The poetical works of George Keate :: :: University of Virginia Library

I. VOL. I.

TO Dr. HEBERDEN

THE FAMILY MEETING;

A TALE.

It happen'd once, but when, or where,
It matters not a single hair,
The father of a numerous race
Dispers'd in many a distant place,
Unwilling that they more should roam,
Felt a desire to call them home:
Their situations were precarious,
Their notions, and pursuits too, various;
But this you'll see with half an eye,
If I describe the family;

The matter easily is done,
So take the children, son by son.—

It chanc'd to be the Eldest's doom
Early to fix himself at Rome,
Eager those boasted arts t'explore
Which flourish'd there in days of yore.—
The Second , an adventurous youth,
Fond of simplicity and truth,
Made wild Helvetia's scenes his choice,
Allur'd by Liberty's sweet voice.—
The Third , renouncing pleasure's calls,
In our fam'd Tower's ill-fated walls

Indulg'd his solitary way,
And wept thy worth, excelling Gray,
Lov'd fair-one! with each virtue born,
That could the human mind adorn!—
One , struck with nature's true sublime,
Resolv'd the rugged Alps to climb,
And there enraptur'd took his post
'Midst regions of eternal frost.—
A Fifth , recluse, and deep in thought,
The convent's lonely ruins sought;
Pleas'd with its gloom, he pass'd his hours
In Netley's antiquated tow'rs.—
The Sixth , more active, and more prudent,
Became a pert young Temple Student,

Pursu'd the law, resolv'd to try it,
But never got one guinea by it.—
The Next resign'd his youthful heart
A vot'ry to poetic art;
No serious toils could him engage,
He woo'd the muses, lov'd the stage,
And, warm'd by his theatric turn,
Hung a fond wreath on Cibber's urn.—
The Eighth , with equal ardour fir'd,
The drama's perfect laws admir'd,
And sought them in those shades rever'd
Which the Great Bard of Ferney rear'd;
There he ambitious wish'd to raise
A trophy to that poet's praise,
Whose genius and example taught
The heights to which they might be brought.—

The Last that rov'd, was Fancy's child,
With each romantic notion wild;
In search of happiness he flies,
Seeks it beneath Arcadian skies,
But finds his visionary scheme
Was but a Monumental dream.—

The father, as I said before,
Turning full oft' these matters o'er,
Resolv'd a spacious house to build,
And have it with his children fill'd,
That they, like birds of the same feather,
Might all return, and dwell together.
The size was fix'd, the plan was laid,
And Dodsley supervisor made;
For Dodsley long was us'd to be
Fac totum in the family:

Knew each child's merits to a tittle,
Had nurs'd them all when they were little,
Had brought them forward one by one,
Nay taught them too alone to run:
His heart accustom'd long to feel
Their int'rests with the warmest zeal,
He like a steady faithful servant,
Was in this bus'ness mighty fervent.
“What joy,” he cries, “from all disasters
“To see safe home my dear young masters!—
“I call them young, for twenty years
“When past, as yesterday appears!
“They'll find me older grown, no doubt,
“But Tully's Head will mark me out.—
“Would they were come!—I long to see
“You circled with your family!
“Then urge their haste, for in a trice
“Your house will be compleat, and nice:”—

Th'advice was good; the father writes,
And all his family invites,
Each in the kindest terms intreating
To come and form a General Meeting.
“Children,” says he, “it moves my wonder,
“That you have liv'd so long asunder,
“Dispers'd in such far distant places,
“You scarcely know each other's faces!—
“By my own reck'ning it appears
“Some have been absent twice ten years,
“Which makes me with impatience burn
“To see, and welcome your return.
“Then cheerfully obey my call,
“I've room enough to lodge you all;
“And e'en should time more children bring,
“I may hereafter add a wing.
“Here you may live with one another,
“And each protect a younger brother,

“Who never yet from home have stray'd,
“And want your countenance and aid.
“You've seen the world enough, and know it,
“And to the little folks must show it.”—

Swift as the post the mandate flew,
And homeward soon all parties drew.
The house in nicest order drest,
They met—with joy each other prest,
And talking over their past dangers,
Vow'd they no more would live as strangers;
But whatsoever should betide,
Would fall, or prosper—side by side.—
Dodsley stept in with eager pace,
Presented them his well-known face,
And still his honest zeal expressing,
Gave each his welcome, and his blessing.

Now, reader, sure you cannot fail
To mark the moral to our tale;
A hint from me might give offence
To your discernment, and your sense:
But if this family should share,
Hap'ly, your patronage and care;
Or of our house if more you'd see,
At Tully's Head you'll find the key.

The Poem of Ancient and Modern Rome.

The Helvetiad.

Epistle from Lady Jane Gray to Lord Guilford Dudley.

The Alps, a Poem.

Netley Abbey, an Elegy.

The Temple Student, an Epistle.

A Poem to the memory of Mrs. Cibber.

Ferney, an Epistle to Mons. de Voltaire.

The Monument in Arcadia, a Dramatic Poem.

ANCIENT AND MODERN ROME;

A POEM.

[_]

WRITTEN AT ROME IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LV.

Sum ex iis qui mirer Antiquos: Non tamen, ut quidam, temporum nostrorum ingenia despicio. Neque enim quasi lassa, et effæta natura, ut nihil jam laudabile pariat. Plin. Epist. lib. vi. ep. 21.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LX.

Or Muse, or Dryad, whosoe'er thou wert,
Who oft in Britain hast vouchsaf'd to hear
My voice invoking, as some artless lay
I caroll'd, or light song, to greet the ear
Of Friendship, hither to this distant soil
(Soil favour'd of the Nine) repair, and with
Thy smiles direct me, studious to describe
In numbers not uncouth, as o'er these scenes
Pensive I wander, what of ancient arts,
And monumental grandeur, still remains,

Midst the proud ruins of immortal Rome.—
Immortal did I say?—yes, once so deem'd,
When like a goddess on the rapid blast
High mounted, to the kings of climes remote
She sent her laws, and saw the world obey.—
But Time, capricious parent, gives to all
Their morning, and their eve; and having shewn
Mankind some prosper'd child, mark'd it for fame,
And rais'd it to its noon-tide hour, delights
To pluck its honours off, and sink it down
To teach an awful moral in the dust!

And such thy doom, these stately ruins tell;
These stately ruins, that from various shores
Attract the traveller, whose bosom burns
With strong impatience, by the classic page
Excited (faithful register of worth)
To visit thee, thou once great seat of arms,

Thou nurse of heroes; with respectful eye,
To gaze upon thy temples, o'er thy heaps
Pause rev'rent, and amid this wasteful mass,
Trace out thy former glory.—Well indeed,
Poor mournful reliques, conscious of your shame,
And mindful what ye were, well do ye strive
To hide yourselves beneath the shelt'ring leaves,
Or the kind umbrage of the neighbouring moss.

But whilst I tread the silent streets of Rome,
Where cowls supply the helmet's blaze, where now
Creeps o'er the shaken battlement the vine;
Let me a moment recollect the years
When Fortune led her onward, and success
Outran her hopes; admire her dawn of life,
Her scanty family, midst lonely sheds;
Simple, laborious, of her future pride
Planning the basis: Mark each vary'd step,

Her change of government, her laws, her strength;
Her politics, her wisdom: to the field
Accompany her march, and see her crown'd
With triumph, and with spoil, while the subdu'd
With fear mix'd admiration, and rever'd
The hand that conquer'd.—Then in ev'ry breast
Breath'd public virtue, and each bosom felt
The glow of liberty—Their youth, inur'd
To exercise, and toil, (the soldier's school!)
Were taught to scorn fatigue, contemn a life
Of indolence and ease, and die with joy
To serve their country!—Maxims such as these,
Sure as the herald's trumpet, loud announc'd
The deeds that follow'd:—prompted by this flame,
This patriot spirit, lo! a sacred train
Of Heroes born to such exalted acts
As in these distant, these degen'rate times,
Almost o'ertax belief!—Thy name, O Rome,

Re-echo'd thro' the globe, from where the Rhine ,
And swelling Danube , urge their foaming course
Ev'n to Euphrates' borders: Afric's sons
Proclaim it in their desarts, and the streams
Of Tagus roll it to th'Atlantic deep:
That both at morn, and eve, the sun beheld
Her banners wave. Nor did she give mankind
Her chains alone; where'er her eagles flew,
They bore the gentler arts of polish'd life,
Attendant on her conquests!—Thus she shone,
And the world hail'd her universal Queen!—
O could I here break off, here close the view:
Nor see the laurel wreaths, by valour earn'd,
By virtue dignify'd, blasted and torn
By foul Corruption's hand!—but 'tis with states,

As men, too often grandeur's treach'rous smiles
Warp the well-meaning heart, pollute its springs,
And prompt the active mind to drop its task.—
When virtue pauses she recedes!—Thus Rome,
Cloy'd with prosperity, and of her fame
Grown careless, in the roseate bow'r repos'd
Of Luxury: (that false one, whose soft lap
Hath lull'd the mightiest) drank her baneful cup,
And to her music lent a ravish'd ear:
As fatal, as whate'er by ancient bards
Was told of Sirens, or of Gorgon's head,
That ruin'd with a glance.—What tho' its force
It urges not impetuous, slowly sure,
Like subt'lest poison, it pervades each sense,
Each power of action, and corrodes the frame,
Till death atones for folly!—Nor did Rome
Fall unremember'd, since her name alone
Inspir'd such dread, that ev'n her pale remains

By Superstition drest, guarded by priests,
Who blending policy with holy faith,
Relying on the crosier, not the sword,
Roll'd terrors thro' the world; stain'd many an age
With guiltless blood; and still with weaken'd sway,
(Now milder) bids these hallow'd fabrics rise,
That yield a second subject to my song.

What tho' oblivion in her sable veil
Hath wrap'd thy former splendor, yet ev'n now,
Thy mould'ring fragments, ivy-crested tow'rs,
And arches, tott'ring to their fall, remain,
And in their antiquated liv'ry, speak
Their better fortune.—Pillars, that amidst
The solemn scene, by many an insult scarr'd,
Stand up historic; rifted vaults of fanes,
And palaces, whose wide disparted roofs
Threaten each visitant: and frequent seen

Some shatter'd urn that hath betray'd its charge,
To mix with vulgar dust.—Or should the charms
Of Sculpture wake attention, here the eye
Finds rapturous delight, whilst it beholds,
The chiselled stone such mimic life assume,
And property of being, that it seems
As Art could rival Nature.—Every sense
Submits t'illusion, while before us stands
Gigantic Hercules , on his huge club
Resting his weight enormous: or the limbs
Of matchless Flora, thro' her flowing robe,
Press decent on the sight: so charms the step
And graceful carriage of the Delphic God :
Laocoon's anguish, and the beauteous form,

Too beauteous form, of fair Antinous!
Alike demand a sigh: nor shall unmark'd
The Gladiators pass, with manly force,
Greatly expressive; nor the confident brow
Of Meleager; nor thy pensive air,
Dejected Agrippina .—With new joy
The mind reflecting o'er th'enliven'd bust
Shall pause, supremely pleas'd, as face to face,
Amidst the bright assembly we appear
Of chiefs and sages, whose heroic deeds
Beyond the storms of fate superior shine
On Fame's eternal record.—In their looks
We seem to read their story, ev'ry trace
Remark inquisitive, and oft' return,

As some fresh action of their life revives,
To gaze, contemplate, and admire again.

Oh ever-wond'rous art, that from the schools
Of Greece cam'st hither to this favour'd clime,
Yet rarely hast vouchsaf'd to pass the cliffs
Of the proud Apennine, or cheer the cold,
And genius-chilling regions of the North!

The anxious voyager who sees the port
Whither he's bound, and where before his thoughts
Were long arriv'd, feels rising in his soul
A sudden transport; not unlike, perchance,
Is that sensation which the stranger's breast,
With expectation's fire already warm'd,
Expanding feels, when from some neighb'ring height
His greedy eye takes in the nodding piles
Of old magnificence, or darts its beam

O'er the wide barren plain, where tow'rs o'erthrown
Lie broken, and sepulchral monuments
Skirt all the blue horizon.—Let's away
And wander midst the dank and shadowy gloom
Of antique Baths, or the Pantheon's round,
Well harmoniz'd, where dignity and grace,
And just proportion reign. The Circus too
Invites our steps, and the Tarpeian rock:
How much unlike what good Evander shew'd
Anchises' son, as thro' his little state,
On Tiber's banks, the poor but friendly prince,
His heav'n-born guest conducted!—mark e'en still,
Spite of the Gothic spoiler, the proud tops
Of obelisks, whose sculptur'd sides confess
The mystic labours of Egyptian hands!

And those tall Columns that preserve your names,
Illustrious Pair, who to th'exalted state
Of Emp'ror, join'd these titles more august,
The wise, the good.—But, let us bend our course
To where the Amphitheatre's old walls
Mantled in green, with many a winding, turn
In circuit vast; while fancy paints to view
All Rome assembled on some festive day,
Rank above rank, with ev'ry face, intent
To see the death-doom'd man, and nature yield
To force superior. The pursuit of arms
Had check'd each softer impulse, and forbad
To call compassion virtue; nor was known,
As in our times, the Stage's wiser aim,
To steal instruction through the poet's song,

To melt the stubborn heart, and teach the eye
To shed the gen'rous tear for others' woe.

Beneath the sloping side of yonder hill,
Sacred to Jove, where stood the Capitol,
Th'unpeopled Forum spreads; but yet a few
Sequester'd pillars lift their heads, and point
Some temple's site; strew'd round with mingled heaps,
That wear the badge of hoar antiquity.
While in the front appears the story'd arch,
To Titus rear'd, when shouting Rome proclaim'd
His Solymean conquest : then arose

Thy fane, O Peace , thou heav'n-descended queen!
Parent of Arts! under whose fost'ring reign
The Muses triumph; (shame upon the world,
And man's corrupted heart, that thou should'st e'er
Desert our habitations!) nor far off
The Palatine's steep mount, where ancient tale
Feigns the Twin Brothers found, but honour'd more
By great Augustus' dwelling: now, alas!
How is its lot revers'd! with mournful pine,
And melancholy cyprus thick o'er-grown!—
Here Desolation, mocking the vain farce
Of human labours, and the low conceits
Of human pride, thron'd on a craggy pile,
Smiles pleas'd with her own work; amid the spoils
Of Time's fell hand, where nought is seen to move.

Save the green lizard sporting in the sun,
Sole tenant of the solitary waste.

Yet, O ye reliques, injur'd as ye are
By the sharp canker of consuming age,
Be ye my altars; on your grass-grown tops,
Charm'd with reflecting what ye once have been,
I'll sacrifice my hours; for you forsake
The crouded haunts of men, where much is talk'd,
And little reason'd; and with you, indulge
That pleasing pensiveness yourselves inspire,
That meditating mood. Nay ev'n when chill'd
Beneath a wintry sky, her soaring wings
Imagination droops, and her damp'd fires
Burn weak and pale, then present to my mind
Your well-known forms shall rise, spread o'er my thoughts
A transient joy, and frequent be my theme.

And do I walk the Forum?—and is this
The memorable spot, on which have trod
So many patriots, who in freedom's cause
Unsheath'd the sword of justice?—yes it is;
I know it is.—If in a Briton's breast,
Tho' midst the ice of the far northern sea,
Or realms, where slav'ry drags its hopeless chain,
Beams the bright flame of liberty, say Muse,
What must he feel in Rome?—perhaps I dream,
And 'tis illusion peoples the lone void
With yonder band of heroes, on whose brows
Sits awful majesty, and round whose heads
Twines the victorious laurel. In the van,
(For who can all the visionary shades
Of fleeting fancy count?) methinks, I see
The Elder Brutus; venerable man!
Parent, and judge; hard fate! to join two names,
That must for ever jar; but yet behold,

To one great cause still constant, he disclaims
All partial ties, proud only to be call'd
The Father of his Country.—Close behind,
In sullen grief, and in his mantle wrap'd,
The stern Virginius passes: mark his eyes
Rooted to earth! on whose cold bosom stretch'd
Like some fair flow'ret the rude storm hath crop'd,
A slaughter'd virgin lies; from insult sav'd,
From loss of honour, by th'indulgent blow:
Nor, unreveng'd her wounds, since in her fall
Was tyranny destroy'd.—But what's yon troop,
Rushing from out the Capitol, whose looks
Speak terror to beholders? each array'd
In senatorial robes, in every hand
A dagger reeking with the crimson blood
Of one but young in death?—Yet hold!—I know;
For at their head, intrepidly appears
Another Brutus, to th'impatient throng

Exclaiming, eager as they press around,
“That Rome is free, and Cæsar but a name!”

Hail Liberty, daughter of Heav'n! whose smiles
Sustain'd the wand'ring Scythian, cheer the gloom
Of Lapland's tedious night, and wanting which,
The circling moon ne'er sees a people blest
In all her visitations!—found no more,
In these once favour'd seats, where shall our steps
Pursue thy flight?—To where Helvetia's sons,
Midst their cloud-piercing mountains, yet maintain
Their manners uncorrupt? or where the cliffs
Of far-view'd Albion, thy admir'd retreat
Rise, 'midst the world of waters?—There, O maid

Celestial, ever reign; her children teach
To venerate thy name, that the fair band
Of peaceful virtues, which adorn thy train,
May still be theirs; and Britain's fame expand
From pole to pole: while with her freedom charm'd,
Less happy nations tow'rds her sea-girt shores
Shall sighing frequent turn their wishful eyes,
Extol her fortune, and lament their own.

But come, my Muse, thou mistress of my song,
Let us to Tivoli's romantic hill,
In rural beauty rich, where learning's friend
And best protector, good Mæcenas, gave
The recompence to merit (happiest task
Of those whom plenty crowns!) or to the streets

Of desolate Palestrina, throng'd no more
With Fortune's votaries : or the tranquil shades
Of cool Frescati , in whose lov'd retreat
Once Tully thought, and reason'd: then let's seek
The wat'ry beauties of the Alban lake
And Antium's pleasing shores,—or if perchance
A shorter circuit better should delight,
Stealing along, upon the winding banks
Of yellow Tiber (in whose oozy bed
The spoils of many a day, of many an Art,
Lie sepulcher'd:) we'll mount thy sweet ascent,

Madama ; and beneath th'embow'ring trees,
Or in thy past'ral theatre, where first
The Faithful Shepherd to the echoing woods
Sigh'd out his am'rous tale, securely shun
The raging heat, or wait the evening sky,
Ting'd with unnumber'd rays; and from thy height,
Reposing on some bank, by Nature's hand
Richly adorn'd, contemplate all below.—
There let us ruminate on old renown,

And the long story'd page of ages past.
Reflection hath its joy, a pensive calm
That shrouds the soul, and bears it on the wings
Of vagrant thought to Mem'ry's wide domain!—
Now, now indulge it, while we sit and mark
The mad career of Fortune, and behold
Imperial Rome 'midst all her triumphs fall'n!—
So closes ev'ry scene; and thus decay
The works of men: allow'd a little space
To shine, attract,—then fade and be forgot!
For ah! the paths that lead to pow'r and fame,
And those which feel the peasant's silent step,
End in one point: observe Ambition's flight,
And laugh at all the wild fantastic dreams
Of human folly.—Seeking thy embrace,
O Virtue, let us court thee as our good;
Our only treasure, and our only hope;
Our shield to guard us 'gainst a faithless world,

And all its venom'd shafts: for thou unhurt,
Sprung from immortal Truth, serenely bright,
Sustain'st the gen'ral wreck; and like the Sun
Shalt still appear with undiminish'd light,
When all the boasted monuments of pride
Shall sink, and mingle with the dust they hid!

Weep'st thou, my Muse, this changeful state of things?
Nay sure they ask a sigh!—yet rather mourn,
That man unthriftily rejects the gifts
Which nature made him heir to. Heav'n points out
A flow'ry way to all, nor bids its sons
Tread the hard flint, or shun the joys of life.—
Then wherefore, 'midst yon venerable piles
Of pompous ruin, splendid fabrics rise,
And swelling domes?—Why do I hear the voice
Of Superstition, bid her altars blaze?

And see her beckon to the cloyster'd cell
The blooming maid?—Alike the pride of youth,
The blush of beauty yield; their blossoms crop'd
Ere we can say they flourish'd!—hark! the gates
Grate on their hinges to receive their guests,
And hide them from mankind! like gems conceal'd
In the dark womb of earth, whose radiance ne'er
Shall woo th'admiring eye!—Still as their hours,
Their useless hours, creep on, to waste their strength
In painful pennance, at the tinsell'd shrine
Count o'er their beads, and by the midnight lamp
Mutter cold pray'rs, sent from the practis'd lips
More frequent than the heart which rapture fires—
O blind, to think their safety lies in flight!
Or that the steady foot of Virtue fears
To tread the haunts of men! there most she shines,
And conquers by example, stronger far
Than preaching volumes, or recording brass.

Arm'd of herself she braves each hostile dart,
And only asks protection from the skies.

Haste from thy cell, O Memory, and hide
With blackest shades the day when first were rear'd
Th'unsocial Convent's walls. Shock'd at the act,
Man's guardian-angel fled, and left those breasts
Which friendship might have warm'd, and great pursuits
Guided thro' honour to the public good,
A prey to folly, and that partial love,
Which centers in itself.—Then broke the chain
That best cements in bonds of amity
Earth's num'rous family; then sunk the names,
For ever sacred, and for ever dear,
Of parent,—child,—posterity: those ties,
Which to our joys add joy; and pluck the thorns
From half the ills that cross the ways of life!

Still I recall the day, fresh on her cheek
The purple bloom of youth, when Laura bade
The world adieu , resign'd its flatt'ring pomps,
And took the holy veil. I view her still
Beside the altar, like a victim deck'd
Magnificent; fair as the pearly dew
Which on the rose-bud lies, or hangs within
The lilly's cup, what time Hyperion mounts
The eastern hills. Before the mitred priest
She kneels submissive; on the sacred floor
Casting those eyes, whose fires were sure design'd
To light the torch of Venus, and provoke
To am'rous parley; other office now
Destin'd to serve!—Who can unmov'd behold
Such sacrifice!—Yet 'tis her choice, and lo!
She sings consenting!—lo, the prelate cuts

Her graceful hair! and strips it of the gems
That sparkled 'midst her tresses; then conducts
The willing fair-one to the convent's gate,
Where she, in one last, one eternal kiss,
Dissolves all social bonds. The Abbess there
Receives her, and invests her beauteous limbs
(Unfriendly change!) in coarse monastic weeds,
Whilst all the virgin choir in hymns announce,
“Thee, Laura, thee, become the Spouse of “Christ.”

Self banish'd, self condemn'd, now to thy cell,
Too rigid maid, retire, and deck it round
With bones, and skulls, torn from the ravag'd grave,
To point a gloomy moral. Peace be thine,
And calm content! nor ever may thine eyes,
Like wand'ring exiles, cast a longing look
Back to their native, their abandon'd home!

Ne'er may wild Fancy paint in loveliest forms
Those joys thy zeal renounces, nor excite
The fruitless tear for liberty resign'd!

Yet hence, the arts, in ev'ry age, have found
A sure protectress; by Religion call'd
To raise her temples, decorate their walls,
And with unweary'd toil her sainted shrines
Illumine.—Hence, the pencil'd canvas glows
With living forms, whose visionary charms
Hold converse with the eye: the altar hence
Declares the sculptor's skill, as from the hard
And rugged rock, his wonder-working hand
Brings forth the imag'd martyr. Hence behold,
In one vast Pile conjoin'd, proportion, grace,
Strength, elegance, and grandeur; union, form'd
To challenge admiration, and insure

Praise universal; coming nearest that,
Which man must deem perfection.—Music too,
From voice melodious, and the vary'd string,
Sends forth the soul of harmony, like spells
Spreading enchantment round, 'till vaulted choirs
Ring with th'Eternal's praise, and men attempt
What happier Seraphs hymn.—Thrice blest the age
Which virtuous arts adorn! by them the heart
Grows more refin'd, by them the breast is warm'd
To nobler deeds, the laws of civil life
More taught, more study'd: brutal valour turns
To reason'd courage, and the mind awakes
To scenes unknown before; as the calm lake
Shews its embosom'd landscape, which lay hid
While the rough tempest swept it.—Wherefore else
Stand Europe's sons the foremost in renown?
Or why doth India, midst her splendid mines,
Shine undesir'd?—such were the happy times,

When Plato trod the Academic grove,
And spoke of wisdom: such, when Rome beheld
Augustus thron'd; such too, in later years,
When Leo rul'd, and the thrice gen'rous hand
Of Medicis, his hospitable gates
Wide open'd, courting all, whom genius, worth,
Or learning dignify'd, to come, and rear
A Tuscan Athens.—Hail, illustrious Name!
Thee shall the Muses sing in every clime
Where science prospers; Thee, whose friendly arm
Rais'd the neglected mourner, bade her smiles
Spread their mild influence o'er a polish'd state,
'Till thine own Arno flow'd a rival stream
With fam'd Ilissus.—Casting off the veil
That had so long disgrac'd her, Sculpture then,
Lur'd by the voice of her lov'd Angelo ,

Rose from her Gothic trance, proud to assume
Once more her Attic dress: and with her came
Her fair companion Painting; to the world
First shewn by Cimabue , an infant then,
Rude, and unform'd; but by the skilful care
Of Giotto nurs'd, her beauty and her years
Advanc'd together, till she shone complete
In ev'ry virgin charm; sweet as the nymphs,
Who, when Aurora opes the gates of day,
Sport at her side, and to the jocund notes
Of lute and harp, around the Morning Star
Dance festive—Ever sacred be the soil
That gave her birth! Happiest Italia, thine
Hath Heaven mark'd fortunate; by nature deck'd

E'en to profusion. Here the Artist oft,
Or solitary Bard, deep-musing roams,
Eyes thy gay scenes, inhales the Southern breeze,
And catches inspiration.—Dwelling meet
For Fancy!—Here, the pleasing maid display'd
Her varying talents, fix'd her schools, and taught
Her mysteries; selecting from the band
That woo'd her favour, an appointed Few,
The heralds of her art, to raise at once
Hers, and their own renown.—“My sons,” she cry'd,
“(For dear as sons ye are) take from my hand
“These pencils, by myself prepar'd; whose pow'rs
“Shall win ye admiration, lasting praise.
“For to Fame's temple there are many paths,
“Nor for the hero, nor the sage alone
“Wreathes she her laurels; all by honest means
“Who seek them, wear them.—Thou, my “Raphael, go

“Prosp'rous, and on the Vatican's proud walls
“Fix an eternal name; an air divine,
“Sublimity of thought, and touch correct,
“Shall mark thy labours; 'till in One combin'd
“Thine ev'ry pow'r shall shine, and Nature's self
“Grow jealous of thy skill . Corregio, thou,
“By thine own genius great, shalt point new ways,
“Happy in all .—Thy portion, Titian, take
“In harmony of colour. Paolo, thine

“In grace and spirit.—Yours, be judgment deep,
“Caracci, and invention rare; from whom
“The art shall gain new lustre, and a line
“Of learn'd disciples spring .—Expression bold,
“And beauty of design, shall bless thy works,
“Domenichino; elegance and ease,
“My Guido, thine adorn. For grandeur, taste,
“And composition rich, Cortona, live
“Unrival'd; while in force, and shadow strong,
“And every passion of the feeling heart,
“None shall excel thee, Guercin, last, not least.”

She said, and each the magic pencil took,
And wrought with ardour; (truth confirming all

The maid had prophecy'd) and dying, left
Their monuments behind, in princely halls
Erected, or at altars plac'd; where kneels
The penitent, and as he gazes, feels
Devotion rise anew.—O could my Verse
But share the rapture! and embolden'd, paint
In colours meet, these Boasts of modern Rome,
These triumphs of the Palette, and extend
Their praises due!—Yet what avails the wish?
That which was form'd to captivate the eye,
The ear must coldly taste; Description's weak,
And the Muse falters in the vain attempt.

And thou, O Time, whose all-destroying scythe,
Busy, and fatal, as the shaft of death,
No human toil escapes; whose deafen'd ear
No pray'r can sooth; but from this transient scene,
To the dark realms of silence, and of night

Condemn'st the sons of men, and with them, all
Their little pow'rs created; thy resolves
Tho' nought can shake, yet oh, awhile suspend
The purpos'd blow, and with thy wings protect
These precious reliques of a science lost!
That their felt energy may still inspire
A noble emulation, may awake
Each latent spark of genius in the breast,
Till with the circling years new Raphaels rise,
To swell the canvas with enliven'd force,
And fix their great idea on the soul.

These Rivers mark nearly the utmost extent of the Roman conquest.

These statues are esteemed by all as the most compleat pieces of ancient sculpture now at Rome.

The Apollo, which stands in that part of the Vatican which is called the Belvidere.

The fighting and dying Gladiators, universally known by their casts.

In the Villa Farnese on the Palatine hill.

Now called the Campania of Rome: 'tis of very large extent, and from lying uncultivated, its air is very fatal to those who sleep in it during the great heats.

The pillars of the Emperors Trajan and Antoninus Pius.

This arch is at the entrance of the Campo Vacino, from the Amphitheatre, and was erected by the senate in honour of Titus, after the conquest of the Jews.

The temple of Peace stands near to it, was erected on the same occasion, and is esteemed to have been one of the finest temples in Rome.

The ancient name of that country, which is now called Switzerland, comprehending the thirteen cantons, and all the free states in alliance with them.

There are still at Tivoli great remains of the villa of Mæcenas.

Palestrina is about twenty miles from Rome, and was anciently called Præneste; it was famous for its magnificent temple, dedicated to Fortune, of which there are considerable ruins.

Frescati is th ancient Tusculum, and is distant from Rome twelve miles: they still show some remains of Cicero's house; and it is supposed it was here that he composed his Tusculan Disputations.

The Villa Madama is just without Rome, on the banks of the Tiber, upon a beautiful eminence called Monte Mario Trastevere. It was built by Julio de Medicis, who was afterwards Clement the VII. and commands a most extensive view over Rome, and the whole Campania.

There are in this garden the remains of a rural theatre, in which the Pastor Fido was represented, for the first time, before Cardinal Borghese, afterwards Paul the V.

In the following lines is described the ceremony of giving the first veil, on the admission of a nun.

St. Peter's.

Michael Angelo Buonaroti, a Florentine, one of the most celebrated artists in sculpture and painting, but particularly in the former.

Painting was first revived at Florence, by Cimabue, towards the end of the thirteenth century. He was soon after followed by Giotto; and there are remains of both their works in the churches at Florence.

The picture alluded to is the Transfiguration, now in the church of St. Pietro Montorio, at Rome, esteemed the finest picture in the world. Raphael died just as he had finished it, and it was carried before his body to the grave.

It is true, that some of these great masters, after mentioned, possessed several of those talents, which are differently attributed; what therefore is aimed at, in this mention of them, is only to point out that excellency, by which each was more particularly characterized.

Paolo Caliari, more commonly called Paolo Veronese.

The three Caracci founded an academy of painting at Bologna, where many great masters have studied.

Pietro Berettini, usually stiled Pietro da Cortona.

ON THE DEATH OF A LINNET.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LI.

Beneath this fragrant woodbine's shade
A little Songster's bones are laid;
Who, ever innocent and gay,
Felt all his hours glide smooth away;
No guilty passion tore his breast,
No dream of Greatness broke his rest;
He with a cheerful, patient mind
Play'd well that part the Gods assign'd:
Nor matters it, when this be done,
How soon the thread of life is spun!

Ye warbling Tenants of the grove,
Approach this spot, and mark your love;
Light hov'ring round on airy wing
Soft notes of plaintive friendship sing.

So may no prying eye pervade
The hedge-rows where your young are laid,
Nor cruel hand of wanton boy
Your dwellings plunder, or destroy:
Far may you bend your flight from where
The artful Fowler spreads his snare,
And live from ev'ry danger free,
Enjoying still sweet Liberty!

A PASTORAL ODE TO ECHO.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LII.

Sportive Genius of the Green,
Frequent heard, yet never seen,
Tripping o'er with printless speed,
Fairy-like, each flow'ry mead,
Ranging ev'ry hill along,
Stealing ev'ry Plowman's song;
Whether waving in the wood,
Whether skimming o'er the flood,

Panting on the Southern gale,
Or reposing in the vale,
Posting on a Zephyr's wing
Hither come; and with thee bring
Gentle Hope, to solace one
By a cruel Nymph undone:
Hear me, where beneath the shade,
Pensive mourner, I am laid,
Deaf to Music's native note,
Pour'd from many a warbler's throat;
Blind to all which pleas'd before;
Smiling landscapes charm no more.

Waft my sighs to yonder plains
Where the haughty Fair-one reigns,
Who with Beauty's subtle art
Chains, and triumphs o'er my heart;

Let their murmur reach her ears,
Tell her all my Hopes, and Fears,
She alone lost peace can give,
Tell her, 'tis for her I live;
Tell her, to my passion true,
Tho' repuls'd, I still pursue,
That her Graces I adore,
Tell her also—but, no more—
Love admits of no delay,
Little Mimic haste away.

ABSENCE; A PASTORAL ELEGY.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LII.

And must I ever vent my Sighs in air?
Tho' with a true, yet fruitless Passion burn?
In sorrow still lament my Absent Fair?
And will her truant steps no more return?

Ah me! I fear she will disown the Plain,
Our humble Village, and our peaceful Green;
Else in the noisy town she'd ne'er remain
When Spring invites her to the Sylvan scene.

She, who was first to pluck the early rose,
And twine a garland for the May-pole's head;
She, whom our festive Virgins ever chose
Their Rural Leader, is unkindly fled!

Why tarries thus my Fair? when Nature sheds
Her gay profusion o'er the rising year?
When for my flocks the mead its treasure spreads?
And woods and lawns in vernal pride appear?

Perhaps some polish'd Lover courts thy smile,
And pours his flatt'ring accents in thine ear;
Or does some wealthy Lord thine heart beguile,
And keep thee absent from thy shepherd here?—

O! let not Wealth, or Flatt'ry warp thy mind,
Their blandishments will soon deceitful prove,
And thou their victim then too late may'st find
That artless Truth alone is friend to Love!

Love lights his torch at Virtue's sacred fires,
He comes in sweet Simplicity array'd!
Far from the pomp of life by choice retires,
And seeks the covert of its tranquil shade!

No lands have I, no honours to display,
Alike to Fortune, as to Fame, unknown;
I only boast a heart that mourns thy Stay,
A faithful heart, that beats for thee alone.

The bloom of May, like thee, that's ever fair,
The brook clear-bubbling, and the cooling breeze,
E'en the mirth-moving bag-pipe, foe to care,
When thou art from me, lose their pow'r to please,

Ah! what avails to tread the flow'ry field,
Or view the landscape from the clifted Steep!
No objects now their wonted pleasure yield,
But seem like me to languish, and to weep.

While my companions mingle in the Dance,
And each is jocund with his constant maid,
I muse on Thee, bewail my own mischance,
And sullen, set me down beneath the shade.—

Return once more, sweet Nymph, and joy excite,
Bright as thyself shall Nature then seem drest;
Bring back thy blushing Graces to my sight,
Reward my Truth, and make thy Shepherd blest.

WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LII.

I

All hail! thou venerable Pile,
Within whose caverns deep
The boasted Worthies of this Isle
In Death's embraces sleep!

II

Lost in those thoughts thy gloom inspires,
With pensive step I tread;
Extinguish'd feel youth's warm desires,
And muse upon the dead.

III

The tutor'd Mind here justly learns
How human hopes to prize,
As round these trophy'd walls she turns
Her meditating eyes.

IV

The sculptur'd Urn, the mimic Bust,
The Grave in pomp array'd,
Serve but to teach us, Man is dust!
His life a fleeting shade!

V

More than the morning Vapour vain,
Which melts away in air!
Unless to Wisdom he attain,
And Virtue be his care.

VI

Doom'd is his Race in all degrees,
One final lot to know;
Tho' some are warn'd by slow disease,
Some summon'd at a blow!—

VII

In these dark chambers of the Dead,
Life's idle pageant o'er,
Unnotic'd now rests many a head
That once the Diadem wore.

VIII

Heroes, who Conquest's falchion drew,
To Death, sole Victor, yield;
Some who perhaps once Poictiers knew,
Or Cressy's blood-stain'd field!

IX

Tho' Regal Glory mark'd their ways,
Tho' Fortune swell'd their pow'r,
'Twas but a transitory blaze!
The triumph of an hour!

X

See Rivals stretch'd out side by side,
Whose Rage once shook the land!
The tongue of Arrogance how ty'd!
How impotent the hand!

XI

Here let Ambition read its fate,
And check its tow'ring mind;
And those whom wealth, or pride elate,
Here a just lesson find.

XII

Extinguish'd now is Wit's bright fire!
Lost its enliv'ning themes!
Mute and unstrung the Poet's lyre!
Clos'd, Fancy's rapt'rous dreams!

XIII

All silent, Truth's persuasive voice
To holy Prelates given!
Who shew'd the World its wiser choice,
And taught the way to Heaven!

XIV

Nor e'en can Beauty's subtle charms
The claim of Death evade;
Or steal from his rapacious arms
The Love-devoted Maid!

XV

See this declar'd on yon rich shrines
That virgin ashes keep,
Round which the sculptur'd garland twines,
And marble Cupids weep.—

XVI

Yet let us not with such dismay
This dreaded Victor view;
For if he tears our joys away,
He takes our sorrows too.

XVII

To those whom torturing pain opprest
The shelt'ring Grave gives peace;
There the worn traveller finds rest!
The world's hard conflicts cease!

XVIII

There all the wrongs of Fate severe,
In cold oblivion lie!
Grief wounds no more!—for ev'ry tear
Is wip'd from ev'ry eye!—

XIX

Stop, Stranger, whosoe'er thou art,
And to thyself be just;
These mould'ring Tombs address thine heart:
Catch Wisdom from the Dust.

XX

Religion only forms man's soul
Calmly to view his end;
Can his vain passions best controul,
In Life, in Death, a Friend.

XXI

A Day will come in Time's long reign
(Such hope hath Heav'n reveal'd,)
When Graves shall render up again
Those whom they once conceal'd.

XXII

Then shall Creation's Mighty Lord
Bid ev'ry slumb'rer rise;
And Angels' tongues this Truth record
The Virtuous were the Wise!

ON THE MARRIAGE OF TWO FRIENDS.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LIII.

I

The Priest the holy knot hath ty'd;
Returning from the Altar's side
View yonder festive Train:
Their looks the smiles of Gladness show.—
Far from their steps be Care and Woe,
Nor this bright morning stain!

II

Thrice happy they, whose faithful hands
Are knit in Hymenæal bands,
Whom strong affection fires!
Pair'd by free choice, who nobly slight
That Demon Int'rest, at whose sight
Love's sacred torch expires!—

III

Hail! Marriage, from whose genial source
In purest stream flows Friendship's Course
To cheer the human heart!
Thou best canst bid each Virtue live,
A keener sense to Pleasure give,
And blunt Misfortune's dart!

IV

Let gay Lothario ever seek
False transport on the Wanton's cheek,
And wedded Faith upbraid:
But by his restless passions torn
Still shall he roam about forlorn,
A poor, unsocial shade.

V

Ne'er shall his narrow bosom prove
The varied charms of lawful Love,
By Time, by Worth refin'd:
The mutual wish, the mutual joy,
And those delights which ne'er can cloy,
The raptures of the mind!

VI

When man in Paradise remain'd,
And o'er that new Creation reign'd
Which might endear his life,
He view'd it as a gaudy waste,
A world of sweets he could not taste
Till Heav'n had made a Wife.

VII

Then, Eden breath'd a softer gale,
The landscap'd hill, the flow'ry vale,
With wonder caught his eye;
Whilst his fair Eve beside him stood,
How great! how glorious! and how good!
Was all beneath the sky.—

VIII

Come, smiling Concord, to thy care
Jocund receive this wedded Pair,
And lead them to thy bow'r;
Where Truth's bright wreath shall bind their head,
Content their path with roses spread,
And Love his blessings show'r.—

IX

So pass their years!—and grey in age
Still may the world their hopes engage,
And they new Youth attain,
Whilst circled by a virtuous Race,
The records of themselves they trace,
And tread back Life again!

TO A LADY; FROM HER DEAD BULLFINCH.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LIII.

Why does my Mistress mourn my fate?
Or murmur at my alter'd state?
Escap'd from that diurnal care
Which Birds, like other mortals, share;
No more a slave to Hope and Sorrow,
The poor Dependent on to-morrow!—
When I look back on life, I view
Nothing to raise regret, but You.
A little trifling part I play'd,
From infancy a captive made;

Your love alone could solace me,
And balance loss of Liberty!—
The grateful tribute from your eye,
The fond remembrance, pitying sigh!
Since such a lot to me is given,
I envy not the Bird of Heav'n.

But, gentle Maid, tho' life seems fled,
I'm only in appearance dead;
In Greece a Sage did once maintain
That bodies die, but souls remain,
And without any creature seeing,
Slip into some new kind of being,
Compell'd to gain a safe retreat
In the first lifeless Form they meet.

Thus I, pursuant to his plan,
Tho' late a Bird, am now a Man;

Snug in the body of a Beau,
I flutter round where'er you go;
For ever ready at your Call
To deal the cards, or join the ball.
A light, fantastic, merry thing,
As usual, always on the wing,
I'll cherup at all public places,
Toast you as fairer than the Graces,
And dangle, flirt, protest, and sue,
As other pretty fellows do.

And haply if on me should shine
Those smiles which once were wholly mine,
Would you caress me, now prefer'd,
As you caress'd me when a Bird,
Grant, Heav'n! I may a Man remain,
And never change my Form again!

AN ODE

[_]

WRITTEN AT BAIÆ IN THE SPRING OF M.DCC.LV.

I

As pensive on thy silent shore,
Thy mould'ring Temples I explore,
And breathe an air serene;
Whilst I on all thy beauties gaze,
O Baiæ! in unstudy'd Lays
I'll trace thy joyous scene.
'Tis not the rapture of poetic fire,
But that harmonious ease which thy soft gales inspire!

II

Where'er our wand'ring steps are born,
Gay Plenty pours her lavish horn,
Blessing thy fertile ground;
And Phoebus with his golden rays
Upon the trembling water plays,
Glitt'ring on all around:
Whilst the rich Orange, and the Myrtle join'd
With many a fragrant plant, perfume the wanton wind.

III

Lo! on thy Bay's enchanting side
Parthenope in stately pride
Rears her majestic head!
Still more to aggrandize the View,
Behold where dire Vesuvius too,
Thy Safety, and thy Dread,
With far-heard echos makes the mountains nod,
Flames with eternal Fires, and thunders like a God!—

IV

With pallid Looks, and languid Eyes,
Chill'd by the blasts of northern skies,
The Stranger seeks thy coast;
Soon with a blush his visage burns,
The cheerful smile of Health returns,
Such charms thy breezes boast!
Jocund he springs, the happy clime adores,
Bears back his strength renew'd, and blesses Baiæ's shores.

V

When Rome's dread banners were unfurl'd
And flutter'd o'er a subject world,
Dominion's pride to swell,
This spot, its Chiefs with raptur'd eyes
Beheld, here bade their Villas rise,
At Baiæ fond to dwell.—
And, wretched matron! Agrippina, here
Oft' sigh'd a Nero's Crimes!—Oft dropt a Mother's Tear!

VI

Nor to the Great, the Fam'd alone
Was this delicious region known,
The Muses sought its shade;
Here sweetest Virgil rang'd along
Maturely plann'd his artful song,
And all his skill display'd:
Bade the Cumean Grot to ages last,
And o'er Avernus' Lake a darker horror cast.

VII

What verse, chaste Bard! like thine could show
The wandring Trojan's vary'd woe?
Describe his tortur'd mind?
Or that keen anguish which opprest
Th'enamour'd Dido's royal breast,
Her Hero too unkind:
With his hard toils Lavinia to obtain,
And poor Evander's grief for his dear Palla's slain!—

VIII

Come, bright-ey'd Fancy! hand-in-hand
Let's range o'er this poetic land,
And wind our pensive way,
Pause, and contemplate as we pass
Each time-worn Fabric's ruin'd mass,
Still beauteous in decay:
Now that the vernal hours so much invite,
And all th'enraptur'd soul awakes to new delight!

IX

Each tuneful Bird his tribute pays,
Each Flow'r its glowing hues displays,
Free'd from a wintry Tomb;
Myriads of new-born Insects run
To hail th'invigorating Sun,
Gay in their transient bloom.—
What joy, Instructive Nymph, with thee to rove,
And mark Creation's works in one strict order move!—

X

This constant Change which Nature feels,
Man's pictur'd history reveals,
Methinks I hear Thee say,
Doom'd like the Lilly high to spread
A little while his graceful head,
The blossom of a day!
Then drooping sad, conclude his fleeting reign,
And sinking, shed his leaves, to bud and bloom again

XI

Life's cheerful Spring and Summer past,
Our sober Autumn comes at last,
And warns us to the earth;
Philosophy becalms our breast,
In peace Religion bids us rest,
And wait a second Birth,
When to a Spring eternal we shall rise,
And bursting from the Grave, shoot upward to the Skies.

The ancient name of Naples.

THE HELVETIAD: A FRAGMENT.

[_]

WRITTEN AT GENEVA IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LVI

Now shine auspicious on my arduous task,
Ye Sisters of the Lyre; who on the top
Of fair Parnassus blooming garlands wreathe,
To bind the temples of those happy few
Ye deign to call your own!—'Tis not enough
That I invok'd you, when my daring pen
First trac'd this Theme, of Freedom; still vouchsafe
To guide it onward;—for I call you not,
Celestial Maids, to hang an amorous Lay
On Beauty's shrine, or aid some trivial song;
'Tis your own cause—'Tis yours to rend the veil.

Of dark Oblivion, and bring forth to Day
Virtue's firm votaries!—To fix on high,
Beyond Time's envious reach, the Hero's name,
On Fame's immortal scroll; that it may thence
Shine to succeeding Ages, and inspire
Mankind to imitate what you record!—

'Twas now that hour of silence and repose,
The Dead of Night, when Darkness, like the Grave,
Hides all distinction—when the Fairy Tribe,
As ancient story goes, beneath the bush
Of rose, or woodbine, hold nocturnal sports;
And Witches crouching under blasted trees,
Mutter their mischiefs—restless, and forlorn,
Alien alike to Virtue, as to Peace,
In some sequester'd corner pines the Wretch
Whom conscious Guilt torments—now all the pomp.
Which pours its idle flatt'ries round the Great,

And dazzles and deludes the vulgar eye,
Remains unnotic'd; and awaits the morn
To ask again its homage—Calmly sunk
In slumbers such as Temperance insures,
On his low pallet stretch'd, the Lab'rour lies,
Pillow'd by soft Content; nor sighs to know
The dreams of Princes, near whose stately beds
Pale Care his melancholy vigil keeps.—

The village clocks around the Lake struck Twelve,
And cross Lucerno's waters with shrill note
Twang'd on the silent air; speaking the hour,
Th'important hour's approach, destin'd to fix
The future fortune of this injur'd Land;
But speaking it unto those ears alone
That conscious knew the summons—Nor did they
Such monitor require—for slowly creeps
The tardy foot of Time, when the soul teems

With deeds of import, and impatient waits
The executing moment.—Onward came
Led by three different paths, the Patriot Chiefs,
By Fate selected, midst these rugged scenes
To plant that Freedom, which in after years
Should shoot, should flourish, and its blessings spread,
O'er all Helvetia's Sons.—Pensive they walk'd,
Warm'd by such virtuous ardour as inspir'd
The Roman spirit, when the name of Rome
In rigid honor bright, from the wide world
Claim'd reverence—Faithful at th'appointed place
They duly join'd.—It was a clay-wall'd Hut,
Bosom'd in tufted trees, which on the verge
Of craggy pastures sloping to the Lake
Stood hid in silent shade; where, when the heats
Of Summer rag'd, the shepherd-boy was wont
Careless to stretch his limbs, what time his flock
Cropp'd the sweet wild-thyme, or the umbrage sought

Of some o'er-shadowing cliff.—'Tis not the place
Which dignifies the act!—The noble mind
Is ev'ry where the same!—Nor let the Great
Who hold their councils but in tapstry'd halls,
Deride this simple scene.—O! would to Heav'n!
That all who sit in Senates, and decide
The plans of Empire, thither went with minds
As firmly independent, or as warm
To feel with indignation ev'ry wrong
That shakes their Country's peace!—The door now clos'd,
Suspended from a beam one lamp was hung
To cheer the gloomy walls; and in each face
Such greeting shew'd, as is far stronger told
By looks, than language.—When De Stauffach thus
Op'd the nocturnal meeting—“Welcome, Friends,
And welcome Brothers; for the name of Friend,
As that of Brother, best belongs to those
Whom one good Principle, one honest Fame

Unite in Love: albeit that the world
Adulterates the titles!—We are met,
Like pious Children round an aged Sire,
To prop his feeble arm, his silver hairs
From infamy protect, and to his griefs
Speak comfort—such our task—and such a Sire
Our Country is; far other times than these
Once us'd to know—This State, which first beheld
Our dawn of life, which rear'd our youthful years,
Which saw us shoot to manhood, and hath yet
Preserv'd our properties, now calls aloud
Complaining; summons ev'ry honest breast
To feel its wrongs, and with a parent's voice
Chides our unkind delay: each hour we breathe,
The stern Vicegerents of proud Austria
Tread on our sacred rights! judging their wills
To be our only laws.—Say, shall the tide
Of wanton pow'r o'erwhelm us? shall we sink,

Nor buffet with the torrent?—Is it meet
We stand unmov'd spectators? tamely gaze
Whilst the destroying flame lays all things waste?
Rather let's leap into the funeral pile,
And with our Country's ashes, mix our own.—
He, who was born to Freedom, ne'er forgets
The charms of Liberty, or e'er can bear
Oppression's iron hand!—Yet think, my friends,
Smiling at human arrogance, aloft
Th'Eternal Justice sits, with arm prepar'd
To crush the ripen'd Tyrant, and avenge
The conflicts of the Brave—There rest your trust—
Haply through this dim labyrinth, his hand
May shape our course, and point in our distress
Some honourable means to loose our chains
E'er yet they bind too hard, e'er yet sweet Hope
Be but an empty name.—Better to die
Than live inglorious! happier far not be.

100

Than be dependent on another's nod!—
Ye guardian rocks, that round our little states
Irregularly noble, raise your heads
Majestic, down whose woody sides the rills
Urge their wild course; how jocund was I wont
To gaze upon you all?—how raptur'd once
Rang'd I your clifted steeps? with Nature charm'd,
And fair Simplicity:—and thou, lov'd Lake,—
Who play'st in murmurs at their stony feet
Thou too my joy hast witness'd: seen the smiles
Content paints on the peaceful brow!—But now,
Ye guardian rocks, that round our little states
Irregularly noble, raise your heads
Majestic, down whose woody sides the rills
Urge their wild course, no longer do I range
Jocund, your clifted steeps; the echo sweet
Of Liberty no more allures!—And thou
Lov'd Lake, who murmur'st at their stony feet,

101

Must henceforth cease to witness to my joy,
Nor more canst charm! for tyranny, alas!
Hath stain'd thy streams, and every spring is foul!”—

Here paus'd the Patriot; for adown his cheek
Quick roll'd th'involuntary tear, and stop'd
His fault'ring voice; it was the tribute paid
By Sensibility to Social Love!—
Not for himself he wept, no private loss:
His gen'rous mind embrac'd a suff'ring land
And unborn generations—Tears like these
How rarely see we now!—Yet howsoe'er
A sordid interest, or selfish views
Mislead an erring world, the human soul
Ne'er shines more bright, than when she feels, and aids
The wretchedness of others!—On such worth
Approving Heav'n looks down, and, smiling, bids
Recording angels register the deed!—

102

With countenance attentive, Furst took in
His friend's complaint;—and added, “Nor to me
Less odious is the cause which brings us here;
'Tis ever present to my thoughts; when morn
Calls up the healthful Hind, or evening calm
Bids peace to man;—but unto such as me
Bids it in vain! for restless slumber they
Who taste Affliction's cup: on my worn heart
Still preys the bitter draught, and mocks repose—
Or when tir'd Nature haply yields, even then
Fancy for ever pregnant, to my sense
Pictures her visionary shapes, nor scarce
Allows my sorrows pause.—Last night I dreamt,
(Nor slight a dream, tho' reason interdict
Too fond a credit) that beneath the shade
Of a tall spreading oak, whose branches cheer
My small paternal Farm, I musing sat
My Country's fortune; how the hand of Fate

103

To states, to princes, and to private men
Portions their bliss and woe; when I beheld
An aged Form approach me, which portray'd
My Father's person, whose dear mem'ry yet
Is green amongst us;—Drest methought he stood
As he was wont; and tho' my throbbing heart
Panted for utt'rance, yet a tremor seiz'd
My agitated spirits, and deny'd
My tongue its office; whilst with aspect mild,
And looks that breath'd benevolence and love,
He thus reliev'd me—“Far dispell'd, my son,
“Be all that can alarm thee; view me here
“A friendly visitant; nor unto me
“Unknown thy suff'rings, or the worthy flame
“Thy soul is nourishing! I only come
“To give it life.—If honour's virtuous seeds
“Are not extinct, which in thy youthful mind
“With early care I cherish'd, let them now

104

“In vigour shoot, and blossom into fame.—
“Affliction is our touchstone, she alone
“Best shews us what we are, and summons up
“In the great hour of trial and effect,
“A strength we knew not of!—The time, my son,
“Is nearly ripe, when this long-injur'd land
“Shall claim thy service—Give it as a man;
“And thank the Heav'ns who call thee to assert
“The glorious cause of Freedom.”—Saying this
He seem'd in act to part, whilst at his feet
I threw me to embrace his rev'rend knees,
And urge his longer stay;—when into air
He melted like a vapour.—On my sense
Yet still th'impression of the Phantom lives;
And there shall live, and prove my guiding Star.—
The time is near (so said the honour'd Shade)
To claim our services—And how so well
Can we restore our groaning Country's peace,

105

As from the hand of Pow'r boldly to wrest
The staff of Office, whose oppressive sway
Too long we've suffer'd?—Of their solemn trust
When those ordain'd the Guardians of our laws
Become forgetful, or misuse their charge,
Plum'd in authority; 'tis Virtue then,
Nay our strict duty, to protect ourselves,
And thunder in their ears, They are but men,
As such responsible.—For say, my friends.
What is the cement of our concord here?
Or what the bonds which hold in amity
The peopled world?—Sprung from one gen'ral bed,
Great Nature's children, we are all born free,
And claim our birthright—But that Pow'r supreme,
Who fashion'd first our complicated frame,
Ne'er meant the soul of man should be controul'd
By those base views which only move around
The centre of self-love—Our mutual wants,

106

Our mutual means of aid, call'd forth to view
Each nobler virtue, and awak'd the mind
To Friendship—to Benevolence—to Fame.—
Hence rose Society; Hence those dear names
Which heart to heart unite,—and man to man;
Hence all the tend'rest ties our bosoms know,—
Hence Life's sublimest raptures—Nations met
As one vast family, to share alike
The future Cloud, or Sun-shine.—While the cause,
Or injury of each, was felt by all,
And strictly judg'd—Rulers were chosen out
As gen'ral Parents, to protect their rights
And vindicate their wrongs; whilst unto them
Honor, obedience, and respect were due,
As their just tribute paid.—This mutual chain
Links States, and Empires; 'tis the compact firm
Of kings and subjects; but if once 'tis broke,
Or should this gen'ral Parent e'er betray

107

His sacred trust, or prove a gen'ral foe;
The reign of Nature must again return,
And her first, strongest law, is—Self-defence.”

To whom, thus Melchtal—“Worthy countrymen,
I with an eager ear have unto both
Listen'd attentively; and all you've said
Seems to wear Reason's stamp.—His native rights
Man never should relinquish—for the soul
By Tyranny feels its bright powers debas'd,
Its faculties relax'd—'Tis Virtue's grave!—
And all those generous springs on which she moves
When Liberty's fair smiles protect her hopes,
There lie entomb'd!—their ashes but produce
A principle of conduct tenfold base,
I even shrink to name it,—abject Fear!—
The Freedom by our Ancestors obtain'd,
And unto us devolv'd, we hold in Trust;

108

It is a sacred Pledge left in our hands,
Of which we're but the Guardians, strictly bound
To yield it up to our posterity
Pure, and unstain'd.—O then, let Pity's eye
Dart thro' the veil of years, and view the Race
Who shall spring from us; and in after times,
When we're consign'd to dust, live in our stead,
Tread the same path, with passions, and with hopes
Like us endu'd, and all their claims as just!—
This crisis slipt, they may hereafter want
Force to regain what we ignobly lost!—
But grant they should—By Time the mind is taught
Patient to bear its ills; and as the rays
Of Liberty decline, in the dark mist
Which clouds its setting, Public Virtue sinks!—
The rampant Lion taken in the toils
Shakes fierce his shaggy mane, and combats hard
To rend the chain that holds him; but his Cub

109

Rear'd in a cage, unconscious of the joy
To range the wilds, fawns at his keeper's feet,
And, quite forgetful of his nature, yields.”—

“Believe me, it transports my swelling soul,”
Rejoin'd De Stauffach, “to observe your breasts
Thus kindled by a flame which noble minds
Alone can feel—Truth hangs upon your lips,
And ev'ry argument with trumpet voice,
Cries “sleep no more,” Danger is at our gate,
And flutters round our roof with Raven wing,
The prophet of our fate—That which you urge
For our Posterity, is that of all
Which wounds the deepest, and pleads most within.—
Were we alone the suff'rers, we alone
Could bear the lot—our morn of life is o'er—
'Twere but to pass its ev'ning with disgust,
And close it somewhat hardly!—But for those

110

Who must succeed us—should we cloud their hopes,
Turn all their flow'ry walks to paths of thorns,
Entail distress, and, sad inheritance!
Bequeath them nought but Bondage—O! alas!
Think how severely they would judge of us
Who saw the storm, yet left untry'd the means
To screen them from its blast!—Babes would learn
To stammer out the base perfidious names
Of Melchtal, Furst, and Stauffach; and old Men,
Sitting in Summer eves before their doors
With all their gather'd family around,
Relate our shameful story!—Heav'n! avert
A guilt so deep as this!—If that our names,
When we've descended to the realms of Death,
And Earth's return'd to Earth, by chance exist,
Ne'er let Reproach sit mocking o'er our grave,
And with contemptuous hand, point—“here they lie!”—
No—let us act, that whether we are doom'd

111

To triumph, or to sink, our future Race
May joy to own us, may revere our deeds,
And crown our memories with grateful praise.”

As ere the deep-ton'd Thunder's voice is heard
Th'anticipating Lightning darts around
A momentary notice; so, with looks
That quicker than his tongue his feelings told,
Furst thus exclaim'd—“There needs not further words
To urge thy purpose; Thee, our faithful guide,
We'll follow resolute—and what I speak
Is but our common wish; my Melchtal's eyes
Look approbation—point us out the path,
We'll loiter not behind.—How poor is life!
Its joys how chill'd, when Liberty is lost!
If joys may then exist; when the curb'd mind
No longer dares to reason, but perceives
At ev'ry turn a barrier, and must bow

112

To each fantastic mandate—'Tis a state
Fit but for Coward slaves, who shrink at death,
And guard on hardest terms a fickle flame
Each wind may terminate—The truly Brave
Know no such feelings, but with fix'd Resolve
Combat Misfortune, nor from Danger start.—
And many such as these, our cause divulg'd,
We'll find amidst our friends, our destin'd lot
Of Fame, or Peril, emulous to share.
Justice shall guide us, and her champions arm
With that good sword which half obtains the prize,
And oft to Vict'ry leads—a Conscious Right.”—

Thus plainly reason'd They—their maxims drawn
From Nature's artless volume, read by minds
Which Virtue had inform'd.—Compar'd to this,
How vain the idle sophistry of schools!
The pride of pedantry, or Learning's boast!—

113

Thank Heav'n! nor needs there these, to teach mankind
Their duty to themselves, and to the World!—

“Nor think that we alone are pointed out,”
Resum'd De Stauffach, “by the hand of Fate,
And mark'd unfortunate; look but around
The peopled Globe, in Time's revolving course
All have their Tyrants, all their hours of Woe!—
And as I well perceive the gen'rous sparks
Of Freedom glow within you, let me now
Augment their ardour, whilst I open lay
Th'historic page, and to your ears unfold
A deed of Fame, unknown perchance to you.

“Tho' lock'd from Infancy, within the Bounds
Of these your barrier mountains, somewhat sure
You must have heard of Rome? the glorious seat
Of Arts and Arms, once Mistress of the World;

114

To whom obedient Kings in ev'ry clime
Submissive bow'd, and own'd Her pow'r supreme?
You may have heard of Cæsar too, whose sword
Subdu'd the brave Helvetii, and defil'd
These peaceful regions with the stains of War—
Become the Leader of those num'rous hosts
Who rul'd the fate of Empires, round his head
The blooming laurel twin'd, and the loud voice
Of each Plebeian rais'd him to the skies:
But not content to share those high rewards
The Roman state conferr'd, his restless soul,
Lur'd by Ambition's visionary schemes,
Aspiring still, strove to be Lord of all.—

“But while this cloud hung gath'ring over Rome,
A few there were who mark'd with jealous eye
This daring Man; saw, that at ev'ry step
He trampled on their Rights, that ev'ry day

115

But pictur'd Freedom lost—E'en now my heart,
By our too sad similitude of Woe
Feels their distress!—Shall I go on, and say
How oft they met? how oft deplor'd their fate,
And pour'd their thoughts into each other's breast?
Or of the league they swore to end his reign
Who thus had all the various rays of Pow'r
Centred within himself?—But I should first
Have told you, chief of these was Cæsar's friend,
By name a Brutus, in his fost'ring smiles
Rais'd, and protected; but whose patriot mind,
When by this gen'ral insult rouz'd, at once
Cancell'd all private ties—“Ye righteous Gods!
“If that I err,” he cry'd, as on the sword
Which seal'd their mutual oath, his hand he laid,
“If that I err, my error wash my crime!
“Much to my Friend I owe,—my Country more;
“And judge me, if I not esteem the debt
“This native soil demands, beyond the bonds

116

“Which link our partial int'rests.”—To be brief,
His fatal hour was fix'd, and each prepar'd
To stamp it with renown—In blaze of day,
Amidst th'assembled senate as he sat,
They plung'd their daggers in his breast, and gave
To Rome once more its Freedom—Victim like,
Thus mighty Cæsar fell, on whom mankind
Had rivetted so long their wond'ring eyes,
A sacrifice to Justice.—Yet his dust
Fame still protects, scatt'ring around his Urn
Full many a flow'r, which graceful would have breath'd
Their blushing sweets, had not a Tyrant's name
With its dark shadow half their lustre hid!”—

He ended, and what time he thus describ'd
Rome's bravest Soldier, and her direst Foe,
With greedy ear the list'ning Two imbib'd
The Home-felt Tale, which shew'd the rigid force

117

Of public Virtue, that could thus prevail
O'er an admiring People, and subdue
E'en Friendship's tend'rest claims—nought they reply'd,
But side by side stood rooted; till at length
With ardent looks, they mutually grasp'd hands,
And shot their souls in at each other's eye,
Pregnant with noblest purpose—well conceiv'd
Of Both—for where concurrent Passions meet
There needs no Herald's trumpet to announce
Their meaning!—Language here had all been vain!
Unequal to the workings of the Mind—

The awful silence of this solemn Scene
De Stauffach breaking, thus his speech renew'd.
“I see you're deeply touch'd—and who like you,
Born with such spirits as are given to curb
Th'Oppressor's arrogance, can hear unmov'd
Th'achievements of the Brave?—In gen'rous Minds

118

There is a sympathy by Nature's hand
Wisely imprest, making them prompt to feel
Their mutual Injuries!—yet, thanks to Heav'n,
Albeit the Insults of Licentious Pow'r,
As it did Rome, hath gall'd us with its yoke,
Our lot's less hard; the part we have to act
Asks not the dagger's aid—for ill is drawn
The sword that stirs up civil strife;—to peace
It rarely leads!—When forth in terrors stalk
Rage, and Revenge, who fitly can describe
The Horrors that ensue? or the dread scenes
Of bloody Contest? which too often miss
Their purpos'd good; and like to Rivers swell'd
With sudden rains, lay waste the fertile banks
They should have bless'd!—Let us forthwith select
A faithful band, and with matureness weigh
The means of doing right—Our ripen'd strength,
And ripen'd councils, then may boldly dare

119

To disallow the tributary claims
Of haughty Austria, nay disown her sway
So long usurp'd, and from our States expell
Her sanction'd Rulers, never to return
Whilst e'en one arm is left to cross their way.—
What now remains for us, but here to pledge
Our Lives, our Fortunes, and our Fame, in bonds
That death alone shall cancel, ev'ry joy
Henceforth renouncing, till we have restor'd
Peace to our injur'd Country, or have fall'n
Undaunted victims of the gen'ral wreck.—
This be our League, and with a warm embrace
Thus let us sign it on each other's breast.”

So saying, close around each other's neck
In cordial clasp they twin'd their folded arms,
Firm seal of plighted Faith! while strongly throbb'd
Each heart, as bearing record, and the tear

120

Which glister'd tremulous on ev'ry eye
Stood prologue of that manly, social love
Which Virtue stir'd within—“Thus let us stand”
They cry'd, “a Bulwark 'gainst our Foes;—And Thou,
Great God of Justice, from thy starry Throne
Witness, and aid our Truth!—And ye bright Saints
Who once like us were mortal, and like us
Once trod the paths of Sorrow, liv'd in times
Of trials most severe, and like us doom'd
To combat hard for Freedom!—wheresoe'er
Ye unembody'd dwell, still to our minds
Be present—By your great Examples fir'd,
Let us be taught firmly to persevere,
And learn from You,—to triumph,—or to fall!”—

Thus clos'd the Council, for they now had mark'd
The far advance of Night, and lest the eye
Of prying Jealousy might o'er their deeds

121

Suspicion cast, the ever faithful voice
Of Prudence caution'd to withdraw—So each
Seeking again the way by which he came,
Homeward return'd; determin'd to embrace,
As Heav'n should will,—or Liberty—or Death.—

Congenial Spirits! Great as those that grac'd
The Greek or Roman Annals, when they shone
Most glorious—If aright th'enraptur'd Muse
Can read Futurity's dim page, this League
On Virtue's firm foundation shall uprear
That Freedom, which Helvetia's Sons shall know
For long succeeding ages!—As aloft
From its slight shaft the Cedar shoots, and spreads
Wide its extending branches; from this Night
So shall such ardour for the Public Good,
Such thirst of Glory spring, that far around
Its blessings stretching, neighb'ring States shall strive

122

To emulate your deeds, and stand enroll'd
Confed'rates in your fame!—Austria shall rue
Her hour of Insult; and when bright array'd
In all the pomp of battle, she returns
To punish your Revolt, Mongarten's hills,
(Which like Thermopylæ that saw o'erthrown
The mighty host of Persia,) shall instruct
Th'astonish'd World, what Valour can achieve,
When Liberty and Justice are its prize—
Yes—at Mongarten's Pass, the Muse surveys
Your little Bands, firm as the Rocks they guard,
By you conducted, so appal the foe,
Tho' more than trebly trebling your account,
That all their routed Legions, pale with shame,
In terror fly before you—This Great Day
Confirms your glorious triumph, and that Peace
Austria shall shake no more!—Nor less in Arms
Than Wisdom conqu'ring, well-digested Laws,

123

Temp'rance, and simplest Manners, shall invite
Alliances so strengthen'd, as shall give
Your self-protected Regions a new Name,
And new Existence; which, whilst by your Sons
Kept uncorrupted, will, I trust, endure
Long as your cloud-top'd mountains!—Unto you,
First Founders of these blessings, shall be paid,
To latest times, in ev'ry grateful form,
Your Country's tribute;—The historic page
Shall chronicle your worth—And Sculptures rude,
With zeal-wrought Paintings, both inform and fire
Th'unletter'd mind!—Nay, ev'ry spot, where once
Ye met, or dwelt, shall Piety devote
To sacred use, and dedicate to Heav'n!—

Those value Freedom most, and guard it best,
Who bought it dearest!—Then, Illustrious Chiefs!
If in those realms where virtuous spirits rest

124

When human toils are o'er, aught here below
Can give an added transport to your Joys,
Amidst these honours of your native States,
For what your Wisdom plann'd, your Valour won,
Deem not this tributary Verse the least,
Since it is offer'd by a Briton's hand!—

And now Hyperion with his ruddy cheeks
Rose from his wat'ry bed, and to his car
Leash'd his swift steeds, impatient to begin
Their Course diurnal: while the opening light
Preceding like his Herald, shot its rays
O'er all the Eastern hills—The Village-Cock
Stretching his wings awakes the lab'ring Hind,
And strutting round his cottage, loud proclaims,
With clarion shrill—the Advent of the morn.—

125

THE TABULA VOTIVA,

Occasioned by a Visit received from two young Ladies, while under Confinement with a swelled Eye.

[_]

WRITTEN AT GENEVA IN M.DCC.LVI.

The sharpness of the cutting Bize,
Too apt the human Frame to seize,
Which blowing o'er this beauteous Lake,
Can each soft muscle pris'ner take,
Had so clos'd up Amyntor's eye,
He scarce could any object spy;

126

A cambric handkerchief around
The weak side of his head was bound;
Like Justice, whom we often find
By Artists painted as half blind.—
Three days he breath'd the chamber air,
And idled in his elbow chair;
Nay e'en the fourth had done the same,
But that to Rumour's Ears it came,
Who whisper'd it around the town,
Till 'twas a serious matter grown;
Enlarging as she went about,
First 'twas one eye,—then both were out.—

But, Reader, let me here express
My wish a little to digress,
That I may paint this Gossip, Rumour,
Offspring of Mischief and Ill-Humour;

127

Of Truth regardless, none she'll spare,
But spreads her Falshoods ev'ry where.
Drop but a hint, she forms a Tale,
And with it instantly sets sail;
In circulation swift it flies,
Indors'd by fifty other Lies.—
Now at the Change her stand she takes,
There groans, and Public Credit shakes;
And e'er the imposition's known,
The mischief's done, the Beldame flown.—
Sometimes at Routs you'll see her flaunt,
A tawdry, sharp-nos'd, Maiden Aunt;
Who steady to her lov'd vocation,
Whispers away a Reputation.
“So, Ma'am, you've hear'd, no doubt, Miss Prue
“Is gone with Col'nel you know who,
“Lord who'd have thought it!—but her Mother
“Was, between friends, just such another;

128

“Our Sex have lost all shame, I think;
“Poor Lady Grace has ta'en to drink,
“Few will believe it, but I clearly
“Have seen it,—tho I love her dearly.—
“Pray, Madam, what do People say
“Of our griev'd friend, the Widow Gray?
“I hear, tho' broken-hearted reckon'd,
“Her Footman's talk'd of for her Second,”—
Rumour by turns all dresses tries,
Now splendid—now in mean disguise;
Beneath the latter shape, you'll meet
The Wand'rer oft in London Street
As ragged as a Russian Bear,
With Ginshop voice, and matted Hair,
Proclaiming, while her head she louses,
The King's Harangue to both the Houses;
Or bawling with more dismal screech
The Tyburn Hero's dying Speech,

129

As how he clos'd his guilty life,
With the last letter sent his wife.—
And this is She the Æneid sings,
With fifty mouths, and fifty wings,
Who flew about, than wind much faster,
To tell of Dido's sad Disaster.—

The Trojan Horse, as Virgil notes,
Was cramm'd with Men instead of Oats,
Rumour, like him, cannot digest
What is for common stomachs drest;
In her's, fresh News you still must throw in,
To keep her mouth for ever going.—

Amyntor's Case now being known,
As we've remark'd, throughout the Town,
A Thought came into Fanny's mind,
A Thought benevolent and kind,

130

To bring with her her Sister Kitty,
And cheer his roof in gentle pity:
For sure great Condescension is it,
When the Fair make the Blind a visit!
Good Nature led them by the hand,
And close behind, in social band,
The blooming Graces debonair
Came tripping round this lively Pair.

And here again I might digress,
To sing their Beauty and Address,
Their polish'd Manners, and their Ease,
Sweet Power, and sweeter Wish, to please;
But I conceive 'twould better run,
If by a Simile 'twere done.
Thus, when the Queen of Love, and Juno,
Who was a greater Queen as you know,

131

On Ida's Top their Rival met
To see who could the Pippen get,
Beauty There won the Judge's eyes—
Here Sense and Beauty shar'd the Prize.—

And now behold them with the Squire,
Sipping their tea beside the fire,
With sprightly wit, and cheerful joke
That liveliest converse could provoke.
No more Amyntor felt his Pain,
'Twas Ease, 'twas Joy return'd again:
The Eye disdaining to be bound,
Impatient felt to peep around,
Like a good Fencer play'd its part,
And boldly push'd in Tierce and Quart;
Its ardour made each fibre play,
Gave it new strength to force its way,

132

And exercis'd its pow'r so well
That down the cambric bandage fell:
Nor is it strange,—for where's the Eye
That would be clos'd when Beauty's by?
Beauty can by its magic spell
The gath'ring Gloom of Life repel,
Its beams their radiant brightness dart,
And make each hov'ring shade depart.—

Thus Phoebus in a misty morning,
Upon the Eastern Mountains yawning,
Just risen out of Thetis' Bed,
Throws off his cap, and shakes his head;
His Eyes he rubs, his Arms he stretches,
Calls for his Nags and Leather Breeches;
Night's Vapours all before him fly,
And well they know the reason why:

133

In Prose or Verse Truth must be told,
This Phoebus is a Sportsman bold,
And hunts the Clouds throughout the Air
As Men on Earth hunt Fox and Hare.—

The Cure perform'd, what can I less
Than warmest Gratitude express?
I would a Votive Chaplet twine
With Myrtle, and with Eglantine,
The vary'd Hyacinth so sweet,
The Moss-Rose, and the Violet,
Which when arrang'd with Art and Grace,
I at these Ladies' feet would place;
But this I can't, and just the reason,
There's not a Flow'r as yet in season:
Our circling Alps still hid in snow,
And bound in frost the Vales below—

134

What's to be done in such a time?
I'll e'en relate my case in rhyme,
And tho' but little skill'd to write,
Transmit my Thanks in black and white;
And their kind Service to repay,
These Lines upon their Toilet lay.—

The Pilgrim thus for mercies shewn,
His grateful sentiments to own,
Journeys to seek the Altar, where
The Saint's inshrin'd who heard his Pray'r;
With zeal suspending at its side
(Where fifty other such are ty'd)
A Tabula Votiva, that
Describes his Story very pat;
Whence all who view it may confess
The Saint hath pow'r to cure and bless.

The North East Wind, so called there.

135

AN ODE TO FRIENDSHIP;

INSCRIBED TO JAMES BRUCE, Esq.

[_]

WRITTEN AT GENEVA IN M.DCC.LVI.

I

E'en let th'Ungrateful, and th'Unkind,
The Faithless Wretch, the Narrow Mind,
Enjoy their selfish Dream:
Far let them wander from my sight,
They ne'er can relish what I write,
When Friendship is my theme.

136

II

'Tis to a Heart like yours, that feels
Each joy its sacred fire reveals,
I consecrate these lines;
Benevolence alone can know
Its influence mild, that social glow
Which ev'ry Sense refines.

III

In Nature's wisdom were we made
Dependent on each other's aid,
Life's pleasures to improve;
Subject to Wants which Pity ask,
Assign'd in turn that noblest task
Of cheering those we love.

137

IV

Connected by this mutual tye,
The World becomes one Family,
Doom'd the same Fate to know;
The gen'rous purpose swells the breast,
And he who makes a Brother blest,
Himself is doubly so.—

V

Fairer than any fabled Maid
That breathes beneath poetic shade,
Or sports in Tempe's vale;
Grateful as is th'approach of Spring,
Who wafts each blessing on her wing,
Thrice lovely Friendship hail!

138

VI

As Life's uncertain ways we tread,
Circled by Cares, with Dangers spread,
How sweet thy soothing voice!
To guide the morning steps of Youth,
To fix them in the paths of Truth,
And point them Virtue's choice!

VII

Nor less thy succ'ring hand we find
When noon-tide Passions shake the mind,
And give new Evils birth;
Or in the evening gloom of Age,
To calm its Woes, its Pains assuage,
And prop it to the earth!

139

VIII

Vain is each gift that Wealth can show'r,
Cheerless and cold Love's myrtle bow'r,
By Thee, bright Nymph, unblest!
Tho' Fortune lavish ev'ry joy,
If Thou art absent, soon they cloy,
Midst Splendor we're distrest.

IX

But, with Thee ev'ry walk is sweet,
The public Haunt, the lone Retreat,
The mountain's rugged sides;
Thy Sun-shine gladdens ev'ry scene,
Plays round the heart with ray serene,
And human pomp derides!

140

X

However humble be the spot
Where Destiny shall fix my lot,
My fig-tree, and my vine,
Would Friendship make my roof her care,
And plant her envy'd blessings there,
I never should repine.

XI

Confiding in a chosen Few,
Calmly Life's bus'ness I'd pursue,
And my good stars commend;
In pity sighing for the Great,
Who 'midst their luxury and state
Scarce find a real Friend.

141

THE ADIEU:

Presented to a young Lady at Geneva, on her setting out to return to England.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LVI.

And is, alas! the parting hour at hand
That calls Thee Fair-one to thy native land?
Will this sweet Lake, these Mountains charm no more?
Or keep Thee longer on a foreign shore?
Ah! no—this Lake, these Mountains plead in vain;
'Tis England asks Thee—Why should I complain?

True to that worth which long shall be rever'd,
I'll range these scenes thy presence so endear'd;

142

Recall those jocund hours of social mirth
That gave to Pleasure, gave to Friendship birth;
Too soon they fled! too strongly leave behind
Their fond remembrance to distress the mind!

Oft still shall Fancy meet Thee in our walk,
In the cool breeze still listen to thy talk,
And roving pensive the imbow'ring shade,
Half hope to find Thee, thou excelling Maid:
Alas! our wonted walk no more will please,
The shade imbow'ring, or the cooling breeze!—

Thus, when some gallant Vessel to the gale
Leaving the Port, unfurls each swelling sail,
The Merchant views her, less'ning as she flies,
Till lost in Mist she mocks his aking eyes:
Nor even then can end his anxious Care,
His Hope, his Int'rests—nay—his All is there!

143

VERSES, OCCASIONED BY VISITING IN 1756, A small CHAPEL on the Lake of Lucern, in the Canton of Uri,

ERECTED TO THE MEMORY OF THE FAMOUS WILLIAM TELL.

While Flatt'ry's hand adorns the swelling Dome,
Inscribes the rising Column's trophy'd base,
Or titles strips from prostituted Rome,
To deck some wretch, the scandal of his race;

144

The lowliest Roof that Piety can rear,
The humblest Turf o'er Virtue's cold remains,
To Contemplation's eye more fair appear
Than all the wonders of Egyptian plains.

I shun the Pile that Tyrants ashes keeps,
Its splendor ne'er can tempt my lonely way;
Amid these peaceful scenes, these rugged steeps,
These sky-topp'd rocks, with more delight I stray.

Eager I seek this Structure, yet unprais'd,
Which all Lucerno's subject Lake commands;
Of simplest form, a rude memorial rais'd,
Not by ambitious, but by grateful hands.

145

To Tell 'twas rear'd, whose Country was his pride,
Who join'd those Bands which made that Country free;
Renounc'd Oppression's yoke, and boldly cry'd
“Spurn it, my zealous followers, like me.”

What tho' no looks (some daring Artist's boast)
In Parian Stone thy anxious mind confess,
No sculptur'd Infant fills the dang'rous post,
And eyes a Father's terror and distress:

Yet in rude Painting is thy Story told,
Thy firmness register'd on faithful walls;
While those who feel its blessings, here behold
A Tale, that all their gratitude recalls.

Yes, shade renown'd! while Freedom boasts a name,
Helvetia's Bards shall bid thy laurels bloom;
Attesting nations pay the debt of Fame,
And leave to Kings the pageant of a Tomb!

146

And should at length, beneath some Tyrant's steel,
Thy Country's freedom with thy mem'ry die,
From perish'd annals urge thy bold Appeal,
And claim a nobler record in the sky.

As this personage may not be recollected by every reader, it may not be improper to observe, that though he was not one of the Three distinguished Characters who first planned the Liberty of Switzerland, yet he had an active part in that Revolution.—Tell having given some slight offence to Gessler, the governor of Uri, Gessler, in the wantonness of tyranny, sentenced Tell, who was accounted a most expert Archer, to shoot off an Apple placed on his Son's head.—This he effected, without hurting the child; but exasperated at the cruelty of the command, from that moment openly renounced the Governor's authority; and joining the other Confederates, became effectively the means of accelerating this important event.

147

THE TWO FLIES.

A FABLE.

[_]

WRITTEN IN M.DCC.LVII.

'Twas at an ancient rural seat,
A country-gentleman's retreat,
The usual hour when dinner ends,
And people toast their absent friends.
In a large Hall of antique state
The Family assembled sat,
Round which was seen on ev'ry side,
Of Birth and Heraldry the pride;

148

Old Ancestors in order hung,
And Coats of Arms between them strung,
With branching Horns from space to space,
The spoils of many a weary Chace.—
The cloth was mov'd, the grace was said,
And on the old oak-table spread
Such fruits as Summer-months produce,
With sweetmeats both for show and use;
Or, to describe in terms of Art,
Was cover'd with a nice Dessert:
While all in chat the time beguile,
The 'Squire roars, the Ladies smile,
The joke goes round, the glasses ring
To Liberty, and Church and King.

Two Flies extravagantly gay,
The idle beings of a day,

149

A false philosophy pursu'd,
That Pleasure was the sov'reign Good,
A doctrine which in days of yore
A certain Greek had taught before.
Each hour their scene of life they chang'd,
New gardens, fields, and meadows rang'd,
Of ev'ry flow'r enjoy'd the bloom,
And wanton'd in the rich perfume.
Luxurious oft they would repose
On the soft foliage of the Rose,
Or in the morn the dew-drops sup
From the sweet Lily's silver cup;
Nay, dar'd the fragrant odour seek
Of Stella's lip, or Stella's cheek:
Nor would one single with restrain
Their Summum Bonum to attain.—

150

Fortune, or Fate, decreed this way
Our young Adventurers should stray;
Who marking such delicious cheer,
Resolv'd to fix their quarters here;
Down on the table they alight,
Indulge their taste, and feast their sight;
With hasty step they walk about
The scented Melon's rugged coat,
Each glass they sipp'd, each plate they try'd,
Then pierc'd the Peach's velvet side;
Nor Cherry, Fig, or juicy Grape
Could their insatiate touch escape.
At length, upon a little jar
Of floating Sweetmeats, from afar,
Their eyes they threw, and round the rim
In many a circling eddy skim;
Now bolder on the border dance,
And spite of Danger still advance:

151

“Th'Occasion was not to be lost,”
The foremost cry'd, “whate'er it cost;
And letting ev'ry Passion loose,
He plung'd into the tempting juice.—
The moral Muse must tell the rest,
The tempting juice receiv'd its guest
With glew'd Embraces—such as prove
The force of Falshood—not of Love!—

There is a time when all things cloy!
There's e'en Satiety in Joy!—
Now fully gorg'd with his repast,
He found his feet were fetter'd fast,
He strove the margin to regain,
But ev'ry wish and hope was vain;
With new collected strength he springs,
The clammy matter binds his wings,

152

Till suffocated, clogg'd, and prest,
His wanton Friend he thus addrest:

“Withdraw, my brother, e'er too late,
“And happier thou, remark my fate;
“Doom'd here, my Error to deplore,
“And from this lake to rise no more.
“Sorrow shall travel at his side,
“Who makes not Temperance his guide!
“Struck with my crime, I here abjure
“The system false of Epicure;
“Go, preach it down, and render wise
“The antient Commonwealth of Flies.”

He said;—the Syrup choak'd the rest;
Then swelling with a sigh his breast,
He mutter'd somewhat of a pray'r,
But all was buz, and lost in air;

153

And sinking, sought those shades below
Where Flies and other Insects go.—

So he who rolls on Pleasure's bed,
And with her garland crowns his head,
Slave to her fascinating power,
Still shuns Reflection's sober hour,
Who roams about new Joys to meet,
And greedy tastes of ev'ry sweet;
Past as a dream his life shall find,
Leaving no virtuous trace behind,
And like our dissipated Fly,
The victim of his Folly—die!—

154

EPILOGUE, Spoken at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, 1758, by Miss Pritchard,

In the Character of the FRENCHIFIED LADY.

Boldly to lash the Vices of the Age
The Comic Muse advent'rous treads the stage,
She ev'ry crime that injures Virtue's cause
In colours strong with daring pencil draws,
And to the World holds her impartial Glass,
That all may see their Follies as they pass.

But yet 'tis somewhat hard our Bard to night
'Gainst one Sicilian dame should vent his spite,

155

Because (poor thing!) she thought the French alone
Had the true Taste, and ap'd it for her own,
Since there's an island you will all agree,
That mimics them much more than Sicily;
That with this Passion stains its rip'ning fame,
And far more justly might his Satire claim.

In former times fair England would have scorn'd
Those sons she saw in foreign robes adorn'd:
Our manners were our own; a hardy Race,
We built no Praise on tinsel, or on lace,
Too proud in fashions Frenchmen to obey,
Form'd for Originals as well as they!
Slave to a mode is no free Briton's part;
For Imitation is a servile art!—
In vain th'affected nod—the Nonchalance,—
The snuff-box op'd with taste—the airy dance—

156

The shrug—the cringe—the small-talk—the grimace,
Or all th'unmeaning tortures of the face.
The Briton mask—thro' each disguise he wears
The plain, the downright Islander appears;
And like the Ass by learned Æsop shewn,
Seems to have got a skin that's not his own.—

When Carthage stood in pride of Arms elate,
The haughty Rival of the Roman State,
Think ye that Roman Youths, and Roman Maids
Wore Carthagenian ribband and brocades?
No—“down with Carthage, and her arts!” they cry'd;
And weaken'd Carthage totter'd, sunk and dy'd!

159

NETLEY ABBEY.

AN ELEGY.

Horrendum Sylvis et Relligione Parentum.
Virgil.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXIV. ENLARGED AND REPRINTED IN M.DCC.LXIX.

161

TO JOHN HOADLY, LL. D. &c. THIS POEM (The Subject of which adorns the Neighbourhood of his Rectory of Saint Mary's, Southampton) Is with singular Propriety, As well as particular Esteem, Inscribed By his affectionate Friend, The Author.

183

A halcyon Calm has lull'd the wat'ry plain,
Th'unmoving canvass flags beside the Mast,
The gliding Bark scarce cleaves th'unruffled Main,
Tho' fond Impatience bids each Zephyr haste.—

Such Stillness yields the gen'ral hour of rest;
Such peaceful waftage to the Saint is giv'n,
When, from Life's tumults hast'ning to be blest,
He meets the smile of unoffended Heav'n!

184

Now light upsprings the breeze, the sails unfold,
The ready Crew the fav'ring gale improve,
The Sun-bright Current flames with waving gold,
And each broad shore and forest seems to move.

I hail at last these Shades, this well-known Wood,
That skirts with verdant slope the barren strand,
Where Netley's Ruins, bord'ring on the flood,
Forlorn in melancholy Greatness stand.

How chang'd, alas! from that rever'd abode
Grac'd by proud Majesty in ancient days,
When Monks recluse these sacred pavements trod,
And taught th'unletter'd World its Maker's praise!

Now sunk, deserted, and with weeds o'ergrown,
Yon prostrate walls their harder fate bewail;
Low on the ground their topmost Spires are thrown,
Once friendly Marks to guide the wand'ring Sail.

185

The ivy now with rude luxuriance bends
Its tangled foliage through the cloister'd space,
O'er the green Window's mould'ring height ascends,
And fondly clasps it with a last embrace.

Where burn the gorgeous Altar's lasting fires?
Where frowns the dreadful Sanctuary now?
No more Religion's awful flame aspires!
No more th'Asylum guards the fated brow!

No more shall Charity, with sparkling eyes
And smiles of Welcome, wide unfold the door,
Where Pity list'ning still to Nature's cries,
Befriends the Wretched, and relieves the Poor!

No more these hoary Wilds, these dark'ning Groves,
To vocal Bands return the note of praise,
Whose Chiefs (as slow their long procession moves)
On the rear'd Cross with adoration gaze!—

186

And while to neighb'ring waves, th'unwonted show,
Each parting bough, and op'ning glade reveals,
The awe-struck Sailor checks the hast'ning prow,
Suspends his oar, and wonders what he feels.—

Thus musing, oft I pace the moss-grown Isle,
Each low-brow'd Vault, each dark Recess explore,
While the bleak wind howls through the shatter'd Pile,
Or wave hoarse-murm'ring breaks along the Shore.

No other sounds, amid these Arches heard,
The death-like Silence of their Gloom molest,
Save, the shrill plaints of some unsocial Bird,
That seeks the house of Solitude to rest.

Save, when their tinkling leaders to the shade
Of these cool grots, invite the fleecy Folds,
Where oft the sated Ox supinely laid
With lowing herds a distant converse holds!

187

Or where the Gothic pillar's slender form
(Unequal to th'incumbent quarry's weight)
Deserts its post, and reeling to the storm,
With sullen crash resigns its charge to Fate.

While the self-planted Oak, within confin'd,
(Auxiliar to the Tempest's wild uproar)
Its giant branches fluctuates to the Wind,
And rends the wall whose aid it courts no more.

Here too (Belief could old Tradition claim)
Where swells the rocky Mound in shapeless heaps,
(His Name now lost, his Guilt divulg'd by Fame)
Some rude Dismantler of this Abbey sleeps.

Long, long in thought the patient Earth he curs'd
That bore the Fabric's then unbroken Spires;
Long wish'd the pow'r to bid Volcanos burst,
Or call from Heav'n thought-executing fires.

188

“Wide wave (he cry'd) all bright with golden Grain
“The neighbring vales, while this proud cumbrous Mass
“For many a barren furlong chills the plain,
“And draws with idle zeal the Crowds that pass:

“No more the Vot'ries of each time-shook pile,
“As Ruin's heirs, shall call these shades their own;
“For blazon'd Arms explore the pageant Isle,
“Or search dark registers of faithless stone.”

He spoke—resolv'd.—The menac'd Arches frown'd,
The conscious walls in sudden Conflict join'd,
Crush'd the pale Wretch in one promiscuous wound,
And left this Monument of Wrath behind.—

Scenes such as these, with salutary change,
O'er flatt'ring Life their melancholy cast;
Teach the free thoughts on wings of air to range,
O'erlook the present, and recall the past!—

189

Here pious Beadsmen, from the world retir'd,
In blissful visions wing'd their souls to Heav'n;
While future joys their sober transports fir'd,
They wept their erring days, and were forgiv'n.

Their blameless Race succeeding, in these Cells
Ere Death impos'd the lesson, learn'd to die;
Alike forgot, no rais'd memorial tells
In which lone spot their kindred Ashes lie!

Mute is the matin Bell, whose early call
Warn'd the grey Fathers from their humble beds;
No midnight Taper gleams along the wall,
Or round the sculptur'd Saint its radiance sheds!

No Martyr's Shrine its high-wrought gold displays
To bid the wond'ring Zealot hither roam;
No Relick here the Pilgrim's toil o'erpays,
And cheers his footsteps to a distant home!—

190

Still Twilight now its shade advancing throws,
Faint in the West the Day's last blush is seen;
On Night's dim Front the Star of Ev'ning glows,
And gilds with distant Beams the solemn scene.

Illusion now re-peoples all the Void,
From Death recalls the venerable Train
(Whose thoughts no more Earth's trivial cares employ'd)
To tread their ancient Bounds, and weep again.

Swift as her wish th'embody'd Shades appear,
O'er paths much chang'd with doubtful step they walk;
Each eye rolls fast the visionary tear,
And list'ning Fancy thinks she hears them talk.

“Say, rev'rend Forms, in Contemplation's hour,
“While Life serene its golden Current roll'd,
“Did no kind warning, no prophetic pow'r
“This ravag'd Mansion's future woes unfold?

191

“Did ye ne'er think the page of Joy would close?
“Ne'er dread a Royal Plund'rer's mighty hand?
“Your exil'd Order's yet unnumber'd woes,
“Their Name extinguish'd, and their Rites prophan'd?”

Silent they pass,—then fading like a dream,
To seek their lone unhonor'd Graves return;
Yet fleeting they bequeath a sigh, and seem
With me these violated Groves to mourn.—

Yon parted Roofs that nod aloft in air,
The threat'ning Battlement, the rifted Tow'r,
The Choir's loose fragments scatter'd round, declare,
Insulting Time, the Triumphs of thy pow'r!

Shall Man, unwarn'd, survey with prescient smile
Of long Futurity, the plann'd Abode?—
Vain Augur, turn!—behold where sinks the Pile
A Monarch rais'd in honour of his God!

192

Low lies that sceptred Founder's holy head,
Whose virtues bade these friendly walls ascend;
Applauding Angels grac'd his dying bed,
And Hope's bright dawn rose cloudless on his end!

Lamented Prince!—for Mercy's task he knew,
The reins of lengthen'd Empire gently sway'd;
He rais'd the suppliant Tribe his Sire o'erthrew,
And round his Bier each grateful Convent pray'd.

Not so retir'd fell John's indignant soul—
For him no vows the doom of Heav'n oppos'd;
Insulted Priesthood mix'd th'envenom'd Bowl,
And Death his eyes in howling anguish clos'd.

Unsteady Ruler of a nation's helm!
Long struggling Freedom own'd thy hard Command;
Till fierce in arms thy Barons shook the Realm,
And tore THE CHARTER from thy ling'ring hand!

193

Peace guard their dust!—their merits Glory crown!—
Too far their worth transports the roving Muse,
Who kindles at the tale of old Renown,
Nor dares the Strain to Liberty refuse.—

And now—farewel, ye Walls, ye Roofs sublime,
Ye length'ning Choirs, a venerable gloom!
And when, like you, your Poet bows to Time,
In yon dim Cloister yield his ashes room!

His hopes ne'er rose to emulate the Dead,
Whose dear-bought trophies crowd the venal Fane,
Where sculptur'd Mars may wreath the Coward's head,
Or Truth's bright form o'er perjur'd dust complain.

Midst Life's gay Scenes your calm Retreats he lov'd,
Your wrested pomp his artless numbers mourn—
Where led, by choice, his pensive footsteps rov'd,
May Friendship place, and you protect his urn!—

194

Could aught yet more endear your circling Wood,
It is, Ardelia! unconstrain'd and free,
That here, reflecting on Life's sum of good,
My breast first heav'd an anxious sigh for Thee!

You too, Ye Fair, of neighb'ring scenes the grace
(Whose envy'd praise the Bard advent'rous seeks,)
Once deign to visit this sequester'd place,
Instruction's voice amidst the Ruin speaks!

Whence claim they praise, these piles which strewn on Earth
(A steril burthen) mock their former state?
'Tis from remembrance of their youthful Worth;—
They once were beautiful!—they once were great!

Those Charms alone survive that deck the Heart,
Command respect which growing years increase,
Bloom when the Roses from the Cheek depart,
And ebbing Life's tumultuous raptures cease!

195

Forgive the Muse, if with presumptuous love
She wooes your ears t'attend her moral Lay;
Lest faithless to themselves your pleasures prove,
And useless time steal unimprov'd away!

For know, your bosoms feed a Flame as bright
As cheers a dying Cato's latest hour;
A youthful Ammon warms to lead the fight,
Or lights a Julius to the goal of pow'r!

Oh! trust not then the force of radiant Eyes
Those short-liv'd glories of your sportive band,—
Pleas'd with its Stars, though laughing Morn arise
A steadier beam Meridian Skies demand!

Reflect, ere (Victor of each lovely Frame)
Time bids th'external, fleeting Graces fade,
'Tis Reason's Base supports the noblest Claim,
'Tis Sense preserves the Conquests Beauty made!

196

A PASTORAL BALLAD.

How wretched the Maiden who loves
A Shepherd unworthy her care!
From Fair-one, to Fair-one who roves,
And whose Promise is lighter than Air!

Such the Sorrows which poor Phillis knew,
Who Colin too rashly believ'd;
His aim was to triumph o'er you,
Ah! Phillis, unkindly deceiv'd!—

Beneath the dark Cypress she lay,
And sigh'd her Complaint to the Wind
“That her Colin had wander'd away,
“And left her despairing behind.”

197

All cold, and stretch'd out in the shade
By the Virgins, pale Phillis was found;
And a scroll on her bosom was laid,
Declaring, that Love gave the wound.—

The Shepherds still speak of her Truth
As they point out her Grave with a sigh,
And upbraid thy inconstancy, Youth!
Who could suffer such Beauty to die.

198

EPILOGUE TO THE WONDER.

Spoken by Violante.

Our Author made a most egregious Blunder,
And much presum'd, to call this Play The Wonder,
Because a Woman would not to her Lover
The Secret she was sworn to keep, discover;
She, acting true to Character, conceal'd it;
The Wonder would have been had she reveal'd it!—
Is it not strange that any one should dare
To think such Firmness in our Sex was rare?—
Upon my life the Men are such odd fellows,
They're even grown of Female Virtues jealous;

199

And in their wise opinions seem t'agree
We hold them, like Our Thirds—by Courtesy.
Our humbler Genius never ought to soar;
Flirt, and coquet, we may, but—nothing more!—
These mighty Lords come all so learn'd from College,
They grudge poor Us our little share of Knowledge!—
Let them their two dead Languages still boast,
We of our living one will make the most,
And show them all, that we'll assert our Sway,
And know our lawful Rights as well as they—
Gallants! how scar'd you look—the case is clear,
You keep us ignorant because you fear;
But for this Art of yours, your boasted Pow'rs
High as you rate them, soon would stoop to ours.
Go, search in ancient, or in modern Story,
What Virtues have not stampt our Sex's Glory?
Blushing, you'll this assertion then believe,
No Deed so great a Woman can't achieve!—

200

Ladies, since things are thus, take this advice,
Be in your choice of Men extremely nice;
They are so arrogant, and so untrue,
Trust them no more than you're oblig'd to do:
Besides, they are all so curious, they're for knowing,
Like my Don Felix, every thing that's doing;
And tell a Secret to them, if they're Young,
At the next Tavern it slips off their tongue;
If Old, there's still as little chance 'twill keep,
They doat, or doze, and blab it in their sleep.

Caution'd by me, ye Fair, be this your plan,
Since there's no shunning that strange Compound, Man,
Like Violante, even to a Lover
The Secret which he longs for, ne'er discover;
Be you but firmly fix'd in this, and show it,
You'll find your Swain will die but he will know it.—

201

Never your Favors, or your Smiles dispense
But to the Man of Worth, and Man of Sense;
Keep the whole Race of Fools and Coxcombs under,
And we must reign, or show—A Second Wonder.

203

THE TEMPLE-STUDENT:

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND, Who had requested the Author's Opinion of a Poetical Composition.

I may safely affirme, that there is nothing herein, but may either open some Windowes of the Law, to let in more Light to the Student, by diligent Search to see the Secrets of the Law, or to move him to doubt. Coke, Litt. lib. iii. cap. xiii sect. 749.

[_]

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR M.DCC.LXV.

209

Dear Sir, your Poem was receiv'd,
And if a Friend may be believ'd,
In Verse, (to spare a Prose Narration,)
I'll say it met with approbation;
And gain'd such praise as best was fitting
The taste and manner it was writ in.
Flatt'ry should alway stand aloof,
Nor e'er approach Affection's roof,

210

Where Honesty and Kindness dwell,
And Plainness ever wishing well.—
But why should you my thoughts entice?
Or ask of Me, good Sir, advice?
Advice! unless about receiving
The certain profits of your Living,
Your wrangling Parish how to tire,
Or subjugate the restive Squire.
No Lawyer ever loves digression,
Or answers out of his Profession.
Besides, I've bid the Art good-night,
And vow'd I never more would write;
Have long ago each Bard forsook,
To read the Comments of Lord Coke,
And in my Study sat me down,
To doze o'er ancient Littleton;
With Plowden, Fleta, and old Bracton,
For sense their works benum'd to act on.—

211

Besides, it is not quite so prudent
To lure aside a Temple-Student,
Who fast each vagrant thought should bind,
Eject the Muses from his mind,
Nor let his mortgag'd thoughts engage
With Fancy's alienating page.
For Evidence agrees, that he
Who for a Judgeship puts to sea,
Must still with utmost caution clear
From the Parnassian Syrens steer,
Nor stop, his steady Course to alter,
At Helicon, to take in water;
But chief of all each wind implore,
To waft him from Cythera's shore;
Where Doctors oft, a hapless Band,
And shipwreck'd Lawyers, curse the sand!—
Thus while the stricter watch to keep,
Like Palinurus, half asleep,

212

Each mutineer I strive to quiet,
That in my Ship might breed a riot,
You, with the magic of your pen,
Bid Fancy's gales arise again.

O! could I in some Long Vacation
Slip from myself, and occupation,
Whilst in the pasture of my brain
A few short blades of sense remain,
Which Law, that Beast, hath not yet eat on,
Or with foul Trespass set his feet on:
Again the banish'd Nine I'd sue,
And wreath one Chaplet more for You.
Your Friendship then in Verse should live;
The Muse no sweeter theme could give;
A Friendship springing from the heart,
Not born of Int'rest, nor of Art;

213

In numbers warmly bold, I'd raise
Some kind memorial to your praise;
Pleas'd, on your many Virtues dwell,
And paint that worth I love so well.

Thrice happy you, to whom belong
The pow'rs of Harmony and Song;
Who, when your long elm-walk in shade is,
Can court the Nine Poetic Ladies,
A favor'd Crony of them all,
They come obedient to your Call.
They shew their trinkets, ope their treasures,
And round you dance in vary'd measures,
Still charm your ear with Grecian story,
Or fire your soul with Roman glory.

Whilst I am doom'd to tread a way
Where never Muse was seen to stray,

214

About a trackless Waste to ride
Without a way-post, or a guide,
And yet oblig'd to move along,
Uncertain whether right or wrong.—
Come Dulness, drowsy-featur'd Fair,
Slide from the Justice elbow-chair,
And with thee bring such pat expressions,
As thou retail'st at Quarter Sessions,
When his grave Worship gives his Charge,
And paints the wicked world at large;
Or, when the Quorum on the Bench
Are questioning some naughty Wench;
Or, when Provincial Council try
Their tiny wits in bastardy,
Enquire about before and after,
And shake the clumsy Bench with laughter,
Then shrug, and nod, and wink, and leer,
To see if country neighbours hear;

215

No longer there a triumph keep,
Or talk poor Jurymen asleep;
But hither bend thy steps of lead,
The conscious Temple knows thy tread:
View the sad subject of my Cares,
Mark the dread load my table bears,
My papers search, and when you've done
Confess me Law's devoted Son.
Condemn'd to toil o'er joyless books
Of Tom of Stiles and John of Nokes,
The diff'rent properties to see
Of lands in Tail, and lands in Fee,
Or, by great dint of search discover
The doctrine of Remainders over.
To note what title comes to A,
Expectant on the death of K,
Or, in default of Issue Male,
If C can enter in the Tail;

216

And if nor A, nor C have sons,
Whether the Donor's meaning runs
That P, and Q, his own Right Heirs,
Should then come in for equal shares.—
Next, I consult the various pow'rs
Of making Grants, and Wills, and Dow'rs;
Learn how Joint Tenants hold together,
While those In Common sell and sever.
Or else I turn, with genius plastic,
My eyes to Law Ecclesiastic;
Read all with which sage writers load us,
Of Glebe, Advowson, Tithe, and Modus.
No newly-instituted Vicar
Could do this needful bus'ness quicker.
And, should inquiry grow more bold,
I take a peep at Copyhold;
Observe how Fines and Fees fall due,
And how his right the Lord must sue.

217

Nor is all this the fiftieth part
Of what's to know and get by heart.—
And if you touch on Special Pleading,
That's of itself an endless Reading.

But as a Bow that's always bent
Hath soon its force elastic spent;
So, lest the over-burthen'd brain
(Which can't too great a weight sustain)
Should not so much rich food digest,
'Tis sometimes good to give it rest.
Quite jaded out, I march to Nando's,
And look as grave as any man does,
Shake hands with friends I wish to see,
And take my sober pot of tea;
Touch the light topics of the day,
Ask for my letters?—What's the play?—

218

Or, if I have already had 'em,
Lounge at the bar, be smart with Madam;
'Tis hot, 'tis cold, 'tis dirty weather,
With all such small-talk patch'd together,
As modern conversations teach,
And fix for standard parts of speech.—
A Coffee-house serves many uses;
Deep Politicians it produces;
Supplies with Critic Wits the place,
As Hockley breeds the canine Race.
And is a general rendezvous
For telling, or for reading, News.—
The paper skim'd, my chat exhausted,
By no fresh Comer-in accosted;
I listen to some Student Posse,
Who ne'er was taught Teipsum nosce,
And yet in Modesty's despite,
Are setting all the Judges right,

219

Re-arguing an hour, or more,
What two wise Serjeants said before.
The box resounds with Lilly's Entries,
Levinz,—Croke James,—and Second Ventris,—
Statute of Gloucester,—Pollexfen,—
Popham,—Sixth modern, Folio ten,—
Hale,—Dyer,—Salkeld,—Barnardiston,—
And twenty more whose names I've mist on.
My head and ears confus'd, I find
One cannot here relax the Mind,
In vain she strives to slip her chains,
Law, Law, through all these regions reigns;
So back to Chambers I return,
More Patience, and more Law, to learn.

Now, gentle Friend, mark well my station;
Is it not chequer'd with vexation?

220

Observe how ev'ry vagrant thought
Within a narrow limit's brought,
Forbidden far from home to stray,
Lest back it never find its way!—
Fresh toil to toil must still succeed,
As one plague does a second breed!
And lo! another scene is dawning,
My Laundress' key announces morning,
Slow turning in the rusty lock,
It marks Time, sure as any clock;
With iron tongue it bids me rise,
And drives all slumber from my eyes.
Unwilling from my bed I creep,
“Six hours (say Coke)'s enough for sleep,”
'Till you're deep read, and then, mayhap,
You may indulge a longer nap.
The Learn'd oft nod, and shut their eyes
Like Owls, and thence are reckon'd wise!

221

Students should venerate their betters,
Nor murmur at such legal fetters,
Should tread the paths chalk'd out by Sages
Who liv'd, and wrote in former ages;
Their maxims rigidly pursue:
Grey-bearded Dictums must be true!—

But soon the Courts will all be set,
An hour no Student should forget,
Vow'd to the Law, I would not choose
The smallest particle to lose;
Tho' not so strict as many men,
Who ev'ry affidavit pen,
And minute with the same desire
Whate'er is said from Bench to Cryer.—
A breakfast first of Law I stuff in,
Then swallow quick my tea and muffin,

222

With ink-horn trim'd, and quill cut taper,
And note-book rul'd, and blotting-paper,
Looking as solemn as a Judge,
Thus arm'd, to Westminster I trudge:
Where fearless Front, with prating Spirit,
Oft fares as well as bashful Merit,
Which here so little notice draws,
'Tis rarely Council in a Cause,
By most Attornies as unknown
As if it ne'er had worn a Gown.
Yet think not hence, he always bears
The Prize, who cudgels most our ears,
Or, that who aim to gain applause
By jeering o'er ill-study'd Laws
Success insure;—woe to that Day,
When Sound shall carry Sense away;
No—shining Genius still must rise,
Rear'd by the Public's fost'ring Eyes:

223

By shining Genius, such I mean
As ev'ry now and then is seen,
And, greatly soaring, puts to shame,
Each petty Advocate for Fame.
The Tide of Time, we daily note,
Can e'en the heaviest Timber float;
Cumb'rous and slow, by many a jog,
At last steals on th'inactive log;
Compar'd to this, quick passing by,
All lighter bodies seem to fly;
They to the point they aim at bound,
Nor ever stick, or run aground.—
'Mongst Men such diff'rence here you see
As must confirm my Simile—
But hold—the Muses must not sport,
Or touch, the Practice of the Court.
No Suitor's claims are hence neglected,
The Course of Law no jot affected;

224

Dulness may prate, but ne'er prevail,
Justice still holds her steady scale,
Whose Beam can no false Weight obey,
Whilst Independent Judges sway.

What sanguine Hopes the Student please
Of future Causes, future Fees,
As He ascends the Steps where stand
With spurce comb'd Wig, and clear-starch'd Band,
Small Groups of Advocates most pliant,
Peering about to find a Client,
Ready their Talents to apply,
Either in Law or Equity.
But if th'Experienc'd you believe,
E'en legal Hopes sometimes deceive.
The Golden Show'r within these Walls,
Like other Show'rs, oft partial falls;

225

Some are well soak'd from Toe to Top,
Others scarce get a single Drop.

Hail! Rev'rend Hall! full many a Race
Hast thou beheld thy Pavements pace,
Who trod with Expectation here
Th'unvary'd Round from Year to Year!
Still blowing up their little Fire,
Still vex'd that they could get no higher,
How vain, how busy, sharp and bustling!
The World, and one another justling!
Till by degrees they dropp'd unseen,
And finish'd Life's contentious Scene!—
Where are the knotty Points they nibbled!
The Reams of Paper that they scribbled!
Where now the angry Words they sputter'd!
Where the wise Sayings which they utter'd!

226

Their Term is o'er, their Toils forgotten!
They, and their Clients, long since rotten!
Whilst Thou hast stood the Storm of Years,
A manly Grace thy front yet wears!
Thy Sides their ancient Pride sustain,
Tho' scarr'd with many a mouldy stain!
Angels thy Gothic Roof support,
And spread their Wings o'er ev'ry Court,
One hence should think all Suitors there
Of heav'nly Beings were the care!
Yet, Reader, be it understood,
Our Guardian Angels are but Wood;
Unmov'd they gaze on all below,
And nothing of what's doing know:
Clients in vain their Aid invoke,
They're form'd of toughest Irish Oak,
Which as the Nat'ralist confesses,
This wish'd-for Property possesses,

227

That greatly must to all endear them,
No noxious Vermin dare come near them—
Angels in Grain! had ye the Pow'r
To drop this Virtue on the Floor,
It henceforth never would be pac'd
By those who have its Stones disgrac'd,
Attornies lost to Shame and Awe,
Who spin and wind the Web of Law,
Would want a Place whereon to fix,
And play their Artful, Spider Tricks.
No more to rouze the good Man's spleen,
Would on this Pavement then be seen,
The sallow, parchment-visag'd Jew,
Coming to give the Devil his Due,
Himself just ransom'd from a Jail,
Off'ring to justify for Bail.
Whilst Falshood darkens more his looks,
Dauntless he kisses Moses' Books,

228

And tho' in fact not worth five Pounds,
Vows that in Hundreds he abounds;
Already Bail in twenty Suits,
Each Accusation he refutes,
And drest in tawdriest Decay,
Would swear a Registry away.

Rise from the bottom of your Well,
Sweet Truth, where Poets say you dwell;
Tho' chill'd, and dripping wet, come here
Rogues only your dread Presence fear:
O'er ev'ry Court your influence stretch,
And brand with Shame, the perjur'd Wretch,
Whose harden'd prostituted Mind,
Nor you can move, nor Oaths can bind.—

When round my Rooms I throw my eye,
And hundreds of huge Volumes spy,

229

Which Sages prove, or soon, or late,
Must all be search'd, if I'd be great;
And then, the matter more to mend,
Be ready at my fingers end—
For such a Task, I sighing say,
Threescore and ten is but a Day;
And ere the Bus'ness half is done,
The measur'd sands of Life are run!—
How oft I've heard the Parson cry,
“Poor Man is only born to die;”
Schismatic Lawyers change this Creed,
And say, “Poor Man is born to read.”
He reads indeed, and blinds his Eyes,
Forgets what he has read,—and dies;
Nor Coif, nor Fur, nor Seals attains,
Which fed his Hopes, and mock'd his Pains:
Nay worse,—no Friend to push him on,
His Income spent, his Credit gone,

230

His Mind a Stranger grown to Ease,
Not more his itching Palms to Fees,
Obscurely lost, he pines to Death,
And clientless resigns his Breath;
Doom'd e'en this Fate, perchance to meet
In the sad Purlieus of the Fleet!
Where grinning Scorn, and Want, deride
The last Remains of humbled Pride!

But hail, Posterity! for you
I, Prophet-like, good Omens view.
The Road our Ancestors have taken,
Will shortly be by you forsaken.
They journey'd through for many an Age
Black-letter'd Folios irksome Page,
Belabour'd up and down their Shelves,
Their Quartos, their Octavos, Twelves;

231

Oblig'd to note, turn back, collate,
Perplex'd with Reference, and Date.—
But Time, who laughs at such Rebuffs,
And on Life's Stage the Candles snuffs,
To give more Light, as Writers say,
To those who sit and see the Play:
Or 'twixt the Acts, like ancient Chorus,
Who wise and bald appears before us,
Telling the Crowd how Things are going,
And what behind the Scenes is doing,
Who thus oft strange Discoveries makes,
Kept one incog. for your dear Sakes;
Hark! he declares, you may ride post,
Nor (as your Fathers were) be crost.
Their thorny Paths no more will teaze you,
A Turnpike's made, you'll travel easy;
Ruts, Bogs, and Clays no more prevail,
You'll now run glibly on the Nail.

232

The pitying Heav'ns, who wept to see
The Wilds of Law, and Equity,
Where Students were so often mir'd,
In which so many Wand'rers tir'd,
To comfort both, with blest Intent,
At last have An Abridger sent;
Whose Vade Mecum, legal Olio,
In Four and Twenty Volumes Folio,
Affords to all a rare Repast,
And boasts Variety of Taste;
Fresh on your Table it appears,
A standing Dish for twenty Years;
Still gives your Appetite new Joy;
'Tis rich, and yet can never cloy;
'Tis like an Essence, which dispenses
Multum in Parvo to the Senses;
Enough can ne'er be said about it;
No Templar's Rooms should be without it:

233

Bow, Students, to this Law-refiner,
And cry, “God bless good Master Viner.”

—Ah! how much happier pass'd those Days,
When, ravish'd by the Poets Lays,
The Hours were wont too swift to fly,
And danc'd in wanton Measures by.
I then, transported, Hand in Hand
With Spencer trod enchanted Land,
While plumed Knights and burnish'd Shields,
Wide glitter'd round his Fairy Fields:
Or felt great Shakespeare's Pow'rs controul
Each various Movement of the Soul,
From Pity's source compel the Tear,
Or chill my throbbing Breast with Fear,
Transport me thro' the yielding Air,
And place me how he would, and where.

234

Or when, of earthly Story tir'd,
To higher Knowledge I aspir'd,
Through young Creation rang'd along,
Imparadis'd in Milton's Song.
Or pass'd intent on Themes sublime,
Th'unmeasurable Bounds of Time.
But now, farewell, ye flow'ry Cells,
Where bright Imagination dwells,
Round whom in Circles ever gay
The young Ideas love to play;
Farewell, to Fancy's sportive Shades!
Farewell, ye sweet Aonian Maids!
Receive this last Adieu from me;
Go, bless some Youth whose Mind is free;
Whilst I a Slave to formal Courts,
To Cases, Records, and Reports,
The Course I hate am doom'd to run,
And if I backward turn, undone.

235

'Twas thus when Adam's hapless Fate
Forc'd him to pass thro' Eden's Gate,
He saw around a lowring Sky,
Patient obey'd, yet dropp'd a Sigh;
A cheerless Prospect rose to View,
How chang'd from Scenes he lately knew!
Rugged his Path!—for now his Way
Thro' Paradise no longer lay:
Each Recollection gave him pain,
But loitering he found was vain:
Onward he mov'd, with Head reclin'd,
Yet cast his ling'ring Looks behind.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.