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The poems of Dr. Yalden

Yalden, Thomas (1670-1736)

THE POEMS OF DR. YALDEN.

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THE POEMS OF DR. YALDEN.

AGAINST IMMODERATE GRIEF.

TO A YOUNG LADY WEEPING.

AN ODE IN IMITATION OF CASIMIRE.

Could mournful sighs, or floods of tears, prevent
The ills, unhappy men lament:
Could all the anguish of my mind
Remove my cares, or make but Fortune kind;
Soon I'd the grateful tribute pay,
And weep my troubled thoughts away:
To wealth and pleasure every sigh prefer,
And more than gems esteem each falling tear.

But, since insulting cares are most inclin'd
To triumph o'er th' afflicted mind;
Since sighs can yield us no relief,
And tears, like fruitful showers, but nourish grief;
Then cease, fair mourner, to complain,
Nor lavish such bright streams in vain,
But still with chearful thoughts thy cares beguile,
And tempt thy better fortunes with a smile.

The generous mind is by its sufferings known,
Which no affliction tramples down;
But when oppress'd will upward move,
Spurn down its clog of cares, and soar above.
Thus the young royal eagle tries
On the sun-beams his tender eyes,
And, if he shrinks not at th' offensive light,
He's then for empire fit, and takes his soaring flight,

Though cares assault thy breast on every side,
Yet bravely stem th' impetuous tide:
No tributary tears to Fortune pay,
Nor add to any loss a nobler day;
But with kind hopes support thy mind,
And think thy better lot behind:
Amidst afflictions let thy soul be great,
And show thou dar'st deserve a better state.

Then, lovely mourner, wipe those tears away,
And cares that urge thee to decay;
Like ravenous Age thy charms they waste,
Wrinkle thy youthful brow, and blooming beauties blast.
But keep thy looks and mind serene,
All gay without, all calm within;
For Fate is aw'd, and adverse Fortunes fly
A chearful look, and an unconquer'd eye.

HYMN TO THE MORNING.

IN PRAISE OF LIGHT.

Parent of Day! whose beauteous beams of light
Spring from the darksome womb of Night,
And midst their native horrours show,
Like gems adorning of the Negro's brow:
Not Heav'n's fair bow can equal thee,
In all its gaudy drapery;
Thou first essay of light, and pledge of day!
That usher'st in the Sun, and still prepar'st its way.

Rival of Shade, eternal spring of light!
Thou art the genuine source of it:
From thy bright unexhausted womb,
The beauteous race of Days and Seasons come.
Thy beauty ages cannot wrong,
But, spight of Time, thou'rt ever young:
Thou art alone Heaven's modest virgin Light,
Whose face a veil of blushes hides from human sight.

Like some fair bride thou risest from thy bed,
And dost around thy lustre spread;
Around the universe dispense
New life to all, and quickening influence.

With gloomy smiles thy rival Night
Beholds thy glorious dawn of light:
Not all the wealth she views in mines below
Can match thy brighter beams, or equal lustre show.

At thy approach, Nature erects her head,
The smiling Universe is glad;
The drowsy Earth and Seas awake,
And from thy beams, new life and vigour take:
When thy more chearful rays appear,
Ev'n Guilt and women cease to fear:
Horrour, Despair, and all the sons of Night
Retire before thy beams, and take their hasty flight.

To thee, the grateful East their altars raise,
And sing with early hymns thy praise;
Thou dost their happy soil bestow,
Enrich the Heavens above, and Earth below:
Thou risest in the fragrant East,
Like the fair Phœnix from her balmy nest:
No altar of the gods can equal thine,
The Air's thy richest incense, the whole land thy shrine!

But yet thy fading glories soon decay.
Thine's but a momentary stay;
Too soon thou'rt ravish'd from our sight,
Borne down the stream of day, and overwhelm'd with light.
Thy beams to their own ruin haste,
They're fram'd too exquisite to last:
Thine is a glorious, but a short-liv'd state.
Pity so fair a birth should yield so soon to Fate!

Before th' Almighty Artist fram'd the sky,
Or gave the Earth its harmony,
His first command was for thy light:
He view'd the lovely birth, and blessed it:
In purple swaddling-bands it struggling lay,
Not yet maturely bright for day:
Old Chaos then a chearful smile put on,
And, from thy beauteous form, did first presage its own

“Let there be Light!” the great Creator said,
His word the active child obey'd:
Night did her teeming womb disclose;
And then the blushing Morn, its brightest offspring, rose.
Awhile th' Almighty wondering view'd,
And then himself pronounc'd it good:
“With Night,” said he, “divide th' imperial sway;
Thou my first labour art, and thou shalt bless the Day”

HYMN TO DARKNESS.

Darkness, thou first great parent of us all,
Thou art our great original:
Since from thy universal womb
Does all thou shad'st below, thy numerous offspring, come.

Thy wondrous birth is ev'n to Time unknown,
Or, like Eternity, thou'dst none;
Whilst Light did its first being owe
Unto that awful shade it dares to rival now.

Say, in what distant region dost thou dwell,
To reason inaccessible?
From form and duller matter free,
Thou soar'st above the reach of man's philosophy.

Involv'd in thee, we first receive our breath,
Thou art our refuge too in death,
Great monarch of the grave and womb,
Where-e'er our souls shall go, to thee our bodies come.

The silent Globe is struck with awful fear,
When thy majestic shades appear:
Thou dost compose the Air and Sea,
And Earth a sabbath keeps, sacred to Rest and thee.

In thy serener shades our ghosts delight,
And court the umbrage of the Night;
In vaults and gloomy caves they stray,
But fly the Morning's beams, and sicken at the Day.

Though solid bodies dare exclude the light,
Nor will the brightest ray admit;
No substance can thy force repel,
Thou reign'st in depths below, dost in the centre dwell.

The sparkling gems, and ore in mines below,
To thee their beauteous lustre owe;
Though form'd within the womb of Night,
Bright as their sire they shine, with native rays of light.

When thou dost raise thy venerable head,
And art in genuine Night array'd.
Thy Negro beauties then delight;
Beauties, like polish'd jet, with their own darkness bright.

Thou dost thy smiles impartially bestow,
And know'st no difference here below:
All things appear the same by thee,
Though Light distinction makes, thou giv'st equality.

Thou, Darkness, art the lover's kind retreat,
And dost the nuptial joys compleat;
Thou dost inspire them with thy shade,
Giv'st vigour to the youth, and warm'st the yielding maid.

Calm as the bless'd above the anchorites dwell,
Within their peaceful gloomy cell.
Their minds with heavenly joys are fill'd;
The pleasures Light deny, thy shades for ever yield.

In caves of Night, the oracles of old
Did all their mysteries unfold:
Darkness did first Religion grace,
Gave terrours to the God, and reverence to the place.

When the Almighty did on Horeb stand,
Thy shades enclos'd the hallow'd land:
In clouds of Night he was array'd,
And venerable Darkness his pavilion made.

When he appear'd arm'd in his power and might,
He veil'd the beatific Light;
When terrible with majesty,
In tempests he gave laws, and clad himself in thee.

Ere the foundation of the Earth was laid,
Or brighter firmament was made;
Ere matter, time, or place, was known,
Thou, monarch Darkness, sway'dst these spacious realms alone.

But, now the Moon (though gay with borrow'd light)
Invades thy scanty lot of Night,
By rebel subjects thou'rt betray'd,
The anarchy of Stars depose their monarch Shade.

Yet fading Light its empire must resign,
And Nature's power submit to thine:
An universal ruin shall erect thy throne,
And Fate confirm thy kingdom evermore thy own.

HUMAN LIFE.

SUPPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY AN EPICURE. IN IMITATION OF THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE WISDOM OF SOLOMON. TO THE LORD HUNSDON.

A PINDARIC ODE.

Then will penurious Heaven no more allow?
No more on its own darling Man bestow?
Is it for this he lord of all appears,
And his great Maker's image bears?
To toil beneath a wretched state,
Oppress'd with miseries and fate;
Beneath his painful burthen groan,
And in this beaten road of life drudge on!
Amidst our labours, we possess
No kind allays of happiness:
No softening joys can call our own,
To make this bitter drug go down;
Whilst Death an easy conquest gains,
And the insatiate Grave in endless triumph reigns.
With throes and pangs into the world we come,
The curse and burthen of the womb:
Nor wretched to ourselves alone,
Our mothers' labours introduce our own.
In cries and tears our infancy we waste,
Those sad prophetic tears, that flow
By instinct of our future woe:
And ev'n our dawn of life with sorrows overcast.
Thus we toil out a restless age,
Each his laborious part must have,
Down from the monarch to the slave,
Act o'er this farce of life, then drop beneath the stage.

From our first drawing vital breath,
From our first starting from the womb,
Until we reach the destin'd tomb,
We all are posting on to the dark goal of death.
Life, like a cloud that fleets before the wind,
No mark, no kind impression, leaves behind,
'Tis scattered like the winds that blow,
Boisterous as them, full as inconstant too,
That know not whence they come, nor where they go.
Here we're detain'd a while, and then
Become originals again:
Time shall a man to his first self restore,
And make him entire nothing, all he was before.
No part of us, no remnant, shall survive!
And yet we impudently say, we live!
No! we but ebb into ourselves again,
And only come to be, as we had never been.

Say, learned Sage, thou that art mighty wise!
Unriddle me these mysteries;
What is the soul, the vital heat,
That our mean frame does animate?
What is our breath, the breath of man,
That buoys his nature up, and does ev'n life sustain?
Is it not air, an empty fume,
A fire that does itself consume;
A warmth that in a heart is bred,
A lambent flame with heat and motion fed?
Extinguish that, the whole is gone,
This boasted scene of life is done:
Away the phantom takes its flight,
Damn'd to a loathsome grave, and an eternal night.
The soul th' immortal part we boast,
In one consuming minute's lost;
To its first source it must repair,
Scatter with winds, and flow with common air.
Whilst the fall'n body, by a swift decay,
Resolves into its native clay:
For dust and ashes are its second birth,
And that incorporates too with its great parent, Earth.

Nor shall our names our memories survive,
Alas, no part of man can live!
The empty blasts of fame shall die,
And even those nothings taste mortality.
In vain to future ages we transmit
Heroic acts, and monuments of wit:
In vain we dear-bought honours leave,
To make our ashes gay, and furnish out a grave.
Ah, treacherous Immortality!
For thee our stock of youth we waste,
And urge on life, that ebbs too fast,
To purchase thee with blood, the valiant fly;
And, to survive in fame, the great and glorious die.
Lavish of life, they squander this estate,
And for a poor reversion wait:
Bankrupts and misers to themselves they grow,
Embitter wretched life with toils and woe,
To hoard up endless fame, they know not where or how.

Ah, think, my friends, how swift the minutes haste!
The present day entirely is our own
Then sieze the blessing ere 'tis gone:
To-morrow, fatal sound! since this may be our last,
Why do we boast of years, and sum up days!
'Tis all imaginary space:
To-day, to-day, is our inheritance,
'Tis all penurious Fate will give
Posterity'll to-morrow live,
Our sons crowd on behind, our children drive us hence.
With garlands then your temples crown,
And lie on beds of roses down:
Beds of roses we'll prepare,
Roses that our emblems are;
A while they flourish on the bough,
And drink large draughts of heavenly dew:
Like us they smile, are young and gay,
And, like us too, are tenants for a day,
Since with Night's blasting breath they vanish swift away.

Bring cheerful wine, and costly sweets prepare:
'Tis more than frenzy now to spare:
Let cares and business wait a while;
Old age affords a thinking interval:
Or, if they must a longer hearing have,
Bid them attend below, adjourn into the grave.
Then gay and sprightly wine produce,
Wines that wit and mirth infuse:
That feed, like oil, th' expiring flame,
Revive our drooping souls, and prop this tottering frame.
That, when the grave our bodies has engross'd,
When virtues shall forgotten lie,
With all their boasted piety,
Honours and titles, like ourselves, be lost;
Then our recorded vice shall flourish on,
And our immortal riots be for ever known.
This, this, is what we ought to do,
The great design, the grand affair below!
Since bounteous Nature's plac'd our steward here,
Then man his grandeur should maintain,
And in excess of pleasure reign,
Keep up his character, and lord of all appear.

AGAINST ENJOYMENT.

We love and hate, as restless monarchs fight,
Who boldly dare invade another's right:
Yet, when through all the dangerous toils they've run,
Ignobly quit the conquests they have won;
Those charming hopes, that made them valiant grow,
Pall'd with enjoyment, make them cowards now.

Our passions only form our happiness,
Hopes still enlarge, as fears contract it less:
Hope with a gaudy prospect feeds the eye,
Sooths every sense, does with each wish comply;
But false Enjoyment the kind guide destroys,
We lose the passion in the treacherous joys.
Like the gay silk-worm, when it pleases most,
In that ungrateful web it spun, 'tis lost.

Fruition only cloys the appetite;
More does the conquest, than the prize delight:
One victory gain'd, another fills the mind,
Our restless wishes cannot be confin'd.
Like boisterous waves, no settled bounds they know,
Fix'd at no point, but always ebb or flow.

Who most expects, enjoys the pleasure most,
'Tis rais'd by wishes, by fruition lost:
We're charm'd with distant views of happiness,
But near approaches make the prospect less.
Wishes, like painted landscapes, best delight,
Whilst distance recommends them to the sight:
Plac'd afar off, they beautiful appear;
But show their coarse and nauseous colours, near.

Thus the fam'd Midas, when he found his store
Increasing still, and would admit of more,
With eager arms his swelling bags he press'd;
And expectation only made him bless'd:
But, when a boundless treasure he enjoy'd,
And every wish was with fruition cloy'd:
Then, damn'd to heaps, and surfeited with ore,
He curs'd that gold he doated on before.

THE CURSE OF BABYLON.

ISAIAH, CHAP. XIII. PARAPHRASED.

A PINDARIC ODE.

Now let the fatal banner be display'd!
Upon some lofty mountain's top
Go set the dreadful standard up!
And all around the hills the bloody signals spread.
For, lo, the numerous hosts of Heaven appear!
Th' embattled legions of the sky,
With all their dread artillery,
Draw forth in bright array, and muster in the air.
Why do the mountains tremble with the noise,
And vallies echo back their voice?
The hills tumultuous grow and loud,
The hills that groan beneath the gathering multitude.
Wide as the poles of Heaven's extent,
So far's the dreadful summons sent:
Kingdoms and nations at his call appear,
For ev'n the Lord of Hosts commands in person there.

Start from thy lethargy, thou drowsy land,
Awake, and hear his dread command!
Thy black tempestuous day comes lowering on,
O fatal light! O inauspicious hour!
Was ever such a day before!
So stain'd with blood, by marks of vengeance known.
Nature shall from her steady course remove,
The well-fix'd Earth be from its basis rent,
Convulsions shake the firmament;
Horrour seize all below, confusion reign above.
The stars of Heaven shall sicken at the sight,
Nor shall the planets yield their light:
But from the wretched object fly,
And, like extinguish'd tapers, quit the darken'd sky.
The rising Sun, as he was conscious too,
As he the fatal business knew,
A deep, a bloody red shall stain,
And at his early dawn shall set in night again.

To the destroying sword I've said, “Go forth,
Go, fully execute my wrath!
Command my hosts, my willing armies lead;
For this rebellious land and all therein shall bleed.”
They shall not grieve me more, no more transgress;
I will consume the stubborn race:
Yet brutes and savages I justly spare;
Useless is all my vengeance there;
Ungrateful man's the greater monster far.
On guiltless beasts I will the land bestow,
To them th' inheritance shall go;
Those elder brothers now shall lord it here below:
And, if some poor remains escape behind,
Some relics left of lost mankind;
Th' astonish'd herds shall in their cities cry,
When they behold a man, “Lo, there's a prodigy!”

The Medes I call to my assistance here,
A people that delight in war!
A generous race of men, a nation free
From vicious ease and Persian luxury.
Silver is despicable in their eyes,
Contemn'd the useless metal lies:
Their conquering iron they prefer before.
The finest gold, ev'n Ophir's tempting ore.
By these the land shall be subdued,
Abroad their bows shall overcome,
Their swords and flames destroy at home;
For neither sex nor age shall be exempt from blood;
The nobles and the princes of thy state
Shall on the victor's triumphs wait:
And those that from the battle fled
Shall be, with chains oppress'd, in cruel bondage led.

I'll visit their distress with plagues and miseries,
The throes that womens' labours wait,
Convulsive pangs, and bloody sweat,
Their beauty shall consume, and vital spirits seize.
The ravish'd virgins shall be borne away,
And their dishonour'd wives be led
To the insulting victor's bed,
To brutal lusts expos'd, to fury left a prey.
Nor shall the teeming womb afford
Its forming births a refuge from the sword;
The sword, that shall their pangs increase,
And all the throes of travail curse with barrenness,
The infants shall expire with their first breath,
And only live in pangs of death;
Live but with early cries to curse the light,
And, at the dawn of life, set in eternal night.

Ev'n Babylon, adorn'd with every grace,
The beauty of the universe:
Glory of nations! the Chaldæans' pride,
And joy of all th' admiring world beside:
Thou, Babylon! before whose throne
The empires of the Earth fall down;
The prostrate nations homage pay,
And vassal princes of the world obey:
Shalt in the dust be trampled low:
Abject and low upon the Earth be laid,
And deep in ruins hide thy ignominious head.
Thy strong amazing walls, whose impious height
The clouds conceal from human sight;
That proudly now their polish'd turrets rear,
Which bright as neighbouring stars appear,
Diffusing glories round th' enlighten'd air,
In flames shall downwards to their centre fly,
And deep within the Earth, as their foundations, lie.

Thy beauteous palaces (though now thy pride)!
Shall be in heaps of ashes hid:
In vast surprizing heaps shall lie,
And ev'n their ruins bear the pomp of majesty.
No bold inhabitant shall dare
Thy ras'd foundations to repair:
No pitying hand exalt thy abject state;
No! to succeeding times thou must remain
An horrid exemplary scene,
And lie from age to age ruin'd and desolate.
Thy fall's decreed (amazing turn of fate!)
Low as Gomorrah's wretched state:
Thou, Babylon, shalt be like Sodom curst,
Destroy'd by flames from Heaven, and thy more burning lust.
The day's at hand, when in thy fruitful soil
No labourer shall reap, no mower toil:
His tent the wandering Arab shall not spread,
Nor make thy cursed ground his bed;
Though faint with travel, though opprest with thirst,
He to his drooping herds shall cry aloud,
“Taste not of that embitter'd flood,
Taste not Euphrates' streams, they're poisonous all, and curst.”
The shepherd to his wandering flocks shall say,
When o'er thy battlements they stray,
When in thy palaces they graze,
“Ah, fly, unhappy flocks! fly this infectious place.”
Whilst the sad traveller, that passes on,
Shall ask, “Lo, where is Babylon?”
And when he has thy small remainder found,
Shall say, “I'll fly from hence, 'tis sure accursed ground.”

Then shall the savages and beasts of prey
From their deserted mountains haste away;
Every obscene and vulgar beast
Shall be to Babylon a guest:
Her marble roofs, and every cedar room,
Shall dens and caves of state to nobler brutes become.
Thy courts of justice, and tribunals too,
(O irony to call them so!)
There, where the tyrant and oppressor bore
The spoils of innocence and blood before;
There shall the wolf and savage tiger meet,
And griping vulture shall appear in state,
There birds of prey shall rule, and ravenous beasts be great.
Those uncorrupted shall remain,
Those shall alone their genuine use retain,
There Violence shall thrive, Rapine and Fraud shall reign.

Then shall the melancholy Satyrs groan,
O'er their lamented Babylon;
And ghosts that glide with horrour by,
To view where their unbury'd bodies lie,
With doleful cries shall fill the air,
And with amazement strike th' affrighted traveller.
There the obscener birds of night,
Birds that in gloomy shades delight,
Shall solitude enjoy, live undisturb'd by light.
All the ill omens of the air
Shall scream their loud presages there.
But let them all their dire predictions tell,
Secure in ills, and fortify'd with woe,
Heaven shall in vain its future vengeance show:
For thou art happily insensible,
Beneath the reach of miseries fell,
Thou need'st no desolation dread, no greater curses fear.

TO MR. CONGREVE:

AN EPISTOLARY ODE; 1693. OCCASIONED BY THE “OLD BACHELOR.”

Fam'd wits and beauties share this common fate,
To stand expos'd to public love and hate,
In every breast they different passions raise,
At once our envy, and our praise.
For when, like you, some noble youth appears,
For wit and humour fam'd above his years;
Each emulous Muse, that views the laurel won,
Must praise the worth so much transcends their own
And, while his fame they envy, add to his renown.
But sure, like you, no youth could please,
Nor at his first attempt boast such success:
Where all mankind have fail'd, you glories won;
Triumphant are in this alone,
In this, have all the bards of old out-done.

Then may'st thou rule our stage in triumph long!
May'st thou its injur'd fame revive,
And matchless proofs of wit and humour give,
Reforming with thy scenes, and charming with thy song!
And though a curse ill-fated wit pursues,
And waits the fatal dowry of a Muse:
Yet may thy rising fortunes be
Secure from all the blasts of poetry;
As thy own laurels flourishing appear,
Unsully'd still with cares, nor clogg'd with hope and fear!
As from its wants, be from its vices free,
From nauseous servile flattery;
Nor to a patron prostitute thy mind,
Though like Augustus great, as fam'd Mæcenas kind.

Though great in fame! believe me, generous youth,
Believe this oft-experienc'd truth,
From him that knows thy virtues, and admires their worth.
Though thou'rt above what vulgar poets fear,
Trust not the ungrateful world too far;
Trust not the smiles of the inconstant town;
Trust not the plaudits of a theatre
(Which Durfey shall with thee and Dryden share;
Nor to a stage's interest sacrifice thy own.

Thy genius, that's for nobler things design'd,
May at loose hours oblige mankind:
Then, great as is thy fame, thy fortunes raise,
Join thriving interest to thy barren bays,
And teach the world to envy, as thou dost to praise.
The world, that does like common whores embrace,
Injurious still to those it does caress:
Injurious as the tainted breath of Fame,
That blasts a poet's fortunes, while it sounds his name.

When first a Muse inflames some youthful breast,
Like an unpractis'd virgin, still she's kind:
Adorn'd with graces then, and beauties blest,
She charms the ear with fame, with raptures fills the mind.
Then from all cares the happy youth is free,
But those of love and poetry:
Cares, still allay'd with pleasing charms,
That crown the head with bays, with beauty fill the arms.
But all a woman's frailties soon she shows,
Too soon a stale domestic creature grows:
Then, wedded to a Muse that's nauseous grown
We loath what we enjoy, drudge when the pleasure's gone.
For, tempted with imaginary bays,
Fed with immortal hopes and empty praise,
He Fame pursues, that fair and treacherous bait,
Grows wise when he's undone, repents when 'tis too late.

Small are the trophies of his boasted bays,
The great man's promise for his flattering toil,
Fame in reversion, and the public smile,
All vainer than his hopes, uncertain as his praise.
'Twas thus in mournful numbers heretofore,
Neglected Spenser did his fate deplore:
Long did his injured Muse complain,
Admir'd in midst of wants, and charming still in vain.
Long did the generous Cowley mourn,
And long oblig'd the age without return.
Deny'd what every wretch obtains of Fate,
An humble roof and an obscure retreat,
Condemn'd to needy fame, and to be miserably great.
Thus did the world thy great fore-fathers use;
Thus all th' inspir'd bards before
Did their hereditary ills deplore;
From tuneful Chaucer's down to thy own Dryden's Muse.

Yet pleas'd with gaudy ruin youth will on,
As proud by public fame to be undone;
Pleas'd, though he does the worst of labours chuse,
To serve a barbarous age, and an ungrateful Muse.
Since Dryden's self, to Wit's great empire born,
Whose genius and exalted name
Triumph with all the spoils of Wit and Fame,
Must, 'midst the loud applause, his barren laurels mourn.
Ev'n that fam'd man, whom all the world admires,
Whom every Grace adorns, and Muse inspires,
Like the great injur'd Tasso, shows
Triumphant in the midst of woes;
In all his wants, majestic still appears,
Charming the age to which he owes his cares,
And cherishing that Muse whose fatal curse he bears.

THE INSECT.

AGAINST BULK.

Inest sua gratia parvis.

Where greatness is to Nature's works deny'd,
In worth and beauty it is well supply'd:
In a small space the more perfection's shown,
And what is exquisite in little's done.
Thus beams, contracted in a narrow glass,
To flames convert their larger useless rays.

'Tis Nature's smallest products please the eye,
Whilst greater births pass unregarded by;
Her monsters seem a violence to sight;
They're form'd for terrour, insects to delight.
Thus, when she nicely frames a piece of art,
Fine are her strokes, and small in every part;
No labour can she boast more wonderful
Than to inform an atom with a soul;
To animate her little beauteous fly,
And cloath it in her gaudiest drapery.

Thus does the little epigram delight,
And charm us with its miniature of wit;
Whilst tedious authors give the reader pain,
Weary his thoughts, and make him toil in vain;
When in less volumes we more pleasure find,
And what diverts, still best informs the mind.

'Tis the small insect looks correct and fair,
And seems the product of her nicest care.
When, weary'd out with the stupendous weight
Of forming prodigies and brutes of state,
Then she the insect frames, her master-piece,
Made for diversion, and design'd to please.
Thus Archimedes, in his crystal sphere,
Seem'd to correct the world's Artificer:
Whilst the large globe moves round with long delay,
His beauteous orbs in nimbler circles play:
This seem'd the nobler labour of the two,
Great was the sphere above, but fine below.

Thus smallest things have a peculiar grace,
The great w' admire, but 'tis the little please;
Then, since the least so beautifully show,
B' advis'd in time, my Muse, and learn to know
A Poet's lines should be correct and few.

TO HIS FRIEND CAPTAIN CHAMBERLAIN,

IN LOVE WITH A LADY HE HAD TAKEN IN AN AL[illeg.]RINE PRIZE AT SEA.

[_]

IN ALLUSION TO HORACE, B. ii. OD. 4.

'Tis no disgrace, brave youth, to own
By a fair slave you are undone:
Why dost thou blush to hear that name,
And stifle thus a generous flame?
Did not the fair Brisëis heretofore
With powerful charms subdue?
What though a captive, still she bore
Those eyes that freedom could restore,
And make her haughty lord the proud Achilles, bow.

Stern Ajax, though renown'd in arms,
Did yield to bright Tecmessa's charms:

And all the laurels he had won
As trophies at her feet were thrown.
When, beautiful in tears, he view'd the mourning fair,
The hero felt her power:
Though great in camps and fierce in war,
Her softer looks he could not bear,
Proud to become her slave, though late her conqueror.

When beauty in distress appears,
An irresistless charm it bears:
In every breast does pity move,
Pity, the tenderest part of love.
Amidst his triumphs great Atrides sued,
Unto a weeping maid:
Though Troy was by his arms subdued,
And Greece the bloody trophies view'd,
Yet at a captive's feet th' imploring victor laid.

Think not thy charming maid can be
Of a base stock, and mean degree;
Her shape, her air, her every grace,
A more than vulgar birth confess:
Yes, yes, my friend, with royal blood she's great,
Sprung from some monarch's bed;
Now mourns her family's hard fate,
Her mighty fall and abject state,
And her illustrious race conceals with noble pride.

Ah, think not an ignoble house
Could such a heroine produce;
Nor think such generous sprightly blood
Could flow from the corrupted crowd;
But view her courage, her undaunted mind,
And soul with virtues crown'd;
Where dazzling interest cannot blind,
Nor youth nor gold admittance find,
But still her honour's fix'd, and virtue keeps its ground.
View well her great majestic air,
And modest looks divinely fair;
Too bright for fancy to improve,
And worthy of thy noblest love.
But yet suspect not thy officious friend,
All jealous thoughts remove;
Though I with youthful heat commend,
For thee I all my wishes send,
And if she makes thee blest, 'tis all I ask of Love!

TO MR. WATSON,

ON HIS EPHEMERIS OF THE CELESTIAL MOTIONS, PRESENTED TO HER MAJESTY.

Art, when in full perfection, is design'd
To please the eye, or to inform the mind:
This nobler piece performs the double part,
With graceful beauty and instructive art.
Since the great Archimedes' sphere was lost,
The noblest labour finish'd it could boast;
No generous hand durst that fam'd model trace,
Which Greece admir'd, and Rome could only praise.
This you, with greater lustre, have restor'd,
And taught those arts we ignorantly ador'd:
Motion in full perfection here you've shown,
And what mankind despair'd to reach, have done.

In artful frames your heavenly bodies move,
Scarce brighter in their beauteous orbs above;
And stars, depriv'd of all malignant flames,
Here court the eye with more auspicious beams:
In graceful order the just planets rise,
And here complete their circles in the skies;
Here's the full concert of revolving spheres,
And Heaven in bright epitome appears.

With charms the ancients did invade the Moon,
And from her orb compell'd her struggling down;
But here she's taught a nobler change by you,
And moves with pride in this bright sphere below:
While your celestial bodies thus I view,
They give me bright ideas of the true;
Inspir'd by them, my thoughts dare upward move,
And visit regions of the blest above.

Thus from your hand w' admire the globe in small,
A copy fair as its original:
This labour's to the whole creation just,
Second to none, and rival to the first.
The artful spring, like the diffusive soul,
Informs the machine, and directs the whole:
Like Nature's self, it fills the spacious throne,
And unconfin'd sways the fair orbs alone;
Th' unactive parts with awful silence wait,
And from its nod their birth of motion date:
Like Chaos, they obey the powerful call,
Move to its sound, and into measures fall.

THE RAPE OF THEUTILLA:

IMITATED FROM THE LATIN OF FAMIANUS STRADA.

THE INTRODUCTORY ARGUMENT.

Theutilla, a fair young virgin, who, to avoid the addresses of those many admirers her beauty drew about her, assumed the habit of a religious order, and wholly withdrew herself from the eye and converse of the world: but the common report of her beauty had so inflamed Amalis (a young person of quality) with love, that one night, in a debauch of wine, he commands his servants to force her dormitory, and bear off, though by violence, the lovely votaress; which having successfully performed, they bring Theutilla to their expecting lord's apartment, the scene of the ensuing poem.

Soon as the tyrant her bright form survey'd,
He grew inflam'd with the fair captive maid:
A graceful sorrow in her looks she bears,
Lovely with grief, and beautiful in tears;
Her mein and air resistless charms impart,
Forcing an easy passage to his heart:
Long he devours her beauties with his eyes,
While through his glowing veins th' infection flies;
Swifter than lightning to his breast it came,
Like that, a fair, but a destructive flame.
Yet she, though in her young and blooming state,
Possest a soul, beyond a virgin's, great;
No charms of youth her colder bosom move,
Chaste were her thoughts, and most averse to love:
And as some timorous hind in toils betray'd,
Thus in his arms strove the resisting maid;
Thus did she combat with his strict embrace,
And spurn'd the guilty cause of her disgrace.
Revenge she courted, but despair'd to find
A strength and vigour equal to her mind;

While checks of shame her willing hands restrain,
Since all a virgin's force is her disdain:
Yet her resolves are nobly fix'd to die
Rather than violate her chastity,
Than break her vows to Heaven, than blot her fame,
Or soil her beauties with a lustful flame.

The night from its meridian did decline,
An hour propitious to the black design:
When sleep and rest their peaceful laws maintain,
And o'er the globe b' infectious silence reign;
While death-like slumbers every bosom seize,
Unbend our minds, and weary'd bodies ease:
Now fond Amalis finds his drooping breast
Heavy with wine, with amorous cares opprest;
Not all the joys expecting lovers feel
Can from his breast the drowsy charm repel;
In vain from wine his passion seeks redress,
Whose treacherous force the flame it rais'd betrays:
Weak and unnerv'd his useless limbs became,
Bending beneath their ill-supported frame;
Vanquish'd by that repose from which he flies,
Now slumbers close his unconsenting eyes.

But sad Theutilla's cares admit no rest,
Repose is banish'd from her mournful breast;
A faithful guard does injur'd virtue keep,
And from her weary limbs repulses sleep.
Oft she reflects with horrour on the rape,
Oft tries each avenue for her escape;
Though still repulse upon repulse she bears
And finds no passage but for sighs and tears:
Then, with the wildness of her soul let loose,
And all the fury that her wrongs infuse;
She weeps, she raves, she rends her flowing hair,
Wild in her grief, and raging with despair,
At length her restless thoughts an utterance find,
And vent the anguish of her labouring mind:
Whilst all dissolv'd in calmer tears she said,
“Shall I again be to his arms betray'd!
Again the toil of loath'd embraces bear,
And for some blacker scene of lust prepare?
First may his bed my guiltless grave become,
His marble roof my unpolluted tomb;
Then, just to honour, and unstain'd in fame,
The urn that hides my dust conceals my shame.
Heaven gave me virtue, woman's frail defence,
And beauty to molest that innocence:
In vain I call my virtue to my aid,
When thus by treacherous beauty I'm betray'd,
Yet to this hour my breast no crime has known,
But, coldly chaste, with virgin brightness shone,
As now usully'd by a winter's sun.
Not arts, nor ruder force of men prevail'd,
My tears found pity, when my language fail'd.
Oft have these violated locks been torn,
And injur'd face their savage fury borne;
Oft have my bloody robes their crimes confest,
And pointed daggers glitter'd at my breast;
Yet free from guilt, I found some happier charm
To vanquish lust, and wildest rage disarm.
But ah! the greatest labour's yet behind;
No tears can soften this obdurate mind;
No prayers inexorable pity move,
Or guard me from the worst of ruins, Love:
Though sleep and wine allow this kind reprieve,
Yet to the youth they'll strength and fury give;
Then wretched maid! then think what artifice,
What charm, shall rescue from his nerv'd embrace!
When with supplies of vigour next he storms,
And every dictate of his lust performs.

“But you, blest Power, that own a virgin's name,
Protect my virtue, and defend my fame,
From powerful lust, and the reproach of shame;
If I a strict religious life have led,
Drunk the cold stream, and made the earth my bed,
If from the world a chaste recluse I live,
Redress my wrongs, and generous succour give;
Allay this raging tempest of my mind,
A virgin should be to a virgin kind:
Prostrate with tears from you I beg defence,
Or take my life, or guard my innocence.”

While thus the afflicted beauty pray'd, she spy'd
A fatal dagger by Amalis' side:
“This weapon's mine!” she cries, (then grasp'd it fast)
And now the lustful tyrant sleeps his last.”
With eager hand the pointed steel she draws,
Ev'n murder pleases in so just a cause;
Nor fears, nor dangers, now resistance make,
Since honour, life, and dearer fame, 's at stake.

Yet in her breast does kind compassion plead,
And fills her soul with horrour of the deed;
Her sex's tenderness resumes its place,
And spreads in conscious blushes o'er her face.
Now stung with the remorse of guilt, she cries,
“Ah, frantic girl, what wild attempt is this!
Think, think, Theutilla, on the murderer's doom,
And tremble at a punishment to come:
Stain not thy virgin hands with guilty blood,
And dread to be so criminally good.
Lay both thy courage and thy weapon down,
Nor fly to aids a maid must blush to own;
Nor arms, nor valour, with thy sex agree,
They wound thy fame, and taint thy modesty,
Thus different passions combat in her mind,
Oft she's to pity, oft to rage inclin'd:
Now from her hand the hated weapon's cast,
Then seiz'd again with more impetuous haste:
Unfix'd her wishes, her resolves are vain,
What she attempts, she straight rejects again;
Her looks, the emblems of her thoughts, appear
Vary'd with rage, with pity, and despair:
Alone her fears incline to no extreme,
Equally poiz'd betwixt revenge and shame,
At length, with more prevailing rage possest,
Her jealous honour steels her daring breast:
The thoughts of injur'd fame new courage gave,
And nicer virtue now confirms her brave.
Then the fam'd Judith her whole mind employs,
Urges her hand, and sooths the fatal choice:
This great example pleas'd, inflam'd by this,
With wild disorder to the youth she flies;
One hand she wreaths within his flowing hair,
The other does the ready weapon bear:
“Now guide me (cries) fair Hebrew, now look down,
And pity labours thou hast undergone.
Direct the hand that takes thy path to fame,
And be propitious to a virgin's name,
Whose glory's but a refuge from her shame!”
Thus rais'd by hopes, and arm'd with courage now,
She with undaunted looks directs the blow:
Deep in his breast the spacious wound she made,
And to his heart dispatch'd th' unerring blade.

When their expiring lord the servants heard,
Whose dying groans the fatal act declar'd,
Like a fierce torrent, with no bounds they're stay'd,
But vent their rage on the defenceless maid:
Not virtue, youth, nor beauty in distress,
Can move their savage breasts to tenderness:

But death with horrid torments they prepare,
And to her fate th' undaunted virgin bear.
Tortures and death seem lovely in her eyes,
Since she to honour falls a sacrifice:
Amidst her sufferings, still her mind is great,
And free from guilt, she triumphs o'er her fate.

But Heaven, that's suffering virtue's sure reward,
Exerts its power, and is itself her guard:
Amalis, conscious of his black offence,
Now feels remorse for her wrong'd innocence;
Though now he's struggling in the pangs of death,
And all life's purple stream is ebbing forth,
Yet, raising up his pale and drooping head,
He recollects his spirits as they fled,
And, with his last remains of voice, he said,
“Spare the chaste maid, your impious hands restrain,
Nor beauty with such insolence prophane:
Learn by my fate wrong'd innocence to spare,
Since injur'd virtue's Heaven's peculiar care.”

But you, brave virgin, now shall stand enroll'd
Amongst the noblest heroines of old:
Thy fam'd attempt, and celebrated hand,
Shall lasting trophies of thy glory stand:
And, if my verse the just reward can give,
Theutilla's name shall to new ages live.
For to thy sex thou hast new honours won,
And France now boasts a Judith of its own.

AN ODE FOR ST. CECILIA'S DAY,

1693.

Begin, and strike th' harmonious lyre!
Let the loud instruments prepare
To raise our souls, and charm the ear,
With joys which Music only can inspire:
Hark how the willing strings obey!
To consecrate this happy day,
Sacred to Music, Love, and blest Cecilia.
In lofty numbers, tuneful lays,
We'll celebrate the virgin's praise:
Her skilful hand first taught our strings to move,
To her this sacred art we owe,
Who first anticipated Heaven below,
And play'd the hymns on Earth, that she now sings above.

What moving charms each tuneful voice contains,
Charms that through the willing ear
A tide of pleasing raptures bear,
And with diffusive joys, run thrilling through our veins.
The listening soul does sympathize,
And with each vary'd note complies:
While gay and sprightly airs delight,
Then, free from cares, and unconfin'd,
It takes, in pleasing ecstasies, its flight.
With mournful sounds, a sadder garb it wears,
Indulges grief, and gives a loose to tears.

Music's the language of the blest above,
No voice but Music's can express
The joys that happy souls possess,
Nor in just raptures tell the wond'rous power of love.
'Tis Nature's dialect, design'd
To charm, and to instruct the mind.
Music's an universal good!
That does dispense its joys around,
In all the elegance of sound,
To be by men admir'd, by angels understood.

Let every restless passion cease to move!
And each tumultuous thought obey
The happy influence of this day,
For Music's unity and love,
Music's the soft indulger of the mind,
The kind diverter of our care,
The surest refuge mournful grief can find;
A cordial to the breast, and charm to every ear.
Thus, when the prophet struck his tuneful lyre,
Saul's evil genius did retire:
In vain were remedies apply'd,
In vain all other arts were try'd:
His hand and voice alone the charm could find,
To heal his body, and compose his mind.

Now let the trumpet's louder voice proclaim
A solemn jubilee:
For ever sacred let it be,
To skilful Jubal's, and Cecilia's name.
Great Jubal, author of our lays,
Who first the hidden charms of Music found;
And through their airy paths did trace
The secret springs of sound.
When from his hollow chorded shell
The soft melodious accents fell,
With wonder and delight he play'd,
While the harmonious strings his skilful hand obey'd.

But fair Cecilia to a pitch divine
Improv'd her artful lays:
When to the organ she her voice did join,
In the Almighty's praise;
Then choirs of listening angels stood around,
Admir'd her art, and blest the heavenly sound.
Her praise alone no tongue can reach,
But in the strains herself did teach:
Then let the voice and lyre combine,
And in a tuneful concert join;
For Music's her reward and care,
Above sh' enjoys it, and protects it here,

GRAND CHORUS.

Then kindly treat this happy day,
And grateful honours to Cecilia pay:
To her these lov'd harmonious rites belong,
To her that tunes our strings, and still inspires our song.

THE FORCE OF JEALOUSY.

TO A LADY ASKING IF HER SEX WAS AS SENSIBLE OF THAT PASSION AS MAN.

AN ALLUSION TO

O! quam cruentus fœminas stimulat dolor!
Seneca, Hercules Oetæus.

What raging thoughts transport the woman's breast,
That is with love and jealousy possest!
More with revenge, than soft desires she burns,
Whose slighted passion meets no kind returns;
That courts the youth with long-neglected charms,
And finds her rival happy in his arms!

Dread Scylla's rocks 'tis safer to engage,
And trust a storm, than her destructive rage:
Not waves, contending with a boisterous wind,
Threaten so loud, as her tempestuous mind:
For seas grow calm, and raging storms abate,
But most implacable's a woman's hate:

Tigers and savages less wild appear,
Than that fond wretch abandon'd to despair.

Such were the transports Dejanira felt,
Stung with a rival's charms, and husband's guilt:
With such despair she view'd the captive maid,
Whose fatal love her Hercules betray'd;
Th' unchaste Iöle, but divinely fair!
In love triumphant, though a slave in war;
By nature lewd, and form'd for soft delight,
Gay as the spring, and fair as beams of light;
Whose blooming youth would wildest rage disarm,
And every eye, but a fierce rival's, charm.

Fix'd with her grief the royal matron stood,
When the fair captive in his arms she view'd:
With what regret her beauties she survey'd,
And curst the power of the too lovely maid,
That reap'd the joys of her abandon'd bed!
Her furious looks with wild disorder glow,
Looks that her envy and resentment show!
To blast that fair detested form she tries,
And lightning darts from her distorted eyes.

Then o'er the palace of false Hercules,
With clamour and impetuous rage she flies;
Late a dear witness of their mutual flame,
But now th' unhappy object of her shame;
Whose conscious roof can yield her no relief,
But with polluted joys upbraids her grief.

Nor can the spacious court contain her now;
It grows a scene too narrow for her woe.
Loose and undrest all day she strays alone,
Does her abode and lov'd companions shun.
In woods complains, and sighs in every grove,
The mournful tale of her forsaken love.
Her thoughts to all th' extremes of frenzy fly,
Vary, but cannot ease her misery:
Whilst in her looks the lively forms appear,
Of envy, fondness, fury, and despair.

Her rage no constant face of sorrow wears,
Oft scornful smiles succeed loud sighs and tears;
Oft o'er her face the rising blushes spread,
Her glowing eyeballs turn with fury red:
Then pale and wan her alter'd looks appear,
Paler than Guilt, and drooping with despair.
A tide of passions ebb and flow within,
And oft she shifts the melancholy scene:
Does all th' excess of woman's fury show,
And yields a large variety of woe.

Now, calm as infants at the mother's breast,
Her grief in softest murmurs is exprest:
She speaks the tenderest things that pity move,
Kind are her looks, and languishing with love.
Then, loud as storms, and raging as the wind,
She gives a loose to her distemper'd mind:
With shrieks and groans she fills the air around,
And makes the palace her loud griefs resound,

Wild with her wrongs, she like a fury strays,
A fury, more than wife of Hercules:
Her motion, looks, and voice, proclaim her woes;
While sighs, and broken words, her wilder thoughts disclose.

TO HIS PERJURED MISTRESS.

Nox erat, & cœlo fulgebat Luna sereno, &c.

It was one evening, when the rising Moon
Amidst her train of stars distinctly shone;
Serene and calm was the inviting night,
And Heaven appear'd in all its lustre bright;
When you, Neæra, you, my perjur'd fair,
Did, to abuse the gods and me, prepare.
'Twas then you swore—remember, faithless maid,
With what endearing arts you then betray'd:
Remember all the tender things that past,
When round my neck your willing arms were cast.
The circling ivys, when the oaks they join,
Seem loose, and coy, to those fond arms of thine.

“Believe,” you cry'd, “this solemn vow believe,
The noblest pledge that Love and I can give;
Or, if there's ought more sacred here below,
Let that confirm my oath to Heaven and you.
If e'er my breast a guilty flame receives,
Or covets joys but what thy presence gives;
May every injur'd power assert thy cause,
And Love avenge his violated laws:
While cruel beasts of prey infest the plain,
And tempests rage upon the faithless main;
While sighs and tears shall listening virgins move;
So long, ye powers, will fond Neæra love.”

Ah, faithless charmer, lovely perjur'd maid!
Are thus my vows and generous flame repaid?
Repeated slights I have too tamely bore,
Still doated on, and still been wrong'd the more.
Why do I listen to that Syren's voice,
Love ev'n thy crimes, and fly to guilty joys?
Thy fatal eyes my best resolves betray,
My fury melts in soft desires away:
Each look, each glance, for all thy crimes atone,
Elude my rage, and I'm again undone.

But if my injur'd soul dares yet be brave,
Unless I'm fond of shame, confirm'd a slave,
I will be deaf to that enchanting tongue,
Nor on thy beauties gaze away my wrong.
At length I'll loath each prostituted grace,
Nor court the leavings of a cloy'd embrace;
But show, with manly rage, my soul's above
The cold returns of thy exhausted love.
Then thou shalt justly mourn at my disdain,
Find all thy arts and all thy charms in vain:
Shalt mourn, whilst I, with nobler flames, pursue
Some nymph as fair, though not unjust, as you;
Whose wit and beauty shall like thine excel,
But far surpass in truth, and loving well.

But wretched thou, whoe'er my rival art,
That fondly boasts an empire o'er her heart;
Thou that enjoy'st the fair inconstant prize,
And vainly triumph'st with my victories;
Unenvy'd now, o'er all her beauties rove,
Enjoy thy ruin, and Neæra's love:
Though wealth and honours grace thy nobler birth,
To bribe her love, and fix a wandering faith;
Though every grace and every virtue join,
T' enrich thy mind, and make thy form divine:
Yet, blest with endless charms, too soon you'll prove
The treacheries of false Neæra's love.
Lost and abandon'd by th' ungrateful fair,
Like me you'll love, be injur'd and despair.
When left th' unhappy object of her scorn,
Then shall I smile to see the victor mourn,
Laugh at thy fate, and triumph in my turn.

IMITATION OF HORACE.

BOOK I. ODE XXII.

Integer vitæ, &c.

The man that's uncorrupt, and free from guilt,
That the remorse of secret crimes ne'er felt:
Whose breast was ne'er debauch'd with sin,
But finds all calm, and all at peace within:
In his integrity secure,
He fears no danger, dreads no power:
Useless are arms for his defence,
That keeps a faithful guard of innocence.

Secure the happy innocent may rove,
The care of every power above;
Although unarm'd he wanders o'er
The treacherous Libya's sands, and faithless shore:
Though o'er the inhospitable brows
Of savage Caucasus he goes;
Through Africk's flames, thro' Scythia's snows,
Or where Hydaspes, fam'd for monsters, flows.

For as, within an unfrequented grove,
I tun'd my willing lyre to love,
With pleasing amorous thoughts betray'd,
Beyond my bounds insensible I stray'd;
A wolf that view'd me fled away,
He fled from his defenceless prey!
When I invok'd Maria's aid,
Although unarm'd, the trembling monster fled.

Not Daunia's teeming sands, nor barbarous shore,
E'er such a dreadful native bore,
Nor Afric's nursing caves brought forth
So fierce a beast, of such amazing growth:
Yet vain did all his fury prove
Against a breast that's arm'd with love;
Though absent, fair Maria's name
Subdues the fierce, and makes the savage tame.

Commit me now to that abandon'd place
Where chearful light withdraws its rays;
No beams on barren Nature smile,
Nor fruitful winds refresh th' intemperate soil;
But tempests, with eternal frosts,
Still rage around the gloomy coast:
Whilst angry Jove infests the air,
And, black with clouds, deforms the sullen year.

Or place me now beneath the torrid zone,
To live a borderer on the Sun:
Send me to scorching sands, whose heat
Guards the destructive soil from human feet:
Yet there I'll sing Maria's name,
And sport, uninjur'd, 'midst the flame:
Maria's name! that will create, ev'n there,
A milder climate, and more temperate air.

PATROCLUS'S REQUEST TO ACHILLES FOR HIS ARMS.

IMITATED FROM THE BEGINNING OF THE SIXTEENTH ILIAD OF HOMER.

Divine Achilles, with compassion mov'd,
Thus to Patroclus spake, his best-belov'd.

“Why like a tender girl dost thou complain!
That strives to reach the mother's breast in vain;
Mourns by her side, her knees embraces fast,
Hangs on her robes, and interrupts her haste;
Yet, when with fondness to her arms she's rais'd,
Still mourns and weeps, and will not be appeas'd!
Thus my Patroclus in his grief appears,
Thus like a froward girl profuse of tears.

“From Phthia dost thou mournful tidings hear,
And to thy friend some fatal message bear?
Thy valiant father (if we Fame believe)
The good Menætius, he is yet alive:
And Peleus, though in his declining days,
Reigns o'er his Myrmidons in health and peace;
Yet, as their latest obsequies we paid,
Thou mourn'st them living, as already dead.

“Or thus with tears the Grecian host deplore,
That with their navy perish on the shore;
And with compassion their misfortunes view,
The just reward to guilt and falsehood due?
Impartial Heaven avenges thus my wrong,
Nor suffers crimes to go unpunish'd long.
Reveal the cause so much afflicts thy mind,
Nor thus conceal thy sorrows from thy friend.”

When, gently raising up his drooping head,
Thus, with a sigh, the sad Patroclus said.
“Godlike Achilles, Peleus' valiant son!
Of all our chiefs, the greatest in renown;
Upbraid not thus th' afflicted with their woes,
Nor triumph now the Greeks sustain such loss!
To pity let thy generous breast incline,
And show thy mind is like thy birth divine.
For all the valiant leaders of their host,
Or wounded lie, or are in battle lost.
Ulysses great in arms, and Diomede,
Languish with wounds, and in the navy bleed:
This common fate great Agamemnon shares,
And stern Eurypylus, renown'd in wars.
Whilst powerful drugs th' experienc'd artists try,
And to their wounds apt remedies apply,
Easing th' afflicted heroes with their skill,
Thy breast alone remains implacable!

“What, will thy fury thus for ever last!
Let present woes atone for injuries past:
How can thy soul retain such lasting hate!
Thy virtues are as useless as they're great.
What injur'd friend from thee shall hope redress,
That will not aid the Greeks in such distress?
Useless is all the valour that you boast,
Deform'd with rage, with sullen fury lost.

“Could cruelty like thine from Peleus come,
Or be the offspring of fair Thetis' womb!
Thee raging seas, thee boisterous waves brought forth,
And to obdurate rocks thou ow'st thy birth!
Thy stubborn nature still retains their kind,
So hard thy heart, so savage is thy mind.

“But, if thy boding breast admits of fear,
Or dreads what sacred oracles declare!
What awful Thetis in the courts above
Receiv'd from the unerring mouth of Jove!
If so—let me the threatening dangers face,
And head the warlike squadrons in thy place:
Whilst me thy valiant Myrmidons obey,
We yet may turn the fortune of the day.
Let me in thy distinguish'd arms appear,
With all thy dreadful equipage of war;
That when the Trojans our approaches view,
Deceiv'd, they shall retreat, and think 'tis you.

“Thus, from the rage of an insulting host,
We may retrieve that fame the Greeks have lost,

Vigorous and fresh, th' unequal fight renew,
And from our navy force the drooping foe;
O'er harass'd men an easy conquest gain,
And drive the Trojans to their walls again.”

ON THE RE-PRINTING MILTON'S PROSE WORKS WITH HIS POEMS.

WRITTEN IN HIS PARADISE LOST.

These sacred lines with wonder we peruse
And praise the flights of a seraphic Muse,
Till thy seditious prose provokes our rage,
And soils the beauties of thy brightest page.
Thus here we see transporting scenes arise,
Heaven's radiant host, and opening Paradise;
Then trembling view the dread abyss beneath,
Hell's horrid mansions, and the realms of Death.

Whilst here thy bold majestic numbers rise,
And range th' embattled legions of the skies,
With armies fill the azure plains of light,
And paint the lively terrours of the fight,
We own the poet worthy to rehearse
Heaven's lasting triumphs in immortal verse:
But when thy impious mercenary pen
Insults the best of princes, best of men,
Our admiration turns to just disdain,
And we revoke the fond applause again.

Like the fall'n angels in their happy state,
Thou shar'dst their nature, insolence, and fate:
To harps divine, immortal hymns they sung,
As sweet thy voice, as sweet thy lyre was strung.
As they did rebels to th' Almighty grow,
So thou prophan'st his image here below.
Apostate bard! may not thy guilty ghost,
Discover to its own eternal cost,
That as they Heaven, thou Paradise hast lost!

TO SIR HUMPHRY MACKWORTH:

ON THE MINES, LATE OF SIR CARBERY PRICE.

What spacious veins enrich the British soil;
The various ores, and skilful miner's toil;
How ripening metals lie conceal'd in Earth,
And teeming Nature forms the wondrous birth;
My useful verse, the first, transmits to fame,
In numbers tun'd, and no unhallow'd flame.

O generous Mackworth! could the Muse impart
A labour worthy thy auspicious art;
Like thee succeed in paths untrod before,
And secret treasures of the land explore.
Apollo's self should on the labour smile,
And Delphos quit for Britain's fruitful isle.

Where fair Sabrina flows around the coast,
And aged Dovey in the ocean's lost,
Her lofty brows unconquer'd Britain rears,
And fenc'd with rocks impregnable appears:
Which like the well-fix'd bars of Nature show,
To guard the treasures she conceals below.
For Earth, distorted with her pregnant womb,
Heaves up to give the forming embryo room:
Hence vast excrescences of hills arise,
And mountains swell to a portentous size:
Louring and black the rugged coast appears,
The sullen Earth a gloomy surface wears;
Yet all beneath, deep as the centre, shines
With native wealth, and more than India's mines,
Thus erring Nature her defects supplies,
Indulgent oft to what her sons despise:
Oft in a rude, unfinish'd form, we find
The noblest treasure of a generous mind.

Thrice happy land! from whose indulgent womb,
Such unexhausted stores of riches come!
By Heaven belov'd! form'd by auspicious Fate,
To be above thy neighbouring nations great!
Its golden sands no more shall Tagus boast,
In Dovey's flood his rival'd empire's lost;
Whose waters now a nobler fund maintain,
To humble France, and check the pride of Spain.
Like Egypt's Nile the bounteous current shows,
Dispersing blessings wheresoe'er it flows;
Whose native treasure's able to repair
The long expenses of our Gallic war.

The ancient Britons are a hardy race,
Averse to luxury and slothful ease;
Their necks beneath a foreign yoke ne'er bow'd,
In war unconquer'd, and of freedom proud;
With minds resolv'd they lasting toils endure,
Unmix'd their language, and their manners pure.
Wisely does Nature such an offspring chuse,
Brave to defend her wealth, and slow to use;
Where thirst of empire ne'er inflames their veins,
Nor avarice, nor wild ambition reigns:
But low in mines, they constant toils renew,
And through the Earth their branching veins pursue.
As when some navy on th' Iberian coast,
Chas'd by the winds, is in the ocean lost;
To Neptune's realms a new supply it brings,
The strength design'd of European kings:
Contending divers would the wreck regain,
And make reprisals on the grasping main:
Wild in pursuit they are endanger'd more,
Than when they combated the storms before.
The miner thus through perils digs his way,
Equal to theirs, and deeper than the sea!
Drawing, in pestilential steams, his breath,
Resolv'd to conquer, though he combats Death.
Night's gloomy realms his pointed steel invades,
The courts of Pluto, and infernal shades:
He cuts through mountains, subterraneous lakes,
Plying his work, each nervous stroke he takes
Loosens the earth, and the whole cavern shakes.
Thus, with his brawny arms, the Cyclops stands,
To form Jove's lightning, with uplifted hands,
The ponderous hammer with a force descends,
Loud as the thunder which his art intends;
And as he strikes, with each resistless blow
The anvil yields, and Etna groans below.

Thy fam'd inventions, Mackworth, most adorn
The miner's art, and make the best return:
Thy speedy sails, and useful engines, show
A genius richer than the mines below.
Thousands of slaves unskill'd Peru maintains;
The hands that labour still exhaust the gains:
The winds, thy slaves, their useful succour join,
Convey thy ore, and labour at thy mine;
Instructed by thy arts, a power they find
To vanquish realms, where once they lay confin'd.

Downward, my Muse, direct thy steepy flight,
Where smiling shades and beauteous realms invite;

I first of British bards invoke thee down,
And first with wealth thy graceful temples crown;
Through dark retreats pursue the winding ore,
Search Nature's depths, and view her boundless store;
The secret cause in tuneful measures sing,
How metals first are fram'd, and whence they spring.
Whether the active Sun, with chymic flames,
Through porous earth transmits his genial beams;
With heat impregnating the womb of night,
The offspring shines with its paternal light:
On Britain's isle propitiously he shines,
With joy descends, and labours in her mines.
Or whether, urg'd by subterraneous flames,
The earth ferments, and flows in liquid streams;
Purg'd from their dross, the nobler parts refine,
Receive new forms, and with fresh beauties shine.
Thus fluid parts, unknowing how to burn,
With cold congeal'd, to solid metals turn:
For metals only from devouring flame
Preserve their beauty, and return the same;
Both art and force the well-wrought mass disdains,
And 'midst the fire its native form retains.
Or whether by creation first they sprung,
When yet unpois'd the world's great fabric hung:
Metals the basis of the Earth were made,
The bars on which its fix'd foundation's laid:
All second causes they disdain to own,
And from th' Almighty's fiat sprung alone.

Nature in spacious beds preserves her store,
And keeps unmix'd the well-compacted ore;
The spreading root a numerous race maintains
Of branching limbs, and far-extended veins:
Thus, from its watery store, a spring supplies
The lesser streams, that round its fountain rise;
Which bounding out in fair meanders play,
And o'er the meads in different currents stray.

Methinks I see the rounded metal spread,
To be ennobled with our monarch's head:
About the globe th' admired coin shall run,
And make the circle of its parent Sun.

How are thy realms, triumphant Britain, blest!
Enrich'd with more than all the distant West!
Thy sons, no more betray'd with hopes of gain,
Shall tempt the dangers of a faithless main,
Traffic no more abroad for foreign spoil,
Supplied with richer from their native soil.
To Dovey's flood shall numerous traders come,
Employ'd to fetch the British bullion home.
To pay their tributes to its bounteous shore,
Returning laden with the Cambrian ore.
Her absent fleet Potosi's race shall mourn,
And wish in vain to see our sails return;
Like misers heaping up their useless store,
Starv'd with their wealth, amidst their riches poor.
Where-e'er the British banners are display'd,
The suppliant nations shall implore our aid:
Till, thus compell'd, the greater worlds confess
Themselves oblig'd, and succour'd by the less.

How Cambria's mines were to her offspring known,
Thus sacred verse transmits the story down:
Merlin, a bard of the inspired train,
With mystic numbers charm'd the British plain;
Belov'd by Phœbus, and the tuneful Nine,
His song was sacred, and his art divine:
As on Sabrina's fruitful banks he stood,
His wondrous verse restrain'd the listening flood;
The stream's bright goddess rais'd her awful head,
And to her cave the artful shepherd led.
Her swift-decending steps the youth pursues,
And rich in ore the spacious mountain views.
In beds distinct the well rang'd metals lay,
Dispersing rays, and counterfeiting day.
The silver, shedding beams of orient light,
Struck with too fierce a glare his aching sight;
Like rising flames the ruddy copper show'd,
And spread its blushes o'er the dark abode:
Profuse of rays, and with unrival'd beams,
The liquid silver flow'd in restless streams:
Nor India's sparkling gems are half so bright,
Nor waves above, that shine with heavenly light;
When thus the Goddess spake: “Harmonious youth,
Rever'd for numbers fraught with sacred truth!
Belov'd by Heaven! attend while I relate
The fix'd decree, and dark events of Fate.
Conceal'd these treasures lie in Nature's womb,
For future times, and ages yet to come.
When many long revolving years are run,
A hero shall ascend the British throne,
Whose numerous triumphs shall Augusta grace,
In arms renown'd, ador'd for plenteous peace.
Beneath his sway a generous youth shall rise,
With virtues blest, in happy councils wise;
Rich with the spoils of Learning's various store,
Commanding arts, yet still acquiring more.
He, with success, shall enter this abode,
And Nature trace in paths before untrod;
The smiling offspring from her womb remove,
And with her entrails glad the realms above.

“O youth reserv'd by more auspicious fate,
With fam'd improvements to oblige the state!
By wars empoverish'd, Albion mourns no more,
Thy well-wrought mines forbid her to be poor:
The Earth, thy great exchequer, ready lies,
Which all defect of failing funds supplies;
Thou shalt a nation's pressing wants relieve,
Not war can lavish more than thou canst give.”

This, Mackworth, fixes thy immortal name,
The Muse's darling, and the boast of fame;
No greater virtues on record shall stand,
Than thus with arts to grace, with wealth enrich the land.

OVID'S ART OF LOVE.

BOOK THE SECOND.

Now Io Pæan sing! now wreaths prepare!
And with repeated Ios fill the air:
The prey is fall'n in my successful toils,
My artful nets enclose the lovely spoils:
My numbers now, ye smiling lovers, crown,
And make your poet deathless in renown:
With lasting fame my verse shall be enroll'd,
And I preferr'd to all the bards of old.
Thus Paris from the warlike Spartans bore
Their ravish'd bride; to Ida's distant shore
Victorious Pelops thus in triumph drove
The vanquish'd maid, and thus enjoy'd his love.

Stay, eager youth! your bark's but under sail;
The distant port requires a prosperous gale.
'Tis not enough the yielding beauty's found,
And with my aid your artful passion crown'd;
The conquests our successful conduct gain'd,
With art must be secur'd, by arts maintain'd.
The glory's more to guard, than win the prize;
There all the toil and threatening danger lies.
If ever, Cupid, now indulgent prove,
O Venus! aid; thou charming queen of love!
Kind Erato, let thy auspicious name
Inspire the work, and raise my generous flame.
The labour's great! a method I design
For Love; and will the fetter'd god confine:
The god that roves the spacious world around,
In every clime, and distant region found;
Active and light, his wings elude our guard,
And to confine a deity is hard:
His guest from flight Minos enclos'd around,
Yet he with wings a daring passage found.
Thus Dædalus her offspring first confin'd
Who with a bull in lewd embraces join'd:
Her teeming womb the horrid crime confess'd,
Big with a human bull, half man, half beast.
Said he, “Just Minos, best of human-kind,
Thy mercy let a prostrate exile find.
By fates compell'd my native shores to fly,
Permit me, where I durst not live, to die.
Enlarge my son, if you neglect my tears,
And show compassion to his blooming years:
Let not the youth a long confinement mourn,
Oh free the son, or let his sire return!”
Thus he implor'd, but still implor'd in vain,
Nor could the freedom that he sought, obtain.
Convinc'd at length: “Now, Dædalus,” he cry'd,
“Here's subject for thy art that's yet untry'd,
Minos the earth commands, and guards the sea,
No pass the land affords, the deep no way:
Heaven's only free, we'll Heaven's auspicious height
Attempt to pass, where kinder fates invite!
Favour, ye powers above, my daring flight;
Misfortunes oft prove to invention kind,
Instruct our wit, and aid the labouring mind:
For who can credit men, in wild despair,
Should force a passage through the yielding air!”
Feathers for wings design'd the artist chose,
And bound with thread his forming pinions close:
With temper'd wax the pointed ends he wrought,
And to perfection his new labours brought.
The finish'd wings his smiling offspring views,
Admires the work, not conscious of their use:
To whom the father said, “Observe aright,
Observe, my son, these instruments of flight.
In vain the tyrant our escape retards,
The heavens he cannot, all but heaven he guards:
Though earth and seas elude thy father's care,
These wings shall waft us through the spacious air.
Nor shall my son celestial signs survey,
Far from the radiant Virgin take your way:
Or where Bootes the chill'd north commands,
And with his fauchion dread Orion stands;
I'll go before, me still retain in sight,
Where-e'er I lead, securely make your flight.
For should we upward soar too near the Sun,
Dissolv'd with heat, the liquid wax will run:
Or near the seas an humbler flight maintain,
Our plumes will suffer by the steaming main.
A medium keep, the winds observe aright:
The winds will aid your advantageous flight.”
He caution'd thus, and thus inform'd him long,
As careful birds instruct their tender young:
The spreading wings then to his shoulders bound,
His body pois'd, and rais'd him from the ground.
Prepar'd for flight, his aged arms embrace
The tender youth, whilst tears o'erflow his face.
A hill there was, from whence the anxious pair
Essay'd their wings, and forth they launch'd in air;
Now his expanded plumes the artist plies,
Regards his son, and leads along the skies;
Pleas'd with the novelty of flight, the boy
Bounds in the air, and upwards springs with joy.
The angler views them from the distant strand,
And quits the labours of his trembling hand.
Samos they pass, and Naxos in their flight,
And Delos, with Apollo's presence bright.
Now on their right Lebinthos' shores they found,
For fruitful lakes and shady groves renown'd;
When the aspiring boy forgot his fears,
Rash with hot youth and unexperienc'd years:
Upwards he soar'd, maintain'd a lofty stroke,
And his directing father's way forsook.
The wax, of heat impatient, melted run,
Nor could his wings sustain that blaze of sun.
From Heaven he views the fatal depths below,
Whilst killing fears prevent the distant blow.
His struggling arms now no assistance find,
Nor poise the body, nor receive the wind.
Falling, his father he implores in vain,
To aid his flight, and sinking limbs sustain;
His name invokes, till the expiring sound
Far in the floods with Icarus was drown'd.
The parent mourns, a parent now no more,
And seeks the absent youth on every shore;
“Where's my lov'd son, my Icarus!” he cries;
“Say in what distant region of the skies,
Or faithless clime, the youthful wanderer flies!”
Then view'd his pinions scatter'd o'er the stream,
The shore his bones receiv'd, the waves his name.
Minos with walls attempted to detain
His flying guests, but did attempt in vain:
Yet the wing'd god shall to our rules submit,
And Cupid yield to more prevailing wit.

Thessalian arts in vain rash lovers use,
In vain with drugs the scornful maid abuse:
The skilful'st potions ineffectual prove,
Useless are magic remedies in love:
Could charms prevail, Circe had prov'd her art,
And fond Medea fix'd her Jason's heart.
Nor tempt with philters the disdainful dame;
They rage inspire, create a frantic flame:
Abstain from guilt, all vicious arts remove,
And make your passion worthy of her love.
Distrust your empty form and boasted face;
The nymph engage a thousand nobler ways:
To fix her vanquish'd heart entirely thine,
Accomplish'd graces to your native join.
Beauty's but frail, a charm that soon decays,
Its lustre fades as rolling years increase,
And age still triumphs o'er the ruin'd face.
This truth the fair, but short-liv'd lily shows,
And prickles that survive the faded rose.
Learn, lovely boy, be with instruction wise!
Beauty and youth mis-spent are past advice.
Then cultivate thy mind with wit and fame,
Those lasting charms survive the funeral flame.

With arts and sciences your breast improve,
Of high import are languages in love:

The fam'd Ulysses was not fair nor young,
But eloquent and charming with his tongue:
And yet for him contending beauties strove,
And every sea nymph sought the hero's love,
Calypso mourn'd when he forsook her shores,
And with fond waves detain'd his hasty oars.
Oft she inquir'd of ruin'd Ilium's fate,
Making him oft the wondrous tale relate;
Which with such grace his florid tongue could frame,
The story still was new, though still the same.
Now standing on the shores, “again declare,”
Calypso cry'd, “your fam'd exploits in war.”
He with a wand, a slender wand he bore,
Delineates every action on the shore.
“Here's Troy,” says he, then draws the walls in sand:
“There Simois flows, here my battalions stand.
A field there was, (and then describes the field)
Where Dolon, with rewards deceiv'd, we kill'd.
Just thus intrench'd imagine Rhesus lies,
And here we make his warlike steeds our prize.”
Much he describ'd, when a destructive wave
Wash'd off the slender Troy, and, rolling, gave
To Rhesus and his tents one common grave.
Long with delight his charming tongue she heard,
The well-rais'd passion in her looks appear'd:
The goddess weeps to view his spreading sails,
So much a soldier with the sex prevails.
Distrust thy form, fond youth, and learn to know,
There's more requir'd in love than empty show.
With just disdain she treats the haughty mind,
'Tis complaisance that makes a beauty kind.
The hawk we hate that always lives in arms,
The raging wolf that every flock alarms:
But the mild swallow none with toils infests,
And none the soft Chaonian bird molests.
Debates avoid, and rude contention shun;
A woman's with submissive language won.
Let the wife rail, and injur'd husband swear,
Such freedoms are allow'd the marry'd pair:
Discord and strife to nuptial beds belong,
The portion justifies a clamorous tongue.
With tender vows the yielding maid endear,
And let her only sighs and wishes hear.
Contrive with words and actions to delight,
Still charm her ear, and still oblige her sight.

I no instructions to the rich impart,
He needs not, that presents, my useless art:
The giving lover's handsome, valiant, wise,
His happy fortune is above advice.
I to the needy sing; though poor, I love,
And wanting wealth, with melting language move.
His honour storms a stubborn damsel's door;
I'm cautious to affront, because I'm poor.
With pleasing arts I court, with arts possess;
Or if I'm bounteous, 'tis in promises.
Enrag'd, I ruffled once Corinna's hair,
Long was I banish'd by the injur'd fair;
Long mournful nights for this consum'd alone,
Nor could my tears the furious maid atone.
Weeping, she vow'd, a suit of point I tore;
Falsely she vow'd, but I must purchase more.
Make not your guilty master's crime your own,
But by my punishment my errour shun;
Indecent fury from her sight remove,
No passion let your mistress know, but love.

Yet if the haughty nymph's unkind and coy,
Or shuns your sight; have patience, and enjoy.
By slow degrees we bend the stubborn bow;
What force resists, with art will pliant grow.
In vain we stem a torrent's rapid force,
But swim with ease, complying with its course.
By gentler arts we savage beasts reclaim,
And lions, bulls, and furious tigers tame.
Fiercely Atlanta o'er the forest rov'd,
Cruel and wild, and yet at last she lov'd.
Melanion long deplor'd his hopeless flame,
And weeping in the woods pursued the scornful dame:
On his submissive neck her toils he wore,
And with his mistress chas'd the dreadful boar.
Arm'd to the woods I bid you not repair,
Nor follow over hills the savage fair:
My soft injunctions less severe you'll find,
Easy to learn, and fram'd to every mind.
Her wishes never, nor her will withstand:
Submit, you conquer; serve, and you'll command.
Her words approve, deny what she denies;
Like, where she likes; and where she scorns, despise:
Laugh when she smiles: when sad, dissolve in tears;
Let every gesture sympathize with hers.
If she delights, as women will, in play,
Her stakes return, your ready losings pay.
When she's at cards, or rattling dice she throws,
Connive at cheats, and generously lose.
A smiling winner let the nymph remain,
Let your pleas'd mistress every conquest gain.
In heat, with an umbrella ready stand;
When walking, offer your officious hand.
Her trembling hands, though you sustain the cold,
Cherish, and to your warmer bosom hold.
Think no inferior office a disgrace;
No action, that a mistress gains, is base.
The hero, that eluded Juno's spite,
And every monster overcame in fight;
That past so many bloody labours o'er,
And well deserv'd that Heav'n whose weight he bore,
Amidst Ionian damsels carding stands,
And grasps the distaff with obedient hands;
In all commands the haughty dame obeys;
And who disdains to act like Hercules?
If she's at law, be sure commend the laws,
Solicit with the judge, or plead her cause.
With patience at the assignation wait
Early appear, attend her coming late.
Whene'er she wants a messenger, away,
And her commands with flying feet obey.
When late from supper she's returning home,
And calls her servant, as a servant come.
She for the country air retires from town,
You want a coach, or horse, why foot it down?
Let not the sultry season of the year,
The falling snows, or constant rain deter.
Love is a warfare; an ignoble sloth
Seems equally contemptible in both:
In both are watchings, duels, anxious cares,
The soldier thus, and thus the lover fares;
With rain he's drench'd, with piercing tempests shakes,
And on the colder earth his lodging takes.
Fame says, that Phœbus kept Admetus' herd,
And coarsely in an humble cottage far'd;
No servile offices the god deny'd;
Learn this ye lovers, and renounce your pride.

When all excess is to your mistress hard,
When every door secur'd, and window barr'd;
The roof untile, some desperate passage find:
You cannot be too bold to make her kind:
Oh, how she'll clasp you when the danger's o'er,
And value your deserving passion more!

Thus through the boisterous seas Leander mov'd,
Not to possess, but show how much he lov'd.

Nor blushing think how low you condescend
To court her maids, and make each slave your friend:
Each by their names familiarly salute,
And beg them to promote your amorous suit.
Perhaps a bribe's requir'd; your bounty show,
And from your slender fortune part bestow.
A double bribe the chamber-maid secures;
And when the favorite's gain'd, the fair is your's:
She'll add to every thing you do, a grace,
And watch the wanton hours, and time her praise.
When servants merry make, and feast and play,
Then give her something to keep holiday.
Retain them every one, the porter most,
And her who nightly guards the happy coast.

I no profuse nor costly gifts commend,
But choose and time it well, whate'er you send.
Provide the product of the early year,
And let your boy the rural present bear;
Tell her 'twas fresh, and from your manor brought,
Though stale, and in the suburb market bought:
The first ripe cluster let your mistress eat,
With chesnuts, melons, and fair peaches treat;
Some larger fish, or choicer fowl present,
They recommend your passion, where they're sent.
'Tis with these arts the childless miser's caught,
Thus future legacies are basely bought:
But may his name with infamy be curst,
That practis'd them on love, and woman first!

In tender sonnets most your flame rehearse,
But who, alas! of late are mov'd by verse?
Women a wealthy-treating fool admire,
Applaud your wit, but costly gifts require.
This is the golden age, all worship gold,
Honours are purchas'd, Love and Beauty sold:
Should Homer come with his harmonious train,
And not present, Homer's turn'd out again.
Some of the sex have sense, their number's small;
Most ignorant, yet vain pretenders all:
Flatter aright, smooth empty stanzas send;
They seldom sense, but sound and rhyme commend.
Should you with art compose each polish'd line,
And make her, like your numbers, all divine:
Yet she'll a treat, or worthless toy prefer
To all the immortal poet's boasted care.
But he that covets to retain her heart,
Let him apply his flattery with art:
With lasting raptures on her beauty gaze,
And make her form the subject of his praise.
Purple commend, when she's in purple dress'd;
In scarlet, swear she looks in scarlet best:
Array'd in gold, her graceful mien adore,
Vowing those eyes transcend the sparkling ore.
With prudence place each compliment aright,
Though clad in crape, let homely crape delight.
In sorted colours, praise a vary'd dress;
In night-cloaths, or commode, let either please.
Or when she combs, or when she curls her hair,
Commend her curious art and gallant air.
Singing, her voice, dancing, her step admire:
Applaud when she desists, and still desire:
Let all her words and actions wonder raise,
View her with raptures, and with raptures praise.
Fierce as Medusa though your mistress prove,
These arts will teach the stubborn beauty love.

Be cautious lest you over-act your part,
And temper your hypocrisy with art.
Let no false action give your words the lie,
For, undeceiv'd, she's ever after shy.
In Autumn oft, when the luxurious year
Purples the grape, and shows the vintage near;
When sultry heats, when colder blasts arise,
And bodies languish with inconstant skies:
If vitious heaven infects her tender veins,
And in her tainted blood some fever reigns;
Then your kind vows, your pious care bestow,
The blessings you expect to reap, then sow:
Think nothing nauseous in her loath'd disease,
But with your ready hand contrive to please:
Weep in her sight, then fonder kisses give,
And let her burning lips your tears receive.
Much for her safety vow, but louder speak,
Let the nymph hear the lavish vows you make.
As health returns, so let your joys appear,
Oft smile with hope, and oft confess your fear.
This in her breast remains, these pleasing charms
Secure a passage to her grateful arms.
Reach nothing nauseous to her taste or sight,
Officious only when you most delight:
Nor bitter draughts, nor hated medicines give:
Let her from rivals what she loaths receive.
Those prosperous winds that launch'd our bark from shore,
When out at sea assist its course no more:
Time will your knowledge in our art improve,
Give strength and vigour to your forming love.
The dreadful bull was but a calf when young;
The lofty oak but from an acorn sprung:
From narrow springs the noblest currents flow,
But swell their floods, and spread them as they go.
Be conversant with love, no toils refuse,
And conquer all fatigues with frequent use.
Still let her hear your sighs, your passion view,
And night and day the flying maid pursue.
Then pause awhile; by fallow fields we gain;
A thirsty soil receives the welcome rain.
Phyllis was calm while with Demophoon bless'd,
His absence wounded most her raging breast:
Thus his chaste consort for Ulysses burn'd,
And Laodamia thus her absent husband mourn'd:
With speed return, you're ruin'd by delays,
Some happy youth may soon supply your place.
When Sparta's prince was from his Helen gone,
Could Helen be content to lie alone?
She in his bed receiv'd her amorous guest,
And nightly clasp'd him to her panting breast.
Unthinking cuckold, to a proverb blind!
What trust a beau and a fair wife behind!
Let furious hawks thy trembling turtles keep,
And to the mountain wolves commit thy sheep:
Helen is guiltless, and her lover's crime
But what yourself would act another time!
The youth was pressing, the dull husband gone,
Let every woman make the case her own:
Who could a prince, by Venus sent, refuse?
The cuckold's negligence is her excuse.

But not the foaming boar whom spears surround,
Revenging on the dogs his mortal wound,
Nor lioness, whose young receive the breast,
Nor viper by unwary footsteps prest,
Nor drunkard by th' Aonian god possest,
Transcend the woman's rage, by fury led,
To find a rival in her injur'd bed.
With fire and sword she flies, the frantic dame
Disdains the thoughts of tenderness or shame.
Her offspring's blood enrag'd Medea spilt,
A cruel mother, for the father's guilt.

And Progne's unrelenting fury proves,
That dire revenge pursues neglected loves.
Where sacred ties of honour are destroy'd,
Such errours cautious lovers must avoid.
Think not my precepts constancy enjoin,
Venus avert! far nobler's my design.
At large enjoy, conceal your passion well,
Nor use the modish vanity to tell:
Avoid presenting of suspected toys,
Nor to an hour confine your varied joys:
Desert the shades you did frequent before,
Nor make them conscious to a new amour.
The nymph, when she betrays, disdains your guilt,
And by such falsehood taught, she learns to jilt.
While with a wife Atrides liv'd content,
Their loves were mutual, and she innocent:
But when inflam'd with every charming face,
Her lewdness still maintain'd an equal pace.
Chryses, as Fame had told her, pray'd in vain,
Nor could by gifts his captive girl obtain;
Mournful Briseis, thy complaints she heard,
And how his lust the tedious war deferr'd.
This tamely heard, but with resentment view'd
The victor by his beautious slave subdued:
With rage she saw her own neglected charms,
And took Ægisthus to her injur'd arms.
To lust and shame by his example led,
Who durst so openly profane her bed.

What you conceal, her more observing eye
Perhaps betrays: with oaths the fact deny,
And boldly give her jealousy the lie;
Not too submissive seem, nor over-kind;
These are the symptoms of a guilty mind:
But no caresses, no endearments spare,
Enjoyment pacifies the angry fair.
There are that strong provoking potions praise,
And nature with pernicious med'cines raise:
Nor drugs, nor herbs, will what you fancy prove,
And I pronounce them poisonous all in love.
Some pepper bruis'd with seeds of nettles join,
And clary steep in bowls of mellow wine:
Venus is most averse to forc'd delights,
Extorted flames pollute her genial rites.
With fishes spawn thy feeble nerves recruit,
And with eringo's hot salacious root:
The goddess worshipp'd by th' Erycian swains
Megara's white shallot, so faint, disdains.
New eggs they take, and honey's liquid juice,
And leaves and apples of the pine infuse.
Prescribe no more, my Muse, nor med'cines give:
Beauty and youth need no provocative.

You that conceal'd your secret crimes before
Proclaim them now, now publish each amour.
Nor tax me with inconstancy; we find
The driving bark requires a veering wind:
Now northern blasts we court, now southern gales,
And every point befriends our shifted sails.
Thus chariot-drivers with a flowing rein
Direct their steeds, then curb them in again.
Indulgence oft corrupts the faithless dame,
Secure from rivals she neglects your flame:
The mind without variety is cloy'd,
And nauseates pleasures it has long enjoy'd.
But as a fire, whose wasted strength declines,
Converts to ashes, and but faintly shines;
When sulphur's brought, the spreading flames return,
And glowing embers with fresh fury burn:
A rival thus the ungrateful maid reclaims,
Revives desire, and feeds her dying flames:
Oft make her jealous, give your fondness o'er,
And teaze her often with some new amour.
Happy, thrice happy youth, with pleasures blest,
Too great, too exquisite to be exprest,
That view'st the anguish of her jealous breast!
Whene'er thy guilt the slighted beauty knows,
She swoons; her voice, and then her colour goes.
Oft would my furious nymph, in burning rage,
Assault my locks, and with her nails engage:
Then how she'd weep, what piercing glances cast!
And vow to hate the perjur'd wretch at last.
Let not your mistress long your falsehood mourn;
Neglected fondness will to fury turn:
But kindly clasp her in your arms again,
And on your breast her drooping head sustain:
Whilst weeping kiss, amidst her tears enjoy,
And with excess of bliss her rage destroy.
Let her awhile lament, awhile complain,
Then die with pleasure, as she died with pain.
Enjoyment cures her with its powerful charms,
She'll sign a pardon in your active arms.

First nature lay an undigested mass,
Heaven, earth, and ocean, wore one common face:
Then vaulted heaven was fram'd, waves earth enclos'd;
And Chaos was in beauteous form dispos'd;
The beasts inhabit woods, the birds the air,
And to the floods the scaly fry repair.
Mankind alone enjoy'd no certain place,
On rapine liv'd a rude unpolish'd race:
Caves were their houses, herbs their food and bed,
Whilst each a savage from the other fled.
Love first disarm'd the fierceness of their mind,
And in one bed the men and women join'd.
The youth was eager, but unskill'd in joy,
Nor was the unexperienc'd virgin coy!
They knew no courtship, no instructor found,
Yet they enjoy'd, and bless'd the pleasing wound.
The birds with consorts propagate their kind,
And sporting fish their finny beauties find:
In amorous folds the wanton serpents twine,
And dogs with their salacious females join.
The lusty bull delights his frisking dames,
And more lascivious goat her male inflames.
Mares furious grow with love, their boundaries force,
Plunging through waves to meet the neighing horse.
Go on brave youth, thy generous vigour try,
To the resenting maid this charm apply:
Love's softening pleasures every grief remove,
There's nothing that can make your peace like love.
From drugs and philtres no redress you'll find,
But nature with your mistress will be kind.
The love that's unconstrain'd will long endure,
Machaon's art was false, but mine is sure.

Whilst thus I sung, inflam'd with nobler fire,
I heard the great Apollo's tuneful lyre;
His hand a branch of spreading laurel bore,
And on his head a laurel wreath he wore;
Around he cast diffusive rays of light,
Confessing all the god to human sight.
“Thou master of lascivious arts,” he said,
“To my frequented fane thy pupils lead:
And there, inscrib'd in characters of gold,
This celebrated sentence you'll behold.
‘First know yourself;’ who to himself is known,
Shall love with conduct, and his wishes crown.
Where Nature has a handsome face bestow'd,
Or graceful shape, let both be often show'd:
Let men of wit and humour silence shun,
The artist sing, and soldier bluster on:

Of long harangues, ye eloquent, take heed,
Nor thy damn'd works, thou teazing poet, read.”
Thus Phœbus spake: a just obedience give,
And these injunctions from a god receive.

I mysteries unfold; to my advice
Attend, ye vulgar lovers, and grow wise.
The thriving grain in harvest often fails:
Oft prosperous winds turn adverse to our sails:
Few are the pleasures, though the toils are great:
With patience must submissive lovers wait.
What hares on Athos, bees on Hybla feed,
Or berries on the circling ivy breed;
As shells on sandy shores, as stars above,
So numerous are the sure fatigues of love.
The lady's gone abroad, you're told; though seen,
Distrust your eyes, believe her not within.
Her lodgings on the promis'd night are close;
Resent it not, but on the earth repose.
Her maid will cry, with an insulting tone,
“What makes you saunter here? you sot, begone.”
With moving words the cruel nymph entreat,
And place your garland on the bolted gate.

Why do I light and vulgar precepts use?
A nobler subject now inspires my Muse:
Approaching joys I sing; ye youths draw near,
Listen ye happy lovers and give ear:
The labour's great, and daring is my song.
Labours and great attempts to Love belong.
As from the sacred oracles of Jove
Receive these grand mysterious truths in love.
Look down when she the ogling spark invites,
Nor touch the conscious tablets when she writes.
Appear not jealous though she's much from home,
Let her at pleasure go, unquestioned come.
This crafty husbands to their wives permit,
And learn when she's engaged to wink at it.
I my own frailties modestly confess;
And, blushing, give those precepts I transgress;
Shall I, with patience the known signal hear,
Retire, and leave a happy rival there!
What! tamely suffer the provoking wrong,
And be afraid to use my hands or tongue!
Corinna's husband kiss'd her in my sight;
I beat the saucy fool, and seiz'd my right.
I like a fury for my nymph engage,
And like a mad-man, when I miss her, rage.
My passion still prevails, convinc'd I yield!
He that submits to this is better skill'd.

Expose not, though you find her guilty flame,
Lest she abandon modesty and shame:
Conceal her faults, no secret crimes upbraid;
Nothing's so fond as a suspected maid,
Discover'd love increases with despair,
When both alike the guilt and scandal share:
All sense of modesty they lose in time,
Whilst each encourages the other's crime.

In Heaven this story's fam'd above the rest,
Amongst th' immortal drolls a standing jest:
How Vulcan two transgressing lovers caught,
And every god a pleas'd spectator brought.
Great Mars for Venus felt a guilty flame,
Neglected war, and own'd a lover's name;
To his desires the queen of Love inclin'd;
No nymph in Heaven's so willing, none so kind.
Oft the lascivious fair, with scornful pride,
Would Vulcan's foot and sooty hands deride,
Yet both with decency their passion bore,
And modestly conceal'd the close amour.
But by the Sun betray'd in their embrace,
(For what escapes the Sun's observing rays?
He told th' affronted god of his disgrace.
Ah foolish Sun! and much unskill'd in love,
Thou hast an ill example set above!
Never a fair offending nymph betray,
She'll gratefully oblige you every way:
The crafty spouse around his bed prepares
Nets that deceive the eye, and secret snares:
A journey feigns, th' impatient lovers met,
And naked were expos'd in Vulcan's net.
The gods deride the criminals in chains,
And scarce from tears the queen of Love refrains;
Nor could her hands conceal her guilty face,
She wants that cover for another place.
To surly Mars a gay spectator said,
“Why so uneasy in that envy'd bed?
On me transfer your chains; I'll freely come
For your release, and suffer in your room.”
At length, kind Neptune, freed by thy desires,
Mars goes for Crete, to Paphos she retires,
Their loves augmented with revengeful fires:
Now conversant with infamy and shame,
They set no bounds to their licentious flame.
But, honest Vulcan, what was thy pretence,
To act so much unlike a god of sense?
They sin in public, you the shame repent,
Convinc'd that loves increase with punishment.
Though in your power, a rival ne'er expose,
Never his intercepted joys disclose:
This I command, Venus commands the same,
Who hates the snares she once sustain'd with shame.

What impious wretch will Ceres' rites expose,
Or Juno's solemn mysteries disclose!
His witty torments Tantalus deserves,
That thirsts in waves, and viewing banquets starves.
But Venus most in secrecy delights;
Away, ye bablers, from her silent rites!
No pomp her mysteries attends, no noise!
No sounding brass proclaims the latent joys,
With folded arms the happy pair possess,
Nor should the fond betraying tongue confess
Those raptures, which no language can express,
When naked Venus cast her robes aside,
The parts obscene her hands extended hide:
No girl on propagating beasts will gaze,
But hangs her head, and turns away her face.
We darken'd beds and doors for love provide;
What nature cannot, decent habits hide,
Love darkness courts, at most a glimmering light,
To raise our joys, and just oblige the sight.
Ere happy men beneath a roof were laid,
When oaks provided them with food and shade,
Some gloomy cave receiv'd the wanton pair;
For light too modest, and unshaded air!
From public view they decently retir'd,
And secretly perform'd what love inspir'd.
Now scarce a modish fop about the town,
But boasts with whom, how oft, and where 'twas done;
They taste no pleasure, relish no delight,
Till they recount what pass'd the happy night.
But men of honour always thought it base,
To prostitute each kinder nymph's embrace:
To blast her fame, and vainly hurt his own,
And furnish scandal for a lewd lampoon.
And here I must some guilty arts accuse,
And disingenuous shifts that lovers use,
To wrong the chaste, and innocent abuse.

When long repuls'd they find their courtship vain,
Her character with infamy they stain:
Deny'd her person, they debauch her fame,
And brand her innocence with public shame.
Go, jealous fool, the injur'd beauty guard,
Let every door be lock'd and window barr'd!
The suffering nymph remains expos'd to wrong;
Her name's a prostitute to every tongue;
For malice will with joy the lie receive,
Report, and what it wishes true, believe.

With care conceal whate'er defects you find,
To all her faults seem like a lover blind.
Naked Andromeda when Perseus view'd,
He saw her faults, but yet pronounc'd them good.
Andromache was tall, yet some report
Her Hector was so blind, he thought her short.
At first what's nauseous, lessens by degrees,
Young loves are nice, and difficult to please.
The infant plant, that bears a tender rind,
Reels to and fro with every breath of wind:
But shooting upward to a tree at last,
It stems the storm, and braves the strongest blast.
Time will defects and blemishes endear,
And make them lovely to your eyes appear:
Unusual scents at first may give offence;
Time reconciles them to the vanquish'd sense:
Her vices soften with some kinder phrase;
If she is swarthy as the Negro's face,
Call it a graceful brown, and that complexion praise.
The ruddy lass must be like Venus fair,
Or like Minerva that has yellow hair.
If pale and meagre, praise her shape and youth,
Active when small, when gross she's plump and smooth.
Every excess by softening terms disguise,
And in some neighbouring virtue hide each vice.

Nor ask her age, consult no register,
Under whose reign she's born, or what's the year.
If fading youth checkers her hair with white,
Experience makes her perfect in delight;
In her embrace sublimer joys are found,
A fruitful soil, and cultivated ground!
The hours enjoy whilst youth and pleasures last,
Age hurries on, and Death pursues too fast.
Or plough the seas, or cultivate the land,
Or wield the sword in thy adventurous hand:
Or much in love thy nervous strength employ,
Embrace the fair, the grateful maid enjoy;
Pleasure and wealth reward thy pleasing pains,
The labour's great, but greater far the gains.
Add their experience in affairs of love,
For years and practice do alike improve;
Their arts repair the injuries of time,
And still preserve them in their charming prime:
In vary'd ways they act the pleasure o'er,
Not pictur'd postures can instruct you more.
They want no courtship to provoke delight,
But meet your warmth with eager appetite:
Give me enjoyment, when the willing dame
Glows with desires, and burns with equal flame.
I love to hear the soft transporting joys,
The frequent sighs, the tender murmuring voice:
To see her eyes with vary'd pleasure move,
And all the nymph confess the power of love.
Nature's not thus indulgent to the young,
These joys alone to riper years belong:
Who youth enjoys, drinks crude unready wine,
Let age your girl and sprightly juice refine,
Mellow their sweets, and make the taste divine.
To Helen who'd Hermione prefer,
Or Gorgé think beyond her mother fair:
But he that covets the experienc'd dame,
Shall crown his joys, and triumph in his flame.

One conscious bed receives the happy pair:
Retire, my Muse; the door demands thy care.
What charming words, what tender things are said!
What language flows without thy useless aid!
There shall the roving hand employment find,
Inspire new flames, and make ev'n virgins kind,
Thus Hector did Andromache delight,
Hector in love victorious, as in fight.
When weary from the field Achilles came,
Thus with delays he rais'd Briseïs' flame:
Ah, could those arms, those fatal hands delight,
Inspire kind thoughts, and raise thy appetite!
Couldst thou, fond maid, be charm'd with his embrace,
Stain'd with the blood of half thy royal race?

Nor yet with speed the fleeting pleasures waste,
Still moderate your love's impetuous haste:
The bashful virgin, though appearing coy,
Detains your hand, and hugs the proffer'd joy.
Then view her eyes with humid lustre bright,
Sparkling with rage, and trembling with delight:
Her kind complaints, her melting accents hear,
The eye she charms, and wounds the listening ear.
Desert not then the clasping nymph's embrace,
But with her love maintain an equal pace:
Raise to her heights the transports of your soul,
And fly united to the happy goal.
Observe these precepts when, with leisure blest,
No threatening fears your private hours molest;
When danger's near, your active force employ,
And urge with eager speed the hasty joy:
Then ply your oars, then practise this advice,
And strain with whip and spur, to gain the prize.

The work's complete: triumphant palms prepare,
With flowery wreaths adorn my flowing hair.
As to the Greeks was Podalirius' art,
To heal with med'cines the afflicted part:
Nestor's advice, Achilles' arms in field,
Automedon for chariot-driving skill'd;
As Chalchas could explain the mystic bird,
And Telemon could wield the brandish'd sword:
Such to the town my fam'd instructions prove,
So much am I renown'd for arts of love:
Me every youth shall praise, extol my name,
And o'er the globe diffuse my lasting fame.
I arms provide against the scornful fair;
Thus Vulcan arm'd Achilles for the war.
Whatever youth shall with my aid o'ercome,
And lead his Amazon in triumph home;
Let him that conquers, and enjoys the dame,
In gratitude for his instructed flame,
Inscribe the spoils with my auspicious name.

The tender girls my precepts next demand:
Them I commit to a more skilful hand.

TO THE MEMORY OF A FAIR YOUNG LADY,

1697.

When black with shades this mourning vault appears,
And the relenting marble flows with tears;
Think then what griefs a parent's bosom wound,
Whose fatal loss enrich'd this hallow'd ground.

Strew lilies here, and myrtle wreaths prepare,
To crown the fading triumphs of the fair:
Here blooming youth and charming beauties lie,
Till Earth resigns them to their native sky;
Like china laid for ages to refine,
And make her body, like the soul, divine.

Unmingled may the fragrant dust remain,
No common earth the sacred sweets prophane;
But let her urn preserve its virgin store,
Chaste and unsully'd as she liv'd before!

TO MYRA;

WRITTEN IN HER CLEOPATRA.

Here, lovely Myra, you behold
The wonders Beauty wrought of old,
In every mournful page appears
The nymph's disdain, and lover's tears.
Whilst these feign'd tragic tales you view,
Fondly you weep, and think them true;
Lament the hero's slighted flame,
Yet praise the fair ungrateful dame.

For youths unknown no longer grieve,
But rather heal the wounds you give;
The slaves your eyes have ruined, mourn,
And pity flames with which your lovers burn.

Oh, hadst thou liv'd in former days,
Thus Fame had sung lov'd Myra's praise:
The triumphs of thy haughty reign,
Thy matchless form and cold disdain:
Thy beauties had remain'd as long
The theme of every poet's song:
Then Myra's conquests had been wrote,
And Cleopatra died forgot.

ADVICE TO A LOVER.

For many unsuccessful years,
At Cynthia's feet I lay;
Battering them often with my tears,
I sigh'd, but durst not pray.
No prostrate wretch, before the shrine
Of some lov'd saint above,
E'er thought his goddess more divine,
Or paid more awful love.

Still the disdainful nymph look'd down
With coy insulting pride;
Receiv'd my passion with a frown,
Or turn'd her head aside.
Then Cupid whispered in my ear,
“Use more prevailing charms;
You modest whyning fool, draw near,
And clasp her in your arms,

With eager kisses tempt the maid,
From Cynthia's feet depart;
The lips he briskly must invade,
That would possess the heart.”
With that I shook off all the slave,
My better fortunes tried;
When Cynthia in a moment gave
What she for years denied.

ON THE CONQUEST OF NAMUR.

A PINDARIC ODE.

HUMBLY INSCRIBED TO HIS MOST SACRED AND VICTORIOUS MAJESTY; 1695.

Once more, my Muse, resume thy lyre!
Of heroes, arms, and lofty triumphs sing:
Strike, boldly strike th' unpractis'd string;
'Tis William's acts my soaring thoughts inspire,
And animate my breast with nobler fire.
My daring hand the willing lyre obeys,
Untaught it sounds the hero's praise:
Each tuneful string repeats the victor's name
And echoes back the loud applause of Fame.
No longer, Muse, the blest Maria mourn,
With trophies now her brighter shrine adorn:
Now sing her hero's fame in lofty strains,
Worthy the captive Mase, and Namur's vanquish'd plains.

Nature ne'er brought a fierce destroyer forth,
Of that portentious size and growth:
But still, to poize the balance of the age,
She introduc'd a hero on the stage.
Injurious Lewis like a torrent grows,
A rapid torrent that the bank o'erflows,
And robs our western world of its repose;
In vain the imperial eagle stops his course,
In vain confederate arms oppose:
On you (great prince!) the infested nations wait,
And from your sword attend a milder fate.

The injur'd Belgians William's aid implore,
A numerous army wastes their shore:
Embark, my Muse, upon the British fleet,
And on the ready hero wait.
He flies, like Jove to meet the Theban dame,
When arm'd with lightning's pointed flame,
And in his hand th' avenging thunder bore:
The terrour of his ensigns still confess his power.

Quick of dispatch, preventing fear,
As cowards cautious, bolder than despair:
Silent, yet swift as light, his active soul
Reaches at once the barriers and the distant goal.

What labour will the hero chuse!
What action worthy of a Muse!
T' employ the hundred busy tongues of Fame,
And make her hundred mouths too few to sound his name.
Namur's the goal in Honour's race,
Tempting the prize, but fatal is the chase:
At once a lovely and amazing sight,
Striking the eye with terrour and delight.
Founded on rocks the imperial fortress stands,
And all around the distant plain commands:
Beauty and strength their utmost force impart,
'Tis wrought by Nature, and improv'd with art;
An awful pile! immoveable as Fate,
Fix'd like the solid rock that proudly bears its weight.
A thousand brazen mouths the walls surround,
That vomit flames, with fatal fury wound:
Death shines with terrour thro' each smoking cloud,
Like lightning swift, and as the thunder loud.
Not the fam'd Colchean fleece could boast
So dread a guard, so terrible an host:
Nassau attempts a nobler enterprize,
The danger's more, and richer is the prize;
Alone his arms can such a power engage,
Destroy with fiercer flames, and thunder back their rage.

Why are the rapid Sambre's streams so slow;
The tardy Mase forgets to flow:
Their lagging waves upon the turrets gaze,
Proud to reflect their Namur's awful face;
Whilst to th' astonish'd shores they tell,
Those wondrous walls are inaccessible.
The lofty Ilion towers, for beauty fam'd,
And sacred walls, though rais'd by hands divine,
Though mercenary gods her turrets fram'd,
In strength and form inferior were to thine;
Walls, that nor Grecian arms, nor arts could gain,
And the divine Achilles storm in vain.
Your greater arms, Nassau, were then unknown,
Where'er your bellowing engines shake,
Where'er your more destructive bombs are thrown,
Nature and Art in vain resistance make,
Nor durst the powers that built defend their shatter'd town.

Two rival armies now possess the field,
In all the horrid pomp of war:
With shining arms and brighter heroes far,
Though both with different looks, and different passions fill'd.
Betwixt both hosts the stake of honour lies,
The object that employs their arms and eyes
How to defend or how to gain the prize.
The Britons are a warlike race,
In arms expert, and fam'd for arts in peace:
Your matchless deeds, Nassau, they imitate,
Like you they death pursue, and rush on certain fate.
Not all the bellowing engines of the war,
Amidst the storm can British minds affright:
Nor sulphur's blasting flames deter,
That glare thro' clouds of smoke with horrid light;
Though bullets there descend in scalding showers,
And those the cannon spare, the ambusht flame devours.

In fatal caverns now the teeming Earth
Labours with a destructive birth:
The loud volcanos stretch their flaming jaws,
And every dreadful blast a host destroys;
This wreck of war the upper regions share,
Whilst arms, and men, and rocks lie scatter'd in the air,
Yet death in every form the Britons face,
And march with an undaunted pace:
Their faithless steps to various ruins lead,
They walk in sepulchres, on graves they tread;
Whilst rocks and mountains rooted from the ground,
Inter the hosts they slay, are tombs to those they wound.

With horrid groans distorted Nature's rent,
Loud as the peals that shake the firmament:
Whilst roaring ordinance confirm the sound,
And mimic thunder bellows under ground.
Thus on Trinacria's mournful shores,
With ruin big the raging Etna roars:
The rising smoke obscures the darken'd sky,
Whilst high as Heaven its flaming entrails fly:
Mountains and rocks its fury hurls around,
Spreading with ruins o'er the desolate ground.

Whence spring those flowing rays of light!
That pierce through war's obscurer night?
Or does the suppliant flag display
Its chearful beams of white?
See! like the phosphorus of peace,
The shades retire before those sacred rays,
Which introduce the bright victorious day.
The trumpet's interceding voice I hear,
Now soft and tun'd unto the ear:
The drums in gentler parlees beat,
The drums and trumpets both entreat;
Whilst war's alarms are charm'd with music's voice,
And all the bloody scene of death withdraws.
Fam'd Boufflers' self consents to fear,
Ev'n Boufflers dreads the British thunderer:
He sues for mercy whilst he feels his power,
And with a trembling hand subscribes him conqueror.

And here your worthies shall your triumphs grace,
In war your guard, your ornaments in peace:
Heroes are William's and the Muse's care,
Partake their labours, and their laurels share.
Let willing Fame her trumpet sound,
Great Ormond's name shall all her breath employ,
And fill the echoing shores with joy:
Whilst each officious wind conveys the sound,
And wafts it all the attentive world around.
In bloody camps he early gain'd renown,
Early the distant goal of honour won:
What toils, what labours, has the hero bore?
Not the fam'd Ossory encounter'd more:
Of whom the Belgic plains such wonders tell,
Who liv'd so lov'd and so lamented fell.
Triumphant prince! thou patron of the Muse,
Unweary'd thee she sings, thy acts with wonder views:
Renown'd in war! thy Rhedecina's pride!
Thou dost o'er wit, and glorious camps preside;
To thee the care of arms and arts belong,
Whose fame shall live to ages in heroic song.

For all thy victories in war,
You valiant Cutts, th' officious Muses crown,
For you triumphant wreaths prepare,
Immortal as your fame, and fair as your renown.
Well did you execute your great command,
And scatter deaths with a destructive hand:
What wonders did your sword perform,
When urging on the fatal storm,
Undaunted, undismay'd!

Up to the walls enclos'd with flames you led,
And overlook'd the works on mighty heaps of dead.
In you the hero and the poet meet,
Your sword is fatal, but your numbers sweet.
When in Maria's praise your lyre was strung,
You charm'd the heavenly nymph to whom you sung.
Oh honour! more than all thy bays,
Than all the trophies fame and conquest raise,
To've charm'd Maria's breast, and gain'd Maria's praise.

Indulge one grateful labour more, my Muse,
A subject Friendship bids thee chuse:
Let Codrington's lov'd name inspire thy thought,
With such a warmth and vigour as he fought:
In vain thou dost of arms and triumphs sing,
Unless he crown thy verse, and tune thy sounding string.
Victorious youth! your Charwell's greatest pride,
Whom glorious arms, and learned arts divide:
Whilst imitating great Nassau you fight,
His person guard, and conquer in his sight:
Too swift for Fame your early triumphs grow,
And groves of laurel shade your youthful brow.
In you the Muses and the Graces join,
The glorious palm, and deathless laurels thine:
Like Phœbus' self your charming Muse hath sung,
Like his your warlike bow and tuneful lyre is strung.

But who fam'd William's valour dares express,
No Muse can soar so high, nor fancy paint
Each image will appear too faint:
Too weak's the pencil's art, and all the pow'r of verse.
How calm he look'd, and how serene!
Amidst the bloody labours of the field:
Unmov'd he views the bullets round him fly,
And dangers move with horrour by;
Whilst judgment sway'd his nobler rage within,
And his presaging brow with hopes of conquest smil'd,
His chearful looks a gayer dress put on,
His eyes with decent fury shone:
Dangers but serv'd to heighten every grace,
And add an awful terrour to the hero's face.

Where'er in arms the great Nassau appears,
Th' extreme of action's there:
Himself the thickest danger shares,
Himself th' informing soul that animates the war.
Heroes of old in wondrous armour fought,
By some immortal artist wrought:
Achilles' arms, and Ajax' seven fold shield,
Were proof against the dangers of the field.
But greater William dares his breast expose
Unarm'd, unguarded to his foes:
A thousand deaths and ruins round him fled,
But durst not violate his sacred head:
For angels guard the prince's life and throne,
Who for his empire's safety thus neglects his own.
Had he in ages past the sceptre sway'd,
When sacred rites were unto heroes paid;
His statue had on every altar stood,
His court a temple been, his greater self a god.

Now tune thy lyre, my Muse, now raise thy voice,
Let Albion hear, her distant shores rejoice:
Thy solemn pæans now prepare,
Sweet as the hymns that fill'd the air,
When Phœbus' self return'd the Python's conqueror.
When every grove, with a triumphant song,
Confess'd the victor as he pass'd along,
Whilst with the trophies every hill was crown'd,
And every echoing vale dispers'd his fame around:
As loud the British shores their voices raise,
And thus united sing the godlike William's praise.
What the fam'd Merlin's sacred verse of old,
And Nostradam's prophetic lines foretold;
To thee, oh happy Albion's shown,
And in Nassau, the promise is out-done.
Behold a prince indulgent Heaven has sent,
Thy boundless wishes to content:
A prophet great indeed, whose powerful hand
Shall vanquish hosts of plagues, and heal the groaning land.

The great Nassau now leads thy armies forth,
And shows the world the British worth:
Beneath his conduct they securely fight,
Their cloud by day, their guardian flame by night.
His bounty too shall every bard inspire,
Reward their labours, and protect their lyre;
For poets are to warlike princes dear,
And they are valiant William's care:
His victories instruct them how to write,
William's the glorious theme and patron of their wit.

ESOP AT COURT.

OR, SELECT FABLES, 1702.

Vendidit hic auro patriam ------
------ fixit leges pretio atque refixit.
Virg. Æn.

Esop to the King.

Victorious prince! form'd for supreme command,
Worthy the empire of the seas and land!
Whilst impious Faction swells with native pride,
Parties distract the state, and church divide!
And senseless libels, with audacious style,
Insult thy senate, and thy power revile!
Vouchsafe to hear th' admired truths of old,
Which birds and beasts in sportive tales unfold;
To curb the insolent, advance the good,
And quell the ragings of the multitude.
O fam'd for arms, and matchless in renown!
Permit old Æsop to approach thy throne:
To you the labours of his Muse belong;
Accept the humble, but instructive, song.

FABLE I. THE RIVER AND THE FOUNTAINS.

A river, insolent with pride,
The Fountain and its Springs defied;
That Fountain, from whose watery bed
Th' ungrateful Flood was daily fed.

And thus the rabble Waves began:
“We're the delight of gods and man!
How charming do our banks appear!
How swift the stream, the flood how clear!

“See how, by Nature's bounty strong,
We whirl our legion waves along:
In soft meanders winding play,
And glitter in the face of day.

“But thou, poor Fountain, silly soul!
Thy head absconding in a hole,
Run'st meddling on from place to place,
Asham'd to show thy dirty face;
In rocks and gloomy caverns found,
Thou creep'st inglorious under ground:
D' you hear? henceforth your lords obey!
We the grand Waves assume the sway.”

“Well, angry sirs, the Fountain cry'd,
And how's your streams to be supply'd?
Ye senseless fools, that would command,
Should I withdraw my bounteous hand,
Or backward turn my watery store,
That hour you'd cease, and be no more.
Go ask that blustering fop the Wind,
That puts this whimsy in your mind,
And makes your factious surges rise,
If he'll recruit you with supplies.

“And when to native mud you turn,
Such as a common-sewer would scorn,
Too late you'll curse this frantic whim,
When carriers' steeds shall piss a nobler stream.

THE MORAL.

Unhappy Britain! I deplore thy fate,
When juries pack'd, and brib'd, insult thy state:
Like waves tumultuous, insolently wise,
They tutor kings, and senators advise;
Whilst old republicans direct the stream,
Not France and Rome, but monarchy's their aim:
Fools rode by knaves! and paid as they deserve,
Despis'd whilst us'd! then left to hang or starve.

FABLE II. THE LION'S TREATY OF PARTITION.

A mighty Lion heretofore,
Of monstrous paws and dreadful roar,
Was bent upon a chase:
Inviting friends and near allies
Frankly to share the sport and prize,
During the hunting-space.

The Lynx and royal Panther came,
The Boar and Wolf of Wolfingham,
The articles were these:
Share and share like, whate'er they got,
The dividend upon the spot,
And so depart in peace.

A royal Hart, delicious meat!
Destin'd by inaupicious Fate,
Was started for the game:
The hunters run him one and all,
The chase was long, and, at the fall,
Each enter'd with his claim.

One lov'd a haunch, and one a side,
This ate it powder'd, t' other dried,
Each for his share alone:
Old Grey-beard then began to roar,
The whiskers twirl'd, bully'd, and swore,
The Hart was all his own.

“And thus I prove my title good;
My friend deceas'd sprung from our blood,
Half's mine as we're ally'd:
My valour claims the other part;
In short, I love a hunted Hart:
And who dares now divide?”

The bilk'd confederates they stare,
And cry'd, “Old gentleman, deal fair,
For once be just and true.”
Quoth he, and looking wondrous grum,
“Behold my paws, the word is mum;
And so messieurs, adieu!”

THE MORAL.

Tyrants can only be restrain'd by might,
Power's their conscience, and the sword their right:
Allies they court, to compass private ends,
But at the dividend disclaim their friends.
Yet boast not, France, of thy successful fraud,
Maintain'd by blood, a torment whilst enjoy'd:
Imperial Cæsar drives the storm along,
And Nassau's arms avenge the public wrong.

FABLE III. THE BLIND WOMAN AND HER DOCTORS.

A wealthy matron, now grown old,
Was weak in every part:
Afflicted sore with rheums and cold,
Yet pretty sound at heart.

But most her eyes began to fail,
Depriv'd of needful light:
Nor could her spectacles avail,
To rectify their sight.

Receipts she try'd, she doctors fee'd,
And spar'd for no advice
Of men of skill, or quacks for need
That practise on sore eyes.

Salves they daub'd on, and plaisters both.
And this, and that was done:
Then flannels, and a forehead-cloth,
To bind and keep them on.

Her house, though small, was furnish'd neat,
And every room did shine
With pictures, tapestry, and plate,
All rich, and wondrous fine.

Whilst they kept blind the silly soul,
Their hands found work enough!
They pilfer'd plate, and goods they stole,
Till all was carry'd off.

When they undamm'd their patient's eyes,
And “now pray how's your sight?”
Cries t' other, “this was my advice,
I knew 't would set you right:”

Like a stuck pig the woman star'd,
And up and down she run:
With naked house and walls quite scar'd,
She found herself undone.

“Doctors, quoth she, your cure's my pain,
For what are eyes to me:
Bring salves and forehead-cloths again,
I've nothing left to see.”

THE MORAL.

See, injur'd Britain, thy unhappy case,
Thou patient with distemper'd eyes:
State-quacks but nourish the disease,
And thrive by treacherous advice.

If fond of the expensive pain,
When eighteen millions run on score:
Let them clap mufflers on again,
And physic thee of eighteen more.

FABLE IV. THE SATYR'S ADDRESS.

Five Satyrs of the woodland sort,
Thought politicians then,
Their ears prick'd up, their noses short,
And brows adorn'd like aldermen;
With asses hoofs, great goggle eyes,
And ample chins of Be---m's size,

To Jove tript up with an address,
In favour of the plains:
That it would please him to suppress
All heats and colds, his winds and rains;
The Sun that he'd extinguish too,
And in the skies hang something new.

“My wise reforming friends, quoth Jove,
Our elements are good!
We manage for the best above,
Though not so rightly understood;
But since such profound squires are sent,
We'll treat you like the cream of Kent.”

Then Jove brought out etherial fire
In a gilt chafing-dish:
The sparkling flame they all admire,
'Twas fine, they vow'd, as heart could wish:
They gap'd, they grin'd, they jump'd about!
Jove, give us that, the Sun put out!

The charming flames they all embrace,
Which, urg'd by Nature's laws,
Their shaggy hides set in a blaze,
And soundly sing'd their paws;
In corners then they sneak'd with terrour dumb,
And o'er th' immortal pavements scud it home.

THE MORAL.

How senseless are our modern Whiggish tools,
Beneath the dignity of British fools!
With beef resolv'd, and fortify'd with ale,
They censure monarchs, and at senates rail;
So eagerly to public mischief run,
That they prevent the hands, which loo them on.

O true machines! and heads devoid of brains!
Affront that senate which your rights maintains!
Thus ideots sport with power, and flames embrace,
Till smarting Folly glares them in the face.

FABLE V. THE FARMER AND HIS DOG.

There dwelt a Farmer in the west,
As we're in story told;
Whose herds were large and flocks the best
That ever lin'd a fold.

Arm'd with a staff, his russet coat,
And Towser by his side,
Early and late he tun'd his throat
And every wolf defy'd.

Lov'd Towser was his heart's delight,
In cringe and fawning skill'd,
Intrusted with the flocks by night,
And guardian of the field.

“Towser, quoth he, I'm for a fair;
Be regent in my room:
Pray of my tender flocks take care,
And keep all safe at home.

I know thee watchful, just, and brave,
Right worthy such a place:
No wily fox shall thee deceive,
Nor wolf dare show his face.”

But ne'er did wolves a fold infest,
At regent Towser's rate:
He din'd and supp'd upon the best,
And frequent breakfasts ate.

The Farmer oft receiv'd advice,
And laugh'd at the report:
But coming on him by surprize,
Just found him at the sport.

“Ingrateful beast, quoth he, what means
That bloody mouth and paws?
I know the base, the treacherous stains,
Thy breach of trust and laws.

The fruits of my past love I see:
Roger, the halter bring;
E'en truss him on that pippin tree,
And let friend Towser swing.

I'll spare the famish'd wolf and fox,
That ne'er my bounty knew:
But, as the guardian of my flocks,
This neckcloth is your due.”

THE MORAL.

When ministers their prince abuse,
And on the subjects prey:
With ancient monarchs 'twas in use,
To send them Towser's way.

FABLE VI. THE FOX AND BRAMBLE.

Ren, an old poacher after game,
Saw grapes look tempting fine:
But, now grown impotent and lame,
Could not command the vine;
His lips he lick'd, stood ogling with his eyes,
Strain'd at a running jump, but miss'd the prize:

Quoth he, “that honest Bush hard-by
Might give a friend a lift:
In troth' its curtesy I'll try,
And venture for a shift.”
Without more words he bounces to the top,
But gor'd and wounded is compell'd to drop.

Down Reynard came, batter'd and tore,
He blow'd and lick'd his paws:
Then mutter'd to himself and swore,
Cursing the fatal cause;
“Damn'd rascal shrub,” quoth he, “whom hedge-stakes scorn,
Beneath a furs-bush, or the scoundrel thorn!

“Good words, friend Ren,” the Bush reply'd,
“Here no incroacher 'scapes:
Those Foxes that on brambles ride
Love thorns, as well as grapes;
But better language would your mouth become:
If you must curse, go curse the fool at home.”

THE MORAL.

Who first offend, then in disputes engage,
Should check their passions and indecent rage:
But peevish age, of weak resentments proud,
Like woman's stubborn, impotent, and loud.

Ill-manners never found a just pretence,
And rude expressions shew a barren sense:
But, when high birth descends to mean abuse,
The crime runs foulest, and finds no excuse.

FABLE VII. THE FOX AND WEAZLE.

TO THE LATE HONOURABLE THE COMMISSIONERS OF THE PRIZE-OFFICE.

A needy Weazle heretofore,
Very rapacious, lank, and poor,
That had no place, small comings-in,
And liv'd in terrour of the gin;
Nor got a morsel to his hole,
But what he either begg'd or stole;
One night, a foraging for prey,
He found a store-house in his way:
Each cranny then he nimbly past,
With lantern jaws and slender waist;
And made long time his quarters good,
On slaughter'd mice and wheaten food.
But growing corpulent and round,
Too small the widest chink was found:
And now he squeez'd and thurst in vain,
For liberty and home again.

A Fox that chanc'd to stroll that way,
For meditation's sake, or prey,
Stood grinning at him for a while,
With rogueish looks and sneering smile;
And though he shrewdly gave a guess,
Yet ask'd him how and what's the case;
And why his Weazleship would keep
In durance vile, and play boh-peep.

Quoth he, “Alack, sir, I was lean,
Haggard and poor, when I came in:
A skeleton, mere skin and bone!
Though now so gross and bulky grown,
That with good chear and dainties fed,
My rump is bigger than my head.
But if a helping paw you'll lend,
To force a board and serve a friend;
So fain I would my bacon save,
I'll kiss your foot and live your slave.”

Quoth Ren, “We doctors hold it best,
After a long debauch, to fast:
Then as for discipline, 'tis fit,
You take a quantum sufficit.
Slacken with abstinence your skin,
And you'll return as you got in:
For, till each collop you refund,
You're like to quarter in Lob's-pound.”

THE MORAL.

Cæsar, no more in foreign camps expose
Your sacred life, to Britain's generous foes:
Thy dread tribunal now erect at home,
And, arm'd with vengeance, to her rescue come.

In power her basest enemies remain,
Oppress thy subjects, and thy treasures drain:
With sums immense they raise their fortunes high,
Though armies starve, and fleets neglected lie.

Bane of the war! curse of thy martial reign!
You share the toil and dangers, they the gain:
To justice then the known offenders bring,
Avenge thy people, and assert the king.

FABLE VIII. AN OWL AND THE SUN.

A saucy buffle-headed Owl
One morning on the Sun fell foul,
Because it made him blind:
But by his sophistry you'll guess
Him not of the Athenian race,
But a more modern kind.

The morn was fragrant, cool, and bright,
The Sun illustrious with his light,
Dispensing warmth to all:
Madge on a pinnacle was got,
Sputtering and hooting like a sot,
And thus began the brawl.

“D'ye hear, you prince of red-fac'd fools!
Hot-headed puppy! foe to owls!
Why this offensive blaze?
Behind some cloud go sneak aside,
Your carbuncles and rubies hide,
And quench that flaming face.

“When I'm a taking the fresh air,
Whip in my eyes you come full glare,
And so much rudeness show!
I wonder when the modest Moon
Would serve an Owl as you have done,
Or tan and burn one so!”

Bright Phœbus smil'd at what was said,
And cry'd, “'Tis well, sir Logger-head
You've neither sense nor shame!
Because a blinking fool can't bear
An object so transcending fair,
The Sun must take the blame.

Shall I the universe benight,
And rob the injur'd world of light,
Because you rail and scowl;
When birds of the most abject sort
Deride and grin you for their sport,
And treat you like an Owl?”

THE MORAL.

Who libel senates, and traduce the great,
Measure the public good by private hate:
Interest's their rule of love; fierce to oppose
All whom superior virtue makes their foes.

Thy merits, Rochester, thus give offence;
The guilty faction hates discerning sense:
Thus Harley, Seymour, Howe, and Mackworth find,
Great eye-sores to the loud rapacious kind;
But, whilst in holes addressing Owls repine,
Bright as the Sun their patriot names will shine.

FABLE IX. THE SEA AND THE BANKS.

As out at sea a ruffling gale it blew,
And clouds o'ercast the gloomy skies:
The surges they began to rise,
And terrify the sailors, jocund crew.

This to the wanton billows was but sport,
They roar'd and gambol'd it along,
This was the burthen of their song,
They'd have a storm, and show good reason for't.

Then a fresh maggot takes them in the head,
To have one merry jaunt on shore:
They'd not be fetter'd-up, they swore,
But thus to the insulted margin said:

“Hey, slugs! d'ye hear, ye lazy hounds!
Open to right and left! make way,
And give free passage to the Sea,
Down with your ramparts and obstructing mounds.

“See how they stir! awake, ye brutes!
And let us have one frisk at land;
Or, 'zbud, we'll wash you into sand,
Without the tedious form of long disputes.”

“Hold! soft and fair! the Banks reply'd; we're bound,
In honour, to make good our post:
And will, for all your windy boast,
As barriers to the Sea maintain our ground.

“Go, lord it in your watery realms, the Main!
There rage and bluster as you please,
Licentious in your native Seas,
But not an inch as trespassers you'll gain.

“So, my fierce mutineers, be jogging home!
For if you dare invade our coast,
You'll run your heads against a post,
And shamefully retire in empty foam.”

THE MORAL.

Though Discord forms the elements for war,
Their well-pois'd strength prevents the fatal jar:
Harmonious Nature sets the balance right,
And each compels the other to unite.

In empire thus true union is maintain'd,
Each power's by a subordinate restrain'd:
But when, like raging waves, they overflow
Their stated bounds, and on the weaker grow,
Thrice happy realms! where there are patriots found,
To check invaders, and maintain their ground.

FABLE X. THE NIGHTINGALE AND CUCKOW.

A tuneful Nightingale, whose warbling throat
Was form'd for lofty song,
With every sweet harmonious note
He charm'd the listening throng:
The hooting Cuckow was displeas'd alone,
Condemn'd his manner, and extoll'd her own.

“This screaming fop, quoth she, that scares
All creatures with his din;
When folks are listening to my airs,
Forsooth he's putting in.
Here's such a chattering kept, and odious noise,
My song's quite spoil'd with his confounded voice.”

The injur'd songster modestly reply'd;
“Since you perform so fine,
The contest let some judge decide,
And try your skill with mine;
Vanquish'd, I'll your superior genius own.”
The Cuckow shook her head, and cry'd 'twas done,

A solemn plodding Ass that graz'd the plain
Was for an umpire chose:
The Nightingale advanc'd his strain,
And charm'd with every close.
The Cuckow's note was one unvary'd tone,
Exceeding hoarse, yet pleas'd, she roar'd it on.

Appeal was made; the judge this sentence gave,
“You, sirrah, Nightingale!
Of music you some smatterings have,
And may in time do well;
But for substantial song, I needs must say,
My friend, the Cuckow, bears the bell away.”

THE MORAL.

Mackworth, who reads thy well-digested lines,
Where eloquence with nervous reason shines,
Sees art and judgment flow through every page,
The patriot's zeal free from indecent rage;
So pure thy style, thy manners so refin'd,
Your pen transmits the candour of your mind.

Yet happier he that has the answer wrote,
In penury of sense, and dearth of thought:
Whilst Asses judge, and Faction claims a vote,
Abusive nonsense is th' admired note:
Where want of art and manners merit praise,
He robs the Cuckow of her ancient bays.

FABLE XI. THE SUN AND THE WIND.

The Sun and Wind one day fell out
In matters they discours'd about.
Old Boreas, in a rage,
Call'd the Sun fool, and swore he ly'd,
Spit in his face, his power defy'd,
And dar'd him to engage.

Quoth he, “Yon goes a traveller,
With formal cloak and looks demure,
The whiggish signs of grace:
Who fairly off the cloak can force,
From one so stiff, proud, and morose,
Deserves the upper place.”

With that the Wind began to rise,
Bluster'd and storm'd it through the skies,
Making a dismal roar:
The non-con wrapp'd his cloak about,
Trudg'd on, resolv'd to weather 't out,
And see the tempest o'er.

The storm being spent, with piercing rays,
Full on his shoulders Phœbus plays,
Which soon the zealot felt;
Aside the cumberous cloak was thrown,
Panting and faint, he laid him down,
More decently to melt.

The Sun then ask'd his blustering friend,
If farther yet he durst contend,
And try some other way:
But, conscious of so plain a truth,
He put his finger in his mouth,
Without a word to say.

THE MORAL.

Your Whigs disgrac'd, like bullies of the town,
Libel and rail, the more they're tumbled down:
Superior merit still prevails at last,
The fury of their feeble storm is past.

But when the senate darts its piercing rays,
Faction unbuttons, and rebates its pace:
The hypocritic cloak is tiresome found,
And the faint zealot pants upon the ground.

FABLE XII. THE BOAR AND FOREST.

A Lion, generous and brave,
For wars renown'd, belov'd in peace;
His lands in royal bounties gave,
And treasures much impair'd by acts of grace.

His ministers whole realms obtain'd;
And courtiers, much inclin'd to want,
His manors begg'd, and forfeits gain'd,
With patents to confirm the royal grant.

The Boar, to shew a subject's love,
Crav'd for the public good a boon,
His ancient forest to improve,
By felling trees, and cutting timber down.

“Alcoves and shady walks, quoth he,
Are laid aside, become a jest;
Your vistos lofty, wide, and free,
Are à la mode, and only in request.”

The grant being pass'd, the ravenous Boar,
A desert of the forest made:
Up by the roots vast oaks he tore,
And low on earth the princely cedars laid.

This act of violence and wrong
Alarum'd all the savage race;
With loud complaints to court they throng,
Stripp'd of their shades, and ancient resting-place.

With generous rage the Lion shook,
And vow'd the Boar should dearly pay;
“I hate, quoth he, a down-cast look,
That robs the public in a friendly way.

“Unhappy groves, my empire's pride!
Lov'd solitudes, ye shades divine!
The rage of tempests ye defy'd,
Condemn'd to perish by a sordid swine.

“Ye rural deities, and powers unknown,
What can so great a loss suffice!
If a hung brawner will atone,
Accept friend Chucky for a sacrifice.”

THE MORAL.

The British oak's our nation's strength and pride,
With which triumphant o'er the main we ride;
Insulting foes are by our navies aw'd,
A guard at home, our dreaded power abroad.

Like druids then your forests sacred keep,
Preserve with them your empire of the deep.
Subjects their prince's bounty oft abuse,
And spoil the public for their private use;
But no rapacious hand should dare deface,
The royal stores of a well-timber'd chase.

FABLE XIII. THE FOX AND FLIES.

As crafty Reynard strove to swim
The torrent of a rapid stream,
To gain the farther side:
Before the middle space was past,
A whirling eddy caught him fast,
And drove him with the tide.

With vain efforts and struggling spent,
Half drown'd, yet forc'd to be content,
Poor Ren a soaking lay;
Till some kind ebb should set him free,
Or chance restore that liberty
The waves had took away.

A swarm of half-starv'd haggard Flies,
With fury seiz'd the floating prize,
By raging hunger led;
With many a curse and bitter groan,
He shook his sides, and wish'd them gone,
Whilst plenteously they fed.

A Hedge-hog saw his evil plight;
Touch'd with compassion at the sight,
Quoth he, “To show I'm civil,
I'll brush those swigging dogs away,
That on thy blood remorseless prey,
And send them to the Devil.”

“No, courteous sir, the Fox reply'd,
Let them infest and gore my hide,
With their insatiate thirst;
Since I such fatal wounds sustain,
'Twill yield some pleasure midst the pain,
To see the blood hounds burst.”

THE MORAL; FROM NOSTRADAMUS.

Le sang du juste à Londres fera saute
Brusler par feu, &c.

Thus guilty Britain to her Thames complains,
“With royal blood defil'd, O cleanse my stains!
Whence plagues arise! whence dire contagions come!
And flames that my Augusta's pride consume!”

“In vain,” saith Thames; “the regicidal breed
Will swarm again, by them thy land shall bleed:
Extremest curse! but so just Heaven decreed!
Republicans shall Britain's treasures drain,
Betray her monarch, and her church prophane!
Till, gorg'd with spoils, with blood the leeches burst,
Or Tyburn add the second to the first.”

FABLE XIV. THE BEAR AND MOUNTEBANK.

There liv'd a quack in high repute,
By virtue of a velvet suit,
And celebrated bill;
As for his knowledge, 'tis allow'd,
He had enough to cheat the crowd,
And that's good modern skill.

Once as this orator held forth
On topics of his medicines' worth,
And wondrous cures they wrought;
Though not a word they understood,
His eloquence so charm'd the crowd,
That still they gap'd and bought.

Midst his harangue, one day it chanc'd,
Tom Dove the Bear that way advanc'd,
In procession to his stake;
The rabble quit their doctor straight,
And with huzzas on Bruin wait,
Who thus the chief bespake:

“D' ye hear, ye pack of bawling louts,
Compos'd of vermin, stink, and clouts,
Why all this noise and do?
Though through my nose a ring is got,
And here I'm baited like a sot,
Still I resemble you.

“Observe that Mountebanking fool,
Perch'd yonder on his three-legg'd stool,
With poisonous drugs to sell;
See o'er his shoulder how he sneers,
Three hours to lug you by the ears,
Yet pleases wondrous well.

“With fulsome lyes and stupid stuff,
He cheats and banters you enough,
Yet there ye flock by shoals;
But if by chance a bear's brought out,
At him ye hollow, laugh, and shout,
And who's the greater fools?

“So, brother monsters, face about,
The quack, your keeper, wants his rout;
For, underneath the rose,
Another sort of brutes there are,
Besides a stupid Russian bear,
That's misled by the nose.”

THE MORAL.

Ill ministers, like quacks, the crowd deceive,
Defraud them for their good; and they believe:
At France and Rome they rail with specious arts,
And, whilst they cheat the vulgar, gain their hearts.

But if sagacious Bruin smells them out,
Their frauds exposing to the injur'd rout;
To mischief prone, implacable, and strong,
Ten thousand tongues and hands revenge the wrong.

FABLE XV. THE PEACOCK PROCLAIMED KING.

A Vulture, old and feeble grown,
Took up and much reform'd his life;
His beak decay'd, and talons gone,
Yet still he relish'd noise and strife:
Once a young Peacock to the birds brought forth,
On his high birth harangued, and blooming worth.

“The isles and watery realm,” said he,
“This hopeful monarch shall command!
His sceptre to depend on me,
And rule the tributary land;
Reserving only for our royal use,
Whate'er the seas and fertile coasts produce.”

The Peacock, a pert dapper spark,
Made the sagacious Vulture's choice;
His title and descent, though dark,
Soon gain'd the whole assembly's voice,
The Pye except, a member of the board,
Who, midst their acclamations, crav'd a word.

“His highness' merits and desert,”
Quoth he, “'tis needless to dispute!
In giving empires we're too pert,
With neither right nor power to do 't;
You've made a Peacock king: pray now 'tis done,
What champion here conducts him to his throne,

“Where the Imperial Eagle reigns,
Renown'd for arms and warlike might,
Who such a feeble youth disdains,
And Vultures dares engage in fight?
Therefore, messieurs, it is my private voice,
That the possessor first approve our choice.”

THE MORAL.

Cæsar, that prince betrays his fears,
Who styles thee monarch in the field,
But, when thy army disappears,
To weak pretenders will thy titles yield.

But wiser politicians say,
True conduct is not so much shown,
In giving others' realms away,
As in defending well their own.

FABLE XVI. A LACONIC CONDEMNED.

A sage Laconic, truly wise,
Whose conversation was concise,
Train'd up in rigid schools;
Once, when a single word would do,
Had lavishly made use of two,
In high contempt of rules.

A bill against him was preferr'd,
The charge by evidence averr'd,
That fully prov'd the fact:
The judges aggravate the crime,
In words as few, and little time,
As answer'd men compact.

Quoth one, “The being too verbose
A misdemeanor is so gross,
Of that pernicious kind!
The punishment must reach your sense,
And reason smart for this offence,
By torturing your mind.

“Read Jura Populi o'er twice,
Pittis and Bunyan, books of price,
And Oats's modest vein:
Read Baxter's volumes, Tindal's works,
Yorkshire Petish with that of Bucks,
True cant and libel strain,

“For solid nonsense, thoughtless words
The Vindication of the Lords,
That answers Mackworth's State:
Read first and second paragraph,
If possible drudge on through half,
Your crime you'll expiate.”

The wretch with strong convulsions shook,
Despair and anguish in his look,
To Heaven for mercy cry'd:
Quoth he, “Send gibbets, racks, or wheel,
Algiers and gallies please me well,
Such torments I'll abide.

“But damn me not for one offence,
To volumes unally'd to sense,
Vainly to waste my breath:
That answer to the Commons' Rights
With labour'd dullness so affrights,
The thoughts are worse than death.”

END OF YALDEN'S POEMS.