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

TO THE Right Honourable John Earl of Stair, THIS Volume is Dedicated, AS A LASTING MONUMENT OF Esteem, Gratitude, and Submission, BY His Lordship's Most obliged, and ever Faithful humble Servant, Mitchell.

THE Muse's Original:

AN ODE.

INSCRIB'D TO AARON HILL, Esq;

[I.]

Wake, heav'nly Muse, and vindicate thy Rights,
Usurp'd, profan'd, and sacrific'd, by Foes,
Who, or to Pagan Pow'rs ascribe their Flights,
Or, with thy Praises, honour Earth-born Prose.
Heedless of Custom, and the Fool's blind Rage,
Boldly thy Worth and Origin impart,

And teach a loose and undiscerning Age,
To reverence Genius, and be just to Art.
And Thou, of Verse and Man th' almighty Sire,
Who, long ere Heathen Gods were idly known,
Did'st form the Mind, the Mind inspire,
And tune it by thy own,
Aid, and conduct, the Purpose of my Lays;
Thine is the Pow'r, and thine be all the Praise.

II.

By venal Poets misapply'd,
And by the Dull disgrac'd,
Long has the Muse been aiming wide,
In Wit's luxuriant Waste;
Long has she worn the Masks of painted Vice,
And, by the Pow'r of prostituted Rhime,
Made Guilt seem void of Crime,
And Poetry detested by the Wise.

The ravish'd Nymph each stern Beholder scorns,
And terms That Scandal, which Mankind adorns.
Ev'n Bards Themselves, disclaiming due Renown,
Resign their Rights, and Pagan Altars crown;
Meanly, the Muse's Line from Phœbus trace,
And empty Nothings in Dominion place.
Or shou'd one rise, with a diviner Flame,
And boldly deathless Honours claim,
Custom wou'd keep the World averse to yield,
That, from celestial Aid, his Genius came,
And drive him, unrewarded, from the Field,

III.

But if the Muse unveils forgotten Years,
What high majestic Dignity appears!
The spotless Verse, that tun'd the infant Earth,
Was honour'd, as became its Birth.

Then all, that Poets taught, was held divine,
Moral in Sense, and Godlike in Design.
Like Heav'ns high Oracles rever'd,
They, and They only, Heav'ns Decrees made known;
The gathering Crowds, with Awe, their Dictates heard,
And, by their Poets Lives, reform'd their own.
Then sacred Songs cou'd Truths sublime rehearse,
And stern Religion charm'd the Soul, in Verse.
Priests were Themselves the Poets Then,
And felt the Pow'r they preach'd to Men.

III.
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Teach, heav'nly Muse, when raptur'd Moses sung,
What pow'rful Transports arm'd his conquering Tongue!
Moses, who heard and mov'd the Voice of Heav'n,
By whom Religion's first-known Laws were giv'n!

Him a divine Enthusiast's Fury fill'd,
The God within beat strong his widen'd Heart,
Celestial Raptures thro' his Spirits thrill'd,
And his Verse flam'd with Fire, unknown to Art.
Israel, escaping from Ægyptian Sway,
Hung list'ning in the dangerous way;
Urg'd by their Guide's sweet Song, they climb'd the Shore,
Nor weigh'd the Wonder, while his Musick charm'd;
Safe o'er one Sea, they wish'd to plunge in more;
So had the Poet their new Virtue warm'd!

V.

David, a Man allied to God's own Heart,
Ow'd to that favouring God the Poet's Art.
Inspir'd with Force of unresisted Thought,
He wrote as much a Conqueror, as he fought:
Still as his Soldiers listen'd to his Strains,
Their Blood ran rapt'rous thro' their swelling Veins.

With perfect Mastery, he cou'd mould the Mind,
Rais'd it above the Reach of human Fear;
Or made the Warrior soft as Womankind,
When, with more gentle Notes, he struck the Ear.
At Will, he cou'd the Spirit move,
And fill the Heart with Anger, Grief, or Love.
Ev'n yet his Image lives in each warm Line,
Like his great Actions, all divine.
Religion's Self appears with double Grace,
When his sweet Muse describes its beauteous Face.

VI.

O'er the rich Gifts, that fill'd his Son's wise Heart,
High shone this sacred Art.
Mark with what moving Energy of Wit,
Th' imperial Lover writ!
In Nature skill'd, he touch'd the tender Soul,
And cou'd the Springs of Simpathy control.

Wisdom and Poetry, together join'd,
To make him more a King, combin'd.
And sure, this Royal, this distinguish'd, Sage,
Was wiser than those blind, but holy, Drones,
The Stains of our fanatick Age!
Whose reverend Ignorance the Muse disowns;
Who use her ill, and understand her worse,
And 'gainst her Influence hum their drowsy Curse.

VII.

But those were Times of Truth and generous Sense,
When Wit was bright with Innocence;
Things unprofan'd her sacred Care employ'd,
Nor had the Heathen World her Charms enjoy'd.
God's favour'd Sons monopoliz'd the Art,
Nor left to Pagan Bards an envied Part.
Long lost in darkness, and misled,
By hungry Dæmons, whom their Altars fed,

Succeeding Nations, thro' a Depth of Night,
Saw, slow, a glimm'ring Light.
Yet, as they rose to Genius, what they thought,
Their never-dying Verse has taught.
If Greeks and Romans then have thus been fir'd,
How sung the Hebrews, whom their God inspir'd!
At least th' immortal Copy tells,
To what vast Height th' Original excels.

VIII.

But, when, resolv'd in Sin, the Hebrew State
To unbelieving Pow'rs became a Prey,
Their Muse too sunk amidst their common Fate,
And all Heav'ns Gifts, at once, dissolv'd away.
Exil'd, and lost, their captive Spirits fail'd,
And doleful Notes o'er cheerful Airs prevail'd.
Yet long they labour'd up th' o'erpow'ring Stream,
Warm with some remnant Sparks of ancient Flame.

Sacred the Muse in ev'ry Land was held,
And all reap'd Honours, who in Verse excell'd.
Ev'n the Apostle's Eloquence, when sent,
The Fall of faithless Nations to prevent,
While with Athenian Eloquence it strove,
Chose, as the strongest Argument to move,
To quote their own great Poet's Wit:
No human Truth he found so fit
To strengthen and confirm his heav'nly Cause,
And force an unconverted World's Applause!

IX.

But now again, in the clear Gospel's Light,
Eternal Life and endless Joy
The Muses best can teach, redeem'd from Night,
And arm'd with Weapons they too ill employ.
Tastless Pretenders to the Art,
Of Heads unsettled, and of wicked Heart,

Wou'd the pure Current stain,
And back to Idol Ægypt turn again—
Fatal Mistake! but what tho' some run mad,
Must therefore the poetic Air be bad?
If Right grows forfeit, when it meets Abuse,
Reason and Search no longer are of Use.

X.

Wou'd Christian Poets their whole Forces join,
How wou'd the World confess their Muse divine!
What well-bred Reformation wou'd ensue?
What Strength in Fancy, and in Practice, too?
Then might the Theater, and Pulpit, vie,
And each its several Influence try.
Sweetly attracted to the charmful Bait,
Men wou'd no more shun Truth, nor Reason hate.
Like wise Physicians, who their Drugs infold
In Surfaces of tempting Gold,

Poets wou'd, by a Kind of virtuous Stealth,
Cheat their sick Readers into Health.
Prodigious Pow'r of soft, prevailing Art,
That breathes such gentle Fire, to melt th' unwilling Heart!

XI.

What art Thou, that by Passion so refin'd,
Can'st first redeem, then fortify the Mind?
Ev'n against Nature urge our natural Heat,
And force th' unactive Virtue to be great?
O touch my trembling Lips, celestial Muse,
With a live-coal from Heav'ns unfading Fire,
Teach my faint Song thy influence to infuse,
And for immortal Fame my Breast inspire.
While others, Flatterers of an earthly Crown,
Wou'd to some empty Honour owe Renown,
Teach me to build a Pile of sacred Rhime,
That shall defy the Teeth of Time.

And, when forgotten Titles are no more,
And vulgar Hopes have ebb'd their utmost Store,
Let my lov'd Muse known, and remember'd, live,
And endless Joy thro' unborn Ages give.

XII.

Heedless of Custom, and the vulgar Breath,
I toil for Glory, in a Path untrod,
Or where but few have dar'd to combat Death,
And few, unstaggering, carry Virtue's Load.
Thy Muse, O Hill, of living Names,
My first Respect, and chief Attendance claims.
Sublimely fir'd, Thou look'st disdainful down
On trifling Subjects, and a vile Renown.
In every Verse, in ev'ry Thought of thine,
There's heav'nly Rapture and Design.
Who can thy Godlike Gideon view,

And not thy Muse pursue,
Or wish, at least, such Miracles to do?

XIII.

Sure, in thy Breast, the ancient Hebrew Fire
Reviv'd, glows hot, and blazes forth!
How strong, how fierce, the Flames aspire,
Of thy interior Worth,
When burning Worlds thou set'st before our Eyes,
And draw'st tremenduous Judgment from the Skies!
O bear me on thy Seraph Wing,
And teach my weak, obsequious, Muse to sing.
To Thee I owe the little Art I boast;
Thy Heat first melted my co-genial Frost.
Preserve the Sparks thy Breath did fan,
And, by thy Likeness, form me into true poetic Man.

Gideon, an Epic Poem, by A. Hill, Esq;

See the Judgment-Day, a Poem, by A. Hill, Esq;

AN ODE ON THE Power of Musick.

Inscrib'd To Mr. Alexander Malcolm, Occasion'd by his Treatise of Musick.

I.

When Nature yet in Embrio lay,
Ere Things began to Be,
The Almighty from eternal Day
Spoke loud his deep Decree:

The Voice was tuneful as his Love,
At which Creation sprung,
And all th' Angelick Hosts above
The Morning Anthem Sung.

II.

As Musick's sweet prevailing Call,
Thro' boundless Realms of Space,
The Atoms danc'd, obsequious, all,
And, to compose this wond'rous Ball,
In order took their Place.
How did the Piles of Matter part,
And huddled Nature from her Slumber start?
When, from the Mass immensely steep,
The Voice bid Order sudden leap,
To usher in a World.
What Heav'nly Melody and Love
Began in ev'ry Sphere to move?

When Elements, that jarr'd before,
Were all aside distinctly hurl'd,
And Chaos reign'd no more.

III.

Musick the mighty Parent was,
Empower'd by God, the Sovereign Cause.
Musick first spirited the Lifeless Waste,
Sever'd the sullen, bulky Mass,
And active Motion call'd from lazy Rest.
Summon'd by Musick, Form uprear'd her Head,
From Depths, where Life it self lay dead;
While sudden Rays of ever-living Light
Broke from the Abyss of ancient Night,
Reveal'd the New-born Earth around, and its fair Influence spread.
God saw that all the Work was good;
The Work, the Effect of Harmony, its wond'rous Off-spring, stood.

IV.

Musick, the best of Arts Divine,
Maintains the Tune it first began,
And makes ev'n Opposites combine
To be of use to Man.
Discords with tuneful Concords move
Thro' all the Spacious Frame;
Below is breath'd the Sound of Love,
While Mystick Dances shine Above,
And Musick's Power to nether Worlds proclaim.
What various Globes in proper Spheres,
Perform their Great Creator's Will?
While never silent, never still,
Melodiously they run,
Unhurt by Chance, or Length of Years,
Around the Central Sun.

V.

The little, perfect World, call'd Man,
In whom the Diapason ends,
In his Contexture, shews a Plan
Of Harmony, that makes amends,
(By God-like Beauty, that adorns his Race,)
For all the Spots on Nature's Face.
He boasts a pure, a tuneful Soul,
That rivals the Celestial Throng,
And can ev'n Savage Beasts controul
With his enchanting Song.
Tho' diff'rent Passions struggle in his Mind,
Where Love and Hatred, Hope and Fear are join'd,
All, by a secret Guidance, tend
To one harmonious End.

VI.

Its great Original to prove,
And shew it bless'd us from above,
In creeping Winds, thro' Air it sweetly floats,
And works strange Miracles by Notes.
Our beating Pulses bear each bidden Part,
And ev'ry Passion of the master'd Heart
Is touch'd with Sympathy, and speaks the Wonders of the Art.
Now Love, in soft and whispering Strains,
Thrills gently thro' the Veins,
And binds the Soul in Silken Chains.
Then Rage and Fury fire the Blood,
And hurried Spirits, rising high, ferment the boiling Flood.
Silent, anon, we sink, resign'd in Grief:
But, e're our yielding Passions quite subside,
Some swelling Note calls back the ebbing Tide,

And lifts us to Relief.
With Sound we Love, we Joy, and we Despair,
The solid Substance hug, or grasp delusive Air.

VII.

In various Ways the Heart-strings shake,
And different things they speak.
For, when the meaning Masters strike the Lyre,
Or Haut-boys briskly move,
Our Souls, like Lightning, blaze with quick Desire,
Or melt away in Love.
But when the Martial Trumpet, swelling high,
Rolls its shrill Clangor thro' the ecchoing Sky;
If, answering hoarse, the sullen Drum's big Beat
Does, in dead Notes, the lively Call repeat;
Bravely at once we break o'er Nature's Bounds,
Snatch at grim Death, and look, unmov'd, on Wounds.

Slumb'ring, our Souls lean o'er the trembling Lute;
Softly, we mourn with the complaining Flute;
With the Violin laugh at our Foes;
By turns, with the Organ we bear on the Sky,
Whilst, exulting in Triumph, on Æther we fly,
Or, falling, groan upon the Harp, beneath a Load of Woes.
Each Instrument has magic Pow'r
To enliven or destroy,
To sink the Heart, and, in one Hour,
Entrance our Souls with Joy.
At ev'ry Touch, we lose our ravish'd Thoughts,
And Life, it self, in quivering Clings, hangs o'er the varied Notes.

VIII.

How does the starting Treble raise
The Mind to rapt'rous Heights;

It leaves all Nature in Amaze,
And drowns us with Delights.
But, when the Manly, the Majestick Base
Appears with awful Grace,
What Solemn Thoughts are in the Mind infus'd?
And how the Spirits rouz'd?
In slow-pac'd Triumph, we are led around,
And all the Scene with haughty Pomp is crown'd;
Till Friendly Tenor gently flows,
Like sweet, meandring Streams,
And makes an Union, as it goes,
Betwixt the two Extreams.
The blended Parts in That agree,
As Waters mingle in the Sea,
And yield a Compound of delightful Melody.

IX.

Strange is the Force of modulated Sound,
That, like a Torrent, sweeps o'er ev'ry Mound!
It tunes the Heart, at ev'ry Turn;
With ev'ry Moment gives new Passions Birth;
Sometimes we take delight to Mourn;
Sometimes enchance our Mirth.
It sooths deep Sorrow in the Breast;
It lulls our waking Cares to Rest,
Fate's clouded Brow serenes with Ease,
And makes ev'n Madness please.
As much as Man can meaner Arts controul,
It manages his master'd Soul,
The most invet'rate Spleen disarms,
And, like Aurelia, Charms:
Aurelia! dear, distinguish'd Fair!
In whom the Graces center'd are!

Whose Beauty, Musick in Disguise!
Attracts the gazing Eyes,
Thrills thro' the Soul, like sad Louisa's Lines,
And, as it certain Conquest makes, the Savage Soul refines.

X.

Musick religious Thoughts inspires,
And kindles bright Poetick Fires;
Fires! such as great Hillarius raise
Triumphant, in their blaze!
Amid the vulgar-versifying Throng
His Genius, with Distinction, show,
And o'er our popular Metre lift his Song
High, as the Heav'ns are arch'd o'er Orbs below.
As if the Man was pure Intelligence,
Musick transports him o'er the heights of Sense,

Thro' Chinks of Clay the Rays above lets in,
And makes Mortality Divine.
Tho' Reason's Bounds it ne'er defies,
Its Charms elude the Ken
Of heavy, gross-ear'd Men,
Like Mysteries conceal'd from vulgar Eyes.
Others may that Distraction call,
Which Musick raises in the Breast,—
To Me, 'tis Ecstacy and Triumph all,
The Foretastes of the Raptures of the Blest.
Who knows not this, when Handell plays,
And Senesino sings?
Our Souls learn Rapture from their Lays,
While rival'd Angels shew amaze,
And drop their Golden Wings.

XI.

Still, God of Life, entrance my Soul
With such Enthusiastick Joys;
And, when grim Death, with dire Controul,
My Pleasures in this lower Orb destroys,
Grant this Request, whatever you deny,
For Love I bore to Melody,
That round my Bed, a sacred Choir
Of skilful Masters tune their Voice,
And, without Pain of agonizing Strife,
In Consort with the Lute conspire,
To untie the Bands of Life;
That, dying with the dying Sounds,
My Soul, well tun'd, may rise,
And break o'er all the common Bounds
Of Minds, that grovel here below the Skies.

XII.

When living die, and dead Men live,
And Order is again to Chaos hurl'd,
Thou, Melody, shalt survive
And triumph o'er the Ruins of the World.
A dreadful Trumpet never heard before,
By Angels never blown, till Then,
Thro' all the Regions of the Air shall roar
That Time is now no more:
But Lo! a diff'rent Scene!
Eternity appears,
Like Space unbounded, and untold by Years.
High in the Seat of Happiness Divine
Shall Saints and Angels in full Chorus join;
In various Ways,
Seraphick Lays

The unceasing Jubilee shall crown,
And, whilst Heav'n ecchoes with his Praise,
The Almighty's self shall hear, and look, delighted, down.

XIII.

Who would not wish to have the Skill
Of Tuning Instruments at Will?
Ye Pow'rs, who guide my Actions, tell
Why I, in whom the Seeds of Musick dwell,
Who most its Pow'r and Excellence admire,
Whose very Breast it self's a Lyre,
Was never taught the heav'nly Art
Of modulating Sounds,
And can no more, in Consort, bear a Part
Than the wild Roe, that o'er the Mountains bounds?
Cou'd I live o'er my Youth again,
(But ah! the Wish how idly Vain!)

Instead of poor, deluding Rhime,
Which, like a Syren, murders Time,
Instead of dull, Scholastic Terms,
Which made me stare and fancy Charms;
With Gordon's brave Ambition fir'd,
Beyond the towering Alps, untir'd,
To tune my Voice I'd roam;
Or search the Magazines of Sound,
Where Musick's Treasures lie profound,
With Malcolm here at Home.
Malcolm, the Dear, deserving Man,
Who taught in Nature's Laws,
To spread his Country's Glory can
Practise the Beauties of the Art, and shew its Grounds and Cause.

XIV.

Let others, in their labour'd Verse,
Divine Cicilia's Fame rehearse.

Let 'em, unenvy'd, old Amphion raise,
Or, with feign'd Tales of Orpheus, toil to please.
They, and ten thousand more may vainly sing,
Or sweep the sounding Lyre—
At Malcolm's Name, my Juster Muse takes Wing,
And tow'rs sublimely high'r.
He, wond'rous Man! from eyeless Shades of Night
(Where long conceal'd they lay)
The Principles of Musick brings to Light,
And gives immortal Day.
The Mechanism let others know,
And in their Ways excel,
Malcolm to greater Depths can go,
Can all its hidden Charms explain, and all its Mysteries tell.

XV.

Hail, happy Friend! with God-like Vertues crown'd
Skill'd in the Arts and Origine of Sound,

Who grasps in Theory all the heav'nly Springs
Of Melody, and wakes the silent Strings;
At once, can gaze the sounding Secrets thro',
And rival Cherubs in the Practice too!
In ev'ry Page of thy great Work, we find
Criterions of thy Philosophick Mind:
For these, the Publick Labours in your Praise—
But we, blest Few! who, only, know your Lays,
A double Monument, in Gratitude, must raise.

Louisa to Abelard.

Aaron Hill, Esq;

AN ODE, ON BUCHANAN.

INSCRIB'D TO Mr. Thomas Gordon.

I.

BUCHANAN! venerable Shade!
Immortal, by thy Merits, made!
Dare I, a Modern of inferior Lays,
At distance of Two hundred weakening Years,

Attempt the Grandeur of thy Praise,
Or strow thy Urn with Tears?
Vain Piety! preposterous Grief!
In Wit's bright Orb, Thou shin'st th' acknowledg'd Chief!
And need'st no statelier Monument of Fame,
Than thy own Works, t'immortalize thy Name!
Far hence—I hear thy deathless Genius say—
Far hence, ye Vulgar; nor prophane my Clay.
Imperfect Praise to Slander is ally'd,
When to uncommon Virtue 'tis apply'd.
The World's united Panegyricks fail,
And, when we think we celebrate, we rail.
Yet, pardoning, smile on an ambitious Muse,
Who, with unwearied Pains,
Revolving o'er thy sacred Strains,
Fires at thy Flame, and by thy Light pursues.

Like old Elijah, drop some Gift of thine,
And, so transfer'd, be half thy Genius mine.
Unelegantly are my Pieces wrought,
How faint the Language! and how low the Thought!
But, when my Fancy's drest out from thy Store,
My Strokes will then be rude no more.
Thus, when the Nile, with its augmented Train,
Sweeps o'er the Memphian Plain,
Forms, without Life, the Refuse of the Flood!
Shoot all imperfect, from the teeming Mud,
Till the Sun's Heat, the Source of genial Day,
Informs the fashion'd Clay.

II.

But, oh, what Breast thy Spirit can contain?
Who cou'd, like Thee, th' inspiring God restrain?
What mounted Bard thy Pegasus cou'd sit?
Or bear, unstaggering, thy vast Load of Wit?

How shall I then, do thy fam'd Memory Right,
By such an offer'd Mite?
He, who wou'd measure well such vast Renown,
Must have a Thought, extensive, as thy own.
In vain, the advent'rous Bard invokes the Nine—
In vain, he sues for Aid, at Phoebus Shrine—
They're Bankrupts all! Buchanan broke them quite,
And, whosoe'er, henceforth, attempts to write,
Shou'd call on Him, t'inspire with Wit and Skill—
The Stock's his own! He deals it, as he will.
The World, perhaps, to minor Poets may
Some petty Reckonings pay—
At his vast Sum, we stand amaz'd, and cry
Arithmetick can never reach so high!
Yet 'tis some Worth to wonder at his Lays,
And, where we fail to speak, to think his Praise.

III.

Hail mightiest Genius of the honour'd North!
Scotia's prime Minister of Wit!
Renown'd in ev'ry Region for thy Worth!
And, in whose Style, an Angel might have writ!
Thy soaring Mind, with Eagle's Flight,
Wing'd, with undazled Eye, the Realms of Light!
Th' untravel'd Orb thou journeyd'st in thy Thought,
And, to thy World, hast their best Mysteries brought!
What Secret, that the Soul has Pow'r to know,
Too deep for thy Discernment lay?
Angels delighted seem'd, and flew to show
Their kindred Bard the Magazines of Day!
O what celestial Heat thy Genius fir'd,
When heav'nly David shone with all thy Flame!
Envy and Rage confess'd thy Muse inspir'd,
And paid unwilling Honours to thy Name!

So well did'st thou perform that dangerous Part,
That all, who, wondering, mark'd the Poet's Art,
Thought him, like David's self, made after God's own Heart!
Who, like Buchanan, dares, alone, engage
The pow'rful Vices of his Age?
In manly Satyr, nobly skill'd,
No Age, no Quality, he spar'd:
Crimes of no Kind escap'd the faithful Bard!
To Thrones and Altars he pursued and kill'd!
But, when his Muse the Tragic Pinions trys,
Behold how near, and yet how strong, he flys!
What moving Sentiments adorn his Page?
How solemn is his Rage?
O, when shall Scotia boast a Pen, expert
Like his, th' Historian's Talent to exert?

Who shall with equal Genius lengthen on
Th' immortal Work, by Him begun?
Who shall proceed with his detective Taste?
And paint the present Times, as he describ'd the Past?
Is the great Task, O Gordon, left to Thee?
Was is it not Heav'ns Decree,
That Thou, Buchanan's Equal—but in Verse—
Our Supplemental Annals should'st rehearse?
Well fare the Patriot Genius, who employs
His Industry, to benefit Mankind;
Who builds what Time, or Prejudice, destroys,
And finishes the Work our Sires design'd.

IV.

Our cold and gloomy Realm in Ignorance lay,
'Till, like the Kindler of the Day,
Buchanan shone the Shades away.

Rough were the antient Tracks, 'till He
Mark'd a fair Path to Immortality.
With cautious Secrecy, thro' mystick Veils
Of Allegories dark, and uncouth Tales,
(Which, for the Laiety to doubt, was Sin!)
Poetic Light had long been dimly shown,
And, in dull Hands, was almost Useless grown,
Till He, Defender of the Faith! came in.
The Knots, that they so artfully had ty'd,
And drawn so close, with superstitious Charms,
Disdaining to untie, he dar'd divide
With Alexander's Force, and Reason's Arms.
Empty Tradition, and the Cant of Schools,
Vanish'd before his conquering Rules.
The startled Oracles, at once, grew mute,
And own'd him Prophet absolute.

Hot thro' his Works his Genius glows!
There's Inspiration in his very Prose!
Nothing, unpolish'd, has he left behind!
Each Line's a Transcript of his Mind!
His Eloquence, ungloomy, loves to smile,
And strikes in such an apt and easy Style,
That the charm'd Reader yields his captive Heart,
By Force to Reason, and by Choice to Art.
Hence foreign Pens, impartial in his Praise,
Have own'd that Rome was conquer'd by his Lays.
Scotia, in Him, the Roman Bounds became
In Wit, as well as War!
He prov'd the Clime has Warmth to nourish Fame,
Tho', from the World and Sun divided far!

V.

Tho' the whole classic Store to Him was known,
Whate'er he writ was all his own.

Nor studied He, like modern Bards to steal,
Nor chose the scatter'd Glare of common Place.
To emulate the Antients was his Zeal—
But he outran them in the Race!
No Numbers, Theme, nor Strain,
Had Pow'r to give him Pain.
Nature sat easy in his flowing Lays,
And Art but serv'd to gild his gather'd Bays.
O how unequal are our vulgar Bards!
Drudges, who sell Opinion for Rewards!
Toiling, they strain'd for all they writ,
Curs'd with a painful Stranguary of Wit!
Or, if they pass a Piece in Haste,
What obvious Want of Taste!
All undigested the crude Metre lies,
And, like a lost Abortive, dies.

Buchanan's Works from no chance Stroke arose;
No shuffled Atoms did his World compose.
Well did he mark, where Wit's Foundation lay,
And, building sure, cou'd fear no swift Decay.
Finding, at best, pretending Poet's Rhimes
Faintly reflect the Shine of antient Times,
He, by the Sun, it self, did guide his Flight,
Nobly disdainful of a borrowed Light.
Fed from this unexhausted Store, his Flame
Must long burn clear, and brighten into Fame.
Such Patriarch Wit asserts the Pow'r
To live, till Time it self's no more!
Legions of scribling Names, a Nation's Curse!
Shall die, like Men of humble Prose, or worse—
But, when ev'n Milton's stock of Fame is spent,
Buchanan's Works shall keep their own old Rent.

That Earth, he honour'd, boasts but equal Date,
And both shall burn, at once, in one effulgent Fate.

VI.

Unhappy We, who, in our native Tongue,
Imprison short-liv'd Song.
Our Buildings, on a sandy Bottom rear'd,
Must soon lie level with the Plain:
Like Leaves of Trees, the Words, that late appear'd
So elegant, so forceful, and endear'd,
Shall fall, ere long; nor be reviv'd again.
So Life and living Languages agree—
Each, for its Date alone, can hope to be.
Our Spirit lives but while our Language lasts;
Our Fame can be no more, when that decays.
Alas! how soon the boasted Glory wastes!
How fading are our Lays!

Buchanan knew, and shun'd this Rock,
On which poor Moderns split—
The Cause why erring Strangers mock
Our Want of Learning, or of Wit.
His Mind, expanding, grasp'd at all Mankind,
And, for a World's wide Use, his Works design'd.
Now, hence, in ev'ry Realm they're current Coin;
All know, and own the Stamp divine,
And jarring Nations, in his Praises, join.
True, Schismaticks—for such in Verse are found,
As in Religion they abound—
Will never cease with empty Rage
To persecute the Worthies of their Age.
Homer by Momus was pursu'd,
And Moevius hunted after Maro's Blood.
What keeps the hoary Dennis still in Life,
But everlasting Enmity and Strife?

Nor, Friends, nor Foes, escape his common Lash:
If he gives Quarter, 'tis for Ready-Cash.
But, when unusual Beauties strike his Sight,
They, and their Authors are condemn'd outright,
Condemn'd!—that He may earn a Morsel by't.
O Man of Grin, say, had'st thou never spy'd
The Charms of Steele, of Addison, and Pope,
Woud'st thou not, desperate, long ere now have dy'd
By Fire, or Water, Razor, or by Rope?
Buchanan had his Criticks too;
Alive, his Merits fed a Few:
And dead, his Manes struggles with old Fate!
Welsted and Trap combine, at least to prate.
But what are vain and unregarded Elves,
Whose Writings die before Themselves?

Thou, Burman, of distinguish'd Worth and Name,
Woud'st Thou too stab the immortal Poet's Fame?
How many Gilders bought thy venal Pen,
To preface forth such Calumny and Spleen?
Hast Thou, at Last, consented to be vile?
Aod broke the Dutch Alliance with our Isle?

VII.

Accurst Attempt! Endeavour vain!
Buchanan's Character to stain.
An Antient grown, he soars away,
Unreach'd by Carrion Birds of Prey,
And, on their Arts, his Genius looks Disdain.
He liv'd on Earth, tho' Dangers hem'd him round,
Till venerable Age his Virtues crown'd;
Till Nature's Self grew weary to supply
A Soul, whose Call was so immensely large:

At hoary Years she let him die,
And gain'd her wish'd Discharge.
But to recruit her self, and store Mankind,
She seiz'd the Treasure of his Mind,
A Mind! which now, but Piecemeal, she imparts,
Uncapable of all the Sciences and Arts.
So fell the sacred Sybil, when her Breast
Of utmost Inspiration was possest.
What tho' he boasted not a proud Descent
From Ancestors, already great in Fame?
Nor left an Heir for future Ornament
Of his remember'd Name?
'Tis fit such Worth alone shou'd be
Its own great Founder and Posterity.
Riches and Empire are but empty Things,
Without the Glory Merit brings.

For me, I'd rather boast Buchanan's Wit,
Than, like his Pupil, such a Sovereign sit.
And what Man lives, who wou'd not rather chuse
Homer's inspiring Muse,
Than, like Achilles, Hero of his Pen,
Run bravely mad, and murder Men?

VIII.

How has this Poet's Wealth his Country bar'd,
And left it almost barren, to this Day?
So vast a Treasure this Engrosser shar'd,
That from Sixth James's Time,
Scotia has scarce been blest with Rhime!
So great her Wit's Decay!
Not common Bays our Poet's Temples crown'd,
When Hathornden and Sterling were renown'd;
When Aiton, Barclay, Scot, and Johnston shone;
When great Montrose, and fam'd Mackenzie, liv'd;

When Lauderdale, like Atlas, stood alone;
And in Pitcarn's bright Soul the Muses thriv'd.
Now, mungrel Herds the holy Ground prophane,
And crop the Muses sacred Soil, in vain.
We think we soar, while others know we creep,
And wake our selves to make a Thousand sleep.
Small is our Strength, and low our Credit grows,
And, o'er the Land of Verse, Prosaick Dullness flows.
'Tis true, that Virtue, sullen and retir'd,
Oft shines alone, and shuns to be admir'd.
She, round her Merit, casts a willing Shade,
And fears to be betray'd.
Hence not a Few, whose Souls are rais'd
Above the vulgar Throng,
Chuse rather to remain, unprais'd,
Than prove their Pow'r in Song.

Thus Graem and Murray shun to please,
And Scot and Bennet sanctify their Ease.
Thus Robertson, with native Fires, may roam,
And Boyd and Stevenson shine retir'd at Home.
But save us, gracious Heav'n, from those,
Who versify in Prose.
Let no enquiring Strangers judge our Worth,
By what profess'd Poetick Quacks bring forth.

IX.

But great Buchanan's Heav'nly Song
Will hallow our Parnassus long,
And sanctify, or screen, the tuneful Throng.
Beneath his Umbrage, now a youthful Race
Rises, observant of the Master's Pace.
Divinely fir'd, Edina's Sons appear,
And all the Badges of their Athens wear,

By the kind Godhead's special Licence, fit
For the great Cure and Ministry of Wit.
Some Souls, compleat by Nature spring Divine,
Nor wait for Ordination from the Nine;
Like Independants, for no Forms they care,
And, in their Talent, their Credentials wear.
Buchanan thus, by happy Genius blest,
Disdain'd to practice as the Muse's Priest;
But boldly Bishop'd it in Sacred Song,
And claim'd the Rev'rence of the wond'ring Throng.
Like his, my Sons, will your Meridian be!
The Dawn so bright, what mayn't we hope to see?
What is not due from Promise of your Youth?
North-British Muses will outsoar the South.
O let no Energy you boast,
Like a consuming Lamp, be lost.

Keeping that fiery Pillar in your Eye,
Improve, appear, and be more blest than I.

X.

Thrice happy Muses, who, by Fortune blest,
Need no Protection from th' unjudging Great!
But sing for Pleasure in a Calm of Rest,
And shame the Proverb of the Poet's Fate!
If, from above, great God, my Genius came,
If I possess one Spark of heav'nly Flame,
If e'er a Verse of mine had Luck to fit
Arbuthnot's Taste, and Malcom's Ear,
O keep me from the common Curse of Wit,
And give me some convenient Canaan here.
Happy the Bard, who, for the Muse's Sake,
From his dull Country driv'n,
In wiser Lands can Refuge take
As Earnest of a future Heav'n,

A Heav'n! where Priestly Vengeance never glows,
Nor dark Souls enter, all absorpt in Prose.
There Poets their sad Funerals survive,
And, in their better Part, are still alive.
They, and they only, fill the Thrones above!
No other Souls can suit so well
The Posts of Harmony and Love,
Whence Rebel-Angel Poets fell.
And, when all Vacancies shall be supply'd
With Bards elect, and next a-Kin
T'Angelick Forms, who ne'er their God defy'd,
The Gates of Heav'n, for ever shut, will take no others in.

See Welsted's Longinus, Trap's Prelectiones Poeticæ, and Burman's Preface to his Edition of Buchanan.

THE Charms of Indolence.

DEDICATED TO A certain Lazy PEER.

Thy Charms, O sacred Indolence, I sing,
Droop, yawning Muse, and moult thy sleepy Wing.
Ye lolling Pow'rs, (if any Powers there be,
Who loll supine) to you I bend my Knee:
O'er my lean Labour, shed a vapoury Breath,
And clog my Numbers, with a Weight, like Death.

I feel th' arrested Wheels of Meaning stand:
With Poppy ting'd, see! see! yon waving Wand.
Morpheus, I own the Influence of thy Reign;
A drowsy Sloth creeps, cold, thro' every Vein.
Furr'd, like the Muses' Magistrate, I sit,
And nod, superiour, in a Dream of Wit.
Action expires, in Honour of my Lays,
And Mankind snores Encomiums to my Praise.

Hail, holy State of unalarm'd Repose!
Dear Source of honest, and substantial Prose!
Thou blest Assylum of Man's wearied Race!
Nature's dumb Picture, with her solemn Face!
How shall my Pen, untir'd, thy Praise pursue?
O Woe of Living to have ought to do!

'Till the Almighty Fiat waken'd Life,
And wondering Chaos rose in untry'd Strife;

'Till Atoms jostled Atoms, in the Deep,
Nature lay careless, in eternal Sleep.
No whisp'ring Hope, no murmuring Wish, possest
A Place, in all th' extended Realms of Rest.
The Seeds of Being, undisturb'd, remain'd,
And Indolence, thro' Space, unbounded, reign'd.
Thence, lordly Sloth, thy high Descent we trace!
The World's less ancient than thy reverend Race!
Antiquity's whole Boast is on thy Side,
That great Foundation of the modern Pride!
Thou wert grown old before the Birth of Man,
And reign'dst before Formation's self began.

From Thee Creation took its new-born Way,
When Infant Nature smil'd on opening Day.
Now, winking, weary of th' oppressive Light,
It longs to be re-hush'd in lulling Night:

For each bold Starter from thy pow'rful Reign,
Returns, at Length, thy humble Slave again.

Oh! happy He, who, conscious of thy Sweets,
Safe to thy circling Arms, betimes, retreats.
Rais'd on thy downy Carr, he shuns all Strife,
And lolls along the Thorny Roads of Life.
Indulgent Dreams his slumbering Senses please,
And his numb'd Spirits shrink to central Ease.
Nor Passion's Conflicts his soft Peace infest,
Nor Danger rowzes his unlistening Rest.
Stretch'd in supine Content, afloat, he lies,
And drives down Time's slow Stream, with unfix'd Eyes
Lethargic Influence bars th' Approach of Pain,
And Storms blow round him, and grow hoarse, in vain

Forgetfulness plays, balmy, round his Head,
And Halcyon Fogs hang, lambent, o'er his Bed.

O Sov'reign Sloth! to whom we Quiet owe,
Nature's kind Nurse! soft Couch for weary Woe!
Safe in thy Arms, th' unbusied Slumberer lies,
Lives without Pain, and, without Sighing, dies.
States rise or fall, his Lot is still the same,
For he's above Mischance, who has no Aim.

How curs'd the Man, who still is musing found?
His Mill-Horse Soul forms one eternal Round?
When wiser Beasts lie lost, in needful Rest,
He, Madman! wakes, to war on his own Breast.
Thoughts dash on Thoughts, as Waves on Waves increase,
And Storms, of his own raising, wreck his Peace.
Now, like swift Coursers, in the rapid Race,
His Spirits strain for Speed—now, with slow Pace,

The sinking Soul, tir'd out, scarce limps along,
Sullen, and sick, with such Extreams of Wrong.
What art thou, Life, if Care corrodes thy Span?
A gnawing Worm! a Bosom-Hell to Man!

If e'er distracting Business proves my Doom,
Thou, Indolence, to my Deliv'rance come.
Distil thy healing Balm, like soft'ning Oil,
And cure th' ignoble Malady of Toil.
Thou, best Physician! can'st the Sulphur find,
That dries this Itch of Action on the Mind.

Malice, and Lust, voracious Birds of Prey,
That out-soar Reason, and our Wishes sway;
Desires' wild Seas, on which the wise are tost,
By Pilot Indolence, are safely crost.
Hush'd in soft Rest, they quiet Captives lie,
And, wanting Nourishment, grow faint and die.

By Thee, O sacred Indolence, the Sons
Of honest Levi, loll, like lazy Drones:
While tatter'd Hirelings drudge, in saying Pray'r,
Thou tak'st sleek Doctors to thy downy Care.
Well dost thou help, to form the double Chin,
Dilate the Paunch, and raise the reverend Mien.
By Thee, with stoln Discourses they are pleas'd,
That we, with worse, may not be dully teez'd:
A Happiness! that Laymen ought to prize,
Who value Time, and wou'd be counted wise.

From Thee, innumerable Blessings flow!
What Coffee-man does not thy Virtues know?
Tobacconists and News-mongers revere
Thy lordly Influence, with religious Fear.
Chairs, Coaches, Games, the Glory of a Land,
Are all the Labours of thy lazy Hand.

Th' Excise, the Treasury, strengthen'd, by thy Aid,
Own thy great Use, and Energy, in Trade.
Who does not taste the Pleasures of thy Reign?
Princes, themselves, are Servants in thy Train.

Diogenes, thou venerable Shade?
Thou wert, by Indolence, immortal made.
Thee most I envy of all human Race!
Ev'n in a Tub, thou held'st thy native Grace!
Thy Soul out-soar'd the vulgar Flights of Life,
And look'd abroad, with Scorn, at Noise, and Strife.
To thy hoop'd Palace no bold Business press'd,
No Thought usurp'd the Kingdom of thy Breast.
Thou to high-fated Alexander's Face
Maintaind'st, that Ease was nobler far than Place.
Th' insulted World before him bow'd the Knee:
Thou sat'st unmov'd, more Conqueror than He.

Scarce, O ye Advocates, for Wit's wild Chase,
Can your long Heads be reconcil'd to Grace!
In drowsy Dulness, deep Devotion dwells,
But searchful Care contented Faith expels.
Did ever Indolence produce Despair,
Or, to rash Wishes, prompt th' impatient Heir?
When Murmurings, and Rebellions, shake a State,
Does Love of Rest, or Action, animate?
When did two Sleepers clash in murd'rous War,
Or Love of Ease draw Wranglers to the Bar?
O'er Sea and Land, the World's wide Space surround,
Poize ev'ry Loss, and probe each aking Wound,
Then say which most, or Business, or Repose,
Worries our Lives, and wakes us into Woes?
What first gave Talons to coercive Law?
Small Need to keep the Indolent in Awe!

Hatch'd we our South-Sea Egg, by Want of Thought?
Are Jobbers airy Arts, in Slumber taught?
What State was ever bubbled out of Sense,
By good, unfear'd, unmeaning, Indolence?
Weigh, and consider, now, which Cause is best,
And, yawning, yield—There's Happiness in Rest.

O how I pity those deluded Fools,
Who drudge their Days out in bewild'ring Schools!
Who, seeking Knowledge, with assiduous Strife,
Lose their long Toil, and make a Hell of Life!
Grasping at Shadows, they but beat the Air,
And cloud the Spirits they attempt to clear.
Jargon of Tongues, perplexive Terms of Art,
And mazy Maxims, but benight the Heart.
No End, no Pause, of painful Search they know,
But, still proceeding, aggrandize their Woe;

Their Nakedness of Soul with Fig-Leaves hide,
And wrap their conscious Shame in Veils of Pride.
Erring, they toil some shadowy Gleam to find,
And, wand'ring, feel their Way, sublimely blind.
Learning in This, in That Scale, Doubt be laid,
And mark how Pomp is, by plain Truth, outweigh'd.

Hereafter then, ye poring Students, cease,
Nor maze your Minds, nor break your Chain of Peace.
Make Truce with Leisure for awhile, and view
What empty Nothings your Desires pursue.
Remember Adam's fatal Itch, to know,
Was the first bitter Spring of human Woe.
Think how presumptuous 'tis for breathing Clay,
To tread Heav'n's winding Paths, and lose its Way:
Think what short Limits Understanding boasts,
And shun th' Enticements of her shoaly Coasts.

With Solomon, that prudent Sage! and Me,
From fruitless Labour set your Spirits free:
Bind up bold Thought, in Slumber's silky Chain,
Since all we act, and all we know, is vain.

THE CUDGEL:

AN Heroic POEM. In Six Canto's.

Inscrib'd to Sir Robert Montgomery, Bart.

CANTO I.

Wake! Wake! my slumb'ring Muse, and soar sublime;
No vulgar Subject now demands thy Rhyme:

Empire and Arms, those beaten Themes! disdain,
And dare be Great in an unrival'd Strain!
Cudgel! a Theme unsung by mortal Bard,
Whose Form, mysterious, claims no mean Regard,
Commands thy Flight, and, partial for thy sake,
Will pay kind Criticks for the Pains they take.
O Dennis! hoary Judge of measur'd Phrase,
To my Theme's Weight inspire my tow'ring Lays;
Breathe thro' my daring Breast the Antients' Flame,
And guide me, by thy Rule and Square, to Fame:
Scornful of trifling Wits, I knit my Brow,
And, serious, to thy solemn Grandeur bow;
Do thou my widening Thought, with Judgment, store,
And form a Piece original all o'er:
So shall Pope's ravish'd Locke its Pride resign,
And Hill's bright Star confess a brighter Shine;

Cudgel, alone, shall be the Muse's Care,
And I, even I! th' immortal Laurel wear.

I FEEL! I feel! my swelling Mind possest;
Not such high Raptures heav'd the Sybil's Breast,
When, trembling, near the sacred Shrine she trod,
Big with the Dictates of th' inspiring God.
Vast Images are pictur'd on my Brain,
And Words are wanting, Notions to explain;
Thoughts crowd on Thoughts, as Alps on Alps arise,
And Worlds of Wonder open to my Eyes.

Mount! mount! wild Muse, past Ages wide survey,
And draw down Cudgel to th' incumbent Day;
Tell whence it sprung, its antient Honours show,
Bid wond'ring Nations its Importance know;
Know—and reflect how oft vast Virtues lie
Hid in plain Looks, and shun the proud Man's Eye;

So shall a wholesome Moral crown my Tale,
And raise its Value, tho' it damns its Sale.

Puzzled in mazy Comments, here, I rove—
Facts, of high Consequence, are hard to prove!
Ne'er, with more Warmth, was Subject toss'd on Earth,
Than where and whence our Cudgel had its Birth.
Poets and Churchmen—Criticks in Dispute—
On different Sides, ascertain and confute;
The Reverend, zealous in the Cause of God,
Maintain it, once, was Aaron's budding Rod,
By Miracle preserv'd, a Hebrew Sign,
From which the Priesthood draws its Right Divine;
Its Right of Power, our rebel Wills to sway,
And burn the Unfaithful, who refuse t'obey.
This—Virulent in Wit—the Bards deny,
And dare profanely write, that Priests can lye.

Jacob, they say, old Laban to outwit,
Streaking this Stick, the unwary Patriarch bit;
Since when our Shepherds us, poor Flock! betray—
(The Father of the Faithful taught the way!)
Some hold, who changeful Nature's Depths explore,
The Staff was perfect Man, in Days of Yore:
But as, according to a noted Sage,
Things got new Beings, in a new-born Age,
Our Man, who some three thousand Years lay dead,
Came forth a Staff, but with his old-world Head;
And Heaven this wooden Punishment assign'd,
For his dull Dryness, when of human Kind.

Clear Truth is ne'er, but on one side, discern'd,
Yet e'en its Shadow can confound the Learn'd;
Specious Pretences, oft, the Mind deceive,
And Readers know not what they shou'd believe.

Let quoting Criticks various Judgments pass,
And Volumes of Authorities amass:
By Revelation's Light, we steer our Course,
Nor feel, for differing from the Church, Remorse:
To no Pope's Bulls a blind Obedience pay,
But set Things right, the plain, reforming, way.

O Knight, of noble Name! to whose due Praise,
My lab'ring Muse, now, tunes her tow'ring Lays,
Pardon, if I such Wonders not conceal,
But the dark Mysteries of thy Staff reveal:
Do thou, who best can'st vouch what I rehearse,
Forgive, accept, and patronize, my Verse.

In that sweet Month, when genial Earth grows warm,
And, bounteous, yields, for ev'ry Sense, a Charm;
When smiling Nature shadows ev'ry Grove,
And ev'ry Meadow spreads a Couch for Love;

Calm Night, on Care, her silent Balm had shed,
And, in soft Slumbers, lull'd the pensive Head;
With his fair Consort, on his Bed, reclin'd,
Wakeful Montgomery sooth'd his careful Mind:
By slow Reflexion's Aid, recall'd the Day,
And, deep revolving its past Actions, lay.
“'Tis strange, he said, dear Partner of my Thought,
“What lasting Ills a few short Months have wrought!
“How are the Mighty fal'n? With what Surprize
“Is Gyant Credit sunk to Pigmy Size?
“O Year! that, big in Hope, produc'd such Ill,
“How will thy Wonders British Annals fill?
The Charmer sigh'd, and, sighing, stroak'd his Cheek:
“Comfort, abroad, you good Men vainly seek;
“Each new-born Day brings on some new Distress,
“And, but to merit, is to miss Success.

“Happy the Man, who boasts some inmate Charm,
“Whose Love can Fortune's angry Bolts disarm!
“Tho' Stocks are low, and high-rais'd Hopes prove vain,
“All Praise to Heaven! some solid Joys remain.
“'Tis ours, at least, to share Domestic Bliss—
“'Tis ours—she sigh'd—and prov'd it with a Kiss—
“The Knight, inspir'd, grew glad, and banish'd Care,
Sought Comfort near at hand—and found it There—

Chear'd by the Lustre of her beamy Eyes,
He mark'd the Moon's pale Orb serenely rise;
Soft, thro' the shiny Glass, with shadowy Gleam,
A trembling Radiance shot its silvery Stream;
And, 'twixt the inclosing Curtains, struck the Place,
Where grim-ey'd Cudgel spread its squalid Face:
Starting, the thoughtful Baronet look'd on,
And thus, bespoke the Nymph, who near him shone:

“A precious Jewel was, of late, reveal'd,
“Long, in the Head of an old Staff, conceal'd:
“Its humble Owner, of Plebeian Name,
“At once, enrich'd, bids fair for Pride and Fame.
“What, then, have I to hope, wou'd Fortune smile,
“Of Race long noted! o'er this fruitful Isle?
“Mark well—thou Angel-Guardian of my Side,
(With that He seiz'd, and drew the Curtian wide:)
“Mark well—that Cudgel's most exotick Head,
“Its Cheeks enormous, in vast Convex, spread!
“Why shou'd this be, but to conceal within
“Some Gem—which, if we burst its Brain, we win—
Smiling, the Charmer sought his careful Breast,
And, breathing balmy, lull'd him into Rest.

Scarce had Sleep's silken Fetters bound their Eyes,
When the rous'd Cudgel, quivering with Surprize,

Sadly revolv'd the dreadful Words it heard,
And its near Fate, with rising Morning, fear'd.
Slowly, with tottering Leaps, and aukward Aim,
To the Beds Foot the one-legg'd Mover came:
Sullen it stood, and looking, glary, round,
Thrice knock'd, with wooden Heel, the trembling Ground.
Swift flew ten thousand Sylpheids thro' the Air,
From the strange Sight, to skreen their sleeping Care:
Thick, round her lovely Eyes, in hovering Clings,
Swarming, they close, and shade her with their Wings.
Cudgel, mean while, made desperate, by its Fear,
Up to the Knight, leap'd bold, and view'd him near,
Bow'd in stiff Gravity, and crackly Strain,
And three times knock'd his Lip, but knock'd in vain:
Starting, at length, he rais'd his drowsy Head,
And, Warrior, as he was, felt inward Dread.

“Good God! what horrid Thing is This? he cry'd.
“Be calm, the Cudgel, soberly, reply'd—
“Break not this Angel Sleeper's soft Repose,
“But hear me, gently, my strange Tale disclose:
“Long-wanted Speech your Menace has provok'd,
“And Fear has, almost, my new Accents choak'd.
“Hard the tough Toil! for Tongues so dry as mine,
“To speak like Man's, made glib by moistning Wine
“Yet hear me—and be mov'd to Thoughts of Grace
“Nor rashly dare to spoil my Reverend Face.
“Tho' my Head swells with promissory Grin,
“There's no material Treasure lodg'd within:
“Yet Wealth, more precious, you possess in me,
“Than the proud Wish of boasted Alchymy!”
“In all the best Saints Names—reply'd the Knight—
“Spirit! or Witch! what art thou?—Ho! a Light!

“Hush, whisper'd Cudgel, hear my Story out,
“And if it clear not every dark'ning Doubt,
“Slash me to Pieces—drive me out of Life—
“And mince my Chips with the huge Kitchen-Knife.
“But, Master, let not Courage sink to Fear,
“As from my Lips articulate Sounds you hear:
“In Days of Yore, as famous Authors sing,
“The Speech of Trees was thought no wond'rous Thing;
“Beasts, Birds, and Stones, on just Occasions, spoke:
“Did not sage Baalim his poor Ass provoke?
“And can't I, ev'n amongst your human Kind,
“My Kindred-Heads, in countless Millions, find?”

It spoke—the Knight Attention gave—but what
The Cudgel told him of its wond'rous Fate,

From Earth's first Forming, to King GEORGE's Reign,
Sing Muse, and spare not, in detective Strain:
But here short Respite let the Spirits take,
And, with fresh Vigour, to the Sequel wake.

The End of the First CANTO.

Hiatus ad Finem usque deflendus.

Pythagoras.

Sir R. Montgomery.

The Bubbling Season.

A Coffee-man near Lincoln's-Inn Fields, Anno Dom. 1721.

THE JUDGMENT OF HERCULES.

A POEM.

------ Potiores
Herculis ærumnas credat, sævosque Labores,
Et Venere, & Cœnis, & Pluma Sardanapali.
Juv. Sat. 10.

The Conflict youthful Hercules endur'd,
While rival Charms his wavering Mind allur'd;
His great Self-Conquest, and Heroic Choice;
I, first, record in Numbers. Tune my Voice,

Urania, when I sing in Virtue's Praise,
And consecrate to Heav'n my Favourite Lays:
The noble Cause will sanctify the Verse,
And to the Great and Good commend what I rehearse.

In early Times, ere Fops and Beaus were known,
Or Vice and Folly had acquir'd Renown;
When every brave, and every honest Mind
Employ'd its Care for Good to human Kind;
Young Hercules (as ancient Sages shew.)
Some time, was dubious what He ought to do.
Labour and Ease He had already prov'd:
But neither yet, præ-eminently, lov'd.
Now This, now That, his various Fancy took,
And still new Charms his Resolution shook.
Reason and Passion, struggling for the Sway,
Kept Care awake, and chas'd Repose away.

Deep in the Woods was a sequester'd Grove,
(Fit Scene for Meditation and for Love.)
By heavenly Solitude and Silence blest!
Where, oft, the wearied Hero us'd to rest;
And, oft, collected with religious Strife,
Muse what shou'd be his future State of Life—
Whether 'twere best to make a settled Choice
Of painful Labours, or luxuriant Joys.

But, as He thus deliberating lay
Far in the Grove, where glimmer'd scarce the Day,
Two female Figures, on a Time, to View
Presented, near the wondering Hero drew.
One mov'd majestic, with engaging Grace,
And natural Beauty dignify'd her Face;
With dauntless Mien aloft she rear'd her Head,
And next to manly was the Virgin's Tread;

Her Person tall, and noble was her Air;
Modest her Eyes; and careless hung her Hair;
Her whole Behaviour, as her Raiment, chaste;
Tho' serious were her Looks, she made no forward Haste.
The other, in her Countenance display'd
A florid Health, with artificial Aid;
Well was her Face with White and Red adorn'd;
And, as she mov'd, she shew'd how much she scorn'd;
Her Mien and Gestures all with Study wrought;
Each Look the Livery of lascivious Thought!
What various Colours glorify'd her Dress,
The more her fair Complexion to express?
How, on her self, she, first, her Glances cast!
Then, on Beholders, for their Liking, last!
And, often, to her Shadow, turn'd her Head,
To see the mighty Figure that she made!

Struck with Surprize the youthful Hero rose,
And round him loose a Lion's Hide he throws;
While this gay Venus near his Presence came,
(Stepping, assur'd, before the bashful Dame.)
And briskly, thus, with Eloquence and Art,
Prevents her Rival, and allures his Heart.

‘Hail, Godlike Son of all-begetting Jove,
‘Design'd for Greatness, Luxury, and Love,
‘My Hercules!—But do I find you muse
‘What way of Life You chiefly ought to chuse?
‘Is it a Question, whether to be blest,
‘Or with a World of Misery distrest?
‘Resolve to follow Me. I'll lead you on
‘To Scenes, where Sorrow never yet was known;
‘Where you shall never be alarm'd again
‘With sawcy Noise, Disquietude, and Pain.

‘Nor Peace, nor War, shall ever have the Pow'r
‘To give my Hero's Mind Veyation more.
‘Your whole Employment shall be lasting Ease,
‘To gratify your Senses, as you please.
‘For sumptuous Tables fill the Rooms of State,
‘And Beds of Roses your Arrival wait;
‘Clouds of Perfumes will all around you rise,
‘And Crowds of Beauties kindle your Surprize;
‘Consorts of Musick charm your Soul to Rest,
‘And all Elysium ecstasy your Breast!
‘Come, follow Me, my Way of Life embrace,
‘And I will bring you to the Halcyon Place,
‘This Region of Delight! this Heav'n of Joy!
‘Which Care. and Pain, and Business ne'er annoy.”

Amaz'd to view the stately Form; and charm'd
With what she said; young Hercules, disarm'd

Of half his Reason, ask'd the Lady's Name,
And almost prov'd to her Temptations tame.

‘I'm Happiness, she answer'd. All, who know
‘My Nature well, this Character bestow:
‘But Those, who want to injure me, proclaim
‘That Pleasure only is my proper Name.

The other Lady, now arriv'd, address'd
The youthful Hero, and her Plea express'd
In different Manner, as of different Kind,
To win and hold the Conquest of a Mind.

‘You are (she said) of Origin divine,
‘And Proofs of that Descent already shine,
‘O Hercules, in your Behaviour, now,
‘Within you does not Love to Virtue glow?
‘Do you not daily proper Studies ply?
‘And to be worthy such Relation try?

‘This makes me hope your Conduct soon may claim,
‘Both for your Self and Me, immortal Fame.
‘But mark, young Hero, ere I court your Love,
‘Or to my Fellowship your Fancy move,
‘Mark well the plain and honest Things I say,
‘And this establish'd Truth maturely weigh,
‘That nothing, truly valuable, can
‘Be purchas'd without Pain and Toil, by Man.
‘Gratis, the Gods no real Good bestow;
‘If you wou'd reap the Harvest, you must plow.
‘The Deity, to procure his Love adore,
‘And make new Friendships, by obliging more.
‘First serve your Country, if you hope to share
‘Its Blessings, and the publick Honours wear.
‘In War or Peace, as ever you'd excell,
‘Study the noble Means to make you well.

‘On these Conditions only, I propose
‘That Happiness, which Heroes all have chose.

Hercules pensive and divided was,
And interested in the puzzling Cause;
Leaning upon his Club, He silent stood,
Nor cou'd distinguish the sincerest Good.
Mean while, the Syren plies his Heart again,
Nor labour'd to perplex it more, in vain.

‘You see, my Hero, Virtue has confess'd
‘That all her Votaries must be sore distress'd,
‘Before 'tis possible they can be bless'd.
‘How long and difficult the Way she moves!
‘How short and easy mine to Pleasure proves!
‘Be anxious Care and painful Drudgery far,
‘And all the fickle Fate of boasted War—
‘My blooming Hero better Bliss shall know,
‘Ev'n all the Pleasures Pleasure can bestow.

‘What wou'd you more? While Youth and Vigour last,
‘Enjoy the Moments; for they fly too fast.
‘Seize the Occasion wisely, while you may;
‘And all th' Arrears, so due to Nature, pay.
‘Be various Pleasure all your Soul's Employ,
‘And every Sense be lost in every Joy.

‘Alas! (said Virtue, with a sideling Glance,
Made up of Pity and Disdain, at once.)
‘What are the mighty Pleasures you propose?
‘Gilded Destruction, and delicious Woes!
‘To eat, before an Appetite is rais'd,
‘Or after craving Hunger is appeas'd;
‘To drink, when not a-thirst; to sleep, untir'd;
‘And hunt for Pleasures Nature ne'er requir'd.
‘Say, have you heard that most delightful Sound
‘Of Musick, Praise of Deeds with Glory crown'd?

‘Praise of one's Self!—Or have your Eyes beheld
‘An Object, that in beauteous Charms excel'd
‘The Work of one's own Hands?—Your Train, alas!
‘Their Youth in Dreams of Bliss mistaken pass,
‘Unconscious or unheeding, that Remorse,
‘Anguish and Torment, hoarded up of Course,
‘Will follow on, to persecute old Age,
‘And blast Life's Evening with Despair and Rage.
‘But, as for Me, by Gods and good Men lov'd,
‘Good Men and Gods are both by Me approv'd.
‘To Artizans, I an Associate am,
‘And Guardian Parents my Protection claim.
‘The honest Servant has me for a Friend;
‘He seeks my Sanction; I Assistance lend.
‘In true and generous Friendships I've a Share,
‘And virtuous Lovers are my special Care.

‘'Tis true, my Votaries banquet not like Yours:
‘But then they keep their Faculties and Pow'rs.
‘Delicious, tho' not costly, are their Meals,
‘They eat and drink, as Appetite prevails.
‘Sound are their Slumbers, and their Wakings glad;
‘Their Minds not troubled, nor their Faces sad.
‘The young Man, with Delight, his Praises hears
‘From the wise Lips of those, who are in Years:
‘And Those in Years, with honest Pleasure, take
‘The Honours and Respect, which young Men make.
‘But not to hold a vain Dispute with You,
‘My noble Followers, howsoever few,
‘By Gods are favour'd, to their Country dear,
‘And, after Life, immortal Honours wear.

Impatient, Pleasure here renews her Plea,
Fearing her Rival had obtain'd the Sway;

100

While Hercules, in pensive, silent Mood,
Still, with his Eyes to Earth projected, stood.

‘What Words, what Arguments shall Pleasure chuse?
‘What Means, to hold her youthful Hero, use?
‘Think, Son of Jove, before it be too late,
‘Think of her Followers' miserable State,
‘Who, seeking Glory with assiduous Strife,
‘Are disregarded, scorn'd, or starv'd, in Life.
‘Or, if they feel some secret, hidden Bliss,
‘How poor it is, which none, who want it, miss!
‘I grant, sometimes, they're talk'd of after Death,
‘After they've spent their Stock of painful Breath—
‘But what's an airy Name? Precarious Joy!
‘Shall Hercules be bubbled with a Toy,
‘Which, living, he can't grasp, nor, dead, enjoy.

101

‘Present Possession yields a solid Bliss,
‘And I, young Hero, can afford you This.
‘If Birds, if Fishes, Beasts, or Fruits, or Flow'rs,
‘Fountains, or Gardens, Palaces, or Bow'rs,
‘If Pictures, Turrets, Stones of any Kind,
‘Silver, or Gold, delight your noble Mind,—
‘Name but the Thing that Pleasure can afford,
‘Or have them all! of all the Sovereign Lord!
‘Substantial are the Pleasures I dispense,
‘All undisguis'd, and suited to the Sense.
‘When This my Rival's Votaries have found,
‘How oft with Gladness, have they left her Ground?
‘Oft have her boasted Oracles turn'd mute,
‘And own'd my Love's Dominion absolute.
‘For This, Philosophers of highest Fame
‘Make Me the Seat of Happiness supream.

102

‘To my sweet Yoak the Haughty and the Proud,
‘The Bold, the Bravest, and the Best have bow'd.
‘Both Men and Gods confess my boundless Sway,
‘And with Delight my sweet Commands obey.
‘Or, if an Heart renounces my Decrees,
‘My Darts and Stings can turn it as I please,
‘But This is not a Motive to incline,
‘To my Obedience, such a Soul as thine:
‘Not Fear, but Love, my Orator shall be,
‘Thy Self the Judge of my Affairs and Me.
‘And who by Nature fitter form'd to prove
‘The Joys of loving, than the Son of Jove?
‘A thousand Nymphs of every Sort and Size,
‘With Beauties more than ever blest thy Eyes,
‘Shall wait my Darling, in my charmful Court,
‘And crown thy Joys with everlasting Sport.

103

‘Come, my young Hero, and alive obtain
‘The blest Elysium, which the Poets feign;
‘The whole Delights of Fountains, Bow'rs and Groves,
‘Nectar, Ambrosia, and immortal Loves.
‘Near thy soft Walks, which gentlest Gales perfume,
‘No Tempest, Storm, nor killing Dew shall come.
‘Laurel and Myrtle, mingled with the Rose
‘And dropping Woodbine, Arbours shall compose.
‘Ambitious Flow'rs shall crowd the sacred Ground,
‘To kiss thy Feet, and court thy Eyes around.
‘Come, let me lead thee to delicious Bliss,
‘Where nought annoys, and all you wish for is;
‘The happy Goal, the Journey's utmost End,
‘To which the sweating World, and weary Nature tend.

She clos'd; and, careless on the Ground reclin'd,
By Looks and Actions still bewitch'd his Mind;

104

And had prevail'd, if Virtue's last Effort
Had not been us'd his Spirit to support.

‘O Hercules (the honest Goddess said)
‘How weak is Youth! how needful Reason's Aid!
‘Thy Agonies I see, thy yielding fear;
‘How great the Loss to lose a Soul so dear!
‘Yet, O beware, and well my Dictates weigh;
‘Yet turn thy Eyes, and mind what I'm to say;
‘From Me, no Hurt, no Danger can proceed;
‘How can my artless Arguments mislead?
‘Mine are not airy Blessings; and I try
‘No Means ignoble for the Victory.
‘And, sure, young Man, if thou art from Above,
‘No base, no sordid Arguments can move.
‘Is there a sensual Thing of any Kind,
‘That can supply the Cravings of thy Mind?

105

‘Wert thou possess'd of all the Trifles nam'd,
‘Master of more than ever Tongue proclaim'd,
‘Say, Dost thou think to be exempt from Care?
‘Wou'd not that Inmate to thy Breast repair,
‘And ravage all thy boasted Pleasure there?
‘Or, with those Gifts were some Delight enjoy'd,
‘Wou'dst thou not soon be satisfy'd and cloy'd?
‘Condemn'd eternal Changes to pursue!
‘Tir'd of the Old, and eager of the New!
‘The New possess'd, and thy Desires obtain'd,
‘Wou'd one full Answer of thy Wants be gain'd?
‘Wou'd no fresh Cravings thy Delights corrode,
‘And make a Mortal of the fancied God?
‘How soon the Tinsel-Rapture wou'd be lost!
‘The short-liv'd Bliss not worth the Pains it cost!
‘Besides, young Man, what Pleasure can bestow,
‘Is but a flatt'ring Sound, and specious Show.

106

‘See'st thou not thro' the Syren's subtle Ways?
‘Think'st thou she means the mighty Things she says?
‘Disguis'd within, there lurks a Poison still,
‘That may thy Intellectual Beauties kill:
‘Sloth, Avarice, and Lust, may soon controul
‘The noble Pow'rs of thy Heroic Soul.
‘And soon, too soon, but with Repentance late,
‘Thy Soul may mourn its miserable State;
‘Condemn'd eternal Pain to undergo,
‘Rising from sad Variety of Woe.
‘These, and like Ills, a Life of Pleasure wait;
‘And She, who would enthrall thee, shews her Hate:
‘Weigh well the Case; for Virtue tells thee true;
‘And, following Me, no Danger can ensue.
‘I'll give thee Wisdom for thy constant Guide,
‘Honour and Glory shall adorn thy Side,

107

‘Bravery make greatest Labours thy Delight,
‘And Patience lessen every Burden's Weight.
‘Then what tho' various Difficulties rise,
‘Tho' dreadful Dragons shou'd my Son surprize,
‘Arm'd and assisted thus, He'll nothing fear,
‘Acquire Renown, and keep a Conscience clear.
‘My faithful Votaries boast an inward Feast,
‘A Satisfaction not to be exprest!
‘A Life of Pleasure, bounded, but refin'd!
‘A Bliss adapted to th' immortal Mind!
‘Nor are they barr'd from Pleasures of the Sense,
‘Pleasures within right Reason's sacred Fence:
‘Confinement is no Slavery, but their Choice;
‘Lawful Restraint produces honest Joys.
‘Wake then, and waste not, in inglorious Ease,
‘Thy noble Spirit, and thy happiest Days.

108

‘Prepare for Arms; and vindicate thy Birth,
‘By quelling noxious Monsters of the Earth.
‘How great to be a Conqueror below!
‘And, after Life, a Demi-God to grow!
‘Let Fame and Glory rouze thy youthful Blood,
‘And rate no Joy like that of doing Good.
‘That Part of Bliss is least, which Souls receive;
‘The noblest Pleasure springs from what they give.
‘Not for Themselves alone are Heroes born,
‘But meant to benefit and to adorn
‘The human Race, by Deeds deserving Fame.
‘Society puts in a righteous Claim.
‘Each generous Deed, for Good of human Kind,
‘Will yield fresh Joy and Vigour to thy Mind.
‘Let certain Danger but appear in Sight,
‘The Slaves of Pleasure lose their Courage quite:

109

‘My Votaries stronger by Resistance grow,
‘And their hid Virtues to Advantage show.
‘Then follow Me, your Origin assert,
‘And every Godlike Quality exert.
‘O'ercome your Passions, set your Mind at Rest,
‘Be but your Self; be brave, and then be blest.

The youthful Hero, now by Reason taught,
To Virtue's Side apparently is wrought.
His Doubts dispel'd, his Looks assur'd appear,
And Words, like these, his Soul's Resolve declare.

‘Hence, softning Pleasure and inglorious Ease—
‘To Virtue sacred be my future Days.
‘Lead, honest Goddess, lead thy Servant on:
‘Under thy Conduct what may not be done?
‘Aided by Thee, all Dangers I'll defy,
‘Deserve to be a God, and then ascend the Sky.

110

Pleasure, converted to a Fury, fled;
While Virtue by the Hand her Hero led,
Confirm'd his Choice, and fortify'd his Mind
To labour for the Good of human Kind.

111

JONAH,

A Poetical Paraphrase.

Inscrib'd to the Reverend Mr. Isaac Watts.

117

Nil Mortale loquor.
Horat.

How Heav'n, provok'd, an awful Look assumes,
And human kind to just Destruction dooms;
What wrests the Thunder from Jehovah's hand,
And saves, from Ruin, a rebellious Land;

118

What reconciles the furious Winds to Peace,
And makes the Waves their fierce Contention cease;
Sing, heav'nly Muse, in thy religious Strains:
The Pleasure will compensate all the Pains.

“Eternal Spirit, favour the Design,
“Inspire my Thoughts, and polish ev'ry Line.
“Where sacred Precepts oft successless prove,
“Examples, to Advantage shewn, may move.

In early Times, well known to publick Fame,
A City flourish'd, Nineveh by Name,
First built, and peopl'd, by Assyrian Bands,
That spread their Conquests o'er the eastern Lands.
Armenian Tigris thro' her forc'd a Way,
With Stream majestick, to the Persian Sea.
Walls high and broad were rear'd for her Defence,
Full fifty Miles in wide Circumference.

119

As Shrubs are lost beneath the awful Shade
Of tow'ring Trees, she rais'd her lofty Head
O'er neighbouring Towns; at home more rich, and great!
Abroad more fam'd for Merchandise, and State!

But, ah, how basely Men Dominion use,
And Providence's liberal Gifts abuse?
What dire Effects from Ease and Plenty flow?
And to what Heights does Vice, unpunish'd, grow?
Lust, Rapine, Blood, Idolatry, and Strife,
(The sure Attendants of luxurious Life)
Like Floods, unbounded, pour'd their Forces in,
And Nineveh was delug'd o'er with Sin.
What foreign Foes cou'd not, by Force, obtain,
Thro' many a long, and hazardous, Campaign,
Was basely yielded, by themselves, in Peace,
As People grew effeminate by Ease.

120

Now, losing Sense of Honour, and of Fame,
They reign in Vice, and triumph in their Shame;
Like Brutes undisciplin'd, licentious, rove,
And act whate'er their Fancies most approve.
Here, Adoration to the Stones is paid,
There, guilty Lovers in the Streets are laid.
Riot and Death in ev'ry Corner reign,
And the whole City turn'd a hideous Scene.
Now, nigh an End appears the Day of Grace,
And Judgment ripens to destroy the Place;
On Wings of Wind, the Ministers of Wrath
Equip themselves, to scatter gen'ral Death;
When soothing Mercy thus, for Patience, cry'd,
“Must Nineveh be then, at once, destroy'd?
“True, she has sinn'd, and merits dreadful Woe;
“But does Heav'n always treat its Creatures so?

121

“Thou usest not to punish all alike,
“And unrelenting, in thy Justice, strike.
“With those, that better Means have had, than they,
“Who blindly wander from thy righteous Way,
“Wilt thou deal kinder? Shall thy Mercy spare
“Ungrateful Rebels, and be wanting here?
“Perhaps, were they instructed in thy Law,
“They'd serve thee better, and stand more in Awe:
“Or, were they warn'd, before the Woe is sent,
“They'd hear thy Voice, and, as they hear, repent.
“O let thy Goodness still its Sway maintain,
“And prove the Glory of th' Almighty's Reign.
“May Mercy, with engaging Charms, arrest
“Thy Hand, and thence the vengeful Thunder wrest.

Th' Almighty hearken'd with a gracious Ear,
And had Regard to the prevailing Pray'r;

122

By it o'ercome, aside his Wrath he laid,
And, full of Pity, threat'ning Angels staid.

Then soon to Jonah, old Amittai's Son,
In Judah's Land, was God's Commission known.

“Haste, Prophet, haste to Nineveh the great,
“And warn the People of approaching Fate;
“Tell 'em, from me, that, e're the Night and Day
“Twice twenty Times, by turns, assert their Sway,
“Their boasted Numbers, to Destruction doom'd,
“Shall sudden be, like Sodom's Sons, consum'd;
“Unless, by speedy Penitence and Pray'r,
“They gain Admittance to our gracious Ear.

The Prophet's Mind a sudden Terror fill'd,
And, thro' his Veins, a trembling Horror thrill'd;
O'er all his Vitals dire Confusion hung,
And falt'ring Accents die upon his Tongue.

123

His Limbs turn feeble, Hairs as Bristles rise,
Pale grows his Face, and Darkness strikes his Eyes.
This Way and that he turns his thoughtful Mind,
Now loves, now slights, the Purpose he design'd.
Sometimes resolves his Message to perform;
Sometimes he dreads to plunge in such a Storm.
Pensive in Doubt his Way-ward Mind remains,
Till slavish Fear the Government obtains.
The dastard Passion drives him blindly on,
'Till Sense of Shame and Gratitude was gone.
Now he, distracted, makes Attempt to fly,
And hide himself from the omniscient Eye.
Vain Man! to think there was a distant Land
Beyond the Reach of an Almighty Hand:
Or he, who knows the inward Heart of Man,
Does weigh each Word, and ev'ry Action scan,

124

Cou'd not pursue the Sinner, where he goes,
And overtake him with avenging Woes.

In th' utmost Coasts of Judah is a Scene,
Where Taurus' Cliffs o'erlook the spacious Main,
That Dan's bless'd Off-spring, in their Portion, got,
When Jacob's Race did Canaan share by Lot.
Hither the flying Prophet came, and found,
Ev'n to his Wish, a Ship for Cydnus bound;
Distrusting Heav'n, sought Safety from the Sea,
And hop'd to 'scape the dangerous Nineveh.

The Passage hir'd, the shouting Fellow-Train
Their Canvas spread, and launch into the Main.
Assisted by a gentle Gale of Wind,
They skim the Deep, and hope the Port assign'd.

Then from his high Empyreal Abode,
In Storms and Tempests down Jehovah rode.

125

A dark Pavilion o'er the Deep he spread,
And, from the awful Gloom, he, threat'ning, said.

“Does Rebel Jonah try t'elude my Sight,
“Or ward my Vengeance, by his speedy Flight?
“Tho' from the Land, where I am known, he flies,
“Hopes he to sculk from my omniscient Eyes?
“And were he safely landed on the Shore,
“Cou'd Tarsus hide him from avenging Pow'r?
“But soon, as I confound the spacious Main,
“He'll know that Universal is my Reign.

He said, and sudden from their noisy Cave,
Th' imprison'd Winds, in hasty Tumult, rave.
Thunder and Lightning, with portentous Glare,
Incessant flash, and grumble thro' the Air.
Dread Hurricanes, and raging Tempests, rise,
Embroil the Deep, and dash the distant Skies.

126

A Gloom of Clouds the Face of Day o'er-spreads,
And wild Confusion fills the oozy Beds.
Now Alps of Water bears the Vessel high;
Then, buried in th' Abyss, she seems to lye.
The Sails are torn, the Ropes asunder break,
The Sides are bruis'd, and slipp'ry is the Deck.
A ghastly Paleness, in each Face appears,
And Death, portended, aggravates their Fears.
To their deaf Gods the Sailors turn their Eyes,
And tell their Case, in disregarded Cries.
Some, on their Knees, old Ocean's Grace implore,
And, to appease him, sacrifice their Store.
To Leda's Sons some tell their mournful Tale,
And some with Jove endeavour to prevail.
Like Baalam's Priests, they cry aloud, in vain:
No fancy'd God, or knew, or cur'd, their Pain.

127

Relentless Justice heightens still the Storm,
And Ruin stares, in ev'ry frightful Form.

But Jonah, harden'd in his dire Offence,
And thoughtless of the Turn of Providence;
Howe'er the Cause of all the threat'ning Woe,
Retir'd alone, and hid himself below.
Asleep, or stun'd, no Dangers cou'd awake
His senseless Mind, 'till thus the Pilot spake;

“Thou Sluggard, who, amidst our common Woes,
“Can'st thus, unmov'd, thy self to Death expose;
“What art thou? Where are all thy Senses gone?
“Ha'st thou no God? Or know'st thou there is one?
“Shake off thy Slumber, and devoutly sue
“For Common Safety to thy self, and Crew.
“Perhaps thy Guardian, for thy Sake, may send
“Relief to thee that may us all befriend.

128

Thus he most sluggish was, who most had sinn'd,
And thus a Heathen rouz'd a Prophet's Mind!

Mean while the Sailors hold a hot Debate
About the Cause of their impending Fate.
One reckons Murder is the fatal Spring;
Another Treason 'gainst the State, or King.
But all agreed some impious Wretch was there,
On whose Account, the Gods were so severe:
And all resolv'd to find him out, by Lot,
Whoe'er he was, or whatsoe'er his Fault.

Now, one by one, their trembling Hands advance!
Each was afraid the Lot shou'd prove his Chance.
Each looks with Terror on his Actions past,
And, at the Thoughts of dying, stands aghast.
Each thought the Tempest for his Crimes was sent;
And all look'd pale about the dire Event.

129

Vain were their Fears; for Jonah was to come,
Jonah! the Cause, the Subject, of the Doom.
The trembling Wretch, no sooner shook the Urn,
Than all their Eyes on him, the guilty, turn.
All, curious, press to learn from whence he came,
What his Condition was, and what his Name.
Conscious of Ill, he feels an inward Smart,
And sad Distraction rages in his Heart.
His outward Form declares his secret Pain;
For Looks, the Language of the Soul explain.

How easy 'tis for Men to murder Fame!
But who can stifle his own Sense of Shame?
The Wretch, that to an abject State is thrown,
Than Mankind's Favour, loses more his own.

There is a Judge in ev'ry human Breast,
The Source of constant Trouble, or of Rest.

130

This Inmate Friend, or Foe, will still prevail,
And overtake the Sinner under Sail:
Swifter than Wind, it flies where'er he goes,
And bears along a Train of cutting Woes.
No Crime so secret, but it ponders well,
And reprehends with an interior Hell.
This Guest, unseen, now dreadfully appears,
To hollow Rebel thro' the Prophet's Ears.
Prompted by it, he frank Confession made,
And, after Silence was commanded, said;

“'Twou'd be in vain for me, with sly Deceit,
“To plead not-guilty, and my Cause debate.
“He, whom the jarring Elements obey,
“Who governs all Things with despotick Sway,
“To whom all Nature's open at a View,
“Wou'd soon my Crime, as now he does, pursue:

131

“Favour'd as others of that chosen Race,
“The Seed of Jacob, Objects of his Grace,
“My Lot was cast in Judah's pleasant Land,
“Where joyn'd I was to a distinguish'd Band,
“That knows God's Mind, and bears his high Command.

“Long I had dwelt in Sion's holy Hill,
“And prophesy'd to Men my Master's Will,
“When, by Commission, I was charg'd to go,
“And warn th' Assyrians of approaching Woe.
“Yet, much distrusting providential Care,
“I rather chuse to fly, than perish there.

“Unthinking Wretch! to disobey my God,
“Since sad Destruction waits his awful Nod;
“And they, that sin against the clearest Light,
“Provoke him most t'exert his vengeful Might.

132

“Now, here I stand an Object of his Wrath,
“And, for my Sake, you're all expos'd to Death.
“Ye charge the Horrours of the Deep in vain,
“And, to deaf Idol Deities, complain.
“His Word, that turn'd these wat'ry Worlds to Flame,
“That Flame to Tempest, can alone the Tempest tame.

The Sailors now, with this Account, amaz'd,
All trembling stood, and on each other gaz'd.
A deadly Cold ran shiv'ring to their Hearts,
Thrill'd in their Veins, and froze their inward Parts.
All, for the Prophet, utmost Pity show'd,
And, as they cou'd, the sinking Vessel row'd.
But Winds rage furious, swelling Billows roar,
Clouds clash with Clouds, and Lightnings play the more.
All Nature wore Confusion in her Face,
And seem'd as jostled from her proper Place.

133

The Luminaries of the Heav'ns were pent,
And Sheets of curling Smoke involv'd the Firmament.

So, when the grim Inhabitants of Hell,
From Realms of Light, for Disobedience, fell,
Nothing was heard around the dreary Coasts,
But sullen Moans and Cries of tortur'd Ghosts:
And nought was seen, but Gleams of sulph'rous Light,
Which join'd the Gloom, and made more dreadful Night.

Now Hopes were lost, and all Essays thought vain,
To Jonah thus the Sailors turn again.

“Since by thy Fault (as thou did'st now confess)
“We labour, helpless, in this dire Distress,
“Tell, if thou know'st thy pow'rful Deity's Will,
“How we may best the raging Tempest still;
“What Means are needful, to appease his Wrath,
“And save our selves, if possible, from Death.

134

The Prophet, trembling, made 'em this Reply;
“T'atone for Guilt, the guilty Soul must die.
“For me alone hath happ'ned all this Woe:
“The Storm is mine, not your avenging Foe.
“Make Haste to plunge me, in the swelling Deep,
“And all your Cares, and all the Winds, shall sleep.
“Soon as the Ship of such a Weight is eas'd,
“A Calm shall spread, and Justice be appeas'd.

Again, the pitying Sailors ply'd their Oars,
With Skill and Strength, to reach the Tarsian Shores,
But ceas'd, at length, t'employ a fruitless Care,
And thus to Heav'n address'd their pious Pray'r.

“O pow'rful Being! of all Gods the best!
“Regard, we pray, regard our sad Request.
“Thou know'st, we thirst not for thy Servant's Life,
“Nor are we prompted by revengeful Strife;

135

“We covet not the Riches he enjoys,
“Nor is his Death our Pleasure, but his Choice.
“Thee, by his Crimes, he has enrag'd; and now
“Thy Justice threatens to inflict the Blow.
“We Instruments are only in thy Hand,
“To execute what Justice does demand.
“Then, from the Guilt of Blood, thy Suppliants save,
“Nor Satisfaction, in thy Fury, crave.

With strange Reluctance, the obedient Crew
Into the Deep the Rebel Jonah threw.
Down he descends; and o'er his destin'd Head
The Waters close—he's number'd with the Dead.
But, as he sinks, the Winds retire apace,
No more the Billows ruffle Ocean's Face;
The Clouds disperse, the Air appears serene,
And sacred Silence reigns o'er all the Main.

136

So at the Dawning of our new made World,
When jarring Elements apart were hurl'd,
Rude Chaos from his old Dominion fled,
And peaceful Order round its Influence spread.

Now, struck with Wonder, all the Sailors raise
Their grateful Voices to th' Almighty's Praise,
Are taught with humble Reverence to view
His wond'rous Work, and to his Wisdom bow.
No more they vainly pious Tribute bring
To their false Gods, but to th' eternal King.
Him they adore, and beg his friendly Hand,
To guide 'em safe to the long wish'd for Land.

What sudden Change! The Sea is all serene,
And Gladness in each Countenance is seen.
All seize their Oars, and, with elated Minds,
To urge their Haste, invite the willing Winds.

137

The willing Winds the spreading Sail supply,
While from each Side the yielding Waters fly;
Upon the Tide the wanton Dolphins play;
And fair in Sight appears the Tarsian Bay.

But Jonah, whom, of late, no Ship cou'd save,
By Care divine, rests in a living Grave.
With ardent Soul to Heav'n for Help he pray'd,
And Heav'n, in Pity, sent him speedy Aid.
The Word was giv'n, and soon the scaly Herd
Forgot their Hunger, and the Prey rever'd.
Proud to attend the Stranger, all draw near,
'Till their huge King, Leviathan, appear,
That, as a Mountain of enormous Size,
Confounds the Deep, and laves the distant Skies,
O'er finny Shoals maintains despotick Reign,
And rolls, in State, thro' the capacious Main.

138

As yawns an Earth-quake, he, at God's Command,
Strange to relate! does his large Jaws expand,
Disclose the hideous Cavern of his Womb,
And there, alive, the trembling Seer entomb.

Now, safe within the monstrous Whale he lies,
And all the Force of Winds, and Waves, defies.
Where Light ne'er enter'd, now he draws his Breath,
And glides serene thro' liquid Paths of Death.

Yet, whilst our Prophet is in Prison hurl'd
Thro' all the Lab'rinths of the wat'ry World,
By pow'rful Faith, he overcomes Despair,
And, as from Hell, puts up this pious Pray'r;
“To thee, my God, enthron'd above the Sky,
“From dismal Caverns of the Deep I cry.
“No Floods, no Billows can controul my Mind:
“The Thoughts of Man are ever unconfin'd

139

“Unwearied, as the active Flames, they move,
“And wander thro' the distant Realms above.

“For me, amidst the Horrours of my Case,
“I'll hope for Mercy, and implore thy Grace.
“While thou can'st pardon, tho' thou look'st severe,
“There's Place for Sinner's Hope, as well as Fear.
“Tho' here expell'd, and banish'd from thy Sight,
“By Faith, in my Salvation I'll delight.
“Why shou'd I, helpless, in my Ship-wreck, mourn,
“Since Faith a Judge can to a Saviour turn?

“Tho' Darkness round me all her Terrors spread,
“The dreadful Billows bellow o'er my Head,
“And I'm confin'd in Caverns of the Main,
“Amidst my Woes, I'll Faith and Hope maintain.
“Thou, who can'st shake the Center, can'st controul
“The Rebel Pow'rs of my tumultuous Soul,

140

“Restrain the wild Disorder of my Blood,
“And save me from the Dangers of the Flood.

“More readily we cannot Mercy plead
“In our Distress, than thou vouchsaf'st thine Aid.
“Soon as I, sinking in the Waters, cry'd,
“Thy great Command o'er-rul'd the booming Tide,
“And sent this huge Leviathan, in Haste,
“To save my Life, e're Remedy was past.
“Coud'st thou, when such a guilty Wretch did crave,
“A Miracle perform, his Life to save?
“And shall I fear thou wilt not find a Way,
“To shew me yet the pleasant Light of Day?

“No: thou wilt back an humble Captive bring,
“And make thy Prophet, in Thy Temple, sing.
“I'll trust thy Mercy, whose Almighty Arm
“Has Pow'r to rescue me from ev'ry Harm.

141

“The Time will come, when I, for my Release,
“Shall bless my God, with Offerings of Peace,
“When freed from all the Fetters that surround
“And hold me here, as in close Prison, bound,
“I shall again to Men, thy Mind reveal,
“And of thy Pow'r, thy Love, and Goodness, tell.
“It shall be said, thy Arm Deliv'rance wrought,
“And, from th' Abyss, an humble Suppliant brought.

“Ye blinded Zealots, who in Error stray,
“And to deaf Gods your senseless homage pay,
“Your Vanities with fiery Zeal pursue;
“Whil'st I before th' Eternal's Footstool bow:
“He scorns the Gifts of Riches, and of Art,
“And loves the off'rings of an upright Heart.

“Oh! may I never tempt him, as before,
“But always grateful, as I shou'd, adore;

142

“By Lip, and Life, his glorious Praises sound,
“And spread the Story of his Mercies round.

The Prophet's Suit, with Faith and Fervour join'd,
Soon reach'd his Throne, and sooth'd th' Almighty's Mind.

From deepest Dungeons Pray'r can wing its Flight,
And, uncontroul'd, invade the Realms of Light.
As Sun-beams fierce, it scales Heav'ns lofty Walls,
And the high Portals open, when it calls.
Its Pow'r cou'd stop the Chariot of the Sun,
And, to the Flesh, bring back the Spirit gone.

Now, thro' th' Abyss the restless Monster roam'd,
And, flound'ring high, anew the Billows foam'd.
In Spite of Nature's strong and common Laws,
He's forced to expand his wide-devouring Jaws,
And vomit forth, at the Divine Command,
Unhurt, the wond'ring Prophet on the Land.

143

Thrice had the Sun his daily Race renew'd,
E'er Jonah, safe, his Fellow Creatures view'd.
A Type of that far greater Bliss to come,
When Man's Redeemer, buried in a Tomb,
Shou'd ride victorious o'er infernal Pow'rs,
Lead Captive Death, and break his Prison Doors!

What can't th' Almighty Pow'r of God perform?
His Word can raise, and sudden calm a Storm.
The Elements from nat'ral Jarrs he keeps,
And makes unfrozen Billows stand in Heaps.
The dreadful Monsters, that infest the Main,
Are all obsequious Subjects of his Reign.
His Word can frustrate Hell's pernicious Ends,
And, out of cruel Foes, make kind protecting Friends.

Wet on the Shore the wond'ring Jonah lay,
When soon from Heav'n a Voice forbade his Stay;

144

“Haste, Prophet, haste to Nineveh the great,
“And warn the People of impending Fate;
“Let thy Experience teach, that, 'twould be vain
“For thee, unpunish'd, to make Shift again.

Now Jonah, fearing God's Displeasure more
Than he had done the Wrath of Men before,
To Nineveh directs his speedy Pace,
Nor stop'd, 'till he had reach'd th' appointed Place,
A Place so spacious, that the circling Sun,
E're it was travel'd round, might thrice his Journey run.

Aurora now had just begun to gild
The blushing Skies, and animate the Field,
When Jonah enters at the opening Gates,
Nor for a crowded Auditory waits;
But, breaking Silence, boldly thus begins
To threaten Judgments for their crying Sins.

145

“Attend, ye destin'd Citizens, and hear
“The dreadful Message I, a Prophet, bear.
“To you I'm sent by the supreme Command,
“Of him, whose Scepter governs Sea and Land;
“Whose steddy Ballance does the Mountains sway,
“Whose reign the wild and barbarous Beasts obey;
“Around whose Throne, array'd in heavenly State,
“Myriads of Angels for their Orders wait,
“In flaming Fire, as on the Wings of Wind,
“To punish all that with Presumption sinn'd.
“Thus, o'er Gomorrah, ripe for weighty Wrath,
“At one dread Nod, he spread a gen'ral death.
“And now, e're yonder Globe of radiant Light
“Twice twenty Times dispel the Shades of Night,
“Great Nineveh, whose Crimes for Vengeance cry,
“In ruinous Heaps, Gomorrah like, shall lie.

146

“Impartial Justice, with a Hand severe,
“No Age, no Sex, no Quality will spare.
“Riches and Pow'r shall prove a weak Defence
“Against the Bolts of God's Omnipotence.

As boldly thus the Prophet cry'd aloud,
The Streets turn'd frequent by the list'ning crowd.
All Sorts of People press, his Words to hear,
And, conscious of their Guilt, the threatned Vengeance fear.

But who the Pain the destin'd Wretches feel,
Without a Sorrow, like their own, can tell?
Uproar and Noise the populous City fill'd,
And, thro' all Veins, a trembling horrour thrill'd.
Some rave with Madness, and confirm'd Despair,
Beat their swoln Breasts, and tear their tatter'd Hair;
Whilst others draw, in still-born Sounds, their Breath,
And shiver at the fearful Thoughts of Death.

147

All, earnest, turn to Heav'n their melting Eyes,
And plead for Mercy with accented cries.
Distinctions vanish in the common Woe:
All have deserv'd, and strive to ward, the Blow.
The King himself, the Monarch of the East,
Of highest Pomp and Luxury possest,
Whose conquering Arms, to distant Nations spread,
Make Princes slaves, and fill the World with Dread;
Soon as the fatal Tidings reach'd his Ears,
Begins to think, and stoops to humble Fears,
No more his gilded Royalty displays,
But, clad in Sack-cloth, most devoutly prays.
Low on the Ground he, prostrate, made his Bed,
Conven'd his Council, and, with haste, decreed,
“That all his People instantly shou'd bend
“Before th' Almighty, and their Lives amend,

148

“No more, in Ways of Error, loosely rove,
“But Converts to the Rules of Virtue prove;
“Instead of Mirth, with a sincere Design,
“Make publick Vows t'attone the Wrath divine;
“For many Days, nor Man, nor Beast, shou'd taste
“Their common Fare, but keep a solemn Fast;
“The costly Robes to Rags of Sack-cloth turn,
“And know no Pleasure, but repent and mourn;
“That Heav'n, perhaps, might shew a gentle Face,
“And Justice yield to Mercy's milder Grace.

Now Nineveh another Scene appears,
Where Laughter reign'd, behold a flood of Tears!
Afflicted all, with penal Sack-cloth clad,
In Ashes, prostrate on the Ground, were laid.
The stubborn Minds, that never bow'd before,
With earnest Vows th' Almighty's Grace implore.

149

They change their Thoughts, their crooked Ways amend,
And humbly strive to make their Judge their Friend;
Push the last Effort, to revoke their Doom,
And stop the Judgments, now foretold, to come.

The News of Danger, haughty Sinners shake,
And, at the Sight of Death, the stubborn Atheists quake.

Mean while the Prophet leaves the humbl'd Town,
And waits that God shou'd pour his Vengeance down.
Alone he wanders, musing, in the Fields,
And, on a Hill, a simple Lodging builds.
Impatient, oft he turns his gazing Eyes
To Nineveh, the hideous Scene of Vice.
Sometimes he looks for Ruin from the Winds;
Sometimes from Angels, (those celestial Minds,
That round the Throne of the Eternal wait,
To bear Salvation, or vindictive Fate.)

150

But vain his anxious Hopes! to see the Doom,
That he had threat'ned very soon wou'd come;
For now the Cries of Nineveh for Peace,
Prevail with Heav'n, and gain Jehovah's Grace.
Mercy, scarce govern'd by eternal Laws,
Exerts its Force, and triumphs in their Cause.
So sweet its Air, so melting are its Charms,
It oft with ease Omnipotence disarms,
Changes his Thoughts, his angry Brow unbends,
And, of a Foe, can make the best of Friends.

The Prophet, as affronted, inly mourn'd,
His Eyes with Fire, his Breast with Fury burn'd.
Honour, a Bubble which he vainly sought,
He fear'd wou'd break, and he be set at nought.

What art thou, Fame, by Mortals thus desir'd?
With hopes of Thee, all human Minds are fir'd.

151

Tho' few can be so miserably blind,
As not to see Thee made of empty Wind.
Like an enchanted Palace in the Air,
Thou mock'st our Grasp, and frustrat'st all our Care.
In vain we strive, whilst Envy has her Stings,
To hold Thee fast, and soar upon thy Wings.
Yet were we of thy chiefest Joys possest,
What further Pleasure cou'd inspire our Breast?
What Benefit wou'd from the Bubble grow,
When in the Urn, unconscious, laid below?

The Prophet's Mind, now discompos'd by Care,
Was thus to Heav'n express'd in hasty Pray'r.

“Had I not reason from thy Face to fly,
“And chuse, than be affronted thus, to die?
“Did I not know thou woud'st too soon repent,
“And I shou'd be a lying Prophet, sent?

152

“I knew my Errand would at length prove vain,
“And, I return with dire Disgrace again.
“Mercy with Thee's an Attribute belov'd,
“By which ev'n Fate unchangeable is mov'd.
“Now since, as formerly I fear'd, my Fame
“Is, by this Mercy, dash'd with endless Shame,
“What profits Life? O let me rather die,
“Than live on Earth, and suffer Infamy.
“Take from me, take this hated Life away:
“Death is the Debt that I'm prepar'd to pay.

Th' Almighty heard, and thus with Voice of Peace
To Jonah spake, and reason'd on his Case.

“'Tis true, my Prophet, Nineveh has sinn'd,
“And Judgments, as thou threatned'st, were design'd.
“But, at thy Warning, all the People turn'd,
“And, low in Sack-cloth, their Condition mourn'd;

153

“The Conduct of my Providence ador'd,
“And Mercy, with their earnest Vows, implor'd.
“Do'st thou then well to chide my sov'reign Grace,
“And grudge the Good of a repenting Place?
“Do'st thou in Mischief take a dear Delight?
“Have I done Wrong, and art thou in the Right?
“Can Anger help thee? better 'tis to fear,
“And learn my Dispensations to revere.

This spoke, to sooth the gloomy Prophet's mind,
And prove a Shelter from the Sun and Wind,
He gave command, and sudden, round his Head,
A verdant Gourd her shadowing Honours spread.
The Prophet, pleas'd, improv'd the Sent Relief,
Nor, whilst it lasted, more express'd his Grief.
Secure beneath the fragrant Fruit he sate,
To see the Tow'rs of Ninus bow to Fate.

154

But at th' approach of next returning Day,
The Plant that sudden sprung, as sudden dy'd away.

Now eastern Winds with blust'ring Fury rise,
Vex all the Air, and agitate the Skies,
The scorching Sun-beams play on Jonah's Head,
Exhaust his Blood, and lay him almost dead.
Fainting, he stretch'd his Body on the Ground,
And spoke his Sorrows in a broken Sound.
Weary of Life, he wish'd it had an end,
And begg'd that God would Death immediate send.

Again th' Almighty—does my Servant well,
“With Rage, for losing of the Gourd, to swell?

The hasty Prophet, thoughtless, made reply;
“Thou know'st I'm angry, and I wish to die.
“Have I not cause, when Life a burden grows,
“To wish for Death, to finish all my Woes?

155

“Who cou'd such Treatment patiently endure,
“And not desire that most effectual Cure?
“When Honour's lost, 'tis a Relief to die:
“For Death's a sure retreat from wounding Infamy.

Once more to Jonah great Jehovah spake;
“Do'st thou, my Servant, such compassion take
“Upon a Gourd, whose Seed thou did'st not sow,
“Nor wert at costly Pains to make it grow?
“Do'st thou, thus fondly, place thy dear delight
“In what sprung up, and perish'd in a Night?
“For a frail Plant cou'd'st thou express such Care,
“And shou'd not I a pop'lous City spare?
“Can'st thou for such a Trifle mourn, and yet
“Obdurate look upon a sinking State?
“Is Mercy strange? Have I not often sworn,
“To save the Sinners, that repent and turn?

156

“To humour thee, and prop thy tott'ring fame,
“Shall I my wonted Love, and Grace, disclaim;
“Upon an humbled People pour my Wrath,
“And, while they cry for Pardon, stop their Breath?

“Rash Man! thy wicked Murmuring forbear,
“And think how good, how glorious, 'tis to spare.
“Consider Nineveh's prodigious round,
“In which a World of Innocents is found.
“If harmless Flocks thy Pity cannot move,
“(Tho' ev'n for them I feel my pleading Love.)
“Can'st thou no Bowels of Compassion find,
“For tender Babes, that never proudly sinn'd?
“Cou'd'st thou see, blended in one common Fate,
“The Young, the old, the Lowly, and the Great?
“Behold their Looks, and hear their moving Cries,
“With unrelenting Heart, and with unmoist'ned eyes?

157

“No—I shall ne'er the City sacrifice,
“So chang'd of late, to humour thy Caprice.

Then Jonah, struck with sacred Awe, adores
Jehovah's conduct, and his Grace implores;
No longer for the City's Safety mourns,
But, into triumph, all his Sorrow turns.

Be rouz'd, ye Sinners, and reform betimes,
Ere threat'ned Judgments seize you for your Crimes.
While Mercy courts you with engaging Charms,
Without delay embrace the offer'd Terms.
Ere long (perhaps, while ye are slumb'ring) Death,
In dreadful Pomp, may lead the Way to Wrath.
All Help, and Hope, for ever disappear,
When Justice comes, your trembling Souls to tear.

O! may the guilty Nations soon repent,
Before the Shafts of heav'nly Rage are sent.

158

Already Justice mounts an awful Throne,
Prepar'd to hurl the Bolts of Vengeance down.
Thro' ev'ry Land are heard the dire Alarms:
The Hosts of Heav'n seem all to be in Arms.
Mercy and Grace arrest the Thunder now,
But cannot long divert the threat'ned Blow.

Thou, Watts, whose Pray'r can threat'ned Woe suspend,
Live long an intercessor, as a Friend.
Shou'dst thou, offended at our Crimes, retire,
To thy own Seat, in the celestial Quire;
Unless, Elijah like, thou leav'st behind
The pow'rful Graces of thy God-like Mind;
Soon wou'd our Sins draw Vengeance from the Sky,
And Britain's boasted State in Ruin lie.

159

Psalm the 139th.

I.

To thee, omniscient Being, I appeal;
For 'twou'd be vain my Actions to conceal,
From thine all-searching Eye!
The Works thy pow'rful Hands have wrought,
In thy Immensity of Thought,
For ever open lie.
My rising up, and lying down,
My very Thoughts to Thee are known!
Known, 'ere their Schemes are model'd in my Mind,
Before I can their Form and Likeness find.

160

Thy piercing Knowledge scans the whole Machine
And views the Embryo's of my Heart within.
Which way soe'er I turn my self about,
Thy Godhead finds me out!
Where'er I go, thou my Companion art!
Trace I the Valley, Wood, or Hill,
I cannot from Omniscience start:
Thou look'st Creation thro', and see'st me still!
Go I in publick, Thou art there!
In solitude, I'm ne'er alone!
My Bed is guarded by thy Care!
And all my secret Whispers reach thy Throne!
Such Knowledge is too great for Man!
'Tis Mystery all! who comprehend it can?
It is a Depth, that swallows up my Mind!
And, like thy Self, immense to all Mankind!

161

Ev'n they, who think they understand it most,
Bewilder'd are, and lost!

II.

Cou'd I so foolish, so perfidious, prove,
To think of once deserting God?
O whether cou'd my Fancy mean to rove,
Where Omnipresence keeps no fix'd Abode?
Whether, ah! whether cou'd I run
Thy universal Influences to shun?
To what Retirement cou'd I fly,
T'elude thy comprehensive Eye?
If to the Regions of eternal Day
I take my hasty flight,
There, dazzled with immediate Beams of Light,
I durst not make a Stay,
But downward seek my safer Way.

162

Then, shou'd I to th' Abyss of Hell
For certain Refuge go,
Ev'n there almighty Terrors dwell,
And nourish never-ending Woe.
Unable there my residence to hold,
If, next, the Wings of Light I take,
And, with a Spirit, curiously bold,
Of some strange Land a new Discovery make,
Thy swifter Pow'r would first arrive,
And there arrest the Fugitive.
Beneath the cold, or burning Zone,
No Spot remains to Providence unknown!
O hide me, hide me, Shades of Night!
Thick Darkness is a solid Screen.
Vain Wish! one glance of piercing Light,
Can cut the Veil, and make the Sinner seen.

163

Nor need'st thou use our Medium of Day,
Thro' Night's Disguise to clear a Way!
Enthron'd in Light, thy Self its sacred Spring,
Thou, with one undivided View,
Uncover'st Darkness' closest Wing,
And look'st its Horrors thro'.

III.

Thine are the Springs, that Life and Motion give!
By thee alone, I move and live!
Long, ere my earliest Rudiments of Thought
Were found within my Mind,
Thou laid'st the Plan of me, now wrought
Into the Likeness of Mankind.
Betimes, I grew the Object of thy Care!
Each single Thread, in Nature's Loom,
By thee, was fashion'd in the Womb,

164

And curious was my whole Provision there!
Each Feature, Ligament, and Vein,
The very texture of my Heart,
Were Subjects of almighty Art.
Well do'st thou know whatever I contain,
And well thou can'st th' Anatomy explain.
But whether tends this Care divine?
Why all this waste upon my poor Machine?
“My Wonder, and my Gratitude to raise.
Yes, while I live, with deep amaze,
I'll wonder at thy Works, and sing thy Praise.
Let me into my self retire,
I cannot want Materials for my Song:
Reflection will the Muse inspire,
Awake my Harp, and tune my Lyre,
And drop melodious Homage from my Tongue.

165

Thy Providence, thy Thoughts of Love,
Which, since the Maze of Life I trod,
In spite of all my Wanderings, gracious prove,
Increase my Wonder, and my Debt to God.
When shall my poor Acknowledgments be done?
When shall I pay the Debt I owe?
Each Day, in more Arrears I run!
So high my great Account does grow,
That ev'n revising seems but new begun!

Isaiah, Chapter 13.

See! Heav'n's dread Banners, waving in the Air,
And Signals, scatter'd o'er the hilly Ground,
Shew the approach of Vengeance. Hark! the Noise
Makes Mountains tremble, and the Vales return,

166

In shuddering Sounds, the Weight and Din of War,
The stable Rocks confess, with hideous groan,
The Burden of a God; whose awful Call
Summons the Nations, far disjoyn'd, together;
And, round his Standard, congregates the Pow'rs
Of Heav'n, embattled. Lo! the Day is come!
Awake, O Land, and view Disasters near.
See Terrors spread, and Ruin stalks abroad.
Already, Fear and Trembling seize the Crowd.
All Hands hang down, and Visages grow pale,
And, thro' each Soul, convulsive Horrors start.
No wonder: 'tis th' Omnipotent, who comes,
Array'd with Glory, and begirt with Strength.
He comes revengeful. Prodigies prepare
His dreadful March: and Wrath around displays
Its fatal Signs, to rouze the slumb'ring World.

167

What Thunders roar to charge the destin'd Foe?
What Arrows thirst for human Gore? See! lightnings
Flash, in the Van! and Troops of Death stalk horrid
In the destructive Rear! All Nature stands astonished,
And broad Creation seeks to shun the Fright.
How Earth's Foundation quakes? what dire Convulsions
Reach Heav'ns high Arch? ha! sudden Night o'erspreads
The starry Frame, the Plannets skulk in Clouds.
The Sun, amaz'd, at Dawn of Day, retires
To Shades. Below Distraction reigns around,
And wild Confusion rules the azure Space.

Go forth (says God) thou executing Sword,
Ye various Instruments of Ruin, fly,
And punish this rebellious Land. Allow
No Quarter, nor compound with impious Man.

168

Against my Foes my Indignation burns,
And, on their Land, my Vengeance points its course.
Treasures of Fury, and Reserves of Wrath,
Grown ripe with Age, shall pour, at once, their Force
Collected on this Country. In a Deluge
Of purple Dye, I'll bathe the Vales around,
And melt the Mountains with the People's Blood.
The haughty Chiefs shall seek, in vain to hide
Their destin'd Heads: and, with Plebeian Clay,
Shall royal carnage mix. He, who before did spurn
My Grace and Bounty, low in Dust, shall howl
Beneath my Might, and wish Release, in vain.
So desolate I'll lay this sinful Realm,
That savage Brutes, at sight of human Faces,
Shall gaze, as Men at Prodigies, affrighted.

For now the Day, the great, tremenduous, Day,
Big with the Fate of Babylon, is come.

169

The Time is come, when God will pay th' Arrears
Of Judgment, due to Sinners. It comes on
Adorn'd with all the Images of Horror.
The Heav'ns, afraid, forsake their Place: and Earth
Shakes to its Center, and th' Almighty shuns,
While, brandish'd, in his red right Hand, the Sword
Of Vengeance glares. Lo! Now the radiant Spoiler
Fierce, urges on, and lays the Country waste.
Where'er his Course the angry Victor bends,
Ruin, in all its horrid Forms, pursues.
No Age, no Sex, no different Rank, or State,
From common Ravage and Destruction freed,
Escapes the pointed Mischief. Pow'rs ally'd,
Partake the People's Fate. Promiscuous, all
Mix in the Carnage, as in Sin combin'd.
Mark! how th' insulting Conquerors march on,
With Lust and Rage, inspir'd. What Blood, what Rapes,

170

Cry horrible to unrelenting Actors?
How is the Fruit of the maternal Womb
Blasted in Blossom? What sharp Pangs are felt
By tender Mothers? How the Infants draw
Their Breath in Torture; and, at Dawn of Life,
Sink in eternal Death? They see the Light,
And, as they see, expire! afflictive Scene!

Behold the Medes, a formidable Race!
Hasten to spoil. See! how, in dread Array,
Their Legions stretch along contiguous Lands!
They move in Triumph, and exult in Strength.
What Schemes of Death, in ev'ry Soldier's Thought,
Are deep revolv'd? Their generous Souls contemn
The Persian Luxury and Wealth. Dauntless they march
To execute th' Almighty's Will. Where'er they move,
The destin'd Foes must yield. Idly, they scorn
To bend the Bow. On every Dart, the Stings

171

Of Death attend. No Quarter they allow,
And none in pity spare. All share the Fate
Of bloody War, and desart turns the Land.

And thou, O Babylon, the great! the proud!
Think not to 'scape. Tho' now the boasted Head
Of the Chaldean Glory, thou shalt fall.
No more shall Nations bend before thy Throne,
No more shall tribute humbly wait thy Nod.
Low on the Ground, thy tow'ring Pomp shall lye,
And deep in ruin shalt thou hide thy Head.
The stately Walls, which now, with impious Height,
Conceal the Clouds from human Eye, shall sink
Abject in Earth. The glorious piles, that spread
Lustre around, and rival Stars, shall waste
In all-devouring Flames. Nor shall Mankind
Repair thy ruin'd Domes, thy Walls, destroy'd;
No pitying Hand exalt thy humbled State.

172

To all succeeding Times thou must remain
An exemplary Scene of Woe: for ever lie
As curst Gomorrah, that, with Vengeance due,
Was burnt in Fires, for far less buruing Lust.

The Day's at Hand, when on thy fruitful Soil,
The Product of their Labour none shall reap.
His Tent the wand'ring Arab will not spread,
Nor make thy Ground his Place of Rest. Tho' faint
With travel, he will scare his Herd
From thy embitter'd Flood. The careful Shepherd
Will warn his roaming Flocks from thy Remains,
As o'er thy ruin'd Battlements they stray,
Or in thy lowly Tow'rs attempt to graze.
Strangers shall say, ah! where is Babylon?
And when they find where once thou wert, they'll cry
Let's shun this Place, for 'tis accursed Ground.
No human kind thy Wilderness shall bless.

173

Nought, but the savage Beasts, and Birds of Prey,
Shall fix their hideous Habitation there.
To them ungrateful Men shall quit their Seat.
To them, thy Marble Roofs, and Cedar Rooms,
Shall then be Dens. Thy Courts of Justice then
Shall be their Haunts of State. There shall they plod
For Blood, where Tyrants bore their Spoils of old.
There in wild Harmony shall they convene,
And triumph, in their Turn; more innocent
Than Men had been, who govern'd there before.

How will the mournful Satyrs there bemoan,
And Ghosts glide horrible along thy Ruins,
To view where their unburied Bodies lay?
There shall the Owls and Dragons load the Air,
And strike the Trav'ller's Ear with dismal Sound.
All the obscener Birds of dusky Night
Will there resort, and hide themselves from Day.

174

Voracious Monsters there shall find repose,
And hooping Horrors make the Place more baleful.
Forboding Fowls and Ghosts, confus'd, shall dwell,
And speak their dire Presages on the Walls,
With Earth laid level. This, O Babylon,
Is thy just Doom, the Punishment of Guilt.
Thus will th' Almighty, patient long, exert
At last his Vengeance on an impious Race,
Who scorn'd his Warnings, and refus'd his Grace.

177

A Familiar Epistle, TO Major Richardson Pack,

With the following PASTORAL.

While You, dear Pack, for Court and Camp prepar'd,
With equal Skill an Hero and a Bard!
Advent'rous thro' the crowded Alley press,
With Pains unwearied and deserv'd Success;
From the sweet Scene I live alas! afar,
At Jauncy's Angel without Temple Bar,

178

Destin'd to suffer Pennance for my Crimes,
By Jobbing only thro' a Maze of Rhimes:
A fruitless Game! A Game that none shou'd chuse,
Who wants a Coach, although he has a Muse.

Yet, Pardon, Sir, the Rudeness of a Friend,
His rural Lays at such a Time to send:
A Time, when nought shou'd be receiv'd or sent,
But Transfers, Permits, Bills, and Money lent:
And, when from Alley-Avocations free,
You leisure have to think of Verse and me,
(At least when driving homewards Debonair,
In London Chariot, or Parisian Chair.)
Deign to peruse 'em with a gracious Eye—
But hide, O hide the Blunders you descry:
For as your Approbation is my Fame,
The Town will damn my Labours, if You blame.

August 2, 1720.

181

THE DOLEFUL SWAINS:

A Pastoral Poem

[_]

Written Originally in the Scotch Dialect, with an English Version.

Bellair , a Youth of the Poetick Train,
Was sporting on the Caledonian Plain;
Where, underneath a cooling Shade he found,
Three mournful Shepherds lying on the Ground.
Dispos'd t'afford 'em all some kind Relief,
He ask'd the Cause of their invet'rate Grief;

183

Who thus by turns, with Emulation sung
Their diff'rent Ailments, in their native Tongue.

William.
Alas! quoth William, if my Grief you knew,
With Sympathy you'd be distracted too.
Betty, the Sweet, the Beautiful, the Young,
By me, alas! lov'd, kiss'd, and courted long,
Has play'd the Jilt, and join'd another Swain.

David.
What's that, quoth David, to my mighty Pain?
A Lamb, the Pride of all my little Flock,
Was worried yonder on a rugged Rock.

Mungo.
How little Cause have some to be perplex'd?
My Mind hath greater Reason to be vex'd.
My Landlord, plague consume his fawning Tongue!
Pled, 'till I parted with my Money, long,

185

He swore, if I wou'd put it in the Stocks,
That some kind Broker, cunning as a Fox,
Wou'd soon improve it to a large Estate,
But all is lost, and I must curse my Fate.

William.
I wonder, Sirs, to see you have a Face,
To equal Trifles to a lovely Lass!
None use with Lambs or Money to compare,
A precious Soul.—

David.
Refer it to Bellair.
Whether his Mistress, or your Money lost,
Or I for my dead Lamb-kin suffer most.

Mungo.
So be it—let Bellair the Case decide,
For he's a Scholar, and yet has no Pride.

187

But first, let each some worthy Wager lay,
That he who wins may bear a Prize away.
I for my Part will stake my ruddy Ox,
I suffer most by putting Gold in Stocks.

William.
And I this Ring will pledge whene'er you please,
In my behalf, he will decide the Case.
'Tis all the Gift that e'er my Betty gave,
More priz'd by me than all the Herds you have.

David.
I have nor Ox, nor Ring indeed to stake,
But all my Goods ye shall have leave to take,
If I the Dispute lose,—so sure I am,
My Loss is greatest who have lost a Lamb.

Bellair.
Your kindness moves me, Shepherds, for your sake,
Grateful whate'er I can to undertake.

189

But first, as Judge, 'tis requisite I know
The Aggravations of your various Woe,
Before I can impartial Sentence pass—

William.
Let me begin, who lost a lovely Lass?
The greatest Cause should first of all be heard,
And he, that sweetest Sings, enjoy the best Reward.

Bellair.
Let Mungo first rehearse his mournful Tale,
(For Bubbles more than Lasses now prevail;)
You next, and David last of all reply—
The Muses love alternate Melody.
And, as a Premium for the Shepherd's Pains,
Who best resembles Ramsay 's rural Strains;
In Burchet 's Name, I here engage to give
Twice twenty Crowns, his Courage to revive.

191

Mungo.
What shall I say? Five Pounds I had and more,
All yellow Gold, laid up in secret Store;
Behind the Chimney, pent from Face of Day,
Long in the Wall it undiscover'd lay;
It lay well hid, 'till Stocks begun to rise,
O if I had it back! I would be Wise.

William.
I thought false Betty was my own secure,
And, when we should be married, in my Pow'r.
But ah! how oft have Shepherds soon believ'd,
And, by the Jilts they trusted, been deceiv'd.

David.
My Lamb was grown a strong, a blooming Beast,
(My Landlord ne'er enjoy'd a fatter Feast;)
Oft have I answer'd to my neighb'ring Swains,
Who ask'd its growth,—The best on all the Plains.

193

But Fate, relentless, met it on the Rock,
And I alas! am quite undone and broke.

Mungo.
I took my Landlord for an honest Man,
(But there's no trusting those that use to bann.)
And oft the Brokers gave me ground to hope,
My Grains should spring up to a plenteous Crop;
Yet, 'mongst 'em all, I poor unlucky Lad!
Instead of gathering more, have lost the Goods I had.

William.
My Neighbour Tom pretended still to be
An upright Man and faithful Friend to me;
Yet he has play'd a base, a treach'rous Part,
To steal away, so slyly, Betty's Heart.
This aggravates alas! my cutting Woe,
The Thought that stabs, and keeps me tortur'd so.

195

David.
If any Dog, to whom I ne'er was kind,
Had kill'd my Lamb, it would have eas'd my Mind:
But Coly, whom I most indulg'd, was he,
That hath reduc'd me to this Poverty.
Oft have I patted with my Hand his Head,
And from my Pockets thrown him Lumps of Bread;
And he most kindly us'd to wag his Tail,
Nor baulk'd my Business on the Hill or Dale.
But now, vile Cur! for all my Favours past,
He playd the Rogue, and serv'd me so at last.
Let ne'er a Shepherd trust his Dog again,—

Mungo.
It might have soften'd much my inward Pain,
And long ere now my Mourning had been o'er,
If they had said they would my Gold restore.

197

But who can bear with Patience to be robb'd?
Both out of Stock and Interest to be jobb'd?
As soon shall Frost congeal the surging Sea,
As those Deceivers be forgiv'n by me.

William.
If Betty had not sworn and sworn again,
That she ne'er lov'd so much another Swain;
And that the Sea should sooner cease to roar,
Than she prove false, and give her William o'er,
I could have born with greater Ease my Grief,
And catch'd the smallest Cordial for Relief.

David.
How foolish is it for an honest Clown,
To trust a Dog when he's gray-bearded grown?
Coly, when Young, unpractis'd in Deceit,
Was still good-natur'd, and ne'er prov'd a Cheat;

199

Oft all my Flocks I trusted to his Care,
And thought he ne'er would plunge me in despair.
But, like a Statesman, he betray'd his Trust,
Before I had provok'd him to disgust.

Mungo.
Oft have I thought, before I knew their Tricks,
T'have had fine Lodgings, and a Coach with Six.
So high my Hopes my crafty Landlord rais'd!
So much were these unlucky Bubbles prais'd!
And yet I'm doom'd with painful Toil and Sweat,
To earn a Groat to buy my Belly Meat.
So sad it is for such a simple Swain,
To launch into the Deep, in quest of Gain.

William.
Betty and I, if she had faithful prov'd,
Had long ere now discover'd how we lov'd.

201

We might have lodg'd in the same House and Bed,
But she with Tom, curst Tom! has play'd the Jade.
His all the Children now alas must be,
Tormenting Thought! that should belong to me.

David.
Had Coly spar'd my blooming Lamb, I vow,
It would have prov'd a stately Creature now.
I might have sold it—for some lib'ral Men
Wou'd ne'er refuse the Price of five and ten:
Or if I chose to keep it with the rest,
It might in time have prov'd a teeming Beast.
For 'twas a Ewe, a Ewe of fruitful Kind;
Her Grandsire, if I right the Story mind,
Was sent my Father in a Gift from far,
With as fine Wool as e'er was laid with Tar.

203

Mungo.
What other Name than Robbers shall I give,
To those that take away my Means to live?
Tho' with a curteous Air and flatt'ring Tongue,
They made me trust I shou'd not want them long.
I wonder those, that their own selves disgrace,
By doing Wrong, can look us in the Face.

Williiam.
It should not half so much have vex'd my Mind,
If they had only kiss'd—Folk may be kind;
An unseen Slip, through Love, allow I can—
But to the Curate openly they ran.
Sometime before I saw them in a Grove,
I heard them tell some wondrous Tales of Love;
Mean while, for all that past betwixt them there,
She said she'd Marry me,—I was a Fool, I swear.

205

David.
Coly, false Cur! like an establish'd Rake,
(I wish the Law my Choler may not break!)
In open Day, perform'd the wicked Deed,
Cock'd up his Tail, and fleet o'er Mountains fled.
Whitefoot and Bawtie both beholding stood,
And Ill, ye know, is easier learn'd than Good.
If, after his Example, they pursue
And worry Sheep, what shall their Master do?

Mungo.
How can I think upon my little Store,
And yet my Heart be not afflicted sore?
'Twas Pleasure once to take the Guineas out,
And on the Table hurl them round about.
O! how each Piece glanc'd sweetly in my Eyes.
I'll curse those Brokers ev'ry Day I rise.

207

William.
O! how I'm tortur'd in my inmost Heart,
To think that ought shou'd me from Betty part;
For she was charming both in Mind and Face,
Without all Beauty and within all Grace.
Handsome and pretty was her stately Waist,
Her Legs genteel, and white as Snow her Breast;
But oh! her Cheeks, her Lips, her Eyes so rare,
She might e'en with my Lady's self compare.
None could behold her, (God forgive my Sin)
And not find Love thrill through his Veins within.

David.
O! 'twas a Pleasure, on the bushy Rock,
To see my Lamb-kin skip amidst the Flock.
O'er Stones it danc'd, and us'd to run and leap
As I to Fold convey'd my Flock of Sheep.

209

With Laughing once I thought t'have been undone,
When with full force upon my Dog it run.
Asleep he lay, when the facetious Beast
Rouz'd him in smart—it was a pleasant Jest!
But now my Sport is all to Sorrow turn'd,
What once delighted, now alas! is mourn'd.
If e'er my Hands can catch the Cur, I hope,
To make him rue his Manners in a Rope.

Bellair.
Shepherds, give o'er your soft complaining Lays,
All sing with Ease and merit more than Bays.
So well your various Suff'rings have been sung,
With Charms peculiar to your Native Tongue,
That, whilst I own that all of ye sing well,
'Tis hard to judge what Swain does most excel:
And did not Bus'ness make me bid adieu
To these sweet Plains, to Pastimes, and to you,

211

Nor have you, William, so much Cause to mourn,
Since Betty cou'd from you to Thomas turn.
The Swain's most happy, who has least to do
With Lasses, who can Jilt and break a Vow.
To other Strains adapt your tuneful Reed,
And joy that you from Misery are freed.
But David is a Sufferer, I own,
And hath most Ground of all the Three to moan.
David is poor, his Lamb was all his Pride,
That Lamb can ne'er revive again; beside,
He lost his Dog; and those that yet remain,
From his Example, may undo the Swain.
But let not David be oppress'd with Grief,
I'll go to Court, and thence procure Relief.
Craggs is a wise, a gen'rous Soul, I'm sure!
No Swain can suffer much, whilst he is cloath'd with Pow'r.

A Scotch Poet.

Mr. Secretary Burchet, a Patron of Ramsay.

212

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE MUSE.

If I, of Caledonian Race,
May hope to share of Cragg's Grace,
'Tis fit he first shou'd know my Case.

Then, Muse, address the Squire in Rhime,
But waste not his important Time,
With long and tedious Narration,
And tasteless, formal Supplication;
For certes He has more to do,
Than hearken to a Brat like you.

213

When by some artful Means or other,
You gain Admittance, make a Pother
To shew your Breeding; for, by Thee,
A Judgment will be made of Me.
Now, shou'd you with Behaviour akward
Appear, 'twou'd turn his Blessing backward:
Whereas you'll win him, by Decorum
Observ'd, when first you come before him.
So, having made a handsome Leg,
Tell him from whom you came to beg,
How I was bred an honest Whig,
And, in Rebellion Time, look'd big.
No Volunteer, in all our Party,
Was known more orthodox and hearty.
You may indeed confess my Bravery
Is small—but then so is my Knavery;

214

And, in the Cause, a faithful Creature,
His Honour knows is a great Matter!

When this is represented clearly,
Proceed to tell, however queerly;
How old a Dab I am at Wit,
And for a World of Uses fit!
—And here 'tis proper to enlarge,
And what your Conscience bids, discharge:
For You my Praise can better speak,
Than I, whom Modesty pulls back.

Next, faithful Muse, you may go on,
To shew that I shall be undone,
Unless he put me in a Place,
Or by a Pension cure my Case.
Suggest, that half a Score of Fellows,
(Whose Frauds, 'tis said, deserve the Gallows)

215

Are instantly to be turn'd out,
That others may get in, no Doubt.
Now, since I'm honest and in Need,
And eke can fairly write and read,
He may do worse than send me North,
To inspect Tobacco, and so forth.

But, after all, if Craggs shou'd say,
“Muse, tell thy Master he must stay;
“Besides, thou art a chatt'ring Elf;
“I want to talk with Mitchell's self—
E'en take your Leave with due Decorum,
As when you first appear'd before him.
Suffice it, that He heard You out—
A Sign he'll serve me, without Doubt!
Be it thy Task to sing his Praise,
And mine to mind whate'er he says.

216

To the Right Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq;

One of His Majesty's Principal Secretaries of State in the Year 1720.

Craggs, who, by Merits of your own,
Have climb'd to Honour and Renown!
Great Arbiter of Wit and Sense!
The Muses Friend, and my Defence!
Sure in this strange Stock-jobbing Season,
You've neither lost, nor left, your Reason;
And, therefore, tho' the World to me
Appears as mad as it can be,

217

I too wou'd fain my Fortune try,
Since you've a Finger in the Pye.
Tis plain, there is some Charm, or other,
Else wise Folks wou'd not make a Pother
About Subscriptions, great and small,
And, in the crowded Ally bawl,
Like Brokers with no Brains at all.
But what's the Charm, and how to know it,
Remains a Mystery to your Poet;
And must, while ready Cash is scant—
—Unless your Honour say, I shant.
Not that I covet, or wou'd seem
A Parasite in your Esteem—
No living Soul cares less for Money;
And, tho' I'm poor, I scorn to fun ye.
Only, for Fashion's sake, or so,
I shou'd be glad the Charm to know;

218

And try if I too, quitting Rhimes,
Cou'd cut a Figure in these Times.

But shou'd you leave it to my Muse
To name the Company I chuse,
I'm such a Novice in the Ally,
That, meditating Shilly, shally,
Your Honour's Patience wou'd be tir'd,
Ere I cou'd tell what I desir'd.
Sometimes, I like the South-Sea best;
Sometimes, believe it all a Jest.
To-Day, Welsh-Copper's my Delight;
To-Morrow, it appears a Bite.
By Turns, York-buildings, Chelsea-water,
And River Douglas, move my Satire.
The Indian, African, and so forth,
Now please, and then seem Things of no Worth.

219

In short, from Stocks at Cent per Cent,
To Stock, whereon no Money's lent,
(So apt my Humour is to rove)
I know not which to hate, or love.
Then may it please you, Sir, to say
What I must have, in your own Way—
And your Petitioner shall Pray.

220

AN ODE On receiving a Wreath of Bays from OPHELIA.

Non usitata, nec tenui ferar
Penna ------
Hor.

I

Let Him, who, favour'd by the Fair,
With Glove, or Ring, or Lock of Hair,
Think He's the happy Man—
The Crown, I wear upon my Head,
Has Energy to wake the Dead,
And make a Goose a Swan!

II

See! how, like Horace, I aspire!
I mount! I tow'r sublimely high'r!
And, as I soar, I sing!
Behold, ye Earth-born Mortals all,
I leave you on your Kindred Ball,
With Fancy's lofty Wing!

III

To humble Trophies dully creep,
And, in your Urns, inglorious sleep,
Ye Roman Cæsar's, now—
Your Eagles' Flight was all in vain,
Since I've more Triumph in my Brain,
And greater on my Brow.

222

IV

My Laurel, Rival of the Oak!
Malignant Planets, and the Stroak
Of Thunder, cannot shake.
My Thoughts, inspir'd by Love and Bays,
O'er all your boasted Lands and Seas,
Despotic Empire take.

V

Why did great Alexander grieve?
Because he cou'd no more atchieve?
Had I been living Then,
I wou'd have taught the Hero how
He might have made the Nations bow,
By Fancy more than Men!

VI

Encircled with my sacred Wreath,
I ride triumphant over Death;

223

And, at Poetic Wheels,
I draw the Seasons of the Year,
I charm all Heav'n into my Sphere,
And Hell my Fury feels.

VII

Shame on low Flights—Let us create
New Systems, and a new Estate,
For Bards and Lovers fit.
No higher, than Elysium,
Have Homer, Virgil, Ovid, come,
With all their tow'ring Wit.

VIII

To a new World, my Fair, let's fly,
A Venus Thou! Apollo I!
To raise a Race of Gods.
Attend us, Poets, if you'd have
A Subject, proof against the Grave,
T'immortalize your Odes.

224

IX

Astrologers, the Stars despise—
All Fate is in Ophelia's Eyes:
From Them derive your Skill.
Their Influence only can undo,
Restore, confound, amend, renew,
Re-animate, and kill.

On OPHELIA.

I

In Praise of Women, we proclaim
The Breasts of One, Another's Face,
Here Eyes for ever roll in Fame,
And there immortal lives a Grace.

225

II

But, when Ophelia's Charms we sing,
Not This, nor t'other Part, we praise,
Nor need we borrow'd Beauties bring,
A perfect Character to raise.

III

As Heav'ns Epitome design'd,
The Whole of Her our Wonder draws,
We worship and adore her Mind,
At once her Person charms and awes.

IV

What finish'd Pieces have been shown?
Have we not seen a Thousand more?
But when the fair Ophelia's gone,
Exhausted will be Beauty's Store.

226

V

Posterity shall, sorrowing, say,
“Our Fathers saw superior Worth,
“The perfect Mold was cast away,
“When Nature brought Ophelia forth.

To OPHELIA, With the Power of Beauty.

A POEM.

Thou, at whose Feet my Muse her Labour lays,
To whom my Heart its first Devotion pays,
Peruse this Paper, that, impartial, tells
How much a Lady, like your self, excels:
How, vainly, other Pow'rs appear in Arms
Against the Force of Beauty's conquering Charms.

227

If small Engagement, in my Verse, you find,
Condemn my Muse, but to my Heart be kind.
Lines faintly tell the Pain a Lover feels,
When ev'ry Passion to his Charmer kneels.
Poorly our Art the Force of Nature shows!
Like native Life, what dead Resemblance glows?

Think, Madam, tho' Adorers round you press,
None loves you more,—and Love deserves Success.
No higher Merit I presume to boast:
If That is worthless, my Ambition's lost.
Howe'er your Pleasure shall pronounce my Fate,
'Twill be my Pride, your humble Slave to wait:
Happy enough, if I am blest to see
Those Eyes, that conquer Thousands, shine on Me.

But, shou'd you, gracious, my Address regard,
And, by your Love, at length, my Pains reward,

228

No favour'd Beauty, to the Muses known,
Shou'd e'er receive more Homage than your own.
Yet ill cou'd Verse your Heav'n of Charms display!
As well might Paint outshine the God of Day.

229

THE POWER of BEAUTY.

A POEM.

In golden Times, when Virtue's Pow'r prevail'd;
Ere Truth took Wing, or publick Credit fail'd;
When Poets sung, as Heav'n, it self, inspir'd;
And Men were just to Merit they admir'd:

230

A Lady fair, Saphira was her Name!
Grac'd Salem's Court, and higher rais'd its Fame:
Fix'd was the Eye, that e'er her Glories view'd,
Nor scap'd a Heart in Israel, unsubdu'd.

Her, rival Lovers crowded to adore,
And Blood boil'd hot, that Icy was before.
But none the Pow'r of Beauty better knew,
Than tuneful Bards, whose whole Address she drew.
Low, at her Feet, their Labours most were laid,
And most she lik'd the Homage, that they paid.
All urg'd their Suit, and willingly submit
To Solomon, the Judge of Men, and Wit:
He, high enthron'd, amidst his Nobles sate,
To try their Merit, and conclude Debate.
They, bowing low, expect th' important Theme,
And hope, to win the Prize of Love, and Fame.

231

Strait, was the Question publish'd, by the King,
In few, plain, Words—What's the most pow'rful Thing?
First, solemn Silence Ahab-melech broke,
He lov'd the King, and loyally he spoke.
“O Sage in Counsel, as, by Armies, strong,
“What, but thy Self, deserves the Poets' Song?
“Thou, God's Vicegerent! hast the greatest Pow'r:
“Thou art th' Almighty, but in Miniature!
“All Things the Art, and Arms, of Men obey,
“And Men are rul'd by thy unrival'd Sway.
Here Flatterers shout, and wou'd the Trial end,
When Sahab rose, his Topick to defend.
“Is there, said He, a greater Pow'r, than Gold?
“What King, without it, can Dominion hold?
“I flatter not—and let my Rivals prove,
“That there is ought more prevalent, in Love.

232

A second Noise ran murmuring thro' the Hall,
When, thus, Shethigah husht Opinions all.
“Wine has the Pow'r, that nothing else can claim:
“Omnipotence! but with another Name.
“With It, in vain, we Kings and Gold compare:
“Both are but Dust, and shall to Dust repair!
“Mankind may starve amidst a hoarded Store,
“And Time, once lost, can be redeem'd no more.
“But Wine, immortal, as its Author, lives,
“And fresh Recruits, to all its Votaries, gives.
“Wit, Sense, and Reason, Glories of the Soul!
“Govern'd by Wine, confess its sweet Controul.

Here was each Lover of the Grape alarm'd,
And, in Defence of his dear Bottle, warm'd;
When solemn Jashen from his Seat arose,
And silenc'd, thus, the Faction of his Foes.

233

“Conquests, he said, by Pow'r of Wine obtain'd,
“Soon lose their Virtue, and the Place they gain'd.
“Sleep, potent Sleep! kind Nature's friendly Aid!
“Restores the Force, by tempting Juice betray'd.
“Tho' dull, and lazy, It, perhaps, appears,
“Instruct, ye Rivals, what more Victory wears.
“Does it not ev'ry blust'ring Passion bind,
“And, at its Pleasure, silence all Mankind?

Again loud Murmurs shew'd a Party Zeal,
When Jubal rose, and made the next Appeal.
“Strong Arguments, to shew the greatest Strength,
“At best, are weak, if forc'd to yield at length.
“Water, alone, with a resistless Force,
“O'er boasted Mounds, precipitates its Course.
“With Rush impetuous, did not mighty Floods
“Deluge the Plains, and sweep o'er Hills and Woods?

234

“Deep under Waves, the Pomp of Nature sunk,
“And Birds, and Beasts, and Men, Destruction drunk.

Scarce what he spake had the Assembly heard,
Ere hot Menorah in the Crowd, appear'd.
“'Tis Fire alone Omnipotence can boast;
“For, by its Pow'r, all other Pow'r is lost.
“Fire wastes whole Cities, Nations, in its Way,
“And will, at last, make Heav'n and Earth a Prey.
“Th' united Forces, of the spacious Main,
“May try to conquer, but shall try, in vain.

Then grim Themuthah, looking stern, began:
“Till my contending Brothers clearly can
“Produce a Pow'r, more terrible, than Death,
“In vain, they spend their argumentive Breath.
“Despotic, He, o'er this Creation reigns,
“And binds the mighty, in eternal Chains.

235

“Survey his Strength, when, on the hostile Field,
“The proudest Victors to his Triumph yield.
“Think how he stalks, o'er dreadful Conquests made,
“Himself the only Terror unafraid!
“Experience shews my Argument is good,
“Nor can its Force, by any, be withstood.

Here rose a Shout, till gentle Samar spoke:
“I've heard, that Musick into Hell has broke.
“Th' inexorable Gates, before it, wide
“Their Iron Folds, with dreadful Crush, divide:
“The tortur'd Ghosts, by soothing Notes, were eas'd,
“And Fates, and Furies, found themselves appeas'd.
“O'er Death, victorious danc'd the pow'rful Airs,
“And forc'd Obedience to a Poet's Pray'rs.

Others, as Judgment, or, as Fancy, mov'd,
Declar'd their Minds to win the Prize belov'd.

236

But when Amanah rose, to urge his Claim,
Saphira's Blushes shew'd her inward Flame.
Him most she lov'd, of all the tuneful Throng,
And most she read, tho' secretly, his Song.
Ne'er had her Words her Heart's Desire confest;
She smother'd all the Ardours of her Breast.
The Bard, with equal Passion, inly, glow'd,
And more Confusion, than his Fellows, shew'd.
He answer'd to the Question of the King,
As Love had, oft, inspir'd his Muse to sing.
“Since you, great Judge, vouchsafe a gracious Ear,
“Tho' last I speak, I have no Cause to fear.
“Unbiass'd, you will weigh my Answer's Worth,
“And, as is just, bring your Decision forth.
“That glorious Prize were ill deserv'd by me,
“Did I think, ought, but half so strong, as she,

237

“Resistless Beauty!—Thus I speak my Sense,
“And, if I fall, I fall in her Defence.
“Woman has Charms, which nothing can compare,
“And, of all Women, she's the fairest Fair.
“In her fine Person, all their Charms are join'd,
“And Myriads more adorn her noble Mind.

He said—The Court impatient now remain,
'Till, thus, the King reliev'd the common Pain.
“Let rival Bards no more dispute the Prize,
“Against the Pow'r of bright Saphira's Eyes.
“He merits best, who most her Pow'r conceives,
“Nor greater Strength, in all the World, believes.
“In her, Amanah feels th' united Charms
“Of all her Sex—and who can fly their Arms?
“Beauty has Pow'r, to animate, or kill:
“Love is its Child, and Love's a Conquerour still.

238

The Sentence giv'n, the shouting Crowd declar'd,
How much the Royal Wisdom was rever'd:
While, by the Hand, the King Saphira led
To fond Amanah, and divinely, said;
“Take, lucky Rival, and distinguish'd Bard,
“Of Love and Verse, this never match'd Reward.
He, bowing low, his Gratitude exprest,
And She the burning Transports of her Breast.

ON A FLY,

Drown'd in a Lady's Eye.

I

Deluded Fly! that thus presum'd
T'invade celestial Light!
Bold Phaeton, to Ruin doom'd,
Fell not from such a Height!

239

II

You hop'd to mingle in a Flame,
And, Phœnix like, expire!
How vain was your ambitious Aim?
How strange to drown in Fire?

III

So Icharus, because he try'd
To trace a trackless Way,
Was all, at once, like you, destroy'd
By Sun-beams, and by Sea.

IV

Yet happy you, who, now at Rest,
So sweet a Tomb can boast.
By Chloe's Cruelty you're blest,
As by your Rashness lost.

240

V

Let Lovers learn, by yours, their Fate;
'Tis Chloe's Pride to slay.
Domitian like, she leaves her State,
And stoops to any Prey.

To a young Lady,

on her Marriage with an old Gentleman.

I

Since all thy Fishing but a Frog hath catch'd,
Aurora, now, have I not Cause to rage?
Shou'd I not grieve, to see thy Morning match'd
With one, who's in the Evening of his Age?

241

II

Shou'd hoary Hairs, the Messengers of Death,
Mix with thy Locks, whose Colour is like Gold?
Shou'd Wrinkles bath in thy ambrosial Breath,
And Life be lengthen'd to an Oaf, so old?

III

Must He, who's Jealous, thro' his own Defect,
Thy Beauty's unstain'd Treasure only taste?
And, as he fumbles heavily, suspect,
That others share a Portion of his Feast.

IV

More than my own, her Fortune I deplore,
Who, now condemn'd to monumental Arms,
Hears the dull Sot upon her Bosom snore,
Unconscious of his Duty, and her blooming Charms.

242

THE KISS:

OR, THE Shepherd's Cure.

I

In that soft Season of the Year,
When Nature smiles, and all is gay,
As Colin watch'd his fleecy Care,
And sung, and play'd, the Hours away,
The noble Sylvia chas'd the Hare,
And pass'd the Hillock where he lay.

243

II

Thought ne'er had rack'd the Shepherd's Brain,
Love had not yet surpriz'd his Heart:
But soon as Sylvia scowr'd the Plain,
Her Beauties struck him like a Dart.
He wonder'd Charms shou'd cause such Pain,
And labour'd to conceal his Smart.

III

Alas! th' Idea, fix'd so deep
In Colin's Mind, would not remove;
He broke his Pipe, forgot his Sheep,
And languish'd in a neighbouring Grove;
Sometimes wou'd sigh, sometimes wou'd weep;
But did not know He was in Love.

IV

The social Swains around him came,
And, simpathizing, ask'd his Case.
One wou'd divert his Mind with Game,

244

Another his Distemper trace.
But none perceiv'd the hidden Flame,
Tho' bashful Love o'erspread his Face.

V

For twice two Weeks he knew no Rest;
He pin'd away with silent Grief;
But weak and wan, at last, confest,
And bid the Swains pursue the Thief.
The Nymph, he said, divinely drest,
That stole my Heart, can yield Relief.

VI

I seek not vainly to be lov'd
By one so fair, and great, as she:
But, since her Charms so fatal prov'd,
Oh! let her not too cruel be.
If, by poor Colin's Suff'rings mov'd,
She'd grant a Kiss, 'twou'd set me free.

245

VII

This said, He blush'd, and sunk with Shame,
To think the World should know his Care:
He fear'd the Swains wou'd mock his Flame,
And her Refusal breed Despair.
Ah! who such harmless Love could blame?
Wou'd Sylvia prove less mild, than fair?

VIII

Thro' all the Plains the News was spread,
The Swains and Nymphs lament his Fate;
'Twas told to Slyvia He was dead,—
What Pity did the News create?
Why came not Colin? Sylvia said—
Or, why heard I the News so late?

IX

Her Sorrows, soon to Colin brought,
With Hopes of Pity fix'd his Mind.
Sure, if she grieves, (He rightly thought)

246

She cannot, will not, prove unkind.
Then Sylvia's Bow'r, the Shepherd sought,
And had the Kiss, for which he pin'd.

X

Now cur'd, and grown himself again,
He sings and plays beside his Flocks,
With Sylvia's Name is fill'd the Plain,
With Sylvia's Name resound the Rocks.
No other Goddess aids his Strain,
No other Goddess He invokes.

247

To a Singing Bird.

An ANACREONTIC.

Pretty, pleasant, Warbler, why
Sing We, without Liberty?
Thou, for Him, who Thee detains!
I, for Her, whose Charms are Chains!
Ah! How disproportion'd are
Notes of Pleasure, and of Care?
Whilst Thou sing'st, thy Heart is glad:
Mine, alas! depress'd and sad.
Thou, by singing, liv'st—but I
Languish, and despair, and die.

248

A Memorial to Virtue, Unfinished.

Thy boasted Glories, Virtue, I have seen,
And long amid' thy zealous Votaries been.
Whatever Sages, in thy Praise, have said,
Eager, I learnt; and, what they taught, obey'd.
For faithful Service, and intense Regard,
I'm bold, at last, to claim a just Reward.
Naked, and poor, I've waited, in thy Train;
But shall I always indigent remain?
Must I be forc'd, as Millions have before,
To give the fruitless, fond, Dependance o'er?

249

Well do'st thou know how honest I have prov'd!
How much thy Nature is, by mine belov'd!
I wou'd not leave Thee, wou'd'st Thou Victuals give;
But flowry Speeches cannot make me live.
I must have more than Words, to keep me true:
Shadows, without some Substance, will not do.
The World derides me, while I gratis wait;
I'm pointed at, as Virtue's Slave of State!
My old Companions fly me, as a Pest;
And my dull Morals prove the common Jest.
“Wilt thou—they cry—be singularly good,
“And stand alone, distinguish'd from the Crowd?
“Think how to thrive, by Methods more secure.
“Virtue is fair, but miserably poor!
“Besides, her Rules are hardly worth thy Care:
“For sprightly Youth, and Humour, too severe!

250

“And, tho' Contentment, in your self, you find,
“Not one of Millions will be of your Mind.
“The World will call your studied Goodness, Pride,
“And sober Life, as sly Design, deride:
“And 'twere but vain, to strive against the Tide.
I answer: Wealth and Honours are by Fate
Contriv'd, to give insipid Coxcombs Weight:
They only serve, to fill the Want of Sense,
And wait, like Slaves, on fawning Impudence:
That Virtue, ev'n in Rags, commands Regard,
And is, it self, its own immense Reward.
This they call Cant, a mere delusive Dream:
“Single, but out—they say—the greatest Name,
“And mark, how poorly Virtue crown'd his Deeds!
“And thence infer, how ill Desert succeeds.
“Was Cæsar virtuous? What Reward had He?
“How dy'd the Hero?—For, at Death, we see

251

“Whether the Man meets happy Fate, or no:
“What boots a Glory, that, at Death, must go?
“Or say, deluded Mortal, was he blest,
“Whose Virtue Cæsar's Person most opprest?
“Dy'd Brutus happier than the envied Man?
“Resolve us this, you Zealot, if you can.
“Have not the Good and Bad a common Fate?
“And be they not most happy, who be Great?
“Take you the Virtue, leave us the Estate.
Tell me, fair Goddess, how to make Reply,
And timely save, or quickly I must fly.
Better to shun the Learning of thy School,
Than starve in Life, and die a knowing Fool.

252

An ODE,

(In Allusion to the 2d of Horace)

To His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales,

In the Year 1720.

Quem vocet Divum Populus ruentis
Imperi Rebus? ------
Hor. Ode 2. Lib. 1.

------ Præsens Divus habebitur
Augustus ------
Ib. Ode 5. Lib. 3.

I

Enough, his Wrath Almighty God
Has pour'd upon a Rebel Race:
Britannia reels beneath the Load,
And, sinking, supplicates his Grace.

253

II

The humbled Nation, now, too late,
In dire Effects its Folly finds;
We mourn the Mis'ry of our State,
And curse the rash, projective, Minds.

III

Our Babylon had towr'd so high,
So Lawless was our Conduct grown,
'Twas fit that Judgment from the Sky
Shou'd crush the weak Supporters down.

IV

How keen we labour'd to be Great,
By preying on our Neighbour's Store?
To what curst Heights we push'd our Fate,
And rose, to make our Fall the more?

254

V

O'er all the Banks the Waters broke,
And delug'd quite the fruitful Plain;
Strong Damms cou'd scarce resist the Shock,
And Mounds were rear'd, but rear'd in vain.

VI

As Clouds obscure Meridian Rays,
Merit became the common Jest:
Fortune look'd kind on knavish Ways,
And Blockheads have succeeded best.

VII

They, who, at Distance, saw the Scene,
And mark'd what foreign Sharpers won,
Fear'd Conquests might be made again,
Or we, by Civil War undone.

255

VIII

The Nobles, who with Rabble join'd,
To gather in the golden Show'r,
Are whelm'd alike in Grief of Mind,
Alike most miserably Poor.

IX

His private Suff'rings who can bear?
Or what the publick Loss retrieve?
Whom shall we beg our Cries to hear?
What Pow'r our ruin'd State will save?

X

In vain, we look to neighbouring Lands—
They labour in the like Distress;
Or mock our Mis'ry, since our Hands
Have wrought the Woes, our Tongues confess.

256

XI

Kind Heav'n, whom will thy Pity send
To lift Britannia's drooping Head?
What living Patriot can defend?
Or wilt thou raise one from the Dead?

XII

Ye Ministers of State awake,
And prove the Virtues you possess:
'Tis Yours to act for Britain's Sake,
And all our Grievances redress.

XIII

O S---, thou favour'd Peer!
Thy Honesty and Pow'r exert:
Now is the Time thy Fame to clear,
And show you have our Weal at Heart.

257

XIV

S---e, renown'd in Peace and War!
Adorn'd with ev'ry liberal Art!
More, if you can, your self endear,
By acting, now, a Patriot's Part.

XV

N---le, here, your Interest try:
You cannot too officious prove:
With Fortune raise your Honour high,
And win, by Merit, lasting Love.

XVI

O P---r, Oracle of Law,
Convince us of the Skill you boast,
And from the Depths of Ruin, draw
Our publick Credit, ere 'tis lost.

258

XVII

A---e, thou dear, distinguish'd Chief,
Whose Sword was never drawn in vain,
Whose Counsel can afford Relief,
The Ballance of our State maintain.

XVIII

Britannia's Case, at Home, O S---r,
Regard, and sure Assistance send,
If yet, from Europe's grand Affair,
You can your godlike Thoughts unbend.

XIX

Thy Patriot-Zeal, and Conduct, now
When Matters at a Crisis stand,
In future Management, bestow,
O W---e, for a groaning Land.

259

XX

But ah! in vain, we look below,
And Aid from mortal Hands implore;
To Pow'r superior we must go,
That, only, can our Bliss restore.

XXI

When shall Britannia see again
Her Monarch come renown'd from far,
Whose Absence aggravates her Pain,
In whom her Hopes all center'd are?

XXII

Let ne'er succeeding Times record,
Or neighbouring Pow'rs in Triumph boast,
That G---e, like an unfaithful Lord,
In G---y, his B---n lost.

260

XXIII

O Wales, Augustus of our Days,
Vouchsafe to cast an Eye abroad,
And, by the Brightness of your Rays,
Assert your Self a second God,

XXIV

While your great Sire prolongs his Stay
At Courts, less worthy present Care,
The People, you was born to sway,
To you address their ardent Pray'r.

XXV

Be it your Glory, to confound
The Foes of Royalty, and Peace:
Make publick Credit yet renown'd,
Our Trade revive, our Murmuring cease.

261

XXVI

O when, beneath Augustus' Wing,
Shall Sister-Arts illustrious rise?
When shall the sacred Muses sing,
In British, as in Roman, Skies.

262

To the Right Honourable CHARLES, Earl of Lauderdale, &c.

WITH A Satire, (written by another Hand) on the Upstart Gentry, Anno Dom. 1720.

Let others, in their mercenary Lays,
Cringe for Preferment, and run mad for Praise.
A Bard, that, but to merit, scorns to bow,
Is proud, my Lord, to Tune his Voice to you,

263

To you, who, far unlike the Vulgar Great,
Can boast a Soul distinguish'd as your State;
And, by a long Hereditary Right,
Claim the first Homage of the Verse I write.

'Tis not for me, a skill-less Youth, to trace
Back to its Source, your old, illustrious Race,
And rashly, on a feeble, unfledg'd Wing,
Attempt your Honours and Deserts to sing.
I, who small Interest in Parnassus share,
Sing, but sometimes, to charm away my Care,
And ne'er to high distinguish'd Fame aspire,
Must be content, at Distance, to admire.
I view the tow'ring Genius with Delight,
But dare not rise to an Icarian Height;
And, tho' t'illustrate Merit I despair,
Yet boast I can discern it, and revere.

264

Be this my Praise, that I with Justice claim
To Love; tho' not adorn, your noble Name.
'Tis Part of Virtue, Virtue to explore,
And, what we cannot higher raise, adore.

But while, my Lord, I own my rude Essays,
And weak Pretensions to the sacred Bays,
My Muse another's better Work commends
To you, on whose Indulgence she depends.
Here, in fair Colours, suited to their State,
A Brother-Bard describes the Ignoble Great:
How mimick Patriots, in gilt Chariots, ride,
Forget the Dunghils, and themselves, thro' Pride.
O how unlike, how far remov'd from thine,
The Upstarts' Features rise in every Line!
What Giants bownce, who were but Pigmies born,
Below our Envy, and scarce worth our Scorn!

265

But, as the Gemm appears distinctly bright,
'Midst vulgar Stones, involv'd in Shades of Night;
True Greatness most superior Worth displays,
When with false Lustre we compare its Rays.
Pleas'd, I behold the Opposition stand,
Approve the Work, and bless the Master's Hand.
No better I my Fondness cou'd express!
No fitter Name for Patronage address!

Pardon, my Lord, th' Ambition of my Mind:
Duty and Love can hardly be confin'd;
They press officious, where true Merit dwels,
And are more rude, the more the Man excels.

Tho' none on Flatt'rers looks with greater Pain,
And views unletter'd Lords with more disdain;
I wou'd Encomiums, well deserv'd, bestow,
Nor think it servile to be praising you.

266

Impure Allays may noblest Coin debase;
But upright Sterling with Applause will pass.

The Man, whose Vertues shew his noble Blood,
Can risque his Fortune for his Country's Good;
Abhors all selfish, mean and private Ends;
Relieves the Needy, and obliges Friends;
Ne'er from the golden Rules of Order swerves;
Nor fears the Stings of Envy, nor deserves;
Who ev'ry Thing at its just Value rates;
Nor courts blind Fortune's bounteous Gifts, nor Hates;
And, 'midst the Charms of Nature, and of Art,
Is modest still, and humble in his Heart:
'Tis He, that best deserves our chosen Lays—
A Man, so great, 'tis impious not to Praise.
No feign'd Perfections, from another brought,
Need here, to make a Character, be wrought.

267

Tun'd to his Name, no Flattery stains the Lyre,
Nor Compliment supplies pretended Fire.
He all the Muses' Homage shou'd receive,
If I cou'd write, and you, my Lord, forgive.

268

TO Mr. Allan Ramsay.

Reading your Works, and looking o'er the List
Of generous Patrons, who your Muse assist,
I felt a Pleasure, thrilling thro' my Veins,
That, by Degrees, inspir'd the following Strains.
The following Strains, ingenious Bard, impart,
Without Reserve, the Language of my Heart.
No Season's late, to prove my Muse your Friend;
'Tis yours to pardon what I fondly send.

269

A friendly Letter needs no studied Phrase:
Art looks affected in familiar Lays.
To diff'rent Themes a diff'rent Style is fit,
And he, who hits it, is the wisest Wit.
What obvious Blunders some conceited Bards,
Who rhime for Sport, or scribble for Rewards,
For Want of genuine Inspiration make?
They, like Night-Wanderers This for That mistake.
Sliding, they fall, and, in their soaring, strain.
Their Toil is trivial, and their Pleasure Pain.
Describing Streams, and drawing Carpet-ground,
They bounce the Air, and dun our Ears with sound.
Attempting Scenes of Blood and Death to sing,
They cool our Spirits, as they moult their Wing.
The Bard, who knows his Muses' Strength aright,
Proportions well his Language to his Flight:

270

Beyond his Sphere he labours not to shine.
This Praise, O Ramsay, is deserv'dly thine.
Knowing the Themes adapted to your Skill,
None else you sing, and never sing 'em ill.
Nature sits easy in what you rehearse,
And smiles Distinction on your flowing Verse.
Writing to you, your happy Way I'd chuse;
Who copies Thine, has Nature for his Muse.
Thoughts from the Subject, Words from Thoughts arise,
The Words all Musick, and the Thoughts all Wise.

By various Avocations, leisure Time
Is not allow'd me, to declare in Rhime,
How much I value each, particular, Piece!
How frequent Readings more Desire encrease!
What Beauties glow in ev'ry finish'd Line!
What Judgment form'd, and manag'd, each Design!

271

The mighty Task, for casual Verse unfit,
Requires much Time, and more than B---t's Wit.
B---t, in friendly Frolick, show'd his Skill—
I leave to Criticks, whether well, or ill.
'Tis mine to praise—for what is got by Spite?
For Pleasure, not to sully Fame, I write.
Like you, I look on surly Censurers down,
Yet, more than others, cou'd reproach my own.
Good Sense and Nature, like eternal Truth,
Will always flourish with unfading Youth.
True Worth the Test of Time will bravely stand,
And silent Rev'rence from its Foes command.

But, if I may distinguish, from the Rest,
A Master-piece, or, what I think is best:
Tho' all you've writ deserve my Muse's Praise,
My favourite Christ's Kirk merits most the Bays.

272

There Nature shines, and there the Charms of Art.
Display Low-life, and catch the Reader's Heart.
Humour gives Judgment an engaging Grace,
And royal James to you resigns his Place.
Rare Prince, whose Bays were richer than his Crown!
Rare Bard, to whom that Prince transfers Renown!
So Merit ever stronger proves than Name,
And Fame it self admits Degrees of Fame.
While I, with Justice, what is publish'd praise,
I blame the Want, I mourn for, in your Lays.
Profuse of comick and diverting Wit,
You seldom on a serious Subject hit.
Seldom a Thought on Life's great Business spend.
So far you disregard the Muses' End,
(Nor for my Freedom think me less your Friend.)

273

From Heav'n your sacred Inspiration came.
Too faint Returns you breathe of heav'nly Flame.
Facetious Lines we, once, with Joy repeat;
They're gay Deserts, but too, too, weakly Meat!
Religious, Verse from such a popular Pen,
Might, more than Preaching, tame ungovern'd Men.
Your sad Neglect, it seems, the Clergy took—
I find no Rev'rend Names before your Book.
If e'er the World a second Volume crave,
Dear Ramsay, show you sometimes can be grave.
Prior, a Bard of equal Fame! is proud
T'appear, on some Occasions, greatly good.
And Hill, himself, his Seraph Muse employs
On sacred Themes, and spurns at trifling Joys.
Humour awhile may, like a Meteor, last,
But solemn Verse will ever stand the Test.

274

Thus antient Poets gain'd eternal Fame:
The noblest Garlands crown the noblest Flame.

I, thrown by Fate amid the Syren Charms,
Too oft, like you, forsake Religion's Arms.
Nor feel I Pain for ev'ry devious Verse,
That Friends, or Humour, tempt me to rehearse.
Yet, when cool Judgment rules my Muse again,
With Salem's King, I own, that all is vain.
We never more improve the Talents giv'n,
Than, when our Works are most ally'd to Heav'n.
While persecuted by malicious Tongues
Of partial Zealots, for my well-meant Songs,
To You, no Bigot, I declare my Mind,
And prove my Foes dishonest, as unkind:
But Priests will still, where Craft prevails, be blind.
Whom they resolve to banish from their Fold,
No Means can save, but pow'rful Bribes of Gold.

275

Good Sense, and Truth in naked Dress, in vain,
'Gainst holy Wrath their Stations wou'd maintain.
Ill-temper'd Zeal, like Powder fir'd, drives on;
The Object, mark'd, is sure to be undone.

But whither does my Fancy, reinless, rove?
How far from first Intention am I drove?
Minds, one way turn'd, the Forms of Art forget:
Freedom of Speech makes Intercourse compleat.
So Rivers, meeting, mix their mighty Store,
And o'er the Mounds in rude Meanders roar.

O happy Ramsay, whom no Sects pursue!
To whom all Parties yield a righteous Due!
Plac'd in a lucky Sphere of Life, you shine:
The Great and Small to raise your Fame combine.
The lowly, one of their own Rank admire,
For 'tis but rare they boast celestial Fire.

276

The noble Smile, to see themselves outshone,
And, more than Art, the Pow'r of Nature own.
All gladly give the Palm your Genius claims,
And none your Muses' gay Productions blames.
Whate'er is wanting, what she sings is well,
And shews the Seeds that in your Bosom dwell.
A Man's a Man, altho' not sev'n Foot high—
Anacreon was no Dwarf in Poetry.
Tho' Homer shone the mighty Soul of Verse,
The minor Poets sweetly could rehearse.
Without Hill's Strength, and Pope's harmonious Flow,
The Muse's Fire in Gay and Me may glow.

Proceed, my Friend, to tame the savage Foes,
Who grin at all but their cogenial Prose;
Reform the Taste of Caledonia's Brood:
Your Way must take, as easiest understood.

277

By small Degrees, the Language will refine,
'Till Sterling English in our Numbers shine.
Then, ev'n our vulgar, shall, delighted, read
More polish'd Strains, and on their Beauties feed.

I joy to see the Scotian Youth display
Such early Dawnings of a glorious Day!
Great Things from Promise of their Muse is due!
Things! to a long, beclouded Nation new!
The World shall own, that as our Soldiers fight,
Our rising Poets, as illustrious, write.
The Senate, Pulpit, and the Bar, shall tell
What Energy can make the Man excel.
They, who their Boast to Inspiration owe,
Shall, o'er their Fellows, just Distinction show.
Succeed my Wishes, ye propitious Pow'rs,
And make, at length, the British Glory ours.

278

I, late, an humble Helper to the Nine,
Who joy'd to see my Country's Glory shine,
Fond, to my Pow'r, to wipe Reproach away,
And 'midst the Snows a blazing Flame display,
Now, doom'd by my inexorable Foes,
Attach'd to Dullness, and enslav'd by Prose,
Have bid my Friends and native Air adieu,
And Fortune in more gracious Realms pursue;
Here, from my Feet, the Dust, with Sorrow, throw,
And, where stiff Cant can never reach me, go.

Where'er, O Ramsay, Chance my Course may bend,
Be thou, as I am, an unshaken Friend.
Away Despair, inglorious Fears, be gone,
I'll hope the best.—'Tis Virtue leads me on!

A Poem, by Mr. Ramsay.

King James the Fifth of Scotland, began the Poem call'd Christ's Kirk.

279

A HYMN TO THE MUSES.

I

Let Praise and Glory be ascrib'd
To Sister Muses, three Times three!
Whose sacred Energy, imbib'd,
Has made a tuneful Bard of me.

II

See! see! the mighty Charmers sit,
With Instruments of heav'nly Make,
Around the holy Well of Wit,
And, from dull Prose, their Votaries wake!

280

III

By them inspir'd, my Soul takes Wing,
And, thro' the Air, triumphant, flies!
How Mortals gape, to hear me sing!
And stare, to see me mount the Skies!

IV

While Sacrifices, to your Praise
Are offer'd, by my grateful Pen,
Adorn, ye Nine, with verdant Bays,
Your Priest, for Evermore, Amen.

281

TO Mr. M---

M--- regard what honest Mitchell says,
No Hireling he, no Prostitute for Praise!—
With strong, and healthy Constitution blest,
Nor Colds, nor Claps, have yet your Youth distrest.
Bravely successful, now, you hold a Strife
With all the Ills, that pest gallantish Life.
Yet be advis'd, to act with cautious Care,
And, timely, for the worst Events prepare.
Diseases steal upon the human Frame,
And, slighted long, like Ætna, vomit Flame.
Danger is surest, when th' Approach is slow;
'Tis best to shun a meditated Blow.

282

Next, tho' your Dress, extravagantly gay,
Outrivals others, both at Court, and Play,
(A harmless Pleasure, that the gentle Muse
Will ne'er to sprightly Youths, like you, refuse.)
Yet, O, beware of Pride's presumptuous Spring,
Nor rate your Value by so vain a Thing.
What Wisdom dictates but sedately scan,
You'll find, that Cloaths ne'er constituted Man.
Virtue is not, by pompous Drapery, shown:
The Mind's the Standard, which makes Merit known

Chiefly, dear Youth, beware of snaring Game,
Nor risque too far thy Fortune, and thy Fame.
What tho' Success has thy Adventures crown'd,
'Tis difficult to stand on slipp'ry Ground.
By Syren Charms, the wise have oft been snar'd,
Mankind can ne'er be too much on their Guard,
And Safety lyes in being well prepar'd.

283

Foresee your Danger with Discernment's Eye,
The Ruin's large, when Mortals fall from high.
'Tis Prudence to secure a certain Store,
And hazard only little Sums, for more.
Better to lose a Trifle, than to run
The Risque of being all, at once, undone.

M--- these Truths, tho' cloath'd in simple Rhime,
Will useful prove, if ponder'd well, in Time.
If e'er their Force command your due Regard,
Remember Mitchell was a friendly Bard,
Who sought not, but in Virtue's self, Reward.

284

TO Mr. M---l.

Tho', under Stars auspicious, born,
And best Brocades thy Back adorn;
Tho' Slander can't thy Outside blame,
And Fortune favours Thee, in Game;
Tho' Ladies view Thee with Delight,
And wish Thee with 'em all the Night;
Tho' Beau's, at Bottle, and at Play,
Court thy lov'd Presence all the Day:
Yet Something still is unpossest,
That might give Sanction to the rest;
That cruel Something, not obtain'd,
Eclipses all the Glories gain'd;

285

For Want of Fame is but Disgrace
To Charms of Person, Purse, or Place.

Trust me, gay Youth, the World is vain,
And Life's a Course of Care and Pain;
A Bubble all, that breaks and dies,
Unless the Man immortal rise.
The Brave and Wise, in ev'ry Age,
Have try'd the Goddess to engage;
Ambition, worthy human Minds!
What few, among the many, finds.

But two Ways only Fame is won!
By deathless Verse, and Actions done:
Happy are they, who nobly strive,
To keep themselves, by Worth, alive!
Whose proper Works, and Virtues, claim
A Title to the Prize of Fame!

286

But ah! how rare is native Worth?
How seldom are the Great brought forth?

O M--- can'st thou not succeed,
By some bright, meritorious, Deed,
Find'st thou it hard to grow divine
By any glorious Act of thine?
Then hire a Bard, whom Heav'n inspires,
With sacred Raptures, holy Fires;
To Him thy Life, thy Fame, commit;
He'll raise Thee by immortal Wit!

Great Agamemnon's self had dy'd,
If Homer had not Death defy'd:
Nor had we heard Mecenas' Name,
Had Horace not transfer'd his Fame.
'Tis poor to live obscure, unknown,
And die remember'd, prais'd, by none.

287

Thou easily thy self can'st save,
From dull Oblivion, in the Grave.
The Pow'r of Verse may set thee free!—
Others have Bards—Thou may'st have Me.
What tho' I sing Thee not, for Nought?
Is Immortality dear bought?
Shall simple Shakeing of the Dice
But once, for me, be thought high Price?
Does M--- rate his Game so high,
To grudge a Chance for such as I?
No sure—altho' 'twere but in Jest,
Win fifty Pounds for Me, at least.

Cha--- I dare be bold to swear,
Wou'd hardly judge a Thousand dear.
For Fame's a Gem, so rich and rare,
No Cost can earn it every where.

288

If M--- loves it, speak in Time,—
To Morrow I may want my Rhime.
Perhaps too, Chance may play the Jade,
And thy Success run Retrogade.

289

To His Grace JOHN, Duke of Argyle and Greenwich.

With Verses on Mr. Kenneth Campbell's posthumous Money.

Illustrious Campbell! like thy noble Race,
Soldier and Statesman, fam'd in War and Peace!
Patriot of publick Liberty and Law!
The good Man's Refuge, and the Villain's Awe!
In Arts and Sciences a Master own'd!
For Taste, Politeness, and Address renown'd!
Standard of Honour! Darling of the Brave!
Lov'd by the Fair! The Friend, that Poets crave,
Whose very Looks their Labours damn or save!

290

Deign to accept the Homage of a Bard,
Who never basely truckled for Reward,
Nor, by a venal Verse, wou'd buy Regard:
Who, ev'n to Thee, a sordid Song disdains,
To Thee! whose Name might sanctify his Strains;
Whose gracious Smiles wou'd popular Praise bestow,
And make his Mole-hill Fame a Mountain grow!
By flatt'ring Pow'r, let others earn Renown—
Let me deserve it, or remain unknown.
Ne'er may my Muse, or Fame or Fortune share,
Which Merit gave her not Pretence to wear.
But, sure, there's Merit in an honest Aim:
A just Ambition makes a rightful Claim.
Why then neglected have I lain so long?
Or why so late, to Thee address'd my Song?
To Thee, who (wert thou but my Patron) soon
Cou'd make my Midnight brighten into Noon.

291

Ah no! Else why did Campbell die so poor;
—But Campbell had no pleading Merit, sure!
Had he deserv'd, Argyle had fill'd his Fob,
And made a Dives of the wretched Job.

292

VERSES,

On Sight of an Half-Penny, found in Mr. Kenneth Campbell's Pocket, after his Death.
[_]

The following Inscription was engrav'd upon it by a surviving Friend. “Kennethus Campbell, Scoto-Montanus, Poeta Romanus, celeberrimus; Poetice pauperime, sed hilariter, vixit: Tandemque, hoc Obolo, tantum Locuples! ex Londino migravit in Elysium, 28 Kal. Jul. 1721.

One Half-Penny was Campbell's latest Store!
A poor Estate!—but Homer had no more!

293

From Town to Town, the old, dark, Grecian strol'd,
And, Piecemeal, first, his Ballad Iliad sold.
Dire Fate of Genius! wond'rous strange—but true!
Rarely to meet, 'till after Death, its Due!
The most deserving, often, suffers most;
For Sterling Worth, on half Mankind, is lost.
Blockheads and Fools were favour'd and admir'd,
When Heav'n-born Bards, in Penury, expir'd.
O let it not, in foreign Lands, be said,
The British Poets scarce are blest with Bread.
From France, and Italy, with-hold the News,
Lest Strangers triumph o'er our Taste, and Muse.
Tell not, that Bacon miserably dy'd!
Spencer was starv'd! and Johnson's Art descry'd!
Neglected, and obscure, great Milton lay:
He writ to Moles, who cou'd not gaze his Day!

294

Butler, the Prince of Pleasantry and Wit,
Was damn'd by those, for whom he, zealous, writ:
In a mean Garret he resign'd his Breath,
And was ev'n grudg'd a Burying after Death!
The Church, he serv'd, to Merit, prov'd so blind!
But seldom Church, and Charity, are joyn'd!
Otway, in tragic Numbers, match'd by none,
Whose poor Monimia never wept alone,
For his own Wants, cou'd never move a Tear!
Like Adders deaf, all stop'd a gracious Ear.
At last, from all the World, he step'd aside,
And, quite discourag'd, in an Ale-House, dy'd.
Lee, fir'd with an Enthusiastic Rage,
Was judg'd a Madman, by a madder Age,
That made him beg, from Door to Door, his Bread,
And die, at last, upon the Streets, in Need.

295

Fam'd Wicherly, in Satyr's Province great,
Seven Years, in Prison, struggled with his Fate;
While worthless Scriblers flourish'd in the Town,
And, from his Ruins, scrap'd their vile Renown.
Dryden—who does not mighty Dryden know?
From whom, with Ease, harmonious Numbers flow,
Who both the Language, and the Muse, improv'd,
Whose Reason charm'd the Men! whose Lays the Virgins lov'd!
By his Cotemporaries was despis'd,
And, oft, to mobbish Rivals sacrific'd.
Never at Ease his Circumstances were:
His poor Estate cou'd scarce his Corps inter.
Yet, on his Funeral, who were not profuse?
His Dust they worship'd, when they starv'd his Muse!
Preposterous Piety! to give one Meat,
But not before he is too old to eat!

296

Tate, honest Tate! in Spite of Virtue, press'd,
Neglected, liv'd, and dy'd, at length, distress'd.
His being good exeem'd him not from Woe:
Men minded him no more, for being so!
He was found guilty of the common Vice
Of Poetry—Enough to damn him twice!
Phillips, whose Name, while Cyder's drunk, and while
One splendid Shilling's found in Britain's Isle,
Shall ever live, with an un-envy'd Praise,
Like his ill-fated Brothers, pin'd away his Days.

It is not strange to see a Poet sad:
Oppression makes the wisest Spirit mad!
To see a Blockhead, or a Fool, in Place,
While, he, in Spite of Merit, meets Disgrace;
What Man of Soul, and conscious of Desert,
Can keep, in Tune, the Passions of his Heart?

297

But what has been, will evermore be done—
Britons, like Jews, will worship Stock, or Stone,
Or Satan's self—but grudge a just Regard
To God Almighty, and his favourite Bard!
Be sure the Poet is the least admir'd,
Whom Heav'n, with an uncommon Flame, inspir'd.

Campbell! let others, in the vulgar Cant,
Condemn your Conduct, and deride your Want—
I'll sing your Genius, spite of all Mankind;
Not wonder why you left no more behind,
But how, at Death, this Half-Penny remains,
To fraught your Shade to the Elysian Plains!
When Tomb-Stones, Monuments, and Pillars, waste,
Your poor, Poetic, Legacy shall laste:
The Muses' Sons, at Glasgow's learned Seat,
Will save the sacred Relict from consuming Fate.

298

AN EPITAPH ON A GLUTTON.

Here lies a Man, who cou'd devour
A Month's Provision, in an Hour.
A Calf, of Pharo's lean-ribb'd Kine,
That swallow'd, at each Bit, a Chine;
Yet Men thought Famine was his Case,
So meagre look'd his harpy Face.

When Meat is dear, and Money rare,
We well his Company might spare;

299

As well it was for all Mankind,
In Noah's Ark he ne'er had din'd;
For clean, and unclean, at a Meal,
Had been, at once, devour'd Wholesale.

Mortals, rejoice, that he's no more—
For had he liv'd but till Threescore,
Great Hercules had ne'er been able
To clean his vast Augëan Stable.

To an Humourist, who married a most ugly super annuated Maid.

------ ah Miser
Quanta laboras in Charybdi!
Digne Puer meliore Flamma.
Hor.

Ods Zookers, honest, gallant, Harry,
What put it in thy Head to marry?

300

Or, if thou could'st not help thy Fate,
Why did'st thou chuse a monstrous Mate?
What Man, that wore his Eyes aright,
Wou'd couple with her, in Day Light?
She's such a huddled, ill-made Thing,
Sure, Nature's Pow'rs lay slumbering,
When she was form'd. Upon my Life,
Thou'st got the Devil of a Wife.
Damnation's scarce a greater Curse,
Than This, for better and for worse.
Nay, be not angry—for no Muse
In Conscience can thy Deed excuse:
And mine, instead of hearty Hailing,
Can hardly be with-held from Railing.
Who ever saw so wide a Mouth,
Stretch'd, like the Poles, from North to South?

301

The Lips how thin! the Teeth how black!
That sallow Skin! that Bow-bent Back!
These hagged Eyes! this tow'ring Nose!
Breath, that outvies Beargarden, pos!
In Her, all Imperfections meet,
And every one outstinks Fish-street!
Phy, Harry, wert thou in thy Senses?
But 'tis in vain to make Defences.
Ha! now, I think, by this Alliance,
Thou bid'st all Jealousy Defiance:
And, whilst we Fools our Senses please,
Thou cur'st thy Lust by a Disease.
Others, with little Toil and Care,
Address, and doat upon the Fair:
But Thou, great Hero, durst encounter
Deformity it self, and mount her,

302

Like brave Saint George, thou lay'st thy Leg on
The Top of this prodigious Dragon;
And boldly break'st, advent'rous Deed!
The Barriers of her Maiden-Head.
Now sleep, my Friend, in full Content—
No Man will steal thy Punishment.
'Twou'd be a double Crime to break
Thy Orchard, for thy Fruitage' Sake.
But, when old Age, or Sickness, raze
And ruin many a goodly Face;
Thou, to thy Comfort, may'st rejoice,
To see the Wisdom of thy Choice.
As Nought can mend, so Nought by Force,
Can make thy Favourite Night-Piece worse.

303

TO Aaron Hill, Esq

To you, great Man, and my distinguish'd Friend,
A Writ of Zeal and Vanity I send,
From fair Edina, Caledonian Pride!
Where I, a-while, (so help me God!) reside.

Stiff, and unlabour'd, as our Northern Climes,
You'll find the Genius of your Mitchell's Rhimes;
Yet rather chose I, to deserve your Frown,
Than not the Debts of generous Favours own.
In vain, the Pow'r of Absence wou'd remove
The fix'd Impressions of obliging Love.

304

Never, by me, can Friendship be forgot:
I challenge Death its Memory to blot.
The humane Soul may change its Place, and State;
But Gratitude and Love on its Existence wait.

Yet pardon, Sir, th' Impertinence of Verse,
To such, as you, 'tis Boldness to rehearse
In measur'd Phrase; I own my self too free:
But you have made an Impudent, of Me.
Your kind Indulgence brass'd my Muse's Brow:
Your Candour will forgive her Kindness, now.

O cou'd I imitate your lofty Lays,
Abhorrent from the vulgar Flights to Praise!
But who, like Hill, can raise his ev'ry Thought,
And sing, as boldly, as your Gideon fought?
High o'er the verseful Throng, you stand, alone,
Asserting boundless Fancy's rightful Throne:

305

Others their soft, their sickly, Numbers boast,
Where all the sacred Energy is lost.
Them Soul-less Readers eagerly admire,
And, with uplifted Eyes, at every Line expire.
Harmonious Sounds supply the Want of Sense,
And Inspiration sinks, in flowing Eloquence!
A different Taste (I thank thee, Heav'n!) is mine;
Let me have Verse, enforc'd by Heat Divine.
I love the Lays, that, like a Genius, rise,
And strike the Soul, with Wonder and Surprize;
Where innate Virtues tow'r a Milton's Flight,
And steer the Work, with Maro's Judgment, right.
Give me the Poet, whose prodigious Thought,
(Tho' to the Plainness of Prose-writing brought)
Can still its Godlike Dignity maintain,
And just Applause of true Discernment gain.

306

But I, no Critick! cautious, must forbear,
To publish what may meet Damnation here.
Tho' us'd to Freedom, in more Sunny Climes,
Here must I padlock my rebellious Rhimes.
'Tis best to stifle all uncommon Thoughts,
Where Elegancies are arraign'd, as Faults.

How wou'd you wonder at my alter'd Case,
Cou'd you behold me walk, with Spanish Pace,
Affected Gravity, and solemn Face?
In Coffee-houses, wage a War with Wit!
At Church, as formal, as the Parson, sit,
With Eyes, new-disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white!
While making Visits, quarrel with the Age!
Lampoon the Muses, and the modern Stage!
Declaim against new-fashion'd Coats and Wigs!
And worry all the Independent Whigs!

307

Still, thus restrain'd, had I but liv'd, and wrote,
I had, long since, fair Testimonials got.
Perhaps, in Honour of my Dullness, too,
I had e'en grac'd a Pulpit-Throne, ere now:
And, like cogenial Craftsmen, learnt the Way,
T'enrich my self, and dupe the World astray:
An useful Art, in which the Priests excel!
—But Gordon best their Mysteries can tell.

Mean while, a Priest to Phoebus and the Nine,
My Stipend scarce affords inspiring Wine:
(So be my Faults, whatever Faults there be,
Imputed to the Times, and not to me.)
This, by the Spirit of my Verse you'll guess,
And wonder I shou'd venture on the Press.
But think, my Friend, what's Heresy with you,
With us is honest, Orthodox, True-Blue.

308

'Tis Odds, but my Prosaic Numbers please;
For Readers here love Verses writ with Ease.
Mankind (and who can blame them?) relish best
The Entertainments, suited to their Taste.
Hence our Trans-Tweedale Poets, when they print,
(Tho' you shou'd swear you see no Beauty in't.)
Affect a Sort of Writing, that goes down,
Like sugar'd Plumbs, in this devoted Town.
Thus Clark, and Ker, write Palinodes and Sonnets,
Adapted to the Genius of Blue Bonnets;
While Hamiltoun, and Pennycuick, compose,
To the same Tune, a Sort of jingling Prose.
Ev'n Poet Ramsay, in Parnassus fam'd,
The common-Gutherum of the Muses nam'd!
(Tho' Ramsay cou'd assert the true Sublime,)
Intent on Cash, pursues the vulgar Rhime.

309

'Twou'd break his Stock o'er common Vogue to rise!
Above our Hemisphere there's nought but hungry Skies.
How great the Curse, if such, alone, shou'd stand
The modern Classicks of my native Land?
A higher Spirit did our Country boast,—
But ah! the antient Energy how lost!
Douglas, Buchanan, Drummond, and the rest,
Of Fame immortal! different Sense express'd.
Heav'ns! what Ideas fill'd each mighty Mind!
Their Works appear'd the Mirrour of Mankind!
Nor judg'd the Readers worse than Poets writ:
They ne'er paid Money, but for Sterling Wit.
Then Giants liv'd!—but stop, my pious Muse,
And you, my Friend, my melting Grief excuse.
Then Scotia was a Kingdom, fam'd! and free!
Each Subject then his native Prince might see!

310

Kings, in Succession, grac'd the ancient Throne!
Nor sought, nor envy'd Nations, not their own!
Beneath their Influence, Arts and Arms cou'd live,
And every Thing, but modern Vices, thrive.
The Roman Eloquence they Captive made,
And dar'd their conquering Pow'rs our Glory to invade
But ah! how faln! How low our Honours lie!
—Yet pass we this severe Reflection by,
And hail the Sister-Lands! O may they prove
Rivals in Virtue, Loyalty, and Love;
By George's Wisdom, and resistless Might,
Abroad still conquer, and at Home unite.

Yet judge aright, nor misconstruct my Sense:
We want not Spirits, bold in Wit's Defence;
Men of just Taste, and Elegance refin'd,
Whose Names adorn the Arts, that most adorn the Mind.

311

Long may such Patrons grace our antient Isle!
Ne'er may we want a Stair, and an Argyle!
The Maillands, by Hereditary Right,
Are fix'd the Muses' Glory and Delight,
Since Lauderdale, from Maro, snatch'd the Bays,
And, on his Name, entail'd a more than mortal Praise.

Arts rise and fall, like other transient States:
Both they, and we, are govern'd by the Fates.
Perhaps, tho' now, the popular Taste is low,
And here and there our noble Spirits glow;
The Youth, with Godlike Majesty avow'd,
Will break, effulgent, from the common Cloud.
Already, some, disdaining servile Ways,
Begin to shew their Rapture in their Lays.
May they improve, with happier Skill, to sing
Sublimest Notes, and strike the boldest String.

312

'Twere vain for me, by Fools and Priests, pursu'd,
To hope Success, where I'm not understood.
'Twou'd vex me too, to see a Blockhead's Name,
Distinguish'd with the Patrons of my Fame.
May none, ye Pow'rs, but Men of Taste, incline,
To stand Subscribers to a Work of mine;
A select List wou'd be, indeed, my Pride!
A Mob is ever on the blundering Side!

When shall I next Augusta's Courts admire?
When re-assume my long-neglected Lyre?
O how I long, amid the tuneful Train,
To grasp the Glories of a raptur'd Strain!
With You and Dennis, Pope and Congreve, sit,
And shine, renoun'd, in ev'ry Kind of Wit:
With grateful Taste, enjoy the Hours of Tea,
In Clio and Miranda's Company:

313

And, when I'm blest with more compleat Delight,
Retire with fair Ophelia, all the Night;
In her soft Arms, forget the Woes of Life,
And rise to Heav'n—for there's a Heav'n in Wife.

Time flies apace—mean while, my gen'rous Friend,
My Love to all our old Concerns commend.
Balfour and Bowman share, with you, my Heart:
'Tis spoke, by Nature, that takes Place of Art.
A hasty Letter has no Need of Dress,
So God b'ye, Sir—now, Boy, bespeak the Press.

Gideon, an Epic Poem by Aaron Hill, Esq;

Mr. T. Gordon, Author of the celebrated Papers, call'd The Independent Whig. Modest Apology for Parson Alberoni, &c.

Several Cotemporary Bards, known by their proper Names and Works, in North-Britain.

TO Sir Richard Steel.

A bard, who ne'er his Fortune wish'd to raise,
By servile Bows, and mercenary Praise;

314

Who, but to Merit, never bent a Knee,
Unhoping, sends his Mite of Praise to Thee;
To Thee, whose Approbation is Reward!
Whose Favour wou'd procure his Muse Regard!
Born, where the Sway imperious Kirk-Craft bears,
And where a Muse scarce, in an Age, appears,
To Gospel-Notes were tun'd my early Years.
The Sage, my Sire, design'd me for a Priest,
And I was forc'd, to carry on the Jest.
Twice twelve Months spent I, in scholastic Grace,
Studied the Sounds, and learn'd the queer Grimace.
Full orthodox my Principles were deem'd;
And what more blameless, than my Practice, seem'd?
Against my Life the Kirk had no Complaint,
And I, my self, believ'd my self a Saint.
So much I por'd, so serious was my Look,
I cheated others, and my self mistook.

315

'Tis strange how Books, and Company, conspire,
To change the very Bent of one's Desire.
My inbred Genius Conversation dull'd,
And Nature's Purpose, in my Make, was null'd.
By Custom's Influence, from a sprightly Wit,
I sunk below the Zenith of a Cit.
And, had I not, with fond Ambition fir'd,
Travel'd to see what blindly I admir'd,
Still at Edina, with religious Qualms,
I Texts had snivel'd, and Sol-fa-a'd the Psalms.
In that wild Season, when Mankind gave Scope
To Madness, in Adventures big with Hope!
When Store, long treasur'd, or improv'd in Trade,
The Lottery of Avarice was made!
Just as Delusion reach'd the utmost Height,
I came, in Time, to mark the Publick Bite.

316

I saw, and suffer'd, in the common Fate—
—But vain is Sorrow, and Relief is late!

Desp'rate, I herded with the tuneful Throng,
That grace the fair Augusta with their Song:
By them infected, with Poetick Itch,
I further stray'd from Roads of being rich.
Long have I Payment stopt; and some complain,
That I'm ne'er like to open Purse again.
I summon all the Muses to my Aid;
The Muses fly, as if they were afraid.
No generous Patrons weigh my claimant Case;
They promise, but ne'er put me in a Place!
Dismal Condition! O why did I quit
The Kirk, in Hopes of rising by my Wit?
How better 'twere, to beat a Pulpit Throne,
Than mount Parnassus' Top, and be undone!

317

Hence, Syren Sisters; hence, thou God of Verse—
No more entice, nor aid me, to rehearse.
Money and Credit, Place, or Pension, now,
Is all the Shrine to which I humbly bow.
Help me to these, and, with my latest Pow'rs,
I'll sing your Praise, and show how much I'm yours.

And Thou, O Steel, who want'st not Walpole's Ear,
An honest Poet's rude Petition hear;
Hear, and forgive—for 'tis a crying Crime
To dun your Nature with uncourtly Rhime—
And, if a lucky Minute chance to rise,
Seize it for me, and give me sweet Surprize.
'Twill cost you but a Word, to send me North,
T'inspect Tobacco, Brandy—and so forth.

318

A POETICAL DREAM,

Address'd to the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair.

Late, wand'ring lonely, pensive, and distrest,
By winding Thames, I laid me down to Rest:
But mimick Fancy kept awake my Grief,
'Till Stair's lov'd Image rose to my Relief.

Methought, in mournful, melancholy, Strain,
As thus my Muse express'd my inward Pain,
The God of Wit, presented fair in View,
Thus sooth'd my Soul, and pointed me to You.

319

Vouchsafe, my Lord, with Candour to regard
The Scene betwixt Apollo and your Bard.

First I, complaining—“O my luckless Fate!
“Why am I, Phoebus, doom'd to such a State?
“Why is your Votary, why your faithful Son
“Neglected, scorn'd, deluded, and undone?
“Was it for This I gave my self betimes
“To classick Studies, and to Syren Rhimes?
“For This, did I devote my Youth to Wit?
“For This, my Hopes of Kirk-Preferment quit?
“Have I, perfidious to the sacred Nine,
“Profan'd their Temples and their Fire divine?
“Have I, in Verse, a Poetaster prov'd?
“Deserve I not, alas! to be belov'd?
“Hard Fate! that Fidlers and Buffoons find Place,
“When Bards inspir'd implore, in vain, for Grace!

320

“Unequal Fortune! bounteous to impart
“Her Gifts to Fools, and starve the Sons of Art!

Apollo, smiling, gently made Reply—
“Thy Plaints, dear Youth, have often reach'd our Sky.
“But check Despair—Thy various Sufferings past,
“The Fates decree deserv'd Success, at last.
“Fortune and Merit, grown familiar Friends,
“Will sure, tho' slowly, make a rich Amends.

Then I rejoin'd—“How oft have I believ'd,
“And been, by flatt'ring Promises, deceiv'd;
“How vain my Hopes? How impotent my Pray'rs?
“How fleet my Joys? How constant prove my Cares?
“Alas! I fear, your Godhead mocks my Case,
“Or hath not Pow'r to lift me to a Place.
“Parnassus' Soil is barren, and the Streams
“Of Helicon appear delusive Dreams.

321

“Too peevish grown—reply'd the God of Verse—
“Thou lov'st, I find, to hear thy self rehearse.
“Indulge thy Spleen—what Profit will it bring?
“Can Railing, or Rebellion move a King?
“Rather, like Horace, humorously gay,
“Rise to Preferment in a pleasant Way.
“Caress the Great, and gain upon their Grace,
“Laugh at their Faults, and look them in the Face.
“Or, like a Changeling, ape the veering Wind,
“Unsing thy Songs, and bubble all Mankind.
“Be bold in Lies, no supple Flattery spare,
“And Fortune's Boons may sooner fall thy Share.

“Perish her Boons—I angrily reply'd—
“Perish my Muse, ere venal Means be try'd.
“Let other Poets prostitute their Lays;
“On vile Foundations, I'll not build my Praise.

322

“Ne'er will I sing at Virtue's sad Expence,
“Nor make Wit war with Honesty and Sense.
“Be Honour always my peculiar Guard.
“Who forfeits Honour, merits no Reward.

“Too stoically nice, Apollo said—
“It seems, thou scorn'st to make my Art thy Trade!
“My Trade!—I answer'd—Yields it any Gain?
“Does it enrich? Or can it Life sustain?
“Spencer it starv'd! nor far'd great Milton well!
“Johnson it sowr'd! and Butler's Case was Hell!
“Were Dryden, Otway, Lee, and Oldham blest?
“Were Row, and Smith, and Phillips, e'er at Rest?
“Say, did your Art alone, make Prior great?
“From it, deriv'd sweet Addison his State?
“By it, was Congreve sav'd from Poet's Fate?
“In you, did Stepney his Advancement find?
“Had Pope no Patrimony, but his Mind?

323

“Genius, without a pow'rful Friend, might die!
“'Tis lucky Chance that lifts a Mortal high.

“Severe in Virtue! still I am thy Friend,
“And now—said Phoebus—my Advice attend;
“So shalt thou Honour, to thy Death maintain,
“Nor rob the World of thy Poetick Vein.
“Look out a Patron, worthy all thy Praise;
“One, who can relish, and reward thy Lays;
“Who human-Kind, as well as Books, has read;
“A generous Heart, and a judicious Head;
“Who knows thy Excellence, and will forgive
“Small Faults, for Beauties, that deserve to live.
“Be sure, the Man by innate Worth be great,
“Nor less distinguish'd by his Deeds, than State.

One, who his King and Country long has serv'd;
“Amid Temptations, ne'er from Honour swerv'd;

324

“And who so far transcends your highest Strain,
“That all Essays, to flatter him, were vain.

“Alas!—said I—Intent on publick Good,
“Stair will not heed me in the humble Crowd.
“Courage—quoth Phoebus—He deserves thy Trust,
“If what thou seek'st be moderate and just.
“In Him, thou'lt find a Patron to thy Mind,
“Great, without Pride! without dissembling, Kind!
“No low-designing, fickle, treacherous, Lord!
“But mindful of his Friend, and faithful to his Word!
“Attempt his Favour, for his Int'rest sue,
“They're never grudg'd, whose Merit makes them due.
“He'll smile Distinction on thy honest Lays,
“Help thee to Place, and eternize thy Praise.

Raptur'd, I wak'd, and dwelt upon my Dream,
And from that Hour, your Lordship was my Theme

325

To You, my Service and my Pray'rs belong,
You are the Favourite Hero of my Song.
O may you make your Mitchell's Case your Care!
And Heav'n's selectest Blessings crown the generous Stair!

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair,

BEFORE THE Election of Sixteen Peers for Scotland, Anno Dom. 1722.

The Bard, who boasts Devotion to your Name,
And sung the good Sir David's deathless Fame,

326

Presumes again to interrupt your Thoughts,
With humble Sense, and unharmonious Notes.

Shou'd Stair, regardless of a wretched Muse,
His kind Protection to my Verse refuse,
What generous Peer, of Caledonian Blood,
Or will, or can do Mitchell's Genius Good?
Others may boast a showy Pow'r, and State—
But who, like Stair, at once is good and great?
Be This your Glory still—nor scorn his Lays,
Who scorns to prove a Prostitute, for Praise.
Tho' long I've wander'd fickle Fortune's Sport,
By Priests pursu'd, unheeded by the Court,
Souls, of your Stamp, can pity and protect,
And gather Fame from other Men's Neglect.
So Fools, sometimes, unpolish'd Gems despise,
Whose Value, known, distinguishes the wise.

327

Permit, my Lord, a Poet to express
Some natural Pride, in midst of his Distress.
I own, no Face of Fortune can controul
The stated Virtue of my noble Soul.
I'd rather bear the Insults of the Base,
And still prefer Parnassus to a Place,
Than cringe and buckle to my Mind's Disgrace.
Yet I can stoop, where Honour gives me Leave,
And thank the Hand, that brings me wish'd Reprieve:
Nor wou'd I, if I cou'd do better, sit
At Home, a lazy Liver on my Wit.
But till, ah fruitless Hope! some friendly Pow'r,
For future Life, lays my Foundation sure,
In Spite of me, this damn'd, poetic, Itch
Will marr my lucky Fortune to be rich!

Now, to Edina ev'ry Clan repairs,
To chuse Directors of our Scots' Affairs.

328

My Hearr attends 'em—but the wanted Pelf
Arrests my Muse, a poor, abandon'd Elf!
Here I must sigh each Summer Night away,
And hide from hunting Catchpoles all the Day.

O tell it not in Gath, that sixteen Peers
Had but one Bard, and left him all in Tears.
The Philistines will triumph at the News,
And mock, at once, the Patrons, and the Muse.
'Twere nobler far, before th' Elections come,
To frank your honest Poet Mitchell Home.

Sir David Dalrymple, Bart.

329

MITCHELL, Solus,

Sitting in a thoughtful Posture: In his Hand, his Taylor's Bill, with an expostulatory Letter: Pen, Ink, and Paper, on the Table by him.

[_]

In Imitation of Cato's Soliloquy, AND Humbly Inscribed to the Rt. Honourable John Earl of Stair, Anno Dom. 1724.

It must be so—Taylor, thou reason'st well!—
Else whence this pleasing Hope, this fond Desire,
This earnest Longing, to discharge thy Bill?
Or whence this secret Dread, and inward Horror,

330

Of an Arrest? Why shrinks the conscious Soul
Back on her self, and startles at a Bayliff?
The Justice of a Cause prevails within us;
'Tis Honesty that points out better Days,
And intimates ev'n Money to a Bard!
Money! thou pleasing, anxious, dreadful Thought!
Through what Variety of untry'd Life,
Through what new Scenes and Changes must we pass?
The wide, th' unbounded Prospect lies before me;
But Shadows, Clouds, and Darkness rest upon it.
Here will I hold. If a Mæcenas be,
(And That there is, Fame publishes abroad
Thro' British Realms) he must delight in Goodness;
And That which he delights in must be happy.
But when! or who?—at present I'm in Need,
And dun'd for Debt—but This must bring Relief. (Taking his Pen in his Hand.)

331

Thus am I doubly arm'd. My Pain or Pleasure,
My Bane and Antidote are both before me.
This in a Moment claps me in a Goal;
But That informs me I shall yet be rich.
The Muse, secur'd by Inspiration, smiles
At sight of Catchpoles, and defys a Writ.
Nobles may perish, and the King himself
Submit to Fate, the very Realm be ruin'd;
But Bards shall flourish in immortal Youth,
Unhurt amidst the Whig and Tory Broils,
Our civil Fury, and our foreign Wars.

What means this heaviness that hangs upon me?
This Lethargy that creeps thro' all my Senses?
Nature, oppress'd and harrass'd out with Care,
Sinks down to Dulness.—Let me drink a Bottle,
That my awaken'd Muse may wing her Flight,
Renew'd in all her Strength, and fresh with Life,

332

An Off'ring fit for Stair. Let Guilt or Fear
Disturb Man's Rest: Mitchell knows neither of 'em,
Indifferent in his Choice to live or die,
If he, great Lord! vouchsafe me not his Favour.

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair.

1724.

What tho' my Dividend of Wit
For Preaching made me seem unfit,
When, 'midst an Herd of Levites muddy,
Creeds and Confessions were my Study?
Shall Works of mine prove out of Season
With Laymen, for the Clergy's Reason?

333

Does Verse unqualify my Mind
For Offices of every Kind?
Must I despair to get a Place?
Zookers, my Lord, 'tis an hard Case!
—But tho' the World shou'd all agree,
In saying, there's no Worth in Me;
I dare be bold to own to you,
I'll never think the Saying true:
Nor, while so many Fools I spy,
Can I believe there's none but I.
Then, first, my Lord, my Pride forgive,
And, next, e'en help me how to live.

334

THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT,

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair

1726.

O Britain's Boast, and Glory of our Times!
Belov'd at Home! Renown'd in foreign Climes!
Thou Courtier, Hero, Patriot, ever dear!
The Muses' Friend! to me, the kindest Peer!
My first, great Patron! and the only Lord,
Who ne'er to Mitchell meanly broke his Word!
How shall a grateful Bard his Debt discharge?
So poor his Stock, and his Arrears so large!

335

How shall my Muse my Heart's Resentment sing?
What due Return for heaps of Favours bring?
Can Verse of mine, can Life it self, suffice
To pay my Duty, and unloose my Ties?
No! thou hast found the Secret to controul
The Whole of Mitchell; thou hast bound his Soul!
Delightful Thraldom! such a Slave to be,
Is Happiness; 'tis more than being free!
Then, speak, my Lord; command me as thy own—
But 'tis too much; the Service were Renown!
Thy ev'ry Smile wou'd animate my Lays,
And Fame immortal issue from thy Praise.
Yet is it so? am I indeed belov'd?
Have I, O Stair, thy favourite Poet prov'd?
Whence this to me? why shou'd'st thou condescend
To read, to praise, to cherish, and defend,

336

My humble Muse? have I deserv'd thy Grace?
And do'st thou stoop to lift thy Bard to Place?
Yes, envious Fellow-Poets I am blest;
Fret, rail, and rage, ye Criticks, at my Rest.
Stair is my Patron; nor disdains to own,
That raising me impairs not his Renown.
Without Foundation wou'd he build my Fame?
No: from this Hour, I'll vindicate my Claim,
I'll dare to think there's Merit in my Muse,
Defy your Censure, and exalt my Views.
By Stair indulg'd and introduc'd, I see
The Fair and Brave already Friends to me.
They frankly join to Patronize my Lays,
Reward my Toil, and prompt me on to Praise.
O cou'd I, grateful, in exalted Verse,
Proclaim his Virtues, and his Deeds rehearse!

337

No boasted Greek, or Roman, Name shou'd shine,
And be esteem'd more glorious and divine.
No borrow'd Praise, no Common-Place Renown,
Shou'd mix his Godlike Character to crown:
But native Merit the great Basis prove,
And just Encomiums Men's Devotion move.

338

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair,

On the Death of The Right Honourable Sir David Dalrymple, Baronet,

His Majesty's Advocate for North Britain.

Quis Desiderio sit Pudor aut modus
Tam chari Capitis? ------
Hor.

A bard, whom no contending Party sways,
Who never Worth, by Wealth, or Title, weighs,
Untaught to flatter, and unbrib'd by Gain,
To you, my Lord, directs his doleful Strain:

339

A Strain, that makes a Kingdom's Sorrow known,
Inspir'd by generous Suffering, like your own.

Uncommon Losses claim uncommon Woe,
Which vulgar Numbers cannot justly show.
A Patriot's Death, and such a Patriot too,
When wanted most, and Patriots are so few,
Demands our Tears; and, on the hallow'd Hearse,
A Hill, or Pope, shou'd strow immortal Verse.
They, powerful Genii! equal to the Theme,
Cou'd sing his Soul, and weep themselves to Fame.
I, but a nameless Novice! humbly pay
My zealous Duty to distinguish'd Clay:
Happy, if I can Nature's Dictates trace,
Without the servile Aids of common Place.
Art looks affected in our mournful Songs,
And borrow'd Pomp a pious Offering wrongs.

340

But what, my Lord, can Art and Nature do,
To match the Sorrow, that has seiz'd on you?
A Sorrow, that is shar'd by all the Good,
Howe'er disjoin'd by different Rights of Blood!
Honour and Virtue feel your weighty Woe,
And reel beneath the all-afflicting Blow.
What Lover of his Country can forbear,
In spite of Faction, to be mourner here?
Dalrymple, scorning specious Tricks of Art,
Rever'd his Country, with an honest Heart.
Unwearied, wou'd his generous Soul essay,
To help benighted Merit into Day.
He judg'd no Task, within his Province, hard;
And reap'd, in Goodness, its refin'd Reward.
How frank! how kind! how generous! how just!
His Conduct was?—how faithful to his Trust?

341

How learn'd in Laws? how eloquent? how wise?
Who lives, yet knows not, under British Skies?
O, where shall sacred, social Virtues find
Their Charms united, in another Mind?
When shall we one, so well accomplish'd, see
So humble, modest, complaisant, and free.
Together all his various Merits throw,
And let Mankind his perfect Equal show.

How was his Exit to his Life ally'd?
“I go, my Friends (and, as he said, he dy'd)
“Take my best Wishes, and believe my Love
“Shall never lessen, at the Courts above.
“There, if my Interest for you can avail,
“My Nature will not let my Labours fail.

O happy Shade! O Realms of Glory gone!
Enjoy the Rest your Course of Virtue won.

342

No civil Discord, no inglorious Art,
Shall ever there molest your ravish'd Heart.
Secure your Treasure, and confirm'd your Claim,
Immortal be your Happiness and Fame:
While we, condemn'd to drudge it here below,
By Want of You, your Value clearly know.

What art thou, Life, whose longer Stay we court?
Since Man, at best, is fickle Fortune's Sport.
Why should we wish a larger Stock of Breath?
Since Nature's Self implores Relief from Death.
Is it not better, to elude, by Flight,
The Ills to come, conceal'd from humane Sight?
Fate wisely treasures a Reserve of Woe
For those, who further, than their Line, wou'd go.
Dalrymple, like a wise, instructed, Guest,
Enjoy'd his Portion, and forsook the Feast.

343

When Man has got his Share of worldly Sweets,
Too soon he cannot leave unsavoury Meats.
But we, weak Mortals! by our Passions sway'd,
Mourn o'er the Dead, and are of Death afraid.
Begging for Life, we sue for more Decay,
And dread to lose what daily dies away.
Deluded Creatures! why so griev'd, to see
Our Friends, from sad Confinement here, set free?
When Death comes calm, by gentle Nature led,
Shou'd we not, joyful, croud around the Bed,
And wonder more, no envious Fate destroy'd
The lov'd, the loving, Objects, in their Pride?
Surprizing Strokes may seem, perhaps, severe—
So dy'd Belhaven, the Young, the Brave, the Dear:
Belhaven, the Grief, who lately was the Grace,
Of all his noble, now dejected, Race!

344

For ever lost—but ever to remain
Alive in Hearts, and in the Poet's Strain.
He sunk untimely, as the beauteous Rose
Is dash'd to Pieces, when a Tempest grows.
Not so Dalrymple, who serenely fell,
And, tir'd with Life, bid this vain World farewell.
He drop'd, like Autumn-fruit, that mellow'd long,
Prepar'd, to join the Just, cogenial, Throng.

Yet suits it well Mortality to mourn,
For our own Loss, and strow the Patriot's Urn.
Nor is it Rudeness for the friendly Muse,
To moralize Affliction into Use.
Alike concerns it great, and small, to scan
The frail Estate, and future Hope, of Man.
Noble and Base are destin'd both to die.
In vain we wou'd impartial Justice fly.

345

No Pray'r, no Bribe, no Shew of Life, can charm
The whirling Year, and Death's tremendous Arm.

Permit, my Lord, Imagination's Flight,
And view, with me, the dreary Shades of Night.
Peruse the Dust, so lately like our own,
As much alive, and worthy fair Renown.
Observe how once-distinguish'd Names are join'd!
Where, now, is Grandeur? where a wond'rous Mind?
Which is the Noble? who shou'd be rever'd?
What Villain spurn'd at? and what Hero fear'd?
How low, proud Conquerors, are your Trophies laid?
How equal, now, are Kings and Subjects made?
Diogenes, thy Treasure is not scant:
What more does mighty Alexander want?
Where are thy Pinions, thou, who, late, did'st fly
From Orb to Orb? an Inmate of the Sky!

346

Do Roses flourish on Hellena's Breast?
Democritus, appears the Grave a Jest?
Hear'st thou, O Maro, when we read thy Lays,
Do Homer's Atoms listen to his Praise?
Frail Life! how soon thy shewy Pride is past!
Too cruel Death! that makes such dreadful Waste!

Be taught, my Soul, with an assiduous Strife,
To manage well th' important Hours of Life.
With solemn Awe, the Ways of Truth revere,
And all thou do'st, by Wisdom's Dictates, steer.
So shall not Death, with an unfriendly Frown,
Inglorious, throw thy ruin'd Cottage down:
But, smiling, lead thee thro' the dubious Way,
And leave thee raptur'd in immortal Day.
So sings the Muse, by pious Fancy warm'd;
But, ah! how weakly is the Conduct arm'd?

347

We think, resolve, and make Essays to live;
Yet faster in the devious Courses drive.
Reason exerts her pure, celestial, Rays,
To guide our Steps thro' Errors weary Maze:
But upstart Passions mount her rightful Throne,
And blindly push our vanquish'd Judgment on.
Hence we, perversely, wander, in the Night,
Uncertain, when the Road, we take, is right.

O Nature! why so indolent in Good?
Too tempting Ills! by Passions fast pursu'd.
Happy the Man, most happy in the End!
To others useful, to himself a Friend,
Who, steel'd by Virtue, baffles ev'ry Vice,
And rates his Honour, at the highest Price:
In all Events of Fortune, stands serene,
Unshock'd by Danger, and unsowr'd by Spleen;

348

Views Want, Disease, and Death, without Dismay,
Well pleas'd, each Eve, he has not lost the Day.
Him no vain Hopes attract, no Fears oppress,
He's great in Loss, and humble in Success:
Amidst the Snares of Courts, is ne'er enthral'd,
Nor, by Reflection, in his Pleasures pall'd:
Grey in Experience, he despises Guile,
Knows a false Cringe, and undermining Smile:
By others' Ruin, certain Safety gains,
And stands, prepar'd, to shift the transient Scenes:
Such was Dalrymple, (ever be his Name
Mourn'd by the Muse, and fair in future Fame)
And such, my Lord, your Character confess'd,
Is lov'd by all, of all your Self the best.

Did you not too, too modestly refuse
The just Encomiums of the wondering Muse;

349

And cou'd I, equal to the glorious Theme,
By praising you, deserve a deathless Name;
No British Patriot sooner wou'd I sing,
Nor, from feign'd Worth, my Inspiration bring.
Your proper Merit shou'd adorn my Verse,
And Envy own the Virtues I rehearse.
But Souls, like Stair, by some unlucky Fate,
Receive the Honours, they deserve, too late.
A thousand Years, successive, were expir'd,
Ere Maro's Muse Æneas' Acts inspir'd:
And Trojan Tow'rs, in Ashes, long had lain,
Ere Homer's Verse immortaliz'd the Slain.

[_]

NB. This Poem shou'd have follow'd immediately after the Poetical Dream.

350

An ANACREONTIQUE, To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair:

Occasion'd by a View of his Lordship's Wardrobe a Sunning before their Majesties Coronation, 1727.

Cœlum ipsum petimus stultitia.
Hor.

Have I been the special Care
Of my noble Patron Stair?
Is, by him, my Muse approv'd?
Are my various Lays belov'd?
Humbly then I'll make a Leg,
And a Favour freely beg.

351

But 'tis not (tho' Cash is scant)
Place or Pension, that I want—
“Walpole (when it shall him please)
“Will prefer his Bard to these.
Neither seek I Meat or Drink,
Parchment, Paper, Pen, or Ink—
“These (or else the Devil's in't)
“May be earn'd by what I print.)
But the Boon, I beg of Stair,
Is Equipment debonair,
From his Wardrobe, rich and gay,
For the Coronation-Day.

Pity Robes, so fine, shou'd lie,
Like a Talent, hid—when I,
Worthy Poet, want a Sute
With some showy Tinsel to't,

352

In the loyal Crowd to strut,
And a courtly Figure cut!

What tho' Gazers then shou'd say,
“Lord! how Mitchell looks to-Day!
“Sure, Dependence now is past!
“Or old Madam's dead at last!
Let 'em wonder, carp, and grin—
Only those shou'd laugh, who win.
Mitchell will not care a Fig,
(So he, like a Lord, looks big)
Tho' the Rascal-Rabble swears,
That 'tis Collier's Coat he wears;
Or he'as hir'd, from Monmouth-street,
Birth-Day Cloaths, and made them meet.

Yet the Sute must something lack,
Ere 'tis fitted for my Back!

353

Ah! how alter'd it must be,
Ere it can appear on Me!
Turning's not the least Disgrace!
'Tis the Star must lose its Place!
Pity that no more must shine,
Nor the Ribband green be mine.

When, O when, shall worthy Bards
Meet with Honours for Rewards?
When be mark'd, for fair Renown,
By some Order of their own?
Why is no Distinction giv'n
To the Favourite Sons of Heav'n?

How 'twou'd glorify our Race,
And his Coronation grace,
Shou'd the second George think fit
To create a Crown for Wit,

354

Ensigns of an Order new!
Neither red, nor green, nor blue!
But of Rainbow's various Hue!
And select, from tuneful Herd,
Poets nine to be prefer'd!
With a Laureat, Heav'n-ally'd,
In their Chapters to preside!
Like Apollo, Laurel-crown'd,
And the Muses all around!

With what Majesty and State,
How superior, greatly great,
Wou'd stern Dennis then appear,
With his Ribband and his Star?
Lord! how Young and Gay wou'd strut?
What a Figure Hill wou'd cut?
Little Pope improve his Size
Inches nearer to the Skies?

355

Phillips Namby Pamby quit,
And aspire to Epic Wit?
Welsted, like the Frog, full-blown,
Swell and burst with his Renown?
Rivers' luckless Son wou'd then
Think himself the King of Men!
And the Laureat Eusden look
Like a gilded Folio-Book!
I (who Knight of Bath shou'd be)
Wou'd be glad my self to see
In Poetick Council sit,
With the Ornaments of Wit—
Glory greater than the Bays,
Empty Breath and dying Praise!

Nor, were this rare Order made,
Shou'd our Art be deem'd a Trade,

356

Mercenary, vile and mean—
Lords and Squires wou'd then be seen
Of the Tribe, and proud to claim
Places with the Knights of Fame!
Hallifaxes wou'd arise,
And new Dorset's bless our Eyes!
Boyle's and Buckingham's divine
At our sacred Sessions shine!
Lawderdale's and Lansdown's yet
Seize their rightful Palm of Wit!
Chesterfield his Kindred own,
And partake of our Renown!
Dodington our Ensigns wear!
Wharton at our Board appear!
And Sir William Y--- wou'd part
With his Red with all his Heart,

357

And run deeper still in Debt,
So he cou'd the Rainbow get!

This no Fancy of the Brain,
No Chimera wild and vain,
Shou'd his Majesty proclaim—
“Honour'd be the Sons of Fame;
“Thus it shall be done to those,
“Who transcend terrestrial Prose!

What new Glory wou'd it bring
To the Muses and the King,
Were this noble Order fixt
For the Coronation next!
But whate'er the Fates decree,
Generous Patron, think of me;
Let, O let not Mitchell pass,
In the Crowd, so like an Ass,

358

With Apparel course and plain;
While your Wardrobe does contain
Three-times Thirty Sutes, so fit
For the Dignity of Wit.

Or, at once to crown my Pray'r,
Shou'd I, by Decree of Stair,
Master of the Robes but be—
Rule the Roast who will, for me!

Horace, by Mæcenas grac'd,
And with Lyrick Poets plac'd,
Reach'd not nearer lofty Skies,
Than my raptur'd Self shou'd rise!

Sublimi feriam Sidera vertice.

A Lady who dy'd since this Poem was written.

A Gentleman remarkable for fine Cloaths.

359

TO Dr. Arbuthnot,

On Occasion of the Indisposition of John Earl of Stair, 1726.

Is Stair, the Patriot and the Patron, ill?
Where then, Arbuthnot, is thy saving Skill?
Say, thou great Æsculapius of our Isle,
On whom Apollo, and the Muses smile,
Is the dire Cause of this Disease unknown?
Or, for thy Art, too high and mighty grown?
Impossible! thy Recipes excel,
And thou hast studied Constitutions well.

360

Twice to thy Hand Britannia look'd for Aid,
When Anna's Illness made her Sons afraid;
And twice thy Hand the Tyrant's Rage o'ercame,
Preserv'd the Queen, and won immortal Fame.
—But, ah! renown'd Physician, shall Disease
Not, by thy Means, on this Occasion, cease?
Stair is the Patient! Stair, our noble Chief!
In Peace, or War, the Nation's sure Relief!
Shall He feel Pain, at this important Time?
He suffer, for some mighty publick Crime?
How will the News confound our good Allies?
How animate our dareing Enemies?
Rather, Britannia, be whole Legions lost:
Let Gibraltar become the Spanish Boast.
Hero and Courtier, most accomplish'd, He!
The best great Man, and all in all, to Me!

361

O cou'd my Pain relieve my tortur'd Lord!
O cou'd my Blood, to Him, sound Health afford!
—But vain the Wish. What pious Pray'rs can save
The greatest Mortal from the gapeing Grave?
Yet, shou'd He yield to all-devouring Death,
What then, to Me, wou'd boot surviving Breath?
Stair once departed, what cou'd cheer my Mind?
Mæcenas gone, wou'd Horace stay behind?
No. 'Tis resolv'd, whene'er the Patron dies,
The Poet shall attend him to the Skies.

But see! He's well! by kind Arbuthnot's Art,
Affliction's banish'd from my Hero's Heart.
New Life and Vigour animate his Frame!
His Looks and Air recover'd Health proclaim!
Again He moves! again appears Abroad!
Adorns the Court! and personates a God!

362

How glad each Face! how joyful every Friend!
—Quick, to our Foes, the fatal Tydings send,
That Charles and Philip, Thunderstruck, may yield
To British Terms, and timely quit the Field.

And, thou Arbuthnot, Arbiter of Health!
Thou second Saviour! live in Peace and Wealth.
While surly and pragmatic Doctors kill,
Let great good Nature, and true Humour, still
Inspire thy Recipes, and recommend thy Skill.
So shall the Muses sing Thee in their Lays;
And Gulliver, himself, proclaim thy Praise,
Thee, the great Brobdingnagian Doctor call,
And others puny Lilliputians all!

363

BOLD COUNSEL,

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair, 1728.

Enough, my Lord, of earthly Pride you've seen!
Enough exalted and illustrious been!
European Courts can boast no pompous Show,
No Pow'r, or Politicks, but what you know.
In Peace or War, is there a noble Art,
A Glory, wherein you have had no Part?
Statesman and Soldier, different Names, agree
To mix, and shine with all their Force, in Thee.

364

What foreign Nation, your great Worth denys?
Fame of your Virtues, all-acknowledg'd, flys.
Unbiass'd, all your Character confess,
And none, Abroad, e'er wish'd your Honours less.
Ev'n Britons, blind to Merit of their own,
In spite of Faction, your Applauses crown.
Subjects, with Praise, your Excellence revere,
And Princes are indebted to your Care.
Your Patriot Zeal, and Management confest,
Have, more than once, the King and Country blest.
—Now, by your Hand, we're rescu'd and renown'd,
Retire, great Lord, with hoary Honours crown'd;
After a Course of publick Glory, shine
Like Concinnatus, in your Life's Decline;
Enjoy the Blessings of a private State;
Still, tho' remov'd from Care and Business, great.

365

Then shall not upstart, crafty, Minions' Art
Supplant your Fortune, nor disturb your Heart;
Their moony Radiance shall not shade the Light
Of your meridian Sun, that made them bright:
But Peace and Honour evermore remain,
And th' Evening, like your Day of Life, serene.
The Muses too, obsequious, shall attend,
The Muses, ever faithful to their Friend!
'Tis theirs to wait the Great Man to the Grave,
And from Detraction and Oblivion save.
Tho' Flatterers fly, and the Oblig'd forsake;
Tho' Friends their Leave, at your Retirement, take;
Tho' Court and Country, shou'd Deserters prove,
Mitchell must serve the Man, he's bound to love;
Honour'd and proud, if, for his duteous Care,
He's still regarded by his Patron Stair.

366

VERSES To the Right Honourable the Lady Sommerville,

On her Marriage.

When Themes profane the Poet's Choice are made,
The sacred Nine reluctant lend their Aid:
But half inspir'd the Fancy then appears,
And languid Numbers pass for manly Verse.
Not so, when noble Subjects claim their Song—
The Muses then around their Votary throng!

367

Then, all at once, their tuneful Forces join,
Swell in each Thought, and in each Cadence shine!

Devious, of late, amid too light a Strain,
Each of the Sisters was invok'd, in vain;
From my weak Wing, the sweet Supporters fled,
Sunk were my Spirits, and my Numbers dead.
But, soon as Fame reliev'd me with the Sound,
That Sommerville in You his Heav'n had found,
Wrapt, I resolv'd th'inspiring Choice to sing,
And crowding Muses danc'd on every String.

Receive, illustrious Charmer, the Respect
Your Poet pays; and what he writes protect.
While others cold and formal Zeal display,
And wish you Joy, the dull prosaic Way;
Mitchell, distinguish'd, with a livelier Air,
Visits in Verse, nor hails you less sincere.

368

Reign, wedded Love, on Reason founded strong!
Thou Source of Kindred, and thou Soul of Song!
In Thee, the Lover meets no treacherous Smile;
No faithless Snares his manag'd Heart beguile.
What tho' to One thou do'st Desire confine?
Thy Bounds are Eden, a Restraint divine!
Sweetly associate, He sustains no Care,
That She disarms not by Her Right to share.
Her Joys are heighten'd by the Part He bears,
And all Her Words are Musick to his Ears.
Dash'd on Life's Ocean, when the swelling Waves
Rise over one, th' assisting Consort saves;
Till each at Anchor, 'midst the Tempest, rides,
Nor dreads the Surges, nor obeys the Tides!

How greatly blest must this bright Union be,
Where Bodies emulate, and Souls agree!

369

Pride of thy blooming Sex—your Eyes and Air
Have wearied Wonder, and awak'd Despair.
Your Form seems made to match your heav'nly Mind,
And, while on Earth, to leave all Earth behind!
While Sommerville, by Nature form'd to please,
His native Bravery softens into Ease,
And mixes Mildness with his manly Grace.
His warrior Line has triumph'd oft before;
But He, in conquering You, has triumph'd more.

May lengthen'd Life your meeting Wishes crown,
And rising Ages spread your wreath'd Renown!
May no first Death your social Hearts divide,
But late, together, be this Knot unty'd!

370

VERSES Occasion'd by the Death of The Right Honourable the Countess of Grantham.

Pardon, O Shade Divine, th' officious Verse
That breaks the sacred Silence of thy Hearse.
The Muses' Grief, when for the Dead design'd,
Appears, at best, impertinently Kind!

Courtiers and Poets mix not oft in Care,
Their Passions and their Views so different are!
But, to this mourn'd Occasion, all must owe
One social Utterance of one general Woe.

371

So shall the distant Poles one Fate sustain,
When the last Trumpet wakes the Dead again.

Trembling, the Muse surveys the clouded Courts
How damp'd their Converse, and how dash'd their Sports!
What gloomy Paleness deadens every Face!
What sickning Memory checks each rising Grace!
The Royal Pair stand fix'd in gen'rous Pain,
And look a Grief that makes all Language vain.
Round, in deep Silence, sad'ning Passions flow,
And Sighs from Sighs catch the contagious Woe.

Fancy, amidst the funeral Pomp is led,
And waits, in solemn March, the moving Dead.
Lodg'd, in cold Earth, her Body sinks resign'd,
But her immortal Image charms Mankind.
Soft sleep thy Dust to wait th' eternal Will;
Then rise unchang'd, and be an Angel still.

372

Ye loveliest of her fair Survivors, come,
And, with sweet Sorrow, grace her sacred Tomb.
Fix'd o'er her marble Mirror, leaning, see
What weak Defence from Death your Charms can be!
Think what she was; and, conscious of her Due,
Teach us, by mourning Her, to sigh for You.

But what wish'd Comfort shall the Muse afford
To the sad Bosom of her widow'd Lord?
Think—since not all your Love cou'd Life restrain—
How can your Sorrow charm her back again?
High above Hope or Fear, she now lives blest,
Where nothing, but your Woe, can break her Rest.
O let her, undisturb'd, those Blessings share,
Which cannot greater be, till You are there.

373

PETER:

AN Heroi-Comical Poem. In Six Canto's

Dicam insigne recens, adhuc
Intactum ore alio. ------
Hor.

CANTO I.

Peter (whose Story puzzled all the Town,
Ere Gulliver and Mary Tofts were known)
I, first, attempt to celebrate in Song—
Nor shall my Muse the Sylvan Hero wrong,

374

If thou, Arbuthnot, stand'st but on my Side;
Alike, his skilful Tutor and my Guide!

Yet not on vulgar Aid depends the Muse—
Great, as my wondrous Subject, are my Views!
To Godlike Brunswick—whom the Nations own
The rightful Wearer of Britannia's Crown;
Who rules the Hearts of People, brave and free;
Absolute Lord of Peter, and of Me;
To Him I, suppliant, make my warm Address:
His Smiles are Sanction, and his Praise Success.

If, 'mid'st thy Cares and Toils for human Kind,
Sometimes, the Poets have amus'd thy Mind;
If e'er my Hero found thy frank Regard;
O King, indulge the Genius of thy Bard,
And a whole Work, with one kind Smile, reward.

Methinks the Monarch, with auspicious Nod,
Bids me proceed, and wakes the inspiring God!

375

Sudden, I feel my daring Soul possest,
And swelling Raptures heave my beating Breast!
Legions of Thoughts, original indeed,
Thoughts, that ne'er enter'd in an Ancient's Head;
Tho' deep, yet clear; tho' delicate, yet strong;
Jostle for Place of Honour, in my Song!
What various Humour, Sense, and Learning, join
To glorify this singular Design!
Here, the bold Homer, Maro the Discreet,
Milton sublime, and witty Scarroon meet!
Cervantes, Butler, Boileau, Dryden, Lee,
Phillips, and Prior, mingle all in Me!
What choice Ingredients my rich Oleo rear!
The Wonderment of all, who see, or hear!

But who, ah! who can relish, as they read?
Who on the different Delicacies feed?

376

Who rightly enter into what is new,
And judge with Taste, that's elegantly True?
Criticks and Fops, in Character extream,
My Work, in vain, will celebrate, or blame!
Nor Those, nor These, alas! can take me Right!
Out of their Way is every Word I write!
In Oddness lies my Muse's whole Delight!
Thou Swift, (facetious, deep-discerning Dean!)
May'st find me out, and catch my Fancy, clean:
To Souls, like thine, Arcana's open lie,
Nor can a Nostrum 'scape thy brilliant Eye!
Let half a Score such Judges give me Praise,
And Worlds beside combine to blast my Bays.

Charm'd with the Hopes, I soar, I tow'r in flight,
And ten Leagues leave the Vulgar out of sight.
But deign, my Muse, whose undivided View
Looks present, past, and future Wonders thro',

377

The very Embrio's of Events foresees,
And pierces Heav'ns Arcana and Decrees,
Deign, for the Sake of Mortals, to relate
Your deep Discoveries in the Book of Fate,
Say, did no antient Sybil, Priest or Sage,
With Soul illumin'd, kenn afar this Age?
Were all the boasted Oracles unskil'd?
Without a Prophet, is the Time fulfil'd,
The destin'd Time! when mortal Men shou'd see
Peter, the Wild! the World's last Prodigy!
Tam'd by Arbuthnot, and describ'd by Me.
Was he, O strange! begot, conceiv'd, and born,
And not one Planet from its Orbit torn?
No Miracle to usher him to Earth?
Did Nature sleep, unconscious, at his Birth?
Impossible. A Cyrus Dreams predict,
And Cæsar's Fall must Heav'n and Earth afflict!

378

Are Men and Gods concern'd at such Affairs?
Are Wonders wrought to honour Names, like Theirs?
But must a Peter, like a Mushroom, rise?
Did not his Birth confound both Earth and Skies?
Yes; for, of him, the Sybils Books were full,
Nor prov'd the antient Oracles so dull.
Prophets of old, foresaw him in their Dreams,
And Poets sung him under different Names.
What tho' ten thousand Volumes are destroy'd?
Volumes! in my great Hero's Praise employ'd.
Ten thousand still, in uncouth Tongues remain,
Which Bently wou'd attempt to read, in vain!
—But not on Books his Greatness stands its Ground;
By more divine Presages, he's renown'd!
Each late strange Action, Accident, and Sight,
Had secret Reference to my Sylvan Knight.

379

The glorious Revolution's Self foreran
The Savage's Conversion into Man!
What meant the Meteors, late, display'd in Air?
Did not the Russian Czar his Day prepare?
The Czar, another Peter! sent, with Pow'rs,
To shine the Type and Harbinger of ours!
Did not that pow'rful Emperor appear,
In his first Life, a Sort of human Bear?
Were not his Actions and Behaviour rude?
His very Spirit savour'd of the Wood!
Till, found and tamed, he rose, with matchless Worth,
The burning Light and Glory of the North?
—But to the Reverend leaving this Dispute,
And why my Hero first appear'd a Brute,
Muse, sing what unmysterious Laymen say,
And how they give his Birth a different Way:

380

Whether, according to a certain Creed,
Of a new Species he was meant the Head;
And, in the Wood of Hamelen, form'd compleat,
Like Eden-Adam—but without a Mate?
Or, if, for Treason, thrown from Heav'n, he fell
Like Lucifer—but not to such an Hell?
Whether, incarnate, he's, infernal Fiend,
Broke loose, in hopes his Fortune here to mend?
Or if, the Spawn of heterogeneous Breed,
He sprung from human, mix'd with bestial, Seed?
If, procreated in the natural Way,
Unnatural Parents did the Boy convey,
By brutal Rage to perish; or be fed,
As erst by Wolves, the Persian Chief was bred?
Whether he's one of the fam'd Fairy Blades,
Who us'd to gambol in the Woodland Shades.

381

Perhaps, a Wanderer from his pigmy Kind,
Or, for some Roguery, left for Men to find?
Whether, perhaps, he casually stray'd?
Or was, by Rogues, from native Home betray'd?
If left, or lost, by Gypsies, in the Field,
He liv'd on what the savage Soil cou'd yield?
Or whether, by a Deluge, he was swept
From some contiguous Dwelling-place; and kept,
By Care divine, amid the Sylvan Throng,
T'amuse Mankind, and furnish out my Song?
Or, if, abhorrent of th' iniquious Age,
His Father, a Philosopher and Sage,
Preferring the Society of Brutes,
Expos'd the Boy to live on humble Roots,
And, by the odd Experiment, restore
The State of Nature, as it stood before?

382

If, struck with Sense of Misery and Woe,
Which human-kind, by Tameing, undergo,
His Sire resolv'd he wou'd not spoil the Child,
But, out of Love and Pity, bred him wild?
Or rather, if, disgusted at the Times,
Our Fashions, Follies, Villanies, and Crimes,
Astrea like, himself bid Earth farewel,
And hop'd in Hamelen, as in Heav'n, to dwell?
These and a thousand more Conjectures, I,
Uncurious pass, with solemn Reverence, by;
Suffic'd, that, whether, born, or calv'd, or made,
He reign'd a brutal Governour by Trade,
Till thou, great Brunswick (so Heav'n's Council stood)
Seiz'd on the Prey, and forc'd him from the Wood,
No less for Peter's, than Britannia's Good.

But how he liv'd, and rul'd, and was obey'd,
The Leagues he form'd, the Politicks he weigh'd;

383

His Studies, Wars, Religion, and his Sport;
The State and Constitution of his Court;
Why, how, and when, he was to Britain brought;
What he has done, and what is to be wrought;
These, and a thousand odder Things, than These,
Shall swell my Canto's, and enrich my Bays.

Capt. Lemuel Gulliver.

The Rabbit-Woman.

The End of the First Canto.

Hiatus ad Finem deflendus.

384

EPITAPH For the Tomb of an Infant, miscarried before it had received the Breath of Life.

The first dear Fruit of Myra's Womb,
Abortive, sanctifies this Tomb.
Thrice happy Child, exempt from Breath,
From Birth, from Being, and from Death;
Since Life is but one common Care,
And Man was made to mourn and fear!

The End of the First Volume.

II. VOL. II.

TO THE Noble and Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, &c. This Volume is Dedicated, As a lasting Monument OF Esteem, Gratitude, and Submission; BY His Honour's most Obliged and most Obedient Humble Servant, MITCHELL.

------ Nobis hæc otia fecit.
Virg.

Congratulatory Verses To His Excellency Joseph Mitchell, Esq;

On a Report of his being preferr'd to the Government of Duck-Island, in St. James's Park.

Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero
Pulsanda tellus ------
Hor.

When to my Ears the joyful Tidings came,
That Mitchell, Son of Phoebus, and of Fame!
Was rais'd, by Walpole's most auspicious Smile,
To sway the Sceptre of St. James's Isle,
Unusual Raptures in my Bosom sprung,
Beam'd in my Eyes, and trickled from my Tongue:

Nor ceas'd the social Sharers of the News,
T'extol the Patron and to hail the Muse.

Cou'd sage St. Evremond's immortal Shade
Know who his honour'd Successor is made,
In Realms of Death, he'd raise a tuneful Voice,
And kindred Bards, in Concert, wou'd rejoice.
Methinks, I hear the Burden of their Song—
“All Praise to Walpole! may he prosper long!
“Mitchell the great St. Evremond succeeds,
“And Ducks and Geese, with like Discretion, feeds.

Yet tho' thy Shoulders were by Nature meant,
To bear the mighty Load of Government,
Wear not away the Springs of Life too fast,
Nor, with unwonted Toils, thy Spirits waste:
Appoint some Swain thy Regions to o'er-see,
A Vicar-general, or a Deputy,
And oh! that mine the happy Post might be!

But if the Trust, or Profit, seem too great,
Make me your Chaplain, or your Laureat.

'Tis done—And, now, my Muse, unbounded, roves
Thro' twining Thickets, and embow'ring Groves;
On ev'ry mossy Bank with Rapture dwells,
And to each Tree the joyful News reveals;
Joins the loud Choirs that to the Groves resort,
Or Tench and Carp, that in the Waters sport.

A Libyan sage, once, in his dark Abode,
Taught Jays and Magpies to proclaim him God:
Then to the Woods dispatch'd the chattering Crew,
Who spread his Godship's Name, where'er they flew.
The People listen'd, wonder'd, and ador'd,
And μεγας Θεος ψαρων was the Word.

But leaving Heathen Greek, and Heathen Stories,
Let's now survey the happy State before us:

Where ev'ry free-born Subject still enjoys
His Liberty, and Property, of Noise:
Where none oppress'd, in vain, for Justice calls;
No secret Treason broods within your Walls:
No cursed Bribery corrupts the Chair,
No Duns, no Catch-poles, ever enter there.
No Cart, no Coach, no Chimney-sweeper, seen,
To break your Rest, or edge you off the Green.
Your Laws are just; your Ducks at Pleasure stray
From Pool to Pool, with Chearfulness obey,
And whake your Praise aloud, as well as they may.
For you, your Geese their grateful Notes employ,
Nod their grave Heads, and gabble forth their Joy.

J. ROOKE.

THE SINE-CURE: A Poetical PETITION To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE, Esq;

FOR The Government of Duck-Island, in St. James's Park.

Wearied with vain Pursuits, and humble grown,
Sad in the Country, and too poor for Town,
O how long, in some soft, silent, Seat,
To taste calm Quiet, in serene Retreat;
Where Books, and Ease, and Time for serious Thought,
May make Wit Wisdom ere I'm good for nought!

Walpole, to thee, the Muse, afflicted, flies,
And, from the Deep, like Shipwreck'd Jonah, cries.
Thou! the Right-hand of Fortune! form'd to give!
Let me not die, before I've learn'd to live.

I, not for lordly Post, or Pension, plead,
(Scarce can a Hope, so modest, not succeed.)
St. James's Wilderness, the Park's fair Isle,
Wou'd crown my Wish, and Care's long Hand beguile.
On that delightful, and sequester'd, spot,
Fitted for me, as Zoar was for Lot!
I'd full Content and Satisfaction find,
And cultivate the Garden of my Mind.
There, like St. Evremond, I'd grow a Sage,
And War with Nonsense, Vice, and Folly wage:

There, cabin'd safe, in Solitude and Peace,
Think who's at Helm, nor fear the Storm's Increase.

What princely Pleasure, in that envied Scene,
To hold high Empire o'er the peopled Green!
Each rosy Morn the rising Sun to wait,
And walk, with him, around my Orb, in State!
My subject Ducks shou'd watch my gracious Will,
And passive Geese bequeath me ev'ry Quill.
To each, in order, traversing my Land,
I'd toss due Blessings, with impartial Hand.
Birds shou'd by Love, and Beasts by Fear obey;
But all pay Homage in th' Imperial Way.
Yet no tyrannick Pow'r shou'd pinch their Right,
Nor bold Rebellion wing their Wills for Flight.

Still I'd adorn my State with something new,
Prune its wild Prospects, and enlarge its View;
Mazes of knotty Politicks invent,
And, in each open Quarter, plant Content.
Then, when dispos'd for solitary Thought,
Inspir'd by Leisure, and by Duty taught,
I'd run thro' Nature, and the Causes find,
Which lift some single Souls above Mankind;
Which, thro' descending Ages, lengthen Fame,
And mark a Tully's, or a Walpole's Name.

Kindling, at this, to a sublimer Fire,
My grateful Heart might teach me to aspire;
Smit with my Country's Love, might Truth pursue,
And charm an unborn Race, by painting You.

Exhaustless Store my subject Isle contains,
For apt Allusions to adorn my Strains.
In narrow Compass, what not there compriz'd?
Britannia's Sea-girt Land epitomiz'd!
From crowded Scenes of great Augusta rent,
As our blest Kingdom from the Continent!
A Colony of feather'd People! where
(If we, with great, may smaller Things compare)
I, like a Bishop, wou'd o'ersee my Cure,
Or govern, like a King, in Miniature!

When my few Friends to visit me shou'd please,
How sweet to walk betwixt embow'ring Trees!
Or, soft-reclining in a short Repose,
Pluck the surrounding Fruitage as it grows!
I, to these Friends, instructive—but not vain,
Wou'd, like St. John in Patmos, Truth explain;

Teach them, that Happiness in Silence reigns,
And builds her bow'ry Seats, on peaceful Plains;
While they tell News of Mischiefs hourly known,
And every Word, they speak, confirms my own.

But should my Patron deign to leave the Court,
And humbly to my Hermitage resort,
Ambitious, I my self wou'd waft him o'er,
And hail his Presence on my happy Shore.
There might he, safe, unbend his active Mind,
Or form, perhaps, some Scheme to bless Mankind.
Then wou'd the golden Age be mine again,
And Charles's shou'd be lost in George's Reign.

How pleas'd is Fancy! how do Dreams delight?
And ah! what pity mine shou'd prove a Bite!

Hear me, thou Atlas of our leaning State,—
Consent, at least, to make one Poet great:
On thee, the Muses then shall fix their Eye,
And, for thy Glory, whole Parnassus vie.
To guard our Hopes has been the Hero's Pride!
'Tis good to have the Poets on thy Side.
I, for return, will yearly Homage pay,
And hail the Rising of thy natal Day.
Nor only this,—but, now and then, afford
A Fish, or Fowl, to dignify thy Board.

'Tis done!—I hear the happy Mandate giv'n,—
“Let Mitchell have his poor poetic Heav'n,
“And, to support his Government, we grant
“Twice fifty Pounds per Annum—All I want!
Boy, fill the Bowl;—'tis decent to be glad;—
Homer, on less Occasion, had run mad.

J. M.

Monsieur de St. Evremond was preferr'd to the Government of Duck-Island by King Charles II. and had a considerable yearly Pension allow'd him.

THE EQUIVALENT:

A SECOND POETICAL PETITION To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE, Esq;

Life of your Country's Hopes! the Bard, whose Strain
Aspiring, late, to Power, aspir'd in vain,
Unshock'd by hapless Disappointments past,
Renews his Pray'r, and hopes you'll hear at last.

Now, not for Government of Ducks he sues,—
A muddy Province! and below the Muse!
Poets are born for Feeders of Mankind,
And Place is best, proportion'd to the Mind.
Wisely you knew it, and but made me wait
For fitter Fortune, in a nobler State;
Whence some well-judg'd Equivalent might rise,
And Wit find Favour in a great Man's Eyes!
The Stars are kind;—Behold a vacant Place!
And Fortune smiles; ev'n in a Poet's Face!
Pow'r, Honour, Business, Profit, all agree
To make (strange Chance!) a noted Man of me!
Nothing to wish, but his prolifick Word,
Whose Pleasure can—what can it not afford?

And now, the Patron's Meaning Smile enquires
What wish'd Equivalent his Bard desires.—
“Give me its Name and Quality, (he says,)
“If I approve, you're made for all your Days.”
With grateful Rev'rence, and a gladden'd Heart,
Thus I—“O Walpole! Theme of Poet's Art!
“If e'er my Muse thy list'ning Ear cou'd pierce,
“Make me a First great Minister of Verse.
“Important Sound, to call Ambition forth!
“Hail to the Poet-Laureat of the North.
Nor, Eusden, tho' thy Brother Sov'reign made,
Mean I thy peaceful Regions to invade,
Conscious, alas! that all thy Toils are vain,
On English Ground, at once to please and reign.

Berwick on Tweed thy Ne plus ultra stands!
Thy Name, unknown, in Caledonian Lands!
Mine, far and wide, has warm'd a frozen Clime!
Remotest Thule celebrates my Rhyme!
Orkney and Zetland my Applauses sound!
And I'm among the Hebrides renow'd!
Where is the Highland Hill, or Lowland Tree,
That bears no grateful Characters of me?
All read, with Wonder, my unrival'd Lays,
And know no Head-piece, worthier of the Bays.
Ev'n Pennicuick, and Ramsay, own my Claim!
'Tis past Dispute, when once confess'd by them.

The Name of the present Laureat of England.

The Names of Two rival Verse-makers, now living in Scotland.

Nor would I take the Laureat's Hire for nought—
A Sine-Cure indulges want of Thought.

I wou'd, in Poetry, a Pastor prove,
And guide my tuneful Flock to Walpole's Love.
Charm'd by his Worth, their Looks shall all grow gay,
And sullen Faction smile Despair away.
O cou'd my Patron search my labouring Brain!
What Hopes, what Schemes, my busy Thoughts contain!
What Politicks, in Poetry, I've found!
What Projects, to make Him, and Me, renown'd!
Soon wou'd he stamp his Fiat on my Lays,
And soon prefer his Mitchell to the Bays.
Hark! He approves;—“Give North and South their Due;
“The laurell'd Scots should have their Laureat too!
“Inflam'd amidst hereditary Snows,
“In their brave Bosoms, Love of Glory glows!

“Unchill'd by wintry Bleaks, their Spirits blaze,
“And Arts and Sciences proclaim their Praise.
Io Triumphe! Io Pæans sing!
Let the glad News to great Edina ring!
Behold, my Friends, behold a Tun of Wine—
(An annual Income for the Northern Nine!)
Twice Fifty Pounds!—Now, greet my State with Odes:
Let George and Walpole, rise o'er modern Gods,
To George, to Walpole, consecrate your Lays:
But mine be all your Hailings, and the Bays.
Already, lo! I see a crowded Hall!
A frequent Congregation! Poets all!
Behold! I mount, inspir'd, my sacred Throne!
Hear! I declaim, with an enchanting Tone!

Kirkmen, themselves, begin to think me Good,
And, now, repent they were so blindly rude!
Fain to their Fold they'd bring the banish'd Sheep!
Fain, to themselves, the Poet-Laureat keep!
Free Testimonials, proffer'd, come at last;
With large Indulgence for Offences past:
But, heedless, I my proper Province mind,
And leave the Cripple to conduct the Blind.
Intent to polish and refine the Young,
I rack Invention, and new-tune my Tongue.
Heav'ns! how I lecture! ('tis a Laureat's Part)
Like Aristotle, on poetick Art.
Horace, and Vida, Boileau, Buckingham,
Are Harbingers to my exalted Name:

Their various Institutions I'd make known,
And add a thousand Beauties of my own.

The Presbytery of Edinburgh refus'd the Author (who had studied Divinity) free Testimonials, because he had read Plays, and would not acknowledge the Use of them to be simply, and absolutely unlawful.

Authors who have severally written Arts of Poetry fit to be lectur'd on.

Yet let me no scholastick Jargon use;
Pedantick Methods are below the Muse.
I'd train my tuneful Sons a nobler Way,
And, in one View, poetick Art display.
The living Bards shou'd teach them what to shun!
The Dead, how they immortal Garlands won!

Thus I'd declaim;—“My Sons, consider well
“Your Laureat's Dictates, as ye hope to excell.
“ Think not, by writing much, t'establish Fame,
“Like B---e, whom Damnation cannot tame;

“Nor seek, by Spleen or Spite, Success to find,
“Like D---s, Scourge and Scorn of all Mankind.
“Avoid, as you'd be guarded from a Pest,
“V---h's Mechanicks, C---e's bawdy Jest,
“T---p's priestly Rage, and H---'s party Zeal;
“Nor sleep, like J---n; nor, like C---r, steal.
“Save you, good Heav'n! from S---t's unhallow'd Vein,
“From P---e's Resentment, and from H---ll's Disdain,
“W---d's Self-flatt'ry, Y---g's unmeaning Rant;
“T---d's low Farce, and W---s' eternal Cant.
“Never, like P---s, think hard Labour Wit;
“Nor own, like S---e, what abler Authors writ;
“Like S---n, Farce with Tragedy confound;
“Like F---n with forc'd Similies abound;
“Like G---e, or like T---l, sing no more,
“To make Men doubt if e'er you sung before;

“Like W---n, J---b, M---e, and F---d, disperse
“Lampoon and Lewdness, jumbled into Verse.
“O let no Son of mine be deem'd, in Town,
“Coxcomb, like B---l; or, like G---y, a Clown;
“Punster, like A---t; or, like B---d, a Sot,
“A Tool, like S---ll; or, like S---e, nought.

N. B. The Author design'd this, and the following Paragraph as a Contrast: Like Light and Shade, the one sets off the other with Advantage. That which points out the peculiar Beauties and Excellencies of the Dead, would give little Offence, even tho' the Characters were unjust. But this, wherein the Faults and Foibles of the Living are represented, however justly, may be misconstrued by narrow Minds. Therefore, the Author hereby declares to all, whom it concerneth, that he has no personal Pique at any one, and cannot be at War with all the Fraternity; besides, he has nam'd none whom he does not esteem; and omitted few, whom he thought worth naming.

“But wou'd you shine? With due Attention read,
“And imitate the Beauties of the Dead.
“Let Homer lend you Majesty and Fire,
“And Virgil with judicious Rage inspire:
“Let Horace gay Variety impart,
“And Ovid's Softness humanize the Heart.
“Nor pass the English Excellencies by—
“Heav'ns! what bright Beauties in their Remnants lie!
“How rare t'impropriate Chaucer's cheerful Vein,
“Spencer's rich Fancy, Shakespear's nervous Strain,

“Milton's sublime, and Cowley's glitt'ring Wit,
“With all that Denham thought, or Waller writ?
“How great the Bard! his Labour how divine!
“Where Johnson's Depth, with Dryden's Numbers join?
“Where Butler's Humour, and Roscommon's Taste,
“Etheridge's Manners, Prior's courtly Jest,
“Rowe's Flow of Words, and Addison's good Fate,
“Conspire to make one Character compleat!
“Their various Virtues, blended in your Lays,
“Wou'd stamp Distinction, and perpetuate Praise.

Blest Sermon! Hail to the ingenious Throng,
That, list'ning, learn Perfection from my Song.
Cherish'd beneath my most auspicious Wing;
The Scotian Youth, like honour'd Ancients, sing!
See! ravish'd Crowds, with Rev'rence gather round,
Admire the Doctrine, and devour the Sound.

Disputes to my Decision are referr'd,
And what, like ipse dixit, is rever'd?

“My Friends (I cry) my purpos'd Task to aid,
“Be all your Heads, with mine, together, laid:
“What must his Learning, what his Genius, be,
“Who sings a Walpole, as he's known to me?
“To touch a Theme, so nobly warm, aright,
“Greece, Rome, and Britain, shou'd their Pow'rs unite.

'Tis said;—But lo! from far, amidst the Crowd,
A thinking Bard replies, serenely loud,
“Well has our Laureat Mitchell sought our Aid:
“The ablest, in such Tasks, are most afraid!
“But, as Resolves, so weighty, ask some Time,
“And Reason still shou'd be preferr'd to Rhyme,
“I humbly move,—that we postpone his Suit,
“'Till his chymeric Pow'r grows absolute.

THE PROMOTION:

A THIRD POETICAL PETITION To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE, Esq;

FOR The Office and Importance of Secretary of State for SCOTLAND.

------ Sume Superbiam
Quæsitam Meritis.
Hor.

------ Levis hæc Insania, quantas
Virtutes habeat.
Ib.

Twice has the Muse to Walpole told my Case,
And twice petition'd for some puny Place;
But He, wise Statesman! weighing my Desert,
By meaning Silence, more inflames my Heart.
Mitchell was born (methinks his Smiles import)
For Honours, and for Offices, at Court!

So prophesied my Grandame at my Birth,
When Signs and Wonders usher'd me to Earth.

Then forward let my favour'd Genius move,
I but obey what was decreed Above.
If ought indecent from my Fingers fly,
Prevailing Fate is more in Fault, than I.
Poets are influenc'd by celestial Pow'rs;
'Tis theirs to dictate, and to write is ours.

Resistance, when the Spirit moves, were vain;
Ev'n now, I feel it working in my Brain;
Like Secrets, in a Woman's Bosom pent,
It frets and rumbles, 'till it finds a Vent.

Yet, howsoe'er inspir'd, Hibernian Brass,
Dear, cath'lick, Virtue! make my Labour pass:

Thy friendly Aid is needful, to promote
The proper Means t'attain my destin'd Lot,
And make me stand confess'd a Man of Note.

Thus qualify'd, the bashful Muse grows bold,
And grasps at Glory, Government, and Gold.
Unblushing, now I claim the Royal Grace,
And ask (strange Flight!) a Secretary's Place!
'Tis fit there be, at least, One Bard of State—
Who knows but mine may prove the lucky Fate?
It suits my Soul—and, were I but preferr'd,
What Man of Verse would then be more rever'd?
I'd cut a Figure, so extremely new,
The World, with Wonder, would my Conduct view!
Yet never wou'd forget I walk'd on Foot—
I'd be important; but I wou'd not strut.

Mortals (whose Taste 'twere criminal to hit!
By Nature curst with the wrong Side of Wit!)
Will shake their Pates, and damn my daring Aim,
Or, sneering, shew Propensity to blame;
Mitchell aspire to Government! (they'll cry)
A Poet fit for Offices so high!
Forgetful, that Mæcenas was a Bard,
And Hallifax's Muse had this Reward;
That Verse rais'd Sylvius to the triple Crown,
And Buchanan to Places and Renown;
Distinguish'd Prior from the common Crowd,
And Pow'r and Praise on Addison bestow'd.

But I, tho' bold the new Demand may seem,
Appeal to WALPOLE's Judgment and Esteem;
To Him, great Arbiter of Truth and Wit!
To Him and Reason! I the Cause submit.

Say, is the Soul, inspir'd with Heav'nly Rage,
In State Affairs unable to engage?
Are Arts, and Laws, and Politicks, unknown
To tuneful Sons of Helicon alone?
Say, if the greatest Difficulty lies,
In painting Nature, or chastising Vice?
If, to crown Virtue, to preserve the Peace,
To quell Sedition, and our Wealth encrease,
More great, laborious, and important, be,
Than to write Verse, like Milton, or like me?
Did Phalaris receive a weak Reply?
Or had Stesichorus more Worth than I?

Hail Poesie! Inspirer of the Mind!
Thou art the Test, and Glory, of Mankind!
From Thee, all mortal Acts receive a Grace!
Thy Sons are born prepar'd for any Place!
By Intuition, every Thing they know—
But Men of Prose, however sure, are slow!
By lazy Labour, These acquire a Name:
But Those, like Eagles, tow'r, at once to Fame!

Yet, O ye Witlings, an egregious Throng!
Who think there's mighty Merit, in a Song;
That, if ye can but versify with Ease,
And tag dull Prose with Rhime, you've Right to please;
Or, labouring hard, perhaps a Piece produce,
Which Rooke might call a Copy of the Muse;
Avaunt—nor, vainly, think the Honours, due
To genuine Poets, are design'd for you.
Say, are your Souls impress'd with Stamp divine?
On every Subject, can ye nobly shine?
From barren Fields, make beauteous Flow'rs arise?
And, in poor Soils, display a Paradise?
Can ye, in Garrets, scorn the Vulgar Great?
And, when ye want a Groat, outbrave your Fate?
Dare ye, divinely, injur'd Truth assert?
And sooth the Sorrows of the Sufferer's Heart?

With Zeal impartial, proud Ambition sting?
And clouded Charms of tatter'd Virtue sing?
Ah! meanly Soul'd, in vain ye court the Bays—
In vain aspire to ancient Poets Praise—
As well might Fops, or Clowns, pretend to teach
Hoadly, and Clark, and Waterland to preach;
Correct great Newton; Law, in Figures, match;
And rival Peterborough's quick Dispatch;
Do Good, like Chandos; or, like Dorset, grace
A Court with Virtues, worthy of his Race;
Like Stair, be modest—yet, in Arts of State,
Like him, accomplish'd, and divinely Great;
Direct the Senate with a Compton's Skill;
The Judgment Seat, like King, with Honour, fill;
Th' Achilles of the War, like Greenwich, move;
Or th' Atlas of the State, like WALPOLE, prove.

How few, who deal in Metre, were design'd
For Offices of Pow'r, in any Kind?
How few cut out for Government appear?
An universal Genius is so rare!
But, as no Rules without Exceptions be,
Behold an Instance of the Thing, in Me!

It is confest—The ablest Umpire stands,
Well satisfy'd, that Trust, in Mitchell's Hands,
Wou'd be discharg'd, with an impartial Zeal,
For GEORGE's Glory, and Britannia's Weal.
He knows his honest Poet would disdain
To make the publick Loss a private Gain;
To head a Faction, or encourage Strife,
To prove a Cypher, or a Sot in Life;

To loll supine, like lazy Lords; be dull,
Yet of himself superlatively full.
Mitchell, divinely fir'd, has nobler Views,
Seeks sacred Truth, and Equity pursues,
The publick Good prefers above his own,
And covets Grandeur less, than fair Renown.

Heav'n too approves—For, lo! a vacant Place—
And who more proper to succeed his Grace?
Scotia demands a Secretary still—
To sink the Office might be taken ill.
A Name, a Shadow, tho' there were no more,
Is requisite to gloss the Matter o'er.
Is it a Sine-Cure? 'Tis shap'd for me!
And, if 'tis Business, I'd not idle be.
Let me but try—and, if I misbehave,
I'll ne'er One Shilling of the Salary crave.

Dubb me no Knight, or Blue, or Green, or Red,
But, in the Tow'r, confine me, 'till I'm dead,
With Pen, Ink, Paper, Water, Light, and Bread.

Ne'er had Man's Fancy more Delight in Dreams,
Than mine receives from high and mighty Schemes.
How I'd reform and civilize the North!
Controul Rebellion! and distinguish Worth!
From labouring Clowns, remove Complaints of Want!
And rid the Kirk of Bigotry and Cant!
Then Charity, and Money, shou'd be found!
And Learning, Truth, and Liberty, abound!
No furious Zeal shou'd Then embroil the Land!
No poor Man groan beneath th' Oppressor's Hand!
No Sufferer cry, in vain, for due Redress!
No noble Genius languish in Distress!

Arts, Arms, Religion, Sciences, and Trade,
Shou'd flourish all, beneath my friendly Shade.
Mæcenas, Woolsey, Richlieu, Names renown'd!
Shou'd Then, in my Superior Name, be drown'd.

How sacred wou'd the mighty Monarch be,
Who boasts a premier Minister, like Me!

Yet, 'midst the troublous Toils of State, sometimes,
My Soul wou'd take its dear Delight, in Rhimes—
Rhimes! not Amusements to my self alone,
But useful to my Country, when I'm gone.
I'd sing its Story; and produce to Light
Important Facts, involv'd in silent Night.
The Muse can Merit from Oblivion save,
And glorify the Virtuous, and the Brave.

Methinks, I see the Scotian Race unborn,
By me inspir'd, their native Land adorn!
Observe the Aged point the Way to Fame!
And hear the Children lisp their Poet's Name!
All read with Pleasure, and with Pride rehearse
Th' immortal Annals of my Patriot Verse;
How their Forefathers, venerable grown!
Liv'd, sought, and dy'd, from First Great Fergus down.
Then shou'd our Heroes, long, long dead, revive,
And, clear'd from Clouds of dark Oblivion live!
The World again shou'd great Galgacus see,
And Sholto's Resurrection owe to me!
Wallace, in Verse, shou'd prove a Patriot still,
And Bruce, with Wonder, coming Ages fill!
Fresh Laurel crown th'unrival'd Douglas, Line;
In deathless Glory, Hays and Seatons shine,
And Campbells, Grahams, and Murrays, be divine.

What Wonders wou'd the Muse, and I, not do,
Were we prefer'd, and set but fair in View!

Yes, Mirabel! It is the Statesman's Part,
To give to Truth the Preference of Art.
Integrity deserves the first Regard,
And cannot miss, while Walpole rules, Reward.
Well have you sung the Praise to Virtue due,
And set the Charms of Friendship fair in View.
A Kingdom, curst with Men of Manners loose,
And Minds unsocial, needed such a Muse.
In Season you appear; When but to write,
Or think, in Verse, is to be ruin'd quite.

Poets, by You, get Credit, even from Those,
Who wou'd distrust their Creed, if 'twere not Prose.
Yet, O retract—recall the Bolt you've thrown
To baulk bold Genius, or to bring it down;
For, certes, Wit and Virtue are not Foes
In Men of Verse, and always Friends in Prose.
Why so distinguish'd? Why, with Rival Rage,
Strive they the Statesman's Favour to engage?
Compatible, at least, they are avow'd;
For are not both in Mirabel allow'd?
Or say, is Place for clod-pate Virtue fit?
Virtue, without the social Aid of Wit!
Virtue, alone, is like a Snail, that creeps,
Or heavy Clown, who, on his Journey, sleeps;

Expos'd to Fops, and Coxcombs Scorn it lies,
Loses its Way, and unregarded dies;
If friendly Genius does not interpose,
And bear it far beyond the Paths of Prose.
How low a Figure Virtue, singly, makes!
How liable, in Office, to Mistakes!
Genius prevents, or wards the publick Scoff,
And sets plain Probity with Honour off.
It animates, and adds a double Grace,
As sprightly Eyes enrich a lovely Face.

Yet, Muse, detract not from dear Virtue's Praise,
Nor Genius high, above its Value, raise,
Tho' That but like an Ass, in Business, moves,
And This an active, lordly Lion proves.
But let the Man, prefer'd by WALPOLE, be
Possest of Both, like Mirabel, and Me;

Or, if disjoin'd, the Place to Genius give,
And, on a Pension, let plain Virtue live.

Mortals, my Freedom and Conceit excuse—
Which of you all wou'd not Distinction chuse?
Who is not Solon in his own Conceit,
With Sense, Experience, Arts, and Spirit, fit
To guide the State, and give the Stamp to Wit?
Ye think yourselves sufficient—I but tell
The secret Thoughts, that in your Bosoms dwell.
Ye are, in Heart, as impudent and vain—
I, more ingenuous, your dark Sense explain;
And, were the Truth, perhaps, but clearly known,
My Wishes are more modest, than your own.

Who knows but I (if 'twere my lucky Fate
To be declar'd a Secretary of State)

Wou'd, like King Saul, most slily step aside,
And, for a while, my worthy Person hide?

But, after all, shou'd WALPOLE gravely say,
“Mitchell, you must not turn your Head this Way—
Check'd, to my Patron's Judgment I'd agree,
And Roxburgh might resume his Post for Me.

Nay, whether I shall be preferr'd to Place,
Or humbly sneak from Court with some Disgrace,
My purpos'd Muse no other Means shall try,
Nor cou'd she, cordial, any where apply,
Since 'tis resolv'd by the whole House of Me,
That I'll not rise, O WALPOLE, but by Thee.

Phalaris, Tyrant of Agrigentum, in an Epistle to Stesichorus, the Poet, says, “But, for Heaven's Sake, tell me, what made you, who are a Poet, forsake the quiet and sedate Course of Life, which that Art affords, to throw your self into the tumultuous State of a busy Patriot, when you might have enjoy'd that pleasing Ease the Muses delight in, unforc'd? Now, since your Ambition has transported you from a Poet to a Statesman, you must no longer expect the Rewards of a Poet, but of a pretending Medler in Government, who aims at Things above his Capacity. Farewell.” Select Letters of the Ancients.

Stesichorus, the Poet, in his Answer to Phalaris's Epistle, says, “I wonder at your odd Notion, that because I am a Poet, I should not aim at State Affairs; for do you think He, that has Capacity to write as a Poet, should find any Difficulty in administring the the Affairs of the Common-Wealth? The Difficulty of that is not so great: 'Tis only made so by Knaves of a private Spirit, who contrive and interweave their own Interests with that of the Government. The Administration of Justice, the Execution of the Laws, punishing of Vice, rewarding Virtue, disciplining the People, securing Trade, encouraging Arts, providing for Publick Security, and the like, are Things perhaps none are so fit for as a Poet; for he is not biass'd by private Gain to Partiality; he regards his own Interest last; and knows, that while the Publick's in Danger, nothing private can be secure. A Poet loves the publick Good, and publick Liberty above all private Advantages; for he can never enjoy that pleasing and sacred Rest, you speak of, under a despotic Government, where nothing is secure the Tyrant dislikes; where all Words are liable to be punish'd; and, where Liberty of Acting and Words are restrain'd, there can be no Room for any generous Art. Farewell.

Author of a late celebrated Epistle to the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

Lines in the Epistle.

“But yet, believe your undesigning Friend,
“When Truth and Genius for your Choice contend,
“Tho' both have Weight, when in the Ballance cast,
“Let Probity be first, and Parts the last.

THE ALTERNATIVE:

AN Anacreontic Petition To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE,

FOR THE Power and Glory of a Royal COMMISSION, To superintend the next Publick LOTTERY, Or the next General Assembly of the KIRK.

------ Nil sine Te mei
Hor.

Possunt Honores
Totum muneris hoc tui est,
Quod monstror Digito Prætereuntium.
Ib.

Wearied by continuous Strife
In the Lottery of Life,
(Where, as yet, no noble Prize
To my Share has chanc'd to rise)

O how happy shall I be,
If, indulg'd by Heav'n and Thee,
I, commission'd, may appear
At the Lottery of this Year!
If my Art cou'd ever hit
Taste, like Thine—If I have Wit—
If there's Virtue in my Mind—
If my Works are well design'd—
If I'm worth a SINE-CURE—
All the MUSES Thee conjure,
By the BATH, an Order blest!
By Thy Self, of Knights confest
Most deserving, honour'd most,
Europe's Wonder, Britain's Boast!
As Thou lov'st, or pity'st, Me,
WALPOLE, speak, and It shall be.

With what Majesty and Grace
Mitchell then wou'd shew his Face!
How he'd dignify the Chair!
How preserve Decorum There!
Be inspir'd with nobler Flame!
Rival Pope in Verse and Fame!
Pay his Debts! appear at Court!
Rise to Place, and thank Thee for't.

But, if that Commission's full,
If thou can'st not make One null,
If his Muse too late apply'd,
If there's any Cause beside
For a Disappointment, yet
Mitchell scorns to be in Pet,

Or Despair, while Place remains
Unsupply'd, and worth his Pains.

One there is—but, gracious Heav'n,
May I seek, and be forgiv'n?
WALPOLE's merciful; and I,
Tho' my Hopes are low, may try.
Never venture, never win,
Says the Proverb—Muse, begin:

Since, for Custom, Law, or Conscience,
(Or, for any Cause, but Nonsense)
One of Rank and high Degree
(Such as I'd be glad to be)
Once a Year is order'd North,
To convene our Holders-forth,

And to speech it for the King,
And to hear Them Pray and Sing;
Hear them preach, and hear them prate,
Hear them quibble and debate,
With religious Tone and Eyes,
Very learned, most precise,
Wond'rous eloquent and wise!
May not I, O WALPOLE, stand
Candidate?—The Time's at Hand:
Men and Brethren meet in May,
Danger lies in long Delay;
And your Honour knows that I
Must equip, and cannot fly.

As I'm orthodox true Blue,
And a clever Fellow too;

From the Cradle nurs'd and bred
More to lead, than to be led;
Yet, because I'm all bemus'd,
By the Presbytery refus'd;
But as fit as any Priest,
Cromwell-like, to cant, at least;
Please to put me in the Place—
Lift your Poet to his Grace—
That, as Horace struck the Sky,
I may, stately strutting by,
Numerous pointed Fingers see,
All in Wonderment at Me!
And the Hum of Thousands hear
Fraught with my Encomiums dear!
Mix'd with thine, my worthy Knight,
My Mæcenas, my Delight!

Be it so—Amen, say I—
See! I'm now prepar'd! I fly!
I've already got half Way!
Clear the Coast, ye Men of Clay—
Kindred Souls, come out, and meet me—
Countrymen, be glad, and greet me—
Io Pæan, cordial, sing—
Mitchell represents the KING!

Now, methinks, I see my self
(What Conceit inspires an Elf?)
Thron'd within an Elbow Chair,
Full of Majesty and Care;
And, below, the Kirkmen pent,
Full of Grace and Government!

Elders, Ministers, and People,
From grave Paunch and holy Weep-well,
Down to precious Leer and Whine,
Rev'rend all, and all Divine!
Moderator at their Head,
Powder'd much, and Sage, indeed!
Zeal and Spittle in his Mouth!
Language heav'nly, tho' uncouth!
Charitable all, and civil!
Strong against the Pope and Devil!
Mighty true to GEORGE and Thee!
Wond'rous complaisant to Me!
Buried Disputations past,
Reconcil'd and just, at last!
B---al---n---n Himself, grown mild,
Fawning, cringing, like a Child,

Owning Verse may be of Use,
And the Stage without Abuse!
Wish---rt, Fl---nt, M---cl---n, H---rt,
Strange to hear it! take my Part:
Ready, wer't not vain, to creep
To bring Home the banish'd Sheep—
Not to guide him, like a Lamb,
But observe him, as a Ram.

Lucky Chance in lucky Time,
Lucky Suit in lucky Rhime,
Thou of Patrons ever best,
I of Poets most carest,
Shou'd my Projects but succeed!
Shoud'st thou say the Word indeed!

WALPOLE, thus, in various Strain,
Have I pray'd, and pray'd again,

Studious to make Thee my Friend,
And be happy in the End.
Isaac wanted thus to eat,
Ere he dy'd, of savoury Meat.
He was bit—but Heav'n forbid
I should take a Calf for Kid.

THE MEMORIAL:

An ODE (Being the last Poetical Petition)

To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

The Sum of all I have to say,
Is, Please to put me in a Way,
And your Petitioner shall pray.
Prior.

I.

For Years had Walpole, good and great,
Upheld and grac'd the British State,
Ere any Bard of Skill and Spirit
Attempted to record his Merit!

II.

I, blushing for my Brothers Shame,
And wond'ring at his Worth and Fame,
With Caledonian Bravery, durst
Petition and proclaim Him, first.

III.

Then Eusden, Beckingham, and Young,
Yea, D---d---g---n, et cætera, sung—
Lord! what Epistles, and what Odes,
Extoll'd his Honour to the Gods!

IV.

But Walpole well their Value knows,
And what chief End the Bards propose;
Nor will He give them Place, or Pension,
While his own Mitchell make Pretension.

V.

What tho' my Fortune's less severe,
Since You have join'd with generous Stair
To crown my Muse, and kill my Care—
This daring Soul will never rest,
'Till I'm a Senator, at Least!

VI.

Ambition, manag'd well by Reason,
Can hardly deviate into Treason:
Mine is to do a World of Good,
Else I'd be pleas'd with Agur's Food.

VII.

The Common-weal I have at Heart;
Unbrib'd, I'd act a Patriot's Part;
And, by my gratis Zeal and Votes,
Atone for five and forty S---ts.

VIII.

Some Souls, originally bright,
Need only to be brought to Light:
Draw but aside this Veil of mine,
You'll see how gloriously I'll shine!

IX.

Prior had ne'er been Plenipo;
Nor Stepney, Addison, and Rowe,
Made such an high and mighty Show;
Had no Mæcenas mark'd their Worth,
And to Advantage set them forth.

X.

Who knows what Figure I might cut,
Were I but in Commission put,
Now Kings and Queens go by the Ears,
And States beat up for Voluntiers?

XI.

Many a despicable Elf,
Far more unlikely than my Self,
In Peace, or War, has Wonders done—
—But, 'till one's try'd, He's never known.

XII.

Then, noble Patron, weigh the Case,
And put Me, while You can, in Place;
For certes Life and Power are Things,
Which always had, and will have, Wings.

XIII.

It is not Money, Sir, I seek;
(Tho' that's the same Thing in the Greek)
But an Employment, that may fit
Alike my Virtue and my Wit.

XIV.

What Joy, or Sorrow, will the News
Of Walpole's Treatment of the Muse
Thro' all the Elysian Plains diffuse,
When I to kindred Shades relate
The Story of my Life and Fate?

XV.

When Britons, yet unborn, shall view
The List of Men, preferr'd by You,
(Which all our Chronicles will shew)
Who knows but they'll make bold to blame
Your Honour, shou'd they miss my Name?
Then shining high in deathless Fame!

XVI.

'Twou'd vex a Saint, to have it said,
By future Burnetts, when we're dead,

That Walpole did a World of Good—
—But pass'd his Poet in the Crowd,
As one He never understood.

XVII.

But, if the Government is full,
And not one Post at present null,
Some Vacancies will, weekly, fall—
Your Vote and Interest, Sir, is all!

XVIII.

Congreve, the darling Wit and Friend,
Is ill (alas!) and near his End—
Whene'er He gains our kindred Skies,
Let Mitchell to his Honours rise—

XIX.

Or, if his Secretary's Place
Is promis'd—which may be the Case—

Other Reversions are not scant—
Pass but some promissory Grant—
Your Word's a Bond! and all I want!

XX.

Mean while, with Patience, Faith and Hope,
I'll wait, and versify with Pope;
And, now and then, with Watts and Stevens,
Pray for Reversion in the Heavens.

XXI.

But shou'd capricious Fortune frown,
And cross my Way to wish'd Renown,
I'll learn, revengeful, to despise her,
And leave the Court, like Uncle Sizer.

XXII.

What Soul of Sense wou'd still depend,
Who has a Plough, or Flock, to tend?
Rather than sue in vain, I'd take a
Desperate Voyage to Jamaica.

XXIII.

Nay, prove my Fortune bad, or better,
Be this my last Poetic Letter;
For, truly, 'tis a Jest to teaze Him,
Who will do just as it shall please Him.

XXIV.

Then, tho' deny'd, I'll be at Rest,
And of my Income make the Best:
But, rather without Straw raise Brick,
Then at our Constitution kick.

XXV.

I'll ne'er like W---rt---n, Malecontent,
Affront the King, or Government:
Nor C---st---ld, and P---lt---y too,
(Tho' honourable Men, and true)
Shall influence Me to bark at You.

XXVI.

When I prove Traitor, or Ingrate,
Let Stair forget the Arts of State,
Let King turn base, Ophelia froward,
The brave Argyle commence a Coward,
And Charms abandon Madam H---

XXVII.

But, ah! must Loyalty and Love
Neglected, vain, and useless prove?

Shall Merit unrewarded pass?
And Mitchell look so like an Ass?

XXVIII.

In London let it not be told,
From Edinburgh the Tale with-hold,
Lest Blockheads, Fools, and Knaves grow glad,
And Bards and Criticks run stark mad.

The Sine-Cure, The Equivalent, &c.

Give me neither Poverty, nor Riches: but feed me with Food convenient for me. Prov. xxx. 8.

Mr. Congreve is Secretary to the Government of Jamaica.

Roger Sizer, Esq; who was first Pay-master of the Army Abroad, and afterwards of the Houshold, in King William's Reign; but at Queen Anne's Accession to the Throne (when He met with some Disappointments) left both Court and Town for Ever.

Mrs. Mitchel.

Tell it not in GATH, publish it not in the Streets of Askelon, lest the Philistines rejoyce, and the uncircumcised triumph, 2 Sam. i. 20.

AN ODE To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath;

On his being Elected into, and Invested with the Ensigns of, the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

Thus shall it be done to the Man, whom the King delighteth to honour.
Esther.

I

When fam'd Eliza grac'd the Throne;
And England in its Lustre shone;
A Garter'd Commoner was seen,
Whose Counsels glorify'd the Queen!
He well deserv'd the Honours, that He wore—
Honours, paid Him, honour'd his Country more.

II

So, while great George the Scepter wields;
And ev'ry Land to Britain yields;
A Commoner supports the Crown,
And gives the Nation its Renown!
What Marks of Royal Favour are too great
For this distinguish'd Atlas of our State?

III

Behold! the gracious Monarch still
Prevents our Wishes, by his Will:
Before our grateful Voice is heard,
See! He confers the due Reward.
A greater Name, than great Eliza, gives!
A greater Name, than Walsingham, receives!

IV

Walpole, all Hail! thou honour'd Knight!
Thy Country's Glory and Delight!

Thou Soul, that animates our State!
Thou Arbiter of Europe's Fate!
How shall thy favour'd Mitchell wish Thee Joy?
And, in what Strain, his raptur'd Muse employ?

V

O cou'd I, equal to the Theme,
Thy Actions, and their Springs, proclaim!
Thy matchless Eloquence display!
And sing thy Soul-endearing Way!
Faction, and Foes, and People yet to Be,
Shou'd own the Garter borrow'd Grace of Thee.

VI

Dull'd by Petitionary Lays,
My Muse could never reach thy Praise;
Tho', by the Great, the Godlike Stair
Indulg'd, and tempted ev'n to dare.

How vain the Toil, for such a Dwarf, as I,
With Giant Hopes, to scale the lofty Sky!

VII

Let D---d---t---n, or Young, shew forth
(They better can, and know) thy Worth;
What Thou, in private Life, hast done;
And how, in publick Station, shone;
What Honours got; what Glory yet remains
To crown thy Fortune, and reward thy Pains—

VIII

Methinks, the wish'd-for Time is nigh,
When Thou, O Walpole, Titled high,
Shalt fix the Crowd's adoring Eyes,
As now thy Virtues charm the Wise.
How will they worship, when they view the Duke,
Who, at the Knight, with Fear and Reverence, look?

IX

Then let the Bards thy Bounty fed,
Or whom thy Praise and Friendship made,
With Strength and Skill, united, Joyn
To make thy Monument divine—
No borrowed Ornaments they need to use:
Thy native Worth will best supply the Muse.

X

Upon the noble Pile of Fame,
Which Others rear to Walpole's Name,
May my small Turret find a Place,
Nor to the Building bring Disgrace!
Joyn'd to their Works, how lasting wou'd it be?
How shine, when gilded with the Praise of Thee?

The Sine-Cure, Equivalent, Promotion, and Alternative.

THE SUBSCRIPTION:

AN ANACREONTIQUE, To the Noble and Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

------ Nile sine Te ------
Hor.

Walpole, Oracle of Sense!
Prodigy of Eloquence!
Guarantee of Publick Credit;
And the very Man, who made it!

Best of Ministers and Friends!
See, O See, your Poet bends—
Mitchell makes another Leg,
And has something new to beg.

Lo! to curry your Excuse,
In his Hand he brings the Muse,
Not for Place, or Pension praying,
Nor his Worth and Parts displaying;
But most humbly representing,
That his Works are now a Printing,
Volumes two! Octavo size!
Royal Paper! Guinea Price!
One to Stair, and one address'd
To your Self, his Patrons best!
Patrons, Both of noble Names!
Mitchell's ever sacred Themes!

And, whereas He has not yet
Got the Riches He's to get;
Nor can well defray this Charge,
Without a Subscription large;
May it therefore please your Honour,
(Once a Year to him a Donor)
To accept and to dispose
Ten Times Ten Receipts in Prose—
Or (which is the same in Greek,
If a Muse so plain may speak)
Pay the Value, half, or whole;
Either wou'd inspire his Soul,
Whether Peace, or War, ensue,
Still to Sing, and Sing of You.

TO THE Right Honourable The Lord Viscount KILLMOREY.

Killmorey, Chief of long ennobled Blood!
Young, and yet Wise! and, tho' a Gallant, Good!
Last, but not least of Patrons to a Bard,
Who never basely buckled for Reward;
Never to Fools or Knaves inglorious bow'd,
Flatter'd the Vulgar Great, nor coax'd the abject Crowd.

To such a Bard, distinguishably odd!
Permission grant to deviate from the Mode:
Let your lov'd Mitchell offer you his Lays,
Unstain'd by venal, prostituted, Praise.
He, highly favour'd, but presumes to bring
The Strains Your Self inspir'd his Muse to sing;
Thoughts on an humble Theme, in Verse unchim'd,
By your own Influence happily sublim'd!
So Phillips sung: Your Poet eyes his Muse,
As distant, He, great Milton's Track pursues!
No trivial Task to keep such Worth in View:
But great, indeed, to be indulg'd by You!
Whose Morn of Life, like other's Noon, appears!
Mature in Glory, while but green in Years!
Improve the Age's Wonder and Delight—
But can a human Mind be more divinely bright?

In vain, my Lord, in foreign Courts you roam—
You carried greater Excellence from Home.
In your Deportment, we behold, at once,
The boasted Charms of Italy and France.
Places and Things, unseen, you may explore;
But learn no Virtues strange to you before;
No nobler Manners, no politer Turn;
Nothing that more Killmorey can adorn!
O may your Life be Heaven's peculiar Care,
And, for Britannia's sake, her Hope and Glory spare!
But, doom'd to narrow Bounds, and humble State,
In vain your Poet tries to temper Fate:
Capricious Fortune down his Genius weighs,
And feeds his Muse with unsubstantial Praise,
Tho' Stair and Walpole promise better Days!

By Them, that fickle Goddess fix'd, may yet
Smile on his Labours, and enrich his Wit.
The Time approaches, I the Day foresee,
When Mitchell worth ten thousand Pounds shall be!
In Coach and Chariot, loll away his Cares!
Nor need a Cobler—but for Flanders Mares!

LONDON, May 1726.

Mitchell.

THE SHOE-HEEL:

A RHAPSODY.

Dicam insigne recens, adhuc
Indictum Ore alio ------
Hor.

Ill fare the Miscreant, who, to Mischief prone,
In fatal Hour, by Star malignant rul'd,
The whole World's Crimes appropriating, first,
Invented Styles, dire Structures! to oppose
And break the peaceful Course of Passengers
In rural Fields. The Wretch, by Heav'n abandon'd,
Had studied long, and try'd ten thousand Sins
Of blackest Dye, ere this curs'd Art was found,
To thoughtful Men eternally a Plague.

This, whilom wandering by fair Iver's Stream,
Across the Meads, unwary, I experienc'd;
For, (wonderful to tell!) as stradling o'er
A Log, that high above its Fellows rais'd
Its Head inglorious, sudden slipp'd my Foot,
And, from my Shoe, its Heel attendant forc'd,
Deplorable! A Step of Danger full!
So had it prov'd to my important Limbs,
But that they're sacred, as my Muse, inspir'd
With Thoughts of Virtue, and Killmorey's House,
Bless'd House! where Plenty and Content abound;
And He, young Peer, the Shame of hoary Years,
And Standard of Nobility, vouchsafes
Friendship to Bards. O long, long may He live
His Country's Blessing, and its Boast renown'd!
This be my Morning and my Evening Prayer.
Of him, most grateful Theme! my Thoughts were full,

As from the Style, astonied, erst I fell,
Yet rose unhurt—Such was the Care of Heav'n!
So to be sav'd, I'll ever have such Thoughts,
And to Killmorey consecrate the Muse.

Had Vice employ'd my Mind, or any Theme
Less worthy than that Peer, of Parts egregious!
My Neck itself, in Twain disjoin'd, had then
Vented last Breath, Terrifick Thought! Alone,
And unassisted, I had left the Stage,
Stripp'd of my mortal Garments, immature;
And, on the Banks of Iver's crystal Stream,
My Ghost had murmur'd with the rolling Tide,
Incessant! dismal Consort to my Friends,
Shou'd any Friends my Funeral survive.

Thou, Stuart, Friend select, wou'dst then have wept
O'er my benighted Corps; and seen it laid,
With due Decorum, in a solemn Vault,
From Eyes and Hands, unhallowed, far apart.
Near fair Stuarta, too soon faded Flow'r,
Sister of Murray's Earl, Great Scotian Chief,
In Church of Iver, consecrated Ground,
My stranger Clay might decently have lain,
Pacifick, till the dreadful Trumpet's Sound
Summon the Dead to Judgment, Great Assize!
To Sons of Men eternally momentuous!

Mean while, Killmorey, generous Lord, had deign'd
To wait my Hearse, and see due Honours paid
To Bard, late lov'd. Nor had'st ev'n Thou, Maria,
Pattern of Virtue and refin'd Behaviour!

Deny'd thy condescending Grace. Perhaps
Thy Female Offspring, heavenly fair! had join'd
Maternal Pity; and vouchsaf'd, lamenting,
To say of me, “He dy'd, alas! too soon,
“And merited a better Fate.” Sweet Words
From Lips more sweet! so to be prais'd and mourn'd,
What Poet would not die? bless'd Elegy,
Inspir'd by Excellence so near Divine!

Yet stop, my Fancy—the Idea pains:
'Tis better far, that I the Danger 'scap'd,
Exulting: Ev'n my Ancle is unsprain'd!
Only, like a lame Traveller, o'er the Fields,
Darkling, I hopp'd. So Mulciber, of Old,
(As Homer, Sire of Verse, majestick, sings)
Limp'd as he walk'd; for, thrown by angry Jove,
Sheer o'er the crystal Battlements of Heav'n,

A Summer's Day he fell; and, in the Fall,
Batter'd his Skull and Heel, on Lemnian Ground.
This Vulcan was a God! a Mortal I,
By Birth—But deathless, by the Muse, confirm'd!
As heal'd, by Sinthians He, so was my Shoe,
By Killingsworth, at Iver much Renown'd;
Cobler in Chief to the laborious Swains!

To him, great Man! did soon a trusty Page,
Eager t'oblige a Bard (for all Domesticks
Of Lord Killmorey boast a Taste refin'd)
Convey my Calches. He, well-skill'd in Art,
In Minutes few, in perfect Union join'd
The sever'd Parts. So whilom Anna spoke
Discordant Kingdoms into lasting Peace.

O may kind Pow'rs his pious Pains reward,
And soon distorted Muscles of his Wife,
(Of which my broken Calches was a Type
Prophetick,) be replac'd! prodigious Chasm
In Female Mould! So yawn'd Rome's Forum wide,
'Till Curtius, noble Youth! jump'd in, undaunted.
But Killingsworth, heroick Youngster, forth
From Orifice wide, discontinuous, broke;
Promise of future Usefulness to Men!
Offspring immortal, of a deathless Sire,
O'er rev'rend Crispin's self Superior fam'd;
Or him, who, whistling, happy in his Stall,

Eighth Harry, Royal Rambler, erst observ'd,
Envious, astonish'd; and, ambitious won,
By means of Shoe, by regal Force unheel'd,
To Friendship high. Such shou'd the Friendship be
Of Kings and Coblers. So great Harry judg'd,
And to a Cellar call'd his lov'd Compeer;
For Wine reveals and joins the Hearts of Men.
Social, they drank, and laugh'd, and talk'd, and sung;
Nor parted, till, in homely Hall, a Pot
Of nappy Ale, twice ten Years barrell'd up,
And Anno Domini with Rev'rence nam'd,
Was quaff'd. But Joan, of Fellowship the Bane,
Waking from Sleep, and grumbling, drove the Prince
To Court, reluctant: Yet not ere join'd Hands
Sanction'd the mutual Promise of true Love
And Friendship lasting. Soon to Court the Son
Of Crispin hied, a City Beau! to find

His Harry Tudor; not without Consent,
(Who wou'd have thought it?) of imperious Joan!
But Wives, sometimes, are christianly dispos'd!
Can Language tell the Cobler's vast Surprize,
Terrors, Distraction, when in Royal Robes
He found his Fellow? but divested soon
Of Majesty and State, to Cellar rich,
Th' indulgent Prince the welcom Fav'rite led,
And drank him up to Sov'reignty of Soul!
Fit Partner and Companion then confest!
Mirth was renew'd, and Friendship faster bound.
Nor stop'd Great Harry, till fair forty Marks,
Huge Pension then! were settled on the Man
Of gentle Craft. Example take, ye Kings;
And wisely chuse the Fav'rites of your Grace.
Merit, like Air, is unconfin'd and free,
But most in Stalls and humble Huts abounds.

Did not divine Eumæus keep the Hogs?
And, in his Garden, old Laertes seek
Sweet Consolation for his absent Son,
Ulysses sage; nor yet disdain'd to plow
And dung his Ground with his imperial Hand?
This weighing well, I, more than mortal Bard,
Have made a Friend of Killingsworth, renown'd!
Ne'er may the Union of our Hearts be broke.
Vain Fear! while Iver nappy Ale affords;
Or various Wines Killmorey's Cellar stores.

Hadst thou, O Philips, Bard prodigious! found
A Taylor, dextrous as my Cobler, ne'er
Had Verse of thine the horrid Chasm confess'd
Of Galligaskins; at which Winds alternate
With chilling Blasts, tumultuous enter'd in.
Oft, as I read thy live Description, Tears

My Cheeks bedew; and oft, I curse the Times,
And Taste of Men, who suffer'd Thee to sing
Thy Woes so rueful! Had I flourish'd then,
My Coat, my Shirt, had freely gone to Pawn,
To purchase Galligaskins sound for Thee.
Long, very long, may I th' Affliction scape!
And Cash or Credit find t'appear Abroad,
Decent in Dress! ne'er may my leathern Bag,
Or silken Purse, a splendid Shilling want.
Twice ten fair Pieces, Residue of Cash
By generous Stair, on Fav'rite Bard bestow'd,
Enrich'd my Fob, and cheer'd the grateful Muse,
When whilom Killingsworth, with Art ingenious,
Doctor'd my Shoe—Homer had ne'er so much!
A Sterling Pound how rare the Poet's Boast,
In Iron Age; when Patrons rise as rare,
As Peaches, in rough Hyperborean Climes,

And ope their Coffers bounteous to the Muse,
As Priests to Parish Poor distribute Alms;
Or Presbytry fair Testimonials gives
To free-born Genius, and Wit unslav'd.
Tremendous Zeal of Kirk-men, blindly urg'd
Against Heav'n's Gift, and Providence Supreme!
Such I experienc'd, in my youthful Days,
Where Love of Poesy was deem'd a Crime,
By blind Prosaick Leaders of the Blind;
Source of the Sorrows I have felt, or feel,
In Life! Thee Ballandine, how shall I thank
For Cash, or Credit, Liberty, or Breath?
In future Ages thou shalt live in Song,
Tartuf the Second:—This thy Merits claim,
And I th' Arrears to Merit due will pay.

But stop, my Muse, thy Course digressive here,
Nor Killingsworth with Ballandine profane,
By Episode, unwary, hurried far.
Joyous, I turn to hail the Cobler's Art,
And, in my Verse, emblaze his proper Acts,
Momentuous! May I ne'er debase the Theme!
O cou'd my Muse pursue th' Example bright!
As well-beat Leather, strong shou'd be my Sense,
And sharp, as Awls, my Wit. His hempen Threads
No surer stitch the Chasms of broken Soles,
Than my Connexion, nervous, firm my Strains,
And fit my Labours for eternal Use.
But I, alas! at Distance far, unskill'd,
Copy the Pattern of great Killingsworth,
Unrivall'd Cobler! what Physician fam'd,
Arbuthnot, Mead, or Sloan, with like Success,

Can cure the human Body, spent with Toil,
Or worn with Age? Well were it for the Town,
Could'st thou, St. Andre, of upstarted Fame!
Or thou, O Douglas, dislocated Bones
Rejoin, secure; or broken Limbs restore
To pristine Soundness; as ingenious He,
Sudden and cheap, renews decrepit Shoes,
Or stops an Orifice in leathern Boots!
Thou R---n, vers'd in Ruptures by Receipt,
And deem'd a Doctor for thy want of Skill,
Why rid'st thou in gilt Chariot, while a-Foot
Great Killingsworth, in Art and Virtue grey,
Is doom'd, alas! to trudge it all in Rags?
Well for the Church, that Wake and Hoadley, fam'd,
By his Example, and unerring Method,
Cou'd cure the wounded Consciences of Men,
And heal the Souls of Sinners; direful Case!

But, O how bless'd, how happy were the Realm,
Did Statesmen learn of Killingsworth to act,
Preserve the Peace, and hoard no ill-got Wealth!
But George's Reign, like old Saturnian Times,
Screens no malignant Mind, no Practice vile.

Thee, Killingsworth, no Subtlety perverts,
No Vanity, no Pride inflames. Thy Stall,
Sweet Seat! is void of Envy, Cares, and Strife.
There sitt'st Thou, arm'd with Hammer, Lench, and Awl,
Within pacifick Walls enthron'd, and pleas'd:
So, in his Tub, Diogenes was wont
To scorn the World, and feast on calm Content.
O how unlike was he, of Ludgate-Hill!
Whose Pride, elate, by Bickerstaff expos'd,
Is Satire pointed at all Ranks of Men,

Fantastick, and high-fum'd. This Artist, vain,
Great Lover of Respect, (aloof from him,
Fateful, alas! with-held,) the Figure of a Beau,
In Window plac'd; vile Sycophant of Wood,
Bending profound to pay unmeant Respect.
Under left Arm a Hat, and, in right Hand
Of Arm extended, was some Wax, or Thread,
Or Candle held, as most the Master's Use
Avail'd. O strange Idolatry inverted!
In which the Image to the Man did Homage!
But Earth abounds with his upheav'd Compeers.
All meditate Dominion, and wou'd rule
O'er Birds, or Beasts, or their own Kind, tyrannick.
Each Mortal from Inferiors looks for Praise,
Observance, or Submission, to Desert
Imagin'd due; for few in Question call
Their proper Merit, and superior Right

To Rev'rence; nor, but scantling, cease Emprize
Enormous, proud Ambition's End to reach.
Curs'd Affectation of despotick Sway!
Of human Nature, Reason, Sense, the Bane,
Reproach, Disgrace! on Folly founded still!
By Puffs of Flatt'ry oft to Madness blown!
But most absurd in Minds of low Degree,
Heav'n-doom'd to Darkness, and Oblivion dire.
Such this Invention, upon Ludgate-Hill,
Of Cobler, erst anonymous. In Cits
Of humblest Rank, and weakest Brain, Conceit
Reigns lawless, insolent; and through all Steps
Of Greatness, may be trac'd infuriate. But
Exempt from this Disease, wide spreading, stands
Wise Killingsworth: Nor human Nature he,
Nor gentle Craft disfigures: Ever calm,
Modest and Meek, his peerless Mind controlls

Secret Resentment, Seeds of Self-Esteem,
And Passions, that make Havock of the Brain.
Let Young and Old, the Rich and Poor observe
The Pattern rare; so shall they 'scape Contempt
Or Bedlam, natural Consequence of Pride,
Dire Prologue to a World of Woes, Hell-bred.

Why, O my Stars, was I not bred a Cobler?
A Trade unsordid! Tricking Mortals, learn
To cobble Shoes, and let the World grow good.
Ye Jobbers, Jews, and Brokers, O be taught
To deal upright, as Killingsworth directs
By Pattern honest. Let Attorneys quit
Their Pettifogging Arts, and leave Mankind
To follow Nature, Equity's great Friend.
Justice, and Law, and Peace, are best maintain'd
By Reason plain and pure. These, ever sound,

No Cobling need; or but few Sages wise
In good Repair to keep the Commonweal.
O when will Men improve the Trade of Truth,
Know their own Strength, and use their Talents right!
Discern, ye Scriblers, O discern your Skill,
Your proper Genius, and betimes apply
Your Talents, studious, to Creation's End.
For me, I'd rather serve a Swain for Hire,
And purchase Bread according to the Curse
Of Adam, fall'n from Grace, than plague Mankind
With senseless Metre; or ev'n shine renown'd
In noble Verse, for all Things else unfit,
In all Things else unskill'd. Condition dire!
So great Achilles, in the Elysian Scenes,
Preferr'd a Life of Abstinence and Toil,
Before Dominion o'er unbody'd Shades.

O Happiness of humble State and Rank!
Sweet Industry, the Child of sacred Virtue!
How bless'd is Life, sequester'd from the Town,
Where one eternal Round of Hurry reigns.
In humble Greatness Killingsworth grows old,
Happy, and useful to his Neighb'ring Swains,
A Loyal Subject, and a Churchman true!
Yet both by Chance—for he's above Design:
Assur'd that bold Enquiry might disturb
His Halcyon Ease, and Primitive Repose.
Whatever Mischief happens on the Earth,
In his Asylum, 'midst his Tools invelopt,
Safe, he remains, and, unconcern'd, is blest!
So while rough Thunder rends the dark'ning Clouds,
And dreadful Bolts their furious Forces waste
On tow'ring Hills, the humble Plain, secure,
Mocks the loud Roar, and Heav'n's Artillery 'scapes.

Were I to have my Choice (but ah! my Stars
Look with ill Aspect, and deny my Wish,)
Near Iver's Stream, of Waters most Supreme!
A Residence I'd chuse: best Boon of Heav'n!
Such Cobler's-Hall delectable appears,
Rare Product of ingenious Skill and Toil
Of Killingsworth, Sire to the boasted Man,
Whom fain my Muse wou'd imitate and praise.
Happy Killmorey, who, in Cobler's-Hall,
Enjoyest Elysium. But that Thou dwell'st there,
I'd covet that Abode, of rural Seats
Pre-eminent. Yet Me, an humble Bard,
An humbler House may please. A narrow Room
May serve my Rank: But let me have it neat,
And clean, ye Gods; tho' but one Chair, or Stool,
Stand by th' Table—and let Sheets be savoury,

100

And Landlady not sluttish, nor severe,
As whilom G---r, Parsons's Relict, prov'd
To R---t and B---n, who fair Iver chose
For Residence. Good Taste! to fix on Iver;
But too hard Fate, to meet ill Usage there!
Yet cheer, fair Ladies, and recal to Mind,
How, ev'n in Seats celestial, Discord rose
Thro' Pride of Lucifer, of Rebels chief,
Whom Pow'r Almighty, (so great Milton sings)
Hurl'd headlong, flaming, from the Ethereal Sky
With hideous Ruin and Combustion, down
To bottomless Perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine Chains, and penal Fire.

Save us, good Heav'n, from such a dire Extreme,
Of Crime and Vengeance—Fate of Souls abandon'd
Of Grace! But, shun, my Muse, the dismal Thought,

101

Nor with horrifick Images confound
Iver, the Scene of Pleasure and of Love,
My Residence desir'd. There lodg'd, I'd pass
My flying Years, from Noise and Hurry free,
O'er all my Passions watchful, and supreme!
As from the snowy Tops of Alpine Hills,
I'd view the spacious Sea of human Woes,
Pitying and pleas'd. Oh sacred heav'nly Life,
Undash'd with Cares, or Spleen; and wrapt secure
In ornamental Virtues, Garment rare!
Thus shou'd my Years, in grateful Circle, rowl;
And fair shou'd be my Character and Fame,
Fair as the new-fall'n Snow, or whiter Skin
Of Curate's Daughter, Jane, an Iver Toast!
Tho' to adorn my Head, no Bays arise,
The peaceful Olive shou'd content my Mind.
Instead of marble Pillars, I'd survey

102

Tall Pyramids of Cypress Ever-green;
And, in the Place of arch'd and gilded Roofs,
Contemplate Heaven's great Canopy of State.
Forgetful, Thornhill, of thy Light and Shade,
Thy blended Colours, artfully dispos'd,
My Eyes wou'd feast on variegated Scenes,
And Prospects, form'd by Nature for Delight;
Palms, Myrtle-Groves, green Valleys, Mountains, Hills,
And bubbling Streams, as Crystal clear, and cold
As Thracian Ice, thro' flow'ry Meads, dispers'd,
Should more than make amends for want of Art,
On Canvas drawn by thy ingenious Hand.
Content with Little, and retir'd from Crowds,
My Stock of Wit I would not misapply,
To flatter Fools, or wicked Men in Pow'r.
Domestick Troubles too I'd wisely shun,
And rather fly, like J---n, Bard of Beef!

103

To an aërial Citadel, well-pleas'd,
Than, in first Floor of sumptuous Shew, reside,
With Dame contentious. So, in holy Writ,
Avers the Wisdom of the wisest Man,
Hight Solomon, of Israel erst the King.
His Song of Songs I'd oft repeat, enraptur'd:
And oft, O C---ll, thy Circassian read,
Of Verse politest It, of Priests thy self!
Oft wou'd I drown dull Thought in homely Ale
Of Country Vicar. Oft with honest Swains,
On quaint Expressions and Conundrums keen,
I'd whiff Tobacco, grateful Herb: yet ne'er
Wou'd I lose Time with Master, whom Estate
And want of Wit, make Coxcomb; Booby bred!
He with strong Beer and Ale the Country rules,
By long hereditary Right of Folly.
I love the Simple, Jovial Swains,—but tremble

104

At Sight of Fools. So, with her Hairs erect,
And chilly Sweat, Ophelia, harmless Soul!
Beholds a Rat, or Mouse, a-cross the Floor
Scud fleet, or sculk in Closet dark perdue.
Me no deep Veneration does inspire
For eldest Sons of Squires, with Coats broad-lac'd,
That smell like Civit Cats. Come not, my Soul,
Into their Habitation; nor again
Ride out by Five, and pass half Days fatigu'd,
With T---, like Nimrod, mighty Huntsman, there.
Why should my Pleasure issue in Fatigue?
Such prov'd the Sport, when whilom with thy Hounds
And Thee, I beat the neighbouring Thickets round
Fair Iver many a Mile, prodigious Task!
And all in vain,—but that I found a Crab,
Apple delicious to a thirsty Palate!
In Fields of Lady Montague yclip'd.

105

So, to a Traveller o'er Numidian Wastes,
A Stream proves Luxury! exhausted quite,
And tir'd, he takes the Fortune of the Chase,
Whether in quest of Prey, the Desart wide
He traverses, or seeks some distant Land.

Me long and tedious Courses never please:
Rather, for Recreation, let me walk
And exercise my Limbs! and oft, O sweet!
Angle the River! oft, o'er Birds unweeting,
Spread the delusive Net. Yet save me, Heaven,
From each Desire voluptuous and cruel;
By Massacre of thy defenceless Creatures,
To feed my Maw, and make my self the Grave
Of Beasts, and Birds, and Fish, Creation's Pride.
For Sport, I'd catch 'em—but to let 'em 'scape
Unhurt! the short-liv'd Sorrow wou'd enhance
The joyous Boon of Liberty aerial.

106

Thrice wretched Men, from whom wise Heav'n conceals
The Knowledge of this great, important, Truth,
That little with Contentment is best Cheer,
And half a large Estate excells the Whole!
Unhappy, who cou'd ne'er perceive the Sweets,
The Luxury of wholsome Roots and Herbs!
But blest beyond Expression They, who crown'd
With Plenty, chuse Retirement from the Crowd,
And please themselves with what the Country yields.
How greatly Horace, at his Sabin Seat,
Or fair Tiburtin Manor blest, declin'd
The Pride and Cares of State, tho' Cæsar's Self
Invited, as a Friend! Nor was he blam'd.
Wise Men have idle Hours t'unbend their Minds,
Turmoil'd with Cares and Studies, Flesh-corroding.
From Books and Men, St. Evremond and Steele,

107

Lov'd Names and everlasting! oft repair'd
To fam'd Duck-Island, Government desir'd,
And with the feath'ry Habitants convers'd,
Hens, Ducks, and Geese, by crumbled Bread made social,
And fatned for the Royal Board; as erst
(So Romish Legends tell, and Dupes believe)
With Gospel Food the Father fed the Fish
Esurient, and confirm'd them in the Faith;
Fit Dishes then for Table of the Saints!
If Saints, Heav'n shrin'd, in Delicates delight,
Sav'ry to Priests, and Cardinals, and Popes,
All Maw-devoted, tho' in Spirit pure!
Heroes and Kings, Philosophers and Bards,
Great Souls! sometimes regale themselves, unbent,

108

With low Diversions, vulgarly yclip'd
Dishes of Romps. Agesilaus, erst
On Hobby-Horse astride, with Children dear,
Was by th' Ambassadors of Sparta found,
Surpriz'd; but soon his Dignity resum'd.
Transition strange, but nat'ral to the Great!
Scipio and Lælius, Noble, Brave, Polite,
Sought Moments vacant; and, with low Disport,
Varied Retirement, and their Friendship crown'd:
Oft on the Sea-shore would they gather Shells,
Amusive; and their Shape and Colour view;
As Woodward, curious Modern! or Sir Hans,
The unregarded Works of Nature eyes,
Enamour'd; and by Trifling grows a Sage!
Trifling agreeable, by Tully prais'd,
Stern Cato's self descended oft to Glee,
Soul-cheering; and, incellar'd with a Knot

109

Of honest Friends, wou'd put the Bottle round
Frank and facetious. Rome's imperial Lord,
Augustus hight, with Moorish Boys vouchsaf'd
To play at Marbles, Rival Game of Taw,
By Moderns us'd! sweet Relaxation That
From Government of all the World below.
But not among Amusements of the Great
Be nam'd Domitian's Exercise with Flies,
Ridiculous, horrifick. Far from Praise
Of hallow'd Muse be Princes and their Crimes,
To Virtue, Innocence, and Truth estrang'd,
Howe'er, by Parasites deceitful, hail'd.
Ev'n in their Gambols graceful are the Wise;
Their Condescensions elegant and lovely!
How amiable Walpole with his Friends,
His old, well-try'd, and honest Friends, retir'd
From publick State and Care! whether a Pot

110

Of sober Porter, healthful English Drink,
Or Punch more potent, he vouchsafe to taste,
Social, good-humour'd; or a Hunting rides,
Easy and free, as rural Squire, unvers'd
In Policy and Government Sublime.
'Twould do one Good to see how I, ev'n I,
Bred on Parnassus' Summit, condescend,
In Stall of Killingsworth, to low Chit-chat,
And, greatly humble, finger Threads and Wax,
And Awl, like one in Arts of cobling skill'd!
We God-like Minds disdain not abject State,
By Virtue bless'd; and are the more rever'd,
The less tremendous we appear to Mortals.

Serv'd with clean Linnen, and with simple Fare,
I'd rise from Table, or from verdant Turf,
With Appetite to Study, or for Sport.

111

Variety, and new-found Dishes, I
Not covet: They bring on a noxious Train
Of foul Diseases on the human Frame;
And Bodies, so affected, clog the Mind,
Dire Influence! and urge untimely Death.
Rather I'd glut my Soul with Heav'nly Truths,
And Nature's Store, than pamper mortal Flesh.
But most in Conversation wou'd I joy
With Stuart, of Companions most refin'd!
Or thou, O Wright, an honest Lawyer! vers'd
In Reason's School, should'st entertain my Ear
With Sentiments of Freedom, British Boast;
And greedily thy Notions of the Priests,
In Craft accomplish'd, wou'd my Soul receive.
And, Oh! how charmful there, with antient Times,
Oft to converse! Thy Trumpet, Homer, now,
Now, Ovid's Lute, shou'd vary my Delight.

112

Thy Judgment Maro, and the Sterling Wit
Of Horace, favourite Bard! shou'd raise my Mind
To Rapture. And, when modern Names invite,
Buchanan, deathless Bard! shou'd first engage
My Reverence: Shakespeare, Spencer, Milton, next;
Nor Thee, harmonious Cowley, wou'd I slight,
Nor Dryden, thee: No better Strains I'd court,
Nor better cou'd I find. Sometimes my self,
By these inspir'd, wou'd string the gentle Lyre,
Perhaps awake the Trumpet, and sublime
My Strains, to Heav'n and to my Country due!

But, when Civility or just Respect
Obliges me to visit honest Friends,
Or neighbouring Dwellers, on a pacing Nag,
Sober, I'd make a Tour to Windsor now,

113

And now to Uxbridge. Thy calm Seat, O Booth,
Pride of the British Stage, I'd not pass by,
Tho' Dennis self, indignant, warn'd me thence.
Oft on the verdant Margin of the Stream,
That, circling flows, as Crystal clear, along
Th' exterior Bounds of thy Inclosures fair,
I'd walk transported! while thy Silver Tongue,
More tuneful than the gently gliding Rills,
Thro' list'ning Ears, shou'd strike my ravish'd Soul,
And charm it into Extasie! Nor wou'd
I pass thy Dwelling, Ol---, but that Rage
And Jealousy might seize thy manly Friend.
Me no base Thoughts possess: To shew Respect
Is all my Meaning. Shall a Bard not praise
The Beauty, Wit and Taste, he must admire?

114

Excellent Actress, follow Nature still,
Heedless of what the Cynick World can say.
So, when soft Venus conquer'd warlike Mars,
And, curling in his Arms, by Vulcan's Net,
Lay in dear Thraldom, every conscious God,
Who call'd it Shame, his happy Station wish'd,
And, in his Heart, pronounc'd it sweet Disgrace.

Thus wou'd I live, prepar'd for all Events
Of Fortune, and for Change or Loss of Friends;
For all below is vain, as Shadows fleet.
And, when my merry Years and Days are gone,
(For Piety itself cannot withstand
Th' Approach of wrinkled Age, and certain Death,)
I'd keep at Home, sollicitous to drop
Like Autumn Fruit, well-mellow'd, to the Earth,
My kindred, and maternal Clay! at Peace

115

With Heav'n, my Conscience, and Mankind, at once.
Yet would I die before my Senses fail,
Ere I grow irksom to my self and Friends,
Without the Ceremony of a Priest,
Or Form of a Physician. Rather may
My Relatives invite to my Bed-Side
Sage Killingsworth, to witness how I leave
The World by him despis'd: Or let a Choir
Of skill'd Musicians, both for Voices fam'd,
And Instruments select, attune my Soul,
And on their Notes transport it to the Skies!
How fitted then, I'd mix among the Saints!

116

With Moses, David, Casimir, Carstairs,
Musicians, Poets, Priests, and Kings, enthron'd,
Hymning, extatick, to th' Eternal's Praise!
And, if the Pow'r Almighty and All-wise
Approve my Wish, I shall not wail the Loss
Of visual Orbs; tho', by thick Films suffus'd
And painful Weakness, much I dread the Fate
Of Milton, who, with darken'd Eyes, but Mind
Illumin'd bright, in Verse unchim'd, the Dictates
Of Heav'n proclaim'd to Men, prodigious Bard!
When under Turf or Stone my Corps is laid,
(Both equal to me then!) I shall not care,
Nor know, what Men say of my Works and me.
Words are but Wind, in Latin or in Greek.
Yet for the Satisfaction of the Few,
Who wish my Memory well, may what is said
Be good, tho' little: I'd have honest Fame,

117

However small! and let my noble Stair,
Argyle, or Walpole, Hamilton, Balfour,
Or Lauderdale, Kilmorey, or the King,
(For Poets are the great Concern of all!
And all to Mitchell Patrons are confess'd!)
My sacred Bones deposite in the Isle,
To Bards devoted; and a decent Tomb,
Near Philips, raise, with Epitaph deserv'd:
Or, if in Caledonian Climes I drop,
(For I not yet foresee my Place of Death)
At Ratho, mix'd with Kindred Clay, I'd rest
Beneath a Marble Stone, inscrib'd J. M.
To tell Posterity whose Dust lies there.
No richer Epitaph I court! what Profit
Cou'd studied Phrases bring my mouldring Part?

118

And, for my Soul, it then wou'd have no Leisure,
Howe'er dispos'd in Realms of Bliss or Woe,
To mind what's written, or what Men might say.

Thus, in continu'd Rhapsody, I've sung,
Philippian Verse, unknowing ev'ry Line
What next wou'd follow: Inspiration strange!
Thus holy Men, in early Christian Times,
Careless of a To-morrow, took no Thought
What then might happen, and were bless'd of Heav'n.

Mrs. Killingsworth was deliver'd of a young Cobler, the very Night after her Husband had mended the Poet's Shoe. Such was the Will of Fate!

The tutelar Saint and Patron of Coblers in Popish Countries. No doubt, the Man had been extremely devout in his Stall, and wrought Miracles with his Awl and Hempen Threads.

Pity his Name is not recorded in our Chronicles. The Curious may see the History at large in a little Treatise, entitled, The History of the King and the Cobler, adorn'd with Cuts.

See the Splendid Shilling.

The Presbytery of Edinburgh, where the Author some time studied to be a Parson, refused him their Testimony and Licence, because he had read and recommended Dramatic Poetry, and would not believe and pronounce the Stage to be in itself absolutely unlawful, and an Abomination in the Eyes of the Lord.

See the Tattler, Number 127.

See the Sine-Cure: A Poetical Petition to the Right Honourable Robert Walpole, Esq; for the Government of Duck-Island in St. James's Park.

It is storied by Popish Writers, that when Men refused to hear and believe his Doctrine, the great St. Anthony of Padua preach'd to a Congregation of Fishes, who greedily devour'd the Gospel, and were miraculously converted to the Faith. See Addison's Travels.

Mr. Booth had a Country Seat at Cowley, which he has sold to Mr. Rich, since this Poem was writ.

See the Ode on the Power of Musick, (first publish'd Anno Dom. 1710.) In which are these Lines;

------ And when I die,
For Love I bore to Harmony,
May round my Bed a Sacred Choir
Of skill'd Musicians sweep the Lyre;
That, dying with the gentle Sounds,
My Soul, well-tun'd, may rise,
And break o'er all the common Bounds
Of Minds, that grovel here below the Skies.

The Monument of Mr. John Philips in Westminster Abbey.

The Name of the Parish and Village where the Author was born in North-Britain.

119

EPILOGUE TO THE Spanish Fryar.

[_]

Spoken by Mr. QUIN, on Saturday, May 2. 1725. In the Character of the Fryar.

[_]

The Lines mark'd with a Star [*] are borrow'd from the Original Epilogue.

Grace after Meat, is decent, Sirs, at least,
And who's so fit to say it, as a Priest?
—But there are scrup'lous Souls, I understand,
Who will not take a Blessing off my Hand.
'Tis true, according as I have been painted,
I'm not, as yet, prepar'd for being Sainted.

120

Yet, 'tis as true, some have been Canoniz'd,
Whose Wickedness was little more disguis'd.
Two Blacks indeed can never make a White,
Nor others Faults make me the more Upright.
I frankly own, I'm a sad Dog—By Trade,
A carnal Pimp, in pious Masquerade.
(And this Confession from a Priest, you'll say,
Is not a Thing that happens every Day.)
Sin is my Business, and my Daily Bread,
From People's Vice my Benefits proceed.
* 'Tis by their living ill, that I live well,
* And their Debauches these fat Paunches swell.
The Priest's a Fool, who is at Vice displeas'd—
Are Doctors vex'd to find Mankind diseas'd?
* But whether we be angry, Sirs, or civil,
* 'Tis a Mock-War betwixt us, and the Devil.

121

At this my Doctrine, some may take Offence;
But Lovers, sure, are Folks of better Sense.
And, if Intriguing be the Good Old Way,
Then Popery's best, whate'er Reformers say,
At least, most pleasing, in this Month of May.
Whoe'er wou'd give a Loose to Nature, come,
And revel in the Courts of Love, and Rome.
With us, Love's Carnival is still in Season,
And Absolution asks no Leave of Reason.
* Gold is the Word—bring that, and all goes well,
* There is no Dives in the Roman Hell.
There's no Indulgence, without ready Rhino,
That only makes our Blessings Jure Divino.
That rules the World, and puts Things in right Posture;
But ------
No Pay, no Swiss; no Pence, no Pater-Noster.

122

POLTIS, King of Thrace;

OR, THE Peace-Keeper:

A TALE, from Plutarch: Address'd to the Powers of Europe, in the Year 1726.

Ere Europe's Peace is broken quite,
Ere Fleets and Armies meet in Fight,
Ere Blood is spilt, and Treasure spent,
Ere Crowns are lost, and Kingdoms rent,
Ye jarring Powers, with Patience, hear
A Tale, from Plutarch, worth your Ear.

When Greeks, revengeful, had decreed
Against the Trojans to proceed,

123

'Twas thought expedient to take in
What neighbouring Forces they cou'd win;
That, by collected Rage and Strength,
The Town might be their own at length.

Ambassadors, among the rest,
To Poltis carried their Request.

The Thracian, tardy, as the Dutch,
Car'd not for War and Mischief much;
But, warily, the Cause enquir'd
That had the Grecian Chiefs inspir'd
With hostile Fury—

'Twas told, with Circumstances strong,
That Menelaus suffer'd Wrong

124

From Paris, unprovok'd,—and how
Th' Adulterers liv'd together now:
But that, with his concurring Aid,
They were not in the least afraid,
But Helen shou'd be had again,
And Troy laid level with the Plain.

He, good and wise! the Matter weigh'd,
And then, in peaceful Manner, said;

“Is that your Quarrel? That your Strife?
“Is all this Pother for a Wife?
“For shame, ye Greeks, your Anger stifle,
“Nor break the Peace for such a Trifle.
“What tho' the Rape was most injurious?
“Consider, Paris' Love was furious.

125

“'Twas wrong the Grecian to supplant,
“And 'twere so, shou'd the Trojan want.
“Both must have Wives. Come,—I have two,
“And, for the Sake of Peace and you,
“(Tho' both are as belov'd by me,
“As Wives, in Conscience, ought to be)
“I'll one to that same Trojan send,
“And t'other to my Grecian Friend.
“If either of 'em shou'd again
“For want of Female Flesh complain,
“The Devil's in him. For my Part,
“I'm satisfy'd, with all my Heart;
“And must be very sick of Life,
“When I take Cudgels for a Wife.

The Greeks despis'd those Ways and Means,
T'accommodate the Difference:

126

But, headlong to the Battle rush'd,
And Ten long Years for Conquest push'd;
Lost many Pounds, and many Lives,
Worth twenty times as many Wives;
And, when, at last, the War was o'er,
What was it from the Field they bore?
Why, Falstaff's Honour, and a Whore!

127

A Lilliputian ODE ON CLARA's Dog.

I.

Little Hetty,
Kind and pretty,
Clara's Care!
O how rare
Charms like thine!
Sparks divine
Seem to shine
In thy Eyes,
Bright and wise.

128

There's a Grace
In thy Face,
Which the Sages
Of all Ages
Might admire.
It would tire
Pope and Gay
To display
Such a Dog.
Molly Mog,
Rural Toast,
England's Boast,
And thy Foil,
With less Toil,
Was proclaim'd
By their Muses fair and fam'd.

129

II.

Who wou'd not
Wish thy Lot!
To be kist,
And carest
By such Charms!
And in Arms,
So Divine,
Rest Supine
Every Night,
With Delight!
And at Board,
Like a Lord,
On a Chair
Great appear!

130

Or to lie
Softly by,
And be fed
With the Bread
And the Meats
Clara eats!
Well attended,
And defended
By her Train,
Maids and Men,
Of so great an Honour vain!

III.

What Distress
Will possess
And controul
Clara's Soul,

131

When grim Death
Stops thy Breath!
Then a Crowd,
Crying loud,
To the Clay
Shall convey
Beauty gone:
And a Stone
Shall proclaim
Thy lov'd Name:
And a Verse
Shall rehearse
And shew forth
All thy Worth.
But no Art
Can impart

132

Clara's Grief!
Nor Relief
Can her Mind
Ever find,
While poor Hetty
Fills her Thoughts—and that's Pity.

133

THE Vicar and Waggoner.

A Sunday Conversation.

Thus to his Parish Waggoner, a Priest
His Soul's Resentment zealously address'd—
“How long, how long shall I beseech in vain?
“How long of thy malignant Course complain?
“Say what I can, thou, with uplifted Hand,
“Wilt drive thy Waggon thro' the Fourth Command.
“O worse than Jew, or Infidel, or Turk,
“Why, why, on Sunday's, dost thou dare to work!
“Hop'st thou for Heav'n?—The Waggoner said, Ay,
If there's no wicked Turnpike in the Way.

134

“Turnpike! (enrag'd the holy Man reply'd)
“'Tis full of Turnpikes, and of Thorns beside.
“Yea, 'tis a narrow Path, a rugged Road—
Then, Sir, 'tis worse than e'er my Cattle trod:
Better to keep the Way, that's beat and broad.
“I tell Thee, Waggoner, the beaten Path,
“However easy, leads to certain Death.
I ne'er found that: but, Sir, what Toll's to pay?
“The Toll, (reply'd the Priest) is fast and pray.
I can't afford to fast; I can't indeed—
“Then you'll be damn'd, as sure as there's a Creed.
Ay, marry, rather than be fool'd by Priests
To starve my self, and Jade my worthy Beasts.

135

Miss Charlote at Church.

I

Miss Charlote just was Four Years old,
When first she went to Church,
Where first she saw, in a white Sheet,
A Woman at the Porch.

II

“Mamma, (she cry'd) why, all in White,
“Stands this poor Woman here?
Because she is a naughty Jade,
And has done Ill, my Dear.

III

Scarce said, when Parson C--- came,
Array'd in Surplice bright—

136

“Has he done Ill? Is he too naught?
“Or why, Mamma, in White?

IV

His Garment shews the Man of God
Is spotless all within—
“Ha! can a Sheet at once be put
“For Sanctity and Sin?

V

Hussy, be hush; you must believe,
And check such Notions wild—
But every Day makes it appear
You're Dada's own dear Child.

137

THE TOTNESS ADDRESS, VERSIFIED.

Among the many warm Addresses
Of Mayors, Aldermen, Burgesses,
And other People, truly Loyal,
(Who, now, their Zeal and Wits employ all,
To shew Your Majesty, that They
Resolve to Do, as well as Say)
We, Men of Totness, Devon, beg
Our Liege, to let us make a Leg,

138

And eke a Speech to daunt our Foes,
Where-e'er the London-Gazette goes.

Imprimis, Sir, in Strain most humble,
We'd have you know how much we grumble,
At Germany and Spain, who durst
Unite—before they warn'd us first!
And might have (had we not found out
Their Machinations) brought about
A World of Woe to You and Your Hope,
To Totness, Britain, and to Europe.

Their Schemes, too black to be reveal'd,
And yet too true to be conceal'd,
Must strike, with terrible Surprize,
All People, who have Ears and Eyes;

139

When 'tis but known they were intended
By Princes, we, so late, defended!
Princes, in whose divided Cause,
All Christendom a Deluge was!
But, now, colleagu'd, wou'd Matters jumble,
And Treaties topsy-turvy tumble!
Anticipate, the Conflagration,
By setting Fire to every Nation!
Tho' we, (who made 'em) go to Ruin—
Did ever Mortals see such Doing?

But vain are Menaces and Threats—
Forsooth, we know their former Feats;
And value, like so many Posts,
Spanish Armada's, German Hosts!
Such scare-crow Potentates may vaunt,
But not your valiant Britons daunt.

140

Alas! their whimsical Chimeras
Can ne'er affright a Land of Heroes?
Especially, since You, no doubt,
Have been at Pains to look sharp out;
And, timely, taken such wise Measures,
As will ensure our Lives and Treasures.
Then, there's your Parliament, so able;
And Ministry, incomparable,
With Spirits, indefatigable!

But, most of all—now Blood is up—behold
Your Men of Devon, ever brave and bold!
Bless us! what Heroes has our County bred?
And how your Royal Ancestors have sped,
In like Conjunctures, by their gallant Aid?
We furnish'd Drake, a Man of mighty Fame!
The Sons of Spain still tremble at his Name!

141

A Raleigh, too, from Devonshire proceeded—
But him we claim not—for he was beheaded!
And, tho' the Dorset Gentry make a Fuss,
Churchill first breath'd the vital Air with Us—
We mean great Marlborough, of immortal Story,
(Hochstedt's a Witness of this Hero's Glory)
To whose sole Arm the Empire Safety owes,
And its great Head his Victory o'er his Foes!
True; These are Dust—But some remain alive,
Who to the Devil Your Enemies will drive.
WAGER and HOSIER! There's a Brace of Tars!
Each more than Neptune, and at least a Mars!
We warrant it, they'll make the Spaniards mind 'em!
And leave to Fishes many Feasts behind 'em!
Besides, our Burough to your Senate sends,
A WILLS, among the bravest of Your Friends!

142

He, Sir, ev'n He, who now Presents our Speech,
Your Foreign Foes Fidelity will teach.
Lord, how he scourg'd rebellious Rogues, at Preston!
Ay, that's a Proof he's one, whom you may rest on!
Take but our Words, and give him Chief Command,
Ostend shall sink, and Gibraltar shall stand.

But, lest you think, Sir, this is Rant,
Nothing but Bamm, and empty Cant,
We, honest, hearty Cocks are willing,
Per Pound Land Tax to pay Four Shilling;
Nay, with such Cheerfulness allow it,
We'll toss the other SIXTEEN to it;
Tho' we should mortgage Lands and Houses,
And eke our Children and our Spouses.
Moreover, we'll most frankly part
With all we have, with all our Heart,

143

Rather than let our Faith's Defender
Be bullied, by a base Pretender—
A spurious, Popish Brat, abjur'd
By all of Loyalty assur'd!
If this we did in sober Sadness,
What mayn't we do when rouz'd to Madness?
We vow and swear, by Life's great Giver,
To fight him to our longest Liver;
And, when our longest Liver's dead,
Our Ghosts shall haunt Him, in our stead,
And fill his Coward-Soul with Dread!

This Resolution we have taken,
That, warn'd, He may preserve his Bacon;
Or shou'd he ever chance to win
A bloody Battle, and come in;

144

(Which Heav'n forbid shou'd ever be!)
Know, by these present Lines, that we
Assure Him, he'll be fairly bit,
And, on your Throne, unkingly sit;
When none is left for such a Tartar
To head, and hang, and draw, and quarter!

And now, Sir, to conclude our Speech,
And shew we pray, as well as preach,
We've clubb'd an Hymn, and cordial given
Our Cares, in humble Staves, to Heaven.

I

“God prosper well our noble King,
“Our Lives and Fortunes all!
“May Peace, and Truth, and Wit, and Wealth,
“The Britons brave befall!

145

II

“Late, very late, may our good Liege
“A Heavenly Crown obtain!
“And eke his Royal House ne'er want
“A Prince, so fit to reign!

III

“O may our Happiness, so rare,
“To future Times go down!
“Let all the People say, Amen!
“Amen, says Totness Town!

146

EPITAPH ON ROGER SIZER,

Of Great Abington, in the County of CAMBRIDGE, Esq;

[_]

Who, having been bred under Sir Stephen Fox, was early preferr'd to considerable Posts; and, upon the Revolution, made Paymaster of King William's Army Abroad, for several Years; and afterwards Treasurer of the Chamber; till the Accession of Queen ANNE; when he retir'd to his Country Seat, where he serv'd as Deputy Lieutenant of the County, Captain of the Militia, and one of His Majesty's Justices of the Peace, till his Death. Anno Dom. 1726. Æt. 66.

If Skill in Business, Honour, Health,
Courage and Bravery, Pow'r and Wealth,
Candour and Truth, cou'd Mortals save—.
Then Sizer had not grac'd the Grave.

147

All that was Manly, Generous, Great,
Made His a Character compleat!
The Force of Virtue cou'd not mend,
In Him, the Patriot and the Friend!
—Yet, ah! how earthly Glories fade!
Ev'n He is low and silent laid;
And scarce, but in Records of Fame,
By Verse preserv'd, a living Name!
—What then may vulgar Souls expect
But Death, Oblivion, and Neglect?

148

EPITAPH ON Madam MARIA JANE,

The Widow of ROGER SIZER, Esq;

[_]

A French Lady of uncommon Accomplishments, both of Mind and Person, who dy'd Anno Dom. 1727. Æt. 65.

If Beauty, Humour, Knowledge, Sense,
And Wit, had prov'd a sure Defence
Against the Darts of conquering Death,
Maria had not yielded Breath.
—Ye fair ones, tremble at the News—
Since she, so worthy of the Muse,

149

So well accomplish'd, nought cou'd save,
—How shall ye scape the gaping Grave?
How leave an everlasting Name,
Unless, like Her, ye merit Fame?
—But, ere appears, among your Kind,
Her Match, in Person and in Mind,
The Marble Monuments shall break,
And she, with Charms immortal, wake.

150

AN ODE

Occasion'd by the Last Will and Death of Madam SIZER.

I.

What Credit shall my Muse obtain?
Who will believe I more than feign?
When, weeping o'er Maria's Hearse,
I strow around my melancholy Verse?
She gave me Fortune, left me her sole Heir,
Dispell'd my Doubts, controul'd Despair,
And cur'd at once my Care.

151

She did all this—and yet I mourn,
Incessant o'er her sacred Urn,
And wish, in vain, she cou'd to Life return.

II.

Tho' Youth and Beauty long were fled,
Ere she was number'd with the Dead;
Tho' she had ceas'd to charm the Eye,
I wish'd she might not quickly die:
And now, to her dear Memory Just,
Revere her hallow'd Dust;
Nor think I can enough her Worth proclaim,
And pay due Honours to her valued Name.

III.

How can I e'er forget?
Or when discharge my Debt
To one, whose Love and Zeal, for me,
Disinterested were, and free?

152

What had I done to merit and engage
The Grace and Bounty of experienc'd Age?
To move a Mind, for noble Sense renown'd,
To pass her Kindred and her Country by,
Neglect a Crowd of old Companions round,
And on a Stranger set a Price so high?

IV.

Was it because I had a Share
Of thy Esteem, my Patron Stair?
To Walpole's Favour owe I hers?
Or was she captiv'd by my Verse?
Was sweet Ophelia the engaging Cause
Of all her Goodness and Applause!
Or, generous and unprompted, did she chuse
Her Heir, for his own Sake, and for his Muse?

153

Whate'er the Motive of her Love,
O let me not ingrateful prove!
Indelible may her Idea last,
In my most faithful Breast;
Or, when I drop Remembrance of her Name,
My Hand its Cunning lose, my Muse her Fame.

V.

No; from my grateful Heart
Her Image ne'er can part.
Each Place she visited and lov'd,
Whate'er she prais'd or disapprov'd;
Persons and Things which she held dear,
But most her Picture, ever near
My Sight, will keep her in my Mind,
Preserve the deep Impression made,
As if they were by her Last Will design'd
To Guarantee my Reverence for her Shade.

154

VI.

Condemn me not, Companions, now,
If pensive I shou'd grow.
Say not I'm full of Worldly Care,
And anxious how to use my Store;
Nor wish I had not been her Heir,
But still Poetically Poor—
They need to know my Spirit more,
Who think that Avarice dwells there.
'Tis Thought of what Maria was,
And what sad Loss I now sustain,
That puts me in this wretched Case,
And keeps alive my Pain.
What she cou'd do, she did for me;
And I despair, among her Sex, to see
One so accomplish'd, so Divine, as she.

155

VII.

Boast not, ye Beaus and Fops profane,
Of Favours from the Fair;
What Boon, what Bliss did e'er ye gain,
That might with mine compare?
What boots your momentary Joys?
Your Pleasure, that in Tasting, cloys!
What is it Beauty e'er bestows
Equal to what from Friendship flows?
Feast on the Sex's fancied Charms;
Go, riot in their fond and folding Arms—
Be it my Pride, that one, who knew
The World, and look'd it thro' and thro',
Cou'd judge of Books and Men aright,
The fairest once, and always most polite!

156

That she, regardless of the Crowd,
On me her envied Favours all bestow'd.
This Thought, amid my Sorrow, gives me Ease,
And never fails to please.

157

RATHO;

A POEM TO THE KING.

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES Earl of Lawderdale, Lord Lieutenant and High-Sheriff of Edingburgshire; Master-General of His Majesty's Mint in Scotland, One of the Lords of Police; Superior of the Parishes of Ratho, &c.

171

Nescio qua natale Solum Dulcedine Musas
Ducit, & immemores non sinit esse sui!
Ovid.

I sing of RATHO. Help me to relate
Its past, its present, and its future State,
Ye Pow'rs celestial; and enroll, in Fame,
The Lays inscrib'd to GEORGE's sacred Name.
And thou, dread Monarch, deign a kind Regard—
Thy Smiles are Sanction, and thy Praise Reward.

172

For These I bend; for These permit my Pray'r;
With These, propitious, crown thy Servant's Care;
If e'er the Muse afforded Thee Delight,
If e'er a Bard found Favour in thy Sight.

West from Edina—Caledonian Pride,
And Wonder of the neighbouring World beside!—
A champian Country, hedg'd on every Hand
With stately Hills, adorns the Lothian Land;
By Nature form'd to give the Muse Delight,
Inspire her Rapture, and her Verse invite.

Tho' here no Cedar tow'rs its ample Head;
No spicy Gums and Frankincense are spread;
No clustring Vines and rich Pomegranates glow;
No limpid Streams of Milk and Honey flow;

173

Tho' the blue Fig and yellow Olive fail,
And blushing Peaches shun the Wint'ry Gale:
Yet here, uncurst with Skies inclement, Groves
For Contemplation, and Repose, and Loves;
Corn, Plants, and Flowers, of native Product, spring;
Fish glad the Streams, and Birds harmonious sing;
Hawks, Hounds, and Guns, have here unbounded Scope;
And eager Sportsmen crown their rural Hope;
Here bleating Flocks and lowing Herds abound;
And sweet Content spreads Happiness around.

But (so Heaven's Will, all-governing, ordain'd)
Unprais'd for Ages has this Scene remain'd,
Unknown to modern Bards, or by them scorn'd,
And, now, too late, by Mitchell's self adorn'd,
Tho' none so dear, so lovely in his Sight
Of all the Lands, the Sun o'erspreads with Light!

174

Thus Trojan Tow'rs in Ashes long had lain,
Ere Homer's Verse restor'd their Pride again,
And with immortal Glory rais'd the Slain.

But Sages, more discerning, saw this Seat,
They saw and chose it for a calm Retreat,
Before the World confest the Christian Name,
Or Albion knew the Greek and Roman Fame!
Here hoary Hermits first Possession took,
And, greatly good, their All for Heav'n forsook!
Here self taught Bards from Nature Knowledge drew,
Look'd past, and present, and the future thro',
Sung sacred Things, and sacred were confest,
Their Minds and Morals of all Men the best!
Here venerable Druids, with Renown,
Transmissive, Truths Historic handed down,

175

The Will of Fate oraculous explain'd,
And by their Lives immortal Honours gain'd!
Here constant Vows by Travellers were paid,
Where holy Horrours solemniz'd a Shade!
And Courtiers, weary of the World, were found
In Greens embow'ring, or on Banks embrown'd!
At last, so famous grew the sacred Place,
Heroes and Kings resolv'd to give it Grace—
First, with a glorious Principle inspir'd,
To follow Nature from the Crowd retir'd,
In Groves and Grotto's of the silent Wood,
Observ'd the Duties of the Wise and Good;
Till, by Degrees of humble Blessings cloy'd,
Blessings possess'd, and not alike enjoy'd!
They let in Pomp and Noise, and Innocence destroy'd

176

Among th' Admirers of this beauteous Scene,
Shone RATHO fair, a famous Pictish Queen,
Ere Scottish Power o'erthrew her Nation's State,
And made that People Fugitives of Fate.
Fond of the Mountains, Vallies, and the Woods,
The Meads and Dales, the Forests and the Floods,
(For these, in those far distant Ages, grac'd
This rural Seat, and every where were prais'd!)
Romantic, she converts a lovely Bow'r,
Her favourite Mansion! to a Royal Tow'r,
Which, gathering by Degrees, a City grew,
(So Legends tell, and what they tell is true)
A City, known in early Times to Fame,
The Lothian Boast, and RATHO was its Name;
A Name from RATHO, Pictish Queen renown'd,
And to this Day with Veneration own'd!

177

Now Walls and Bulwarks for Defence were rear'd,
Columns, and Spires, and Palaces appear'd!
Domes crowd on Domes, and Fanes with Temples vye!
And Courts and Castles tire the wondering Eye!
High o'er the rest th' imperial Structure shone,
Antique the Building, but of burnish'd Stone!
Along the middle Street, from End to End,
A limpid Stream did cooling Comfort lend,
Whence the great Cross of solid Rock took Name,
And to this Day is styl'd the RATHO-RAME.
Like Babel-Tow'r, it grac'd a rising Ground,
Center of all Rathonian Domes around!
From whose broad Base, so wonderful to tell,
A sacred Fluid, call'd the Rame-Stone Well,
Incessant flow'd, with various Virtues blest,
But most with Health and Joy to the Distrest!

178

Around whose verdant Borders oft were seen
The Moonlight Gambols of a Fairy Queen,
With her gay Train, (as Legends tell) in green:
Her all rever'd, as Genius of the Stream,
Much was she prais'd, and LADA was her Name.

Here first my Mind from Nature Knowledge brought,
Thro' gross Effects their mystic Causes sought;
Explor'd the Wonders too refin'd for Sense,
And Order found too regular for Chance.
Here first my Youth, with love of Song possest,
Felt heavenly Fire, and was with Visions blest;
Here, Studious, first unlock'd the ancient Store,
And Spoils of Learning from the Classicks bore.
Here too, alas! in youthful Days, my Heart
Was first transfix'd with Love's almighty Dart;

179

And here my Muse first plain'd the mighty Woe
My Soul first knew, and evermore must know—
The best of Brothers and of Friends inhum'd,
When fresh his Virtues with Life's Vigour bloom'd!
Untimely snatch'd from these admiring Eyes,
Whose Image ever to my Thought must rise!
O! while his Spirit, mix'd with social Saints,
Estrang'd to Sorrow, and above Complaints,
The Earnest of eternal Bliss enjoys,
(Till, from the Dust his kindred Ashes rise,
And with it, perfect, gain Empyreal Skies;
May guardian Angels faithful Vigils keep
Around the Tomb, where now these Ashes sleep!
May no dire Horrors of a Shade surround,
Nor mortal Hands disturb, the sacred Ground!
When shall the Virtues, Loves and Graces find
A purer Body for so pure a Mind?

180

When, when have Cause to tend another Urn,
And, for a truer, dearer, Votary mourn?

But human Blessings are precarious still,
And Time must Nature's great Behests fulfil.
Thro' Length of Years minutest Things grow great,
And highest Glories feel Reverse of Fate.
Thrice happy RATHO, had it still remain'd
A City, or its natural Charms retain'd!
But Picts o'ercome, soon dwindled antient Pride,
And what the Conquerors left it, Time destroy'd!

Scarce can our Eyes, with curious Search, behold
The sunk Foundations of the Walls of old!
We can but guess where stood the Imperial Dome,
Long, long engulph'd in Earth's capacious Womb!

181

Hardly the sacred Temples can be trac'd,
And glitt'ring Spires for ever lie disgrac'd!
The Rame-Stone, once a Monument so high,
Piercing thro' Clouds and gaining on the Sky,
Now, mouldring, scarce a Yard of Length retains,
The Prey of ever-wasting Winds and Rains!
And the clear Stream, that gently roll'd along,
In antient Times, the Bards and Lovers Song,
Now, mix'd with Mud, ignobly Passage makes,
Or, here absorpt, another Channel takes!
Where beauteous Bridges arch'd aloft before,
And Pleasure Boats row'd by from Door to Door,
Vile Steps of Stone and Logs of Wood appear,
And sordid Fragments tumble all the Year!
The sacred Well the common Lot partakes—
Health-giving Virtue now its Spring forsakes!

182

For vigorous Rame (as antient Bards rehearse
In venerable Tales and antique Verse)
Enamour'd, stole on LADA's gentle Charms,
Mix'd with her Soul, and melted in her Arms:
She, all abash'd, the blushing Scene forsook,
And, with her Train, in Plett a Refuge took—
Plett! hospitable Height of Land, where I,
(As Flamstead erst from Greenwich) gaz'd the Sky;
Oft, in my Youth, my happier Days, alone,
Or with a Friend, the rolling Orbs, that shone
Distant, like twinkling Tapers in the Night,
Observ'd with curious Wonder and Delight;
And oft, the Blessings of a private State
Admiring, learnt Compassion for the Great.
For ever fam'd and sacred be thy Sides,
O Hill, whence LADA weeps her silver Tides;

183

Like Helicon, inspiring be the Tears,
And let the Well immortal live in Verse,
Her Well, where, oft o'ercharg'd with amorous Woe,
My swelling Heart has taught my Eyes to flow,
As SYLVIA coy, or CELIA false I sung,
Or, all untun'd, my Harp on Willows hung.

But, Muse, a Veil of dark Oblivion cast
On thy fond Master's various Sufferings past;
No Image of long-finish'd Grief recall—
—Ophelia more than makes Amends for all.

Of antient RATHO, rear'd with Cost and Pain,
How few and wretched Monuments remain!
Sometimes the Plough, from Fields adjacent, tears
The Limbs of Men, and Armour broke with Years;

184

Sometimes a Medal, all effac'd, is found,
And mouldring Urns are gather'd from the Ground:
But who, ah! who, can decent Honours pay,
Or sep'rate Vulgar from Imperial Clay?
Dire Fate of Mortals! Cottagers and Kings
Promiscuous lie, alike unheeded Things!
Destroying Time and the devouring Grave
Alike confound the Coward and the Brave!
Distinction's lost! no Marks of State adorn!
And RATHO looks, like Troy, a Field of Corn!

Yet, as in th' Ark the chosen NOAH sail'd,
When o'er the World the pouring Floods prevail'd;
So still some Remnants of primæval Grace,
From blank Oblivion, save th' imperial Place:
Some true Traditions, in the Country known,
In spite of Time, are handed careful down.

185

Tho', with its Walls and Battlements, are lost,
All the Records th' Inhabitants cou'd boast,
Among the Lothian Seats shines RATHO's Name,
And its new People burn with antient Flame.
As Generations in their Course decay,
(This flourishing, when That is past away)
The wither'd Leaf of pristine Glory falls,
And Buds of Virtue croud the modern Walls—
A simple, frugal, hospitable Race,
With little Wealth, but Revenues of Grace,
To Labour bred, without Ambition brave,
Chearful of Heart, and pleas'd with what they have!

As needy Peasants destin'd to reside
Remote from Neighbours, in a Desart wide,
Studious to save what Human Wants require,
In Embers heap'd preserve the sacred Fire;

186

So true RATHONIANS, with unwearied Pains,
Trace ancient Paths, and dig for old Remains,
Their Predecessors Merit keep alive,
And, to be like Them, ever-labouring strive.
From Them the curious Stranger now may hear
How Men of old were summon'd far and near,
Compleat in Arms, at RATHO-RAME t'appear!
How Renfrew, Ruglin, Givin, Glasgow, Towns
Far distant, answer'd on Rathonian Downs!
How fair EDINA was design'd to rise
Where now in Ruins antient RATHO lies?
What circling Castles, Palaces, and Tow'rs,
Burroughs, and Cities, Villages, and Bow'rs,
From Gogar gay to Hatton's lofty Spires,
And all around to Norton and the Byres
Of RATHO held, to RATHO Homage paid,
RATHO, that o'er the Rest its Head display'd

187

High, as the Mountain Oak, or stately Pine,
O'ertops the prickly Thorn, or Ivy-clasping Vine.

But not alone from History something sav'd
Shews what it was, and how their Sires behav'd—
Let Roman Walls and Monuments declare,
And what once were be known from Things that are.
Ah! had no Strife and Fury broke between,
The Scots and Picts triumphant still had been,
And modern Ages antient RATHO seen!

Yet Hope remains—as when the Mountain's Head
With scowling Shadows all around is spread,
Sudden the Lightning with a flashing Ray,
Bursts thro' the Darkness, and lets down the Day;
So ruin'd RATHO shall regain Renown,
By Royal Bounty of the British Crown.

188

The Time will come (a Tale Prophetic says)
But, ah! how distant! when a Sprig of Bays,
From Reliques of a sacred Wreath shall spring,
And round the Royal-Oak devoutly cling:
The Royal-Oak will condescend t'embrace
The gentle Sprig, and shield and shade the Place.
“This (says Tradition) shews a Bard will rise,
“In future Time, where now another lies!
“His Lays will charm inexorable Fate,
“And move a Monarch to restore the State
“Of RATHO.
SIRE,
The Monarch art not Thou?
And am not I the Bard, who humbly bow?
What modern Muse, but mine, from RATHO sprung?
And to what King, but Thee, has Mitchell sung?

189

Tho' born of Blood, by long disastrous Fate,
Debarr'd the Glories of the vulgar Great;
Yet this my Boast, my Birth-Place was a Doom,
Where stood of old a Temple and a Tomb!
What store of hallowed Bone and sacred Clay
Beneath my Bed and infant Cradle lay!
Deep in the Reliques took my Laurel Root,
And o'er the Ruins did my Branches shoot,
Branches, that now with pious Duty greet
The Royal-Oak, and bloom about his Feet!
Now, shall another Monarch be that Oak,
Of which the Sage, with Soul illumin'd, spoke?
Forbid it, Heav'n, that any Prince beside
To RATHO should restore its pristine Pride.
Leave not, O gracious Sire, so great a Thing,
So vast a Glory, to a future King.

190

Be it, my Master, be it only thine,
At Mitchell's Suit, to make his RATHO shine.

When ALEXANDER, in Atchievements great,
Had broke alike the Theban Pow'r and State;
Entering the Town, he had his Soldiers spare;
“For Pindar's sacred dwelling Place was there!
And, for the sake of Sophocles's Muse
Athens obtain'd the Conqueror's Excuse!
Thus Syracuse, so long defended, lost,
The brave Marcellus charg'd his Roman Host,
“Not to revenge the Nation's Blood and Strife
“On venerable Archimede's Life!
So, when Ulysses round his Vengeance spread,
And all who wrong'd their absent Lord lay dead;
When ev'n Liôdes, Priest and Augur, fell,
Phemius, who drank of the Pierian Well,

191

Phemius, the sweet, the Heav'n-instructed Bard,
Alone was, for his sacred Virtues, spar'd!

Such Instances let others boast and praise—
My Leige will do more Honour to my Lays;
Not barely save the Place where I was born,
But with superior Pow'r and Grace adorn.

'Tis done—Behold, th' ideal Muse can see
A City built by GEORGE's great Decree!
What Domes and Tow'rs their lofty Summits rear!
How Temples shine, and crowded Courts appear!
Distinct in Rows, where-e'er my Eyes I turn,
Columns amidst a Blaze of Glory burn!
What ample Gates! and how, with airy Mounds,
A Strength of Wall the guarded City bounds!

192

Old RAME afresh forsakes his oozy Bed,
Again, envigour'd, lifts his azure Head!
See, from his Urn, he pours the silver Stream,
Again the Poet's and the Lover's Theme!
Bridges and Boats for Pleasure crown the Scene,
And ne'er was RATHO known so sweet and clean!

Thus when of Salem sage Haggai foretold
That its new Temple should exceed the old,
'Twas done—for Herod's Bounty gave it more
Magnificence, than e'er it had before!

How glorious this Reverse of Fortune shows,
And how to Me she pays the Debt she owes!
To Me what noble Proofs of Love are rais'd,
Not fond of Flatt'ry, nor with Praise unpleas'd?

193

For, lo! rich Honours now the House adorn,
Where I, the destin'd Sprig of Bays, was born!
A pompous Palace rises in its Place,
The Pride of RATHO, and Britannia's Grace!
With Statues, Sculptures, Pictures finely drest,
And my sage Busto looking o'er the rest!
Nor Prior to Himself, nor Rotterdame
T'Erasmus, rear'd such Monuments of Fame!

But yonder, where the RAME-STONE stood of old,
The second GEORGE on Horseback, all in Gold!
Prodigious Sight! nor boastful Rome, nor Greece,
Cou'd ever shew so beautiful a Piece!
Nor cou'd their famous Progeny afford
A braver Hero and a better Lord!
For all the various Attributes of Fame,
Collected, shine compleat in GEORGE's Name.

194

Ye guardian Genii of the Good and Great,
Unwearied round the Royal Person wait.
Your sacred Aid the God-like Monarchs own,
Who merit first, before they mount a Throne.
You he reveres, as We his dread Command,
O! crown his Reign, as he preserves the Land,
Persists the Pattern of Imperial Sway,
Makes righteous Laws, Himself the first t'obey!
Fast by his Throne, whilst fairest Fame resides,
Let Peace and Wealth incessant roll their Tides.
And late, O! late, and but by slow Decays,
Unknown to Pain, may he conclude his Days;
To the dark Grave retiring, as to Rest;
Blessing his People, and in Blessing blest!

195

Be this my Morning and my Evening-Pray'r,
My Life's true Pleasure and devoted Care,
Ambitious to resemble my great Patron, STAIR,
A Soul by Principles of Honour led;
To Truth, to Liberty, and Virtue, bred!
True to his King, his Country, and his Word!
No mercenary, cringing, cunning, Lord!
Conscious of his uncommon Worth and Parts;
But scorning mean, sinister, sordid Arts!
Whether with honest Place and Pension crown'd,
Or unrewarded, ever faithful found!
Ever the same disinterested Mind!
The finish'd Statesman, Soldier, Patriot, join'd!
Abroad, at Home, by all the Just, confest
In Peace and War the ablest and the best!

196

—Long may my Liege find Servants such as He!
Their Aim his Glory, more than Favour, be!
His Annals sung by nobler Bards than Me!

O! how I long to hail the happy Day,
When Majesty its Glory shall display
In CALEDONIA's antient Realm again!
A pious Wish! And may it not prove vain!
When shall EDINA, as in Times of old,
Receive her King? O! when shall SCOTS behold
A Royal Progress thro' their Native Land,
And gazing Crowds grow loyal as they stand?
Methinks, like his great Ancestors inspir'd,
The Second GEORGE complies to what's desir'd!
Io Triumphe! Countrymen and Friends,
The King a Visit to the North intends!

197

Prepare the Way—our gracious King will come,
As CONSTANTINE in Triumph to his ROME,
When eager Subjects on his Chariot hung,
And the proud Scene with Io Pæan rung!
With equal Joy, may duteous Subjects meet
Our glorious Liege, and his Procession greet;
Let every Tongue with Transport sound his Praise,
And every Eye, as on an Angel, gaze,
Who, like a GOD, in Glory deigns to move
The publick Wonder, and the publick Love!
O! if, from this important Æra, Peace
Might stand confirm'd, and Faction ever cease!

But howsoe'er a Rebel-Race behave,
Open, ye Gates of RATHO, to receive
The British King, your Patron ever dear!
Let grateful Gladness in each Face appear!

198

Meet him, conducted by your noble Head,
(Proud to be led, as LAWDERDALE to lead)
Ye Habitants renown'd, both great and small,
Let Loyalty and Love transport you all,
To hail the Hand, from whence your Blessing springs,
And praise the best of all the British Kings,
A King, who takes no Lustre from a Throne,
But, by his Virtues, dignifies his Crown!

Ye generous Bards of ALBION's frosty North,
Too little known, tho' not the least in Worth,
Awake, awake—a Theme, like This, might warm
The coldest Breast, and brightest Fancy charm.
Let distant Ages in your Numbers view
The first of Monarchs and of Poets too.
With faithful Care discharge your glorious Trust.
O sing great GEORGE, and save yourselves from Dust.

199

Let Inspiration leave me and my Lays,
When I turn silent in my Sov'reign's Praise.
From my right Hand and sounding Lyre depart
Poetic Cunning, when I move my Heart,
O RATHO, darling Native Seat, from Thee,
Like Salem sweet, or Eden blest, to Me!

But shou'd reluctant Fate suspend the Bliss
Of such a lovely, sacred Scene, as This—
Shou'd Second GEORGE his Royal Ear refuse,
And scorn the gentle Courtship of the Muse—
Have Prophecies and Legends all prov'd vain,
Or Bards pronounc'd in an ambiguous Strain—
If neither Brunswick be the destin'd Oak,
Nor I the Bays, of whom the Sages spoke—

200

This solemn Purpose in my Soul I fix,
And swear by RAME, a River dread as Styx,
RATHO, like Thebes, shall rise again in Fame,
And, with Amphion, MITCHELL find a Name!

Poets of God's Omnipotence partake!
From nothing we can Worlds of Wonder make!
Sure to survive, when Time shall whelm in Dust
The Arch, the Marble, and the mimick Bust!
Let others rise by Labours not their own—
Out of myself be struck my bright Renown!
Yet rather perish, with my Life, my Praise,
Than RATHO shine not in immortal Lays.
Dearer than Fame be still my Country's Good,
And for its Glory cheap esteem'd my Blood;
In the true Briton, sunk the Scholar's Boast,
And the proud Poet, in the Patriot lost.

201

To their Most Excellent MAJESTIES,

THE HUMBLE ADDRESS and PETITION OF THE Water-drinking POETS of Great-Britain.

[_]

In Brobdingnaggian Verse. Presented at Kensington, by Mr. Mitchell.

Whereas, in late King GEORGE's Reign,
it was our Fate to miss
Both Place and Pension, (but, we own,
it was no Fault of his;)

202

And when our Brothers Dodington,
and Congreve, Tickell, Young,
Philips, and Pope, beneath their Vine
and Fig Trees, sat and sung;
We (clever Fellows too!) were oft
oblig'd, alas! of course,
To drink weak Water, or to dine
with Humphrey, which was worse!
But Whereas, Now, your Majesties'
Accession pleases All,
And every Thing to every One
aright is like to fall:
Permit us humbly, in the Crowd,
to make you this Address,
(Tho' written in a Style below
the Spirit of Totness)

203

To welcome you with all our Hearts
unto your rightful Throne,
And wish all Health and Happiness
your lengthen'd Years may crown:
And, by the by, to Beg and Pray
your Majesties may please,
In your great Wisdom, Pow'r, and Grace,
to set our Lives at Ease;
For, certes, if you should not turn
our Water into Wine,
We shan't have Spirit left to sing,
of GEORGE and CAROLINE!
Now, would it not, in such a Reign,
be deem'd a dismal Case,
Should Folks, so good as We, wait still,
when worse are put in Place?

204

Besides, 'twould vex us in our Graves,
shou'd any Blame be laid,
On our Account, upon a King
and Queen, to whom we pray'd:
Who knows but Bards and Criticks might,
in future Times, make bold
To censure your most gracious Reign,
as we the Reigns of old?
Then may it please your Majesties,
to fall on Ways and Means,
T'enable Us to fix your Fame,
in our immortal Strains;
And your Petitioners will live,
delighted, all our Days,
And, as in Duty bound, convert
our humble Pray'r to Praise.

205

An ANSWER.

Ingenious Water-drinking Bards,
your Liege approves your Wit,
But must excuse himself from granting
what wou'd not be fit;
For, first, the Treasury would be broke,
ere each of you were blest,
And, next, you'd grow as dull, as Those
already on the List.

206

AN ANACREONTIC TO THE Right Honourable Philip Earl of Chesterfield,

THE British MŒCENAS: ON HIS MAJESTY's Accession to the Throne.

Chesterfield , the Friend of Arts!
Noble Peer of noble Parts!
To thy Kindred Poets dear!
Honour'd with the Royal Ear!

207

Would'st thou spread thy growing Fame,
And deserve a deathless Name?
Deign, O deign to introduce,
To His Majesty the Muse:
Bless, O bless the Sacred Nine,
With the Smiles of CAROLINE.

Long, alas! in former Reigns,
Poets sung in servile Chains—
Ever wretched, tho' belov'd!
Still neglected, yet approv'd!
Shall their Fate unalter'd be,
Now they bend to GEORGE and Thee!
Moecenas thou! Augustus He!

Hence Despair—The Day is come,
Treasur'd long in Time's dark Womb,

208

When, no more to Merit blind,
Fortune turns the Muses' Friend;
And the tuneful Tribes behold
Golden Years, like those of old
By the Patriarch Wits proclaim'd,
Ever in their Annals fam'd!

Genius lifts again his Head
From the Depths, where he lay dead!
Greek and Roman Virtue, lost,
Is become Britannia's Boast!
Publick Spirit, new-inspir'd,
Prompts Us on to Deeds desir'd!
Fame, with Bays and Lawrels crown'd,
Flyes and spreads Desert around!
Arts and Artists nobly thrive!
Credit, Trade, and Stocks revive!

209

See, with yellow Plenty drest,
Hills and Vales are fully blest:
Careful Merchants plough the Seas,
And their Magazines increase!
Foreign Jars and Discords fail,
British Cæsar holding Scale!
Civil Rage and Faction pine,
Struck by Charms of CAROLINE!

For their Reign, and for their Years,
Let our Temples eccho Prayers:
Let the British Sires and Dames
Teach their Children Royal Names:
While, on Wings of Raptures new,
Bards no vulgar Aim pursue;

210

But the deathless Actions trace
Of our Godlike Royal-Race,
From the Bruce to Brunswick down,
In a Strain before unknown!

Me let Art and Nature quit,
When I dull and silent sit;
When I cease to sweep the Lyre,
Which Heroic Acts inspire:
Happy, cou'd my Loyal Muse
Merit Chesterfield's Excuse;
Happier, cou'd my sacred Lays
Blazon Thine and George's Praise.
Second Charles and Buckingham
Shou'd but Second Honours claim!
William and his Montague
Only shou'd be next to You!

211

A Picture of HYMEN, OR Matrimony A-la-mode:

A TALE.

Wou'd you all your Art discover?
(To a Painter said a Lover)
Draw me Hymen with the Graces,
Charming Figures! lovely Faces!
Lively! ravishing! divine!
All that's exquisitely fine!
—But, remember what I say,
As it merits I will pay.

212

Home th' ingenious Painter hies,
And his utmost Talent tries;
Ovid o'er and o'er peruses;
Takes Advice of all the Muses;
All the Masters of Designing,
And of Colours dark and shining;
Statuaries new and old,
Famous for the Soft or Bold;
In a Word, from Death and Life,
Borrows with a generous Strife:
So Apelles form'd his Piece,
Out of all the Charms in Greece.

On the Lover's Wedding-Night,
(When Ideas of Delight
Were exalted to their Height;

213

Finish'd Hymen was presented—
“How it look'd! and what it wanted!
“Lord, Sir, (says the fond Bridegroom)
“Who wou'd give this Picture Room?
“Where's the Gaiety of Air?
“Je ne scai quoi, debonair?
“More than Venus and Adonis?
“Piece, that parallel'd by none is?
“Take your Daubing back again,
“Or Five Pounds, and don't complain.

Painter was a Man of Wit!
More than for mere Business fit!
Seem'd to be with Sorrow mov'd;
What the Lover spake approv'd;
But, withal, begg'd leave to say,
“Hymen merits better Pay,
“And will please another Day!

214

“For, Sir, in a few Months Space,
“Charms will rise upon that Face,
“And such Life inspire these Eyes,
“As will e'en your self surprize.
“'Twill appear in different View;
“Time improves whate'er I do.
“'Tis my Manner, Sir, I own;
“And I'm famous for it grown.

“Say you so? (reply'd the Lover)
“—But that I may Truth discover,
“Keep it by you, till you find
“Hymen alter'd to your Mind.
“I'm not urgent to be paid,
“Nor in Doubt, (the Painter said)

215

“But 'twill ripen to your Taste
“Ere your Honey-Moon is past.
Long the Picture had not lain
Ere the Husband sent again,
Curious to behold a Change
So incredible and strange.
Back 'twas brought: “Here's nothing wanting;
“Sir, you've brought another Painting—
“Gods, what Eyes and Lips are there!
“Graceful Attitude and Air!
“Charms unnumber'd, and divine!
“Beauty exquisitely fine?
“This is Hymen.—Painter, say,
“What's the Value? Here's your Pay.

216

“If the Picture has a Fault,
“'Tis too ravishingly wrought.
—Laughing then, the Painter swore,
'Twas the same he brought before.
“Change may be, Sir, in your Case,
“Hymen is the Thing he was.
—Fancy is the Lover's Cheat!
Wou'd ye prove the Pudding? Eat.

217

VERSES To the Memory of JOHN CLARK, Esq

Is Clark no more? Has Death so soon destroy'd
His Country's Honour, and his Parents Pride?
Ungrateful News! I mourn his early Fate!
But Blessings ne'er are permanent, as great!
Fain would I praise, fain make his Vertues known,
By every Tongue commended, but his own.
A Funeral Gift to my lov'd Clark I owe;
This unavailing Gift, at least, I may bestow.

218

These Eyes have seen the Wonders of his Youth,
And I sing freely, what I sing with Truth.
Clark was my own; his Soul alike inspir'd;
Tho' learn'd, not vain; and humble, tho' admir'd;
Candid in judging, and, in Life, sincere;
To all Men pliant, to himself severe:
Bold were his Thoughts, yet Reason bore the Sway;
Cheerful his Looks, but innocently gay;
Of gentle Manners, and a virtuous Mind;
In whom all Sorts of useful Knowledge join'd;
To whom old Greece and Rome were fully known;
Who made all Countries, in his Course, his own.
By slow Degrees, some travel up to Fame,
And, on the Verge of Life, acquire a Name:
In him a happy Prodigy was seen,
Mature in Glory, when in Years but green.

219

O may the Thought his Friend's Ambition raise!
O may I imitate, as well as praise!

Had he but liv'd to ripen more, in Years—
But Worth, like his, discover'd, disappears.
He, like an Angel, a short Visit made,
And, as we gaz'd, evanish'd to a Shade.
Thus, in the Theatre, with vast Delight,
On Gods and Heroes, we regale our Sight.
The Change of Scenes fresh Wonders brings to view,
And each Machine presents some Glory new:
But, while we look, fleet, from our ravish'd Eyes
The dear Delusion, in a Moment, flies.

My Soul, prophetick, long foresaw his Fate:
“Dear Clark, said I, (as once we fondly sat)

220

“You're but short-liv'd, the Vision of a Day,
“Just to be shown on Earth, and snatch'd away;
“But cou'dst thou break thro' Fate's severe Decree,
“A new Buchanan wou'd arise in Thee.
He, conscious, smil'd, and charg'd my faithful Muse,
Whene'er I shou'd receive th' unwelcome News,
“To strew, with Heaps of Elegiac Verse,
“The sad Procession of his early Hearse.
On this Condition, sudden, I rejoyn'd,
“That, if my Breath shall sooner be resign'd,
“Your friendly Muse shall condescend to mourn
“And sanctify, with Tears, your Mitchell's Urn.
Agreed, he said—But, ah! 'twas his to die!
He, first, was fit to reascend the Sky.
Dear Youth, farewel—and, till the Judgment Day,
Blest be thy Soul, and sacred be thy Clay.

221

And, O, the Meanness of my Verse excuse;
'Tis all the Dictate of a sorrowing Muse.
Yet this one further Character I have,
To mark the Marble Covering of your Grave:
“Young Clark lies here, who was his Country's Boast,
“Admir'd, when living, and ador'd, when lost.

222

OF Seigniora CUZZONI's VOICE and FACE.

I

'Twas long a Paradox to me,
That Musick dwells in Discords most:
But, now Cuzzoni's Face I see,
And hear her Voice, my Wonder's lost.

II

To her such Qualities are given,
As serve, at once, to charm, and fright!
Let her but Sing, we rise to Heav'n!
But shew her Face, we're damn'd outright!

223

III

So have I known, with sweetest Sound,
An old, worn, Lute affect the Ears:
Its Looks might Harmony confound!
Its Notes work Envy, in the Spheres!

IV

The Face, which others covet first,
And call their Pride, is least of Hers!
The Tongue, that us'd to be the worst
Of Women-kind, she most prefers!

V

Her melting Notes, thro' list'ning Ears,
To Extasy transport the Soul:
But he, who looks, as well as hears,
Submits to Terror's harsh Controul.

224

VI

I thought indeed she was, at Sight,
Of Lucifer's Apostate Train;
But, tho' fall'n low from such an Height,
Did yet her Angel Voice retain.

VII

Here wou'd I dote, where I to chuse
A Wife by th' Ear, and not the Eye:
Who wou'd not such a Hag refuse?
Who wou'd not for such Musick die?

VIII

While she has Tongue, and I have Eyes,
I ne'er shall know my Peace of Mind:
Ye Powers, who know my Scorn, my Sighs,
Or make her dumb, or strike me blind.

225

TO Seigniora Cuzzoni.

Thou, at whose Birth, commenc'd a puzzling Case,
Between thy still-contending Voice and Face,
How shall I do thy warring Virtues Right?
What can I say, to set them fair in Light?
This, everlasting Ugliness maintains,
And Harmony, in That, triumphant reigns.

226

We look, and, lo! Deformity prevails:
We hear, and all is sweet as Zephyr's Gales:
But when, at once, we listen and we gaze,
Th' unnatural Discord strikes us with Amaze.
Now This, now That, appears with greatest Force,
Rapture and Torment take their Turn of Course.
Our Sense and Souls, divided, fly the Field,
Uncertain whether Face, or Voice, should yield.

What art thou? Devil! or Angel! can'st thou tell
Whether thou'rt Native born of Heav'n, or Hell?
Or didst thou to th' unnatural Embrace
Of het'rogeneous Parents owe thy Case?
Thou seem'st Hermophrodite of a new Kind,
Procreate betwixt a Body and a Mind.
Thy Face declares a Satyr was thy Sire,
Thy Voice claims Kindred to th' angelic Choir.

227

This might pervert Sir Peter King, the Just,
And That cure Ch--- of insatiate Lust.

Hence, Monster, hence!—O no, the Britons pray
Thou'lt take Two Thousand Pounds a Year, and stay,
To charm their Sense, and scare their Crows away!

228

[Ye Commons and Peers]

I

Ye Commons and Peers,
Pray lend me your Ears,
I sing how a Serjeant was bit.
Let Men of the Law
An Inference draw,
And learn from a Ballad some Wit.

II

To Westminster-Hall,
Where Wranglers caball,
And Godliness seldom is Gain;

229

One Day came a Peasant
With Eggs of a Pheasant,
In Manner most simple and plain.

III

A Sergeant at Law,
Renown'd for his Maw,
And exquisite Gusto in Feeding,
Soon eyeing the Eggs,
The Rate of 'em begs,
No Trick of a Countryman dreading.

IV

Without mincing Words,
The Price he affords,
And Home with the Cargo hies Then.
Half dress'd up outright,
He eat with Delight,
And half he set under a Hen.

230

V

But mark, in Conclusion,
The Serjeant's Confusion,
When, 'stead of the delicate Fowls,
Out broke from the Shell
(As true as I tell)
A Brood of most ominous Owls.

231

TO A LADY, playing with a Clouded Fan.

The fatal Sword, which Man from Eden barr'd,
Flam'd, as it turn'd, the Tree of Life to guard.
But from your Fan, thick Clouds of Smoak arise,
To hide the Flames of your destructive Eyes.
As That was, by a beauteous Cherub, held,
A beauteous Cherub spreads This clouded Shield.
Almost for the same Ends they both were giv'n,
The Sword to fence from Paradise, the Fan from Heav'n.

232

TO A Pyrating POET.

We grant, the Strains, that you rehearse,
Are all Original, and New—
The Ancients peep'd into your Verse,
And stole feloniously from you.

233

TO S---h F---k.

In ancient Times, when Israel was renown'd,
And Kings and Bards, with due Respect, were crown'd,
By Heaven's Direction, Solomon, the Wise,
A Temple rear'd, the Wonder of Mens Eyes!
Long fair it stood, and worthy of the God,
Whose solemn Presence sanctify'd th' Abode.
But Time and War, those Instruments of Fate,
At length, in Ruins, laid the Jewish State.

234

Expos'd to all the Insults of the Foe,
Sad Israel now laments inveterate Woe.
But mark the Turn of providential Care!
Bright Beams of Joy dispel the dark Despair.
Cyrus, the Great, the Generous, and the Good,
From Tyranny reliev'd the groaning Crowd,
And built a second Temple in the Place,
Where Israel's Glory shone, and suffer'd sore Disgrace.
Joyous the Jews beheld this noble Pile,
Which Pagan Powers presum'd not to defile.
But hoary Sages, who the first had seen,
Wept, as they gaz'd—Reflection cut them keen.
No happy Chance cou'd crush the Thought accurst,
“The second Temple was not like the first.

O S---, boast not thy recover'd Health,
Thy latter Spring, and poor Remains of Wealth—

235

Arbuthnot, Mead, and Sandilands, in vain,
Have try'd to make Thee what thou wert again.
We, who beheld Thee, in thy Pride of Charms,
Have lost Desire to revel in thy Arms.
Howe'er thou'rt flatter'd, patch'd, and drest, and nurs'd,
“Thy Second Temple is not like thy First.

236

SYLVIA's MOAN.

As Sylvia in a Forest lay,
To vent her Woe, alone,
Her Swain, Sylvander, came that Way,
And heard her dying Moan.

I

“Ah! Is my Love (she said) to you
“So worthless and so vain?
“Why is your wonted Fondness, now,
“Converted to Disdain?

237

II

“You vow'd, the Day shou'd Darkness turn,
“Ere you'd exchange your Love:
“In Shades, may, now, Creation mourn,
“Since you unfaithful prove.

III

“Was it for this, I Credit gave,
“To ev'ry Oath you swore?
“But, ah! I find they most deceive,
“Who most pretend to adore.

IV

“'Tis plain, your Drift was all Deceit,
“The Practice of Mankind!
“Alas! I see it—but too late!
“My Love had made me blind.

238

V

“What Cause, Sylvander, have I giv'n
“For Cruelty, so great?
“Yes—for your Sake, I slighted Heav'n,
“And hugg'd you into Hate.

VI

“For you, delighted, I cou'd die;
“But, oh! with Grief I'm fill'd:
“To think that credulous, constant I,
“Shou'd, by your Scorn, be kill'd.

VII

“But what avail my sad Complaints,
“While you my Case neglect!
“My wailing inward Sorrow vents,
“Without the wish'd Effect.

This said—all breathless, sick, and pale,
Her Head upon her Hand;

239

She found her vital Spirits fail,
And Senses at a stand.

Sylvander, then, began to melt—
But, ere the Word was given,
The heavy Hand of Death she felt,
And sigh'd her Soul to Heav'n.

240

CORYDON's Complaint.

I

As Love-Sick Corydon beside
A murmuring Riv'let lay,
Thus plain'd he his Cosmelia's Pride,
And, plaining, dy'd away.

II

“Fair Stream (he said) whene'er you pour
“Your Treasure, in the Sea,
“To Sea-Nymphs tell what I endure:
“Perhaps they'll pity me!

241

II

“And, sitting on the cliffy Rocks,
“In melting Songs, express
“(While as they comb their golden Locks)
“To Trav'llers my Distress.

III

“Say, Corydon, an honest Swain!
“The fair Cosmelia lov'd,
“While she, with undeserv'd Disdain,
“His constant Torture prov'd.

IV

“Ne'er Shepherd lov'd a Shepherdess
“More faithfully than He:
“Ne'er Shepherd yet regarded less
“Of Shepherdess cou'd be.

242

V

“How oft to Vallies, and to Hills,
“Did He, alas! complain!
“How oft re-echo'd they his Ills,
“And seem'd to share his Pain!

VI

“How oft, on Banks of stately Trees,
“And on the tufted Greens,
“Ingrav'd He Tales of his Disease,
“And what his Soul sustains!

VII

“Yet fruitless all his Sorrows prov'd,
“And fruitless all his Art!
“She scorn'd the more, the more he lov'd,
“And broke, at last, his Heart.

243

THE MONKEY.

A FABLE.

[_]

From the French.

A Monkey, a malignant Creature!
Whose Age improv'd his wicked Nature!
At length resign'd his canker'd Breath
And Being, to the Arms of Death.
But long he had not lodg'd in Hell,
(The Company he lik'd not well)

244

Till Pluto was address'd by Pray'r,
To send him back to native Air.
The gloomy God good-humour'd was,
And thought to make him Soul an Ass:
A Punishment esteem'd most fit,
For former Tricks of wicked Wit.
The Monkey shook his ghostly Head,
And said, He'd rather e'en be dead.
An Ass's Body was all one,
As if he shou'd inform a Stone.
Pluto, at last, well pleas'd to see
His Tricks, to win his Liberty,
Consented, smiling, that he shou'd
Take any other Shape he wou'd.
“I thank your Godship—You, with Ease,
“Can make me Parrot, if you please:

245

“For, in that Likeness, I've a Plan,
“How I may prate, and talk, like Man.
“I acted like him once, and then
“I'll try to rival him again.
'Twas done—And, now a Parrot made,
He mimick'd every Thing was said:
He chatter'd on, from Morn to Night,
And yielded wonderful Delight:
A certain Woman, old, and grey,
Came to the Market Place, one Day;
And was so taken with the Bird,
It spoke so like her, every Word,
That soon she bought it, Cage and all,
And hung it up in her large Hall.
Nobly it far'd—And, in requital
Of the old Dotard's dainty Victual,

246

It play'd a Thousand Gambols, more
Than Parrots us'd to play before;
Exempli Gratia, mov'd its Head,
In antick Manner—Clamour made
With its new Bill—and odd Grimace
With Wings and Claws: In short it was
A Monkey, in a Parrot's Case.
Transported with the Bird, the Woman
Wou'd be at Home whole Days for no Man.
But every Hour, with Admiration,
Beheld that Pride of the Creation.
Her Spectacles, upon her Nose,
Were far more needful, than her Cloaths:
And it was all her Care and Grief,
That Age had made her Ears so deaf;
For Poll deliver'd many a Speech,
That never cou'd her Hearing reach.

247

At length, by too much Fondness, lost,
Our Parrot now began to boast,
Grow noisy, troublesome, and mad!
And drank, alas! some Liquor bad,
By which it dy'd—So down went Poll
With new Petitions for his Soul.
Pluto, observing, said, I will
At length this noisy Spirit still,
By making it inform a Fish,—
This suited not our Parrot's Wish!
So, playing some new Tricks again,
The God resolv'd to ease its Pain,
And let it e'en become a Man.
Yet fearing he shou'd give Offence,
Resolv'd it shou'd a Fool commence.

248

So in the Body of a Beau,
A talking, tedious, empty Show!
To Lying, Laughing, Bragging, us'd,
Was now the wandering Soul infus'd.
Hermes, a God profoundly wise,
Discover'd him in this Disguise,
“And art thou there (he, smiling, said)
“Thou senseless, trifling, useless, Shade,
“Of Monkey, and of Parrot made?
“Wert thou of Words, and Gestures, stript,
“How nobly wou'dst thou stand equipt?
“Wou'dst thou not wholly be unmann'd,
“If what thou dost not understand
“Were taken from Thee? For by Rote
“Is all thy ignorant Knowledge got!

249

“Gods! What a Man a Monkey makes!
“If, from him, one his Anticks takes?
“And yet how many Men there be,
“In whom we nought, but Monkey, see?
“A fashionable Coat, and Air,
“And Words, and Gestures, all his Care;
“Among the Vulgar, make an Ass
“For a most pretty Fellow pass!

250

A SONG.

I

Leave Kindred and Friends, sweet Lady,
Leave Kindred, and Friends, for me,
Assur'd, thy Servant is steddy
To Love, to Honour, and Thee.
The Gifts of Nature, and Fortune,
May fly, by Chance, as they came!
They are Grounds the Destinies sport on,
But Virtue is ever the same.

II

Altho' my Fancy were roving,
Thy Charms so heav'nly appear,
That other Beauties disproving,
I'd worship thine only, my Dear.

251

And, shou'd Life's Sorrows embitter
The Pleasure we promise our Loves,
To share them, together, is fitter,
Than moan, asunder, like Doves.

III

Oh! were I but once so blessed,
To grasp my Love in my Arms!
By Thee, to be grasp'd! and kissed!
And live on thy Heaven of Charms!
I'd laugh at Fortune's Caprices,
Shou'd Fortune capricious prove:
Tho' Death shou'd tear me to Pieces,
I'd die a Martyr to Love.

252

AN ODE ON Mr. W---r's Birth-Day, July 14.

I

The Day is come—Ye happy Few,
When friendly W---r invites,
To Principles of Love be true,
Nor bound the Tide of your Delights.

253

II

Hence, gloomy Thought, and anxious Care!
Be hush, black Scandal, Strife, and Noise!
May the dear Youth's succeeding Year
Be usher'd in, with lucky Joys.

III

With Pomp unusual, God of Light,
Go on, to grace th' auspicious Hours;
Nor shroud thy Beams in sable Night,
'Till Wine has made Elyzium ours.

VI

Boy, fill the Bowl—The Bowl alone
Can give a Sanction to the Day:
We need no other sacred Stone
To mark the Time, and make us gay.

254

V

I, who peculiar Interest boast,
Devote, at once, my Muse and Heart:
My Soul in W---'s is lost,
And his is grown the better Part.

VI

O may his Mind and Fame improve,
'Till hoary Honours grace his Head!
May Merit, now, procure him Love;
And eternize his Memory, dead.

255

TO Sir RICHARD STEELE;

On the successful Representation of his excellent Comedy, call'd, The CONSCIOUS LOVERS.

In ancient Times, before a Pulpit-Throne,
Or Preaching, was, at Rome and Athens, known,
Virtue and Wit, on Theatres, were bred,
And People follow'd, as the Poets led.
These publish'd nothing, but what Heav'n inspir'd,
And all their Dictates were, by Those, admir'd.

256

Heroes, whose Bravery bought immortal Fame,
Were deem'd a Second, and less sacred Name.

But Vice crept in, as Priestcraft got the Sway,
Down fell the Stage, and Poets went astray.
For several Ages, and, in every Land,
The Muse has drudg'd, beneath a Tyrant's Hand;
Old Sterling Wit been chang'd for mungrel Rhime,
And all the Drama turn'd into a Crime.
The tuneful Tribe, condemn'd to mean Regard,
Just Rules and Morals barter for Reward.
And so debauch'd the general Taste appears,
That all is damn'd, that native Beauty wears.

To mend the Manners of the madding Age,
And model new the Conduct of the Stage,

257

For vulgar Genii, is a Task too high;
A Task, that claims approv'd Authority!
'Tis yours, O Steele, in conscious Virtue bold,
To show the Drama, as it was of old;
To please the Eye; and practise on the Heart;
With Force of Reason, and the Flowers of Art!
Be this the Praise of your last, lov'd, Essay,
Where Wit and Honour all their Charms display;
The Stage is conquer'd to its first Intent,
Labour is Gain, and Pleasure innocent.
What Briton, now, will reckon Virtue dull?
Shall Morals more to sleep the Hearer lull?
No longer, Fops, make Ridicule of Truth,
Nor blush to grow politely sage, in Youth,
By Bevil's Conduct regulate your Life,
And make good Sense the Fashionable Strife.

258

And, ye, sow'r Criticks, to our Poet bow,
And bind the Laurel, on his sacred Brow;
In all he writes, superior Worth confess;
Detraction cannot make his Glory less.
The worthy Sage, whose publick Spirit long
Has stood Director of our Taste and Song;
Whose generous Labours, yet unrival'd, frame
Our Style and Manners, for his Country's Fame,
He will, in Spite of Envy, ever rise,
Belov'd of All, but Those, whom All despise.

259

VERSES ON THE DEATH of Mr. S---.

Address'd to his Friends.

------ Omnium
Versatur Urna ------
Hor.

He was my Friend—I lov'd, and lost, him too—
And shall not I lament, as much as you?
With Sighs and Tears you sanctify his Hearse;
To Sighs and Tears I superadd my Verse.
And, sure, if Spirits from their Flesh set free,
Know what is done on Earth, his Soul will see
And mark the Sorrows, which distinguish me.

260

To pay Him all my Love, and pay it so
As honest Debtors shou'd whate'er they owe,
Were to write Elegy with nobler Strain,
Than I, or Bards more skilful, can maintain.
Much might be said, did Grief but wear a Face
Of Woe; or were my Muse but Common-Place:
But Worth, like his, wou'd be debas'd by Art,
And Eloquence display an untouch'd Heart!

Yet who, that knew his Character and Life,
Allows not that my S--- detested Strife,
Falshood and Folly? And adorn'd his Youth
With manly Honour, Honesty, and Truth?
Where was sedate, unruffled Temper shown,
On all Occasions, perfect as his own?

261

When shall we see a Man so young, so stay'd?
Or where the social Virtues more display'd?
To others candid, constant to his Friend,
In censuring slow, unwilling to offend;
Humble and modest, kind, obliging, just,
Belov'd of all, and faithful to his Trust?
Who, that observ'd his Air, his Words, and Ways,
Will say my Muse bestows a borrow'd Praise?

But tho' his Virtues many Friends have made,
Who lov'd him living, and lament him dead,
What boots it now? One lawless Stream of Blood,
With Force revulsive, barr'd the vital Flood;
Swell'd o'er the Heart; and, in the fatal Strife,
Bore him at once from all the World and Life.

262

How various are the Arms of subtle Death?
What certain Means to stop precarious Breath?
The restless Foe in Paths unheeded treads,
And slow Disease and fierce Affliction spreads.
Thro' Sea and Land, in Peace and War, we go,
And Rest and Action try t'elude the Blow.
In vain we hope to shun th' imperious Pow'r,
Or bribe Him to suspend the destin'd Hour.

Mortals, be wise, and, ere it proves too late,
Wake from your Pleasures, and prepare for Fate:
S--- is no more! the very Thought affrights,
Hangs o'er my Hopes, and clouds my dash'd Delights.
Strong as he was, and healthy as the best,
How soon he fell! to hungry Worms a Guest!

263

Yet He, from Vices and from Follies free,
Had more to plead, and less to fear than we.
We may a while enjoy the transient Light—
With him, alas! 'tis ever, ever Night!

264

THE RECANTATION.

To a LADY.

Forgive, Aurelia, my audacious Muse,
That durst, in Tragic Scenes, your Sex abuse:
'Twas Paricide, I own, on any Ground,
With impious Satire, Female Fame to wound.
Who dares deny your Sex the better Birth?
For you of Man were made, as Man of Earth.
When you were form'd, Creation first had rest!
A Sign, th' Almighty thought your Make the best
Of all his Labours! Beast shou'd Homage do
To Sov'reign Man; but Man should bend to You:
Worship is every Woman's rightful Due.

265

If we survey your outward Frame, how fair!
How soft! how glorious! what a Heav'n is There!
Nor are our Souls more excellent than yours?
Souls know no Sexes! boast their common Pow'rs!
Have we more Knowledge? No, it cannot be;
Ye first were knowing! first attack'd the Tree!
And, sure, the Wise, the Pious, and the Strong,
Must own the Conquests of your Eyes, and Tongue:
Let but a Lip, a Hand, dispute the Field—
What Stoick stands unmov'd? what Cynick does not yield?

No more, Aurelia, shall my Muse rebel;
No more deny your Sex does most excell.
What Hand profane a Hag for Venus paints?
And who, but Atheists, rail against the Saints?
What Fools are Men in Pedigree of Names,
To chuse the Father's, while the Mother's claims

266

The first Regard? Hers is more honour'd Blood,
Wou'd fix our Heraldry, and make out Generation good.

Happy the Swain, whose Passion you shall crown;
Who, join'd to you, may call the Sex his own;
For, sure, the whole Perfections of the Fair
Meet in your Mind, and shine unsullied There.

267

VERSES TO A Gentleman who was charm'd with OPHELIA's Person.

'Tis true, she's fair and lovely to the view—
What more cou'd rival Art and Nature do?
I wonder not, you're conquer'd by her Charms,
And covet my Elysium in her Arms—
But did you see her Beauties with my Eyes,
Were but your Love like mine, with what Surprize,
What warm Desires you'd gaze away your Pow'rs,
And think the World well lost to have her Yours.

268

Fancy, my Friend, in Love Affairs prevails:
Beauties are made by it, when Nature fails.
The Fair looks fairer, that our Fancy strikes,
And Charms o'er spread the Ugly, whom it likes.
Were my Ophelia hateful to the Sight,
Approv'd by Fancy, she'd be all Delight.

But I nor to the Eye, nor Fancy, yield—
Victorious Vertues bear me from the Field.
Judgment and Reason, Governors of Life,
Determin'd me to make Ophelia Wife.
They shew'd me first the Beauties of her Mind,
Beauties! whose least adds Grace to Womankind;
These, these, my Friend, are lasting as the Soul,
That Time and Trouble never can controul:

269

Tho' all her Roses, and her Lillies, fade,
Tho' Flesh decay, and Life were turn'd to Shade,
The noble, hidden, Riches wou'd endure,
Furnish fresh Charms, and fix my Love secure.

Had you, my Friend, a Perspective so clear,
And cou'd you thus behold my darling Fair,
How soon you'd quit the Prospect of her Face,
And, with new Wonder, on her Vertues gaze!
Vertues! that wou'd constrain you to confess,
That I had Cause to court this Happiness:
And teach you Skill among her Sex to find
An Object fair, made fairer by her Mind.

270

TO OPHELIA,

In Tears for the Decay of her Beauties.

Life of Loveliness! forbear;
Sighs and Plaints I cannot hear.
Tell me not thou'rt past thy Prime—
Tax not Nature, Fate, and Time—
Beauties, that did first subdue,
Hold my Heart for ever true.
In Thee, still I find the Charms
That allur'd me to thy Arms.

271

Raptur'd still I view thy Face,
Stock'd with ev'ry Virgin Grace.
Lively Sweetness! temper'd Fire!
Lasting Spring of chaste Desire!
In thine Eyes the very Flame!
Roses on thy Cheek the same?
On thy Chin th' unsullied Snow!
Gentle Majesty thy Brow!
Fresh the Teeth! and fine the Hair!
Lips, the lovely Twins they were!
Voice with heav'nly Musick fraught!
Shape and Air without a Fault!
Every Limb and every Feature
Perfect, as thy Sense and Nature!
Sprightly, generous, and free,
Just to All, and True to Me!

272

Modest, innocent, and kind!
Charming Person! noble Mind!
All my Wealth, and Paradise!
Cheer thy Heart, and dry thy Eyes.

273

THE REVENGE, TO MARIANA.

Et Longum Formosa vale ------
Virg.

What means my Mariana now?
What makes her so tyrannic grow?
Why, on a sudden, turn'd so wild,
So cruel, who was late so mild,
So tender, gentle, loving, kind?
Ah! tell me, hast thou chang'd thy Mind?

274

I fear, I fear, 'twas my own Fault,
That this Conversion in Thee wrought!
It was my Superstition made
Thee first a Goddess, of a Shade!
My Fancy gave Thee all the Charms,
Which now against me rise in Arms!
So have I known a King oppress
The Men, who sav'd him from Distress;
So have I seen a Snake at Strife
With him, who warm'd it into Life.

But was't for this Return, my Fair,
I form'd, of Cupid's Nets, thy Hair?
For this, did I, to paint Thee gay,
Bring Whiteness from the milky Way?
From Eastern Spices steal the Scent,
And rob the Flow'rs, for Ornament?

275

Plunder the Stars, t'inspire thy Eyes?
The Spheres, to tune thy Tongue and Voice?
The Snow, to make thy Forehead shine?
Love's Bows, to make thy Brows divine?
What Fool was I, that did create,
And give Thee Pow'r to speak my Fate!
How cruel Thou, and how ingrate?

Yet, since I find my Life at stake,
And I, that made thee, can unmake;
Since thus thou hast thy Arms employ'd,
And me, their Giver, nigh destroy'd;
Restore, restore them back again:
Thy Cruelty has broke my Chain.
I see thy natural Shape and Face,
And blush to have bestow'd such Grace.

276

My Fancy owns its Errors now,
And humbly does to Reason bow.
No more, a Goddess, shalt thou rule;
No more, a Slave, I'll play the Fool.
Hence, fond Love, Delusion hence,
For I've regain'd my Self and Sense.

Ha! Mariana! what's become
Of th' Arms, that threaten'd late my Doom?
Where's now thy Pride? Thy Rigour, where?
Methinks thy Looks are less severe.
No borrow'd Charms thy Face adorn;
Thy Person I begin to scorn,
And act the Tyrant, in my Turn.

277

Two Questions answer'd by Two Ladies at a Ball, Versified.

Say, charming Charlotte, (for there's not a Beau,
In this select Assembly, but you know)
Have you seen C--- of uncommon Fame?
“Not seen, but smelt, and that is much the same.

ENCORE.

Dear Lucy, say, if I should C--- see,
By what sure Token shall I know 'tis He?
“Consult your Smell (she answer'd) for the Nose
“Can best discern Him, in a Crowd of Beaus.

278

TO Mr. THOMSON, The Author of WINTER.

When, from the Schools of famous Painters brought,
A Picture, at prodigious Price, is bought,
And hung in some great Virtuoso's Hall,
The Talk, the Wonder, and the Praise of All!
Crowds flock to see it, and transported stand
In silent Rev'rence of the Master's Hand:

279

The Sight receives new Pleasure, as they gaze,
And ev'ry Image swells the Soul's Amaze;
Ravish'd Reflection naked Nature views,
And fixes all the Traces it pursues.

Nor is the Reader's Satisfaction less,
From just Descriptions, in Poetic Dress:
They dwell with Pleasure on the conscious Mind,
And animate the dullest of Mankind.

What Praise, my Friend, belongs not then to Thee?
How venerable ought thy Muse to be?
A Muse! that sets thy Objects full in View,
And leads our Thoughts to wise Reflections too.

Who reads this Work calls Winter back again,
And views its bleak, uncomfortable, Reign;

280

Its dreary Scenes, and Forces strong and fierce,
All realiz'd in thy descriptive Verse!
Sees how th' Almighty his Artillery forms!
And opes his cloudy Magazine of Storms!
How broad and thick descend the Sheets of Snow,
And whiten Hills, and Woods, and Vales below!
How Streams dissolve the Fleeces, as they fall,
The circling Seas alone absorbing all!
How Winds are still'd, and Skies are lull'd asleep!
How they embroil the Air, and hurricane the Deep!

Methinks, alone in my Musæum pent,
I, by thy Verse, the Season represent!
Here, Hail thick batt'ring! There, rais'd Rivers roll!
Now, civil Wars rage loud from Pole to Pole!
Again, 'tis calm! now, Earth, disguis'd, is seen
One snowy Waste! the Sea, an icy Green!

281

The Streams, unbound, and broke in Cakes, again
Tumble, tremendous to the troubled Main!
And, now, the Ships, late chain'd in solid Waves,
Defying Storms, each boistrous Billow braves:
By Hurricanes, they're dash'd against the Shore,
Or, whelm'd, by dreadful Surges, rise no more!
Sudden, a lovely Dress adorns the Year—
The Hills and Plains new-spangled Glories wear!
Gay Pearls and Rubies deck the prickly Thorn!
And Fens and Marshes shine with glassy Corn!
The Groves, glaz'd over, glitter in the Sun!
The timorous Hares from rattling Stubble run!
The frighted Birds the brittle Branches fly!
And crackling Shrubs the hungry Herds supply!
The Stag, in Ice, its crystal'd Front admires!
And Clowns crowd close around carouzing Fires!

282

Social, and just, and innocent they sit,
And Honesty atones for want of Wit;
While the lewd Letcher wallows, like the Swine,
And Drunkards drown their sober Sense in Wine.
But, now, the Winds thro' hazy Skies, in haste
Break horrible, and shake the dazzling Waste;
Sudden, impetuous, pours the treasur'd Rain,
Melts down the hoary Hills, and mires the delug'd Plain.
The Traveller, wet and weary on the Road,
Drags his stiff Limbs, and seeks a dry Abode.

Prodigious Pow'r of Poetry to warm
Or chill, the Blood! compose it, or alarm!
To set the World and Nature's Works in Light!
And moralize their various Scenes aright!

283

Thomson, if, with such Energy and Ease,
Thou sing'st, proceed—thou can'st not fail to please.
Nor stoop to Rhime—a Muse, so strong and bold,
By servile Fetters, scorns to be controul'd.
I greet thy Genius well, invite Thee forth,
And first present to publick View thy Worth.
I prophesy'd of Thee; nor blush to own
The Joy I feel, in making Thomson known.
Thy first Attempts, to me, a Promise made:
That Promise is, by this Performance, paid.
If such Perfection crowns thy Muse so soon,
What Virtues will not glorify her Noon?

284

A Sunday EPISTLE TO CREW OFFLY, Esq;

ON THE Lamented Death of his LADY.

Tu semper urges flebilibus modis
Sponsam ademptam: nec tibi vespero
Surgente decedunt Amores,
Nec rapidum fugiente Solem.
------ Desine mollium
Tandem Querelarum ------
Omnes eôdem cogimur ------
Hor.

Is Offly widow'd? Mourns the Muses' Friend?
And shall no sympathizing Poet send
The Tribute of Condolence? May not I,
With pious Sorrow, and a weeping Eye,

285

Amidst Prosaic Crowds of Mourners press,
To shew my Sense of Offly's great Distress?
In such a Cause, officious let me be:
Forbid me not to grieve—for 'tis with Thee.

Yet, not to increase thy Suff'ring, and thy Woe,
My artless Elegiac Numbers flow.
—That were to turn my Piety to Sin,
And, like Job's Friends, th' Afflicted's Censure win.
Nor wou'd I bid Thee give thy Sorrows o'er,
And cease to mind so lov'd a Consort more.
—Not to lament the Loss of one, so good,
So young, so fair, were barbarous and rude.
The Best of Friends, and Mothers too! the Thought
Makes Virtue stagger, and ev'n Reason nought.

286

Nature, in spite of Philosophic Rules,
Unmans the Brave, and proves the wisest Fools.
All, undistinguish'd, in Distress, complain:
Humanity wou'd seem untouch'd, in vain.
Who, that are wretched, can, unconscious, live?
And take the Counsel they, untroubled, give?
Sorrow, like Love, for Reason waxes strong,
And tyrannizes, where it reigns too long.

Offly, thy Loss demands a nat'ral Grief;
But bars Thee not from Comfort and Relief.
Immod'rate Sorrow may thy Life consume:
But not revoke inexorable Doom,
Nor bring thy destin'd Charmer from the Tomb.
And, sure, if Souls departed know what's done
By Kindred Mortals, Offly's ev'ry Groan

287

And Tear must break, unwelcome, on her Rest,
And rob her of the Heav'n she's now possest.
Let Those, whose Love and Faith were doubted, gain
Belief, by Shews of Sorrow, which they feign,
You, whose whole Life, in ev'ry Act, is crown'd,
Are not to superstitious Custom bound.
Rather, a Widower now, of Wisdom prove
The Pattern; as, a Husband late, of Love.
Indulgent Heav'n has bless'd your Marriage Bed,
Nor, with your Consort, is your Comfort fled.
Behold the Pledges of your mutual Joys!
Delighted, trace their Mother in her Boys:
With wise Submission, wait the Sov'reign Will,
Improve good Fortune, and endure your ill.

And, Thou, lamented, sacred, Dust, remain
Untroubled, till thy Beauties spring again:

288

Soft be thy Sleep, till the last Morn appears—
And, ye, her lov'd Relations, dry your Tears,
And make that Use of her mourn'd Funeral,
As of a Crystal, broken by a Fall,
Whose several Pieces, gather'd up, and set,
May lesser Mirrors for her Sex beget.
There let Them view Themselves, until they see
What End of all their Glories soon will be,
And wish they had such Qualities, as she.

Time flies apace, and Life is full of Woes,
A Torch puft out by ev'ry Wind that blows!
Matter for Sighs we find with our first Breath,
And but draw Air to render back to Death.
The Lucky may enjoy short-liv'd Delight:
But Grief is Man's Hereditary Right.

289

Hence the old Thracian Sages us'd to mourn
When Children were, with Cries and Torment, born;
But, at their Death, believ'd them truly blest,
Because the Fates had laid them then to rest.

Offly, ere long we, too, must Trophies fall
To that victorious Conqueror of All!
But shall we say the Victor's not our Friend,
That, with our Lives, put Sorrows to an End?
Trust me, the Spring that trickles from our Eyes
Is natural—but, as we die, it dries.
One friendly Stroke will wipe away our Tears,
And prove that all our Mis'ry flows from Fears.

Job complains of his Friends in these Words, “Ye are miserable Comforters unto me, and Physicians of no Value.”

290

TO Mr. A--- D---,

On seeing a Specimen of his POETRY.

As, when, thro' barren Wilds of trackless Sand,
Th' eternal Curse of hot Arabian Land!
The wandering, weary, breathless Traveller goes,
Nor where to meet with wish'd Refreshment knows;
Till, sudden, rising, in his dubious Way,
A cooling Stream, whose clear Meanders play
Thro' Sunburnt Banks, and brighten up the Day,

291

Sweetly surpriz'd, to find a Blessing plac'd,
In that forlorn, inhospitable, Waste,
Prostrate, he lays his Lifeless Limbs supine,
And, grateful to its Origin Divine,
Luxuriant feasts, and calls the Water Wine.
So I, dear D---, long distress'd to find
Our Native Scotia to the Muse unkind;
Pain'd to survey such Multitudes of Men,
Without the Compass of Apollo's Ken;
At each Discovery of a Bard I make,
The utmost Pleasure, Life can yield, partake.
With the old Hebrew Sage, I wish Mankind
Were Prophets all—to Poetry inclin'd;
For I'd not have them Priests, of a Prosaic Mind.

How great, how welcome, was my late Surprise,
When your Essays saluted first my Eyes?

292

How blest to meet, where Poets are so few,
A Kindred Mind! a second D--- too!
Be this thy Praise; for I can praise no more:
A D--- is, at least, worth half a Score.
O may you, like the first immortal Name,
Break thro' hard Fate, and raise an equal Fame;
While I, who, singly, long have serv'd the Muse,
In that Poetic Province most refuse;
Proud of your Friendship, studious of your Aid,
Record, with double Zeal, the Dictates of the Maid.

Oft, as I forward dart a curious Eye
Into the Depths of dark Futurity,
With fond Delight, I comprehend the Time
When Scotia's Sons shall rise in deathless Rhime;
When Phœbus, who affords it longest Days,
Shall crown us too with everlasting Bays.

293

I see, Prophetic, Crowds of Bards inspir'd,
Their Country's Glory! by the World admir'd!
No more a Poet rising now and then,
As in dull Realms where Nature grudges Men;
But new Buchanans every where abound,
And Caledonia rival holy Ground.
Again our Thule shall Distinction boast,
And Bards, like Stars, shine brighter by the Frost.

Assist, dear Youth, in this great Cause of Wit,
And high among your Country's Patriots sit.
Produce the Fires, that in your Bosom dwell:
You need but write, to shew you can excel.

294

TO THE Right Honourable ---

Who said, I was rude to Him.

Just as a Dog, with fond Caresses,
His eager Fawnings, frequent Kisses,
Bedirteth most the Man he loves;
It, every Day, in Friendship proves:
For I no more can pass a Day
Without your Company, than Tray
His Gambols can forbear to play.
Now, when, by such a Simile,
I state the Case 'twixt you and me,

295

You cannot call me sawcy Rogue,
Since you're the Man, and I the Dog.
Still act the Man, in your Behaviour;
And on me, lavish out your Favour!
Tho' I, poor Dog! perhaps uncivil!
Decorum spoil, and play the Devil.

296

VERSES ON A Friend's MARRIAGE.

The mortal Man (said Master Flaccus)
Was bold as Mars, or drunk as Bacchus,
Who, first, an Oar or Sculler ply'd,
And forc'd his Wealth, thro' Wind and Tide.

Britannia's Monarch, James yclypt,
Who Peace and Puns religious kept,
Pronounc'd him holder still, who durst
Venture to eat an Oyster first.

297

A certain Sage, and Friend of mine,
(For all his Gown, and Air, divine)
Declares the Man out-brav'd by no Man,
Who beds a lusty, rampant, Woman.
Nor is it his peculiar Creed—
St. Paul first put it in his Head.
Were I to mention my Opinion,
I'd prove my self the Doctor's Minion,
And frankly own my good Friend C---'s
Bolder than any Rake, that rambles;
Forasmuch-as a Clap, or Pox,
May put an End to Rover's Jokes:
But he, (which you will call a hard Case)
In Marriage ventur'd twice his Carcase—
First, while unripe and under Age,
A wanton Widow did engage;

298

And, having worn out half his Mettle,
And known what 'tis to Wive and settle,
Had Courage to defy his Doom,
In the Arms of one, of Virgin Bloom.
Herculean Labours both, you'll say, Sir!
Yet he's alive unto this Day, Sir!
Mayst thou, O Venus, Queen of Love!
Propitious to thy Champion prove;
And his Atchievements, long renown'd,
With Offspring fair, and brave, be crown'd;
An Offspring worthy of their Birth,
Worthy their Name, and native Earth!

299

TO A Right Honourable Grumbletonian.

Whilom, a Fox, a-cross a crystal Stream
Was swimming, and, when to the Bank he came,
Found it too steep and slippery to ascend.
He climb'd, he leap'd, but could not gain his End:
Nor this the whole Misfortune of his Life—
For, labouring thus with uneffectual Strife,
Behold a hideous Form of bloody Flies,
Settling, attack'd and stung his Ears and Eyes.

300

An Hedg-hog, standing near the fatal Place,
Observ'd and pity'd Reynard's doleful Case.
“Brother, if I not help you out with Ease,
“At least, these Insects that molest and teaze,
“Shall by some Ways and Means of mine retire—.
I thank you, Sir, 'tis more than I require.
Let my good Neighbours, quarter'd here, alone:
Their Bellies fill'd, they'll Volunteer be gone:
But, were they driven by Violence away,
Another Swarm, more terrible than they,
Wou'd take their Places, with an Onset rude,
And drain my Body of each Drop of Blood.

Thus, when the Samians held a close Debate,
And wou'd depose their Minister of State,
Sage Æsop spoke, (as Aristotle says)
And sav'd the mighty W---e of those Days.

301

“Ye Men of Samos, like the Fox, be wise,
“Who us'd no Violence to the bloody Flies.
“Your Demagogue for Avarice is try'd—
“That He's prodigious rich is not deny'd.
“Now, think, when he has got sufficient Store,
“He'll have no Need to plunder you for more.
“But, if ye shou'd condemn the Man to die,
“Some needy Person will of course supply
“His envied Place; and, in his Turn, create,
“By Ways and Means, another such Estate.

O P--- this important Fable weigh,
Apply the Moral, and impartial say,
You'd yet be W---'s Friend, so you might squeeze
Our Remainder of Property, with Ease.

302

But the instructed Britons, cautious grown,
Will trust no craving Candidates unknown.
Our present Flies will soon have suckt their Fill,
Then Gratis serve, and keep their Places still.

303

EPITAPH

For the Tomb of a MISER, who bilk'd his Relations for the Fame of building an Hospital.

Stop, Passenger—but shed no Tear—
A Miser's Corps is buried here,
Who bilk'd his Friends, and pinch'd himself,
To heap for Strangers Sums of Pelf.
He hop'd a Piety, so odd,
Wou'd recommend his Soul to God,
And make the Name, that stunk alive,
For ever savoury survive.
To say he's damn'd were not so fit:
But who thinks not the Biter bit?

304

CATHOLICK BRASS; OR, THE Power of Impudence:

A POEM.

Thy Pow'r, O brazen Impudence, I sing:
My Muse, audacious, stretch a steddy Wing,
To topmost Point of tow'ring Fame aspire,
As bold Prometheus rap'd the heav'nly Fire.

I feel, I feel the Catholick Virtue rise!
I dare, I soar above incumbent Skies!

305

With Forehead proud, I scale the blest Abodes,
And rush, undaunted, midst immortal Gods!
Lo! at Jove's Table, I presume to sit,
And claim, unblushing, the Reward of Wit!
Round with the Nectar, ye cogenial Powers,
We only live—for Happiness is ours.
Thus high exalted o'er the vulgar Throng,
I challenge great Apollo's self, in Song!
Thou Hermes, God of Eloquence and Lays,
Resign thy bold Pretensions to the Bays.
Superior Virtues claim the foremost Place,
And I bear strong Credentials in my Face.

Hence, ye prophane, ye modest, bashful, Fools,
Ye Soul-less Sinners, ty'd to civil Rules—
Glory and Fortune were not made for you!
Ill are they relish'd, by an abject Crew.

306

Grovel on Earth, from which your Beings came,
'Tis Catholick Brass, that makes its Way to Fame.

O Godlike Energy, that crowns Mankind!
In which, alone, we Inspiration find!
By whose sole Influence, Men appear divine!
What lordly Crowds, beneath thy Banners shine?
How shall I praise thy Usefulness, and Worth?
Invigorate me, to shew thy Virtues forth.

Rude was the World, till brave Ambition sprung,
And Impudence inspir'd the talking Tongue.
Men dully loll'd in Ignorance and Ease,
And sought Contentment in unactive Peace.
All were alike distinguish'd in the Crowd,
And inborn Merit mop'd beneath a Cloud.

307

But, when they learnt Assurance to aspire,
Their frozen Spirits felt enlivening Fire.
Sudden each daring Genius forward prest,
And strove to shine conspicuous o'er the Rest.
Then Arts and Sciences began their Shine!
Thou, Brass, wast their Original Divine.

Zealots of humble, sneaking, sheepish, Thought!
Awake, and view the Wonders it has wrought.
What Miracles in Human Life are shown,
That owe their Birth to Impudence alone!
The Court, the Camp, the Church, the Bar, survey,
And mark, in each, the Powerful and the Gay;
Think how they first to high Preferment rose,
What first made strutting Heroes, Bishops, Beaus?
What Places, Pensions, Titles, and Renown,
Beneath auspicious Impudence have grown?

308

How have its Heirs from humblest Stations sprung,
And to the Top of Fortune's Grandeur clung?
Brass, Catholick Brass, the fair Distinctions gave,
Polish'd the Clown, and spirited the Brave.

What glorious Actions are, by Brass, inspir'd?
Ye Sons of Mars, what else your Conduct fir'd?
What made the deathless Alexander great?
And what thy Conquests, Cæsar, so compleat?
Thou, Cromwell, thou its Excellency know'st,
Thy strange Success to Impudence thou ow'st!
And what, O Persian Rebel, now supports
Thy daring Soul, and awes the neighbouring Courts?

Turn we our Eyes amid the reasoning Herd,
For sage Orations thro' the World rever'd,

309

Say, To what Source shall we their Virtues trace?
Brass'd were alike their Genius, Pen, and Face!
To Brass the great Demosthenes we owe!
From Brass did Tully's pow'rful Rhetorick flow!

What moving Sermons from the Pulpit drop?
What Folio's fill the Bibliopola's Shop?
Alike inspir'd—'twas Brass, that sent 'em forth,
Possest, or not, with true intrinsick Worth.
Sage Austin, Origen, Aquinas, Scot,
Ambrose and Gregory, were, on Brass, begot.
To Brass, the modern Hammond, Eachard, Mead,
Burnet, and Bentley, owe their being read.
Thou, Atterbury, thou Sacheverell, know'st
How much to holy Impudence thou ow'st.
'Twas that, which gave your Schemes and Conduct Birth,
And stock'd with rev'rend Lumber, half the Earth.

310

But, if a perfect Character there be,
Consider Henley, and confess 'tis He!
In his egregious Conduct, Face, and Mind,
Antient and Modern Impudence are join'd!
Not thine, O Keyber, brazen-fronted Bard,
Can be with Henley's Virtues once compar'd!
Nor thine, O Curll, of infamous Renown,
The Bane and Scandal of the credulous Town!

From Personages solemn, let us pass,
And view what Service Love has had of Brass.
Coquets, and Prudes, by That, have oft been won,
And Ladies, lock'd up from the Sight of Sun.
When Sighs, and Prayers, and conquering Money, fail,
The Arts of pow'rful Impudence prevail.
O blest Hibernia! Source of dear Delights!
Whose Sons are doubly arm'd, for fierce venereal Fights.

311

Survey the Court—But, Muse, thy Labour spare—
A Modest Man is deem'd a Monster there!
—As in a Market, There 'tis bought and sold,
And Brass meets Brass, as Gods met Gods, of old.
The Statesman, Soldier, Lawyer, Priest, and Whore,
Alike thy Aid, O Impudence, implore.
All jostle in the Crowd, and forward press,
And factious Parties this one Aim confess.

Gods! how accomplish'd looks the Man, who dares
Push home, and shew the Talents, that he wears!
How a convenient Stock deludes the Wise,
And makes 'em look on Fools with friendly Eyes!
How Men, are reckon'd learn'd, who nothing know!
How want of Sense is veil'd by pompous Show!
A very Bankrupt, by the Aid of Brass,
Preserves his Credit, and is sure to pass.

312

Who wishes not, to have a moderate Share?
O had I sooner thought it worth my Care!

A Slave to dastard Modesty, too long,
I sacrific'd my Time, my Sense, and Song.
From Me, young Men, your proper Interest learn;
I write experienc'd, and the World forewarn.
Go boldly on, nor spend dull Time in Thought;
Thinking, and Breeding, now, avail but nought!
Wou'd you be Wise, Great, Rich, and reckon'd so?
Be Impudent, no better Means I know.
A Fool may hope to be a Peer by Brass;
And every Day the Cassock cloaths the Ass.

Man's great Concern in Living, is, to live,
(Ye Sons of Levi, if I err, forgive)

313

And, to live well, 'tis Prudence to acquire
Whate'er contributes, to promote us high'r.
All human Souls ambitious are to rise,
And Impudence bids fairest for the Prize.

314

ET CÆTERA.

A PANEGYRICK. Address'd to Dr. SWIFT.

Seria mixta Jocis.

Et Cætera, thou glorious Trifle! how
Shall I the Fame, thou well deserv'st, bestow?
In vain wou'd Art thy Excellency raise,
And Fancy's self is non-plus'd in thy Praise.
Yet will my Muse attempt a daring Flight,
To shew my Zeal, tho' not describe Thee right.

315

Aid me, O Swift; and to the latest Times,
To your bright Genius sacred be the Rhimes.

Et Cætera, when had thy Being Birth?
Or wert thou form'd before the finish'd Earth?
Hadst Thou a Maker? or, at God's first Word,
Didst thou not start up, on thy own accord?
Yes—for when Light, the first Day's Labour! sprung,
Thy Being slily to its Being clung.
The Heav'ns and Earth, that just began to be,
Were all Et Cætera, and contain'd in Thee.

Why then, ye Sages, is it boldly said,
That out of Nothing, every Thing was made?
Et Cætera a Non-ens do ye make?
I say, with Reverence, 'tis a dull Mistake;

316

For all Things, in Et Cætera's Bosom, lay,
From the great First, unto the Final, Day.
Now, cou'd a Nothing Crowds of Something hold?
Without a Mine, can there be Veins of Gold?
Or, to speak plainer to your common Sense,
(And then my Thesis will need no Defence)
Did not your selves originally come,
Each of you, from your proper Mother's Womb?
And was that Womb no more than empty Space?
—Ye see, learn'd Sirs, it is a puzzling Case!
And so I leave it as I found it first;
Determine ye whose Notion is the worst.
For Me, I'd rather to your Terms submit,
Than cross my Muse, for deep Disputes unfit!
Take ye the Judgment, and give me the Wit.
Hard Words, to which I've no Ideas got,
Like Hasty-Pudding, harbour in my Throat.

317

Alike, dull Food and Learning suit with Me!
My Stomach turns at all, that is not free.

But to return, before I run too far,
(For Episodes a clear Connection marr,
And I shou'd be asham'd, to have it said,
A roving Muse betrays a roving Head)
My Task is next, on that Foundation Stone,
(I mean my foresaid Problem) to go on,
And sing how, of all mortal Beings, We
Authors of Books oblig'd t'Et Cætera be.

And here, my Muse, a spacious Field survey!
In spite of Rules, and Dennis self, display
A Scene of Fancy, whimsical and gay:
Make Dedicators chiefly know the Debt
They owe Et Cætera, lest they shou'd forget.

318

How oft by It, important Word! with Ease,
Do begging Scriblers find the Way to please?
When to a Lord, or honourable Knight,
They mean (unknowing what is fit) to write—
If ignorant of his Honours, Titles, Places—
One right Et Cætera can preserve his Graces.
Shou'd they not Virtues, in their Patrons, find;
Or be they not, t'enumerate each, inclin'd,
From Common-Place, an Author's needful Bank!
Let them pick one—Et Cætera fills the Blank.

Then, by the Way, ye great Ones, learn to know
How much ye to Et Cætera's Bounty owe.
Entreat him kindly, when ye chance to read,
And, when he means well, trust him as your Creed:
Believe, he lyes not, when he makes you Great,
Or Good, or Learn'd, or of a large Estate:

319

Nor be unmindful to reward the Pen,
That put him there, to make you famous Men.

But Authors, keen on Mischief, and on Blood,
Oft make Et Cætera quit a Cause, that's good,
To war on Satire's and on Slander's Side—
Alas! too oft its Force is thus apply'd!
Reveals he Faults, or does he vent a Curse,
Et Cætera can make it ten times worse.
As for Example, “Sir, the other Day,
“You call'd me Villain, Rogue, Et Cætera:
I (to be ev'n) the Art of Slandering try'd,
And, in your Face, “You Knave, Et Cætera, cry'd.

Hence, O ye Mortals, learn a moral Use—
Never Et Cætera's Honesty abuse:

320

He means no Ill—but oft, alas! betray'd,
He stands, where Sampson's self might be afraid.
Another Moral does my Doctrine teach,
To keep from an enrag'd Et Cætera's Reach.
Is he, when Reason bids him reprehend,
Or to be blam'd, or reckon'd not a Friend?
Your Business, Sirs, is so to speak and do,
That black Et Cætera's may not strike at you.

Say next, my Muse, how useful is his Aid,
Where Words are wanting, either to persuade,
Or reprobate, enlarge, or reprehend,
Elude, confute, exaggerate, defend.
O how he serves, to grace a Title Page!
Commend the Sale! and Reader's Heart engage!
'Tis true, he's often forc'd, alas! to stand,
And skreen the Ignorance of a Point in Hand.

321

The very Pulpit Business for him finds:
He drudges most, to humour lazy Minds!
When Priests forget their Doctrine, or a Text,
Et Cætera passes for what should be next:
A Refuge ready to the most perplex'd!
In this, all Authors, but the Poets, sin;—
They, Men of Conscience! rarely fill a Line
With an Et Cætera—tho' we must confess,
When Reason's wanting, Rhime is little less.

Et Cætera! thou useful, busied, Thing!
Enough I cannot, in thy Praises, sing:
Yet must I stop, for want of Words, to say
How much I am thy Friend, Et Cætera.

322

THE PATRIOT.

When publick Debts make publick Taxes rise,
And threaten'd War demands enlarg'd Supplies,
Wilt Thou, O W--- for one Year, assign,
To sinking Funds those Perquisites of thine?
N---, T---, to be truly Great,
Say, Will ye serve, unhir'd, the British State?
Wilt thou, A---, as ancient Heroes fought,
Court glorious Wounds, and lead our Arms for Nought?
Or, wou'd ye, Ch--- and P---, boast
More generous Conduct, did ye rule the Roast?

323

Wou'd R---, C---, and L---, glow
With nobler Flame, and greater Virtue show?
O---, and M---, and St---, once were in---
Wou'd they not be what they've already been?
And who expects to find a Patriot true,
In faithless W---, and a perjur'd Crew?

Ah! where's our boasted national Regard?
Who looks on Virtue as its own Reward?
Where is the Briton, who, with generous Heart,
Will keep his Place—but with its Profits part?
To ease the Publick, where, O where's the Man,
Who lives on just as little as he can?
Will serve the King and Country with his Blood?
And lose his All to gain the common Good?

324

Of Greeks and Romans, but remains the Name!
And shall the World be robb'd of British Fame?
The present Age extinguish ancient Fire?
And publick Zeal and Liberty expire?
Ah! must the Tale in future Times be told?
And Sons, unborn, their Fathers Shame behold?
Shall Strangers see the British Annals fill'd
With Names, more odious than a B---t, or Wild?

At length, awake; and, with united Zeal,
Assert the Interests of the publick Weal:
Be brave in Arms—but at the least Expence;
Nor think it Hardship, in your Land's Defence.
And ye, who want not Means enough to live,
Salaries and Pensions to the Publick give:

325

What glorious Patriots will the Britons be,
Who, like their Sires, unsordid, brave, and free,
Superfluous Wealth and Luxury cashier,
To aid the sinking Fund, and set the Nation clear!

Vain Wish! vain Summons to a People, nurst
In factious Times, and with Corruption curst!
Who, but a God, can fix our reeling State,
Unite our Hearts, and make us truly great?
These Ends Herculean Virtues might attain—
But, ah! we look for Saviours, now, in vain!
All seek their own; and publick Welfare love,
But for Themselves, and as their Interests move!
Extravagance and Luxury prevail,
And, every Day, the Patriot Virtues fail!

326

Once, O Britannia, Heroes were thy Pride—
A Single Worthy spread his Influence wide:
One Godlike Genius, of the Patriot Race,
New-moulded Men, and chang'd a Nation's Face!
In darkest Times thy Caractatus shone,
And Rome admir'd the Glories of thy Son!
—But, in one Age, the Phoenix scarce appears!
Timoleons breathe not every Thousand Years!
How long ere matchless Guardian Wallace came?
No Hireling Patriot He! and next to none, in Fame!

Then, O ye Shades, with deathless Glories crown'd!
Ye British Ghosts, in Annals long renown'd!
If, in your blest Elysium, ye can find
One leisure Hour to think of Human Kind;

327

If, mindful of your once lov'd Race and Isle,
Ye can suspend your Happiness a while;
Inspire new Forms, or your old Flesh resume,
To crush Corruption, and strike Faction dumb,
Else selfish Souls our common Rights will rend,
And sacrifice Britannia in the End!

'Twas thus, at once, the ancient Roman Boast,
Their noble Spirit, and their Reign, were lost!
An easy Prey the wretched Sons became,
In whose Corruptions sunk the Fathers Fame!

Already, lo! the Goths and Vandals waste
Our manly Sense, and Liberty, and Taste!
See! how the great and generous Arts decay!
Behold! our boasted Genius falls a Prey!

328

Unnatural Postures, and effeminate Airs,
And queer Grimace, are National Affairs!
Alike, the Court, the Soldier, and the Cit,
Admires Buffoonry, and takes Tricks for Wit!
Loves foreign Follies, doats on foreign Fools,
Aliens to Sense, to Nature, and to Rules!
While our neglected Muses fly the Field,
The vanquish'd triumph, and the Victors yield!

Sleep, sleep, ye Ghosts, unconscious of our Taste,
By Show deluded, and by Sound debas'd!
Ah! look not on your Sons, degenerate grown,
Nor, in our Features, think to trace your own.
Nothing, with you, but what was Just, was good;
And nothing lik'd but what was understood;
Alike, to Arts and Artists ye were kind,
And most, rejoyc'd in Pleasures of the Mind;

329

Maintain'd no Follies at a vast Expence,
Nor pay'd to Sound the due Reward of Sense;
Pleas'd with your Native Wit, and Arts, and Arms,
Ye kept your Gold at Home, nor courted Foreign Charms.

But ye were Giants! Ah! what Pigmies we!
How different far from Britons, Britons be?
Ye bravely fought, and gave the Nation Fame,
And judg'd the Fate of Arts and Arms the same!
We lose our Spirit, baffle Reason's Rules,
And to be fashionable, will be Fools!
How are we fal'n! Is this th' Effect of Peace?
For this did Marlb'rough's conquering Legions cease?
Is this the Way our Glory to maintain?
Ah! can we thus the Youth for Battle Train?
Already, are the publick Debts discharg'd,
Since Luxury's wide Bounds are much enlarg'd?

330

Are South-Sea Breaches then repair'd at last?
Or why, on Trifles, all this Treasure's Waste?

But, Muse, be hush, and better learn the Right—:
Can Errors dwell with People so polite?
Wou'd Beaus and Belles, the Glory of the Age,
Consent to Folly, and in Vice engage?
Such Folks as we can no Instruction want:
Shakespeare and Otway are the Poets Cant.
Our Sires were dull, unpolish'd, unrefin'd—
Poor Souls, they hugg'd the Pleasures of the Mind!
They ne'er a charming Senesino had,
Nor knew the Blessing of a Masquerade!
Never to Them a Heidegger gave Law!
They ne'er a Fawks and Violante saw!
Alas! poor Men, they liv'd and dy'd unblest!
And reckon'd Farce and Pantomime a Jest!

331

More happy, and much wiser, we have found
Glories, that cou'd not breed on British Ground!
We Contradictions reconcile, at once,
By Recipe's from Italy and France!
Imported Pleasures, of the softer Kind,
New-mould our Genius, and reform the Mind!
Posterity will [OMITTED]

Desunt Cætera.

332

TO LUCINDA.

The Character how glorious, and how rare,
When modest Virtue blends the beauteous Fair!
The Soul informs, and brightens, ev'ry Grace,
And is it self made lovely by the Face.
Lucinda, those, who thy Perfections view,
Must own this Truth exemplify'd in you.
In you, all Beauty's boasted Charms are join'd,
And all those Charms illumin'd by your Mind.
But you, unconscious of your Pow'r, disclaim
Your Right to reign the first in Female Fame.

333

Cleora's Title humbly you prefer,
Content to wish you but cou'd copy her.
Ah! wou'dst thou still be Empress of my Heart,
Be still the same, the very same thou art.
Wert thou Cleora, lovely thou migh'st be,
But not belov'd, so Sov'reignly, by Me.

334

STANZA's (Publish'd in the Daily Journal.) On Reading the DUNCIAD.

[_]

By a Neutral Bard.

I

An Herd of Swine, to the deep Sea,
Was headlong hurl'd, in Holy Writ:
Another Here, as all agree,
Is sunk in an Abyss of Wit.

II

But, as the Devils, in that Case,
The silly, wretched, Cattle drown'd;
Who cou'd, but Devils, in this Place,
Plunge Poets, in the vast Profound?

335

III

No Wonder Those contrive that These
Shou'd share of their allotted Hell—
Devils have ever us'd such Ways
With Mortals, since from Heaven they fell.

IV

Now, cou'd ought give ill-fated Elves
Malignant Pleasure, 'twould be this,
“To think their Torturers are themselves
“Tormented in the black Abyss.

336

To the Author of STANZA's, On Reading the DUNCIAD.

[_]

Publish'd in the Daily Journal.

I

How dreadful were the World's Alarms,
When Bards, an irritable Race,
Discordant, fiercely flew to Arms,
And broke the Muses' publick Peace!

II

Mankind, confounded with the Dinn
Of Battle, waited for the Day,
When Neutral Pow'rs wou'd once begin
A Congress, to conclude the Fray.

337

III

But Hope was vain from mortal Hand—
No Means cou'd either Army quell,
'Till thou, at once, didst both disband,
And Helter Skelter drive to Hell.

IV

While wallowing in the vast Profound,
Alike for Swine and Devils fit!
They meet, condemn'd; may'st thou be crown'd
The Great Deliverer of Wit.

V

Henceforth, let Poesie, and Peace,
Adown Parnassus, pour their Stream;
Nor may one of the Muse's Race
Receive, till Merit gives him Fame.

338

VI

May Helicon no more a Mire
Be seen, like fatal, foul, Fleetditch,
Fitter to choak, than to inspire
Men, curst with the Poetick Itch!

339

ON CLARISSA.

I

The finest Shape, the fairest Face,
The noblest Mien, and Air, and Grace,
Command Attention, and inspire
Beholding Crowds with amorous Fire.
But ne'er can human Person shine
So beauteous and so near divine,
As where, with every Virtue blest,
The Soul Superior stands confest.

340

II

In bright Clarissa's heav'nly Frame
Meet all Perfections, worthy Fame.
To crown her, what could Nature more?
And who can see, and not adore?
But what a Triumph Vice must boast,
Were bright Clarissa's Lustre lost?
What Ground wou'd honest Virtue lose?
What Atheist I'd be at the News?

341

ON CLARISSA.

I

With Virtues, Loves, and Graces join'd,
Not Eve in Eden, ere she sinn'd,
Clarissa's Angel Form out-shin'd,
And rais'd more Admiration!
Her Stature, Shape, her Mien, and Air,
Her Bosom, Breasts, Her Neck and Hair,
Her Eyes so bright, and Face so fair,
Are fraughted with Temptation.

342

II

Ye Sages, say, by Flesh and Blood,
How can such Beauties be withstood?
What Hermit wou'd not, if he cou'd,
To Wantonness persuade her!
But, round her Stock of Innocence,
The flaming Swords of Wit and Sense
Turn every Way in her Defence,
Against the bold Invader!

343

Political POETRY.

[1728.]

Nil pictis timidus Navita puppibus Fidit.
Hor.

A golden Show'r (as Heathen Writers say,)
Melted Miss Danae's Maidenhead away.
Nor Brazen Gates, nor Bars of Steel, cou'd prove
Invincible, in Spite of Gold and Love.
No Wonder then a Turnkey's Daughter, led
By Love of Gold, with great Ripperda fled.
Shou'd it seem strange a common Soldier took
A Bribe, and fondly follow'd such a Duke?

344

All this, and more, is practis'd every Day—
But, that this Case is such, will Politicians say?
—What if the fam'd Escape shou'd prove a Blind?
By ploding Spaniards cunningly design'd?
Remember, Britons, how you've been deceiv'd,
By Gundamore's implicitly believ'd!
—But hence, Suspicion—George can ne'er be bit,
—What Court can prudent Caroline outwit?
While Patriot Walpole manages the Helm,
Shall Philip's crazy Consort overwhelm
The British State, by Policy profound?
Shall Alberoni rise again renown'd?
Danvers and Hoadly sooner shall agree,
And Dudge and Manly in one Interest be!

345

—Yet, wak'd to Caution by a simple Bard,
Ne'er may we find our Centry's off their Guard—
Still may Britannia's Watchmen walk their Round,
And let no Harm approach her hallow'd Ground!
The Publick Safety is the Patriot's Aim,
And Caution proves the Ground and Guard of Fame.

Authors of Weekly Papers on different Sides.

346

A PICTURE Of the RISE and FALL of a STATESMAN.

Inscrib'd to Mr. Thomas Gordon.

Dear Thomas, did you never see
('Tis but by Way of Simile)
The Watermen at Temple Stairs,
Officious in their own Affairs,
Attentive looking up the Lane,
In Hopes some Passenger to gain,

347

Who, being come, they croud to meet,
And, all at once, loud-bawling, greet
With Proffer of their Sculs and Oars,
And call their Brothers Sons of Whores;
Nor cease their noisy Zeal, till he
Says This or That's the Man for me?
But, back returning, not a Word,
Nor Hat does e'er a Man afford;
No Soul attempts to make a Bustle,
And out of the Way his Neighbour jostle;
All, silent, let him pass neglected,
As if he ne'er had been respected?

Just so, dear Thomas, does it fare
With one prefer'd to publick Care!
Around him, Courtiers croud to hail,
And to applaud him never fail,

348

Proffer their Service, and apply
For Pension, Place, or Charity:
But, when turn'd out, how soon he's left!
How soon of flatt'ring Praise bereft!
Scarce is he known by those he rais'd!
Scarce by the giddy Rabble gaz'd!
'Tis well, if no Man does no worse,
Than pass him with an idle Curse:
If, but bespatter'd with their Dirt,
He 'scapes amid the Croud, unhurt.

349

A DIALOGUE Between the Right Honourable A. and B.

[_]

In Imitation of Horace, Ode IX. Book III.

A.
While you and I were cordial Friends,
Alike our Interests and our Ends,
I thought my Character and Place
Secure, and dreaded no Disgrace.
No Statesman e'er was more carest,
And more, in his good Fortune, blest.

350

B.
Whilst I your other self was deem'd,
And worthy such Renown esteem'd;
Ere great N--- won your Heart,
And, in your Counsels, took such Part;
I was the happiest Man in Life,
And, but with Tories, had no Strife.

A.
N--- noble and polite,
Whom G--- approves, is my Delight.
His Loyal Merit is his Claim;
For him, I'd hazard Life and Fame.

B.
Me S. J--- now, whom every Muse
And every Grace adorn, subdues:
Attach'd to him, I've learnt to hate
Your Person, Politicks, and State.

351

A.
What, if our former Friendship shou'd
Return, and you have what you wou'd?
If, for your Sake, the noble Duke
Be quite discarded and forsook?

B.
Tho' S. J--- now my Fancy warms,
And all his Measures have such Charms;
Tho' he is fond, indifferent you,
Our ancient League I'd yet renew:
For you, I'd Speech it in the House;
For you, write C--- and carouse;
For you, with all my Heart, I'd vote;
For you make Friends, impeach, and plot;
For you, I'd die—what wou'd I not?

352

A Monumental ODE, To the Virtuous Memory of Dr. Walsh of Worcestershire

Address'd To his Heir and Executor, my honour'd Friend, Thomas Gordon, Esq;

------ Honos, nomenque manebunt.
Virg.

I.

Sacred to Walsh's deathless Fame,
(Who first reviv'd the Roman Flame,
And taught the Britons how to pay
Their Debt to Virtue) be my Lay.

353

Let every Heart accord with mine,
And every Voice in Chorus join.
Mankind are all concern'd to raise
A Monument to Walsh's Praise;

II.

From Prejudice's servile Yoak,
Betimes his Godlike Genius broke:
Betimes, from Tyranny he turn'd,
And senseless Superstition spurn'd:
Freedom and Truth his Reason charm'd:
Freedom and Truth his Spirit warm'd:
And every Man, in Soul a Slave,
Was judg'd, by him, a Fool or Knave.

III.

Building on Principles so good,
His Faith and Honour stedfast stood:

354

Nor Priest nor Politician's Art,
From Reason cou'd seduce his Heart.
Him no Authority deceiv'd:
For Custom's Sake, he nought believ'd:
No specious Shew, and vain Pretence,
Impos'd upon his noble Sense.

IV.

Govern'd by Custom, let Mankind
Unite to censure Walsh's Mind;
Let them with Freedom prate, and call
His noble Wisdom Folly all:
Reason, that prov'd his constant Guide,
Will stand and conquer on his Side.
What Claim, on Him, cou'd Nature make,
Who Virtue lov'd for Virtue's Sake?

355

V.

What we call Kindred, Ties of Blood,
As well as we, he understood:
But what were these to one, whose Mind
And Fortune both were unconfin'd?
The World his Country was esteem'd
And all Men were his Kindred deem'd.
'Twas Virtue's Work for Him to chuse,
In such a Crowd, and to refuse.

VI.

What, tho' his Nature was inclin'd
To benefit all Human Kind?
The best deserving always prov'd,
In spite of Nature, most belov'd.
Thus, searching among Men, with Care,
To find an honest, worthy Heir,

356

He saw a Stranger to his Mind,
And generously his All resign'd.

VII.

Tho, Gordon, you was blest before
In Reputation and in Store;
Dear to the Wise, the Great, and Good,
And fair for high Preferment stood;
Tho', joyn'd with Trenchard's honour'd Name,
You shone renown'd in deathless Fame;
Yet This was wanting to compleat
Your Happiness, and make you Great,
His Choice, excelling his Estate!

VIII.

Long may my generous Friend enjoy,
And, like the Godlike Walsh, employ
His Fortune, won by true Desert,
Approv'd by every honest Heart!

357

While, by the great Example taught,
The World is to Conversion wrought;
And, after Precedent so rare,
Makes real Excellence its Care.

IX.

With Hopes of like Distinction fir'd,
Ye Bards, exert your Gifts inspir'd.
Ye Orators of every Kind,
Ambitious such a Prize to find,
Each other study to excel,
In Speaking and in Writing well:
If you wou'd future Walsh's move,
Like Gordon, first deserve their Love.

X.

But tremble, O ye Priests of Baal—
Your Kingdom now is near its Fall:

358

The Independant Whig prevails,
And Heav'n to him its Bounty deals.
Henceforth be dumb, who heretofore
Were blind, and Providence adore;
Your Antichristian Pow'r resign'd,
Let Truth and Reason bless Mankind.

359

A SONG.

DAMON.

I

Sylvia , say,
When Damon leaves you,
How it grieves you?
Sylvia, say,
How do you pass the Day?
If your Share
Of Solitude and Care
Does with mine compare,
'Tis dreadful as Despair!

360

II

Damon, why
D'ye question
My Vexation?
Damon, why
D'ye think I can have Joy?
When you're gone,
Accompany'd by none,
I, like the Turtle, moan,
When her lov'd Mate is flown.

361

To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE,

Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, &c.

[_]

In Imitation of Horace's Ninth Epistle.

Septimius, Claudi, nimirum intelligit unus
Quanti me facias, &c.

Stuart , in France, had heard the grateful News,
That you, Sir, deign to patronize my Muse;
And, ever since he last arriv'd in Town,
Sollicited that I wou'd make him known—
Not, in the supple Crowd, to cringe and beg,
But only kiss your Hand, and make his Leg.

362

I've told him Fifty times, I can't pretend
To introduce to Walpole any Friend.
'Twere sawcy Rudeness, and too vain Conceit,
In one of my Condition and Estate,
To lead a Stranger to a Man, so Great—
He shou'd address some Senator or Lord;
Argyle himself wou'd serve him for a Word.
But, deaf to my Objections, still he sues,
Nor, erring, will accept of an Excuse;
As if my Interest, in your Grace, he knew
Better than I my self presume to do.

Now, shou'd I not present my Friend, he'll swear
I've selfish Views, and keep my Interest clear—
And, if I do, wou'd not your Levee sneer?

363

In this Dilemma, how shall I comport?
Affront my Friend, or turn a Jest at Court!

To cure his Jealousy, and keep his Love,
Let me, for once, with humble Boldness move,
And Master of the Ceremonies prove;
Tho' all Beholders shou'd condemn my Brass,
Or, laughing, mark me for an ill-bred Ass.
What for a Friend, is not to be allow'd?
And, if you're pleas'd, what care I for the Crowd?

Then may it please your Honour to forgive
Your Mitchell's Freedom, and his Friend receive;
His Friend, who (cou'd you trust a Poet's Word)
Is Just as Brave as ever drew a Sword,
An honest hearty Cock for common Weal,
Is one of Us, and has a World of Zeal.

364

THE Battle of Otterburn.

A Fragment.

By Hatred, Pride, and Love of Prey, inspir'd,
English and Scots the Victors Name desir'd.
Now These now Those in Arms triumphant stood,
Scorning to yield, and prodigal of Blood.
Oft did they Both, each other to oppose,
And hurt Themselves, make Truce with foreign Foes.
Reluctant, Each to any Terms would come,
And Neither kept an Union, long, at Home.

365

But ne'er did mutual Rage more equal prove,
Than, when the Douglass and the Piercy strove.
With Native and Hereditary Flame,
Both burn'd for Glory, and aspir'd to Fame.
How gallant Both! what Wonders each atchiev'd!
The Vanquish'd triumph'd, and the Victor griev'd!

Sing, heav'nly Muse, how Otterburn was fought,
How great the Victory, and how dearly bought!

When second Robert, aged and decay'd,
Govern'd the Scots, were English Arms display'd
In Merse and Tyviot: slow and unprepar'd,
He saw the Wrong, nor to revenge it dar'd.
Like Him, unfit his Country's Rights t'assert,
Was John of Rothsay: But a braver Heart

366

Inspir'd Fife's Earl; who, secretly arose
With valiant Douglass to pursue the Foes;
And, more t'infest their most contiguous Land,
Disjoin'd their Forces, and their chief Command.
Fife's Earl, most num'rous, Westward took his Way,
And made Carlisle, and all around, his Prey.
The Douglass, crossing Tine, to Durham pass'd,
And, ere 'twas known, had laid the Country waste.

After a Course of expeditious Toil,
Backward He turn'd, with an unusual Spoil;
And, in his March, to heighten his Renown,
Resolv'd to ravage proud Newcastle Town.
But there Northumberland's old Earl was come,
To intercept his boasted Progress Home.
From York to Berwick, Men obey'd his Call,
And there agreed inglorious not to fall.

367

Flush'd with Success, the Douglass scorn'd their Might,
Boldly attack'd, and urg'd the Foe to fight.

Two Days, in Skirmish, were succesless lost,
When Hotspur Piercy, from his Father's Host,
A Challenge sent, with more than Mortal's Pride,
To the Scot's Chief, the Diff'rence to decide,
In single Combat: 'Twas receiv'd with Joy,
As, when together for the Fate of Troy,
The Godlike Hector and Achilles met,
Upon whose Heads whole Kingdoms might be bett.

Mounted on Steeds, the wond'rous Leaders rode;
Each look'd an Army, or a Demi-God!
Like two huge clashing Currents, they engag'd,
And, some time doubtful, hot Encounter wag'd;

368

'Till, in the Struggle, with superior Force,
Douglass bore Piercey, headlong from his Horse.
Rescu'd by English Friends, abash'd, he fled;
But vow'd to see his hated Rival dead.
“Douglass (he said) to Day has given me Pain,
“Yet hopes to carry home my Spear in vain.

The Scotish Hero, joyous, left the Place;
But march'd with slow and meditated Pace:
Knowing the En'my's Numbers stronger grew,
To Otterburn he, cautiously, withdrew.
To Otterburn the future Scene of War,
Whose dreadful Fame shall flourish late, and far.

There, pitching Tents, the Soldiers, long opprest
With various Travels and Fatigue, found Rest.

369

There, joining Counsels, Officers agreed,
To seek their social Forces out with Speed:
But Douglas, recollecting what was said
Of Hotspur's Threatning, wou'd not seem afraid.
“He comes ('twas nois'd) the vengeful Piercy comes!
“Display'd his Banners, sounding loud his Drums!
To Arms (the Douglas call'd) tho' few my Men,
What Coward Scot will turn his Back on Ten?
Remember Bannockburn, when they come on,
Nor lose the Glory that our Fathers won.

The Captains, tho' unwilling, now consent,
Jealous of Success, but on Glory bent.
Strengthning the Camp upon its weakest Side,
The Soldiers, scarce refresh'd, appear with Pride:
All vow'd to conquer, or with Honour fall,
True and obsequious to their Leader's Call.

370

'Twas in the Ev'ning of an August Day,
(Bright shone the Moon, and sweetly smelt the Hay,)
When twice Five Thousand English took the Field,
Of Vict'ry sure, or vowing not to yield.
Scornful, behind, they left a hostile Priest,
Their Number twice the Scotish Host, at least:
Encourag'd by the Brother Piercies, all
Bravely engage, and none inglorious fall.

But while, at Entry of the Camp, the Fight
Prov'd hot and dubious, wheeling to the Right,
The Scotish Horsemen in appointed Rank,
Compass a Hill, and Charge the Foes in Flank.
Now Tumult reign'd, and many Lives were lost,

Desunt Cætera.

371

THE TINKER.

A TALE.

Whether the Gusts of Love, or no,
Most fierce on Female Spirits blow;
Let abler Pens dispute in Prose—
In Rhime, at present, I have chose,
By Instance of a common Tale,
To show, that Nature will prevail,
And make the Fair, who wou'd be civil,
As subtle, certes, as the Devil.

372

Upon a Time—for so my Nurse,
God wot, to me began Discourse—
A Widow, turn'd of Twenty Seven,
(In Rhime, as well as Reason, even!)
To a dark Room, by Custom chain'd,
At one Week's End her Cage disdain'd.
No wonder, Sirs; for Flesh and Blood,
Sometimes, are Victors o'er the Good.
Now, she, tho' modest and discreet,
Ne'er thought her self for Glory meet.
A Woman may have Store of Merit,
Yet want—as we may say—the Spirit:
The Spirit, said I? By the Sequel,
(Which, by the by, I wish may take well)
You'll find she had it—But, I warn all,
'Twas of the common Kind, nam'd carnal.

373

For, as we said, a Week scarce spent,
(And sure, the Time was like a Lent!)
In showy Mourning, and Grimace,
She wisely weigh'd her present Case.
And must I—to her self, she said—
Ne'er couple, cause my Spouse is dead?
Must I, ah me! for ever mourn,
And Leaves of godly Sermons turn?
At Church, must I be in Disguise,
With a black Veil before my Eyes?
To Balls and Plays, shall I no more
Repair, alas! as heretofore?
Ah! Days of Sorrow, ye are long!
Oh! Custom, Foe to Widows young!

374

Alone, thus sigh'd she for Relief;
In Publick, counterfeited Grief:
Or, if she griev'd indeed, 'tis clear,
It could be only for that Geer,
Which, Husband living, was wont most
To give her Comfort—at his Cost.

So (as the Story runs) a Beau,
(Just like another we all know)
Made up Acquaintance—but the Means,
Which Fate, as well as th' End, ordains,
Is not so clearly told—nor need we
Be over curious—so, proceed we.
A Tale—quoth Prior—short should be,
And who cou'd better tell, than He?

375

Our Widow, deeply skill'd in Letters,
Follow'd th' Example of her Betters.
“Since I—thought she—propose no more,
“Than Gods, themselves, have done before,
“Why mayn't I, to attain my End,
“In uncouth Habit, dress my Friend?
“For 'tis not meet he should appear,
“In his own Cloathing, often here.
“He must be chang'd”—'Twas quickly done;
For next Night, about setting Sun,
He, well instructed in his Part,
Pretended to the Tinker's Art.
Love has been us'd, you see, to plod,
And reach his End, by Methods odd:
For where there's Stomach and no Meat,
He'll steal, to make his Friends a Treat.

376

With Apron, Hammer, Nails, and Copper,
And other Utensils more proper,
He knock'd, and call'd, “Ho, who's within?”
Then rung the Tinker's formal Dinn.
The Porter view'd his Face so black,
And Leathern Budget on his Back.
Then told the Lady—she, good Woman!
Whose Grief wou'd let her look on no Man,
Said, fetch the Tinker in, with speed,
For of his Crast we have great need.
If he be Master of his Trade,
Our House may help to find him Bread.
This said, she sigh'd!—the Tinker came,
“God save—quoth he—my worthy Dame.”
Your'e welcome, Tinker, she reply'd—
If to your Look your Skill's ally'd;

377

You are a Tradesman—“That I be,
“As you may quickly find—” quoth He.
Bring him some Drink, the best we use:
Good Liquor Tradesmen ne'er refuse.
“I thank you, Madam”—Now you may
Our Pots and Pans, at will, survey.
The Cauldron broken is, I know;
'Twill cost at least an Hour, or two,
To mend it well—“But, by your Leave
“One Favour, Lady, I must crave:
“That, since there's Secret in my Art,
“Which I'd not willingly impart,
“No Company I can allow,
“To Witness how I work, but you.”
Then to the Brew-house, pleas'd, they went—
Let Virgins guess with what Intent:

378

My Muse is modest and discreet!
She never mentions what's not meet!
Of Baudry ever most afraid:
Fy, that ne'er enters in her Head!
However, as Tradition says,
Our Couple follow'd wicked Ways.
The Tinker by the Cauldron Side,
His masculine Talents occupy'd:
And all the Time he was about it,
(And here I blush—ye need not doubt it!)
She thump'd the Cauldron with the Hammer,
In Chorus joining with his Rammer.
A Politick, that none will blame,
Who practise Musick, like that same!

The Scene reacting, o'er and o'er,
The Porter chanc'd to pass the Door,

379

And heard the Noise the Hammer made—
The Trick ne'er enter'd in his Head!
But, now and then, in Heat of Play,
He overheard his Lady say;
Strike on, good Tinker, briskly strike,
Your Cunning and your Tools I like,
Nor is there ere a Smith, in Town,
Can boast an Anvil, like your own.

380

A SONG TO CELIA.

I

Mistake not, Celia, the Design,
When I your Worth proclaim,
Or dedicate a Verse of mine,
To your distinguish'd Name!

II

The Muses were ordain'd to shew
The Virtues of your Sex—

381

Then, why shou'd what is sung, of you,
Your modest Mind perplex?

III

At Thoughts of you, my Muse takes Wing,
My tender Bosom warms—
Indulge me then, with Leave to sing,
Or lay aside your Charms.

IV

No grateful Answer I desire,
No Favours I implore!
'Tis all I want, or can require,
Allow me to adore.

382

Poetick FAITH.

Let Criticks quarrel with my Lays,
Let Envy strive to blast my Bays;
Malice to rob my Stock of Fame,
And Fortune joyn to blot my Name;
Let Time, Oblivion, and Disgrace,
Conspire my Memory to raze;
Let all that is, and will be, join;
Let Earth and Hell their Pow'rs combine;
By Stair and Walpole's Favour crown'd,
My Classick Muse shall shine renown'd,
When Bards, pro Tempore so fam'd,
With all their Works, are dead and damn'd!

The End of the Second Volume.

387

[Judgment, and Virtue bear my soaring Wing]

Judgment, and Virtue bear my soaring Wing,
While greater Things with greater Force I sing.
Henceforth to Heav'n and to the Common Weal,
Sacred be all my Energy and Zeal.
God and our Country our whole Ardour claim;
Who serves these best, deserves the highest Fame.
From my right Hand and raptur'd Muse depart
The Gifts of Nature, and the Aids of Art,
When I to Vice an impious Tribute pay,
Or rob fair Virtue of its rightful Lay.
But, if a Verse has e'er escap'd my Pen,
Blush'd at by Virgins, or dislik'd by Men;
If Frailty, Folly, Wickedness, or Wit,
Hath made the Muse a guilty Line commit;
Be candid, good Reformers of Mankind,
And, while you've Faults, to my Transgressions blind.

388

But chiefly, Thou, great Origin of Song,
To whom the Art and Artist both belong;
Pardon the Sinner, and his Muse inspire,
For nobler Subjects, with more hallow'd Fire:
Be thou his Theme, his Patron, and his Guide;
Approv'd by Thee, what boots the World beside?
Whom thou condemn'st, no finite Power can praise,
Nor sink, whom thou dost condescend to raise.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library

VOL. I.

THE Muse's Original:

AN ODE.

[I.]

II.

III.

III.[_] The section number in the source document has been followed.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

AN ODE ON THE Power of Musick.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

AN ODE, ON BUCHANAN.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

THE Charms of Indolence.

THE CUDGEL:

AN Heroic POEM. In Six Canto's.

CANTO I.

THE JUDGMENT OF HERCULES.

A POEM.

JONAH,

A Poetical Paraphrase.

Psalm the 139th.

I.

II.

III.

Isaiah, Chapter 13.

A Familiar Epistle, TO Major Richardson Pack,

With the following PASTORAL.

THE DOLEFUL SWAINS:

A Pastoral Poem

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE MUSE.

To the Right Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq;

One of His Majesty's Principal Secretaries of State in the Year 1720.

AN ODE On receiving a Wreath of Bays from OPHELIA.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

On OPHELIA.

I

II

III

IV

V

III.
[_]

The section number in the source document has been followed.