithful to your Trust,
Learn from a Woman to be brave and just;
No longer hear your injur'd Trade complain
Against Excise and Robbers on the Main;
Assert your Rights, and your loss'd Fame restore;
Remember, ------ and inglorious be no more:
While all in Arms, and in a gen'ral Cause,
The neighb'ring Nations move, no longer pause;
At them no more with stupid Wonder gaze,
Amazing others by your own Amaze:
With Wealth and Thunder arm'd by Land and Sea,
Shew that ye can, and that ye will be free.
Learn from a Woman to be brave and just;
15
Against Excise and Robbers on the Main;
Assert your Rights, and your loss'd Fame restore;
Remember, ------ and inglorious be no more:
While all in Arms, and in a gen'ral Cause,
The neighb'ring Nations move, no longer pause;
At them no more with stupid Wonder gaze,
Amazing others by your own Amaze:
With Wealth and Thunder arm'd by Land and Sea,
Shew that ye can, and that ye will be free.
17
THE KNIGHTS of the BATH, A TALE.
19
Say, shall the brave like common Mortals dy,
And Acts of Virtue in Oblivion ly?
The Muse forbids, who in recording Lays
Gives ever to Desert the Song of Praise.
What, tho the Tale is not to Anstis known?
Whate'er the Muse recalls she makes her own;
Who, conscious of thy Worth, would give to Fame
Thy Charms Matilda, and Carvilior's Flame.
And Acts of Virtue in Oblivion ly?
The Muse forbids, who in recording Lays
Gives ever to Desert the Song of Praise.
What, tho the Tale is not to Anstis known?
Whate'er the Muse recalls she makes her own;
Who, conscious of thy Worth, would give to Fame
Thy Charms Matilda, and Carvilior's Flame.
'E're the first Cæsar did our Isle subdue,
When Britons Nought but British Virtue knew,
Cingetorix, in his Domains content,
Confin'd his Empire to the Bounds of Kent.
No Lust of Pow'r drives him to Realms unknown,
To rob his Neighbours, and enlarge his own.
At Home no Fear his Peace of Mind molests;
He rules, no Tyrant, over loyal Breasts.
Thrice happy Land, 'tis here the Druids sing,
And are Companions only for the King.
Far hence away the Sons of Battel rage,
Unknown, O! Albion, to thy golden Age.
When Britons Nought but British Virtue knew,
Cingetorix, in his Domains content,
Confin'd his Empire to the Bounds of Kent.
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To rob his Neighbours, and enlarge his own.
At Home no Fear his Peace of Mind molests;
He rules, no Tyrant, over loyal Breasts.
Thrice happy Land, 'tis here the Druids sing,
And are Companions only for the King.
Far hence away the Sons of Battel rage,
Unknown, O! Albion, to thy golden Age.
One only Daughter was this Prince's Care,
Chast as Diana, and as Venus fair;
When in the Woods the Nymph delights to rove,
Matilda walks the Dian of the Grove;
Or if the regal Dome is her Resort,
Matilda shines the Venus of the Court;
If in the Grove, or in the Court, she moves,
She's still attended by a thousand Loves;
Each from her Eyes a thousand Arrows darts,
And leads in Triumph each a thousand Hearts.
All Eyes which see her once confess her Sway,
And her bright Image never fades away.
Chast as Diana, and as Venus fair;
When in the Woods the Nymph delights to rove,
Matilda walks the Dian of the Grove;
Or if the regal Dome is her Resort,
Matilda shines the Venus of the Court;
If in the Grove, or in the Court, she moves,
She's still attended by a thousand Loves;
Each from her Eyes a thousand Arrows darts,
And leads in Triumph each a thousand Hearts.
All Eyes which see her once confess her Sway,
And her bright Image never fades away.
Among the Youths, who dar'd to vow their Flame,
A poor, but gallant, Prince, Carvilior, came;
He walk'd a God amidst th'admiring Throng,
The darling Subject of the Druid's Song.
To all the Beautys of a Form were join'd
Th'unsully'd Virtues of a Soul refin'd.
His ev'ry Act, his ev'ry Word, could move;
Master of all the Rhetoric of Love.
A poor, but gallant, Prince, Carvilior, came;
He walk'd a God amidst th'admiring Throng,
The darling Subject of the Druid's Song.
21
Th'unsully'd Virtues of a Soul refin'd.
His ev'ry Act, his ev'ry Word, could move;
Master of all the Rhetoric of Love.
Of all the Suitors who the Fair address'd,
None found a Passage to her virtuous Breast,
But Prince Carvilior. First her Eyes approve,
Forc'd from her Heart at last to call it Love.
They love, the Cause the same, they both adore;
Much do their Persons charm, their Virtues more.
None found a Passage to her virtuous Breast,
But Prince Carvilior. First her Eyes approve,
Forc'd from her Heart at last to call it Love.
They love, the Cause the same, they both adore;
Much do their Persons charm, their Virtues more.
Long had they both with mutual Anguish burn'd,
And unmolested Sigh for Sigh return'd.
Now in the Court, now in the lonely Walk,
Pleas'd with the sweet Varietys of Talk.
Their Vows in Secret they prefer to Fate,
In Life, in Love, to grant an equal Date:
And who so bless'd, who Half so bless'd, as they!
In Love they fancy all a Summer's Day.
And unmolested Sigh for Sigh return'd.
Now in the Court, now in the lonely Walk,
Pleas'd with the sweet Varietys of Talk.
Their Vows in Secret they prefer to Fate,
In Life, in Love, to grant an equal Date:
And who so bless'd, who Half so bless'd, as they!
In Love they fancy all a Summer's Day.
When most secure of all our Wish we stand,
Oft' are we cast upon a barren Land;
For cruel Fortune will a Moment find,
A Moment to the Lover's Hopes unkind.
Oft' are we cast upon a barren Land;
For cruel Fortune will a Moment find,
A Moment to the Lover's Hopes unkind.
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Cingetorix had now their Passion seen,
He scan'd Carvilior's Form, his Air, his Mien;
Much did he strive to count his Virtues o'er,
He found them many; but he found him poor.
It is resolv'd. In vain his Virtues plead,
And weak their Succour in the Time of Need.
Th'obdurate Sire, by Avarice betray'd,
Drove the fond Hero from as fond a Maid.
Soon as the Prince receives the harsh Command,
To leave the Court, to leave the blissful Land,
With an obedient, tho dejected, Mind,
He with a Sigh departs: his Soul is left behind.
He scan'd Carvilior's Form, his Air, his Mien;
Much did he strive to count his Virtues o'er,
He found them many; but he found him poor.
It is resolv'd. In vain his Virtues plead,
And weak their Succour in the Time of Need.
Th'obdurate Sire, by Avarice betray'd,
Drove the fond Hero from as fond a Maid.
Soon as the Prince receives the harsh Command,
To leave the Court, to leave the blissful Land,
With an obedient, tho dejected, Mind,
He with a Sigh departs: his Soul is left behind.
A mournful Exile, forc'd from all he loves,
A sudden Shade he seeks the lonely Groves.
To the bleak Plains, wild as his Thoughts, he flys,
And meets no Object now to feast his Eyes.
He shuns all Converse for the silent Bow'rs,
And wears away with Grief the lazy Hours.
Now on the Margin of a murm'ring Stream
He sits all Day, and makes the Nymph his Theme.
Of Health regardless on the Turf he lys,
Loss'd to all Joy, till Sleep has clos'd his Eyes:
On Beds of Roses now he seems to rest,
There reigns, Matilda, Monarch of thy Breast;
All his pass'd Scenes of Bliss his Dreams restore;
O! kind Delusion! he's a Wretch no more.
The Phantom flys, and leaves him to his Pain;
He wakes, alas! and is a Wretch again.
A sudden Shade he seeks the lonely Groves.
To the bleak Plains, wild as his Thoughts, he flys,
And meets no Object now to feast his Eyes.
He shuns all Converse for the silent Bow'rs,
And wears away with Grief the lazy Hours.
Now on the Margin of a murm'ring Stream
He sits all Day, and makes the Nymph his Theme.
Of Health regardless on the Turf he lys,
Loss'd to all Joy, till Sleep has clos'd his Eyes:
On Beds of Roses now he seems to rest,
There reigns, Matilda, Monarch of thy Breast;
23
O! kind Delusion! he's a Wretch no more.
The Phantom flys, and leaves him to his Pain;
He wakes, alas! and is a Wretch again.
While thus the Prince his Loss, Matilda, bears,
Counting the Moments each an Age of Cares,
Alike the Fair of adverse Stars complains,
And for Carvilior feels Carvilior's Pains.
True to her Love, as constant to her Grief,
She feeds on Sorrow, and denys Relief.
To her no more the bright Assembly's gay;
Nothing has Charms; and Day no more is Day.
As when the Sun bears from our Eyes the Light,
And for a-while leaves Half the World in Night,
No more the Rose in purple Pride is seen,
The painted Tulip, nor the Willow green,
So to the Fair all worldly Charms are dead,
Her Sun, that gave the Day, Carvilior's fled.
Counting the Moments each an Age of Cares,
Alike the Fair of adverse Stars complains,
And for Carvilior feels Carvilior's Pains.
True to her Love, as constant to her Grief,
She feeds on Sorrow, and denys Relief.
To her no more the bright Assembly's gay;
Nothing has Charms; and Day no more is Day.
As when the Sun bears from our Eyes the Light,
And for a-while leaves Half the World in Night,
No more the Rose in purple Pride is seen,
The painted Tulip, nor the Willow green,
So to the Fair all worldly Charms are dead,
Her Sun, that gave the Day, Carvilior's fled.
His wish'd for Absence frees from their Despair,
The Croud of Lovers that address the Fair;
All hope Advantage from Carvilior's Pain,
And all their Vows renew, and all in vain.
With mighty Dow'rs some strive her Soul to move;
And Crowns are lay'd to be the Snares of Love.
Nor mighty Dow'rs, nor Crowns, can change the Dame,
True to her Virtue, and her first-born Flame.
The Croud of Lovers that address the Fair;
All hope Advantage from Carvilior's Pain,
And all their Vows renew, and all in vain.
With mighty Dow'rs some strive her Soul to move;
And Crowns are lay'd to be the Snares of Love.
24
True to her Virtue, and her first-born Flame.
At a small Distance from the Palace stood,
For sweet Retirement, a convenient Wood;
Where oft' the Princess and her Maids remove;
Where she aviods th'ingrateful Voice of Love:
And now the Damsels crop the woodland Flow'rs,
Now tell her tender Tales in fragrant Bow'rs;
Now secret to the inmost Shade they go,
Where a cool Riv'let's silver Currents flow;
In which divested of the Veil of Dress,
Whene'er she blaz'd in modest Nakedness,
The Sun inamour'd, as Traditions say,
Would, gazing on her Charms, prolong the Day.
Hither two Lords, who long, too long, had borne
Thy Frowns, Matilda, and of Love the Scorn,
As void of Fear the Nymphs were bathing, came,
And bless'd the Hour that should revenge their Shame.
Once jealous Rivals, now with Vengeance fir'd,
They league against the Virtues they admir'd.
Behind a Thicket they conceal'd remain,
And view the Goddess with her virgin Train;
Her iv'ry Arms, and snowy Breasts, explore,
The Waves forbid it, they can see no more.
They doubt, or shall they bear the Fair away,
Or act their Horrors in the Face of Day.
The dire Remembrance of their slighted Flame,
Their burning Passion for the scornful Dame,
Their brutal Nature, prone to Rapes, combine
To execute in Haste the black Design.
Quick on the River's Bank each Monster stands,
Fire in their Looks, their Ponyards in their Hands;
No outward Signs their deepest Thoughts disguise;
For their dark Souls glare dreadful thro their Eyes.
To hide their naked Charms the Virgins strove,
And their Shrieks echo'd thro the plaintive Grove.
The boding Crys Carvilior's Ears invade,
Who pensive lay beneath a distant Shade;
He knew the much lov'd Voice, and from the Ground
Starting, he trembled at the well known Sound;
His Bow, and Quiver, o'er his Arms he threw,
And, wing'd with Love, swift as the Winds he flew.
Soon on the Bank he stood, a new Surprise!
The royal Virgin scarce believ'd her Eyes.
Desist, he cry'd aloud, nor touch the Fair;
An unexpected Foe demands your Care:
Then to the Head he drew the barbed Dart,
And found a Passage to a savage Heart;
The Traytor prostrate on the Ground he lay'd,
A breathless Victim to the virtuous Maid.
To shun his Fate by Flight the second strove,
And sought for Refuge in the shady Grove.
The Prince pursues fast as the Wretch can fly,
Resolv'd his Vengeance to compleat, or dy.
Mean-while the Damsels to the Shade repair,
Studious to dress, and to relieve, the Fair;
With her they Prince Carvilior's Fate deplore,
And fear for him, as for themselves before;
But soon their Fears are with the Danger fled,
And now the Nymph uprears her drooping Head;
For lo! the bless'd Preserver of her Fame,
Safe from the Work of Fate, and Justice, came.
Quick to his Breast he clasp'd the love-sick Maid,
And thought the Toils he bore were well repay'd.
In silent Raptures they their Joys reveal,
Which none can well describe, but when they feel.
So shall the Soul, if true the Sages say,
Mark out her Partner in the last great Day;
As great as those met to eternal Ease,
Tho not so lasting, are the Joys of these.
For sweet Retirement, a convenient Wood;
Where oft' the Princess and her Maids remove;
Where she aviods th'ingrateful Voice of Love:
And now the Damsels crop the woodland Flow'rs,
Now tell her tender Tales in fragrant Bow'rs;
Now secret to the inmost Shade they go,
Where a cool Riv'let's silver Currents flow;
In which divested of the Veil of Dress,
Whene'er she blaz'd in modest Nakedness,
The Sun inamour'd, as Traditions say,
Would, gazing on her Charms, prolong the Day.
Hither two Lords, who long, too long, had borne
Thy Frowns, Matilda, and of Love the Scorn,
As void of Fear the Nymphs were bathing, came,
And bless'd the Hour that should revenge their Shame.
Once jealous Rivals, now with Vengeance fir'd,
They league against the Virtues they admir'd.
Behind a Thicket they conceal'd remain,
And view the Goddess with her virgin Train;
25
The Waves forbid it, they can see no more.
They doubt, or shall they bear the Fair away,
Or act their Horrors in the Face of Day.
The dire Remembrance of their slighted Flame,
Their burning Passion for the scornful Dame,
Their brutal Nature, prone to Rapes, combine
To execute in Haste the black Design.
Quick on the River's Bank each Monster stands,
Fire in their Looks, their Ponyards in their Hands;
No outward Signs their deepest Thoughts disguise;
For their dark Souls glare dreadful thro their Eyes.
To hide their naked Charms the Virgins strove,
And their Shrieks echo'd thro the plaintive Grove.
The boding Crys Carvilior's Ears invade,
Who pensive lay beneath a distant Shade;
He knew the much lov'd Voice, and from the Ground
Starting, he trembled at the well known Sound;
His Bow, and Quiver, o'er his Arms he threw,
And, wing'd with Love, swift as the Winds he flew.
Soon on the Bank he stood, a new Surprise!
The royal Virgin scarce believ'd her Eyes.
Desist, he cry'd aloud, nor touch the Fair;
An unexpected Foe demands your Care:
26
And found a Passage to a savage Heart;
The Traytor prostrate on the Ground he lay'd,
A breathless Victim to the virtuous Maid.
To shun his Fate by Flight the second strove,
And sought for Refuge in the shady Grove.
The Prince pursues fast as the Wretch can fly,
Resolv'd his Vengeance to compleat, or dy.
Mean-while the Damsels to the Shade repair,
Studious to dress, and to relieve, the Fair;
With her they Prince Carvilior's Fate deplore,
And fear for him, as for themselves before;
But soon their Fears are with the Danger fled,
And now the Nymph uprears her drooping Head;
For lo! the bless'd Preserver of her Fame,
Safe from the Work of Fate, and Justice, came.
Quick to his Breast he clasp'd the love-sick Maid,
And thought the Toils he bore were well repay'd.
In silent Raptures they their Joys reveal,
Which none can well describe, but when they feel.
So shall the Soul, if true the Sages say,
Mark out her Partner in the last great Day;
As great as those met to eternal Ease,
Tho not so lasting, are the Joys of these.
Soon as the good old King the Story hears,
He owns the god-like Act in gen'rous Tears;
A thousand Sorrows swell his lab'ring Breast,
To see such Virtues by himself oppress'd.
He sighs, when to his Mind Reflection brings
That Avarice should be the Vice of Kings!
His royal Griefs confess his Sense of Shame;
And now he hears with Joy Carvilior's Name,
Firmly resolv'd, impatient of Delay,
Not to defer the marriage Rites a Day:
And that the Tale might e'er be told on Earth,
That such a Pattern of heroic Worth
To future Ages might be handed down,
He thrice twelve gallant Youths, of high Renown,
Selected Souls, of all the Land the Flow'r,
Appointed to adorn the bridal Hour.
They go, conducted by the Man divine,
Full of Devotion to the sacred Shrine.
Before the Altar to the God they bow;
And make, with Zeal unfeign'd, the solemn Vow:
To give, in Time of Need, the wretched Aid,
To guard from brutal Force the spotless Maid.
He owns the god-like Act in gen'rous Tears;
27
To see such Virtues by himself oppress'd.
He sighs, when to his Mind Reflection brings
That Avarice should be the Vice of Kings!
His royal Griefs confess his Sense of Shame;
And now he hears with Joy Carvilior's Name,
Firmly resolv'd, impatient of Delay,
Not to defer the marriage Rites a Day:
And that the Tale might e'er be told on Earth,
That such a Pattern of heroic Worth
To future Ages might be handed down,
He thrice twelve gallant Youths, of high Renown,
Selected Souls, of all the Land the Flow'r,
Appointed to adorn the bridal Hour.
They go, conducted by the Man divine,
Full of Devotion to the sacred Shrine.
Before the Altar to the God they bow;
And make, with Zeal unfeign'd, the solemn Vow:
To give, in Time of Need, the wretched Aid,
To guard from brutal Force the spotless Maid.
And thus, long since, the Knights of Bath began,
In Honour to the brave and godlike Man;
An Order, ever to Carvilior's Fame,
Which from the Virgins bathing took the Name.
In Honour to the brave and godlike Man;
An Order, ever to Carvilior's Fame,
Which from the Virgins bathing took the Name.
29
Philander and Cydippe, A TALE.
31
In that fair Isle, the Garden of the Main,
Where Love extended once his easy Reign,
And where his Queen her Seat of Empire chose,
And to the fabled Goddess Temples rose,
In Cyprus liv'd, long since, a virtuous Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair;
Of whom the Muse records the mutual Flame,
The patient Hero, and the constant Dame.
Young Men, and Virgins, to my Tale draw near,
Attend a Song fit for a vestal Ear;
Approach, ye Parents, who, for sordid Gain,
Would to detested Bands the Fair constrain;
Approach, and from Agenor's Story see
How curs'd the Nuptials, where not Hearts agree:
And thou, fair Annandale, a-while attend,
Thou sweet Inspirer, and the Poet's Friend;
Where Beauty, like thy own, and Virtue shine,
Indulge the Muse, and make the Poem thine.
Where Love extended once his easy Reign,
And where his Queen her Seat of Empire chose,
And to the fabled Goddess Temples rose,
In Cyprus liv'd, long since, a virtuous Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair;
Of whom the Muse records the mutual Flame,
The patient Hero, and the constant Dame.
Young Men, and Virgins, to my Tale draw near,
Attend a Song fit for a vestal Ear;
Approach, ye Parents, who, for sordid Gain,
Would to detested Bands the Fair constrain;
Approach, and from Agenor's Story see
How curs'd the Nuptials, where not Hearts agree:
And thou, fair Annandale, a-while attend,
Thou sweet Inspirer, and the Poet's Friend;
32
Indulge the Muse, and make the Poem thine.
Two Friends in Cyprus liv'd, Philander one,
The other Dion, rich Agenor's Son;
Their Friendship early in their Youth began,
Encreasing dayly as they rose to Man;
Their blooming Virtues had to each their Charms,
Young Heroes both renown'd in Feats of Arms:
And now the Labours of the Battel end,
Dion, but Half alive without his Friend,
Invites him to his Father's House a Guest;
Philander, near the Partner of his Breast,
Had all he wish'd; each in the other bless'd.
Tho in Philander's Heart, large Dion's Share,
He was not long without a Rival there.
His Sister in his Friend has rais'd a Flame,
A Virgin chast, and yet a Cyprian Dame,
Cydippe, carv'd in ev'ry myrtle Grove,
And call'd the Beauty of the Land of Love.
The other Dion, rich Agenor's Son;
Their Friendship early in their Youth began,
Encreasing dayly as they rose to Man;
Their blooming Virtues had to each their Charms,
Young Heroes both renown'd in Feats of Arms:
And now the Labours of the Battel end,
Dion, but Half alive without his Friend,
Invites him to his Father's House a Guest;
Philander, near the Partner of his Breast,
Had all he wish'd; each in the other bless'd.
Tho in Philander's Heart, large Dion's Share,
He was not long without a Rival there.
His Sister in his Friend has rais'd a Flame,
A Virgin chast, and yet a Cyprian Dame,
Cydippe, carv'd in ev'ry myrtle Grove,
And call'd the Beauty of the Land of Love.
His Passion long the Warrior had conceal'd,
Nor to the Maid herself his Mind reveal'd:
The nicests Thoughts, which Honour could inspire,
The Lover acts by, and corrects his Fire;
Unjust he thinks, should not the Sire approve,
To tempt a virgin Heart by Force of Love.
Her Brother, and his Friend, the best, he chose,
To whom he should the Secret first disclose.
With tenderest Concern the Brother hear'd,
But from his Father's Temper much he fear'd,
Rash, covetous, and testy, from his Youth,
And always headstrong, tho oppos'd by Truth;
His Friend by Nature mild, of gentlest Kind,
And only rich, there truly rich, in Mind.
Nor to the Maid herself his Mind reveal'd:
The nicests Thoughts, which Honour could inspire,
The Lover acts by, and corrects his Fire;
33
To tempt a virgin Heart by Force of Love.
Her Brother, and his Friend, the best, he chose,
To whom he should the Secret first disclose.
With tenderest Concern the Brother hear'd,
But from his Father's Temper much he fear'd,
Rash, covetous, and testy, from his Youth,
And always headstrong, tho oppos'd by Truth;
His Friend by Nature mild, of gentlest Kind,
And only rich, there truly rich, in Mind.
Dion, as Prudence taught, Philander leaves,
To try the Fair, how she his Love receives.
Cydippe pensive and alone he found,
With her bright Eyes fix'd stedfast on the Ground;
On her right Hand her rosy Cheek was lay'd,
All in the Posture of a love-sick Maid:
Before the Likeness of the Cyprian Queen,
So thoughtful was the Maid, he stood unseen.
From ev'ry Circumstance he judg'd her Mind,
And, long before he hear'd, her Case divin'd.
He nam'd his Friend, and gently rais'd her Head,
At which a Blush of Love her Cheeks o'erspread:
When of his Visit he the Cause had told,
These Words the Purport of her Mind unfold:
Think you too early I my Heart incline
To Love, forgive me, for the Cause is thine;
Oft' as I've hear'd you, eager to commend,
Dwell on the Virtues of your absent Friend,
I wish'd, whene'er it is ordain'd by Fate
I should exchange in Life my virgin State,
Kind Heav'n, in Pity to my Vows, may give
Such Virtues to the Man with whom I live;
But, since Philander to our Father came,
I feel the Dawnings of a virgin Flame:
Tho blind to what Degree my Lot is cast,
I hope my early Love will be my last.
To try the Fair, how she his Love receives.
Cydippe pensive and alone he found,
With her bright Eyes fix'd stedfast on the Ground;
On her right Hand her rosy Cheek was lay'd,
All in the Posture of a love-sick Maid:
Before the Likeness of the Cyprian Queen,
So thoughtful was the Maid, he stood unseen.
From ev'ry Circumstance he judg'd her Mind,
And, long before he hear'd, her Case divin'd.
He nam'd his Friend, and gently rais'd her Head,
At which a Blush of Love her Cheeks o'erspread:
When of his Visit he the Cause had told,
These Words the Purport of her Mind unfold:
34
To Love, forgive me, for the Cause is thine;
Oft' as I've hear'd you, eager to commend,
Dwell on the Virtues of your absent Friend,
I wish'd, whene'er it is ordain'd by Fate
I should exchange in Life my virgin State,
Kind Heav'n, in Pity to my Vows, may give
Such Virtues to the Man with whom I live;
But, since Philander to our Father came,
I feel the Dawnings of a virgin Flame:
Tho blind to what Degree my Lot is cast,
I hope my early Love will be my last.
The Brother hear'd with Pleasure, and approv'd,
Each worthy by the other to be lov'd,
Then, hasting first his faithful Friend to cheer,
Told him she listen'd with a willing Ear;
From him in Transport to his Sire he ran,
To intercede for the deserving Man.
He urg'd his Virtues, and his Form divine,
How high descended of a noble Line,
In Council wise a sinking Land to save,
In War the bravest, and among the brave.
The Father hear'd, silent a while he stood,
Smiling within at Virtue, and at Blood:
He, long before resolv'd, had doom'd the Fair
To proud Agathocles, a wealthy Heir;
Whose Sire, immensely rich in Land and Gold,
In Bribes, in Perjury, in Rapine, old,
Had all bequeath'd, when he his Race had run,
To the dear Likeness of himself his Son.
Each worthy by the other to be lov'd,
Then, hasting first his faithful Friend to cheer,
Told him she listen'd with a willing Ear;
From him in Transport to his Sire he ran,
To intercede for the deserving Man.
He urg'd his Virtues, and his Form divine,
How high descended of a noble Line,
In Council wise a sinking Land to save,
In War the bravest, and among the brave.
The Father hear'd, silent a while he stood,
Smiling within at Virtue, and at Blood:
35
To proud Agathocles, a wealthy Heir;
Whose Sire, immensely rich in Land and Gold,
In Bribes, in Perjury, in Rapine, old,
Had all bequeath'd, when he his Race had run,
To the dear Likeness of himself his Son.
While Dion pleads, and from a Soul sincere,
The Cause of Love, before a Judge severe,
The Lovers, conscious of their mutual Flame,
By Chance, together opportunely came:
Philander view'd her, and approach'd with Awe;
Love press'd him on, nor could the Nymph withdraw:
And now the soft Exchange of Hearts began,
Betwixt the fair one and the godlike Man:
The Victors both an equal Triumph share,
The conquer'd Hero, and the vanquish'd Fair.
While Scenes of Paradise their Thoughts employ,
While from their Breasts arise the Sighs of Joy,
While from their Lips such tender Accents flow,
As only Lovers speak, or wish to know,
Agenor's Mandate calls the Fair away,
And at his House forbids Philander's Stay:
And next for proud Agathocles he sends,
And to his Care the wretched Fair commends.
My future Son, he cry'd, and gave her Hand,
Take this an Earnest of a stricter Band,
Then turning to the Maid, a Parent's Curse
Be thine, and more, if Ought on Earth be worse,
When you refuse in Hymen's Rites to join
With him thy Father has alloted thine.
He ended thus, and with a Brow severe.
The Virgin, aw'd by Duty and by Fear,
First turn'd, and wip'd away the falling Tear,
And then reply'd. To him who gave me Breath,
The Hour my Duty ceases, welcome Death.
The Sire, displeas'd not with her Words, retir'd:
The human Brute, who view'd her Charms unfir'd,
By native Dulness free from Love's soft Pow'r,
Lik'd, or dislik'd, according to the Dow'r.
The Cause of Love, before a Judge severe,
The Lovers, conscious of their mutual Flame,
By Chance, together opportunely came:
Philander view'd her, and approach'd with Awe;
Love press'd him on, nor could the Nymph withdraw:
And now the soft Exchange of Hearts began,
Betwixt the fair one and the godlike Man:
The Victors both an equal Triumph share,
The conquer'd Hero, and the vanquish'd Fair.
While Scenes of Paradise their Thoughts employ,
While from their Breasts arise the Sighs of Joy,
While from their Lips such tender Accents flow,
As only Lovers speak, or wish to know,
Agenor's Mandate calls the Fair away,
And at his House forbids Philander's Stay:
And next for proud Agathocles he sends,
And to his Care the wretched Fair commends.
36
Take this an Earnest of a stricter Band,
Then turning to the Maid, a Parent's Curse
Be thine, and more, if Ought on Earth be worse,
When you refuse in Hymen's Rites to join
With him thy Father has alloted thine.
He ended thus, and with a Brow severe.
The Virgin, aw'd by Duty and by Fear,
First turn'd, and wip'd away the falling Tear,
And then reply'd. To him who gave me Breath,
The Hour my Duty ceases, welcome Death.
The Sire, displeas'd not with her Words, retir'd:
The human Brute, who view'd her Charms unfir'd,
By native Dulness free from Love's soft Pow'r,
Lik'd, or dislik'd, according to the Dow'r.
While poor Cydippe, in the dang'rous State,
To lose her Love, or meet a Parent's Hate,
Seeks by her Vows, to her distracting Grief,
From the fair Goddess of the Isle, Relief,
Dion, in Pity to their virtuous Love,
Himself a Brother, and a Friend, to prove,
Contrives their Meeting in a neighb'ring Grove.
He still the happy Moment hopes to find,
To turn to Reason old Agenor's Mind;
Or should the Sire persist, he wisely knew,
To Reason only was Obedience due.
To lose her Love, or meet a Parent's Hate,
Seeks by her Vows, to her distracting Grief,
From the fair Goddess of the Isle, Relief,
Dion, in Pity to their virtuous Love,
Himself a Brother, and a Friend, to prove,
Contrives their Meeting in a neighb'ring Grove.
He still the happy Moment hopes to find,
To turn to Reason old Agenor's Mind;
37
To Reason only was Obedience due.
The Scene to which the faithful Pair retreat,
At a small Distance from Agenor's Seat,
With Myrtle, and with fragrant Jess'mine, blows,
And sheds the Sweetness of the damasc Rose;
And there the Orange, of a golden Hue,
Breathes to the Smell, and glitters to the View;
The Sweets of Vi'lets rise where'er they rove:
Hence it is call'd the aromatic Grove.
While thro the Boughs the winged Natives fly
Warbling, a silver Stream runs murm'ring by.
Hither, with Virtue arm'd, the Lovers came,
To sigh their mutual and unspoted Flame;
But they enjoy'd not long the blissful State,
By Jealousy pursued, and envious Hate.
At a small Distance from Agenor's Seat,
With Myrtle, and with fragrant Jess'mine, blows,
And sheds the Sweetness of the damasc Rose;
And there the Orange, of a golden Hue,
Breathes to the Smell, and glitters to the View;
The Sweets of Vi'lets rise where'er they rove:
Hence it is call'd the aromatic Grove.
While thro the Boughs the winged Natives fly
Warbling, a silver Stream runs murm'ring by.
Hither, with Virtue arm'd, the Lovers came,
To sigh their mutual and unspoted Flame;
But they enjoy'd not long the blissful State,
By Jealousy pursued, and envious Hate.
Agathocles felt not of Love the Pow'r,
But languish'd dayly for the promis'd Dow'r;
Hence the dire Rancour of his Heart began
To him he fear'd, in Love, the happyer Man.
Spys he employ'd the Lover's Steps to trace;
Th'appointed Hour he knew, and usual Place.
But languish'd dayly for the promis'd Dow'r;
Hence the dire Rancour of his Heart began
To him he fear'd, in Love, the happyer Man.
Spys he employ'd the Lover's Steps to trace;
Th'appointed Hour he knew, and usual Place.
38
In an illfated Day Philander led
The virgin Charmer to the vi'let Bed;
As, former Vows repeated, fresh they made,
In Thought secure beneath the orange Shade,
An Arrow flew, and from a Hand unseen,
And crimson'd with the Lover's Blood the Green.
Cydippe fill'd with Shrieks the neighb'ring Plains,
And gather'd to the Place the Nymphs and Swains;
The Nymphs and Swains around astonish'd stand;
They know the Youth, and curse the barb'rous Hand:
They know, and much lament, the lovely Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair.
The Hero to their Shed the Swains convey'd,
The Nymphs with Tears support the fainting Maid.
Soon to her Father's Ears the Rumour flys,
That by a Shaft unknown Philander dys:
He hopes, and, cruel! thence enjoys the Smart,
That Time will rase his Image from her Heart.
The virgin Charmer to the vi'let Bed;
As, former Vows repeated, fresh they made,
In Thought secure beneath the orange Shade,
An Arrow flew, and from a Hand unseen,
And crimson'd with the Lover's Blood the Green.
Cydippe fill'd with Shrieks the neighb'ring Plains,
And gather'd to the Place the Nymphs and Swains;
The Nymphs and Swains around astonish'd stand;
They know the Youth, and curse the barb'rous Hand:
They know, and much lament, the lovely Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair.
The Hero to their Shed the Swains convey'd,
The Nymphs with Tears support the fainting Maid.
Soon to her Father's Ears the Rumour flys,
That by a Shaft unknown Philander dys:
He hopes, and, cruel! thence enjoys the Smart,
That Time will rase his Image from her Heart.
Now of her Fate the wretched Maid complains,
And feels of hopeless Love the sharpest Pains;
A thousand Thoughts against her Peace conspire,
Croud in her Mind, as Fuel feeds the Fire;
The Grove, the orange Shade, the vi'let Bed,
The native Blue now blushing stain'd with Red:
Now the pale Ghost screaming forsakes the Day;
She sickens at the Thought, and dys away.
And feels of hopeless Love the sharpest Pains;
A thousand Thoughts against her Peace conspire,
Croud in her Mind, as Fuel feeds the Fire;
The Grove, the orange Shade, the vi'let Bed,
The native Blue now blushing stain'd with Red:
39
She sickens at the Thought, and dys away.
Soon as the first, the dismal, Shock was o'er,
And she was say'd to live, and scarcely more,
Her Sire, affecting now the tender Man,
Thus from the Softness of his Heart began,
Daughter, if 'tis your Wish that Name should last,
Repent, as I forgive, thy Follys pass'd;
Prepare thyself, since I have fix'd the Hour
When I shall wed thee with an ample Dow'r:
Ten Days I grant thee more, from hence their Date:
I wait no Answer; be my Will thy Fate.
And she was say'd to live, and scarcely more,
Her Sire, affecting now the tender Man,
Thus from the Softness of his Heart began,
Daughter, if 'tis your Wish that Name should last,
Repent, as I forgive, thy Follys pass'd;
Prepare thyself, since I have fix'd the Hour
When I shall wed thee with an ample Dow'r:
Ten Days I grant thee more, from hence their Date:
I wait no Answer; be my Will thy Fate.
Dion, who knew with Grief th'appointed Day,
Advis'd the lovely Mourner to obey,
Till the last Moment bad her not despair,
But to the Pow'rs divine prefer the Pray'r,
The Pow'rs divine her Sorrows might relieve,
Nor unrewarded let her Virtue grieve:
Doubt not, my Fair, he cry'd, an Hour to find
Both to your Virtue, and your Wishes, kind.
He ended here, but had he told her more,
Her virgin Blood had never stain'd the Floor,
With Patience she had stay'd till he had us'd
The Means to rescue Innocence abus'd.
Advis'd the lovely Mourner to obey,
Till the last Moment bad her not despair,
But to the Pow'rs divine prefer the Pray'r,
The Pow'rs divine her Sorrows might relieve,
Nor unrewarded let her Virtue grieve:
Doubt not, my Fair, he cry'd, an Hour to find
Both to your Virtue, and your Wishes, kind.
He ended here, but had he told her more,
Her virgin Blood had never stain'd the Floor,
40
The Means to rescue Innocence abus'd.
The Maid, to Duty and to Love resign'd,
Conceals in Silence her distracted Mind:
Fix'd her Resolves as Fate, she waits the Day,
Nor lets her Looks, till then, her Heart betray:
And when the much expected Sun arose,
That saw the End, Cydippe, of thy Woes,
Agathocles appear'd, in all his Pride,
To take Possession of the promis'd Bride.
Her Father, Brother, both attend the Maid;
The Nymph proceeds in virgin White aray'd.
The Temple old Agenor, strange to tell!
To enter thrice assay'd, and thrice he fell;
Hence Dion would foresee th'approaching Fate,
And warn his Father 'e're it was too late;
But all in vain; he will no longer stay,
But see the Rites perform'd without Delay:
And now the wretched Bride, the constant Fair,
Of Hope itself bereft, in wild Despair,
A Ponyard drew, conceal'd beneath her Vest,
And, turning to her Father, pierc'd her Breast:
The Brother, who already felt the Smart,
The Weapon seiz'd before it reach'd her Heart.
Conceals in Silence her distracted Mind:
Fix'd her Resolves as Fate, she waits the Day,
Nor lets her Looks, till then, her Heart betray:
And when the much expected Sun arose,
That saw the End, Cydippe, of thy Woes,
Agathocles appear'd, in all his Pride,
To take Possession of the promis'd Bride.
Her Father, Brother, both attend the Maid;
The Nymph proceeds in virgin White aray'd.
The Temple old Agenor, strange to tell!
To enter thrice assay'd, and thrice he fell;
Hence Dion would foresee th'approaching Fate,
And warn his Father 'e're it was too late;
But all in vain; he will no longer stay,
But see the Rites perform'd without Delay:
And now the wretched Bride, the constant Fair,
Of Hope itself bereft, in wild Despair,
A Ponyard drew, conceal'd beneath her Vest,
And, turning to her Father, pierc'd her Breast:
The Brother, who already felt the Smart,
The Weapon seiz'd before it reach'd her Heart.
41
Just at the Entrance of the Temple stand
The brave Philander and his armed Band,
To bear away, each stedfast in his Cause,
His own by plighted Vows, and Nature's Laws:
Shrieks echo'd from within, at which he flew
Quick to the Altar, where he bled anew;
The Wound he suffer'd from his Rival's Dart
Was slight, compar'd to this, that pierc'd his Heart.
As in her Lover's Arms Cydippe lay,
Charm'd by his Voice again to view the Day,
In his Designs, the stupid Bridegroom, foil'd,
Mutt'ring retir'd, as from a Bargain spoil'd.
Agenor feels inutterable Woes:
Now his wrong Judgement in the Brute he chose,
Philander's Virtues, and reported Death,
In which he joy'd, his Child thought void of Breath,
Accuse his Soul; his silver Locks he tore,
And throw'd his aged Breast against the Floor:
Deeply he groan'd his last, and rose no more.
The pious Tear the Friend and Brother shed;
And they, whom once he wrong'd, bewail'd him dead;
With Rev'rence they perform his Obsequys,
And bear their Sorrows as beseem the wise.
The brave Philander and his armed Band,
To bear away, each stedfast in his Cause,
His own by plighted Vows, and Nature's Laws:
Shrieks echo'd from within, at which he flew
Quick to the Altar, where he bled anew;
The Wound he suffer'd from his Rival's Dart
Was slight, compar'd to this, that pierc'd his Heart.
As in her Lover's Arms Cydippe lay,
Charm'd by his Voice again to view the Day,
In his Designs, the stupid Bridegroom, foil'd,
Mutt'ring retir'd, as from a Bargain spoil'd.
Agenor feels inutterable Woes:
Now his wrong Judgement in the Brute he chose,
Philander's Virtues, and reported Death,
In which he joy'd, his Child thought void of Breath,
Accuse his Soul; his silver Locks he tore,
And throw'd his aged Breast against the Floor:
Deeply he groan'd his last, and rose no more.
The pious Tear the Friend and Brother shed;
And they, whom once he wrong'd, bewail'd him dead;
With Rev'rence they perform his Obsequys,
And bear their Sorrows as beseem the wise.
42
Soon as the Maid was from her Wound restor'd,
Her all she yielded to her plighted Lord:
Thrice twenty Seasons bless'd the virtuous Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair.
Her all she yielded to her plighted Lord:
Thrice twenty Seasons bless'd the virtuous Pair,
The brave Philander, and Cydippe fair.
43
WILL. SOMERS, A TALE.
When the eighth Henry rul'd with iron Sway,
And taught his Wives and Subjects to obey,
When Conclaves prov'd in vain fam'd Tudor's Foes,
The Temples totter'd, and Will. Somers rose,
A short squad Figure, with a wadling Pace,
Quick Eyes, large Nose, and almost round his Face,
Thick were his Lips, and double was his Chin,
Now grave, now merry with a simple Grin.
And taught his Wives and Subjects to obey,
When Conclaves prov'd in vain fam'd Tudor's Foes,
The Temples totter'd, and Will. Somers rose,
A short squad Figure, with a wadling Pace,
Quick Eyes, large Nose, and almost round his Face,
Thick were his Lips, and double was his Chin,
Now grave, now merry with a simple Grin.
Much in the Inns of Court he lov'd to dwell,
And tippled with the Clerks of Clerkenwell,
He laugh'd, and learn'd their Jokes, what Jokes they had,
And Quarter-quibbles made his Heart right glad.
And tippled with the Clerks of Clerkenwell,
He laugh'd, and learn'd their Jokes, what Jokes they had,
And Quarter-quibbles made his Heart right glad.
44
Among the Wits our Hero gain'd a Place;
Such were the Merits of his drolling Face!
They hear'd him talk, and chuckle to his Fill,
And never fail'd to join the Laugh with Will;
Pleas'd he the Laugh prolong'd, the Laughers bless'd,
Nor saw himself the Jester and the Jest.
Such were the Merits of his drolling Face!
They hear'd him talk, and chuckle to his Fill,
And never fail'd to join the Laugh with Will;
Pleas'd he the Laugh prolong'd, the Laughers bless'd,
Nor saw himself the Jester and the Jest.
Once in a Fit cry'd the facetious Wight,
None well can be a Wit that can not write.
Then from the mould'ring Page he cull'd the Flow'r
Of Chaucer, Lydgate, learned More, and Gow'r.
Will lov'd his Country, and disdain'd to roam
For Learning farther than his native Home.
In Thought he rises as the greatest great,
And scribbles Poems, and Essays of State;
Which rais'd him, by Degrees, to such Renown,
His Name was known to ev'ry Wit in Town!
So his Discendants wise provide their Stock
From Dryden, Temple, Addison, and Locke.
None well can be a Wit that can not write.
Then from the mould'ring Page he cull'd the Flow'r
Of Chaucer, Lydgate, learned More, and Gow'r.
Will lov'd his Country, and disdain'd to roam
For Learning farther than his native Home.
In Thought he rises as the greatest great,
And scribbles Poems, and Essays of State;
Which rais'd him, by Degrees, to such Renown,
His Name was known to ev'ry Wit in Town!
So his Discendants wise provide their Stock
From Dryden, Temple, Addison, and Locke.
Will now frequents the Court, where, with Delight,
The King observ'd so new, so odd, a Sight,
And, when inform'd in what he plac'd his Skill,
He was resolv'd to crack a Joke with Will.
Each Face, he cry'd, in this bright Round survey;
And answer what I ask without Delay.
Of Cheats who seems the greatest in the Ring?
Will look'd about, and say'd, God save the King.
Henceforth the Monarch took him to his Court,
Grac'd with a Pension, for his royal Sport.
Will bow'd; the Courtiers smil'd; and with a Grin
Will inly mumbled let those laugh who win.
The King observ'd so new, so odd, a Sight,
And, when inform'd in what he plac'd his Skill,
He was resolv'd to crack a Joke with Will.
45
And answer what I ask without Delay.
Of Cheats who seems the greatest in the Ring?
Will look'd about, and say'd, God save the King.
Henceforth the Monarch took him to his Court,
Grac'd with a Pension, for his royal Sport.
Will bow'd; the Courtiers smil'd; and with a Grin
Will inly mumbled let those laugh who win.
47
A RHAPSODY ON Virtue and Pleasure, TO JAMES REYNOLDS, Esq; Lord Chief Baron of the Exchequer.
49
When Virtue from the busy World retires,
After a glorious Race, the Muse admires;
Her ev'ry Step with curious Eyes she views,
And with immortal Praise the Tract pursues.
If she retreats poetic Shades among,
Where Virgil was inspir'd, and Horace sung,
(The Land of Wit and Wisdom Ages pass'd,)
Where Tully wrote, and Shaftesb'ry breath'd his last,
Or if to Asiatic Plains she flys,
To the rich Climes where eastern Odours rise,
Let her to Kilda's northern Island go,
Crown'd, like Olympus, with eternal Snow,
High on whatever Hill she makes her Bed,
Or in whatever Vale she hides her Head,
Let her beneath whatever Sky repair,
The Muse shall follow, and attend her there.
After a glorious Race, the Muse admires;
Her ev'ry Step with curious Eyes she views,
And with immortal Praise the Tract pursues.
If she retreats poetic Shades among,
Where Virgil was inspir'd, and Horace sung,
(The Land of Wit and Wisdom Ages pass'd,)
Where Tully wrote, and Shaftesb'ry breath'd his last,
Or if to Asiatic Plains she flys,
To the rich Climes where eastern Odours rise,
Let her to Kilda's northern Island go,
Crown'd, like Olympus, with eternal Snow,
50
Or in whatever Vale she hides her Head,
Let her beneath whatever Sky repair,
The Muse shall follow, and attend her there.
Reynolds, for thee, whom Suffolk Fields invite
To letter'd Ease, and Solitude's Delight,
For thee I meditate the grateful Lay,
To Justice due, what Justice bids me pay.
To letter'd Ease, and Solitude's Delight,
For thee I meditate the grateful Lay,
To Justice due, what Justice bids me pay.
Let the gay Youth indulge his am'rous Smart,
And languish to subdue the virgin Heart,
Rifle the sweetest Flow'rs, in Beauty's Pride,
For which their thousands sigh'd, and hundreds dy'd,
Thro Life's short Vigour let the Lover live
Possess'd of ev'ry Joy that Love can give.
Thro wild Ambition's Field let others flame,
Whose Love is Glory, and whose Passion Fame,
Pour on relentless, like a rapid Flood,
And reap the Harvest which was sow'd in Blood,
Harness the Steeds to the triumphant Car,
Drag at the Wheels the earthly Gods of War,
The Conqu'ror's Brow with crimson'd Laurel crown,
By Slaughter planted, and miscall'd Renown.
How false the Joys which from these Fountains rise!
A pallid Glory to the good and wise!
How true the Joys which spring from virtuous Deeds,
Where breaks no tender Heart, nor Honour bleeds!
A greatly virtuous Act unsully'd shines,
The Glory brightens, and the Joy refines.
And languish to subdue the virgin Heart,
Rifle the sweetest Flow'rs, in Beauty's Pride,
For which their thousands sigh'd, and hundreds dy'd,
Thro Life's short Vigour let the Lover live
Possess'd of ev'ry Joy that Love can give.
51
Whose Love is Glory, and whose Passion Fame,
Pour on relentless, like a rapid Flood,
And reap the Harvest which was sow'd in Blood,
Harness the Steeds to the triumphant Car,
Drag at the Wheels the earthly Gods of War,
The Conqu'ror's Brow with crimson'd Laurel crown,
By Slaughter planted, and miscall'd Renown.
How false the Joys which from these Fountains rise!
A pallid Glory to the good and wise!
How true the Joys which spring from virtuous Deeds,
Where breaks no tender Heart, nor Honour bleeds!
A greatly virtuous Act unsully'd shines,
The Glory brightens, and the Joy refines.
Not youthful Ammon in his Blaze of Day,
When Virgins sought, and Monarchs own'd, his Sway,
Knew Half the Bliss by Socrates possess'd,
That takes her Dwelling in the virtuous Breast.
Say what is Virtue, crys the sceptic Sage;
This Virtue is, in ev'ry Land and Age,
With Pleasure to relieve the Wretch from Pain,
To cloath the naked, and to count it Gain;
When to the hungry we extend our Food,
Our Appetite's indulg'd in doing Good.
When Beauty charms us with a luring Eye,
And throws her Darts at all Beholders nigh,
When in our Pow'r we see the Maid, or Wife,
Upon whose Truth, on whose unblemish'd Life,
Depends a Parent's, or a Husband's, Bliss,
'Tis Virtue then to shun the glowing Kiss;
This Virtue is, but such as few can reach:
Some Men of God are gloating while they preach.
When Virgins sought, and Monarchs own'd, his Sway,
Knew Half the Bliss by Socrates possess'd,
That takes her Dwelling in the virtuous Breast.
Say what is Virtue, crys the sceptic Sage;
This Virtue is, in ev'ry Land and Age,
With Pleasure to relieve the Wretch from Pain,
To cloath the naked, and to count it Gain;
When to the hungry we extend our Food,
Our Appetite's indulg'd in doing Good.
52
And throws her Darts at all Beholders nigh,
When in our Pow'r we see the Maid, or Wife,
Upon whose Truth, on whose unblemish'd Life,
Depends a Parent's, or a Husband's, Bliss,
'Tis Virtue then to shun the glowing Kiss;
This Virtue is, but such as few can reach:
Some Men of God are gloating while they preach.
What never-fading Laurels Scipio gains!
A Conquest greater than a thousand Spains!
The mighty Man, all other Men above,
Amidst his Triumphs drags the Chains of Love.
A Captive heav'nly fair, in whom was seen
All that was ever feign'd of Beauty's Queen,
O'er the great Leader reigns without Controul,
Is ever in his Eye, and fills his Soul:
And what the dreadful Warrior can restrain?
Why rages still the Fire thro ev'ry Vein?
With unaffected Charms, her flowing Hair,
And what is decent of her Bosom bare,
The Nymph divine before the Victor stands,
And no superior Pow'r to hold his Hands:
But, lo! he turns, and views a princely Form,
Sunk and depress'd, like Flow'rs beneath a Storm,
His Visage pale, defac'd with many a Scar,
Which Love had wrought, and the rough Hand of War;
Yet Majesty shin'd thro Misfortune's Shroud,
As shines the Sun behind a wint'ry Cloud.
“See,” crys th'illustrious Youth, “great Roman see
“The Fate of Love, the Fate of War, in me:
“I, that 'e'rewhile in royal State could ride
“Thro Ranks of Subjects and Dominions wide,
“Am now in Chains your wretched Captive led,
“To see my Bride perhaps ascend your Bed.”
He paus'd awhile, to wipe the weeping Eye,
And give a Passage to the rising Sigh:
Then crys the Youth, “if princely Cares can move,
“And if your Heart has ever bled for Love,
“Plunder my Houses, and my Kingdom seize,
“Dispose of all as shall the Victor please;
“But give me back what I esteem divine,
“What by our Vows and mutual Love is mine,
“My ever-lov'd, as yet my virgin, Bride,
“That stands dejected by my Conqu'ror's Side.”
A Conquest greater than a thousand Spains!
The mighty Man, all other Men above,
Amidst his Triumphs drags the Chains of Love.
A Captive heav'nly fair, in whom was seen
All that was ever feign'd of Beauty's Queen,
O'er the great Leader reigns without Controul,
Is ever in his Eye, and fills his Soul:
And what the dreadful Warrior can restrain?
Why rages still the Fire thro ev'ry Vein?
With unaffected Charms, her flowing Hair,
And what is decent of her Bosom bare,
53
And no superior Pow'r to hold his Hands:
But, lo! he turns, and views a princely Form,
Sunk and depress'd, like Flow'rs beneath a Storm,
His Visage pale, defac'd with many a Scar,
Which Love had wrought, and the rough Hand of War;
Yet Majesty shin'd thro Misfortune's Shroud,
As shines the Sun behind a wint'ry Cloud.
“See,” crys th'illustrious Youth, “great Roman see
“The Fate of Love, the Fate of War, in me:
“I, that 'e'rewhile in royal State could ride
“Thro Ranks of Subjects and Dominions wide,
“Am now in Chains your wretched Captive led,
“To see my Bride perhaps ascend your Bed.”
He paus'd awhile, to wipe the weeping Eye,
And give a Passage to the rising Sigh:
Then crys the Youth, “if princely Cares can move,
“And if your Heart has ever bled for Love,
“Plunder my Houses, and my Kingdom seize,
“Dispose of all as shall the Victor please;
“But give me back what I esteem divine,
“What by our Vows and mutual Love is mine,
“My ever-lov'd, as yet my virgin, Bride,
“That stands dejected by my Conqu'ror's Side.”
54
The gallant Chief, who loves beyond all Bounds,
Feels from the Prince's Words a thousand Wounds;
A siercer War now rages in his Breast
Than when in Fields of Fight by Legions press'd:
The little winged God is loth to part
With his Dominion o'er so great a Heart:
He strives to gain a Conquest by Surprise,
And plays his Light'ning from her radiant Eyes:
The Sight of him whom dead she thought before,
Whom her Fears told her she should see no more,
Disarms the Foe of Beauty fell Despair,
Bids the Cheek bloom, and fairer makes the Fair.
Now to the Conqu'ror's Eyes a Prospect shines,
Worth the vast Purchase of the di'mond Mines,
The Bed of Love, luxuriant of Delights,
Where Youth and Beauty join the secret Rites!
But Virtue, always at our Hero's Side,
With Wisdom comes, her ever-faithful Guide:
In their true Light they shew the Joys of Love,
When gain'd by Virtue, they're all Price above;
Rais'd on another's Woe, acquir'd by Vice,
And are not mutual, they're below all Price.
The Roman acts the greatly glorious Part;
He tugs the Arrow from his bleeding Heart,
With his own Hands unbinds the Prince's Chains,
And bids him think no more of former Pains:
“Your conquer'd Land,” he crys, “and Bride possess,
“And be my Blessing that I others bless:
“To your fond Arms your Bliss I thus restore:”
Then turn'd the Chief, and ne'er beheld her more.
Thus Scipio acted, by no Bible taught,
But Nature's Book, which God himself has wrote.
Feels from the Prince's Words a thousand Wounds;
A siercer War now rages in his Breast
Than when in Fields of Fight by Legions press'd:
The little winged God is loth to part
With his Dominion o'er so great a Heart:
He strives to gain a Conquest by Surprise,
And plays his Light'ning from her radiant Eyes:
The Sight of him whom dead she thought before,
Whom her Fears told her she should see no more,
Disarms the Foe of Beauty fell Despair,
Bids the Cheek bloom, and fairer makes the Fair.
Now to the Conqu'ror's Eyes a Prospect shines,
Worth the vast Purchase of the di'mond Mines,
The Bed of Love, luxuriant of Delights,
Where Youth and Beauty join the secret Rites!
But Virtue, always at our Hero's Side,
With Wisdom comes, her ever-faithful Guide:
In their true Light they shew the Joys of Love,
When gain'd by Virtue, they're all Price above;
Rais'd on another's Woe, acquir'd by Vice,
And are not mutual, they're below all Price.
The Roman acts the greatly glorious Part;
He tugs the Arrow from his bleeding Heart,
With his own Hands unbinds the Prince's Chains,
And bids him think no more of former Pains:
55
“And be my Blessing that I others bless:
“To your fond Arms your Bliss I thus restore:”
Then turn'd the Chief, and ne'er beheld her more.
Thus Scipio acted, by no Bible taught,
But Nature's Book, which God himself has wrote.
Ye Sons of Virtue here your Off'rings bring,
And all ye Sons of Verse who know to sing;
Pluck all, ye Nymphs, the Evergreens which bloom;
With ev'ry fragrant Herb adorn his Tomb;
With Laurels crown the Bust, crown it with Bays,
And sing the Song of everlasting Praise.
And all ye Sons of Verse who know to sing;
Pluck all, ye Nymphs, the Evergreens which bloom;
With ev'ry fragrant Herb adorn his Tomb;
With Laurels crown the Bust, crown it with Bays,
And sing the Song of everlasting Praise.
Forget not in the Verse the noble Mind,
That cherish'd Worth where e'er he Worth could find;
Who Fate alike, and Cæsar's Frowns, defy'd,
When for Redress to him th'unhappy cry'd;
Who to the wrong'd open'd his friendly Gate,
And succour'd all the greatly injur'd Great;
Before whose Eyes Folly could never stand,
Nor dar'd Oppression to uplift her Hand:
The Love of all, thro Life, was his Reward,
And Virtue, in the worst of Times, his Guard.
For him their Vows to Jove the People send,
And Cæsar wanted Atticus his Friend.
That cherish'd Worth where e'er he Worth could find;
Who Fate alike, and Cæsar's Frowns, defy'd,
When for Redress to him th'unhappy cry'd;
Who to the wrong'd open'd his friendly Gate,
And succour'd all the greatly injur'd Great;
Before whose Eyes Folly could never stand,
Nor dar'd Oppression to uplift her Hand:
The Love of all, thro Life, was his Reward,
And Virtue, in the worst of Times, his Guard.
56
And Cæsar wanted Atticus his Friend.
Ye Princes by destructive Passions led,
Who mount without a Blush th'adult'rous Bed,
Who hear your Subjects all around complain
Of Wrongs, repeated Wrongs, on Land and Main,
While all your Counsels are yourselves to please,
And while ye batten in inglorious Ease,
'Tis Virtue only can your Crowns adorn:
O! learn to merit that to which ye're born!
Think of th'illustrious dead, whose ev'ry Name
Is borne triumphant on the Wings of Fame:
In ev'ry Corner of the Earth they're known,
And all Eternity to come's their own:
And, O! ye Sons who next to Empire stand,
Heirs to Dominion over Sea and Land,
Waste not the Hours of Youth in shameful Jars,
Wage with a Father no domestic Wars;
Let it be never say'd ye go to School
To the pert Coxcomb, and delib'rate Fool:
Seek not the Praise of such who gain no Praise;
Like Nero dance, nor fiddle, out your Days:
Attend the friendly Voice! 'tis Glory calls
To shine in Council, and to scale the Walls.
Shake the rapacious Statesman off, the Slave
Whom Gold can buy; shake off the Fool and Knave.
Turn o'er the sacred Volume of the Laws,
By your Forefathers made in Virtue's Cause:
See what obnoxious Vices still remain,
Which there's no Law, no Bridle, to restrain;
Study to make the Nation's Freedom sure,
The Lives and Propertys of all secure:
In doing these ye act the princely Part,
And build your Empires in the People's Heart;
No Guards ye then shall need, where-e'er ye go;
There is no Danger where there is no Foe.
These are the Virtues of exalted Souls,
Which no mean Care, nor abject Fear, controuls.
Who mount without a Blush th'adult'rous Bed,
Who hear your Subjects all around complain
Of Wrongs, repeated Wrongs, on Land and Main,
While all your Counsels are yourselves to please,
And while ye batten in inglorious Ease,
'Tis Virtue only can your Crowns adorn:
O! learn to merit that to which ye're born!
Think of th'illustrious dead, whose ev'ry Name
Is borne triumphant on the Wings of Fame:
In ev'ry Corner of the Earth they're known,
And all Eternity to come's their own:
And, O! ye Sons who next to Empire stand,
Heirs to Dominion over Sea and Land,
Waste not the Hours of Youth in shameful Jars,
Wage with a Father no domestic Wars;
Let it be never say'd ye go to School
To the pert Coxcomb, and delib'rate Fool:
Seek not the Praise of such who gain no Praise;
Like Nero dance, nor fiddle, out your Days:
Attend the friendly Voice! 'tis Glory calls
To shine in Council, and to scale the Walls.
57
Whom Gold can buy; shake off the Fool and Knave.
Turn o'er the sacred Volume of the Laws,
By your Forefathers made in Virtue's Cause:
See what obnoxious Vices still remain,
Which there's no Law, no Bridle, to restrain;
Study to make the Nation's Freedom sure,
The Lives and Propertys of all secure:
In doing these ye act the princely Part,
And build your Empires in the People's Heart;
No Guards ye then shall need, where-e'er ye go;
There is no Danger where there is no Foe.
These are the Virtues of exalted Souls,
Which no mean Care, nor abject Fear, controuls.
The glorious Opportunity's not giv'n
To all, like Brutus, to apply to Heav'n
Before the People, who astonish'd stand,
To drive a Tarquin out, and free the Land.
Who in an humble Walk of Life are hurl'd,
With Talents to adorn, and rule, the World,
And such there are, deny'd by Stars unkind
The Seasons to exert the noble Mind,
Should watch Occasions, and attend the Hours,
And catch the Moments, to indulge their Pow'rs:
Can ye not give a groaning Kingdom Rest?
Then help the injur'd Wife, or Maid distress'd:
First with your Friends who want divide your Store,
And open wide your hospitable Door:
Is this too much? Is Fate a Niggard here?
And, if you give, is Charity too dear?
Then give Advice, Advice Relief affords:
Pour in the Balm of comfortable Words.
Virtue, that seldom sleeps, herself reveals,
Or in the giving Hand, or Heart that feels.
To all, like Brutus, to apply to Heav'n
Before the People, who astonish'd stand,
To drive a Tarquin out, and free the Land.
Who in an humble Walk of Life are hurl'd,
With Talents to adorn, and rule, the World,
And such there are, deny'd by Stars unkind
The Seasons to exert the noble Mind,
Should watch Occasions, and attend the Hours,
And catch the Moments, to indulge their Pow'rs:
58
Then help the injur'd Wife, or Maid distress'd:
First with your Friends who want divide your Store,
And open wide your hospitable Door:
Is this too much? Is Fate a Niggard here?
And, if you give, is Charity too dear?
Then give Advice, Advice Relief affords:
Pour in the Balm of comfortable Words.
Virtue, that seldom sleeps, herself reveals,
Or in the giving Hand, or Heart that feels.
All is not Virtue which Men Virtue call;
Enthusiastic Fools will give up all:
Is to the needy one of these a Friend?
He only lends to Heav'n as Us'rers lend:
Believ'd he not that God would doubly pay,
He would not give a single Groat away:
He sees not for himself; nor can he see;
Nor acts he thus, because it thus should be:
These are the Fools, the Madmen these at best,
Who render their Religion but a Jest.
What? Give up all, give all I have, ye say:
To follow what, give all I have away?
'Tis not the Cry of God, nor Nature's Cry:
Is Mankind dearer to myself than I?
Dearest to me the nearest are in Life;
Dear are my Children, dear my blameless Wife.
Enthusiastic Fools will give up all:
Is to the needy one of these a Friend?
He only lends to Heav'n as Us'rers lend:
Believ'd he not that God would doubly pay,
He would not give a single Groat away:
He sees not for himself; nor can he see;
Nor acts he thus, because it thus should be:
These are the Fools, the Madmen these at best,
Who render their Religion but a Jest.
What? Give up all, give all I have, ye say:
To follow what, give all I have away?
'Tis not the Cry of God, nor Nature's Cry:
Is Mankind dearer to myself than I?
59
Dear are my Children, dear my blameless Wife.
Of all who prostitute fair Virtue's Name,
None ridicule her more, or more can shame,
Than those, with Fortune's Favours richly clad,
Who are good Men because they are not bad.
This has in Bags two hundred thousand clear,
And that in Land ten thousand Pounds a Year:
No Murders they, and they no Thefts, commit,
Nor scandalise their Neighbours with their Wit;
They neither give, nor spend, to wrong their Heirs;
They pay their Debts, believe, and go to Pray'rs:
To the worst Vice, to Avarice, these Slaves,
These negative good Men, are horrid Knaves.
Receive a Tale, these Monsters to expose,
In homely Verse, which Æsop told in Prose.
None ridicule her more, or more can shame,
Than those, with Fortune's Favours richly clad,
Who are good Men because they are not bad.
This has in Bags two hundred thousand clear,
And that in Land ten thousand Pounds a Year:
No Murders they, and they no Thefts, commit,
Nor scandalise their Neighbours with their Wit;
They neither give, nor spend, to wrong their Heirs;
They pay their Debts, believe, and go to Pray'rs:
To the worst Vice, to Avarice, these Slaves,
These negative good Men, are horrid Knaves.
Receive a Tale, these Monsters to expose,
In homely Verse, which Æsop told in Prose.
An ugly Mongrel in a Manger lay,
Well fill'd with Oats, the Rack above with Hay,
Where in his Stall confin'd a gallant Steed,
Swift in the Race, and of a gen'rous Breed,
Stood pinch'd with Hunger, yet deny'd to eat
By the curs'd Cur, who could not taste the Meat.
Such are the Whelps of Fortune who refuse
To spare a Part of what they can not use,
The Sons of Chance, Humanity's Disgrace:
Out, out, ye Dogs, and give the worthyer Place.
Well fill'd with Oats, the Rack above with Hay,
Where in his Stall confin'd a gallant Steed,
Swift in the Race, and of a gen'rous Breed,
60
By the curs'd Cur, who could not taste the Meat.
Such are the Whelps of Fortune who refuse
To spare a Part of what they can not use,
The Sons of Chance, Humanity's Disgrace:
Out, out, ye Dogs, and give the worthyer Place.
Sweet are the Pleasures of the bounteous Soul!
He fears no Poyson lurking in the Bowl:
Where-e'er he goes they wish him there to stay;
For Discontent before him flys away:
All Eyes, which see him, see him with Delight;
His Virtue is his Guard by Day and Night:
The little faithful Ministers of Sleep,
Whene'er his Eyes are clos'd, their Vigils keep;
They drive all Images of Horror thence,
And none admit ingrateful to the Sense:
Peaceful his Slumbers are; and, if he dreams,
Thro flow'ry Meads he walks by chrystal Streams:
O'er Hills he flys, unbounded in his Sight,
And meets with Nothing to obstruct his Flight;
At Will he views the ev'ry pleasing Scene,
Gardens and Groves of everlasting Green:
And when he wakes he wakes to sweet Content,
The fair Reflection of a Life well spent.
He fears no Poyson lurking in the Bowl:
Where-e'er he goes they wish him there to stay;
For Discontent before him flys away:
All Eyes, which see him, see him with Delight;
His Virtue is his Guard by Day and Night:
The little faithful Ministers of Sleep,
Whene'er his Eyes are clos'd, their Vigils keep;
They drive all Images of Horror thence,
And none admit ingrateful to the Sense:
Peaceful his Slumbers are; and, if he dreams,
Thro flow'ry Meads he walks by chrystal Streams:
O'er Hills he flys, unbounded in his Sight,
And meets with Nothing to obstruct his Flight;
At Will he views the ev'ry pleasing Scene,
Gardens and Groves of everlasting Green:
And when he wakes he wakes to sweet Content,
The fair Reflection of a Life well spent.
61
These are the Pleasures, these the Joys divine,
Which Scipio's were, and, Reynolds, now are thine;
Thine is the Blessing which to few belong,
Th'unruffled Mind, and thine th'immortal Song.
Which Scipio's were, and, Reynolds, now are thine;
Thine is the Blessing which to few belong,
Th'unruffled Mind, and thine th'immortal Song.
St. Kilda is the most western of the northwest Isles of Scotland: the Description which is given of it has something extraordinary and poetical in it. This Island is fenced all round with steep Rocks, excepting a Bay that is south-east, which is not a Harbour fit to receive a Ship; therefore it is almost impossible to land but in a Calm, and then it must be by climbing. The Soil is not unfruitful, and there is great Plenty of Fish and Fowl. The few Inhabitants, as they are by Nature separated from the World, and consequently know Nothing of the Arts of Luxury and Gain, are an innocent People. They have no Money among them, but deal in Exchange of Commoditys. Here is an Epitomy of the World as painted by the Poets in its State of Infancy and Innocence!
The Priesthood is called Clergy from the Greek Word Κληρος. Lot, or Portion, the Priests, and all the several Orders of the Clergy, being, as themselves say, God's Portion.
63
2. PART the Second, CONTAINING EPISTLES, ODES, FABLES, SATIRES, LOVE-ELEGYS, PROLOGUES, EPILOGUES, and EPIGRAMS.
65
EPISTLES the First, TO Mrs. COLSTON, On the Death of her only Son.
Madam, if Mourning, if Excess of Grief,
To thee, or to the Sire, could bring Relief,
If a long Exile from the Face of Joy,
Could from the Dust redeem the lovely Boy,
My streaming Eyes should the sad Chorus join,
And I would make thy restless Anguish mine:
Or if my Verse the great Effect could have,
To charm relentless Fate, and bribe the Grave,
I would invoke the God, the Springs would drain,
Till I could bring him to your Arms again;
But since we know he shares the common Fate
Of all that's good, of all that's wise and great,
In vain her Vows to Heav'n the Parent pays;
In vain in Sorrows pass the tedious Days.
At the Demand of Nature all remove:
Death heeds not Beauty, nor the Crys of Love.
Old Age, experienc'd in a World of Woe,
Bent by the Weight of Years, is loth to go,
He always thinks, or hopes, his Race not ran;
But Death, tho long delay'd, confutes the Man.
In blooming Years e'en the dear darling Boy,
Who smil'd away thy Cares to instant Joy,
The Tyrant's early Summons must obey,
And for the darksome Tomb forsake the Day.
Behold the Flow'rs, which vernal Meads adorn,
Open the Bud, and blossom to the Morn;
Impending Tempests darken all the Sky,
Bleak Winds and Storms ensue, they droop, they dy.
To thee, or to the Sire, could bring Relief,
If a long Exile from the Face of Joy,
Could from the Dust redeem the lovely Boy,
My streaming Eyes should the sad Chorus join,
And I would make thy restless Anguish mine:
Or if my Verse the great Effect could have,
To charm relentless Fate, and bribe the Grave,
I would invoke the God, the Springs would drain,
Till I could bring him to your Arms again;
But since we know he shares the common Fate
Of all that's good, of all that's wise and great,
In vain her Vows to Heav'n the Parent pays;
In vain in Sorrows pass the tedious Days.
66
Death heeds not Beauty, nor the Crys of Love.
Old Age, experienc'd in a World of Woe,
Bent by the Weight of Years, is loth to go,
He always thinks, or hopes, his Race not ran;
But Death, tho long delay'd, confutes the Man.
In blooming Years e'en the dear darling Boy,
Who smil'd away thy Cares to instant Joy,
The Tyrant's early Summons must obey,
And for the darksome Tomb forsake the Day.
Behold the Flow'rs, which vernal Meads adorn,
Open the Bud, and blossom to the Morn;
Impending Tempests darken all the Sky,
Bleak Winds and Storms ensue, they droop, they dy.
Thus to a constant Course is Nature bound,
And takes, perhaps, her everlasting Round!
'Tis she beyond thy Sex has made thee fair;
From her thy Pleasure, and from her thy Care:
To her, whose Pow'r I feel, I make my Pray'r.
And takes, perhaps, her everlasting Round!
'Tis she beyond thy Sex has made thee fair;
From her thy Pleasure, and from her thy Care:
To her, whose Pow'r I feel, I make my Pray'r.
Parent, to whom our ev'ry Joy we owe,
From whom alone the Poet's Numbers flow,
The Charms of Verse, whatever Charms they be,
Like Charms of Beauty are deriv'd from thee.
You form for Conquest the angelic Face,
You mold each Feature, and you give each Grace;
You teach the Lover the belov'd to move,
And you alone compose the Bed of Love.
Great Parent hear my Vows, nor hear in vain,
For her the lovely'st of the lovely'st Train:
To her distracted Heart apply Relief;
Nor let her Soul complain of future Grief:
Let of their Pow'r no Tears her Eyes disarm;
Bright be the Luster of those Lamps to charm;
On her indulgent may the Seasons smile,
And a new Joy each rising Care beguile;
Unrival'd may she give her Consort Rest,
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd.
Her Beautys when the Veil of Time shall shade,
Her Lillys wither and her Roses fade,
May she, to grace the Age, and charm Mankind,
Leave the sweet Image of herself behind.
From whom alone the Poet's Numbers flow,
The Charms of Verse, whatever Charms they be,
Like Charms of Beauty are deriv'd from thee.
67
You mold each Feature, and you give each Grace;
You teach the Lover the belov'd to move,
And you alone compose the Bed of Love.
Great Parent hear my Vows, nor hear in vain,
For her the lovely'st of the lovely'st Train:
To her distracted Heart apply Relief;
Nor let her Soul complain of future Grief:
Let of their Pow'r no Tears her Eyes disarm;
Bright be the Luster of those Lamps to charm;
On her indulgent may the Seasons smile,
And a new Joy each rising Care beguile;
Unrival'd may she give her Consort Rest,
For ever blessing, and for ever bless'd.
Her Beautys when the Veil of Time shall shade,
Her Lillys wither and her Roses fade,
May she, to grace the Age, and charm Mankind,
Leave the sweet Image of herself behind.
Sept. 1725.
68
EPISTLE the Second, TO Mr. LEONARD WELSTED, On the Death of his only Daughter.
While on the winding Banks of Thames I rove,
Or chuse, for Silence more profound, the Grove,
Or in the flow'ry Vale inamour'd stray,
Where Innocence and Truth direct the Way,
While charm'd sublimely by the various Scene,
The Muse propitious, and the Mind serene,
What to a Mortal, so divinely bless'd,
Can strike so deeply as a Friend distress'd!
E'en now dejected I thy Lot deplore;
And the gay Prospect can delight no more.
In vain to me the gilded Landskips rise,
While the Tears fall from my Horatio's Eyes.
Or chuse, for Silence more profound, the Grove,
Or in the flow'ry Vale inamour'd stray,
Where Innocence and Truth direct the Way,
While charm'd sublimely by the various Scene,
The Muse propitious, and the Mind serene,
What to a Mortal, so divinely bless'd,
Can strike so deeply as a Friend distress'd!
E'en now dejected I thy Lot deplore;
And the gay Prospect can delight no more.
In vain to me the gilded Landskips rise,
While the Tears fall from my Horatio's Eyes.
Well is my Soul for Friendship form'd, or Love;
In Consort to my Friend my Passions move.
E'en now the sov'reign Balm, that never fail'd,
That always o'er the heavy Heart prevail'd,
That ever charm'd me in the mournful Hour,
E'en thy own Lays, my Friend, have loss'd their Pow'r.
In Consort to my Friend my Passions move.
69
That always o'er the heavy Heart prevail'd,
That ever charm'd me in the mournful Hour,
E'en thy own Lays, my Friend, have loss'd their Pow'r.
O! how I long to let our Sorrows flow,
And mingle in the tender Strife of Woe!
'Tis done; and lo! the Debt of Nature's pay'd:
Soft ly the Dust, and happy rest the Maid!
And now the last, the pious, Tear is shed,
The unavailing Tribute to the dead,
No longer let thy faithful Friends complain;
See, they demand thee to themselves again.
Petronius now allures thy Soul to Ease,
A happy Man, by Nature form'd to please;
Whose Virtues well may call Horatio Friend;
Whom Love, and Mirth dispelling Care, attend;
In him, to full Perfection met, we see
All that the wise and gay can wish to be;
In the sad Hour from him I find Relief,
With him forget that I have Cause for Grief.
Haste to enjoy the Hours I've hear'd you prize,
Those Hours known only to the good and wise;
To sacred Friendship be thy Days assign'd;
Be to thy-self, and thy Associates, kind:
Or if the Soul, all resolute in Woe,
Still bids the wakeful Eye of Sorrow flow,
Make Reason, the great Guide of Life, thine Aid:
Say, is the Phrenzy grateful to the Maid?
Or could the virgin Shade perceive thee mourn,
Would she embody'd to thy Arms return?
What-ever Cause my Friend concludes her Date,
The Course of Nature, or the Work of Fate,
Let this the Burden of thy Heart relieve,
'Tis Weakness, or Impiety, to grieve.
What tho her Charms might savage Rage compose,
And vy in Sweetness with the Syrian Rose,
What tho her Mind beseem'd her Angel's Face,
Where ev'ry Virtue met, and ev'ry Grace,
Yet think, my Friend, the heavy falling Show'r,
Without Distinction lays the lovely'st Flow'r.
Trace ev'ry Age, in ev'ry Age you find
A thousand weeping Fathers left behind;
The common Lot of all is fall'n to thee,
What was, what is, and what shall always be.
To Dust reduc'd shall thy Zelinda ly;
And know thy self, thy dearer self, shall dy:
Know this, and stop the Fountain of thine Eyes,
Excess of Sorrow ill becomes the wise.
And mingle in the tender Strife of Woe!
'Tis done; and lo! the Debt of Nature's pay'd:
Soft ly the Dust, and happy rest the Maid!
And now the last, the pious, Tear is shed,
The unavailing Tribute to the dead,
No longer let thy faithful Friends complain;
See, they demand thee to themselves again.
Petronius now allures thy Soul to Ease,
A happy Man, by Nature form'd to please;
Whose Virtues well may call Horatio Friend;
Whom Love, and Mirth dispelling Care, attend;
In him, to full Perfection met, we see
All that the wise and gay can wish to be;
In the sad Hour from him I find Relief,
With him forget that I have Cause for Grief.
Haste to enjoy the Hours I've hear'd you prize,
Those Hours known only to the good and wise;
To sacred Friendship be thy Days assign'd;
Be to thy-self, and thy Associates, kind:
70
Still bids the wakeful Eye of Sorrow flow,
Make Reason, the great Guide of Life, thine Aid:
Say, is the Phrenzy grateful to the Maid?
Or could the virgin Shade perceive thee mourn,
Would she embody'd to thy Arms return?
What-ever Cause my Friend concludes her Date,
The Course of Nature, or the Work of Fate,
Let this the Burden of thy Heart relieve,
'Tis Weakness, or Impiety, to grieve.
What tho her Charms might savage Rage compose,
And vy in Sweetness with the Syrian Rose,
What tho her Mind beseem'd her Angel's Face,
Where ev'ry Virtue met, and ev'ry Grace,
Yet think, my Friend, the heavy falling Show'r,
Without Distinction lays the lovely'st Flow'r.
Trace ev'ry Age, in ev'ry Age you find
A thousand weeping Fathers left behind;
The common Lot of all is fall'n to thee,
What was, what is, and what shall always be.
To Dust reduc'd shall thy Zelinda ly;
And know thy self, thy dearer self, shall dy:
Know this, and stop the Fountain of thine Eyes,
Excess of Sorrow ill becomes the wise.
August, 1726.
71
EPISTLE the Third, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke at Wilton.
While in the Town I spend the tedious Day,
There waste the cheerful summer Suns away,
What distant Tracts the social Hour refuse!
Yet none impervious to the pow'rful Muse!
Far northward to the Humber some repair;
These on the Medway breathe the southern Air,
Where shady Mountains rise, and Vales subside,
Along whose Banks the liquid Mirrors glide:
While these, retiring to the rural Seat,
Seek on the peaceful Plains a bless'd Retreat,
To me the Hours move with a Sluggard's Pace,
For Time not flys, but seems to slack his Race.
There waste the cheerful summer Suns away,
What distant Tracts the social Hour refuse!
Yet none impervious to the pow'rful Muse!
Far northward to the Humber some repair;
These on the Medway breathe the southern Air,
Where shady Mountains rise, and Vales subside,
Along whose Banks the liquid Mirrors glide:
While these, retiring to the rural Seat,
Seek on the peaceful Plains a bless'd Retreat,
To me the Hours move with a Sluggard's Pace,
For Time not flys, but seems to slack his Race.
While Wilton Shades receive my noble Friend,
What grateful Present can the Muses send?
Accept, the Language of my Heart, this Song;
No servile Flatt'ry shall thy Virtues wrong:
Fain by thy Virtues I my Name would raise,
And grow, my Lord, immortal in thy Praise.
What grateful Present can the Muses send?
72
No servile Flatt'ry shall thy Virtues wrong:
Fain by thy Virtues I my Name would raise,
And grow, my Lord, immortal in thy Praise.
Hail to those Shades where, in our golden Age,
The godlike Sidney pen'd the deathless Page;
Sidney to Mem'ry dear, and dear to Fame,
Of whom the learned Shades retain the Name .
Hail to those Shades where now my Genius roves,
Zealous to wait you thro the silent Groves:
I view you there with philosophic Eyes,
In your more boasted Titles, good and wise,
Searching thro Nature all her perfect Laws,
And tracing from th'Effect the secret Cause:
And here, great Man, another Subject trace,
The Glorys of your own immortal Race,
Worthys who, Ages pass'd, those Walks have trod,
Who, born in Greece, had each been stil'd a God.
Your great Forefathers Themes for Wonder give,
Renown'd for ev'ry Excellence they live.
In Council wise these prov'd their Sov'reign's Pride;
Those bravely stem'd of War the raging Tyde:
All human Greatness crouds thy glorious Line,
And ev'ry Virtue of thy Race is thine.
Would those cœlestial Guests one Look bestow
On Wilton's Fabric, their Retreat below,
They would confess their Joy encreas'd, to see
How fresh their Love of Arts still lives in thee:
There would they view, to beautyfy the Dome,
Proud Ornaments! the Arts of Greece and Rome:
There, Niobe, thy hapless Offsprings fall;
The Forest waves the Branches on the Wall;
Thick fly the Darts; the Mother makes her Moan,
And seems converted to a Stone in Stone;
How vain is Pride in the sad Tale behold,
And by the Sculptor's Hand the Story told.
Sav'd from the greedy Waste of Time, appears
The rev'rend Bust of near three thousand Years,
The Bard of Ascra, whose immortal Songs
Engag'd a Country to revenge his Wrongs.
There Terence stands, Prince of the comic Strain;
And Belles of former Days there charm again:
Poets and Heros there, of diff'rent Climes,
With Beautys meet, all Boasts of earlyer Times.
O! there, for which each Friend to Virtue prays,
Over thy Head smile many cheerful Days;
While there retir'd beneath the grateful Shade,
May no rude Care thy Soul divine invade:
Each Joy be thine that bounteous Nature yields,
And late thy Summons to the happyer Fields.
The godlike Sidney pen'd the deathless Page;
Sidney to Mem'ry dear, and dear to Fame,
Of whom the learned Shades retain the Name .
Hail to those Shades where now my Genius roves,
Zealous to wait you thro the silent Groves:
I view you there with philosophic Eyes,
In your more boasted Titles, good and wise,
Searching thro Nature all her perfect Laws,
And tracing from th'Effect the secret Cause:
And here, great Man, another Subject trace,
The Glorys of your own immortal Race,
Worthys who, Ages pass'd, those Walks have trod,
Who, born in Greece, had each been stil'd a God.
Your great Forefathers Themes for Wonder give,
Renown'd for ev'ry Excellence they live.
In Council wise these prov'd their Sov'reign's Pride;
Those bravely stem'd of War the raging Tyde:
73
And ev'ry Virtue of thy Race is thine.
Would those cœlestial Guests one Look bestow
On Wilton's Fabric, their Retreat below,
They would confess their Joy encreas'd, to see
How fresh their Love of Arts still lives in thee:
There would they view, to beautyfy the Dome,
Proud Ornaments! the Arts of Greece and Rome:
There, Niobe, thy hapless Offsprings fall;
The Forest waves the Branches on the Wall;
Thick fly the Darts; the Mother makes her Moan,
And seems converted to a Stone in Stone;
How vain is Pride in the sad Tale behold,
And by the Sculptor's Hand the Story told.
Sav'd from the greedy Waste of Time, appears
The rev'rend Bust of near three thousand Years,
The Bard of Ascra, whose immortal Songs
Engag'd a Country to revenge his Wrongs.
There Terence stands, Prince of the comic Strain;
And Belles of former Days there charm again:
Poets and Heros there, of diff'rent Climes,
With Beautys meet, all Boasts of earlyer Times.
O! there, for which each Friend to Virtue prays,
Over thy Head smile many cheerful Days;
While there retir'd beneath the grateful Shade,
May no rude Care thy Soul divine invade:
74
And late thy Summons to the happyer Fields.
August, 1727.
At the Seat of the Earl of Pembroke at Wilton is a Walk now called by the Name of Sir Philip Sidney, who is sayed to have wrote most of his Arcadia there.
75
EPISTLE the Fourth, To the honourable Lord George Johnston.
To you, my Lord, whose unexperienc'd Days
Have yet preserv'd you safe from venal Praise,
This Verse is due. The moral Lay attend,
And in the Poet prize a useful Friend.
Have yet preserv'd you safe from venal Praise,
This Verse is due. The moral Lay attend,
And in the Poet prize a useful Friend.
Say, noble Youth, while in a State of Ease
Your only Care is to be pleas'd and please,
What darling Subject now your Mind employs,
What Hopes you cherish of your future Joys?
Fortune, you say, has prov'd a bounteous Dame;
And pompous Titles shall adorn your Name;
Your Look 'e'relong shall overawe the proud,
And to your Levee throng the fawning Croud.
The Fair, and all your Appetites can crave,
You need but to desire, desire and have.
If to Delights like these your Heart's inclin'd,
Delights most obvious to the sensual Mind,
Know your Pursuit of Happyness is vain,
And all your Labour is to purchase Pain.
False Pride! that loves an humbled Slave to see,
That scorns, or hates you, while he bows the Knee;
And quickly fading is the Bliss we place,
And often fatal, in a lovely Face.
Your only Care is to be pleas'd and please,
What darling Subject now your Mind employs,
What Hopes you cherish of your future Joys?
Fortune, you say, has prov'd a bounteous Dame;
And pompous Titles shall adorn your Name;
Your Look 'e'relong shall overawe the proud,
And to your Levee throng the fawning Croud.
76
You need but to desire, desire and have.
If to Delights like these your Heart's inclin'd,
Delights most obvious to the sensual Mind,
Know your Pursuit of Happyness is vain,
And all your Labour is to purchase Pain.
False Pride! that loves an humbled Slave to see,
That scorns, or hates you, while he bows the Knee;
And quickly fading is the Bliss we place,
And often fatal, in a lovely Face.
Nature your Form has to Perfection wrought,
And bless'd you with a happy Cast of Thought;
In all you speak the Love of Truth appears,
A Genius rising far above your Years:
To these, which truly are your own, we join
The long Descent of an illustrious Line.
O! Youth belov'd, on whom the kindest Ray
Has shed an Influence from your natal Day,
Exert the Virtues you disclose so soon,
Nor let your Morn of Life disgrace your Noon.
If, when arriv'd to a maturer Age,
Gay Scenes of Folly should your Soul engage,
To check the better Seeds, and sink your Mind
Beneath the Dignity of human Kind,
In vain you boast the Glorys of your Line,
In vain the Fair, who bore you, near divine:
The Honours which your great Forefathers won
Wipe not a Stain from the degen'rate Son.
And bless'd you with a happy Cast of Thought;
In all you speak the Love of Truth appears,
A Genius rising far above your Years:
To these, which truly are your own, we join
The long Descent of an illustrious Line.
O! Youth belov'd, on whom the kindest Ray
Has shed an Influence from your natal Day,
Exert the Virtues you disclose so soon,
Nor let your Morn of Life disgrace your Noon.
If, when arriv'd to a maturer Age,
Gay Scenes of Folly should your Soul engage,
To check the better Seeds, and sink your Mind
Beneath the Dignity of human Kind,
77
In vain the Fair, who bore you, near divine:
The Honours which your great Forefathers won
Wipe not a Stain from the degen'rate Son.
Now is the Time your Knowledge to encrease,
From the rich Stores of antient Rome and Greece:
Should those immortal Works your Breast inspire,
With a resistless Heat, to reach their Fire,
Never be vicious in your Hours of Wit,
Avoid the Rock where Wilmot's Genius split;
Nor Innocence with scurril Jokes blaspheme,
Nor ever wanton with a sacred Theme:
Methods like those true Genius will despise;
Such Men of Wit are never deem'd the wise.
From the rich Stores of antient Rome and Greece:
Should those immortal Works your Breast inspire,
With a resistless Heat, to reach their Fire,
Never be vicious in your Hours of Wit,
Avoid the Rock where Wilmot's Genius split;
Nor Innocence with scurril Jokes blaspheme,
Nor ever wanton with a sacred Theme:
Methods like those true Genius will despise;
Such Men of Wit are never deem'd the wise.
When form'd to Man be cautious whom you trust,
The Knave of Talents, nor the Fool tho just:
What from the Frankness of your Soul you say
The Fool may tattel, and the Knave betray.
The Knave of Talents, nor the Fool tho just:
What from the Frankness of your Soul you say
The Fool may tattel, and the Knave betray.
In Judgement ripe and fit to aid the State,
To shine in Arms, or end the fierce Debate,
On bright Examples stedfast fix your Eyes,
And emulating them resolve to rise.
When Rome was great, and her Augustus young,
Mæcenas councel'd, and a Horace sung;
Not less thy Pow'r, nor, Britain, less thy Fame,
Who o'er thy Counsels boast as great a Name;
Like him my Lord, like Cav'ndish, nobly strive
New Arts to cherish, and the old revive.
Let Pembroke, foremost of the Sons of Truth,
To all that's worthy Praise direct your Youth;
His Life instructs you better far to live
Than all the Precepts Socrates could give.
Like Cart'ret, Glory to his native Isle,
Be all your Joy to make your Country smile;
If, fir'd by Worth like his, you gain a Name
On Merit founded, and the Pride of Fame,
When, be it late, among your Sires you sleep,
Virtue, and Learning, and the Muse, shall weep.
To shine in Arms, or end the fierce Debate,
On bright Examples stedfast fix your Eyes,
And emulating them resolve to rise.
78
Mæcenas councel'd, and a Horace sung;
Not less thy Pow'r, nor, Britain, less thy Fame,
Who o'er thy Counsels boast as great a Name;
Like him my Lord, like Cav'ndish, nobly strive
New Arts to cherish, and the old revive.
Let Pembroke, foremost of the Sons of Truth,
To all that's worthy Praise direct your Youth;
His Life instructs you better far to live
Than all the Precepts Socrates could give.
Like Cart'ret, Glory to his native Isle,
Be all your Joy to make your Country smile;
If, fir'd by Worth like his, you gain a Name
On Merit founded, and the Pride of Fame,
When, be it late, among your Sires you sleep,
Virtue, and Learning, and the Muse, shall weep.
Nov. 1728.
79
EPISTLE the Fifth, To the right honourable Thomas Earl of Pembroke, Occasioned by The Death of Dr. Samuel Clarke.
Point out the Man who, from the Bloom of Youth,
Has fear'd to wander from the Paths of Truth,
Who, with a Genius to his Labours kind,
Traces the Workings of th'eternal Mind,
Who, thro a Nassau's and a Stewart's Reign,
Pass'd the high Scenes of Life without a Stain,
Whom, for his Wisdom and his Worth renown'd,
The Sun beholds with Years and Honours crown'd:
To him the Bard directs his plaintive Lays,
Inspir'd by Sorrow with the Song of Praise.
Has fear'd to wander from the Paths of Truth,
Who, with a Genius to his Labours kind,
Traces the Workings of th'eternal Mind,
Who, thro a Nassau's and a Stewart's Reign,
Pass'd the high Scenes of Life without a Stain,
Whom, for his Wisdom and his Worth renown'd,
The Sun beholds with Years and Honours crown'd:
To him the Bard directs his plaintive Lays,
Inspir'd by Sorrow with the Song of Praise.
80
Pembroke attend: thy Virtues be my Guide,
Great Man, whose Friendship is my foremost Pride:
To thee, whom all the learned Arts adorn,
To Fame thro Virtue more than Titles born,
This Verse I send: indulge the pious Strain;
Nor think the Off'rings of the Muses vain:
With just Distinction they the dead survey,
And cast a Luster round the great Man's Clay:
E'en now, all grateful for his sacred Page,
They wait obsequious on the dying Sage,
Watch with melodious Grief his latest Breath,
Then hail him to the Life he gains by Death.
Give me the Worth you priz'd on Earth to tell,
And deign, my Lord, to join the last Farewel.
Great Man, whose Friendship is my foremost Pride:
To thee, whom all the learned Arts adorn,
To Fame thro Virtue more than Titles born,
This Verse I send: indulge the pious Strain;
Nor think the Off'rings of the Muses vain:
With just Distinction they the dead survey,
And cast a Luster round the great Man's Clay:
E'en now, all grateful for his sacred Page,
They wait obsequious on the dying Sage,
Watch with melodious Grief his latest Breath,
Then hail him to the Life he gains by Death.
Give me the Worth you priz'd on Earth to tell,
And deign, my Lord, to join the last Farewel.
When Men illustrious to the Grave descend,
Of whom the World may say we mourn our Friend,
Whose Search unweary'd, and whose fruitful Care,
The Suns can witness, and the Nights declare,
Who with a cheerful Heart could Toils despise,
To mend our Morals, and improve the wise,
When Men like Clarke rever'd forsake the Day,
The Muse laments, and in no vulgar Way.
Of whom the World may say we mourn our Friend,
Whose Search unweary'd, and whose fruitful Care,
The Suns can witness, and the Nights declare,
Who with a cheerful Heart could Toils despise,
To mend our Morals, and improve the wise,
When Men like Clarke rever'd forsake the Day,
The Muse laments, and in no vulgar Way.
Your Fate, ye vain, your Fate, Ambition, know;
Behold the wise, the learned, Head lys low:
Hence be your Joy, hence be your boasted Pride,
To live like him, without a Fear who dy'd,
The just Asserter of th'almighty Cause,
Who trac'd thro Nature God's unering Laws:
How bless'd the Doctrine that the Sage has taught,
That passive Matter can produce no Thought!
Thence may the reas'ning Mind disclose a Ray
(How fair the Prospect!) of eternal Day.
Behold the wise, the learned, Head lys low:
81
To live like him, without a Fear who dy'd,
The just Asserter of th'almighty Cause,
Who trac'd thro Nature God's unering Laws:
How bless'd the Doctrine that the Sage has taught,
That passive Matter can produce no Thought!
Thence may the reas'ning Mind disclose a Ray
(How fair the Prospect!) of eternal Day.
Hence let my ravish'd Soul those Realms explore
Where Pains torment, and Doubts perplex no more:
Let Fancy paint the ever pleasing Scene,
For fading Verdure an immortal Green,
Where all Things lovely to the Sight arise,
Beneath the boundless and unclouded Skys:
From Bliss, to Bliss, enamour'd now we rove,
Soft thro th'enamel'd Mead, or vocal Grove:
There Sweets are wafted from the distant Coasts,
Sweets far beyond what either India boasts:
There blooms perpetual the cœlestial Flow'r,
More rich than ever deck'd a Syrian Bow'r.
Thro Worlds of Fragrance, Worlds of Light, we fly,
Beneath, O God! thine ever-watchful Eye:
Enhanc'd our Pleasures, and improv'd our Pow'rs,
The happy there shall never number Hours.
Aray'd with Glory shall the just endure
In unmolested Joys, and ever pure.
Where Pains torment, and Doubts perplex no more:
Let Fancy paint the ever pleasing Scene,
For fading Verdure an immortal Green,
Where all Things lovely to the Sight arise,
Beneath the boundless and unclouded Skys:
From Bliss, to Bliss, enamour'd now we rove,
Soft thro th'enamel'd Mead, or vocal Grove:
There Sweets are wafted from the distant Coasts,
Sweets far beyond what either India boasts:
There blooms perpetual the cœlestial Flow'r,
More rich than ever deck'd a Syrian Bow'r.
Thro Worlds of Fragrance, Worlds of Light, we fly,
Beneath, O God! thine ever-watchful Eye:
82
The happy there shall never number Hours.
Aray'd with Glory shall the just endure
In unmolested Joys, and ever pure.
E'en now perhaps the venerable Shade
Retires with Angels to some heav'nly Glade:
See thy own Locke, my Lord, the converse join,
Newton profound, and Tillotson divine:
Revolving in their Breasts the Turns of Fate,
What anxious Moments in the human State,
Him the most bless'd they deem who early'st dy'd,
And pity Monarchs in their purple Pride.
Retires with Angels to some heav'nly Glade:
See thy own Locke, my Lord, the converse join,
Newton profound, and Tillotson divine:
Revolving in their Breasts the Turns of Fate,
What anxious Moments in the human State,
Him the most bless'd they deem who early'st dy'd,
And pity Monarchs in their purple Pride.
In the bright Realms of everlasting Rest,
Where Clarke illustrious shines among the bless'd,
Superior Merit shall obtain the Prize,
The Man who look'd on all with friendly Eyes,
Who sought for Truth thro Virtue more than Fame:
Such late was Shaftesb'ry, never dying Name!
Where Clarke illustrious shines among the bless'd,
Superior Merit shall obtain the Prize,
The Man who look'd on all with friendly Eyes,
Who sought for Truth thro Virtue more than Fame:
Such late was Shaftesb'ry, never dying Name!
Heroic Souls, the Sons of Empire, there
Who view'd their Kingdoms with paternal Care,
Who made their Wills subservient to the Law,
Such our first Brunswick was, and such Nassau,
Shall meet, while Earth preserves their just Renown,
For transient Pomp an ever-during Crown:
And there the Champions who for Freedom stood,
Of Danger fearless for the public Good,
Men who, untaught to tyrant Pow'r to yield,
Pursu'd fair Honour thro the martial Field,
Like Marlb'ro' who sustain'd the glorious Strife,
And who like Ca'ndish grac'd a private Life,
Whose mortal Parts among his Fathers sleep,
While Virtue, Learning, and Augustus, weep.
Who view'd their Kingdoms with paternal Care,
Who made their Wills subservient to the Law,
Such our first Brunswick was, and such Nassau,
83
For transient Pomp an ever-during Crown:
And there the Champions who for Freedom stood,
Of Danger fearless for the public Good,
Men who, untaught to tyrant Pow'r to yield,
Pursu'd fair Honour thro the martial Field,
Like Marlb'ro' who sustain'd the glorious Strife,
And who like Ca'ndish grac'd a private Life,
Whose mortal Parts among his Fathers sleep,
While Virtue, Learning, and Augustus, weep.
Hail Shades triumphant! Hail Examples bright
Of worth exalted to those Worlds of Light!
Where the great Statesman shall securely rise,
Beyond the poys'nous Ken of envious Eyes,
To whom no Merit e'er apply'd in vain,
Of whom the worthless can alone complain,
Who ne'er deceiv'd his Friend, nor broke his Vow:
Godolphin such: such Chesterfield is now.
Of worth exalted to those Worlds of Light!
Where the great Statesman shall securely rise,
Beyond the poys'nous Ken of envious Eyes,
To whom no Merit e'er apply'd in vain,
Of whom the worthless can alone complain,
Who ne'er deceiv'd his Friend, nor broke his Vow:
Godolphin such: such Chesterfield is now.
In ever-smiling Scenes the pious Train,
Priests who like Hoadley sacred Truths maintain,
Who strive by Reason to convince their Foes,
Who with a Christian Meekness Rage oppose,
Shall breathe the Sweetness of eternal Spring,
Where laugh the Mountains, and the Valleys sing,
Where Joys on Joys arise, where all is gay,
Enliven'd by the never-closing Day.
Priests who like Hoadley sacred Truths maintain,
Who strive by Reason to convince their Foes,
Who with a Christian Meekness Rage oppose,
84
Where laugh the Mountains, and the Valleys sing,
Where Joys on Joys arise, where all is gay,
Enliven'd by the never-closing Day.
Far hence away are cast the impious Race,
Rebels to Virtue, and the World's Disgrace:
No Tyrant, whose Delight was Blood, is there,
Nor he who look'd unmov'd on human Care:
Nor views Hypocrisy the Face of God,
Nor Persecution with her iron Rod:
Alike excluded the cœlestial Plain
Are the detracting and the flatt'ring Train:
Nor to the Bow'rs of Paradise are led
The Nymphs unfaithful to the nuptial Bed;
Nor the false Swain is there, whose treach'rous Part
Was to seduce, then break, the tender Heart.
Far shall they wander from the Lawns of Joy
Who for their own another's Peace destroy:
Aray'd with Brightness shall they shine above
Who look on all Mankind with Eyes of Love.
Rebels to Virtue, and the World's Disgrace:
No Tyrant, whose Delight was Blood, is there,
Nor he who look'd unmov'd on human Care:
Nor views Hypocrisy the Face of God,
Nor Persecution with her iron Rod:
Alike excluded the cœlestial Plain
Are the detracting and the flatt'ring Train:
Nor to the Bow'rs of Paradise are led
The Nymphs unfaithful to the nuptial Bed;
Nor the false Swain is there, whose treach'rous Part
Was to seduce, then break, the tender Heart.
Far shall they wander from the Lawns of Joy
Who for their own another's Peace destroy:
Aray'd with Brightness shall they shine above
Who look on all Mankind with Eyes of Love.
May Heav'n, O! Pembroke, all our Vows regard,
And long detain thee from thy last Reward,
'E're the great Souls of Paradise you join,
Before those Arborets of Bliss are thine.
How oft' attentive have I pass'd the Day,
Led on, O! Wisdom, in thy flow'ry Way,
While on the classic Page thy Son refin'd,
Or with eternal Truths enrich'd my Mind:
Roll on, ye Suns, your annual Courses keep
Long 'e're the great Man leaves the World to weep.
And long detain thee from thy last Reward,
85
Before those Arborets of Bliss are thine.
How oft' attentive have I pass'd the Day,
Led on, O! Wisdom, in thy flow'ry Way,
While on the classic Page thy Son refin'd,
Or with eternal Truths enrich'd my Mind:
Roll on, ye Suns, your annual Courses keep
Long 'e're the great Man leaves the World to weep.
Nov. 1729.
86
EPISTLE the Sixth, To the right reverend Dr. Benjamin Hoadley, On his being translated from the Bishoprick of Salisbury to Winchester.
Amidst the Honours which your Virtue prove,The Smiles of Princes, and your Country's Love,
Do not, illustrious Sage, regardless view
The Muse's Tribute, to your Virtue due.
While here unfix'd from Stage to Stage you go,
Sowing the Seeds of heav'nly Truth below,
Where-e'er you come fair Charity appears,
And the loud Voice of Joy invades your Ears;
Gladness at your Approach prepares the Way,
And Discontent's a Stranger where you stay.
While here you sow with an unsparing Hand,
Your Harvest-home is in a distant Land;
87
Reaps the rich Produce of the Truth he lov'd:
There may your Friend adorn th'æthereal Plain
Long 'e're you join the venerable Train.
Dec. 1734.
88
EPISTLE the Seventh, To his Grace The Duke of Somerset at Petworth.
From Town retir'd, where Vice and Folly reign,
The Parents of Confusion and of Pain,
To the fair Scenes where Flora, richly dress'd,
Wears her green Mantle, and her purple Vest,
To whose Attire each Flow'r a Tribute brings,
For whom the Rose, the Queen of Fragrance, springs,
And where Pomona, with a lavish Hand,
Thick loads the Boughs, and Ceres cloaths the Land,
Where rise the Hills, and where the Valley leads
To the wide stretching Wood that skirts the Meads,
Amidst them all fix'd is my humble Cell,
Where Innocence and Meditation dwell:
Here the sweet Breath of Morn, and Ev'ning fair,
And solemn Stilness of the noontide Air,
Prove or to sacred Contemplation kind,
Or to the Field of Fancy wake the Mind.
The Parents of Confusion and of Pain,
To the fair Scenes where Flora, richly dress'd,
Wears her green Mantle, and her purple Vest,
To whose Attire each Flow'r a Tribute brings,
For whom the Rose, the Queen of Fragrance, springs,
And where Pomona, with a lavish Hand,
Thick loads the Boughs, and Ceres cloaths the Land,
Where rise the Hills, and where the Valley leads
To the wide stretching Wood that skirts the Meads,
Amidst them all fix'd is my humble Cell,
Where Innocence and Meditation dwell:
89
And solemn Stilness of the noontide Air,
Prove or to sacred Contemplation kind,
Or to the Field of Fancy wake the Mind.
While round the wide Expanse the Muse surveys
What first to sing, and where begin her Praise,
Southward to Petworth's Bow'rs she turns her Eyes,
And of her Song beholds the Subjects rise.
Here might I wanton in Description bold
Of Architrave and Roofs of freted Gold,
Point out the Cornice elegant and Freeze,
And shew that Order never fails to please:
There Sculpture charms, the Hero or the Saint;
And there surprises the projecting Paint:
The Grove, the Gardens, there the Muse might range,
And feast her Fancy with Delight of Change:
But these she passes now unheeded by,
Studious to feed the Mind, and not the Eye:
Unsung she leaves the Temple, to declare
What Virtues are enshrin'd in Person there:
She the great Master views to Titles born,
But to more Virtues, which his Rank adorn:
His Soul's encompass'd with a heav'n-born Flame,
The Source of noble Deeds, and Foe to Shame,
That from the Breast all Vice, all Meanness, flings,
That pitys weak, and scorns inactive, Kings,
The godlike Pride, all selfish Views above,
That Admiration gains, and endless Love:
Unruly Riot never stains his Floor,
Yet open stands the hospitable Door:
As like to like inclines, his Judgement led
Fair Charity in Person to his Bed;
Whose Pleasure is to ease the Cares of Need,
To cloath the naked, and the hungry feed;
Whose Virtues, as they're exercis'd, afford
Joy to herself, and equal to her Lord:
Behold the Blessings of the good and wise!
See from their Loves angelic Offsprings rise!
What first to sing, and where begin her Praise,
Southward to Petworth's Bow'rs she turns her Eyes,
And of her Song beholds the Subjects rise.
Here might I wanton in Description bold
Of Architrave and Roofs of freted Gold,
Point out the Cornice elegant and Freeze,
And shew that Order never fails to please:
There Sculpture charms, the Hero or the Saint;
And there surprises the projecting Paint:
The Grove, the Gardens, there the Muse might range,
And feast her Fancy with Delight of Change:
But these she passes now unheeded by,
Studious to feed the Mind, and not the Eye:
Unsung she leaves the Temple, to declare
What Virtues are enshrin'd in Person there:
She the great Master views to Titles born,
But to more Virtues, which his Rank adorn:
90
The Source of noble Deeds, and Foe to Shame,
That from the Breast all Vice, all Meanness, flings,
That pitys weak, and scorns inactive, Kings,
The godlike Pride, all selfish Views above,
That Admiration gains, and endless Love:
Unruly Riot never stains his Floor,
Yet open stands the hospitable Door:
As like to like inclines, his Judgement led
Fair Charity in Person to his Bed;
Whose Pleasure is to ease the Cares of Need,
To cloath the naked, and the hungry feed;
Whose Virtues, as they're exercis'd, afford
Joy to herself, and equal to her Lord:
Behold the Blessings of the good and wise!
See from their Loves angelic Offsprings rise!
Happy are they, thrice happy they, who find
Wisdom, the richest Jewel of the Mind.
Could we each precious Stone, known and unknown,
And ev'ry Gum, and Metal, call our own,
Of the wide Earth could we the Surface sweep,
And ransac ev'ry Corner of the Deep,
Compar'd with Wisdom, yet their Price is small;
In Worth intrinsic she exceeds them all:
In her right Hand is a long Length of Days,
And in her left Wealth and eternal Praise:
These are of Wisdom, these, the Gifts divine;
And these, illustrious Seymour, all are thine.
Wisdom, the richest Jewel of the Mind.
Could we each precious Stone, known and unknown,
And ev'ry Gum, and Metal, call our own,
Of the wide Earth could we the Surface sweep,
And ransac ev'ry Corner of the Deep,
Compar'd with Wisdom, yet their Price is small;
In Worth intrinsic she exceeds them all:
91
And in her left Wealth and eternal Praise:
These are of Wisdom, these, the Gifts divine;
And these, illustrious Seymour, all are thine.
Thro Ages yet may England's Nobles see
From you, my Lord, what Nobles ought to be:
Long may you live the Grace of Petworth's Bow'rs;
And may your Consort share those happy Hours:
Their Sex's Glory may your Offsprings rise,
And bless with Angels, like themselves, your Eyes.
From you, my Lord, what Nobles ought to be:
Long may you live the Grace of Petworth's Bow'rs;
And may your Consort share those happy Hours:
Their Sex's Glory may your Offsprings rise,
And bless with Angels, like themselves, your Eyes.
These the first Fruits of her Retreat, your Due,
The Muse an Off'ring sends, my Lord, to you,
To you beneath whose Smiles she plumes her Wings,
And thus retires, and in Retirement sings.
The Muse an Off'ring sends, my Lord, to you,
To you beneath whose Smiles she plumes her Wings,
And thus retires, and in Retirement sings.
August, 1739.
92
EPISTLE the Eighth, TO James Vernon Esq;
Occasioned by Admiral Vernon's Conquests in the West-Indys.
Wedded to Virtue and to letter'd Ease,
In Science read and in the Art to please,
Counting the Days well-spent the happyest Days,
Ever deserving and avoiding Praise,
Yet deign an Ear, a willing Ear, to lend
To a lov'd Brother's Fame recorded by a Friend.
In Science read and in the Art to please,
Counting the Days well-spent the happyest Days,
Ever deserving and avoiding Praise,
Yet deign an Ear, a willing Ear, to lend
To a lov'd Brother's Fame recorded by a Friend.
Long had our Swords been sheath'd, our Sails been furl'd,
And long had Spain her proud Defyance hurl'd,
Till from a Night of Indolence and Rest,
A Lethargy that Britain's Isle possess'd,
Vernon arose to bless a George's Reign,
And spread his Glory o'er the Land and Main:
O'er distant Seas he now asserts his Sway,
In the new World, beneath the burning Day:
He toils unweary'd for his Country's Peace,
To make her Honour and her Wealth encrease.
He rescued from Disgrace the English Name,
Where Hosier languish'd to his Country's Shame;
Where dy'd the brave by too intense a Heat,
By Climes unwholesome and unwholesome Meat.
On Man and Beasts alike the Plague began;
Thro their hot Veins the fev'rish Current ran;
Chain'd to a ling'ring Death, their Drought encreas'd;
Parch'd was the Palate, and Digestion ceas'd:
While the Sun shot his pestilential Beams,
The valiant Hearts by thousands fed the Streams.
So did Apollo's vengeful Shafts destroy
The mighty Greeks before the Walls of Troy:
So, as the noblest Greecian Poet sings,
The People perish'd, and the Fault the King's.
And long had Spain her proud Defyance hurl'd,
93
A Lethargy that Britain's Isle possess'd,
Vernon arose to bless a George's Reign,
And spread his Glory o'er the Land and Main:
O'er distant Seas he now asserts his Sway,
In the new World, beneath the burning Day:
He toils unweary'd for his Country's Peace,
To make her Honour and her Wealth encrease.
He rescued from Disgrace the English Name,
Where Hosier languish'd to his Country's Shame;
Where dy'd the brave by too intense a Heat,
By Climes unwholesome and unwholesome Meat.
On Man and Beasts alike the Plague began;
Thro their hot Veins the fev'rish Current ran;
Chain'd to a ling'ring Death, their Drought encreas'd;
Parch'd was the Palate, and Digestion ceas'd:
While the Sun shot his pestilential Beams,
The valiant Hearts by thousands fed the Streams.
So did Apollo's vengeful Shafts destroy
The mighty Greeks before the Walls of Troy:
So, as the noblest Greecian Poet sings,
The People perish'd, and the Fault the King's.
No longer now exults the Spanish Pride,
By Vernon's Prowess bury'd in the Tyde:
What 'tis, he taught the proud Insulters then,
To rouse the Lion from his peaceful Den:
He greatly proves himself, with British Fire,
A Son well worthy his illustrious Sire.
By Vernon's Prowess bury'd in the Tyde:
94
To rouse the Lion from his peaceful Den:
He greatly proves himself, with British Fire,
A Son well worthy his illustrious Sire.
Thus has the Muse, true to her Country's Cause,
Pursued her Hero with deserv'd Applause:
With Eyes of Joy she views his fair Renown,
And binds his Temples with the naval Crown.
Pursued her Hero with deserv'd Applause:
With Eyes of Joy she views his fair Renown,
And binds his Temples with the naval Crown.
While on the Wings of Fame your Brother flys,
Beneath the torrid and the frozen Skys,
Long in your lov'd Retirement may you live,
Possess'd of all that Virtue here can give,
Long here the Tenor of your Life pursue,
And in yourself prove your own Maxim true,
Who well has liv'd conceal'd, not seeking Praise,
Well has he liv'd, well has he wore his Days.
Beneath the torrid and the frozen Skys,
Long in your lov'd Retirement may you live,
Possess'd of all that Virtue here can give,
Long here the Tenor of your Life pursue,
And in yourself prove your own Maxim true,
Who well has liv'd conceal'd, not seeking Praise,
Well has he liv'd, well has he wore his Days.
March, 1741.
95
ODES.
97
ODE the First, TO Mr. John Mottley in the Country.
I
Strongly, dear Friend, paint in thy Mind,A Wretch, the Remnant of a Wreck,
In Sight of Land, yet, Fate unkind!
By cruel Waves still driven back.
II
So, in his Schemes, the Poet cross'd,When Chance, or Envy, blasts the Bays,
He, to his tasteless Patron loss'd,
Despairs of Profit, or of Praise.
98
III
What mighty Plans thy Friend has lay'd,What golden Indias had in View,
Thou know'st, and how his Toils are pay'd;
Yet still he dares his Flight renew.
IV
While thus the Muse is held in Scorn,No Suns of Joy to me are known;
But few observe the Bard forlorn:
My Griefs I only make my own.
V
Does Heav'n no joyous Minutes send?No Balm to all thy Sorrows give?
Yes, I have Hours of Bliss, my Friend,
In which I more than seem to live.
VI
The Hours to Friendship set apart,In which the Wretch his Comfort finds,
Relieve the Burden of the Heart:
True Source of Joy to noble Minds!
99
VII
But, like th'ecstatic Dreams of Love,Too swift those happy Moments flow:
Then, in my Round, again I rove
Thro a long Interval of Woe.
VIII
While thus I grapple with my Fate,These tender Thoughts of Friendship please:
Methinks I view thee in a State,
Where Nothing interrupts thine Ease.
IX
Or wand'ring in the woodland Glade,Or by the painted Meadow's Stream,
Or lay'd beneath the cooling Shade,
You make the tender Nymph your Theme.
X
Indulge, my Friend, thy modest Vein,While all the Joys of May inspire;
Prospects, gay smiling, aid the Strain,
Scenes all propitious to the Lyre!
100
XI
Enjoy, my Friend, thy happy Lot,The Monarch of a peaceful Mind;
And I am bless'd, my Cares forgot,
While thou art true, and Nanny kind.
May, 1725.
101
ODE the Second, To Phillis.
O! behold in yonder Bow'rOf the Flow'rs the sweetest Flow'r!
Slumb'ring sits the heav'nly Maid,
In her virgin White aray'd:
See the Hope of ev'ry Swain,
Rose and Lilly of the Plain.
'E're she wakes the Danger fly;
Phillis murders with her Eye:
Who could backward turn his Feet?
Who from Paradise retreat?
Where shall I her Praise begin?
With the softly dimpled Chin,
With the Bows her Eyes above,
Or her Breast the Throne of Love,
Or her Lips? Those Lips I meet:
Heart, was ever Kiss so sweet!
Lo the gentle Slumber's fled;
And the Nymph uprears her Head.
102
Let thy Smiles improve the Scene.
Phillis, oft' I've beg'd in vain
At thy Feet to sigh my Pain;
Slight no more the tender Vow;
Hear me, Virgin, hear me now.
Lowly thus to thee I fall;
Take my Heart, O! take me all!
Bless'd the Hand, thrice bless'd the Fair,
Who has rais'd me from Despair!
On thy Bosom let me rest,
Take me, Phillis, to thy Breast:
Take, O! George, the Land and Main;
Here alone I wish to reign.
Thus Anacreon, ever gay,
Lov'd, and pass'd his Life away;
To the Fair his Lyre he strung;
Thus he lov'd, but sweeter sung.
103
ODE the Third, To the Same.
See the Lilly hang her Head;See the rich Carnation dead;
Turn, and see thy much lov'd Rose
Drop to ev'ry Gale that blows;
See their leaffy Honours round
Unregarded strew the Ground.
Does my lovely Phillis sigh?
Hangs the Pearl upon her Eye?
Thus my Charmer must thou be
When thou'st left the Day and me.
With the Bays my Temples cover;
Crown thy fond romantic Lover:
Hither come beneath the Shade
Of the Leaves which never fade.
Swim thine Eyes, and heaves thy Breast?
Phillis is inclin'd to Rest.
104
ODE the Fourth, To the Same.
O'er the Lawn my Phillis flysWhere her panting Lover lys;
Hither fair one haste away;
Let me chide thy Minute's Stay.
Lay thee, Phillis, by my Side;
Give me what the Gods provide.
Hear the billing Turtles coo;
Like the Turtles let us woo.
Does my lovely Phillis tremble?
Now in vain thou may'st dissemble;
From the Kiss is all thy Anguish,
See me, Phillis, see, I languish;
Let us kiss, and kiss again;
Great the Pleasure from the Pain!
Phillis, O! the Shade befriends us!
And here Love himself attends us!
Nymph no longer close thine Eyes;
Gentle Phillis let us rise.
105
ODE the Fifth, To the Same.
Bear the flowing Bowl away;Break the Lyre; and cease the Lay;
My belov'd is gone astray.
Shew me to the happyer Swain,
That Revenge may ease my Pain:
Thence in vain I seek Redress;
What could Youth and Passion less?
He that dares oppose her Eyes
Either vanquishes or dys;
Therefore who the Youth can blame?
I myself had done the same.
Cruel Phillis I accuse,
Once my Love, and once my Muse.
Call to Mind the Vows you made,
On the Bank beneath the Shade!
When you swore by ev'ry Pow'r
In the fond ecstatic Hour.
106
Phillis, fickle as the Wind?
Phillis thou art free to range,
Free to love, and free to change.
I before had thee betray'd,
Had I found a fairer Maid.
107
ODE the Sixth, To the Same.
Raving now I seek my Bed,Whence Content and Rest are fled;
If by chance I close my Eyes,
Phillis still before me flys.
See in Dalliance soft they play;
From his Arms she breaks away:
See the faithless Dame pursued,
Willing soon to be subdued;
See, she acts the well known Part,
Gives her Hand, and then her Heart:
Poyson to my Sight! she flings
At my Breast a thousand Stings.
Flys the Dream that caus'd my Pains;
But the Torture still remains.
108
ODE the Seventh, To the Same.
Phillis from this Hour adieu,Fair no more, no longer true;
I my wand'ring Heart recall;
Take thy Vows I quit them all:
Henceforth thou no more shalt be
Than a vulgar Maid to me.
Phillis from this Hour adieu,
Fair no more, no longer true.
Why should I, presumptuous Swain,
Dare to cherish Hopes so vain,
That the Heav'ns would hear my Pray'r
For a Love as chast as fair.
Phillis thou hast prov'd no more
Than a thousand Belles before
Have to Men who them believ'd,
Plighted Vows, and then deceiv'd.
Such was Delia to Tibullus,
Lesbia such to fond Catullus.
109
Of the Sex, and slighted Pains.
Phillis thou art free to rove
As the Natives of the Grove:
From this Moment, Nymph, adieu,
Fair no more, no longer true.
110
ODE the Eighth, To the Same.
I
While, Phillis, on thy Charms I gaze,My Soul is all Desire;
Who can oppose so bright a Blaze,
Secure his Heart from Fire!
II
While thoughtful of the perjur'd Maid,Fair Phillis I despise,
Nor longer fear, by her betray'd,
The Tyrants in her Eyes:
III
But when I meet the faithless DameMy Soul is all Desire;
So weak my Vows, I catch the Flame,
And in a Blaze expire.
111
ODE the Ninth, To Celia.
I
Celia , boasted Child of Beauty,Ambitious of a spotless Name,
Mindful of her humble Duty,
Avoids the common Road to Fame.
II
Florio, of his Apparel vain,Labours to charm th'unwary Eye;
While Celia views him with Disdain,
For her a Croud of Florios dy.
III
Fond Dapperwit, to win the Fair,Attempts the Pow'r of Love to sing,
While she condemns to long Despair
The flutt'ring and the rhyming Thing.
112
IV
Alike offensive to the wise,The empty Fop, the barren Lays,
With Justice, Celia, you despise;
When they accuse you most they praise.
113
ODE the Tenth, To the Same.
In the Month from Julius nam'd,In the Grove for Music fam'd,
Where the Belles of Britain's Isle,
Where the Loves and Graces smile,
Where to many a manly Heart
Cupid throws th'unerring Dart,
While the sweet enliv'ning Sound
Fills with Harmony the Ground,
Damon thus in Rapture cry'd,
Celia sighing by his Side,
“How the Soul receives Surprise,
“At our Ears, and at our Eyes!
“Soon, too soon, a fatal Hour
“Strips the Grove of all its Pow'r;
114
“Here no longer then shall float:
“Nymphs, to charm by Nature made,
“Leave the unfrequented Shade.
“Haste, O! haste, great Eye of Day!
“Bring the sweet Return of May!
115
ODE the Eleventh, To Melissa.
As on a Bank where Vi'lets blow,The Shade above, a Stream below,
The Stream below, the Shade above,
Soft murm'ring to a Dream of Love,
I lay, a Nymph of heav'nly Mien,
With Voice divine, and Look serene,
Began: is this the Way to Fame,
And think you thus to raise a Name,
While here in lazy Easy you ly,
The Muses all neglected by?
No longer keep the Lyre unstrung,
Nor let Melissa live unsung:
Melissa, Glory of the Plains,
The envy'd Charmer of the Swains,
All spotless as the falling Snows,
Whose Breath is sweeter than the Rose;
Let chast Melissa fill your Lays,
Become immortal in her Praise!
116
Fancy her here; begin and draw.
She spoke, and, by her Air and Mien,
Confess'd herself the Cyprian Queen.
117
ODE the Twelfth, To the Same.
I
Tho now with Eyes of Love I gaze,And on thy Charms refine,
Not of thy Beauty all the Blaze
Can ever fix me thine.
II
Tho now I hear, with Transport hear,The Music of thy Voice,
'Tis not th'enchanting Tongue, my dear,
Can make me bless my Choice.
III
Let Honour, of thy Sex the Pride,Spotless preserve thy Mind,
To all chast as the Nymph untry'd,
Or, lo! my Vows are Wind.
118
ODE the Thirteenth. SYLVIA.
I
I Sylvia priz'd as Lillys fair,All fragrant as the morning Air,
And sweeter than the Lark her Voice.
With Ease she could my Cares beguile;
A Word, a tender Look, or Smile,
Would make the gloomy Soul rejoice.
II
When on her Breasts, expanded white,Heaving luxuriant with Delight,
I fondly lay'd my lovesick Head,
The Roses shed their Sweets around,
And Vi'lets breathing from the Ground
Compos'd the aromatic Bed.
119
III
Beneath the grateful Shade I ly,Hid almost from the Sun's great Eye;
Protect me all ye Pow'rs above!
O! keep me, ever fix me, here,
Where Nothing can create a Fear,
Where all is Softness, all is Love!
IV
Thus in the Ecstacy of Bliss,Just from the heart-dissolving Kiss,
I pray'd, alas! a heedless Swain;
For to that joyous fatal Hour,
(Was Poyson in so sweet a Flow'r?)
Succeeded Days on Days of Pain.
V
The Sailor so, with gladsome Eye,Th'unruffel'd Main, and azure Sky,
Views, while the Winds propitious blow:
Forward he steers, with Look serene,
Till, bulging on a Rock unseen,
Appears a sudden Face of Woe.
120
VI
Henceforth, unwary Youth, beware,Nor make such fleeting Joys your Care;
Let Virtue ever be your Guard.
Pleasures adieu, whose Fruits are Pain,
For Sages have not taught in vain,
That Virtue is her own Reward.
121
ODE the Fourteenth. BELLAMIRA.
I
When Bellamira was my Theme,I pluck'd the Vi'let and the Rose,
And, fondly raptur'd with the Dream,
Sought ev'ry Flow'r that sweetly blows;
And, as I deck'd her Breast and Hair,
They breath'd new Fragrance from the Fair.
II
When I her Mind or Person prais'd,To Bow'rs of Bliss beyond the Skys
The God of Love my Genius rais'd,
Where Beautys more than earthly rise,
With those her Beautys to compare;
The fairest she among the fair.
III
Vi'lets and Roses cease to blow,Each Flow'r of Fragrance droop your Head;
The Nymph, forgetful of her Vow,
Is from her Love, from Honour, fled:
122
For she is false as she is fair.
IV
To Bow'rs of Bliss beyond the SkysThe God of Love no more shall raise,
Where Beautys more than earthly rise,
My Genius to exalt her Praise,
No more with Angels shall compare
The Nymph as false as she is fair.
123
ODE the Fifteenth. THALIA.
The Trav'ler o'er the desart Plain,Thro Darkness in the Wind and Rain,
Forlornly lab'ring for his Way,
With Joy descrys the Dawn of Day.
From Wave to Wave the Sailor toss'd,
While in Despair and Midnight loss'd,
The Tempest less'ning by Degrees,
The polar Star with Transport sees.
Haste, haste, Thalia, to my Aid,
Thou lovely, grief-expelling, Maid:
To me thou'rt more delightful far,
Than is the Sun or polar Star.
124
ODE the Sixteenth. DINA.
I
Dina , while I view thy Beauty,To thy Charms I am a Slave;
To obey thee is my Duty;
Say what more would Dina have?
II
This Advice regard, my Treasure,Banish from thee far away
Those to whom thou'st breath'd our Pleasure:
Confidants too oft' betray.
III
Dina, such in Love and FightingAre, in the Event, the same,
Both alike, my Fair, delighting
To prevent the growing Flame.
125
IV
What will make our Love the StoryOf detractive Folly shun;
Let my Life, (how great the Glory!)
Prudence keep what Beauty won.
V
Vows to Heaven and the LoverAll the false and vain reveal;
Which we should alone discover
To the Objects of our Zeal.
126
ODE the Seventeenth. LONDON.
First Printed in the Year 1730.
I
Let antient Greece, for Arts and Arms renown'd,Her Athens boast, whose Sons, preserv'd by Fame,
Still triumph over Time with Glory crown'd,
Proud City! once tremendous in her Name!
While mighty Towns of former Days,
Now levell'd with the Dust, remain
Recorded for their letter'd Praise,
Or for the Numbers of their slain,
London of the fairest Isle
The Ornament and Honour stands;
Lo! her Streets with Plenty smile,
Diffusing Blessings thro her Lands!
Lo! her floating Castles ride,
Bringing Wealth with ev'ry Tide:
127
Fruitful bleeds for her the Vine:
For her the Sons of India toil
Beneath the burning Eye of Day;
They strip the aromatic Soil,
And send to her their Sweets away.
The distant Sun for London shines;
For London teem the golden Mines;
She thro the Land her Wealth bestows,
Which to her Bosom dayly flows:
Nor does she rob the foreign Fields,
But grateful sends what Britain yields.
Hail happyest City on the Ball,
Enriching, and enrich'd by, all!
II
While the sam'd City on th'Italian Coast,By Zealots now, to Reason blind, ador'd,
Makes her pass'd Glorys all her present Boast,
For conq'ring Nations with the barb'rous Sword,
Great Britain does her armed Bands,
Collected from her Island, send,
In Time of Need, to neighb'ring Lands,
Not to invade, but to defend:
128
With the rich purple Current stain'd,
Where the brave undaunted stood,
And never-fading Wreaths were gain'd.
Seas to Greece and Rome unknown
She may justly call her own;
When on them her Cannons roar,
Rebel Lands rebel no more,
With them she bold Intruders awes,
And rules herself by wholesome Laws.
Like to the Heart, the Reservoir
Of all our Blood, and Spring of Joy,
Is London to the British Plains:
That fills with Blood the craving Veins;
This pours her Wealth thro ev'ry Part,
Which runs again into the Heart.
Distinguish'd may the City stand,
Example fair to ev'ry Land.
Hail happyest City on the Ball,
Enriching, and enrich'd by, all!
129
ODE the Eighteenth. ON THE Birth of Lord Herbert In the Year 1734.
Born of Heros, and of Sages,Glorys all of all their Ages,
What illustrious Blood has run,
Rolling pure from Sire to Son,
Which with Time fresh Honour gains,
To enrich thy little Veins?
Worthys near to Kings ally'd,
Props of Kingdoms and their Pride,
Men the first in Man's Esteem,
Of the Muse the Friends and Theme,
Such as thou perhaps may'st be,
Hasten'd on to live in thee.
130
Never sprung the fearful Lamb:
From the tow'ring Eagle's Love
Never rose the tim'rous Dove:
May'st thou, with Encrease of Days,
Merit all thy House's Praise,
Judge in what their Virtues ly
With an emulating Eye:
Early may'st thou then inherit
All thy Father's manly Spirit.
When to nuptial Bands inclin'd,
May'st thou, like thy Father, find
One to crown with Joy thy Youth,
Deck'd with Beauty, Love, and Truth,
Whose majestic Form and Grace
May improve the noble Race.
131
ODE the Nineteenth. A New Year's Ode, or Ballad, For the Year 1741.
Come my Countrymen all, and, like Englishmen bold,Let us hail the new Year, nor speak well of the old:
Let us strive with our Might, let us pray, let us fast,
That the new may be better by much than the last.
Let us beg that a Parliament new may be giv'n;
Let us pray for the good Number three and not sev'n:
May our Fleets which so wantonly ride o'er the Main,
Which so gayly have rode it and rode it again,
132
With Conquest and Glory to return will be new.
May our Armys be useful at Home or abroad,
In subduing our Foes, or in mending the Road;
And, tho some are wrong-headed, may none be so wrong
As to quarrel with me, because of my new Song.
May our Bishops, (God bless them!) of Learning the Chief,
With the new Year, some of them, turn o'er a new Leaf!
May the State, if it wants it, be chang'd in each Thing;
Ev'ry Person be new there, except a new King:
And, that all who deserve it may have what is new,
May this Year give the Devil and Tyburn their Due.
133
[FABLES.]
FABLE the First. The Rose and the Lilly.
On
Thames, where some fair Eden blows,
Betwixt the Lilly and the Rose
Thus the Dispute, from Pride, began,
Which blooms the lovely'st Flow'r to Man.
Betwixt the Lilly and the Rose
Thus the Dispute, from Pride, began,
Which blooms the lovely'st Flow'r to Man.
Vain Rose, the Lilly cry'd, forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.
The Poet, in his am'rous Strain,
To render his Melissa vain,
Calls her the Lilly of the Vale
More fragrant than an eastern Gale;
The Tears, with which her Eyelids swell,
Are Dewdrops on the Lillybell.
Princes, in their Attire, must yield
To the fair Lilly of the Field;
They shine by Art in Purple dress'd,
I in my native candid Vest:
Therefore, presuming Rose, forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.
With mine your Beautys to compare.
The Poet, in his am'rous Strain,
To render his Melissa vain,
Calls her the Lilly of the Vale
More fragrant than an eastern Gale;
The Tears, with which her Eyelids swell,
Are Dewdrops on the Lillybell.
Princes, in their Attire, must yield
To the fair Lilly of the Field;
They shine by Art in Purple dress'd,
I in my native candid Vest:
134
With mine your Beautys to compare.
The Rose exerted thus her Pow'r,
In Answer to th'insulting Flow'r.
In Answer to th'insulting Flow'r.
All you have say'd I grant is true,
Now hear what to the Rose is due.
What Poet in the Verse of Praise,
To grace his Mistress, and his Lays,
(Look o'er the Bards of Greece and Rome,)
Bids on the Cheek no Roses bloom?
While Zephyr unregarded blows,
She breathes the Sweetness of the Rose.
The vernal Gales, which round me play,
Fly loaded with my Sweets away.
When were your Leaves, proud Lilly, lay'd
In the soft Bosom of the Maid?
Hence know my Worth, and hence forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.
Now hear what to the Rose is due.
What Poet in the Verse of Praise,
To grace his Mistress, and his Lays,
(Look o'er the Bards of Greece and Rome,)
Bids on the Cheek no Roses bloom?
While Zephyr unregarded blows,
She breathes the Sweetness of the Rose.
The vernal Gales, which round me play,
Fly loaded with my Sweets away.
When were your Leaves, proud Lilly, lay'd
In the soft Bosom of the Maid?
Hence know my Worth, and hence forbear
With mine your Beautys to compare.
Th'enliv'ning Sun his Beams withdrew;
The Rose and Lilly chang'd their Hue:
Fast fell the fatal heavy Show'r,
And lay'd in Dust each haughty Flow'r.
The Rose and Lilly chang'd their Hue:
Fast fell the fatal heavy Show'r,
And lay'd in Dust each haughty Flow'r.
135
Hence lovely Maid, dear Celia, learn,
And Cloe hence this Truth discern;
Ye are but what the Fable shows,
The Lilly one, and one the Rose.
What Beautys in Oblivion ly,
Who charm'd like you the wond'ring Eye!
Helen, a fav'rite Child of Fame,
And Lucreece chast, is but a Name.
Dear Charmers hence your Fate ye see:
Such Celia such must Cloe be.
And Cloe hence this Truth discern;
Ye are but what the Fable shows,
The Lilly one, and one the Rose.
What Beautys in Oblivion ly,
Who charm'd like you the wond'ring Eye!
Helen, a fav'rite Child of Fame,
And Lucreece chast, is but a Name.
Dear Charmers hence your Fate ye see:
Such Celia such must Cloe be.
136
FABLE the Second. The Ass.
One Holyday, as Æsop says,For Asses have their Holydays,
A worthless Creature of his Kind,
With all the Vices of the Mind,
A peevish, kicking, idle, Elf,
That hated all above himself,
Who by his Master well was fed,
Yet grudg'd his fellow Slaves their Bread,
Was saunt'ring by the woodland Side,
And found by Chance a Lion's Hyde:
The Shadow of the kingly Beast
Renew'd the Envy of his Breast;
And, when from Head to Tail survey'd,
Thus, pricking up his Ears, he say'd,
For once, it ne'er may be again,
An Ass shall lord it o'er the Plain.
Then soon, elate with aukward Pride,
He cas'd him in the shaggy Hyde.
137
And there a-while the Tyrant play'd.
The humble Wretches of his Reign
All saw, and trembled at, his Mane.
The Fox, allow'd a subtle Creature,
Well view'd him o'er in ev'ry Feature.
Suspecting, as he prov'd indeed,
He was not of the royal Breed;
Where'er he goes he closely steals,
A dang'rous Spy, behind his Heels.
Once on a Day, a luckless Day,
As on the Watch sly Reynard lay,
His Majesty himself betray'd,
Who striv'd to roar, and only bray'd:
Ha! ha! quoth he, my Liege, thus low
I pay the Homage that I owe;
Your Subjects all shall do the same.
At this Alarm of Reynard came,
Some Foes before, united there,
The Bull, the Tyger, and the Bear;
The Prince, once Object of their Dread,
They make their Jest from Tail to Head.
They seiz'd him by his Ass's Ears,
And rid the Nation of their Fears,
Shamefully driv'd him from the Plain,
And ended thus his Assship's Reign.
138
FABLE the Third. The Lark.
The gaudy Peacock, and the glossy Dove,
The Bird of Juno, and the Queen of Love,
Met in that Season, at the Dawn of Day,
When Nature smiles, and all the Fields are gay.
Sure, says Sir Plume, you'll never strive again
To vy with me, when you behold my Train;
When you the Beautys of my Person see,
Envy, but never more contend with me.
What but my Charms procur'd me the Esteem
Of aweful Juno, of her Sex supreme?
Shall it be say'd, that Turturrellus strove
With me, Attendant on the Wife of Jove?
Hence, says the Bird of Venus, Boaster fly;
And with thy Fool's Coat charm th'ill-judging Eye.
Me Men, and Gods, with Admiration view,
Plain, unaffected, with my glossy Hue.
No screaming Voice is mine; my gentle Coo
Instructs the faithful Lover how to woo.
These are the Merits of the courtly Dove,
Of me, Attendant on the Queen of Love.
Just as Sir Plume began his sharp Reply,
They both receiv'd a Summons from the Sky.
The Goddesses, prepar'd to journey far,
Each call'd her Birds to harness to the Car.
Not one his Flight a Moment dares delay,
But to his Office each directs his Way.
Just by a Lark, couch'd in his humble Nest,
Betwixt the Courtiers hear'd the fierce Contest:
O! Gods, he cry'd, on what was this Debate,
But who is first among the Slaves of State?
Here be my Dwelling on this native Sod,
Free from Subjection to a Tyrant's Nod.
Here to the Sons of Pride I live unknown,
Lord of myself, and all these Fields my own.
Dayly I strive to make my Friends rejoice,
And cheer my Neighbours with my grateful Voice;
And ev'ry Morn my Tribute first I pay
To whom I owe my all, the God of Day.
He ended here, and from his Nest begun,
With his best Note, to greet the rising Sun.
The Bird of Juno, and the Queen of Love,
Met in that Season, at the Dawn of Day,
When Nature smiles, and all the Fields are gay.
Sure, says Sir Plume, you'll never strive again
To vy with me, when you behold my Train;
When you the Beautys of my Person see,
Envy, but never more contend with me.
What but my Charms procur'd me the Esteem
Of aweful Juno, of her Sex supreme?
Shall it be say'd, that Turturrellus strove
With me, Attendant on the Wife of Jove?
Hence, says the Bird of Venus, Boaster fly;
And with thy Fool's Coat charm th'ill-judging Eye.
Me Men, and Gods, with Admiration view,
Plain, unaffected, with my glossy Hue.
No screaming Voice is mine; my gentle Coo
Instructs the faithful Lover how to woo.
139
Of me, Attendant on the Queen of Love.
Just as Sir Plume began his sharp Reply,
They both receiv'd a Summons from the Sky.
The Goddesses, prepar'd to journey far,
Each call'd her Birds to harness to the Car.
Not one his Flight a Moment dares delay,
But to his Office each directs his Way.
Just by a Lark, couch'd in his humble Nest,
Betwixt the Courtiers hear'd the fierce Contest:
O! Gods, he cry'd, on what was this Debate,
But who is first among the Slaves of State?
Here be my Dwelling on this native Sod,
Free from Subjection to a Tyrant's Nod.
Here to the Sons of Pride I live unknown,
Lord of myself, and all these Fields my own.
Dayly I strive to make my Friends rejoice,
And cheer my Neighbours with my grateful Voice;
And ev'ry Morn my Tribute first I pay
To whom I owe my all, the God of Day.
He ended here, and from his Nest begun,
With his best Note, to greet the rising Sun.
Thrice happy is the Man whose envy'd State
From Pride secludes him, and the Fool's Debate;
Contented he enjoys what Nature yields,
And inambitious plows his native Fields;
Just to the rich, and gen'rous to the poor,
He open keeps his hospitable Door;
Whose well pass'd Days, without a Fear, defy
The Hate or Malice of the sharpest Eye.
From Pride secludes him, and the Fool's Debate;
140
And inambitious plows his native Fields;
Just to the rich, and gen'rous to the poor,
He open keeps his hospitable Door;
Whose well pass'd Days, without a Fear, defy
The Hate or Malice of the sharpest Eye.
141
[SATIRES.]
SATIRE the First. Love and Old Age.
No
more, Melissa, 'tis too much to see.
What, not a Blush, and this Reproof from me?
O! where is all our antient Virtue fled!
What, at it still? Not mind a Word I've say'd!
These wanton Airs shall not uncensur'd pass:
Bear hence the Idol, or I'll break the Glass.
What, not a Blush, and this Reproof from me?
O! where is all our antient Virtue fled!
What, at it still? Not mind a Word I've say'd!
These wanton Airs shall not uncensur'd pass:
Bear hence the Idol, or I'll break the Glass.
Thus rav'd Canidia, as the lovely Fair
Made the Position of a Patch her Care.
No sooner had the Nymph just step'd aside,
But from the Box, her Magazine of Pride,
A thousand Implements the Table spread,
Teeth, Eyes, the Perfume, and the liquid Red.
With paralytic Hands she pulls the Caul
From Head as naked as the Billiard-ball:
But see the Metamorphose of an Hour:
Her Forehead rises in a nutbrown Tow'r;
Her Cheeks are flush'd with a vermilion Dy;
And her Teeth shine of polish'd Ivory.
To whom, or what, is this Devotion pay'd?
All to the Lust of Youth, and Masquerade.
Behold Canidia with Melissa strive,
Soft tripping in the Bloom of Sixty-five;
Some unexperienc'd Fool her Eyes explore,
Just come to practice what he'd hear'd before;
Raw to the Town, and weary of his Wife,
He seeks the Pleasures of a rakish Life;
Him, by a forc'd Coquettry, she decoys
To be the Partner of her private Joys,
And the next Day, the virtuous Maid reproves,
For reading Acon's and Lavinia's Loves .
Made the Position of a Patch her Care.
No sooner had the Nymph just step'd aside,
But from the Box, her Magazine of Pride,
A thousand Implements the Table spread,
Teeth, Eyes, the Perfume, and the liquid Red.
With paralytic Hands she pulls the Caul
From Head as naked as the Billiard-ball:
But see the Metamorphose of an Hour:
Her Forehead rises in a nutbrown Tow'r;
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And her Teeth shine of polish'd Ivory.
To whom, or what, is this Devotion pay'd?
All to the Lust of Youth, and Masquerade.
Behold Canidia with Melissa strive,
Soft tripping in the Bloom of Sixty-five;
Some unexperienc'd Fool her Eyes explore,
Just come to practice what he'd hear'd before;
Raw to the Town, and weary of his Wife,
He seeks the Pleasures of a rakish Life;
Him, by a forc'd Coquettry, she decoys
To be the Partner of her private Joys,
And the next Day, the virtuous Maid reproves,
For reading Acon's and Lavinia's Loves .
Pleas'd Gallus smil'd, hearing the Story told,
Gallus himself both impotent and old:
The Pride of Courts he shin'd in former Days,
Know'd well to give, and know'd to merit, Praise,
The Depths of Senates and Intrigues could scan;
And him the Women call'd a Woman's Man:
But why will Gallus against Nature strive
To keep the Flame, without the Pow'r, alive?
Have you not seen upon a burning Plain
Some glowing Embers of a Fire remain,
Which, without Matter, must inactive be?
Believe me, Gallus, 'tis the same with thee:
Think therefore when you jeer the wanton Dame,
As feeble is thy Pow'r, alike thy Flame.
Gallus himself both impotent and old:
The Pride of Courts he shin'd in former Days,
Know'd well to give, and know'd to merit, Praise,
The Depths of Senates and Intrigues could scan;
And him the Women call'd a Woman's Man:
But why will Gallus against Nature strive
To keep the Flame, without the Pow'r, alive?
143
Some glowing Embers of a Fire remain,
Which, without Matter, must inactive be?
Believe me, Gallus, 'tis the same with thee:
Think therefore when you jeer the wanton Dame,
As feeble is thy Pow'r, alike thy Flame.
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SATIRE the Second. Love and Old Age.
When youthful Passion first assumes the Rein,And grows predominant in ev'ry Vein,
Our dayly Fancys, and our nightly Dreams,
Are full of shady Groves and purling Streams;
Various Ideas all our Thoughts employ;
And first we revel in romantic Joy.
Nature grows fiercer as the Blood boils high,
Then on to more substantial Bliss we fly;
From Fair to Fair in Search of Prey we range,
Constant to Nothing but the Lust of Change:
Thus on we rove, while our Desires are strong,
Till sad Experience tells us we are wrong.
How weak the Efforts of our Reason prove,
When all the Soul is but a Flame of Love!
But what Allurements can the Soul betray
When the Blood only serves to warm the Clay?
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To vy in Dress with Belles of twenty-five?
When sev'nty Years have furrow'd o'er her Face,
With all the Symptoms of a finish'd Race,
In vain with White she would confound the Grey;
Death will not be deceiv'd, nor give a Day.
Why all these Pains the wrinkled Brow to hide?
We thro the Mask can see the needless Pride.
No more frequent the Mall, the Box, the Ball,
Thou art memento mori to them all.
146
[ELEGIES.]
ELEGY the First. On Retirement.
Happy the Man who, with a Mind serene,Enjoys the Calmness of the Sylvan Scene,
From Courts remov'd, which honest Worth deride,
Where Flatt'ry triumphs and unmeaning Pride,
Far from the Tumults of the Town, and far
From the vexatious Wranglings of the Bar,
Who from the Baits of ev'ry Vice retires,
And governs by his Reason his Desires!
Bless'd State of Innocence, and State of Health,
More precious far than Crowns, or India's Wealth!
Serv'd up by Nature's Hand here Pleasures rise,
Pleasures to charm the Ear, and feast the Eyes:
Here sings the Thrush, and here's the Linnet's Strain;
Nor warbles here the Blackbird wild in vain:
The Nightingales their ev'ning Notes prolong;
Here chants the Finch; and here's the Woodlark's Song:
147
And here the Meads are redolent of May.
Come, Bellamira, come, and crown the Spring;
For thee the Flow'rs shall rise, the Birds shall sing:
I'll minister to thee the Day's Delight,
And make thee wish for the Return of Night.
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ELEGY the Second. On the Same.
Place me, O! place me soon, ye guardian Pow'rs,
Amid the Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bow'rs,
Healthful my Body, and my Mind serene,
A willing Pris'ner to the rural Scene,
From servile Flatt'ry, from Detraction, far,
And party Rage, that dire domestic War!
Where no unhallow'd Bard grows madly proud
Of the false Praises of a tasteless Croud.
Amid the Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bow'rs,
Healthful my Body, and my Mind serene,
A willing Pris'ner to the rural Scene,
From servile Flatt'ry, from Detraction, far,
And party Rage, that dire domestic War!
Where no unhallow'd Bard grows madly proud
Of the false Praises of a tasteless Croud.
Free from the Eye of Malice let me rove
Thoughtful from Wild to Wild, from Grove to Grove.
Now on the mossy Bank, beneath the Shade,
For Hours of Love, or Meditation, made,
To the soft Passion I my Heart resign,
And make the long obdurate Maiden mine:
Hence ye prophane, be gone, far hence remove,
Nor listen, Cens'rers, to the Voice of Love!
Arise, my Fair, all cheerful as the Morn,
And let the myrtle Wreath thy Brows adorn!
Thoughtful from Wild to Wild, from Grove to Grove.
Now on the mossy Bank, beneath the Shade,
For Hours of Love, or Meditation, made,
To the soft Passion I my Heart resign,
And make the long obdurate Maiden mine:
149
Nor listen, Cens'rers, to the Voice of Love!
Arise, my Fair, all cheerful as the Morn,
And let the myrtle Wreath thy Brows adorn!
Now in my Breast I feel poetic Fires,
And chant mellifluous what the God inspires,
Or into Nature for her Secrets pry,
And trace her Workings with a curious Eye.
And chant mellifluous what the God inspires,
Or into Nature for her Secrets pry,
And trace her Workings with a curious Eye.
To mend my Virtues, and exalt my Thought,
What the bright Sons of Greece and Rome have wrote
O'er Day and Night I turn: in them we find
A rich Repast for the luxurious Mind.
What the bright Sons of Greece and Rome have wrote
O'er Day and Night I turn: in them we find
A rich Repast for the luxurious Mind.
To crown the Blessings, now in Thought possess'd,
There with a faithful Friend I would be bless'd,
What Converse can, to give Relief inclin'd,
When the dull Blood works Sadness to the Mind.
O! what is Life, or what of Wealth the Pow'r,
Without the Comforts of the social Hour!
There with a faithful Friend I would be bless'd,
What Converse can, to give Relief inclin'd,
When the dull Blood works Sadness to the Mind.
O! what is Life, or what of Wealth the Pow'r,
Without the Comforts of the social Hour!
If, while in this delightful Calm I'm lay'd,
The groaning Nation should demand my Aid,
Should Tyranny provoke to War again,
And Justice call me to th'embattel'd Plain,
Farewel ye craggy Mountains, fragrant Flow'rs,
Ye painted Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bow'rs;
Far hence I go to horrid Scenes of Blood,
Where not Ambition calls, but public Good;
Whence if my Stars a kind Return deny,
Without Reluctance in the Field I dy:
But should the wise Disposer, to compleat
My Wish, refix me in the bless'd Retreat,
There with my Friend I would resign my Breath,
And close my Eyes, without a Fear, in Death.
The groaning Nation should demand my Aid,
150
And Justice call me to th'embattel'd Plain,
Farewel ye craggy Mountains, fragrant Flow'rs,
Ye painted Meads, cool Springs, and sylvan Bow'rs;
Far hence I go to horrid Scenes of Blood,
Where not Ambition calls, but public Good;
Whence if my Stars a kind Return deny,
Without Reluctance in the Field I dy:
But should the wise Disposer, to compleat
My Wish, refix me in the bless'd Retreat,
There with my Friend I would resign my Breath,
And close my Eyes, without a Fear, in Death.
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ELEGY the Third. On seeing Bellamira's Picture.
As when the curious Eye admiring roves
O'er Lely's Portraits, or Albano's Groves,
As when Carac's majestic Forms we view,
Or what the Master Hand of Rubens drew,
Beautys on Beautys to the Sight arise,
And as we longer gaze they more surprise,
We doubt where first to praise the Painter's Art,
Which merits our Applause in ev'ry Part:
So, Bellamira, we with Wonder trace
The various Charms of thine angelic Face.
O'er Lely's Portraits, or Albano's Groves,
As when Carac's majestic Forms we view,
Or what the Master Hand of Rubens drew,
Beautys on Beautys to the Sight arise,
And as we longer gaze they more surprise,
We doubt where first to praise the Painter's Art,
Which merits our Applause in ev'ry Part:
So, Bellamira, we with Wonder trace
The various Charms of thine angelic Face.
See by a Master Hand the Canvass spread,
Like Chaos, 'e're the Birth of Nature, dead;
Beneath the Pencil see the Goddess rise;
The Form divine with Wonder strikes our Eyes.
Thro many Cent'rys may the Portrait last,
And charm each Age succeeding like the pass'd:
But O! that Hour will come, (thy Fate before
Apelles!) when Vandyke shall please no more,
When Raphael's Draughts shall be no longer seen,
And Kneller's Beautys as they'd never been.
Painting and Poetry have, to create,
Alike the Pow'r, but how unlike their Fate!
The monumental Marble shall decay,
Kings be forgot, and Ages rowl away;
Castles and Towns may fall the Prey of Flames;
And Nations in the Deep may lose their Names;
Yet shall Corinna live in Ovid's Page,
And Lesbia triumph o'er the Waste of Age,
Till Earth herself is from her Axis hurl'd,
Or in one Conflagration burns the World.
Like Chaos, 'e're the Birth of Nature, dead;
Beneath the Pencil see the Goddess rise;
The Form divine with Wonder strikes our Eyes.
Thro many Cent'rys may the Portrait last,
And charm each Age succeeding like the pass'd:
152
Apelles!) when Vandyke shall please no more,
When Raphael's Draughts shall be no longer seen,
And Kneller's Beautys as they'd never been.
Painting and Poetry have, to create,
Alike the Pow'r, but how unlike their Fate!
The monumental Marble shall decay,
Kings be forgot, and Ages rowl away;
Castles and Towns may fall the Prey of Flames;
And Nations in the Deep may lose their Names;
Yet shall Corinna live in Ovid's Page,
And Lesbia triumph o'er the Waste of Age,
Till Earth herself is from her Axis hurl'd,
Or in one Conflagration burns the World.
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ELEGY the Fourth. To Bellamira.
What Language can I chuse, what pow'rful Strains,
To the false Fair, when injur'd Love complains!
While my fond Heart forbids the vengeful Lay,
Honour recalls the Heart that pants to stray.
To the false Fair, when injur'd Love complains!
While my fond Heart forbids the vengeful Lay,
Honour recalls the Heart that pants to stray.
O! Bellamira, once my fairest Flow'r,
Whose Love was all I ask'd, was all thy Dow'r,
Call to Remembrance thy repeated Vow,
In this black Moment of thy Falsehood, now.
How many Days are conscious of our Flame!
What Nights have witness'd to the perjur'd Dame!
How oft' in gentle Murm'rings hast thou cry'd,
No Time, no Fortune, shall our Loves divide,
The Eye of Day shall be disrob'd of Light,
And all to come be one eternal Night,
The Face of Beauty shall no longer be,
'E're I, be Witness Heav'n, am false to thee.
Fall from your Throne of Light, great Prince of Day,
And all ye glitt'ring Orbs dissolve away;
Give to the faithless Nymph, just Heav'n, her Due,
To Bellamira, now no longer true.
Whose Love was all I ask'd, was all thy Dow'r,
Call to Remembrance thy repeated Vow,
In this black Moment of thy Falsehood, now.
How many Days are conscious of our Flame!
What Nights have witness'd to the perjur'd Dame!
How oft' in gentle Murm'rings hast thou cry'd,
No Time, no Fortune, shall our Loves divide,
The Eye of Day shall be disrob'd of Light,
And all to come be one eternal Night,
The Face of Beauty shall no longer be,
'E're I, be Witness Heav'n, am false to thee.
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And all ye glitt'ring Orbs dissolve away;
Give to the faithless Nymph, just Heav'n, her Due,
To Bellamira, now no longer true.
O! Bellamira, how my Heart complains
Of broken Vows, and unregarded Pains!
When on thy panting Breast I pass'd the Day,
The Hours were joyful all, and all was gay;
But now thy Absence, perjur'd Charmer, gives
Thy Lover Cause to curse, because he lives.
Of broken Vows, and unregarded Pains!
When on thy panting Breast I pass'd the Day,
The Hours were joyful all, and all was gay;
But now thy Absence, perjur'd Charmer, gives
Thy Lover Cause to curse, because he lives.
E'en now what Numbers can express the Smart,
What the dire Anguish of my bleeding Heart!
E'en now I see, the Source of all my Pain,
On thy soft Bosom lay'd the happyer Swain!
I see him now, in Joys too fierce to last,
Ranging the Paths of Love which I have pass'd:
With glowing Kisses he salutes thine Eyes,
Thence to thy Breast descends where Lillys rise;
Thence wand'ring to thy Cheek, with Blushes spread,
He on thy Rose imprints a deeper Red:
On thy dear Lips he feasts, where Cupids play,
And where transporting breathes the Breath of May:
Behold he revels o'er thy panting Breast!
How my Soul sickens when I paint the Rest!
This Praise, this Censure, to the Nymph is due,
To Bellamira, now no longer true.
What the dire Anguish of my bleeding Heart!
E'en now I see, the Source of all my Pain,
On thy soft Bosom lay'd the happyer Swain!
I see him now, in Joys too fierce to last,
Ranging the Paths of Love which I have pass'd:
With glowing Kisses he salutes thine Eyes,
Thence to thy Breast descends where Lillys rise;
Thence wand'ring to thy Cheek, with Blushes spread,
He on thy Rose imprints a deeper Red:
On thy dear Lips he feasts, where Cupids play,
And where transporting breathes the Breath of May:
Behold he revels o'er thy panting Breast!
How my Soul sickens when I paint the Rest!
155
To Bellamira, now no longer true.
Say, dear Deceiver, what ill-fated Youth
Like me prefers his ardent Vows of Truth?
Say for what Wretch you practice, to beguile,
The Look alluring, and attractive Smile,
Who, while he sees thy fair angelic Form,
Blesses the Calm, and never dreads a Storm?
Unhappy Youth, if into Fate I see,
What Hours of Sorrow are reserv'd for thee,
When the false Nymph, now in Appearance true,
With cold Indiff'rence shall thy Presence view!
How will you curse the Change, how curse the Day
In which you gaz'd your lovesick Heart away!
I know what Tortures shall 'e'relong be thine;
For well I weigh them by the Weight of mine.
Like me prefers his ardent Vows of Truth?
Say for what Wretch you practice, to beguile,
The Look alluring, and attractive Smile,
Who, while he sees thy fair angelic Form,
Blesses the Calm, and never dreads a Storm?
Unhappy Youth, if into Fate I see,
What Hours of Sorrow are reserv'd for thee,
When the false Nymph, now in Appearance true,
With cold Indiff'rence shall thy Presence view!
How will you curse the Change, how curse the Day
In which you gaz'd your lovesick Heart away!
I know what Tortures shall 'e'relong be thine;
For well I weigh them by the Weight of mine.
O! Bellamira, tho no Tongue can tell
What Pains I suffer when I say farewel,
Yet, since thy Falsehood tells me we must part,
Farewel, tho with that Word I tend my Heart.
The Muse no more shall search the Meads and Fields,
And rifle ev'ry Flow'r the Garden yields,
To the rich Tree that blooms in Java's Grove,
To Syrian Pow'rs of Bliss, no more shall rove,
No more shall ransack ev'ry Flow'r and Tree,
And sum up all their Sweets, false Fair, in thee.
O! Love adieu, adieu, delusive Dream,
Farewel my morning and my ev'ning Theme:
My once belov'd, my now belov'd, adieu,
O! Bellamira, now no longer true.
What Pains I suffer when I say farewel,
Yet, since thy Falsehood tells me we must part,
Farewel, tho with that Word I tend my Heart.
The Muse no more shall search the Meads and Fields,
And rifle ev'ry Flow'r the Garden yields,
To the rich Tree that blooms in Java's Grove,
To Syrian Pow'rs of Bliss, no more shall rove,
156
And sum up all their Sweets, false Fair, in thee.
O! Love adieu, adieu, delusive Dream,
Farewel my morning and my ev'ning Theme:
My once belov'd, my now belov'd, adieu,
O! Bellamira, now no longer true.
157
[PROLOGUES.]
PROLOGUE the First. To Penelope, A Burlesque Opera, performed in the Year 1728.
If Eyes which from a pious Sorrow flow,
If Virtue struggling thro a Length of Woe,
Are Objects to demand a gen'rous Tear,
Who, Britons, shall deny the Tribute here?
If Virtue struggling thro a Length of Woe,
Are Objects to demand a gen'rous Tear,
Who, Britons, shall deny the Tribute here?
This Night our Bard on Homer builds his Fame;
Who is not aw'd at that immortal Name!
Our Scenes, in all the Pomp of Grief, disclose
A Matron chast, a Man of wond'rous Woes,
A Hero doom'd to change, when scarcely wed,
For the rough Trade of War the bridal Bed,
Thro various Lands, and Men unknown, to roam,
Far from his sole Delight, and native Home,
From Perils great, hard Lot! to greater toss'd,
Twenty long Years by adverse Fortune cross'd;
Yet see him great above Afflictions rise,
The Admiration of the brave and wise!
Who is not aw'd at that immortal Name!
Our Scenes, in all the Pomp of Grief, disclose
A Matron chast, a Man of wond'rous Woes,
A Hero doom'd to change, when scarcely wed,
For the rough Trade of War the bridal Bed,
Thro various Lands, and Men unknown, to roam,
Far from his sole Delight, and native Home,
From Perils great, hard Lot! to greater toss'd,
Twenty long Years by adverse Fortune cross'd;
158
The Admiration of the brave and wise!
O! ye bright Stars of Love, ye virtuous Fair,
When ye behold our widow'd Wife despair,
When you behold her charming in Distress,
All beauteous in her Negligence of Dress,
Let a soft Tear a-down your Roses steal,
To shew us what by Sympathy ye feel.
When ye behold our widow'd Wife despair,
When you behold her charming in Distress,
All beauteous in her Negligence of Dress,
Let a soft Tear a-down your Roses steal,
To shew us what by Sympathy ye feel.
The Time was once, the Poet's happyer Days,
When ev'ry Breast in Sighs confess'd his Praise.
We want not living Chronicles to tell,
When Belvedira dy'd, and Jaffeir fell,
How Hearts of Heros melted with Applause,
And softest Bosoms heav'd in Jaffeir's Cause.
The present Taste for Farce we would controul,
And to kind Pity mould the gen'rous Soul.
When ev'ry Breast in Sighs confess'd his Praise.
We want not living Chronicles to tell,
When Belvedira dy'd, and Jaffeir fell,
How Hearts of Heros melted with Applause,
And softest Bosoms heav'd in Jaffeir's Cause.
The present Taste for Farce we would controul,
And to kind Pity mould the gen'rous Soul.
When, Picture of Distress, our Dame appears,
Her Tresses loose, her Eyes bedew'd with Tears,
Learn, O! ye Fair, learn from our virtuous Wife,
How to support with Fame a widow'd Life.
Her Tresses loose, her Eyes bedew'd with Tears,
Learn, O! ye Fair, learn from our virtuous Wife,
How to support with Fame a widow'd Life.
159
PROLOGUE the Second. Spoke on opening the new Theatre in the Hay-market with Dryden's Spanish Friar.
Studious to please, but with a conscious Fear,
A Rev'rence due to the bright Circle here,
From long successful Farce we dare to stray,
And open to politer Scenes the Way.
A Rev'rence due to the bright Circle here,
From long successful Farce we dare to stray,
And open to politer Scenes the Way.
Young to the Stage, by Emulation fir'd,
What can we not if by your Smiles inspir'd?
Here youthful Ammon shall command the Ball,
And mighty Julius here lamented fall;
Vanoc shall rage, and, crown'd with your Applause,
Cato prescribe his little Senate Laws.
Monimia wrong'd the tender Soul shall move,
And Anthony well lose the World for Love.
In lighter Scenes the comic Muse shall play,
With drolling Falstaffe, and Sir Fopling gay.
Gomez shall curse his irksome Hours of Life,
Plagu'd with a Soldier, Friar, and a Wife.
What can we not if by your Smiles inspir'd?
Here youthful Ammon shall command the Ball,
And mighty Julius here lamented fall;
Vanoc shall rage, and, crown'd with your Applause,
Cato prescribe his little Senate Laws.
Monimia wrong'd the tender Soul shall move,
And Anthony well lose the World for Love.
In lighter Scenes the comic Muse shall play,
With drolling Falstaffe, and Sir Fopling gay.
160
Plagu'd with a Soldier, Friar, and a Wife.
Britons once more resume the Taste ye boast,
Nor vex with cold Neglect great Dryden's Ghost.
Take us, O! take us, to your fost'ring Care,
Our Pride shall be to please the brave and fair.
Nor vex with cold Neglect great Dryden's Ghost.
Take us, O! take us, to your fost'ring Care,
Our Pride shall be to please the brave and fair.
161
PROLOGUE the Third. Spoke by Mr. Henry Giffard, on opening the new Theatre in Goodman's-Fields the 31st of October 1729.
As antient Greece and Rome their Conquests spread,
Each Sister Art uprais'd her learned Head;
In brightest Annals still those Nations shine,
Who look'd propitious on the Virgin Nine:
This, Britain, is thy Boast, and this thy Gain,
And one bright Glory of Eliza's Reign:
Each Age shall raise her Monuments of Fame;
And Blessings ever shall attend her Name.
The Progress hence of Sciences we trace,
Still blooming fair beneath a Brunswick's Race:
Long may they bloom beneath a George's Sway,
As Flow'rs are cherish'd by the Eye of Day:
Beneath his Care unhurt may Commerce stand,
The great Support, the Goddess, of our Land:
To our dread Fleet may proud Insulters bend,
And Peace at home her Olive-bough extend.
Each Sister Art uprais'd her learned Head;
In brightest Annals still those Nations shine,
Who look'd propitious on the Virgin Nine:
This, Britain, is thy Boast, and this thy Gain,
And one bright Glory of Eliza's Reign:
Each Age shall raise her Monuments of Fame;
And Blessings ever shall attend her Name.
The Progress hence of Sciences we trace,
Still blooming fair beneath a Brunswick's Race:
Long may they bloom beneath a George's Sway,
As Flow'rs are cherish'd by the Eye of Day:
Beneath his Care unhurt may Commerce stand,
The great Support, the Goddess, of our Land:
162
And Peace at home her Olive-bough extend.
Where Plenty smiles the Muses now repair,
And for Protection sue without Despair;
Not vainly conscious of our Worth we sue,
But hope Indulgence from the gen'rous few.
And for Protection sue without Despair;
Not vainly conscious of our Worth we sue,
But hope Indulgence from the gen'rous few.
Ambitious of your Praise, we'll strive to please,
And raise the Mind to Virtue by Degrees.
The tragic Muse shall, by Example, prove
The dire Effects of Pride, and lawless Love,
Shall all her Charms, her ev'ry Pow'r, employ
To shew how Virtue is the Source of Joy.
The Sister Muse shall, in her comic Strain,
Expose the leud, the Coward, and the vain,
Thro ev'ry Frailty of weak Man shall run,
Shew what we shou'd embrace, and what to shun.
And raise the Mind to Virtue by Degrees.
The tragic Muse shall, by Example, prove
The dire Effects of Pride, and lawless Love,
Shall all her Charms, her ev'ry Pow'r, employ
To shew how Virtue is the Source of Joy.
The Sister Muse shall, in her comic Strain,
Expose the leud, the Coward, and the vain,
Thro ev'ry Frailty of weak Man shall run,
Shew what we shou'd embrace, and what to shun.
For this we toil, for this we tread the Stage,
And, as the Muse inspires, instruct the Age:
To the base Aids of Vice we'll ne'er descend,
Studious to please, and cautious to offend.
And, as the Muse inspires, instruct the Age:
To the base Aids of Vice we'll ne'er descend,
Studious to please, and cautious to offend.
163
PROLOGUE the Fourth. TO LOVE and REVENGE,
OR THE VINTNER Outwitted, A Ballad-Opera performed in the Year 1729.
As routed Squadrons quit the hostile Field,
O'erpow'r'd by Numbers, yet too brave to yield,
Their Troops they rally, and their Loss supply,
Once more resolv'd the Fate of War to try,
So from successless Toils our Heads we raise,
Studious to please, and proud to aim at Praise:
Your Smiles alone can animate the Stage,
Inspire with comic Mirth or tragic Rage:
New Life we breathe, when crown'd with your Applause,
And glory to pursue so just a Cause:
Honour commands, and we obey the Call;
And, if we fall, 'tis no Disgrace to fall:
In great Attempts alone true Merit lys;
He well deserves, in Fight who bravely dys.
O'erpow'r'd by Numbers, yet too brave to yield,
Their Troops they rally, and their Loss supply,
Once more resolv'd the Fate of War to try,
So from successless Toils our Heads we raise,
Studious to please, and proud to aim at Praise:
Your Smiles alone can animate the Stage,
Inspire with comic Mirth or tragic Rage:
164
And glory to pursue so just a Cause:
Honour commands, and we obey the Call;
And, if we fall, 'tis no Disgrace to fall:
In great Attempts alone true Merit lys;
He well deserves, in Fight who bravely dys.
No envious Motives shall our Labours stain;
By no mean Arts we wou'd our Glory gain:
Unenvy'd we behold each rival Stage,
And wish them happy in a grateful Age:
Where'e'r the Muse and her Attendants dwell,
Still may they flourish as they merit well.
By no mean Arts we wou'd our Glory gain:
Unenvy'd we behold each rival Stage,
And wish them happy in a grateful Age:
Where'e'r the Muse and her Attendants dwell,
Still may they flourish as they merit well.
From Scenes
of old our present Tale we draw,
And make with Joy your Taste alone our Law;
We dare not on the comic Scene rely,
Till to the sprightly Song for Aid we fly:
Henceforth we may, if thus we gain your Praise,
Improve your Pleasures, and our Merits raise.
And make with Joy your Taste alone our Law;
We dare not on the comic Scene rely,
Till to the sprightly Song for Aid we fly:
Henceforth we may, if thus we gain your Praise,
Improve your Pleasures, and our Merits raise.
The first Play that was wrote on this Plan was by one Marston: it was altered by Christopher Bullock, a Comedian, almost an hundred Years after: and on the same Plan it was put into the Form in which it now is.
165
PROLOGUE the Fifth. To the Devil to pay,
OR The Wives Metamorphosed, A BALLAD-OPERA. Spoke by Mr. Cibber.
In antient Greece the comic Muse appear'd,
Sworn Foe to Vice, by Virtue's Friends rever'd:
Impartial she indulg'd her noble Rage;
For Satire was the Bus'ness of the Stage:
No reigning Ill was from her Censure free,
No Sex, no Age of Man, and no Degree:
Whoe'er by Passion was, or Folly, led,
The laurel'd Chief, or sacerdotal Head,
The pedant Sophist, or imperious Dame,
She lash'd the Evil, nor conceal'd the Name.
Sworn Foe to Vice, by Virtue's Friends rever'd:
Impartial she indulg'd her noble Rage;
For Satire was the Bus'ness of the Stage:
No reigning Ill was from her Censure free,
No Sex, no Age of Man, and no Degree:
Whoe'er by Passion was, or Folly, led,
The laurel'd Chief, or sacerdotal Head,
The pedant Sophist, or imperious Dame,
She lash'd the Evil, nor conceal'd the Name.
166
How hard the Fate of Wives in those sad Times,
When saucy Poets would chastise their Crimes!
When each cornuting Mate, each rampant Jilt,
Had her Name branded on the Stage with Guilt!
Each Fair may now the comic Muse endure,
And join the Laugh, tho at herself, secure.
When saucy Poets would chastise their Crimes!
When each cornuting Mate, each rampant Jilt,
Had her Name branded on the Stage with Guilt!
Each Fair may now the comic Muse endure,
And join the Laugh, tho at herself, secure.
Link'd to a patient Lord, this Night behold
A wilful, headstrong, Termagant, and Scold;
Whom, tho her Husband did what Man cou'd do,
The Devil only cou'd relaim like you,
Like you, whose Virtues bright embellish Life,
And add a Blessing to the Name of Wife.
A wilful, headstrong, Termagant, and Scold;
Whom, tho her Husband did what Man cou'd do,
The Devil only cou'd relaim like you,
Like you, whose Virtues bright embellish Life,
And add a Blessing to the Name of Wife.
A merry
Wag, to mend vexatious Brides,
These Scenes begun, which shak'd your Father's Sides;
And we, obsequious to your Taste, prolong
Your Mirth, by courting the Supplys of Song:
If you approve, we our Desires obtain,
And from your Pleasure shall compute our Gain.
These Scenes begun, which shak'd your Father's Sides;
And we, obsequious to your Taste, prolong
Your Mirth, by courting the Supplys of Song:
If you approve, we our Desires obtain,
And from your Pleasure shall compute our Gain.
167
PROLOGUE the Sixth. Spoke by Mr. Milward to the Country Wife.
Censure, Detraction, and the Critic's Rage,
Are Mulcts on all who labour for the Stage;
These once our Author bore, and bore with Ease,
As they are chiefly lay'd on such as please.
Are Mulcts on all who labour for the Stage;
These once our Author bore, and bore with Ease,
As they are chiefly lay'd on such as please.
The Curse of Fools was mighty Dryden's Lot;
Nor while he lives, will they be quite forgot:
To blast his Worth a Bigot Milbourne rose,
A Collier, Blackmore, and a Herd of Foes:
His Fame still blooms, and gathers Strength with Time;
And they're remember'd—as the Pests of Rhyme.
Nor while he lives, will they be quite forgot:
To blast his Worth a Bigot Milbourne rose,
A Collier, Blackmore, and a Herd of Foes:
His Fame still blooms, and gathers Strength with Time;
And they're remember'd—as the Pests of Rhyme.
Detractive Envy, when her Object's fled,
Tho she the living haunts, should spare the dead:
If Manly too morosely fills the Scene,
His honest Satire shou'd excuse his Spleen:
Unhurt, untouch'd, remain the virtuous Fair,
When Horner shews what wanton Women are:
Tho black the Jet we call, and black the Crow,
White is the Ermine still, and white the Snow.
Be Faults, if few, from vulgar Eyes conceal'd,
Like Spots scarce heeded on the burnish'd Shield.
Beautys with Errors in the Ballance weigh;
And, where the first are heavyest, crown the Lay.
Tho she the living haunts, should spare the dead:
168
His honest Satire shou'd excuse his Spleen:
Unhurt, untouch'd, remain the virtuous Fair,
When Horner shews what wanton Women are:
Tho black the Jet we call, and black the Crow,
White is the Ermine still, and white the Snow.
Be Faults, if few, from vulgar Eyes conceal'd,
Like Spots scarce heeded on the burnish'd Shield.
Beautys with Errors in the Ballance weigh;
And, where the first are heavyest, crown the Lay.
169
[EPILOGUES.]
EPILOGUE the First. Spoke by Mrs. Younger in the Character of the Country Wife.
Here, as your Faces in a Glass, ye see,
On this small Stage, the World's Epitome.
On this small Stage, the World's Epitome.
Whatever Women or the Men pretend
Of Virtue, Honour,—Pleasure is their End:
For this the Statesmen jar, whate'er they feign:
What one enjoys another strives to gain:
To them the Lure's Authority and Treasure,
They nourish Strife, and are the Source of Pleasure
The pamper'd Priest, who loud for Temp'rance crys,
With Boniface's Phiz, and Falstaffe's Size,
While he blames Factions, sets the World on Fire,
And preaches even Charity for Hire:
Nothing unpay'd the Oracle reveals,
But, pleas'd with Tribute, soon his Lips unseals:
The Poet too, pleas'd when he pleases all,
Makes Virtue rise, like Stocks, and sometimes fall:
Some Chambermaid he chuses, hang the Jokor,
To deal with Beauty, like an Alley-Broker.
If such wise Heads as these at Pleasure aim,
Why shou'd poor Woman bear such Loads of Shame?
Whom ye pretend a Priv'lege to controul,
A Sex which some divest of Sense and Soul;
Yet can this senseless Thing, which ye despise,
Rob ye of all your Senses thro your Eyes,
Can, from the lowest Peasant to the Crown,
Pull, in a Moment, all your Courage down.
Of Virtue, Honour,—Pleasure is their End:
For this the Statesmen jar, whate'er they feign:
What one enjoys another strives to gain:
To them the Lure's Authority and Treasure,
They nourish Strife, and are the Source of Pleasure
The pamper'd Priest, who loud for Temp'rance crys,
With Boniface's Phiz, and Falstaffe's Size,
While he blames Factions, sets the World on Fire,
And preaches even Charity for Hire:
Nothing unpay'd the Oracle reveals,
But, pleas'd with Tribute, soon his Lips unseals:
170
Makes Virtue rise, like Stocks, and sometimes fall:
Some Chambermaid he chuses, hang the Jokor,
To deal with Beauty, like an Alley-Broker.
If such wise Heads as these at Pleasure aim,
Why shou'd poor Woman bear such Loads of Shame?
Whom ye pretend a Priv'lege to controul,
A Sex which some divest of Sense and Soul;
Yet can this senseless Thing, which ye despise,
Rob ye of all your Senses thro your Eyes,
Can, from the lowest Peasant to the Crown,
Pull, in a Moment, all your Courage down.
171
EPILOGUE the Second. To Penelope, Spoke by Minerva.
Well, I suppose, good Folks, ye're all a-gogue,To hear a Goddess speak an Epilogue.
My Bus'ness now is to defend the Poet;
But I can scarce persuade myself to do it:
Defend him? Why? Because he brought me here,
To rant, to swagger, and to call for Beer?
It is a Trick the Puppy learn'd at School,
To make us shew our Shapes, and play the Fool;
But, as I scorn, I can forgive, the Chit;
Poor Thing, he did it but to shew his Wit;
On such like Errands oft' we've been before,
From Homer, Virgil, and a Dozen more;
For when the Muse, forsooth, begins to jade,
Whip, snap, a Goddess is her Waiting-Maid;
And, when we've done the Bus'ness of the Day,
We take a Cloud for Heav'n, and post away.
172
[EPIGRAMS.]
EPIGRAM the First. To Phillis.
How have I prais'd thy Cheeks where Roses blow!How dwell'd with Wonder on thy sable Bow!
How have I, well thou know'st, fatigu'd my Eyes
On the dear Lips where Coral seem'd to rise!
What Sighs I gave thee at the parting Look,
And fond the Work of Art for Nature took!
The Charm is ended: I my Heart command,
And when I praise thee next shall praise thy Hand.
173
EPIGRAM the Second. To the Same.
Phillis no longer ask me with Surprise,Why now I view thee with indiff'rent Eyes.
False Worship long with Rapture have I pay'd,
And idoliz'd thee in a painted Maid;
But I no more prefer of Love the Vow,
Nor to the Idol of an Idol bow.
174
EPIGRAM the Third. To the Same.
To You, while in your native Charms you shin'd,I first the Title of my Heart resign'd;
But you, more strongly to confirm your Pow'r,
Sought Help from Art in an illfated Hour.
You the fair Cheek with Roses forc'd to vy,
And stain'd the Eyebrow with a sabler Dy.
That Moment, Phillis, thy Deceit was known,
You loss'd, by Art, what Nature made your own.
175
3. PART the Third. THE BATTEL OF THE POETS, In Two CANTOS.
181
THE BATTEL of the POETS.
CANTO I.
The bloodless Warfare, and the dreadful Day
To Bards tenacious of the dying Lay,
The happy few who back with Conquest came,
The pensive many who return'd with Shame,
I sing. Indulge, Calliope, my Verse,
While I the Horrors of the War rehearse,
How Poets doubly in their Works were slain,
When the big Volumes cover'd all the Plain,
How little Witlings like Enthusiasts fought
For the same Cause, they knew not why, they wrote.
First, Goddess, for thou know'st, instruct my Tongue
To tell the Source whence the Dissention sprung.
To Bards tenacious of the dying Lay,
The happy few who back with Conquest came,
The pensive many who return'd with Shame,
I sing. Indulge, Calliope, my Verse,
While I the Horrors of the War rehearse,
How Poets doubly in their Works were slain,
When the big Volumes cover'd all the Plain,
How little Witlings like Enthusiasts fought
For the same Cause, they knew not why, they wrote.
First, Goddess, for thou know'st, instruct my Tongue
To tell the Source whence the Dissention sprung.
Apollo view'd, and with Reluctance, long
The Lust of Int'rest, and the Trade of Song,
The partial Jumble of the sightless Dame,
The Fools of Fortune and the Sons of Fame
Confus'dly mix'd; the first a num'rous Croud
O'er Merit rising insolent and proud.
Resolv'd no longer such Affronts to bear,
That each the Laurels he deserv'd might wear,
Thus, calling to his Aid Jove's winged Son,
The ever-youthful God of Verse begun.
The Lust of Int'rest, and the Trade of Song,
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The Fools of Fortune and the Sons of Fame
Confus'dly mix'd; the first a num'rous Croud
O'er Merit rising insolent and proud.
Resolv'd no longer such Affronts to bear,
That each the Laurels he deserv'd might wear,
Thus, calling to his Aid Jove's winged Son,
The ever-youthful God of Verse begun.
Fly, Hermes, fly to that distinguish'd Shore,
Where Dryden late Apollo's Laurels wore;
Thus says the delphic God, to all proclaim,
Who plead the Sanction of a Poet's Name,
Long has Confusion ravag'd round the Plain,
And Discord rul'd among the tuneful Train;
Without Distinction, to my own Disgrace,
The brighter gives th'inferior Genius Place;
Hence who are strenuous to obtain their Right
Are thus by Phœbus summon'd to the Fight.
His Arms let each advent'rous Chief prepare;
And I the God will be in Person there,
To see that all to Justice may submit,
By Force of Learning, and by Dint of Wit.
To him who longest shall maintain the Field
This blooming Verdure on my Brows I yield.
Each British Son of Verse my Will obey,
On Windsor's Forest to decide the Day.
Where Dryden late Apollo's Laurels wore;
Thus says the delphic God, to all proclaim,
Who plead the Sanction of a Poet's Name,
Long has Confusion ravag'd round the Plain,
And Discord rul'd among the tuneful Train;
Without Distinction, to my own Disgrace,
The brighter gives th'inferior Genius Place;
Hence who are strenuous to obtain their Right
Are thus by Phœbus summon'd to the Fight.
His Arms let each advent'rous Chief prepare;
And I the God will be in Person there,
To see that all to Justice may submit,
By Force of Learning, and by Dint of Wit.
To him who longest shall maintain the Field
This blooming Verdure on my Brows I yield.
183
On Windsor's Forest to decide the Day.
He spoke; and Hermes, quick at his Command,
Convey'd the Message thro Apollo's Land.
All view their Forces, and correct each Line,
And swear at ev'ry Word the Chaplet's mine.
Convey'd the Message thro Apollo's Land.
All view their Forces, and correct each Line,
And swear at ev'ry Word the Chaplet's mine.
Goddess, of Verse supreme, immortal Maid,
Lend in the greatest Time of Need thine Aid;
O'er all the Labours of my Song preside,
And thro the arduous Task thy Herald guide;
Impartial let my Praise and Censure be,
For ev'ry Poet's Worth is known to thee;
And first the Leaders and their Forces tell,
Allys, and Neuters, for thou know'st them well.
Lend in the greatest Time of Need thine Aid;
O'er all the Labours of my Song preside,
And thro the arduous Task thy Herald guide;
Impartial let my Praise and Censure be,
For ev'ry Poet's Worth is known to thee;
And first the Leaders and their Forces tell,
Allys, and Neuters, for thou know'st them well.
In that soft Season when the fruitful Show'rs
Call from the Womb of Earth the infant Flow'rs,
In the full Beauty of the fragrant May,
When Nature smiles, and ev'ry Field is gay,
When George and Caroline begun their Reign,
Bless'd Pair, tremendous to the Pride of Spain,
This civil War commenc'd; O! may they know,
To interrupt their Peace, no greater Foe.
Call from the Womb of Earth the infant Flow'rs,
In the full Beauty of the fragrant May,
When Nature smiles, and ev'ry Field is gay,
When George and Caroline begun their Reign,
Bless'd Pair, tremendous to the Pride of Spain,
184
To interrupt their Peace, no greater Foe.
Soon as the Goddess, Enemy to Night,
In saffron Robes, unbar'd the Gates of Light,
First on the Plain a haughty Gen'ral came,
Of Rumour born, the short-liv'd Child of Fame,
In glaring Arms array'd, and Pope his Name.
Brittle the Helm he wore, no Artist's Care;
The Plume, Belinda, was thy ravish'd Hair.
See on his Shield's thin Boss the Greecian stand,
The lifeless Labour of the Painter's Hand,
Of Greeks the first, the deathless Son of Fame,
Not known for Homer but by Homer's Name.
Low on the Orb, on the sinister Side,
Lay Hobbs and Chapman to indulge his Pride;
Betwixt them Ogylby, and on his Head,
Our Hero stood, insulting o'er the dead.
Thy Lawns, O! Windsor, on the right were seen,
In Colours painted like autumnal Green.
Figures ill match'd of various Kinds were there,
The Dunce's Bird and Eloisa fair.
In saffron Robes, unbar'd the Gates of Light,
First on the Plain a haughty Gen'ral came,
Of Rumour born, the short-liv'd Child of Fame,
In glaring Arms array'd, and Pope his Name.
Brittle the Helm he wore, no Artist's Care;
The Plume, Belinda, was thy ravish'd Hair.
See on his Shield's thin Boss the Greecian stand,
The lifeless Labour of the Painter's Hand,
Of Greeks the first, the deathless Son of Fame,
Not known for Homer but by Homer's Name.
Low on the Orb, on the sinister Side,
Lay Hobbs and Chapman to indulge his Pride;
Betwixt them Ogylby, and on his Head,
Our Hero stood, insulting o'er the dead.
Thy Lawns, O! Windsor, on the right were seen,
In Colours painted like autumnal Green.
Figures ill match'd of various Kinds were there,
The Dunce's Bird and Eloisa fair.
With him a Chieftain came in Arms ally'd,
In Wit superior, and of equal Pride,
Sait. Patrick's Dean, of holy Men the Pest,
A scurril Joker, and of all the Jest.
This Leader, sable-rob'd, his Conscience sold
Long since; or Whig or Tory he for Gold.
Worth in all Shapes he views with envious Eyes,
A Vanbrugh witty, and Godolphin wise:
Nor could the foremost of the Sons of Men
Escape his ribbald and licentious Pen,
He who protected, in the doubtful Hour,
The Land of Freedom from tyrannic Pow'r:
Hail ever honour'd Shade, whose sacred Name
Shall live, till Worlds decay, the Boast of Fame!
As Right requires, this, Marlb'ro', is thy Lot;
The Foes to Virtue dy, and are forgot,
Or Death survive, detested by their Race,
Wretches immortal in their own Disgrace!
This Doom be his, who now his Mind employs
In feigning idle Tales for Girls and Boys,
Or gives his Genius the malignant Scope
At better Men to throw his Dirt with Pope.
See to the Field Swift self-sufficient run,
To share the Wreath with his poetic Son;
With him Invectives gross for Humour pass:
He wears no Armour but a Face of Brass.
In Wit superior, and of equal Pride,
185
A scurril Joker, and of all the Jest.
This Leader, sable-rob'd, his Conscience sold
Long since; or Whig or Tory he for Gold.
Worth in all Shapes he views with envious Eyes,
A Vanbrugh witty, and Godolphin wise:
Nor could the foremost of the Sons of Men
Escape his ribbald and licentious Pen,
He who protected, in the doubtful Hour,
The Land of Freedom from tyrannic Pow'r:
Hail ever honour'd Shade, whose sacred Name
Shall live, till Worlds decay, the Boast of Fame!
As Right requires, this, Marlb'ro', is thy Lot;
The Foes to Virtue dy, and are forgot,
Or Death survive, detested by their Race,
Wretches immortal in their own Disgrace!
This Doom be his, who now his Mind employs
In feigning idle Tales for Girls and Boys,
Or gives his Genius the malignant Scope
At better Men to throw his Dirt with Pope.
See to the Field Swift self-sufficient run,
To share the Wreath with his poetic Son;
With him Invectives gross for Humour pass:
He wears no Armour but a Face of Brass.
186
Lover of Strife, the seeming rev'rend Man
Thus from his Bitterness of Soul began.
Thus from his Bitterness of Soul began.
My dear Confed'rate, we have seen too long
The bold Encroachments of the Sons of Song;
But now the Hour is come that shall declare
To all, in Wit, we Brobdignaggians are.
Observe my Words before our Foes appear,
And to the Voice of Counsel lend thine Ear.
Soon as we hear the Signal to engage
Exert with all thy Might poetic Rage;
Nor meanly stoop to Justice in the Cause,
Despise all Manners, and regard no Laws.
Foes in all Cases we must treat like Foes;
Whether the Sons of Verse, or Men of Prose,
Call them, without Reserve, Dog, Monkey, Owl,
And splutter out at once Fish, Flesh, and Fowl.
The bold Encroachments of the Sons of Song;
But now the Hour is come that shall declare
To all, in Wit, we Brobdignaggians are.
Observe my Words before our Foes appear,
And to the Voice of Counsel lend thine Ear.
Soon as we hear the Signal to engage
Exert with all thy Might poetic Rage;
Nor meanly stoop to Justice in the Cause,
Despise all Manners, and regard no Laws.
Foes in all Cases we must treat like Foes;
Whether the Sons of Verse, or Men of Prose,
Call them, without Reserve, Dog, Monkey, Owl,
And splutter out at once Fish, Flesh, and Fowl.
187
To him thus Pope: waste not thy Breath again
To give Advice to whom Advice is vain.
Who better knows than I his Dirt to throw?
To wound in Secret either Friend or Foe?
Go preach to Gay, and such as are inclin'd
Less to exert an enterprising Mind,
Who, slothful to pursue our glorious Ends,
Lag as if willing to make all their Friends.
When was I known basely to court the Schools,
Or not to rail at dull methodic Fools,
Who dare not venture from their Depth to wade?
Souls fit as Philips for the rhyming Trade!
A Genius form'd like mine will soar at all,
And boldly follow where Subscriptions call.
My gentle Touch from Homer clear'd the Rust,
And from the Brow of Shakespeare wip'd the Dust.
To give Advice to whom Advice is vain.
Who better knows than I his Dirt to throw?
To wound in Secret either Friend or Foe?
Go preach to Gay, and such as are inclin'd
Less to exert an enterprising Mind,
Who, slothful to pursue our glorious Ends,
Lag as if willing to make all their Friends.
When was I known basely to court the Schools,
Or not to rail at dull methodic Fools,
Who dare not venture from their Depth to wade?
Souls fit as Philips for the rhyming Trade!
A Genius form'd like mine will soar at all,
And boldly follow where Subscriptions call.
My gentle Touch from Homer clear'd the Rust,
And from the Brow of Shakespeare wip'd the Dust.
188
Here ends the Chief, and his Attendants
raise,
With one Accord, the aukward Voice of Praise,
All Strangers to Renown, not form'd for War,
But humble Waiters on their Leader's Car;
Whose loud Applause at ev'ry Step they bawl,
And fright their Hearers with the hideous Squall.
With one Accord, the aukward Voice of Praise,
All Strangers to Renown, not form'd for War,
But humble Waiters on their Leader's Car;
Whose loud Applause at ev'ry Step they bawl,
And fright their Hearers with the hideous Squall.
So the light-body'd Cranes united fly,
And with their Screams torment the winter Sky.
And with their Screams torment the winter Sky.
189
Diff'rent the Motions of the learned Throng,
The longliv'd Sons of Fame, and Pride of Song!
Brave without Rage they march to face the Foe,
Nor Clamours raise, majestically slow.
To the bless'd Symphony of War they move,
To Sounds which seem to animate the Grove.
Here lofty Notes full worthy Homer swell,
Well answer'd, Flaccus, by thy Roman Shell;
Here Pindar's bold and manly Strokes inspire;
There breathes the Softness of the Teian Lyre.
So round their God the nine melodious Maids,
Soft warbling, charm the Heliconian Shades.
The longliv'd Sons of Fame, and Pride of Song!
Brave without Rage they march to face the Foe,
Nor Clamours raise, majestically slow.
To the bless'd Symphony of War they move,
To Sounds which seem to animate the Grove.
Here lofty Notes full worthy Homer swell,
Well answer'd, Flaccus, by thy Roman Shell;
Here Pindar's bold and manly Strokes inspire;
There breathes the Softness of the Teian Lyre.
So round their God the nine melodious Maids,
Soft warbling, charm the Heliconian Shades.
Foremost of this harmonious Band is seen
A Chief at once advent'rous and serene;
Firm on his Shield the Roman Swan appears,
Horace bright shining thro a Length of Years,
And there Lavinia by her Dream betray'd,
And Acon smiling on the blushing Maid:
Longinus there extends the laurel Bough,
And with the Ivy crowns the Critic's Brow.
Thus arm'd the Bard advanc'd, in Heart sincere,
Welsted to Phœbus and the Muses dear.
A Chief at once advent'rous and serene;
Firm on his Shield the Roman Swan appears,
Horace bright shining thro a Length of Years,
And there Lavinia by her Dream betray'd,
And Acon smiling on the blushing Maid:
Longinus there extends the laurel Bough,
And with the Ivy crowns the Critic's Brow.
Thus arm'd the Bard advanc'd, in Heart sincere,
Welsted to Phœbus and the Muses dear.
From the Tranquillity of letter'd Ease
A Chief, whose Moments are employ'd to please,
To please and to improve, is forc'd to jar,
Tho fit in Prowess, not inclin'd to War,
Who would the stubborn Foe to Justice shame,
Friend to all Worth, and Theobald his Name:
His ample Shield two mighty Poets grace,
Here Æschylus , there Shakespeare's aweful Face,
With all the buskin'd Honours plac'd between
Those great Supporters of the tragic Scene.
A Chief, whose Moments are employ'd to please,
190
Tho fit in Prowess, not inclin'd to War,
Who would the stubborn Foe to Justice shame,
Friend to all Worth, and Theobald his Name:
His ample Shield two mighty Poets grace,
Here Æschylus , there Shakespeare's aweful Face,
191
Those great Supporters of the tragic Scene.
Tickell
, bless'd Bard, by Addison approv'd,
A Leader bold, and by the Muses lov'd,
Took in resplendent Arms the martial Field,
The Head of Homer painted on his Shield;
The Lines so strong the master Pencil speak,
All wish he'd draw'd at Length th'immortal Greek.
A Leader bold, and by the Muses lov'd,
Took in resplendent Arms the martial Field,
The Head of Homer painted on his Shield;
The Lines so strong the master Pencil speak,
All wish he'd draw'd at Length th'immortal Greek.
A Chieftain, who precipitates my Praise,
With Virgil's Genius, tho but Lucan's Days,
Behold. O! Youth, if into Fate I see,
Another Dryden shall arise in thee.
Born to add Glory to thy native Land,
Thy early Virtues now our Hearts command:
Let Malice throw her feeble Darts in vain,
By thee retorted only with Disdain,
Still shalt thou give her Reason to repine,
And to the Eye of Judgement ever shine:
Thee in thy Works shall Men unborn adore,
And call the Genius of pass'd Ages Moore.
With Virgil's Genius, tho but Lucan's Days,
Behold. O! Youth, if into Fate I see,
Another Dryden shall arise in thee.
Born to add Glory to thy native Land,
Thy early Virtues now our Hearts command:
Let Malice throw her feeble Darts in vain,
By thee retorted only with Disdain,
192
And to the Eye of Judgement ever shine:
Thee in thy Works shall Men unborn adore,
And call the Genius of pass'd Ages Moore.
With these a chosen Band of Warriors came,
Each zealous to assert his Leader's Fame;
Tho worthy in themselves the Bard's Renown,
They modestly declin'd the laurel Crown.
Against the Foe they march'd in Arms ally'd,
And knew the God with Justice would decide.
Each zealous to assert his Leader's Fame;
Tho worthy in themselves the Bard's Renown,
They modestly declin'd the laurel Crown.
Against the Foe they march'd in Arms ally'd,
And knew the God with Justice would decide.
The Armys meet, the Word the Leaders give,
And all the Signal for the Fight receive.
Betwixt both Hosts Pope, dauntless Champion, stands,
And bids Defyance to the social Bands:
Who dares, he crys, with me his Strength to try,
Let him consider well what 'tis to dy;
'Tis living to observe his Labours dead,
And by no Reader but their Author read:
Both Day and Night he may torment his Brain,
And write, and write, and ever write in vain:
The Works on which I look with Eyes unkind
Shall vanish like the Chaff before the Wind.
Who doubts my Vigour may repent too late:
Who can like me invent, or who translate?
Of Epic Bards the Chief and oldest see
Explain'd, and more illustrious made, by me.
And all the Signal for the Fight receive.
Betwixt both Hosts Pope, dauntless Champion, stands,
And bids Defyance to the social Bands:
Who dares, he crys, with me his Strength to try,
Let him consider well what 'tis to dy;
'Tis living to observe his Labours dead,
And by no Reader but their Author read:
Both Day and Night he may torment his Brain,
And write, and write, and ever write in vain:
The Works on which I look with Eyes unkind
Shall vanish like the Chaff before the Wind.
193
Who can like me invent, or who translate?
Of Epic Bards the Chief and oldest see
Explain'd, and more illustrious made, by me.
He ends, and lo! his ample Shield uprears
On which th'Unlikeness of the Greek appears.
Tickell step'd forth, with just Resentment fir'd
In Homer's Cause, and by the Muse inspir'd.
Shield against Shield the Heros now oppose;
Sense clash'd with Sense, and Words on Words arose;
For Pope, a Chief more resolute than strong,
Persisted boldly in the Fight of Song,
Till he at last the Foe too pow'rful found,
And by him fell unpity'd to the Ground.
About him throng'd his sad Attendants all,
And tho they saw would scarce believe his Fall;
Him to the greenwood Shade they gently bore,
And in hoarse Elegys his Fate deplore.
Tickell observ'd, and thus his Thoughts express'd,
Contempt and Pity rising in his Breast:
Severe his Lot to whom the Muses gave
A Pow'r so bounded, and a Soul so brave!
On which th'Unlikeness of the Greek appears.
Tickell step'd forth, with just Resentment fir'd
In Homer's Cause, and by the Muse inspir'd.
Shield against Shield the Heros now oppose;
Sense clash'd with Sense, and Words on Words arose;
For Pope, a Chief more resolute than strong,
Persisted boldly in the Fight of Song,
Till he at last the Foe too pow'rful found,
And by him fell unpity'd to the Ground.
About him throng'd his sad Attendants all,
And tho they saw would scarce believe his Fall;
Him to the greenwood Shade they gently bore,
And in hoarse Elegys his Fate deplore.
Tickell observ'd, and thus his Thoughts express'd,
Contempt and Pity rising in his Breast:
Severe his Lot to whom the Muses gave
A Pow'r so bounded, and a Soul so brave!
Now to the Field the neutral Forces came,
Bards unrecorded in the Rolls of Fame;
Whose Magazine of Wit can strike no Awe,
Dablers in Verse in Politics and Law;
Some much affecting Wit are all Grimace,
Whose total Merit is a joking Face:
Thrice happy Men, with silent Talents bless'd,
Who may reserve your Words, and look a Jest,
In the eternal Book of Fame forbear
To hope a Place; no Phizzes enter there.
Be witty while you may, for, such your Fate,
Short is of Life, short of your Reign, the Date:
Will Somers is no more; and Pinkey rests
In the cold Grave; the Men who look'd such Jests!
When those ye join, over the cheerful Glass
The Friends of each will say, poor Phiz! Alas!
Bards unrecorded in the Rolls of Fame;
194
Dablers in Verse in Politics and Law;
Some much affecting Wit are all Grimace,
Whose total Merit is a joking Face:
Thrice happy Men, with silent Talents bless'd,
Who may reserve your Words, and look a Jest,
In the eternal Book of Fame forbear
To hope a Place; no Phizzes enter there.
Be witty while you may, for, such your Fate,
Short is of Life, short of your Reign, the Date:
Will Somers is no more; and Pinkey rests
In the cold Grave; the Men who look'd such Jests!
When those ye join, over the cheerful Glass
The Friends of each will say, poor Phiz! Alas!
With other Bards advanc'd these wond'rous Men,
With each a Face more hum'rous than his Pen,
Disdain'd alike by Pope and the Allys,
Each hoping singly for the laurel Prize.
To Moore and Welsted they direct their Way;
To each an easy, but inglorious, Prey.
With each a Face more hum'rous than his Pen,
Disdain'd alike by Pope and the Allys,
Each hoping singly for the laurel Prize.
To Moore and Welsted they direct their Way;
To each an easy, but inglorious, Prey.
195
A Bard, deputed by th'Allys to give
The Sentence to the Foe to dy or live,
Survey'd the Captives o'er, their Worth to find,
And turn'd the useless Pages to the Wind:
His Hand destructive stop'd, he call'd a Name,
Just sinking in Oblivion, back to Fame;
A Portion of his Verse he view'd with Care;
And saw th'Assistance of the Muses there:
While those are doom'd to write, and be forgot,
For thee, Brevall, is cast a happyer Lot.
The Sentence to the Foe to dy or live,
Survey'd the Captives o'er, their Worth to find,
And turn'd the useless Pages to the Wind:
His Hand destructive stop'd, he call'd a Name,
Just sinking in Oblivion, back to Fame;
A Portion of his Verse he view'd with Care;
And saw th'Assistance of the Muses there:
While those are doom'd to write, and be forgot,
For thee, Brevall, is cast a happyer Lot.
Pope, as recover'd by some magic Gift,
Once more in Arms appear'd sustain'd by Swift;
Whose Art restor'd the Hero to the Plain,
Unkind restor'd him but to fall again:
So from the Wounds of Love a Beau I've seen
Fresh flutt'ring by the Pill of Misaubin,
But hear'd, 'e're many Suns, the Wretch complain
Of the curs'd Emp'ric, and returning Pain.
Welsted with Vigilance observ'd his Course,
And for the Fight collected all his Force;
Forward he sprung to meet the approaching Foe,
Eager his great Antagonist to know,
Resolv'd with him singly to try his Fate,
With him of whom Report had spoke so great.
Pope met him near, and the Assault began,
Just to the Counsel of the sable Man;
But Welsted, to distinguish Right from Wrong,
Proceeded to the Merits of his Song,
When fled the maudlin and unmeaning Lay,
As Darkness flys before the Face of Day.
Pope sees the Danger, and incites the Croud,
Who for their Chief grow mutinous and loud.
That Hour, melodious Bard, had seen thy Name
Eras'd unjustly from the Book of Fame
By barb'rous Numbers, who conspir'd thy Fall,
Ill judging, noisy, and malicious, all,
Had not the God, who judg'd the Strife of Song,
Preserv'd thee harmless from the treach'rous Throng.
Once more in Arms appear'd sustain'd by Swift;
Whose Art restor'd the Hero to the Plain,
Unkind restor'd him but to fall again:
196
Fresh flutt'ring by the Pill of Misaubin,
But hear'd, 'e're many Suns, the Wretch complain
Of the curs'd Emp'ric, and returning Pain.
Welsted with Vigilance observ'd his Course,
And for the Fight collected all his Force;
Forward he sprung to meet the approaching Foe,
Eager his great Antagonist to know,
Resolv'd with him singly to try his Fate,
With him of whom Report had spoke so great.
Pope met him near, and the Assault began,
Just to the Counsel of the sable Man;
But Welsted, to distinguish Right from Wrong,
Proceeded to the Merits of his Song,
When fled the maudlin and unmeaning Lay,
As Darkness flys before the Face of Day.
Pope sees the Danger, and incites the Croud,
Who for their Chief grow mutinous and loud.
That Hour, melodious Bard, had seen thy Name
Eras'd unjustly from the Book of Fame
By barb'rous Numbers, who conspir'd thy Fall,
Ill judging, noisy, and malicious, all,
Had not the God, who judg'd the Strife of Song,
Preserv'd thee harmless from the treach'rous Throng.
197
Pope and his Forces disappointed bend
Their Fury doubled on great Shakespeare's Friend.
Here Swift exerts himself, whose sole Delight,
And Care, are only to enrage the Fight;
Th'invenom'd Breast of Pope he more inflames,
And the Globe ransacs for opprobrious Names;
The Stile of Porters he would bring in Use,
As if all Wit consisted in Abuse:
But Theobald, in keener Weapons strong,
Made his Revenge to prove the Foe was wrong;
He wisely sees, while envious Slanders fail,
The better Part is to convince, not rail.
Their Fury doubled on great Shakespeare's Friend.
Here Swift exerts himself, whose sole Delight,
And Care, are only to enrage the Fight;
Th'invenom'd Breast of Pope he more inflames,
And the Globe ransacs for opprobrious Names;
The Stile of Porters he would bring in Use,
As if all Wit consisted in Abuse:
But Theobald, in keener Weapons strong,
Made his Revenge to prove the Foe was wrong;
He wisely sees, while envious Slanders fail,
The better Part is to convince, not rail.
Thy Arms, O! Moore, were not employ'd in vain,
Fierce to the servile and the flatt'ring Train.
While in the Brilliancy of Wit you shine,
Undoubted Conquest sits upon each Line,
Whether diverting in the comic Strain,
Or gayly sporting in Anacreon's Vein!
Nor stop'd thy Vict'ry on the menial Band;
The Chief went wounded from thy artful Hand.
Fierce to the servile and the flatt'ring Train.
While in the Brilliancy of Wit you shine,
Undoubted Conquest sits upon each Line,
Whether diverting in the comic Strain,
Or gayly sporting in Anacreon's Vein!
Nor stop'd thy Vict'ry on the menial Band;
The Chief went wounded from thy artful Hand.
The dreadful Rage of War continued high
Till Darkness had invested all the Sky:
The Chiefs the Signal give the Fight to end,
And farther Battel till the Morn suspend.
Till Darkness had invested all the Sky:
198
And farther Battel till the Morn suspend.
The End of the first Canto.
The Reader must consider that this was writ in the Year 1729; at which Time the Poet was not apprehensive that Spain would soon become tremendous to us. 1740.
This Word is taken from a pretty Story-Book of Dr. Swift's, called Gulliver's Travels. I mention this, because that Book is not so well known now as it was when the last Edition of the Battel of the Poets was published. 1740.
See the Treatise on the Profund; in which the Qualitys of various Animals are set forth, and applyed to several Persons as Writers, and to most without any Analogy.
This Gentleman dyed since the last Edition of this Poem: from the Character which I have always heared of him, he never made an Enemy by his Conduct, nor deserved a Censure. Some of his Writings have great Merit, tho he was far from an Author of the first Class. 1741.
Ambrose Philips; besides whom, and the late Mr. John Philips, I never heared of any of the Name who were Poets, or indeed who could write, tho several of the same Name have printed Verses, and other Things. 1740.
Here an Observation may not be improper, that among all the commendatory Copys of Verses, which have yet appeared before the Works of Mr. Pope, not one, not the best, is a tolerable Performance.
In the Beginning of the third Book of the Ilias the Poet judiciously compares the Trojan Army to the clamorous Flight of Cranes; which Similitude strengthens the Contrast betwixt the Tumult of the Trojans and the orderly Disposition of the Greeks marching to Battel. Mr. Pope has injured his Author by adding the Word Order, which is not signifyed in the Original, to his Translation of this Simile. Says he,
—the Cranes embody'd flyWith Noise and Order.
This Error he endeavours to justify in a Note, by insisting on the Truth of their flying in Order; but, had Homer been sensible of this as a Fact, he would have took no Notice of it; because his Design was to oppose the noisy and unskillful Management of the Trojans to the harmonious and artful Discipline of the Greeks.
I should not have mentioned Æschylus, a Translation of which Author Mr. Theobald has happyly accomplished, had not Mr. Pope, in the first Book of the Dunciad, introduced it, I fear, with a malevolent Tendency; for since the Public cannot judge of the Equity of the Praise or Censure of a Work not published, with what View can any one condemn it, but to prejudice such as are influenced by his Judgement against the Proposals which are made for printing it? Such as have seen the Specimen of this Translation from the Tragedy of Prometheus, and are capable of judging, will be convinced that Mr. Pope is either no Judge, or, to speak in the mildest Terms, a partial Man. Mr. Theobald is treated in so unhandsome, foolish, and petulant, a Manner, thro the Dunciad, that we must think the Author much altered in his Opinion, since he wrote the following Lines; which, I believe, the Reader will think could never be more properly quoted than in a Satire on the Author.
'Tis not enough, Wit, Art, and Learning, join;
In all you speak let Truth and Candour shine,
That not alone what to your Judgment's due
All may allow, but seek your Friendship too.
In all you speak let Truth and Candour shine,
That not alone what to your Judgment's due
All may allow, but seek your Friendship too.
Essay on Criticism.
Mr. Theobald has, since the last Edition of this Poem, published an Edition of Shakespeare's Plays, which has been well received: he had before published a Specimen of the Work. 1740.
He dyed since the last Edition of this Poem: he was a Man of Genius, and has left some few Monuments of it behind him. 1740.
This Prophecy indeed was not fulfilled: however, the Death of this young Gentleman has, in some Measure, saved my Credit.
Nox atra caput tristi circumvolat umbra.
Virg. 1740.
In the Year 1729 some Persons, who herded among the Witlings and Poetasters of those Times, were remarkable for their comic Faces, and always raised a Laugh in Company when they spoke, tho what they uttered would have passed unheeded from any other Person: such was the Effect of a comic Phiz! 1740.
This Gentleman wrote an excellent Poem called Calpe or Gibraltar; in which we are delighted with the Description and History of that Place, and in a Language truly poetical. We are obliged to him for several other Pieces, which have each their Merit. The Fate of this Writer, as a Poet, is enough to deter the finest Genius, who has no View but Fame, and no Recommendation to the World but Merit, from his Pursuit. He dyed not long since; and I never heared of his being more than a travelling Tutor, or Governour, to a young Nobleman; which is a Station that of late Years is grown much into Contempt, not from any real Dishonour that it would be to a Person of small Fortune equal to the Trust, but from those who [OMITTED]
199
CANTO II.
While in their Camp retir'd both Armys lay,
Some panting, many fearful, for the Day,
Eusden a laurel'd Bard, by Fortune rais'd,
Who has by few been read, by fewer prais'd,
From Place to Place forlorn and breathless flys,
And offers Bribes immense for strong Allys.
In vain he spends the Day the Night in vain;
All to his Offers deaf his Bribes disdain.
To Blackmore
, aged Chief, who bears the Scars
Of dreadful Wounds receiv'd in former Wars,
He most apply'd for Aid; to whom the Sage
Thus spoke, delib'rate from the Fears of Age.
Some panting, many fearful, for the Day,
Eusden a laurel'd Bard, by Fortune rais'd,
Who has by few been read, by fewer prais'd,
From Place to Place forlorn and breathless flys,
And offers Bribes immense for strong Allys.
In vain he spends the Day the Night in vain;
All to his Offers deaf his Bribes disdain.
200
Of dreadful Wounds receiv'd in former Wars,
He most apply'd for Aid; to whom the Sage
Thus spoke, delib'rate from the Fears of Age.
No longer Son my Arms ally'd implore;
In Fields of Fight I shall appear no more.
E'en now I feel, not heal'd by Length of Days,
What I have suffer'd from great Dryden's Lays;
Nor Patience, nor devouring Time, can cure
What from immortal Garth I now endure;
Say therefore what of Glory can I hope,
From Garth and Dryden to descend to Pope?
Or what Renown could the Insulter gain,
To have reported he has slay'd the slain?
In Fields of Fight I shall appear no more.
E'en now I feel, not heal'd by Length of Days,
What I have suffer'd from great Dryden's Lays;
Nor Patience, nor devouring Time, can cure
What from immortal Garth I now endure;
Say therefore what of Glory can I hope,
From Garth and Dryden to descend to Pope?
Or what Renown could the Insulter gain,
To have reported he has slay'd the slain?
His Words affected much the Laureat's Mind,
Who, thus repuls'd by all the War, declin'd;
With Heart dejected he return'd alone,
Upon the Banks of Cam to make his Moan,
Resolv'd to pass his future Days in Ease,
And toil in Verse himself alone to please,
To fly the noisy Candidates of Fame,
Nor ever court again so coy a Dame.
Who, thus repuls'd by all the War, declin'd;
With Heart dejected he return'd alone,
Upon the Banks of Cam to make his Moan,
Resolv'd to pass his future Days in Ease,
And toil in Verse himself alone to please,
201
Nor ever court again so coy a Dame.
Dennis,
whose Veins with youthful Vigour flow,
Firm as an Oak beneath the Weight of Snow,
True Foe to Vice, of modern Bards the Dread,
Who spurious Wit has oft' in Triumph led,
Rears, as Apollo and the Nine inspire,
With Hands tremendous, the vindictive Fire.
Dauntless he ranges o'er the hostile Ground;
And of the slumb'ring Chiefs the Labours round
He views, and seizes in th'unguarded Hour
From each an Off'ring to th'offended Pow'r.
From Pope he bears no slender Sacrifice;
In flaming Rolls Volumes on Volumes rise:
With the mar'd Greecian Storys seed the Flame
Thy Praise Cecilia, and thy Temple Fame.
Light mounts, impartial Doom! the maukish Lay,
Where Sylphs preside, and Belles at Ombre play;
Where well bred Lords and softest Bosoms rage;
And Clenches and Conundrums croud the Page:
Not less severe the Fate of that dull Strain,
Where for the Critic's Wreath he strives in vain,
Of Knowledge barren, much affects to know,
While like the Severn rough his Numbers flow.
Ye Nymphs of Drury mourn the Labour fir'd
Which Envy and some Succubus inspir'd;
Chetwood for you was with the Jordan crown'd,
Whose Semicircle's like a watry Round:
Perish the Verse of Spleen, th'abusive Song,
Where Malice weakly jumbles Right and Wrong.
Let Fancy image, to her utmost Pow'r,
The Poet's Anguish in the lab'ring Hour:
Behold the Bard; aghast his Eyeballs roll;
And the malignant Passion shakes his Soul;
In his tumultuous Breast a Fury reigns,
And with the fellest Venom swells his Veins;
At ev'ry Age, and at each Sex, he flings,
And with his Satire daubs but never stings:
He scribles on, but what he scarcely knows,
While from his Pen the scurril Nonsense flows!
Slander and Lewdness he for Wit would pass,
As Knaves would oft' for Gold impose their Brass.
Too long the Task, the Toil of Moons, to name,
His ev'ry guilty Line that fed the Flame,
How he purloin'd from the immortal dead,
And in his Thefts converted Gold to Lead.
To this Confession Justice sways the Mind,
That in the Mass confus'd we Beautys find,
But so dispos'd, as in the rustic Dance
Colin treads courtly from th'Effect of Chance,
Beautys like Vi'lets which adorn the Ground
That Briars, Thorns, and Weeds, and Mud, surround.
Firm as an Oak beneath the Weight of Snow,
True Foe to Vice, of modern Bards the Dread,
Who spurious Wit has oft' in Triumph led,
Rears, as Apollo and the Nine inspire,
With Hands tremendous, the vindictive Fire.
Dauntless he ranges o'er the hostile Ground;
And of the slumb'ring Chiefs the Labours round
He views, and seizes in th'unguarded Hour
From each an Off'ring to th'offended Pow'r.
From Pope he bears no slender Sacrifice;
In flaming Rolls Volumes on Volumes rise:
With the mar'd Greecian Storys seed the Flame
Thy Praise Cecilia, and thy Temple Fame.
Light mounts, impartial Doom! the maukish Lay,
Where Sylphs preside, and Belles at Ombre play;
Where well bred Lords and softest Bosoms rage;
And Clenches and Conundrums croud the Page:
202
Where for the Critic's Wreath he strives in vain,
Of Knowledge barren, much affects to know,
While like the Severn rough his Numbers flow.
Ye Nymphs of Drury mourn the Labour fir'd
Which Envy and some Succubus inspir'd;
Chetwood for you was with the Jordan crown'd,
Whose Semicircle's like a watry Round:
203
Where Malice weakly jumbles Right and Wrong.
Let Fancy image, to her utmost Pow'r,
The Poet's Anguish in the lab'ring Hour:
Behold the Bard; aghast his Eyeballs roll;
And the malignant Passion shakes his Soul;
204
And with the fellest Venom swells his Veins;
At ev'ry Age, and at each Sex, he flings,
And with his Satire daubs but never stings:
He scribles on, but what he scarcely knows,
While from his Pen the scurril Nonsense flows!
Slander and Lewdness he for Wit would pass,
As Knaves would oft' for Gold impose their Brass.
Too long the Task, the Toil of Moons, to name,
His ev'ry guilty Line that fed the Flame,
How he purloin'd from the immortal dead,
And in his Thefts converted Gold to Lead.
To this Confession Justice sways the Mind,
That in the Mass confus'd we Beautys find,
But so dispos'd, as in the rustic Dance
Colin treads courtly from th'Effect of Chance,
Beautys like Vi'lets which adorn the Ground
That Briars, Thorns, and Weeds, and Mud, surround.
205
Of all who fought beneath this Chief's Command
Not one escap'd the Critic's vengeful Hand;
High rais'd they ly upon the fatal Fire,
And in one Blaze, to live no more, expire.
Not one escap'd the Critic's vengeful Hand;
High rais'd they ly upon the fatal Fire,
And in one Blaze, to live no more, expire.
Diff'rent and just the Fortune of th'Allys,
From whom, bless'd Bards, but scanty Off'rings rise;
Thin and but hardly seen their Errors ly,
Like Weeds which cheat the careful Florist's Eye.
From whom, bless'd Bards, but scanty Off'rings rise;
Thin and but hardly seen their Errors ly,
Like Weeds which cheat the careful Florist's Eye.
His Work perform'd, the Critic took his Way,
Slow-pacing, homeward, and uprose the Day.
As on he went he saw approaching nigh
The Form of one that seem'd, and was, a Spy,
Thick stuff'd his Pockets and his Sides with Rhyme,
And mutt'ring as he walk'd one endless Chime:
As on he wander'd, like a Wretch possess'd,
The Critic seiz'd him, and unman'd his Breast:
Trembling he stood, his Guilt creating Fear;
His Crimes were many, and his Judge severe.
With Anger and Contempt thus spoke the Sage,
Austere but just, his Brows denouncing Rage:
Say, conscious Traytor, such you seem to me,
What can your Bus'ness in the Forest be,
Thus arm'd, alone, now scarce the Night is fled,
To kill the living, or to strip the dead?
Tell me, for 'tis in vain to hope to fly,
Your Name your Purpose, or expect to dy.
With Tone terrific to the Sons of Song,
And Sounds emphatic which the Words prolong,
O! venerable Sire, the Captive cry'd,
Phœbus forbid your Will should be deny'd!
To smooth the Rigour of impending Fate,
(Spying the Cane unfriendly o'er his Pate,)
I'll Truth, unsully'd with a Ly, relate.
To him the Sage reply'd: no more despair;
Speak Truth and longer breathe the vital Air.
Then he, of all the Wretch's Might the Bane,
No more suspended held the pond'rous Cane;
Behold, he cry'd, the Object of thy dread,
The Cane no longer trembling o'er thy Head:
Proceed. Encourag'd thus the Wretch began,
Louder his Voice, and almost like a Man.
Slow-pacing, homeward, and uprose the Day.
As on he went he saw approaching nigh
The Form of one that seem'd, and was, a Spy,
Thick stuff'd his Pockets and his Sides with Rhyme,
And mutt'ring as he walk'd one endless Chime:
As on he wander'd, like a Wretch possess'd,
The Critic seiz'd him, and unman'd his Breast:
206
His Crimes were many, and his Judge severe.
With Anger and Contempt thus spoke the Sage,
Austere but just, his Brows denouncing Rage:
Say, conscious Traytor, such you seem to me,
What can your Bus'ness in the Forest be,
Thus arm'd, alone, now scarce the Night is fled,
To kill the living, or to strip the dead?
Tell me, for 'tis in vain to hope to fly,
Your Name your Purpose, or expect to dy.
With Tone terrific to the Sons of Song,
And Sounds emphatic which the Words prolong,
O! venerable Sire, the Captive cry'd,
Phœbus forbid your Will should be deny'd!
To smooth the Rigour of impending Fate,
(Spying the Cane unfriendly o'er his Pate,)
I'll Truth, unsully'd with a Ly, relate.
To him the Sage reply'd: no more despair;
Speak Truth and longer breathe the vital Air.
Then he, of all the Wretch's Might the Bane,
No more suspended held the pond'rous Cane;
Behold, he cry'd, the Object of thy dread,
The Cane no longer trembling o'er thy Head:
Proceed. Encourag'd thus the Wretch began,
Louder his Voice, and almost like a Man.
207
Savage my Name, unbless'd my natal Morn,
Who to the Ills of Poetry was born.
From Pope deputed, from my Heart's Ally,
To yonder Camp I tend a dauntless Spy.
Thro great and many Dangers safe I go,
My only Guard my Falsehood to the Foe;
Before a Friend profess'd they know no Fear,
But trust their Secrets to a faithless Ear;
I watch their Motions, and each Word they say,
And all, and more than all, I know, betray:
In kind Return he cheers my Soul with Praise,
And mends, where such he finds, my feeble Lays.
Who to the Ills of Poetry was born.
From Pope deputed, from my Heart's Ally,
To yonder Camp I tend a dauntless Spy.
Thro great and many Dangers safe I go,
My only Guard my Falsehood to the Foe;
Before a Friend profess'd they know no Fear,
But trust their Secrets to a faithless Ear;
I watch their Motions, and each Word they say,
And all, and more than all, I know, betray:
In kind Return he cheers my Soul with Praise,
And mends, where such he finds, my feeble Lays.
Thus interrupting, with a scornful Smile,
Enough thy Folly speaks, enough thy Guile,
To him the Sage with aweful Voice rejoin'd.
What Mercy, Traytor, can you hope to find?
To thee the Promise of thy Life I gave,
A false, a fawning, and a witless, Slave;
But now thy Soul appears so mean, so black,
That Justice bids me call that Promise back.
He paus'd a-while, then spoke. Thy Life I give;
Thy greatest Torment, Wretch, must be to live.
Thro the prismatic Glass deceiv'd you see,
Believing all Things, as they seem, to be;
But sad Experience late shall ope thine Eyes,
And shew that they who flatter most despise.
Thy Friends were many when thy Faults were less,
Whom not thy Merit gain'd, but thy Distress;
While those you teaz'd all harmless with your Rhyme,
And scribbling Nonsence was your greatest Crime,
Pity and Scorn they cherish'd but conceal'd;
Now Scorn and Hate prevail, and those reveal'd:
Such is of Spys like thee the certain Fate,
Whether the Spys of Verse, or Spys of State.
Enough thy Folly speaks, enough thy Guile,
To him the Sage with aweful Voice rejoin'd.
What Mercy, Traytor, can you hope to find?
To thee the Promise of thy Life I gave,
A false, a fawning, and a witless, Slave;
But now thy Soul appears so mean, so black,
That Justice bids me call that Promise back.
He paus'd a-while, then spoke. Thy Life I give;
Thy greatest Torment, Wretch, must be to live.
Thro the prismatic Glass deceiv'd you see,
Believing all Things, as they seem, to be;
208
And shew that they who flatter most despise.
Thy Friends were many when thy Faults were less,
Whom not thy Merit gain'd, but thy Distress;
While those you teaz'd all harmless with your Rhyme,
And scribbling Nonsence was your greatest Crime,
Pity and Scorn they cherish'd but conceal'd;
Now Scorn and Hate prevail, and those reveal'd:
Such is of Spys like thee the certain Fate,
Whether the Spys of Verse, or Spys of State.
Ending, he rifles his poetic Store,
Reads of each Piece a Verse, and reads no more,
Then, with these Words, returns the wond'rous Lay,
Nor tragic, comic, neither grave, nor gay.
Reads of each Piece a Verse, and reads no more,
Then, with these Words, returns the wond'rous Lay,
Nor tragic, comic, neither grave, nor gay.
Take it, and fearless of my Censure sing,
Whose winter Fruit can not survive the Spring.
He ends, and drives him homeward in his Sight,
And sighs and pitys from his Soul and Wight.
Whose winter Fruit can not survive the Spring.
He ends, and drives him homeward in his Sight,
And sighs and pitys from his Soul and Wight.
Now Phœbus paints with golden Streaks the Skys;
The Forest warbles, and the Bards uprise;
They view their Forces, and review, with Care,
And see th'avenging Hand of Phœbus there:
Some own the Justice of the God's Decree;
And some with Eyes of Grief reproachful see.
While for his ravish'd Verses Pope complain'd,
And Heav'n, and Earth, and Hell, by Turns arraign'd,
Philips approach'd with a selected Throng,
From Cells and Courts, judicious Sons of Song:
His Helm was made with more than human Care;
And Pindar, with his Theban Lyre, is there.
Lo! on his Shield the deathless Mantuan stands,
And bowing gives his Pipe to British Hands;
There stands Orestes in his wild Despair,
Humfrey the good, and Gwendolen the fair.
Swift, who foresaw the Danger of his Stay,
Posted regardless of his Friend away.
The Forest warbles, and the Bards uprise;
They view their Forces, and review, with Care,
And see th'avenging Hand of Phœbus there:
209
And some with Eyes of Grief reproachful see.
While for his ravish'd Verses Pope complain'd,
And Heav'n, and Earth, and Hell, by Turns arraign'd,
Philips approach'd with a selected Throng,
From Cells and Courts, judicious Sons of Song:
His Helm was made with more than human Care;
And Pindar, with his Theban Lyre, is there.
Lo! on his Shield the deathless Mantuan stands,
And bowing gives his Pipe to British Hands;
There stands Orestes in his wild Despair,
Humfrey the good, and Gwendolen the fair.
Swift, who foresaw the Danger of his Stay,
Posted regardless of his Friend away.
Pope, swell'd with Malice, Vanity, and Pride,
Thus, with the Voice of Pray'r, to Phœbus cry'd.
Thus, with the Voice of Pray'r, to Phœbus cry'd.
Lend me, great God of Verse, thy timely Aid,
By Foes surrounded, and a Friend betray'd:
Restore my Arms, restore my plunder'd Lays
And annually thy Bard shall sing thy Praise;
Or whelm me in the Center of the Ball,
Rather than Philips should behold my Fall.
By Foes surrounded, and a Friend betray'd:
Restore my Arms, restore my plunder'd Lays
And annually thy Bard shall sing thy Praise;
Or whelm me in the Center of the Ball,
Rather than Philips should behold my Fall.
210
Apollo hear'd the wretched Suppliant's Pray'r,
Prefer'd in vain, for all his Vows were Air.
At last the desp'rate Bard the Foe defy'd;
And on the past'ral Lay his Hopes rely'd;
Which, now to perish, such the God's Command,
Escap'd the Vengeance of the Critic's Hand.
The Deity inspir'd th'attendant Throng
With Wisdom to decide this Strife of Song,
Who judge, illfated Pope, thy rural Note
Like a Clown aukward in Sir Fopling's Coat;
But Philips charms all Hearers with his Strain,
A skilful, pure, and unaffected Swain;
His Numbers flow with Harmony and Ease,
And like the Country in her Beauty please.
This Commendation, Philips, is thy Due,
And this the Sentence of the judging few.
The Scene with Pœans loud to Philips rung;
Nor could the Song prevail to Granville sung.
The vanquish'd Bard in Words like these express'd
The Anguish and the Malice of his Breast.
Prefer'd in vain, for all his Vows were Air.
At last the desp'rate Bard the Foe defy'd;
And on the past'ral Lay his Hopes rely'd;
Which, now to perish, such the God's Command,
Escap'd the Vengeance of the Critic's Hand.
The Deity inspir'd th'attendant Throng
With Wisdom to decide this Strife of Song,
Who judge, illfated Pope, thy rural Note
Like a Clown aukward in Sir Fopling's Coat;
But Philips charms all Hearers with his Strain,
A skilful, pure, and unaffected Swain;
His Numbers flow with Harmony and Ease,
And like the Country in her Beauty please.
This Commendation, Philips, is thy Due,
And this the Sentence of the judging few.
The Scene with Pœans loud to Philips rung;
Nor could the Song prevail to Granville sung.
The vanquish'd Bard in Words like these express'd
The Anguish and the Malice of his Breast.
Shall I to Fame by thousands, millions, rais'd,
By Turks and Indians read, by Sheffield prais'd,
Shall I, O! Gods, submit to you, or you,
Curll's Authors, Blockheads, Ribbands red and blue!
As to exert he strove the Voice of Spleen,
He wrung his Hands, and fainted on the Green.
By Turks and Indians read, by Sheffield prais'd,
211
Curll's Authors, Blockheads, Ribbands red and blue!
As to exert he strove the Voice of Spleen,
He wrung his Hands, and fainted on the Green.
As prostrate and forlorn the Bardling lys,
Forth steps ELIZA of majestic Size,
Who, pleas'd the Progress of the Fight to see,
Had stood conceal'd behind an aged Tree.
The injur'd Dame, (who could her Thoughts divine!)
Crying aloud, now sweet Revenge be mine,
To where a fragrant Bed of Nettles lay
Soft smiling bore him in her Lap away.
Forth steps ELIZA of majestic Size,
Who, pleas'd the Progress of the Fight to see,
Had stood conceal'd behind an aged Tree.
212
Crying aloud, now sweet Revenge be mine,
To where a fragrant Bed of Nettles lay
Soft smiling bore him in her Lap away.
Philips advanc'd, with easy Conquest bless'd,
And thus, with friendly Voice, th'Allys address'd.
And thus, with friendly Voice, th'Allys address'd.
Think not, illustrious Ornaments of Song,
I come your Foe, or would your Merits wrong.
I, conscious of your Worth and high Renown,
Declin'd the Contest for the laurel Crown;
But urg'd by these our Friends, a glorious Train,
Late, and to Battel slow, I took the Plain.
The Foe expell'd, let us unite in Peace;
When Ignorance is fled Contentions cease.
If one distinguish'd with the Wreath must go,
The Gift let Phœbus as he likes bestow.
I come your Foe, or would your Merits wrong.
I, conscious of your Worth and high Renown,
Declin'd the Contest for the laurel Crown;
But urg'd by these our Friends, a glorious Train,
Late, and to Battel slow, I took the Plain.
The Foe expell'd, let us unite in Peace;
When Ignorance is fled Contentions cease.
If one distinguish'd with the Wreath must go,
The Gift let Phœbus as he likes bestow.
Moore, ever to the Cause of Justice true,
Thus spoke the Language of the judging few;
And what he spoke was with a graceful Ease:
He like Ulysses never fails to please.
Tho by the cens'ring Voice of Crouds inclin'd,
'E're Judgement had assum'd her Seat, the Mind,
The Youth, O! Philips, has prophan'd thy Lays,
Regard this Voice of Truth, the Voice of Praise.
Thus spoke the Language of the judging few;
And what he spoke was with a graceful Ease:
He like Ulysses never fails to please.
Tho by the cens'ring Voice of Crouds inclin'd,
'E're Judgement had assum'd her Seat, the Mind,
213
Regard this Voice of Truth, the Voice of Praise.
Long may'st thou live to charm, O! Bard divine,
And bid thy Nymphs in lonely Forests shine.
Swell in the Cause of Truth the tragic Page:
Who hears the free-born Soul of Vanoc rage,
Who sees the Hero brave assert his Right,
And yields resistless to tyrannic Might?
Or tune to diff'rent Strains thy manly Lyre,
And nobly let it breathe with Pindar's Fire;
Rescue the Theban Bard from Cowley's Pen,
That careless Poet, and that best of Men:
Or vary, as thy Mind directs, thy Lays,
Be thine, in ev'ry Kind, the foremost Praise.
Since all, who taste thy Verse, this Truth allow,
The laurel Glorys must adorn thy Brow.
And bid thy Nymphs in lonely Forests shine.
Swell in the Cause of Truth the tragic Page:
Who hears the free-born Soul of Vanoc rage,
Who sees the Hero brave assert his Right,
And yields resistless to tyrannic Might?
Or tune to diff'rent Strains thy manly Lyre,
And nobly let it breathe with Pindar's Fire;
Rescue the Theban Bard from Cowley's Pen,
That careless Poet, and that best of Men:
Or vary, as thy Mind directs, thy Lays,
Be thine, in ev'ry Kind, the foremost Praise.
Since all, who taste thy Verse, this Truth allow,
The laurel Glorys must adorn thy Brow.
All hail'd him Chief; the God approv'd the Sound,
And with the Evergreen his Temples crown'd.
And with the Evergreen his Temples crown'd.
This Gentleman was Poet-Laureat when these Lines were first printed in the folio Edition of the Battel of the Poets, and when the Edition in Octavo was printed. He and Sir Richard Blackmore are both dead since. 1740.
What Degree of Merit can we attribute to any one who immoderately vents his Rage on an Author, who had before been humbled by Dryden, Garth, and other their Contemporarys?
This Gentleman, since dead, had the Mortification to survive most of his Writings; yet he long lived the Terror of modern Poets. He is introduced here as a Machine in the Hands of Apollo, as an Executioner of the Sentence supposed to be passed by Apollo and the Muses. 1740.
The common Characteristic of this Poet is that of a good Versifyer. I know not how this Opinion prevailed, but none was ever more falsely grounded; for his Versification is mostly as faulty as his Sentiment; and in this Poem a nice Ear can not distinguish fifty Lines which please. This Judgement I shall not depart from, tho I may, in the Opinion of some, incur Part of the following Censure.
Authors are partial to their Wit 'tis true,
But are not Critics to their Judgment too?
But are not Critics to their Judgment too?
Essay on Criticism.
The Game in the Dunciad to which this Passage alludes is so foolish and very obscene, that no Person can detect all the Absurditys in it, without offending against Modesty. The Author, in his Preface, would have us to understand that he imitated Virgil in that extraordinary Performance; and he has really imitated him, but as a Monkey does a Man. To imitate Virgil is not to have Games, and those beastly and unnatural, because Virgil has noble and reasonable Games, but to preserve a Purity of Manners, Propriety of Conduct founded on Nature, a Beauty and Exactness of Stile, and a continued Harmony of Verse concording with the Sense. If Mr. Pope's End was Satire in this, how is it answered by representing Curll and Chetwood pissing for Mrs. Haywood? If Satire was not his End, the Reader will easyly perceive how much he has erred in his Notion of Wit or Humour. I must here give another Instance of this Poet, or Critic, wandering from his own Precepts.
No Pardon vile Obscenity should find,Tho Wit and Art conspire to move your Mind,
But Dullness with Obscenity must prove
As shameless sure as Impotence in Love.
Essay on Criticism.
We must here observe that the Poet frequently gives Things different Appellations from what the Nature of them requires. We will instance the Rainbow; which the Author of the Dunciad first calls a Bow, and in the same Verse a watry Round, so that it is a Bow and it is not a Bow. I know not what poetical Licence he may pretend to have for this Custom, but I am sure his Master Homer, whom he serves very ill, even in one of his Slumbers, would not have called a Semicircle a whole Circle.
In later Editions of the Dunciad the Name of Chetwood is left out, and another inserted.
1740.The Reader must observe that the Author of this Poem alludes to none of Mr. Pope's Writings since the first Publication of the Dunciad, either in Commendation or Censure; but he is very sensible that Mr. Pope has since published what are Objects of both in a high Degree. 1740.
Homer, in his Character of Thersites, does not represent him as a ridiculous Person only, but as one of an evil Disposition; by which we may justly believe the Poet thought it not reasonable to expose him as an Object of Ridicule, without his being guilty of some Vice, which may justify his public Censure of him.
Mr. Pope seems to have had the same Person in his Eye, where, speaking of himself, he says
Nor like a Puppy daggled thro the Town,
To fetch and carry Sing-Song up and down.
To fetch and carry Sing-Song up and down.
1740
Epistle to Dr. Arbuthnot.
Mr. Pope, speaking of himself, in the Preface to the Dunciad, says, of all those Men who have received Pleasure from his Writings (which by modest Computation may be about a hundred thousand in these Kingdoms of England and Ireland, not to mention Jersey, Guernsey, the Orcades, those in the new World, and Foreigners who have translated him into their Languages,) of all this Number, not a Man hath stood up to say one Word in his Defence. This is the most unreasonable Author that ever I read. He is not contented that the Public should buy, read, and be pleas'd with, his Works, but he is angry because they do not defend them. I hope he is sensible, by this Time, that he has passed no great Compliment on himself; for such of his Readers as have received Pleasure from his Writings seem to have no Power, or at least no Inclination, to say one Word in his Defence; and perhaps the most considerate of them have deserted him.
Mrs. Haywood, one of the Heroines of the Dunciad; whose Life and Writings seem alike conducted for the Promotion of Virtue in her own Sex. I know not whether this Lady is living or dead. 1740.
The END.
217
4. PART the Fourth, CONTAINING PARAPHRASES, IMITATIONS, AND TRANSLATIONS, Of several Parts of the Antients.
219
THE Lamentation of David for Saul and Jonathan,
From the first Chapter of the Second Book of Samuel, paraphrased.
On the high Places, in a fatal Hour,
Slain is the Boast of War, and Israel's Flow'r.
How are the mighty fall'n! the Loss deplore!
Our Glory Saul and Jonathan's no more.
Slain is the Boast of War, and Israel's Flow'r.
How are the mighty fall'n! the Loss deplore!
Our Glory Saul and Jonathan's no more.
The Tydings from insulting Gath conceal,
Let none their Fate to Askelon reveal,
Lest the Philistines, and their Daughters, sing
The Song of Triumph o'er the vanquish'd King.
Let none their Fate to Askelon reveal,
Lest the Philistines, and their Daughters, sing
The Song of Triumph o'er the vanquish'd King.
Unfruitful, Gilboa, may your Hills remain,
Nor ever more imbibe the kindly Rain;
Henceforth, ye Mountains, may the Heav'ns refuse,
When most ye need them, their refreshing Dews:
No more beneath your Shades may Off'rings fall,
Whose Heights have witness'd to the Death of Saul.
Curs'd be the Field that saw the valiant dy,
The routed Horsemen, and the Chariots fly;
Where fell the Monarch to his Foes a Prey;
And where the royal Shield was cast away:
Who can distinguish now th'illustrious dead?
As unanointed lys th'anointed Head.
Nor ever more imbibe the kindly Rain;
Henceforth, ye Mountains, may the Heav'ns refuse,
When most ye need them, their refreshing Dews:
220
Whose Heights have witness'd to the Death of Saul.
Curs'd be the Field that saw the valiant dy,
The routed Horsemen, and the Chariots fly;
Where fell the Monarch to his Foes a Prey;
And where the royal Shield was cast away:
Who can distinguish now th'illustrious dead?
As unanointed lys th'anointed Head.
Ne'er know'd the Soul of Jonathan to fear;
He dauntless saw the hostile Bands appear;
Firm was his Heart, unerring was his Bow,
Whose Shafts were fatal to the bravest Foe.
Thy great Atchievements, Saul, what Tongue can tell,
Beneath whose Sword the mighty'st Warriors fell!
He dauntless saw the hostile Bands appear;
Firm was his Heart, unerring was his Bow,
Whose Shafts were fatal to the bravest Foe.
Thy great Atchievements, Saul, what Tongue can tell,
Beneath whose Sword the mighty'st Warriors fell!
In future Times may their Examples fire
The Son to Duty, and to Love the Sire;
Who them resemble, future Times shall call
Each Son a Jonathan, each Parent Saul:
Unsully'd Friendship was of Life their Pride,
Whom neither Malice could, nor Death, divide;
They chas'd the routed with the Eagle's Flight,
And as the Lion strong maintain'd the Fight.
The Son to Duty, and to Love the Sire;
Who them resemble, future Times shall call
Each Son a Jonathan, each Parent Saul:
Unsully'd Friendship was of Life their Pride,
Whom neither Malice could, nor Death, divide;
They chas'd the routed with the Eagle's Flight,
And as the Lion strong maintain'd the Fight.
221
What Fair of Israel will the Tear deny
To him who deck'd them with the scarlet Dy,
To whom they owe that we with Joy behold
Them tread resplendent in their Robes of Gold?
To him who deck'd them with the scarlet Dy,
To whom they owe that we with Joy behold
Them tread resplendent in their Robes of Gold?
On the high Places, in a fatal Hour,
How are the mighty fall'n, and Israel's Flow'r!
How are the mighty fall'n, and Israel's Flow'r!
O! Jonathan, who can my Griefs express,
What Words can utter Half thy Friend's Distress?
He that depriv'd the mourning Land of thee
Rob'd me of Part, the better Part, of me:
Thy Love to me burn'd with a wond'rous Flame,
Above all Passions which have yet a Name,
The Love of Women far refin'd above,
The noblest Friendship with a Brother's Love.
What Words can utter Half thy Friend's Distress?
He that depriv'd the mourning Land of thee
Rob'd me of Part, the better Part, of me:
Thy Love to me burn'd with a wond'rous Flame,
Above all Passions which have yet a Name,
The Love of Women far refin'd above,
The noblest Friendship with a Brother's Love.
On the high Places, in a fatal Hour,
Fall'n is the Boast of War, and Israel's Flow'r.
Fall'n is the Boast of War, and Israel's Flow'r.
222
Psalm the 97th paraphrased.
What Bounds, O! Lord of all, confine thy Sway?
Earth know thy Ruler, and thy King obey.
Jehovah reigns; celestial Regions smile;
O! Sea rejoice; and triumph ev'ry Isle.
Earth know thy Ruler, and thy King obey.
Jehovah reigns; celestial Regions smile;
O! Sea rejoice; and triumph ev'ry Isle.
In thickest Darkness now his Head he shrouds,
Or in a Blaze of Glory rides on Clouds;
Where'er the God directs his rapid Flight,
Judgement and Justice wait the Prince of Light.
Before his Wrath he sends consuming Fire,
Whose Foes to Ashes turn beneath his Ire.
He, the great Soul of Light, enlighten'd all;
Earth saw, and trembled from her inmost Ball.
As the Wax melts beneath the mid-day Sun,
Before his Eye dissolv'd the Mountains run.
Superior Worlds declare his just Decree;
And his bright Glory all the Nations see.
Or in a Blaze of Glory rides on Clouds;
Where'er the God directs his rapid Flight,
Judgement and Justice wait the Prince of Light.
Before his Wrath he sends consuming Fire,
Whose Foes to Ashes turn beneath his Ire.
He, the great Soul of Light, enlighten'd all;
Earth saw, and trembled from her inmost Ball.
As the Wax melts beneath the mid-day Sun,
Before his Eye dissolv'd the Mountains run.
Superior Worlds declare his just Decree;
And his bright Glory all the Nations see.
223
Deluded Mortals who have plac'd your Trust
In Gods who, like yourselves, are only Dust!
Before their Altars kneel, invoke their Pow'r;
Let them protect ye in the wrathful Hour,
Fall down ye Idols whom your Makers boast;
Fall down ye Gods before the Lord of Host.
In Gods who, like yourselves, are only Dust!
Before their Altars kneel, invoke their Pow'r;
Let them protect ye in the wrathful Hour,
Fall down ye Idols whom your Makers boast;
Fall down ye Gods before the Lord of Host.
Sion with Gladness, Lord, has hear'd thy Voice;
And Judah's Daughters in thy Truth rejoice.
High is our God, above all Worlds his Throne;
God of all Gods he sits supreme alone.
And Judah's Daughters in thy Truth rejoice.
High is our God, above all Worlds his Throne;
God of all Gods he sits supreme alone.
To him ye Just with Adoration bow,
And with a Zeal unfeign'd prefer the Vow;
Beneath his Care secure your Soul shall rest
Whose Hands are pure, and undefil'd your Breast;
To all your Wants he shall incline his Ear,
Disperse your Foes, and free your Mind from Fear.
In you a Portion of the God shall shine,
And bid your Actions shew the Light divine;
Gladness of Heart shall crown your ev'ry Day,
And in soft Slumbers pass the Nights away.
And with a Zeal unfeign'd prefer the Vow;
Beneath his Care secure your Soul shall rest
Whose Hands are pure, and undefil'd your Breast;
To all your Wants he shall incline his Ear,
Disperse your Foes, and free your Mind from Fear.
In you a Portion of the God shall shine,
And bid your Actions shew the Light divine;
Gladness of Heart shall crown your ev'ry Day,
And in soft Slumbers pass the Nights away.
224
Rejoice ye righteous, in the Lord rejoice;
O! ye upright lift up the grateful Voice;
His Pow'r, his Wisdom, and his Goodness, sing;
Hail him of Gods the God, of Kings the King!
O! ye upright lift up the grateful Voice;
His Pow'r, his Wisdom, and his Goodness, sing;
Hail him of Gods the God, of Kings the King!
225
Psalm the 137th paraphrased.
I
As prostrate on the Banks we layWhere thy fam'd Streams, Euphrates, flow,
We weep'd, and sigh'd our Hearts away,
Fast fell our Tears, the Fruits of Woe.
II
The rising Sun our Griefs did see,The seting Sun, beheld the same,
When wretched we remember'd thee,
O! Sion, Sion, lovely Name!
III
Our Harps, no more delightful, hungOn the fresh Verdure of the Trees;
No longer touch'd, no longer strung,
They murmur'd mournful to the Breez.
226
IV
As thus forlorn we pass'd the Day,Insulting thus the Conqu'ror cry'd,
Resume the Lyre, and chant the Lay,
The Note so oft' in Sion try'd.
V
In a strange Land how shall we singThy Song, O! God, almighty Pow'r?
What Hand can wake the silent String
In the distressful heavy Hour?
VI
Once happy City, now oppress'd,When you, to Mem'ry loss'd, depart,
Salem, from my ingrateful Breast,
May my right Hand forget her Art.
VII
If in the glad, the feasting, Day,If when the Song of Joy is sung,
227
For ever speechless be my Tongue.
VIII
The Sons of Edom, God, recallTo Mind, who in the Battel cry'd,
Down Salem, down proud City fall,
And lower to the Dust thy Pride.
IX
Daughters of Babylon beware,Tho now thy Sons in Triumph shine,
From whom we bore, and much we bear,
Our Lot severe may once be thine.
X
Vengeance may be delay'd awhile,Yet shall o'ertake ye sure, tho late;
Then shall the happy Victor smile,
Who brings on Edom Israel's Fate.
228
XI
Happy the Man whom Heav'n ordainsRelentless to revenge our Wrongs:
Then proud Insulters strive in Chains
To strike your Lyres, and chant your Songs.
XII
Bless'd shall he be, yea doubly bless'd,Who tears, before the Father's Eyes,
The tender Infant from the Breast,
Whom neither Vows can save, nor Crys.
229
A HYMN, From Psalm the 145th.
I
O God I will exalt thy Name,To thee, O! God, will sing;
The Subject of my Verse thy Fame,
O! God, O! God, my King.
II
O God I will exalt thy Name,With Praise thy Name adore;
The Subject of my Verse thy Fame,
Till Time shall be no more.
III
Thy Name alone my Song shall grace;Thee all thy Works commend;
230
O! Lord can have no End.
IV
Thy Mercys, Lord, are over all,O'er all thy Works extend,
To ev'ry Atom of the Ball:
Thy Mercys have no End.
V
Just is the Lord in all his Ways,A just and holy King;
To him I offer up my Praise,
And Hallelujahs sing.
231
Simonides on Human Life Paraphrased.
Nothing is lasting on the World's great Stage,
As sung, and wisely sung, the Chian Sage:
E'en Man, who thro the Globe extends his Sway,
Reigns but the sov'reign Creature of a Day.
One Generation comes, another goes;
Time blends the happy and the Man of Woes;
In Death the Wretch foresees his End of Pain;
The greatest dys, a Lesson to the vain.
As sung, and wisely sung, the Chian Sage:
E'en Man, who thro the Globe extends his Sway,
Reigns but the sov'reign Creature of a Day.
One Generation comes, another goes;
Time blends the happy and the Man of Woes;
In Death the Wretch foresees his End of Pain;
The greatest dys, a Lesson to the vain.
The human Race of Life the Circle run
Like Leaves the Verdure of the summer Sun;
Some, such the Foliage of the Oak, will last
The Autumn thro, nor dread the wintry Blast;
Some early in the Year bestrew the Vale,
Unable to withstand a southern Gale;
If late or early from their Boughs they fall,
Their Heir, the Bud of Spring, succeeds them all:
Like these the short-liv'd Sons of Man decay;
Yet few regard the moralizing Lay.
Hope with us born, in Life the fair Decoy,
Drives them forgetful on in Search of Joy.
Behold the blooming Heir with Transport plan
Scenes of Delight to come, unthinking Man!
While from Diseases free he draws his Breath,
He nor expects old Age, nor dreams of Death:
Or now his Dome he views majestic rise
With airy Spires which seem to reach the Skys:
Pleas'd with th'enchanting Prospect now he roves
Thro his long Vistas, and sequester'd Groves:
Now for some virgin Heart the Lover dys,
Hugs the soft Chain, and burns with Ecstacys:
While the fond Slave his Idol does adore,
Death ends the Chase, and all the Farce is o'er.
Like Leaves the Verdure of the summer Sun;
Some, such the Foliage of the Oak, will last
The Autumn thro, nor dread the wintry Blast;
Some early in the Year bestrew the Vale,
Unable to withstand a southern Gale;
232
Their Heir, the Bud of Spring, succeeds them all:
Like these the short-liv'd Sons of Man decay;
Yet few regard the moralizing Lay.
Hope with us born, in Life the fair Decoy,
Drives them forgetful on in Search of Joy.
Behold the blooming Heir with Transport plan
Scenes of Delight to come, unthinking Man!
While from Diseases free he draws his Breath,
He nor expects old Age, nor dreams of Death:
Or now his Dome he views majestic rise
With airy Spires which seem to reach the Skys:
Pleas'd with th'enchanting Prospect now he roves
Thro his long Vistas, and sequester'd Groves:
Now for some virgin Heart the Lover dys,
Hugs the soft Chain, and burns with Ecstacys:
While the fond Slave his Idol does adore,
Death ends the Chase, and all the Farce is o'er.
Learn, O! deluded Man, before too late,
Short is the Date of Youth, of Life the Date;
Fix on the Grave, as on the Goal, your Eye;
And think each Day you live you live to dy.
Short is the Date of Youth, of Life the Date;
Fix on the Grave, as on the Goal, your Eye;
And think each Day you live you live to dy.
233
To a Friend, In Imitation of Horace to Martius Censorinus, Book IV, Ode VIII.
On those I love I would bestowThe Gems in Indian Mines which grow,
Or, could my Pow'r my Will attend,
With antique Medals greet my Friend,
Stamp'd, to record the Hero's Fame,
With Brutus, or with Cæsar's Name:
If these, or such-like Gifts, were mine,
The foremost, Henley, should be thine,
What Angelo has wrought, whose Hand,
Pencil, or Chisel, could command,
On Brass could make the Parent moan,
Or bid the Virgin bleed in Stone:
But these of my Possessions are
No Part, nor of your Wants a Share.
234
And Verse but few deserve so well;
Verse I can give, since Verse you prize,
And tell in what the Value lys.
Not Statues rais'd at public Cost,
Not Edward's Star with Rays emboss'd,
Can the Remembrance keep so long,
Of Edward's Acts, as sacred Song.
When Blenheim's Palace shall decay,
And the proud Column mould away,
The Chief shall live in Verse alone,
More durable than Brass or Stone:
And should the Muse her Aid deny,
With you, my Friend, your Virtues dy.
Where now had been that Son of War,
Who spread the British Name so far,
He who both Indias made his own,
How long would Cromwell's Name be known,
Of Fame had Silence clip'd the Wing,
And Waller's Muse refus'd to sing?
The Muse beholds the great Nassau,
The Prop of Liberty and Law:
While Tyranny beneath him bleeds,
She consecrates the Hero's Deeds.
On whom the Muses smile we see
The Stamp of Immortality;
235
To triumph o'er the Grave and live:
Alcides they convey'd above,
And plac'd him at the Feasts of Jove;
The Sons of Tyndarus they gave
To shine as Stars, and check the Wave;
His Honours Bacchus to them owes,
Propitious ever to our Vows.
236
An Imitation of the same. To a Foe.
To those I hate I would decreeThe Whipping-Post, or Tyburn-Tree,
To Britain's Sons, who are her Foes,
The Hemp in British Fields that grows:
On one I would bestow, 'e're long,
A silken Halter, wide and strong,
Wove, to record the Villain's Shame,
With the sev'n Letters of his Name:
This, were the Laws within my Pow'r,
Should, Wretch, be thine before an Hour;
But such a Rope is wanted not,
A hempen one will be your Lot.
'Tis not in me to make you swing;
But you can read what now I sing.
237
They suit not with your gloomy State;
Therefore the Muse, her Wrongs to right,
Shall paint a Monster black as Night.
Not Shepherd, who could shift the Scene,
From Jail to Jail, like Harlequin,
Nor Wild, great Man! who had his Day,
And keep'd the lesser Rogues in Pay,
Can live in Newgate's Rolls so long
As thou, thou greater Rogue, in Song.
Chartres perhaps would be forgot,
Had Pope not writ, or Arbuthnot.
The Muses, impious Man! behold
Thee fortify'd with Brass and Gold;
They've long the human Vermin spy'd
Which swarm about thy filthy Hyde;
They see the Dogs around thy Stall,
Licking the Crums which from thee fall;
And they to thee, and them, will give,
Thro Ages hence, to stink and live:
They long ago, as Fables tell,
Sent Tantalus to fast in Hell;
And lately they, in Phrase most civil,
Poor Johnny Comb sent to the Devil:
And they, however you despise
The Pow'r in Verse, like mine, that lys,
238
Deliver down with endless Shame:
This Curse you to the Muses owe,
As Virtue's, as your Country's, Foe.
239
Ode the 4th of the Epodes, On Menas, Imitated.
Not Wolves and Lambs can less agreeThan I by Nature can with thee,
With thee so often bought and sold,
And shackled down with Spanish Gold.
Tho now you strut with Wealth elate,
The Bane, the Scandal, of the State,
Tho to you Fortune proves too kind,
She can not change your dirty Mind.
Where'er you walk, where'er you ride,
The Ribband dangling down your Side,
Do you not, booby Statesman, see
The Lips of all turn'd up at thee?
With gen'rous Indignation stung,
Aside the Mouths of all are wrung.
Oft' kick'd, and cuff'd, if Fame says true,
(But Fame is not a Friend to you,)
What Tracts of Land your Tenants till!
What gallant Steeds your Stables fill!
240
Or say some other public Place,
This Piece of Knighthood has been seen,
Close at the Elbow of the Queen.
O! what avail the Honours gain'd
When William, or when Anna, reign'd!
What at La Hogue the Glory won!
Or what beneath the Flandrian Sun!
If such a Thing as this presides
In Council, and the Navy guides!
241
THE EPISODE of Thersites, Translated From the second Book of the ILIAD of HOMER.
245
THERSITES, From the second Book of the Iliad.
The Rest appeas'd sat from Contention free;
Thersites clamour'd much, and only he;
Of no immod'rate Use of Words asham'd,
Grossly he wrangled with, and idly blam'd,
The kingly Pow'rs; and, when he Silence broke,
Rash and ungraceful were the Words he spoke.
Much was the Wretch of scurril Language vain,
Provoking Laughter in the Greecian Train:
He was the vilest that to Ilium came:
Distorted were his Eyes, one Foot was lame;
His Breast contracted to his Shoulders join'd,
His Shoulders rising in a Bunch behind;
His Head sharp ended in a piked Crown;
Thin flourish'd on the Scalp the Hairs like Down.
He hated much the Leader of the Host,
But great Achilles and Ulysses most;
With whom he wrangled much; and, void of Dread,
He loud and shrill aspers'd and sov'reign Head.
The Greeks, with Rage and Indignation stung,
Hear'd his unruly Libertys of Tongue;
Yet unappal'd the Wretch his Venom flings,
Outrageous thus, against the King of Kings.
Thersites clamour'd much, and only he;
Of no immod'rate Use of Words asham'd,
Grossly he wrangled with, and idly blam'd,
The kingly Pow'rs; and, when he Silence broke,
Rash and ungraceful were the Words he spoke.
246
Provoking Laughter in the Greecian Train:
He was the vilest that to Ilium came:
Distorted were his Eyes, one Foot was lame;
His Breast contracted to his Shoulders join'd,
His Shoulders rising in a Bunch behind;
His Head sharp ended in a piked Crown;
Thin flourish'd on the Scalp the Hairs like Down.
247
But great Achilles and Ulysses most;
248
He loud and shrill aspers'd and sov'reign Head.
The Greeks, with Rage and Indignation stung,
Hear'd his unruly Libertys of Tongue;
Yet unappal'd the Wretch his Venom flings,
Outrageous thus, against the King of Kings.
Say whence, Atrides, thy Complaints arise?
What wants our Monarch that a Greek denys?
With massive Brass thy Tents full crouded shine,
And num'rous the selected Beautys thine;
Of which we Greeks first make the Choice thy own,
When rich with Spoils we leave a conquer'd Town.
Say if the Lust of Gold torments our King,
Which some rich Trojan shall from Ilium bring,
The Price of Ransom for his fav'rite Boy,
Whom I myself will Captive lead from Troy;
Or let our Chief some other Greek employ:
Or burns your Bosom with a new rais'd Flame,
For the Possession of a blooming Dame?
Endeavours thus our Leader to encrease,
O! Shame! the Troubles of the Sons of Greece!
No longer Men, degen'rate female Race,
Quick measure back the Seas, and fly Disgrace;
Here let us leave him, leave him to enjoy
The large Divisions he has gain'd in Troy:
'E're long our Absence shall instruct his Pride
Of what Importance were our Arms ally'd.
On one, in whom a braver Spirit reigns,
He heap'd Dishonour, and his Prize detains;
But now Achilles tamely bears the pass'd,
Or this Affront, O! King, had been thy last.
What wants our Monarch that a Greek denys?
249
And num'rous the selected Beautys thine;
Of which we Greeks first make the Choice thy own,
When rich with Spoils we leave a conquer'd Town.
Say if the Lust of Gold torments our King,
Which some rich Trojan shall from Ilium bring,
The Price of Ransom for his fav'rite Boy,
Whom I myself will Captive lead from Troy;
Or let our Chief some other Greek employ:
Or burns your Bosom with a new rais'd Flame,
For the Possession of a blooming Dame?
Endeavours thus our Leader to encrease,
O! Shame! the Troubles of the Sons of Greece!
250
Quick measure back the Seas, and fly Disgrace;
Here let us leave him, leave him to enjoy
The large Divisions he has gain'd in Troy:
'E're long our Absence shall instruct his Pride
Of what Importance were our Arms ally'd.
On one, in whom a braver Spirit reigns,
He heap'd Dishonour, and his Prize detains;
But now Achilles tamely bears the pass'd,
Or this Affront, O! King, had been thy last.
251
Thersites grouling thus his Mind betray'd
Against Atrides whom the Greeks obey'd;
Ulysses then the sharp Rebuke began,
Who, rising, sternly view'd the reptil Man.
Against Atrides whom the Greeks obey'd;
Ulysses then the sharp Rebuke began,
Who, rising, sternly view'd the reptil Man.
Here screaking Brawler let thy Clamours end;
Nor longer singly with the Kings contend:
Not one of all the Greeks, the num'rous Band,
Who with th'Atrides left their native Land,
Not one of all this Host, our Arms employ
Viler than thee against the Walls of Troy;
Yet shall a Wretch like you, all void of Shame,
The Flight encourage, and the Kings defame.
You, while the Sons of Greece to act delay,
Uncertain whether to return or stay,
In Scandal busy waste your Hours away.
E'en now the King of Men your Slander bears,
Because the Prizes with the Chiefs he shares;
Their Gifts with Joy on him bestow'd they see;
What but Detraction has he had from thee?
Mark well my Words: when first I hear again
Thy Tongue indulging this licentious Strain,
That Moment may this Head my Trunc disjoin,
And may Telemachus no more be mine,
If I forbear to rend thy Robes away,
And leave thee naked to the Eye of Day;
Hence to the Fleet, with this correcting Hand,
I'll lash thee roaring from th'assembled Band.
Nor longer singly with the Kings contend:
252
Who with th'Atrides left their native Land,
Not one of all this Host, our Arms employ
Viler than thee against the Walls of Troy;
Yet shall a Wretch like you, all void of Shame,
The Flight encourage, and the Kings defame.
You, while the Sons of Greece to act delay,
Uncertain whether to return or stay,
In Scandal busy waste your Hours away.
E'en now the King of Men your Slander bears,
Because the Prizes with the Chiefs he shares;
Their Gifts with Joy on him bestow'd they see;
What but Detraction has he had from thee?
Mark well my Words: when first I hear again
Thy Tongue indulging this licentious Strain,
253
And may Telemachus no more be mine,
If I forbear to rend thy Robes away,
And leave thee naked to the Eye of Day;
254
I'll lash thee roaring from th'assembled Band.
255
Ulysses spoke, and made the Dastard cowr
Beneath the Ensign of the sov'reign Pow'r:
A bloody Tumour rises from the Blow;
The Caitiff trembles, and his Eyebrims flow;
With inward Grief, silenc'd alone by Fear,
Forlorn he sat, and wip'd the falling Tear.
The Sons of Battel, who th'Assembly crown'd,
Forgot their Sorrows, and the Laugh went round.
Beneath the Ensign of the sov'reign Pow'r:
256
The Caitiff trembles, and his Eyebrims flow;
With inward Grief, silenc'd alone by Fear,
Forlorn he sat, and wip'd the falling Tear.
The Sons of Battel, who th'Assembly crown'd,
Forgot their Sorrows, and the Laugh went round.
257
TYRTÆUS on MARTIAL Virtue.
To the Duke of Marlborough.
To thee, departed Chief, this Debt I pay,
The Song of Justice, and no venal Lay.
Thy martial Virtues, each advent'rous Deed,
A Tyrant humbled, and a Kingdom freed,
Thy Name above preceding Heros raise,
Excite our Wonder, and demand our Praise.
For thee, immortal Shade, the Lyre is strung
To Strains which erst the brave Tyrtæus sung;
Whose Verse the Youth of Lacedæmon fir'd,
And to the Fight the Blood of Age inspir'd;
O! had he liv'd thy mighty Acts to tell,
How had the Battel rag'd, the valiant fell!
Thee had we seen in thy triumphant Car,
And round thee all the Virtues of the War:
But Nature gave him to a grateful Age,
That saw the Beautys of the Warrior's Page.
Thus the bless'd Bard began the martial Strain,
And to his Country sung, nor sung in vain.
The Song of Justice, and no venal Lay.
Thy martial Virtues, each advent'rous Deed,
A Tyrant humbled, and a Kingdom freed,
Thy Name above preceding Heros raise,
Excite our Wonder, and demand our Praise.
For thee, immortal Shade, the Lyre is strung
To Strains which erst the brave Tyrtæus sung;
Whose Verse the Youth of Lacedæmon fir'd,
And to the Fight the Blood of Age inspir'd;
O! had he liv'd thy mighty Acts to tell,
How had the Battel rag'd, the valiant fell!
Thee had we seen in thy triumphant Car,
And round thee all the Virtues of the War:
But Nature gave him to a grateful Age,
That saw the Beautys of the Warrior's Page.
Thus the bless'd Bard began the martial Strain,
And to his Country sung, nor sung in vain.
258
“No Place he merits in recording Song,
“Whose only Boast is that he's swift and strong,
“Not tho in Might he with the Cyclops vys,
“And from the Goal swift as the Wind he flys,
“Nor he whom Nature, with indulgent Care,
“Has form'd more graceful than Tithonus fair,
“Not tho he hoards of Cinyras the Store,
“And to him Midas, wealthy Prince, is poor;
“Nor o'er Dominions large who greater reigns
“Than Pelops, Monarch of the Phrygian Plains;
“Nor he who sweeter than Adrastus spoke,
“Who forc'd Attention when he Silence broke:
“All human Glory let him proudly gain,
“To me all Glory but of War is vain.
“Whose only Boast is that he's swift and strong,
“Not tho in Might he with the Cyclops vys,
“And from the Goal swift as the Wind he flys,
“Nor he whom Nature, with indulgent Care,
“Has form'd more graceful than Tithonus fair,
“Not tho he hoards of Cinyras the Store,
“And to him Midas, wealthy Prince, is poor;
“Nor o'er Dominions large who greater reigns
“Than Pelops, Monarch of the Phrygian Plains;
“Nor he who sweeter than Adrastus spoke,
“Who forc'd Attention when he Silence broke:
“All human Glory let him proudly gain,
“To me all Glory but of War is vain.
“He is not form'd for Arms, the Soldier's Pride,
“Who shudders when he views the sanguine Tyde:
“'Tis brave where Slaughter rages most to stand,
“And with the Foreman grapple Hand to Hand:
“This Virtue is, and this the foremost Praise;
“And this to Fame the glowing Youth shall raise.
“Who shudders when he views the sanguine Tyde:
“'Tis brave where Slaughter rages most to stand,
“And with the Foreman grapple Hand to Hand:
“This Virtue is, and this the foremost Praise;
“And this to Fame the glowing Youth shall raise.
“The Voice of Honour is a gen'ral Call,
“The Scene of Battel open lys to all;
“The City there the Townsman may defend,
“And prove, in Danger, most her faithful Friend.
“May none inlist and then ignobly fly,
“But boldly face the War nor fear to dy.
“The Man who dauntless can resign his Breath,
“And animate his Friend to rush on Death,
“Is form'd for Arms; him Glory calls afar
“To shine illustrious in the Garb of War;
“He the dread Phalanx shall compel to Flight,
“And drive impetuous, like the Waves, the Fight.
“See the brave Man in the first Ranks expire,
“Boast of his Country, and his aged Sire!
“His bleeding Breast declares he nobly fell,
“And the pierc'd Shield and wounded Corslet tell.
“Their Hero dead the hoary Sires deplore,
“And the Youth grieve who know'd no Grief before;
“From all her Eyes the City mourns the slain,
“And follows to the Grave a dismal Train;
“All Men his Tomb, all Men his Sons, adore,
“And his Son's Sons, till they shall be no more:
“His fair Renown shall never fade away,
“Nor shall the Mention of his Name decay,
“Who glorious falls beneath the Conqu'rer's Hand
“For his dear Children and his native Land;
“Tho to the Dust his mortal Part we give,
“His Fame, in Triumph o'er the Grave, shall live.
“The Scene of Battel open lys to all;
“The City there the Townsman may defend,
“And prove, in Danger, most her faithful Friend.
259
“But boldly face the War nor fear to dy.
“The Man who dauntless can resign his Breath,
“And animate his Friend to rush on Death,
“Is form'd for Arms; him Glory calls afar
“To shine illustrious in the Garb of War;
“He the dread Phalanx shall compel to Flight,
“And drive impetuous, like the Waves, the Fight.
“See the brave Man in the first Ranks expire,
“Boast of his Country, and his aged Sire!
“His bleeding Breast declares he nobly fell,
“And the pierc'd Shield and wounded Corslet tell.
“Their Hero dead the hoary Sires deplore,
“And the Youth grieve who know'd no Grief before;
“From all her Eyes the City mourns the slain,
“And follows to the Grave a dismal Train;
“All Men his Tomb, all Men his Sons, adore,
“And his Son's Sons, till they shall be no more:
“His fair Renown shall never fade away,
“Nor shall the Mention of his Name decay,
“Who glorious falls beneath the Conqu'rer's Hand
“For his dear Children and his native Land;
“Tho to the Dust his mortal Part we give,
“His Fame, in Triumph o'er the Grave, shall live.
260
“If with Success he wards the fatal Blow,
“And home returns safe from the vanquish'd Foe,
“The young and old their grateful Homage pay
“To him, the Victor of the well-fought Day:
“Uninterrupted Joys his Hours attend,
“And in Abundance wait him to his End;
“His Glory all consult, and all his Peace;
“And lo! his Honours with his Days encrease;
“Him, proud to rev'rence, shall the noblest grace,
“And to their Soldier rise in ev'ry Place;
“Each Sex, and ev'ry Age, of all Degrees,
“Fear to offend him, and rejoice to please.
“And home returns safe from the vanquish'd Foe,
“The young and old their grateful Homage pay
“To him, the Victor of the well-fought Day:
“Uninterrupted Joys his Hours attend,
“And in Abundance wait him to his End;
“His Glory all consult, and all his Peace;
“And lo! his Honours with his Days encrease;
“Him, proud to rev'rence, shall the noblest grace,
“And to their Soldier rise in ev'ry Place;
“Each Sex, and ev'ry Age, of all Degrees,
“Fear to offend him, and rejoice to please.
“Who to this Height of Virtue hopes to rise,
“Must Toil, must Danger, and must Death, despise;
“Undaunted he must take the martial Field,
“In Resolution strong, untaught to yield.
“Must Toil, must Danger, and must Death, despise;
“Undaunted he must take the martial Field,
“In Resolution strong, untaught to yield.
261
ANACREON. Ode the First.
On his Lyre.
Cadmus or th'Atrides IFain would sing, but when I try,
Strains, which flow from soft Desire,
Warble from the wanton Lyre.
The rebellious Strings I chang'd:
O'er them quick my Fingers rang'd.
I th'heroic Theme renew'd,
Hercules, thy Toils, pursued:
Lo! the Strings rebel again,
And return a softer Strain.
Farewel Heros, Arms adieu:
Love to thee my Lyre is true.
262
ANACREON To the Grasshopper.
Grasshopper, we hail thee bless'd,In thy lofty shady Nest,
Happy, merry, as a King,
Siping Dew, you sip and sing.
Cast an Eye around the Field;
All is thine the Seasons yield.
Lo! the Husbandmen rejoice,
When they hear thy friendly Voice;
Mortals to thee Homage pay,
Prophet of the Summer's Day.
Fav'rite of the tuneful Throng,
Of the Nine, and God of Song,
Phœbus gives thee, such his Will,
Voice to sing so sweetly shrill.
Ever young, with Plenty bless'd,
Like the Gods thy State of Rest.
263
An EPIGRAM From the GREEK.
From Beauty's Queen, and Bacchus ever young,The Gout an Offspring maim'd and crippled sprung.
264
ACCIUS.
A Fragment of Accius, preserved in Cicero's second Book concerning the Nature of the Gods. A Shepherd, who never saw a Ship before, is represented as seeing, from a Mountain where he stood, the Vessel of the Argonauts.
What horrid Bulk is that before my Eyes,Which o'er the Deep with Noise and Vigour flys!
It turns the Whirlpools up, its Force so strong,
And drives the Billows as it rolls along.
The Ocean's Violence it fiercely braves,
Runs furious on, and throws about the Waves,
Swiftly impetuous in its Course, and loud,
Like the dire bursting of a show'ry Cloud,
Or like a Rock, forc'd by the Winds and Rain,
Now whirl'd aloft, then plung'd into the Main:
265
And fiercely wage an elemental War,
Or Triton with his Trident has o'erthrown
His Den, and loosen'd from the Roots the Stone,
The rocky Fragment from the Bottom torn,
Is lifted up, and on the Surface borne.
266
TRANSLATIONS From CATULLUS.
To Cornelius Nepos.
My Friend, where shall the Poet chuseOne worthy his facetious Muse?
To whom's the gilded Volume due,
Adorn'd with polish'd Leaves, and new?
To whom, my best of Friends, but you?
For you Cornelius, you my Friend,
Would oft' my trifling Song commend,
You who, of all our Land, would dare,
(A Task, O! Jove, he well could bear!)
To swell the learn'd and labour'd Page
With Worthys pass'd of ev'ry Age.
Accept this Verse, whate'er it be,
Such as it is, 'tis due to thee;
267
To future Times the Pow'r to live.
To Himself.
Catullus give your Follys o'er,And wretched seek what's loss'd no more:
Propitious Days 'e'rewhile were thine,
When I could call the fair one mine,
When eager of the Chace I view'd
Her Steps with Joy, and quick pursu'd:
Such was my Love, and such my Pain,
As none shall ever cause again.
Too swiftly did the Moments glide
In Sports you sought, nor she deny'd.
Propitious Days were truly thine,
When I could call the fair one mine.
No more in vain your Hours employ;
The Nymph to all you wish is coy;
No longer watch her Steps in vain,
Nor make your Life a Life of Pain;
Resolve to act the manly Part,
And drive the Poyson from your Heart.
Farewel my Love, here ends your Reign,
Catullus is himself again;
268
He'll ask no more what you'd deny;
But think, now thou art false to me,
What Sorrow is reserv'd for thee.
What Gallant will receive you now?
Or who prefer of Love the Vow?
Who now shall court the treach'rous Kiss,
That leaves the Token of the Bliss?
Catullus act the manly Part,
And keep the Poyson from your Heart.
To Alphenus.
Alphenus say can you a Friend deceive,And him, tho true, without Reluctance leave?
Tell me, perfidious Man, Alphenus say,
Can you a Friend forsake, and then betray?
Have not the Pangs of Guilt your Bosom seiz'd?
Think not with impious Acts the Gods are pleas'd;
But these are Thoughts which never plagu'd thy Breast,
Who basely left me, and when much distress'd.
What can we do amidst a Race unjust,
Where find a Man regardful of his Trust?
269
As if no Danger could arise from thee;
But now, a Traytor to the social Ty,
Your Actions give your former Vows the Ly;
Nor Words, nor Deeds, retracted longer bind,
Your Words retracted, and your Deeds, are Wind.
You may forget, and live a Wretch abhor'd,
But know the Gods remember, and record;
Faith well remembers, rev'rend Deity,
Who will exact due Penitence from thee.
Of Lesbia.
To Lesbia when I speak she turns away,And always answers short to what I say;
Oft' as we meet to chide she never fails,
And in her Visits at Catullus rails:
I from my Soul believe, or let me dy,
That Lesbia views me with a Lover's Eye:
But I am ask'd, whence I so vain am grown:
I judge of her Behaviour from my own;
I always rail at her, but let me dy,
If I don't view her with a Lover's Eye.
270
To Lesbia.
You wish, my Life, in the soft Hours of Love,Our Flame may constant burn, and mutual prove;
Ye Gods, if from her Heart her Wishes came,
Grant it to end but with our vital Flame.
271
From the Epithalamium On the Nuptials of Thetis and Peleus.
Ye Fair attend not with a faithful Ear,Nor hope the Words of Man can be sincere;
He vows, he swears, and begs to be believ'd;
And ye too easy trust, and are deceiv'd;
He in the Gust of Love will Truth defy,
Will promise all he can, and dread no Ly,
Till he has slak'd the Raging of his Mind;
When that is over all his Vows are Wind.
272
Of ARRIUS.
When Arrius should the Word commodious name,From his distended Jaws chommodious came:
Whene'er he spoke of an insidious Slave,
He surely call'd him an hinsidious Knave;
And, when he spoke, he thought 'twas wond'rous well,
If he pronounc'd hinsidious with a Swell:
So would his Mother, and her Sire, have spoke,
And so his Grandame, when she Silence broke,
So all his Race would, I believe indeed,
Down to his Uncle, who, a Slave, was freed.
When Arrius into Syria was sent,
All Ears, which us'd to hear him, were content:
273
Those Words flow smoothly, nor offend the Ear:
But, when he cross'd th'Ionian Seas again,
I've plow'd, says Arrius, the Hionian Main.
The Reader may see some Remarks on this Epigram in my Proposals for perfecting the English Language.
274
[Translations from Virgil.]
A Description of Spring from the second Book of Virgil's Georgics.
Joy to the Groves the vernal Seasons bring,The Woods receive the Benefits of Spring:
Spring swells, indulgent of the future Birth,
With genial Seeds the gladly teeming Earth:
Then Æther, then th'almighty Father, pours
Into his joyful Bride the fruitful Show'rs;
He blends his mighty Limbs with her, and brings,
For her to cherish, all the Seeds of Things:
Then with a pleasing Smart the Herds are stung;
And by the Birds the nuptial Songs are sung:
Then bud the Trees; and open ly the Plains
To tepid Zephyrs and refreshing Rains:
Beneath new Suns the Blades with Safety rise,
And dare expose themselves to vernal Skys;
Nor dreads the tender Vine the southern Blast,
Nor stormy Clouds which northern Winds o'ercast;
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And all her Leafs to the soft Air unfolds.
Such was the State of Things I must believe,
Such and no other can I well conceive,
When blooming first the infant World was seen;
The Days were such as these, like these serene:
Then was it Spring, Spring was the World all o'er,
And then the Eastern-Winds refus'd to roar,
When first the Beasts began to draw the Light,
And Men, an iron Race, first walk'd upright,
When Woods the Province of the Brutes were giv'n,
And Stars flew upwards to illumine Heav'n.
276
The 6th Ode of the 1st Book of Horace. To Varius.
I
Some future Bard thy Deeds shall write,Inspir'd with a Mæonian Strain,
Whether on Land you lead the Fight,
Or owe your Triumphs to the Main.
II
But, Varius, I such Themes decline:Pelides' unforgiving Pride
I sing not, Pelops' cruel Line,
Nor him who ten Years stem'd the Tyde.
III
The Goddess of the feeble Lyre,The Lyric Muse, and conscious Shame,
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To sully thine or Cæsar's Fame.
IV
Who now can sing the God of WarWhen Arms of Adamant he wore?
Or Merion dreadful in his Car,
With Trojan Dust all cover'd o'er?
V
Tydides, and the martial Maid,In Battel fierce, who now can write,
Tydides, with Minerva's Aid,
A Match for even Gods in Fight.
VI
The Banquets, and the Wars, of Love,Themes fited to the Lyre, I chuse;
And freely, as my Passions move,
I suit my Subject to my Muse.
278
Of the Instability of Things.
From the fourth Book of the Astronomicon of MANILIUS.
Nothing remains, in Time's unbounded Space,Always the same, in Beauty or in Place;
A diff'rent Face of Things with Age appears;
And all Things vary in a Course of Years.
The fruitful Glebe will, weary'd out, decay,
And its prolific Virtues wear away:
While this continual Crops of Grain denys,
On the once barren Heath the Harvests rise;
Nature, by slow Degrees, improves the Soil,
And the Corn springs without the Farmer's Toil.
Now shakes the Earth, before tho firmly bound,
And from the Feet withdraws the treach'rous Ground:
In her own Orbit swims the Globe: the Main
Spues up a Sea, and sucks it in again:
Nor could the Deep within itself contain.
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Citys immerg'd into their watry Graves:
Deucalion only then remain'd behind,
The solitary Heir of all Mankind;
He on one Rock, one little Spot of Ground,
Then stood possess'd of all the Sun goes round.
When Phaeton, inflam'd with foolish Pride,
Weakly presum'd his Father's Car to guide,
Changes were wrought from what his Rashness fir'd,
And Men and Nations in the Flame expir'd.
Some of these Verses from Manilius were first printed (but since corrected) in a Book entitled The Natural History of the Earth, illustrated, enlarged, and defended, written originally in Latin by Dr. John Woodward, and published in English by Mr. Benjamin Holloway. I translated some Passages from the Antients, quoted in that Treatise, and Part of the Treatise itself, at the Request of Dr. Woodward, and in the same Year (1725) wrote an Epistle to Dr. Woodward on his philosophical Writings; which Epistle was printed in the first Edition of my original Poems in Octavo; but, as I have now a very different Opinion of Dr. Woodward and his Writings from what I then had, I banish that Epistle entirely from me.
280
MARTIAL.
PAUL.
Paul fond of the Name of a Poet is grown;With Gold he buys Verses, and calls them his own.
Go on, Master Paul, nor mind what the World says;
They are surely his own for which a Man pays.
281
Epistle the Ninth. TO Dr. Edward Milward,
On his Design to publish the History of the British physical and chirurgical Authors from the earlyest Records of Time to the present.
'Tis gen'rous thus departed Worth to saveFrom black Oblivion, humble Merit's Grave:
How many Sons of Æsculapius ly
Forgotten now, which you forbid to dy!
What great Improvers of that Art divine,
Which was Machaon's once, and now is thine,
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From royal Alfred down to learned Mead,
Have long, from Age to Age, adorn'd our Isle,
Where the fair Arts and fairer Freedom smile!
Yet Time, to tyranise who never fails,
Has cover'd Half their Worth with sable Veils,
And some perhaps would cloud in endless Night,
Did you not call them once again to Light:
As with his Scythe the great Destroyer stands,
Mowing with Heart relentless as his Hands,
His Motion you arrest, and blunt the Blade,
Forbiding what should longer bloom to fade:
You with new Stars adorn our Hemisphere,
And fix another Constellation here.
In this Assemblage mounting to the Skys
Poets and Kings, bright Luminations, rise:
While in the Heav'ns their Places you prepare,
You gain, my Friend, a Seat among them there.
January, 1742.
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Ode the Twentyeth. TO The honourable Master Robert Petre a Day old, 1741.
Noble Youth, whose Hours are few,
What the Muse now sends to you
Is no false or flatt'ring Air:
Take, instead of Praise, a Pray'r.
What the Muse now sends to you
Is no false or flatt'ring Air:
Take, instead of Praise, a Pray'r.
As the morning Sun in May
Oft' foretels a pleasant Day,
May thy early Life presage
Honours to thy riper Age.
Oft' foretels a pleasant Day,
May thy early Life presage
Honours to thy riper Age.
Rich thy Veins with noble Blood,
May'st thou never stain the Flood!
May thy Father's better Part,
May his Virtues, fill thy Heart:
May'st thou never stain the Flood!
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May his Virtues, fill thy Heart:
Then thou'lt never do the Deed
That shall make fair Virtue bleed:
Free thy Father's Mind from Fears,
And thy Mother's Eyes from Tears.
That shall make fair Virtue bleed:
Free thy Father's Mind from Fears,
And thy Mother's Eyes from Tears.
Joyful may thy Parents see
What they ever hop'd from thee:
Long, in Thorndon's peaceful Bow'rs,
Bless'd and Blessing pass your Hours.
What they ever hop'd from thee:
Long, in Thorndon's peaceful Bow'rs,
Bless'd and Blessing pass your Hours.
May'st thou like our English Tree
Glory of the Forest be:
Like the Oak may'st thou remain,
Flourish long, and grace the Plain.
Glory of the Forest be:
Like the Oak may'st thou remain,
Flourish long, and grace the Plain.
When thy Race of Life is run,
May'st thou set like Summer's Sun,
Rays of Glory round thee spread,
To adorn thy Name when dead.
May'st thou set like Summer's Sun,
Rays of Glory round thee spread,
To adorn thy Name when dead.
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The Twenty-fourth Ode of the first Book of Horace imitated and paraphrased, on the Death of Sir William Windham Bart.
TO The right honourable William Pulteney
Esq.
I
What Bounds, what Moderation, canBe set to our Desires or Grief,
When we have loss'd so dear a Man,
For whom his Country mourns in Chief?
II
Melpomene, begin the Lay,The Song of Woe: to thee thy Sire,
The God of Verse who rules the Day,
Gave the melodious Voice and Lyre.
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III
Must Sleep eternal close his Eyes,Eternal Silence chain his Tongue,
So form'd to please, and to surprise,
Whene'er he spoke, both old and young?
IV
O! when shall Modesty, that flysFrom the rapacious Statesman's Door,
When Truth, that scorns the mean Disguise
With which the Traytor's cover'd o'er,
V
O! when shall public Faith, that standsBy Justice with a stedfast Mind,
A Stranger to corrupted Hands,
His Equal in the Senate find?
VI
He, Pulteney, to the Grave descendsLamented by the good no few;
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Sheds o'er his Urn more Tears than you.
VII
Pious in vain to Heav'n you mayFor his Return prefer the Pray'r;
Your Vows are loss'd, whate'er you say,
And unregarded mix with Air.
VIII
Tho gentle as the morning Dew,And tho as Hybla's Honey sweet,
Persuasive Language flows from you,
Which can the Pow'r of Gold defeat,
IX
Tho in our Senates all you speakCommands Attention still as Night,
Tho you can strengthen there the weak,
And from her Seat Corruption fright,
X
Yet )! too feeble's EloquenceBack to recall, the fleeting Breath:
'Tis gone beyond the Reach of Sense,
Snatch'd by the leaden Hand of Death.
XI
Of Death That is of all the End,Who wraps us in eternal Shade.
O! sad! but what we can not mend
Must be by Patience lighter made.
| Mr. Cooke's Original Poems | |