Poems (1791) :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sure such a wretch as I was never born,
By all the world deserted and forlorn;
This bitter-sweet, this honey-gall to prove,
And all the oil and vinegar of love.
Pride, Love and Reason will not let me rest,
But make a dev'lish bustle in my breast.
To wed with Fizgig, Pride, Pride, Pride denies,
Put on a Spanish padlock, Reason cries;
But tender gentle Love with every wish complies.
Pride, Love and Reason fight till they are cloy'd,
And each by each in mutual wounds destroy'd.
Thus when a Barber and a Collier fight,
The Barber beats the luckless Collier—white.
The dusty Collier heaves his pond'rous sack,
And, big with vengeance, beats the Barber—black.
In comes the Brickdust man, with grime o'erspread,
And beats the Collier and the Barber—red.
Black, red and white in various clouds are toss'd,
And in the dust they raise, the combatants are lost.

[In ancient days, as jovial Horace sings]

The Prologue is here subjoined.

In ancient days, as jovial Horace sings,
When laurell'd Bards were law givers, and kings,
Bold was the Comic Muse, without restraint
To name the vicious, and the vice to paint;
Th'enliven'd picture from the canvas flew,
And the strong likeness crouded on the view.
Our Author practices more general rules,
He is no niggard of his knaves and fools;
Both small and great, both pert and dull his Muse
Displays, that every one may pick and chuse:
The rules dramatic though he scarcely knows
Of time and place, and all the piteous prose
That pedant Frenchmen snuffle through the nose.
Fools; who prescribe what Homer shou'd have done,
Like tattling watches, they correct the sun.
Critics, like posts, undoubtedly may show,
The way to Pindus, but they cannot go.
Whene'er immortal Shakespeare's works are read,
He wins the heart before he strikes the head;

xvi

Swift to the soul the piercing image flies
Swifter than Harriot's wit, or Harriot's eyes;
Swifter than some romantic trav'llers thought,
Swifter than British fire when William fought.
Fancy precedes, and conquers all the mind,
Deliberating Judgment slowly comes behind;
Comes to the field with blunderbuss and gun,
Like heavy Falstaff, when the work is done;
Fights when the battle's o'er, with wond'rous pain,
By Shrewsbury's clock, and nobly slays the slain.
The Critic's censures are beneath our care,
We strive to please the generous and the fair;
To their decision we submit our claim,
We write not, speak not, breathe not, but for them.

ODES.

IDLENESS.

ODE I.

Goddess of ease, leave Lethe's brink,
Obsequious to the Muse and me;
For once endure the pain to think,
Oh! sweet insensibility!

Sister of peace and indolence,
Bring, Muse, bring numbers soft and slow,
Elaborately void of sense,
And sweetly thoughtless let them flow.

Near some cowslip-painted mead,
There let me doze out the dull hours,
And under me let Flora spread,
A sofa of her softest flow'rs.

Where, Philomel, your notes you breathe
Forth from behind the neighbouring pine,
And murmurs of the stream beneath
Still flow in unison with thine.

For thee, O Idleness, the woes
Of life we patiently endure,
Thou art the source whence labour flows,
We shun thee but to make thee sure.

For who'd sustain war's toil and waste,
Or who th'hoarse thund'ring of the sea,
But to be idle at the last,
And find a pleasing end in thee.

To ETHELINDA,

On her doing my Verses the honour of wearing them in her bosom.—Written at Thirteen.

ODE II.

I

Happy verses! that were prest
In fair Ethelinda's breast!
Happy Muse, that didst embrace
The sweet the heav'nly-fragrant place!
Tell me, is the omen true,
Shall the bard arrive there too?

II

Oft thro' my eyes my soul has flown,
And wanton'd on that iv'ry throne:
There with extatic transport burn'd,
And thought it was to heav'n return'd.
Tell me is the omen true,
Shall the body follow too?

III

When first at nature's early birth,
Heav'n sent a man upon the earth,
Ev'n Eden was more fruitful found,
When Adam came to till the ground:
Shall then those breasts be fair in vain,
And only rise to fall again?

IV

No, no, fair nymph—for no such end
Did heav'n to thee its bounty lend;
That breast was ne'er design'd by fate,
For verse, or things inanimate;
Then throw them from that downy bed,
And take the poet in their stead.

On an EAGLE confined in a College Court.

ODE III.

I

Imperial bird, who wont to soar
High o'er the rolling cloud,
Where Hyperborean mountains hoar
Their heads in Ether shroud;—
Thou servant of almighty Jove,
Who, free and swift as thought, could'st rove
To the bleak north's extremest goal;—
Thou, who magnanimous could'st bear
The sovereign thund'rer's arms in air,
And shake thy native pole!—

II

Oh cruel fate! what barbarous hand,
What more than Gothic ire,
At some fierce tyrant's dread command,
To check thy daring fire,
Has plac'd thee in this servile cell,
Where discipline and dulness dwell,
Where genius ne'er was seen to roam;
Where ev'ry selfish soul's at rest,
Nor ever quits the carnal breast,
But lurks and sneaks at home!

III

Tho' dim'd thine eye, and clipt thy wing
So grov'ling! once so great!
The grief-inspired Muse shall sing
In tend'rest lays thy fate.
What time by thee scholastic pride
Takes his precise, pedantic stride,
Nor on thy mis'ry casts a care,
The stream of love ne'er from his heart
Flows out, to act fair pity's part;
But stinks, and stagnates there.

IV

Yet useful still, hold to the throng—
Hold the reflecting glass,—
That not untutor'd at thy wrong
The passenger may pass:
Thou type of wit and sense confin'd,
Cramp'd by the oppressors of the mind,
Who study downward on the ground;
Type of the fall of Greece and Rome;
While more than mathematic gloom,
Envelopes all around.

On the sudden Death of a CLERGYMAN.

ODE IV.

If, like th'Orphean lyre, my song could charm,
And light to life the ashes in the urn,
Fate of his iron dart I would disarm,
Sudden as thy decease should'st thou return,
Recall'd with mandates of despotic sounds,
And arbitrary grief that will not hear of bounds.
But, ah! such wishes, artless Muse, forbear;
'Tis impotence of frantic love,
Th'enthusiastic flight of wild despair,
To hope the Thracian's magic power to prove.
Alas! thy slender vein,
Nor mighty is to move, nor forgetive to feign,
Impatient of a rein,
Thou canst not in due bounds the struggling measures keep,
—But thou alass! canst weep—
Thou canst—and o'er the melancholy bier
Canst lend the sad solemnity a tear.
Hail! to that wretched corse, untenanted and cold,
And hail the peaceful shade loos'd from its irksome hold.
Now let me say thou'rt free,
For sure thou paid'st an heavy tax for life,
While combating for thee,
Nature and mortality
Maintain'd a daily strife.

High, on a slender thread thy vital lamp was plac'd,
Upon the mountain's bleakest brow,
To give a noble light superior was it rais'd,
But more expos'd by eminence it blaz'd;
For not a whistling wind that blew,
Nor the drop descending dew,
But half extinguish'd its fair flame—but now
See—hear the storms tempestuous sweep—
Precipitate it falls—it falls—falls lifeless in the deep.
Cease, cease, ye weeping youth,
Sincerity's soft sighs, and all the tears of truth.
And you, his kindred throng, forbear
Marble memorials to prepare,
And sculptur'd in your breasts his busto wear.
'Twas thus when Israel's legislator dy'd,
No fragile mortal honours were supply'd,
But even a grave denied.
Better than what the pencil's daub can give,
Better than all that Phidias ever wrought,
Is this—that what he taught shall live,
And what he liv'd for ever shall be taught.

On GOOD-NATURE.

ODE V.

I

Hail cherub of the highest Heav'n,
Of look divine, and temper ev'n,
Celestial sweetness, exquisite of mein,
Of ev'ry virtue, ev'ry praise the queen!

II

Soft gracefulness, and blooming youth,
Where, grafted on the stem of truth,
That friendship reigns, no interest can divide,
And great humility looks down on pride.

III

Oh! curse on Slander's vip'rous tongue,
That daily dares thy merit wrong;
Ideots usurp thy title, and thy frame,
Without or virtue, talent, taste, or name.

IV

Is apathy, is heart of steel,
Nor ear to hear, nor sense to feel,
Life idly inoffensive such a grace,
That it shou'd steal thy name and take thy place?

V

No—thou art active—spirit all—
Swifter than lightning, at the call
Of injur'd innocence, or griev'd desert,
And large with liberality thy heart.

VI

Thy appetites in easy tides
(As reason's luminary guides)
Soft flow—no wind can work them to a storm,
Correctly quick, dispassionately warm.

VII

Yet if a transport thou canst feel
'Tis only for thy neighbours weal:
Great, generous acts thy ductile passions move,
And smilingly thou weep'st with joy and love.

VIII

Mild is thy mind to cover shame,
Averse to envy, slow to blame,
Bursting to praise, yet still sincere and free
From flatt'ry's fawning tongue, and bending knee.

IX

Extensive, as from west to east,
Thy love descends from man to beast,
Nought is excluded little, or infirm,
Thou canst with greatness stoop to save a worm.

X

Come, goddess, come with all thy charms
For Oh! I love thee, to my arms—
All, all my actions guide, my fancy feed,
So shall existence then be life indeed.

On ILL-NATURE.

ODE VI.

I.

Ofspring of folly and of pride,
To all that's odious, all that's base allied;
Nurs'd up by vice, by pravity misled,
By pedant affectation taught and bred:
Away, thou hideous hell-born spright,
Go, with thy looks of dark design,
Sullen, sour, and saturnine;
Fly to some gloomy shade, nor blot the goodly light.
Thy planet was remote, when I was born;
'Twas Mercury that rul'd my natal morn,
What time the sun exerts his genial ray,
And ripens for enjoyment every growing day;
When to exist is but to love and sing,
And sprightly Aries smiles upon the spring.

II.

There in yon lonesome heath,
Which Flora, or Sylvanus never knew,
Where never vegetable drank the dew,
Or beast, or fowl attempts to breathe;
Where nature's pencil has no colours laid;
But all is blank, and universal shade;
Contrast to figure, motion, life and light,
There may'st thou vent thy spite,
For ever cursing, and for ever curs'd,
Of all th'infernal crew the worst;
The worst in genius, measure and degree;
For envy, hatred, malice, are but parts of thee.

III.

Or would'st thou change the scene, and quit the den,
Behold the heav'n-deserted fen,
Where spleen, by vapours dense begot and bred,
Hardness of heart, and heaviness of head,
Have rais'd their darksome walls, and plac'd their thorny bed;
There may'st thou all thy bitterness unload,
There may'st thou croak in concert with the toad,
With thee the hollow howling winds shall join,
Nor shall the bittern her base throat deny,
The querulous frogs shall mix their dirge with thine,
Th'ear-piercing hern, the plover screaming high,
Millions of humming gnats fit œstrum shall supply.

IV.

Away—away—behold an hideous band
An herd of all thy minions are at hand,
Suspicion first with jealous caution stalks,
And ever looks around her as she walks,
With bibulous ear imperfect sounds to catch,
And prompt to listen at her neighbours latch.
Next Scandal's meagre shade,
Foe to the virgins, and the poet's fame,
A wither'd time-deflower'd old maid,
That ne'er enjoy'd love's ever sacred flame.
Hypocrisy succeeds with saint-like look,
And elevates her hands and plods upon her book.
Next comes illiberal scrambling Avarice,
Then Vanity and Affectation nice—
See, she salutes her shadow with a bow
As in short Gallic trips she minces by,
Starting antipathy is in her eye,
And squeamishly she knits her scornful brow.
To thee, Ill-Nature, all the numerous group
With lowly reverence stoop—
They wait thy call, and mourn thy long delay,
Away—thou art infectious—haste away.

To the reverend and learned Dr. WEBSTER,

Occasioned by his Dialogues on Anger and Forgiveness.

ODE VII.

I.

'Twas when th'omniscient creative pow'r
Display'd his wonders by a mortal's hand,
And, delegated at th'appointed hour,
Great Moses led away his chosen band;
When Israel's host, with all their stores,
Past thro' the ruby-tinctur'd crystal shores,
The wilderness of waters and of land:
Then persecution rag'd in heav'n's own cause,
Strict justice for the breach of nature's laws,
The legislator held the scythe of fate,
Where'er his legions chanc'd to stray,
Death and destruction mark'd their bloody way;
Immoderate was their rage, for mortal was their hate.

II.

But when the king of righteousness arose,
And on the illumin'd east serenely smil'd,
He shone with meekest mercy on his foes,
Bright as the sun, but as the moon-beams mild;

From anger, fell revenge, and discord free,
He bad war's hellish clangor cease,
In pastoral simplicity and peace,
And shew'd to man that face, which Moses could not see.

III.

Well hast thou, Webster, pictur'd christian love,
And copied our great master's fair design,
But livid Envy would the light remove,
Or croud thy portrait in a nook malign—
The Muse shall hold it up to popular view—
Where the more candid and judicious few
Shall think the bright original they see,
The likeness nobly lost in the identity.

IV.

Oh hadst thou liv'd in better days than these,
E'er to excel by all was deem'd a shame!
Alas! thou hast no modern arts to please,
And to deserve is all thy empty claim.
Else thou'dst been plac'd, by learning, and by wit,
There, where thy dignify'd inferiors sit—
Oh they are in their generations wise,
Each path of interest they have sagely trod,—
To live—to thrive—to rise—and still to rise—
Better to bow to men, than kneel to God.

V.

Behold where poor unmansion'd Merit stands,
All cold, and crampt with penury and pain;
Speechless thro' want, she rears th'imploring hands,
And begs a little bread, but begs in vain;
While Bribery and Dullness, passing by,
Bid her, in sounds barbarian, starve and die.
“Away (they cry) we never saw thy name
“Or in Preferment's List, or that of Fame;
“Away—nor here the fate thou earn'st bewail,
“Who canst not buy a vote, nor hast a soul for sale.”

VI.

Oh Indignation, wherefore wert thou given,
If drowsy Patience deaden all thy rage?—
Yet we must bear—such is the will of heaven;
And, Webster, so prescribes thy candid page.
Then let us hear thee preach seraphic love,
Guide our disgusted thoughts to things above;
So our free souls, fed with divine repast,
(Unmindful of low mortals mean employ)
Shall taste the present, recollect the past,
And strongly hope for every future joy.

EPITHALAMIUM.

ODE VIII.

I.

Descend, descend, ye sweet Aonian maids,
Leave the Parnassian shades,
The joyful Hymeneal sing,
And to a lovelier Fair
Than fiction can devise, or eloquence declare,
Your vocal tributes bring.
And you, ye winged choristers, that fly
In all the pensile gardens of the sky,
Chant thro' th'enamel'd grove,
Stretch from the trembling leaves your little throats,
With all the wild variety of artless notes,
But let each note be love.
Fragrant Flora, queen of May,
All bedight with garlands gay,
Where in the smooth-shaven green
The spangled cowslips variegate the scene,
And the rivulet between,
Whispers, murmurs, sings,
As it stoops, or falls, or springs;
There spread a sofa of thy softest flowers,
There let the bridegroom stay,
There let him hate the light, and curse the day,
And blame the tardy hours.

II.

But see the bride—she comes with silent pace,
Full of majesty and love;
Not with a nobler grace
Look'd the imperial wife of Jove,
When erst ineffably she shone
In Venus' irresistible, enchanting zone.
Phœbus, great god of verse, the nymph observe,
Observe her well;
Then touch each sweetly-trem'lous nerve
Of thy resounding shell:
Her like huntress-Dian paint,
Modest, but without restraint;
From Pallas take her decent pace,
With Venus sweeten all her face,
From the Zephyrs steal her sighs,
From thyself her sun-bright eyes;
Then baffled, thou shalt see,
That as did Daphne thee,
Her charms description's force shall fly,
And by no soft persuasive sounds be brib'd
To come within Invention's narrow eye;
But all indignant shun its grasp, and scorn to be describ'd.

III.

Now see the bridegroom rise,
Oh! how impatient are his joys!
Bring zephyrs to depaint his voice,
Bring lightning for his eyes.

He leaps, he springs, he flies into her arms,
With joy intense,
Feeds ev'ry sense,
And sultanates o'er all her charms.
Oh! had I Virgil's comprehensive strain,
Or sung like Pope, without a word in vain,
Then should I hope my numbers might contain,
Engaging nymph, thy boundless happiness,
How arduous to express!
Such may it last to all eternity:
And may thy lord with thee,
Like two coeval pines in Ida's grove,
That interweave their verdant arms in love,
Each mutual office chearfully perform,
And share alike the sunshine, and the storm;
And ever, as you flourish hand in hand,
Both shade the shepherd and adorn the land,
Together with each growing year arise,
Indissolubly link'd, and climb at last the skies.

ODE IX. The Author apologizes to a Lady, for his being a little Man.

Natura nusquam magis, quam in minimis tota est.
Plin.

Ολιγον τε φιλον τε. Hom.

I

Yes, contumelious fair, you scorn
The amorous dwarf that courts you to his arms,
But ere you leave him quite forlorn,
And to some youth gigantic yield your charms,
Hear him—oh hear him, if you will not try,
And let your judgment check th'ambition of your eye.

II

Say, is it carnage makes the man?
Is to be monstrous really to be great?
Say, is it wise or just to scan
Your lover's worth by quantity, or weight?
Ask your mamma and nurse, if it be so;
Nurse and mamma, I ween, shall jointly answer, no.

III

The less the body to the view,
The soul (like springs in closer durance pent)
Is all exertion, ever new,
Unceasing, unextinguish'd, and unspent;

Still pouring forth executive desire,
As bright, as brisk, and lasting, as the vestal fire.

IV

Does thy young bosom pant for fame;
Woud'st thou be of posterity the toast?
The poets shall ensure thy name,
Who magnitude of mind not body boast.
Laurels on bulky bards as rarely grow,
As on the sturdy oak the virtuous misletoe.

V

Look in the glass, survey that cheek—
Where Flora has with all her roses blush'd;
The shape so tender,—looks so meek,—
The breasts made to be press'd, not to be crush'd—
Then turn to me,—turn with obliging eyes,
Nor longer Nature's works, in miniature, despise.

VI

Young Ammon did the world subdue,
Yet had not more external man than I;
Ah! charmer, should I conquer you,
With him in fame, as well as size, I'll vie.
Then, scornful nymph, come forth to yonder grove.
Where I defy, and challenge, all thy utmost love.

ODE X. An Ode on the 26th of January, being the Birth-Day of a Young Lady.

I

All hail, and welcome joyous morn,
Welcome to the infant year;
Whether smooth calms thy face adorn,
Or low'ring clouds appear;
Tho' billows lash the sounding shore,
And tempests thro' the forests roar,
Sweet Nancy's voice shall sooth the sound;
Tho' darkness shou'd invest the skies,
New day shall beam from Nancy's eyes,
And bless all nature round.

II

Let but those lips their sweets disclose,
And rich perfumes exhale,
We shall not want the fragrant rose,
Nor miss the southern gale.
Then loosely to the winds unfold,
Those radiant locks of burnish'd gold,
Or on thy bosom let them rove;
His treasure-house there Cupid keeps,
And hoards up, in two snowy heaps,
His stores of choicest love.

III

This day each warmest wish be paid
To thee the Muse's pride,
I long to see the blooming maid
Chang'd to the blushing bride.
So shall thy pleasure and thy praise
Increase with the increasing days,
And present joys exceed the past;
To give and to receive delight,
Shall be thy task both day and night,
While day and night shall last.

ODE XI. On taking a Bachelor's Degree.

In allusion to Horace. Book iii, Ode 30.

Exegi monumentum ære perennius, &c.

'Tis done:—I tow'r to that degree,
And catch such heav'nly fire,
That Horace ne'er could rant like me,
Nor is King's-chapel higher.
My name in sure recording page
Shall time itself o'erpow'r,

If no rude mice with envious rage
The buttery books devour.
A title too with added grace,
My name shall now attend,
Till to the church with silent pace
A nymph and priest ascend.
Ev'n in the schools I now rejoice,
Where late I shook with fear,
Nor heed the Moderator's voice
Loud thund'ring in my ear.
Then with Æolian flute I blow
A soft Italian lay,
Or where Cam's scanty waters flow,
Releas'd from lectures, stray.
Meanwhile, friend Banks, my merits claim
Their just reward from you,

For Horace bids us challenge fame,
When once that fame's our due,
Invest me with a graduate's gown,
Midst shouts of all beholders,
My head with ample square-cap crown,
And deck with hood my shoulders.

Cambridge.

B. A.

Regali situ pyramidum altius.—

Annorum series, &c.

Bachelor.

------ Dum Capitolium
Scandet cum tacitê virgine pontifex.

------ Quá violens
Obstrepit Aufidus.—

------ Æolium carmen ad Italos
Deduxisse modos.

------ Qua pauper aquæ Daunus, &c.

A celebrated taylor.

------ Sume superbiam
Quæsitam meritis. ------

------ Mihi Delphicâ
Lauro cinge volens—comam.

A MORNING PIECE,

OR, An HYMN for the HAY-MAKERS.

ODE XII.

Quinetiam Gallum noctem explaudentibus alis
Auroram clarâ consuctum voce vocare.
Lucret.

Brisk chaunticleer his mattins had begun,
And broke the silence of the night,
And thrice he call'd aloud the tardy sun,
And thrice he hail'd the dawn's ambiguous light;
Back to their graves the fear-begotten phantoms run.

Strong Labour got up with his pipe in his mouth,
And stoutly strode over the dale,
He lent new perfumes to the breath of the south,
On his back hung his wallet and flail.
Behind him came Health from her cottage of thatch,
Where never physician had lifted the latch.

First of the village Collin was awake,
And thus he sung reclining on his rake.
Now the rural graces three
Dance beneath yon maple tree;
First the vestal Virtue, known
By her adamantine zone;
Next to her in rosy pride,
Sweet Society the bride;
Last Honesty, full seemly drest
In her cleanly home-spun vest.
The abby bells in wak'ning rounds
The warning peal have giv'n;
And pious Gratitude resounds
Her morning hymn to heav'n.

All nature wakes—the birds unlock their throats,
And mock the shepherd's rustic notes.

All alive o'er the lawn,
Full glad of the dawn,
The little lambkins play,
Sylvia and Sol arise,—and all is day—

Come, my mates, let us work,
And all hands to the fork,
While the sun shines, our hay-cocks to make,
So fine is the day,
And so fragrant the hay,
That the meadow's as blith as the wake.

Our voices let's raise
In Phœbus's praise,
Inspir'd by so glorious a theme,
Our musical words
Shall be join'd by the birds,
And we'll dance to the tune of the stream.

A NOON-PIECE;

OR, The MOWERS at Dinner.

ODE XIII.

Jam pastor umbras cum grege languido,
Rivumque fessus quærit, & horridi
Dumeta Silvani, caretque
Ripa vagis taciturna ventis.
Hor.

The sun is now too radiant to behold,
And vehement he sheds his liquid rays of gold;

No cloud appears thro' all the wide expanse;
And short, but yet distinct and clear,
To the wanton whistling air
The mimic shadows dance.

Fat Mirth, and Gallantry the gay,
And romping Extasy 'gin play.
Now myriads of young Cupids rise,
And open all their joy-bright eyes,
Filling with infant prate the grove,
And lisp in sweetly-fault'ring love.
In the middle of the ring,
Mad with May, and wild of wing,
Fire-ey'd Wantonness shall sing.

By the rivulet on the rushes,
Beneath a canopy of bushes,
Where the ever-faithful Tray,
Guards the dumplins and the whey,
Collin Clout and Yorkshire Will
From the leathern bottle swill.

Their scythes upon the adverse bank
Glitter 'mongst th'entangled trees,
Where the hazles form a rank,
And court'sy to the courting breeze.

Ah! Harriot! sovereign mistress of my heart,
Could I thee to these meads decoy,

New grace to each fair object thou'dst impart,
And heighten ev'ry scene to perfect joy.

On a bank of fragrant thyme,
Beneath yon stately, shadowy pine,
We'll with the well-disguised hook
Cheat the tenants of the brook;
Or where coy Daphne's thickest shade
Drives amorous Phœbus from the glade,
There read Sydney's high-wrought stories
Of ladies charms and heroes glories;
Thence fir'd, the sweet narration act,
And kiss the fiction into fact.

Or satiate with nature's random scenes,
Let's to the gardens regulated greens,
Where taste and elegance command
Art to lend her dædal hand,
Where Flora's flock, by nature wild,
To discipline are reconcil'd,
And laws and order cultivate,
Quite civiliz'd into a state.

From the sun and from the show'r,
Haste we to yon boxen bow'r,
Secluded from the teizing pry
Of Argus' curiosity:
There, while Phœbus' golden mean,
The gay meridian is seen,

Ere decays the lamp of light,
And length'ning shades stretch out to night—
Seize, seize the hint—each hour improve
(This is morality in love)
Lend, lend thine hand—O let me view
Thy parting breasts, sweet avenue!
Then,—then thy lips, the coral cell
Where all th'ambrosial kisses dwell!
Thus we'll each sultry noon employ
In day-dreams of exstatic joy.

A NIGHT-PIECE;

OR, MODERN PHILOSOPHY.

ODE XIV.

Dicetur meritâ nox quoque mœniâ. Hor.

'Twas when bright Cynthia with her silver car,
Soft stealing from Endymion's bed,
Had call'd forth ev'ry glitt'ting star,
And up th'ascent of heav'n her brilliant host had led.

Night with all her negro train,
Took possession of the plain;

In an hearse she rode reclin'd,
Drawn by screech-owls slow and blind:
Close to her, with printless feet,
Crept Stillness in a winding sheet.
Next to her deaf Silence was seen,
Treading on tip-toes over the green;
Softly, lightly, gently she trips,
Still holding her fingers seal'd to her lips.

You could not see a sight,
You could not hear a sound,
But what confess'd the night,
And horror deepen'd round.

Beneath a myrtle's melancholy shade,
Sophron the wise was laid:
And to the answ'ring wood these sounds convey'd:
While others toil within the town,
And to fortune smile or frown,
Fond of trifles, fond of toys,
And married to that woman, Noise;
Sacred Wisdom be my care,
And fairest Virtue, Wisdom's heir.

His speculations thus the sage begun,
When, lo! the neighbouring bell
In solemn sound struck one:—
He starts—and recollects—he was engag'd to Nell.

Then up he sprang nimble and light,
And rapp'd at fair Ele'nor's door;
He laid aside virtue that night,
And next morn por'd in Plato for more.

On Miss ---.

ODE XV.

I

Long, with undistinguish'd flame,
I lov'd each fair, each witty dame.
My heart the belle-assembly gain'd,
And all an equal sway maintain'd.

II

But when you came, you stood confess'd
Sole sultana of my breast;
For you eclips'd, supremely fair,
All the whole seraglio there.

III

In this her mien, in that her grace,
In a third I lov'd a face;
But you in ev'ry feature shine
Universally divine.

IV

What can those tumid paps excel,
Do they sink, or do they swell?
While those lovely wanton eyes
Sparkling meet them, as they rise.

V

Thus is silver Cynthia seen,
Glistening o'er the glassy green,
While attracted swell the waves,
Emerging from their inmost caves.

VI

When to sweet sounds your steps you suit,
And weave the minuet to the lute,
Heav'ns! how you glide!—her neck—her chest—
Does she move, or does she rest?

VII

As those roguish eyes advance,
Let me catch their side-long glance,
Soon—or they'll elude my sight,
Quick as lightning, and as bright.

VIII

Thus the bashful Pleiad cheats
The gazer's eye, and still retreats,
Then peeps again—then skulks unseen,
Veil'd behind the azure skreen.

IX

Like the ever-toying dove,
Smile immensity of Iove;
Be Venus in each outward part,
And wear the vestal in your heart.

X

When I ask a kiss, or so—
Grant it with a begging no,
And let each rose that decks your face
Blush assent to my embrace.

On the Fifth of December, being the Birth-Day of a beautiful young Lady.

ODE XVI.

I

Hail, eldest of the monthly train,
Sire of the winter drear,
December, in whose iron reign
Expires the chequer'd year.
Hush all the blust'ring blasts that blow,
And proudly plum'd in silver snow,

Smile gladly on this blest of days.
The livery'd clouds shall on thee wait,
And Phœbus shine in all his state
With more than summer rays.

II

Tho' jocund June may justly boast
Long days and happy hours,
Tho' August be Pomona's host,
And May be crown'd with flow'rs;
Tell June, his fire and crimson dies,
By Harriot's blush and Harriot's eyes,
Eclips'd and vanquish'd, fade away:
Tell August, thou canst let him see
A richer, riper fruit than he,
A sweeter flow'r than May.

ODE FOR MUSICK ON Saint CECILIA's DAY

By Mr. SMART.

Hanc Vos, Pierides festis cantate calendis,
Et testudineâ, Phœbe superbe, lyrâ
Hoc solenne sacrum multos celebretur in annos,
Dignior est vestro nulla puella choro.
TIBULLUS.

ARGUMENT.

Stanza I, II. Invocation of Men and Angels to join in the Praise of S. Cecilia. The Divine Origin of Musick. Stanza III. Art of Musick, or it's miraculous power over the brute and inanimate Creation exemplified in Waller, and Stanza IV, V, in Arion. Stanza VI. the Nature of Musick, or it's power over the Passions. Instances of this in it's exciting pity. Stanza VII. In promoting Courage and Military Virtue. Stanza VIII. Excellency of Church Musick. Air to the memory of Mr. Purcell.—Praise of the Organ and it's Inventress Saint Cecilia.

I.

From your lyre-enchanted tow'rs,
Ye musically mystic Pow'rs,
Ye, that inform the tuneful spheres,
Inaudible to mortal ears,
While each orb in Ether swims
Accordant to th'inspiring hymns;
Hither Paradise remove
Spirits of Harmony and Love!

Thou too, divine Urania, deign t'appear,
And with thy sweetly-solemn lute
To the grand argument the numbers suit;
Such as sublime and clear,
Replete with heavenly love,
Charm th'inraptur'd souls above.
Disdainful of fantastic play,
Mix on your ambrosial tongue
Weight of sense with sound of song.
And be angelically gay.

CHORUS.

Disdainful, &c. &c.

II.

And you, ye sons of Harmony below,
How little less than angels, when ye sing!
With emulation's kindling warmth shall glow,
And from your mellow-modulating throats
The tribute of your grateful notes
In Union of Piety shall bring.
Shall Echo from her vocal cave
Repay each note, the Shepherd gave,
And shall not we our mistress praise
And give her back the borrow'd lays?
But farther still our praises we pursue;
For ev'n Cecilia, mighty maid,
Confess'd she had superior aid—
She did—and other rites to greater pow'rs are due.

Higher swell the sound and higher:
Let the winged numbers climb:
To the heav'n of heav'ns aspire,
Solemn, sacred, and sublime:
From heav'n musick took it's rise,
Return it to it's native skies.

CHORUS.

Higher swell the sound, &c. &c.

III.

Musick's a celestial art;
Cease to wonder at it's pow'r,
Tho' lifeless rocks to motion start,
Tho' trees dance lightly from the bow'r,
Tho' rolling floods in sweet suspence
Are held, and listen into sense.
In Penhurst's plains when Waller, sick with love,
Has found some silent solitary grove,
Where the vague moon-beams pour a silver flood
Of trem'lous light athwart th'unshaven wood,
Within an hoary moss-grown cell,
He lays his careless limbs without reserve,
And strikes, impetuous strikes each quer'lous nerve
Of his resounding shell.
In all the woods, in all the plains
Around a lively stillness reigns;
The deer approach the secret scene,
And weave their way thro' labyrinths green;

While Philomela learns the lay,
And answers from the neighbouring bay.
But Medway, melancholy mute,
Gently on his urn reclines,
And all-attentive to the lute,
In uncomplaining anguish pines:
The crystal waters weep away,
And bear the tidings to the sea:
Neptune in the boisterous seas.
Spreads the placid bed of peace,
While each blast,
Or breathes it's last,
Or just does sigh a symphony and cease.

CHORUS.

Neptune, &c. &c.

IV.

Behold Arion—on the stern he stands
Pall'd in theatrical attire,
To the mute strings he moves th'enliv'ning hands,
Great in distress, and wakes the golden lyre:
While in a tender Orthian strain
He thus accosts the Mistress of the main:
By the bright beams of Cynthia's eyes
Thro' which your waves attracted rise,
And actuate the hoary deep;
By the secret coral cell,
Where love, and joy, and Neptune dwell
And peaceful floods in silence sleep;

By the sea-flow'rs, that immerge
Their heads around the grotto's verge,
Dependant from the stooping stem;
By each roof-suspended drop,
That lightly lingers on the top,
And hesitates into a gem;
By thy kindred wat'ry Gods,
The lakes, the riv'lets, founts and floods,
And all the pow'rs that live unseen
Underneath the liquid green;
Great Amphitrite (for thou can'st bind
The storm, and regulate the wind)
Hence waft me, fair Goddess, oh waft me away,
Secure from the men and the monsters of prey!

CHORUS.

Great Amphitrite , &c. &c.

V.

He sung—The winds are charm'd to sleep,
Soft stillness steals along the deep,
The Tritons and the Nereids sigh
In soul-reflecting sympathy,
And all the audience of waters weep.
But Amphitrite her Dolphin sends— the same,
Which erst to Neptune brought the nobly perjur'd dame—

Pleas'd to obey, the beauteous monster flies,
And on his scales as the gilt sun-beams play,
Ten thousand variegated dies
In copious streams of lustre rise,
Rise o'er the level main and signify his way—
And now the joyous Bard, in triumph bore,
Rides the voluminous wave, and makes the wish'd for shore.
Come, ye festive, social throng,
Who sweep the lyre, or pour the song,
Your noblest melody employ,
Such as becomes the mouth of joy,
Bring the sky-aspiring thought,
With bright expression richly wrought,
And hail the Muse ascending on her throne,
The main at length subdued, and all the world her own.

CHORUS.

Come, ye festive, &c. &c.

Fabulantur Græci hanc perpetuam Deis virginitatem vovisse: sed cum a Neptuno sollicitaretur ad Atlantem confugisse, ubi a Delphino persuasa Neptuno assensit. Lilius Gyraldus.

VI.

But o'er th'affections too she claims the sway,
Pierces the human heart, and steals the soul away;
And as attractive sounds move high or low,
Th'obedient ductile passions ebb and flow,
Has any Nymph her faithful lover lost,
And in the visions of the night,
And all the day-dreams of the light,
In sorrow's tempest turbulently tost—

From her cheeks the roses die,
The radiations vanish from her sun-bright eye,
And her breast, the throne of love,
Can hardly, hardly, hardly move,
To send th'ambrosial sigh.
But let the skillful bard appear,
And pour the sounds medicinal in her ear;
Sing some sad, some plaintive ditty,
Steept in tears, that endless flow,
Melancholy notes of pity,
Notes that mean a world of woe;
She too shall sympathize, she too shall moan,
And pitying others sorrows sigh away her own.

CHORUS.

Sing some sad, some &c. &c.

VII.

Wake, wake, the kettle-drum, prolong
The swelling trumpet's silver song,
And let the kindred accents pass
Thro' the horn's meandring brass.
Arise—The patriot muse invites to war,
And mounts Bellona's brazen car;
While Harmony, terrific maid!
Appears in martial pomp array'd:
The sword, the target, and the lance
She wields, and as she moves, exalts the Pyrrhic dance.

Trembles the earth, resound the skies—
Swift o'er the fleet, the camp she flies
With thunder in her voice and lightning in her eyes.
The gallant warriours engage
With inextinguishable rage,
And hearts unchil'd with fear;
Fame numbers all the chosen bands
Full in the front fair Vict'ry stands,
And Triumph crowns the rear.

CHORUS.

The Gallant warriours, &c. &c.

VIII.

But hark the Temple's hollow'd roof resounds,
And Purcell lives along the solemn sounds—
Mellifluous, yet manly too,
He pours his strains along,
As from the lion Sampson slew,
Comes sweetness from the strong.
Not like the soft Italian swains,
He trills the weak enervate strains,
Where sense and musick are at strife;
His vigorous notes with meaning teem,
With fire, with force explain the theme,
And sing the subject into life.
Attend—he sings Cecilia—matchless Dame!
'Tis She—'tis She—fond to extend her fame,

On the loud chords the notes conspire to stay,
And sweetly swell into a long delay,
And dwell delighted on her name.
Blow on, ye sacred Organs, blow,
In tones magnificently slow;
Such is the musick, such the lays,
Which suit your fair Inventress' praise:
While round religious silence reigns,
And loitering winds expect the strains.
Hail majestic mournful measure,
Source of many a pensive pleasure!
Blest pledge of love to mortals giv'n,
As pattern of the rest of heav'n!
And thou chief honor of the veil,
Hail, harmonious Virgin, hail!
When Death shall blot out every name,
And Time shall break the trump of Fame,
Angels may listen to thy lute;
Thy pow'r shall last, thy bays shall bloom,
When tongues shall cease, and worlds consume,
And all the tuneful spheres be mute.

GRAND CHORUS.

When Death shall blot out every name, &c.

HYMN TO THE SUPREME BEING,

ON Recovery from a dangerous Fit of Illness.

By CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A.

To DOCTOR JAMES.

I

When Israel's ruler on the royal bed
In anguish and in perturbation lay,
The down reliev'd not his anointed head,
And rest gave place to horror and dismay.
Fast flow'd the tears, high heav'd each gasping sigh
When God's own prophet thunder'd—Monarch, thou must die.

II

And must I go, th'illustrious mourner cry'd,
I who have serv'd thee still in faith and truth,
Whose snow-white conscience no foul crime has died
From youth to manhood, infancy to youth,
Like David, who have still rever'd thy word
The sovereign of myself and servant of the Lord!

III

The judge Almighty heard his suppliant's moan,
Repeal'd his sentence, and his health restor'd;
The beams of mercy on his temples shone,
Shot from that heaven to which his sighs had soar'd;
The sun retreated at his maker's nod
And miracles confirm the genuine work of God.

IV

But, O immortals! What had I to plead
When death stood o'er me with his threat'ning lance,
When reason left me in the time of need,
And sense was lost in terror or in trance,
My sinking soul was with my blood inflam'd,
And the celestial image sunk, defac'd and maim'd,

V

I sent back memory, in heedful guise,
To search the records of preceding years;
Home, like the raven to the ark, she flies,
Croaking bad tidings to my trembling ears.
O sun, again that thy retreat was made,
And threw my follies back into the friendly shade!

VI

But who are they, that bid affliction cease!—
Redemption and forgiveness, heavenly sounds!

Behold the dove that brings the branch of peace,
Behold the balm that heals the gaping wounds—
Vengeance divine's by penitence supprest—
She struggles with the angel, conquers, and is blest.

VII

Yet hold, presumption, nor too fondly climb,
And thou too hold, O horrible despair!
In man humility's alone sublime,
Who diffidently hopes he's Christ's own care—
O all-sufficient Lamb! in death's dread hour
Thy merits who shall slight, or who can doubt thy power?

VIII

But soul-rejoicing health again returns,
The blood meanders gentle in each vein,
The lamp of life renew'd with vigour burns,
And exil'd reason takes her seat again—
Brisk leaps the heart, the mind's at large once more,
To love, to praise, to bless, to wonder and adore.

IX

The virtuous partner of my nuptial bands,
Appear'd a widow to my frantic sight;
My little prattlers lifting up their hands,
Beckon me back to them, to life, and light;
I come, ye spotless sweets! I come again,
Nor have your tears been shed, nor have ye knelt in vain.

X

All glory to th'eternal, to th'immense,
All glory to th'omniscient and good,
Whose power's uncircumscrib'd, whose love's intense;
But yet whose justice ne'er could be withstood.
Except thro' him—thro' him, who stands alone,
Of worth, of weight allow'd for all Mankind t'atone!

XI

He rais'd the lame, the lepers he made whole,
He fix'd the palsied nerves of weak decay,
He drove out Satan from the tortur'd soul,
And to the blind gave or restor'd the day,—
Nay more,—far more unequal'd pangs sustain'd,
Till his lost fallen flock his taintless blood regain'd.

XII

My feeble feet refus'd my body's weight,
Nor wou'd my eyes admit the glorious light,
My nerves convuls'd shook fearful of their fate,
My mind lay open to the powers of night.
He pitying did a second birth bestow
A birth of joy—not like the first of tears and woe.

XIII

Ye strengthen'd feet, forth to his altar move;
Quicken, ye new-strung nerves, th'enraptur'd lyre;
Ye heav'n-directed eyes, o'erflow with love;
Glow, glow, my soul, with pure seraphic sire;

Deeds, thoughts, and words no more his mandates break,
But to his endless glory work, conceive, and speak.

XIV

O! penitence, to virtue near allied,
Thou can'st new joys e'en to the blest impart;
The list'ning angels lay their harps aside
To hear the musick of thy contrite heart;
And heav'n itself wears a more radiant face,
When charity presents thee to the throne of grace.

XV

Chief of metallic forms is regal gold;
Of elements, the limpid fount that flows;
Give me 'mongst gems the brilliant to behold;
O'er Flora's flock imperial is the rose:
Above all birds the sov'reign eagle soars;
And monarch of the field the lordly lion roars.

XVI

What can with great Leviathan compare,
Who takes his pastime in the mighty main?
What, like the Sun, shines thro' the realms of air,
And gilds and glorifies th'ethereal plain—
Yet what are these to man, who bears the sway;
For all was made for him—to serve and to obey.

XVII

Thus in high heaven charity is great,
Faith, hope, devotion hold a lower place;
On her the cherubs and the seraphs wait,
Her, every virtue courts, and every grace;
See! on the right, close by th'Almighty's throne,
In him she shines confest, who came to make her known.

XVIII

Deep-rooted in my heart then let her grow,
That for the past the future may atone;
That I may act what thou hast giv'n to know,
That I may live for thee and thee alone,
And justify those sweetest words from heav'n,
“That he shall love thee most to whom thou'st most forgiven.

Hezekiah vi. Isaiah xxxviii.

Isaiah, chap. xxxviii.

Gen. viii. 7.

Gen. xxxii, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28.

Pind. Olymp. 1.

Luke vii. 41, 42, 43.

ON THE ETERNITY OF THE SUPREME BEING,

A POETICAL ESSAY.

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A. Fellow of Pembroke-Hall in the University of Cambridge.

Hail, wond'rous Being, who in pow'r supreme
Exists from everlasting, whose great name
Deep in the human heart, and every atom,
The Air, the Earth or azure Main contains,
In undecypher'd characters is wrote—
Incomprehensible!—O what can words,
The weak interpreters of mortal thoughts,
Or what can thoughts (tho' wild of wing they rove
Thro' the vast concave of th'ætherial round)
If to the heav'n of heavens they'd win their way
Advent'rous, like the birds of night they're lost,
And delug'd in the flood of dazzling day.—

May then the youthful, uninspired Bard
Presume to hymn th'Eternal; may he soar
Where Seraph, and where Cherubin on high

Resound th'unceasing plaudits, and with them
In the grand Chorus mix his feeble voice?

He may—if Thou, who from the witless babe
Ordainest honor, glory, strength and praise,
Uplift th'unpinion'd Muse, and deign t'assist,
Great Poet of the Universe, his song.

Before this earthly Planet wound her course
Round Light's perennial fountain, before Light
Herself 'gan shine, and at th'inspiring word
Shot to existence in a blaze of day,
Before “the Morning-Stars together sang”
And hail'd Thee Architect of countless worlds.—
Thou art—all-glorious, all-beneficent,
All Wisdom and Omnipotence thou art.

But is the æra of Creation fix'd
At when these Worlds began? Cou'd ought retard
Goodness, that knows no bounds, from blessing ever,
Or keep th'immense Artificer in sloth?
Avaunt the dust-directed crawling thought,
That Puissance immeasurably vast,
And Bounty inconceivable cou'd rest
Content, exhausted with one week of action—
No—in th'exertion of thy righteous pow'r,
Ten thousand times more active than the Sun,
Thou reign'd, and with a mighty hand compos'd
Systems innumerable, matchless all,
All stampt with thine uncounterfeited seal.

But yet (if still to more stupendous heights
The Muse unblam'd her aching sense may strain);
Perhaps wrapt up in contemplation deep,
The best of Beings on the noblest theme
Might ruminate at leisure, Scope immense
Th'eternal Pow'r and Godhead to explore,
And with itself th'omniscient mind replete.
This were enough to fill the boundless All,
This were a Sabbath worthy the Supreme!
Perhaps enthron'd amidst a choicer few,
Of Sp'rits inferior, he might greatly plan
The two prime Pillars of the Universe,
Creation and Redemption—and a while
Pause—with the grand presentiments of glory.

Perhaps—but all's conjecture here below,
All ignorance, and self-plum'd vanity—
O Thou, whose ways to wonder at's distrust,
Whom to describe's presumption (all we can,—
And all we may—) be glorified, be prais'd.

A Day shall come when all this Earth shall perish,
Nor leave behind ev'n Chaos; it shall come
When all the armies of the elements
Shall war against themselves, and mutual rage
To make Perdition triumph; it shall come,
When the capacious atmosphere above
Shall in sulphureous thunders groan, and die,
And vanish into void; the earth beneath

Shall sever to the center, and devour
Th'enormous blaze of the destructive flames.—
Ye rocks, that mock the raving of the floods,
And proudly frown upon th'impatient deep,
Where is your grandeur now? Ye foaming waves,
That all along th'immense Atlantic roar,
In vain ye swell; will a few drops suffice
To quench the inextinguishable fire?
Ye mountains, on whose cloud-crown'd tops the cedars
Are lessen'd into shrubs, magnific piles,
That prop the painted chambers of the heav'ns
And fix the earth continual; Athos, where:
Where, Tenerif's thy stateliness to-day?
What, Ætna, are thy flames to these?—No more
Than the poor glow-worm to the golden Sun.

Nor shall the verdant vallies then remain
Safe in their meek submission; they the debt
Of nature and of justice too must pay.
Yet I must weep for you, ye rival fair,
Arno and Andalusia; but for thee
More largely and with filial tears must weep,
O Albion, O my Country; Thou must join,
In vain dissever'd from the rest, must join
The terrors of th'inevitable ruin.

Nor thou, illustrious monarch of the day;
Nor thou, fair queen of night; nor you, ye stars,
Tho' million leagues and million still remote,

Shall yet survive that day; Ye must submit
Sharers, not bright spectators of the scene.

But tho' the Earth shall to the center perish,
Nor leave behind ev'n Chaos; tho' the air
With all the elements must pass away,
Vain as an ideot's dream; tho' the huge rocks,
That brandish the tall cedars on their tops,
With humbler vales must to perdition yield;
Tho' the gilt Sun, and silver-tressed Moon
With all her bright retinue, must be lost;
Yet Thou, Great Father of the world, surviv'st
Eternal, as thou wert: Yet still survives
The soul of man immortal, perfect now,
And candidate for unexpiring joys.

He comes! He comes! the awful trump I hear;
The flaming sword's intolerable blaze
I see; He comes! th'Archangel from above.
“Arise, ye tenants of the silent grave,
“Awake incorruptible and arise;
“From east to west, from the antarctic pole
“To regions hyperborean, all ye sons,
“Ye sons of Adam, and ye heirs of Heav'n—
“Arise, ye tenants of the silent grave,
“Awake incorruptible and arise.

'Tis then, nor sooner, that the restless mind
Shall find itself at home; and like the ark
Fix'd on the mountain-top, shall look-aloft

O'er the vague passage of precarious life;
And, winds and waves and rocks and tempests past,
Enjoy the everlasting calm of Heav'n:
'Tis then, nor sooner, that the deathless soul
Shall justly know its nature and its rise:
'Tis then the human tongue new-tun'd shall give
Praises more worthy the eternal ear.
Yet what we can, we ought;—and therefore, Thou,
Purge thou my heart, Omnipotent and good!
Purge thou my heart with hyssop, left like Cain
I offer fruitless sacrifice, with gifts
Offend, and not propitiate the Ador'd.
Tho' gratitude were bless'd with all the pow'rs
Her bursting heart cou'd long for, tho' the swift,
The firy-wing'd imagination soar'd
Beyond ambition's wish—yet all were vain
To speak him as he is, who is Ineffable.
Yet still let reason thro' the eye of faith
View him with fearful love; let truth pronounce,
And adoration on her bended knee
With Heav'n-directed hands confess His reign.
And let th'Angelic, Archangelic band
With all the Hosts of Heav'n, Cherubic forms,
And forms Seraphic, with their silver trumps
And golden lyres attend:—“For Thou art holy,
“For thou art One, th'Eternal, who alone
“Exerts all goodness, and transcends all praise.”

ON THE IMMENSITY OF THE SUPREME BEING,

A POETICAL ESSAY.

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A. Fellow of Pembroke-Hall in the University of Cambridge.

Once more I dare to rouse the sounding string,
The Poet of my God—Awake my glory,
Awake my lute and harp—myself shall wake,
Soon as the stately night-exploding bird
In lively lay sings welcome to the dawn.

List ye! how nature with ten thousand tongues
Begins the grand thanksgiving, Hail, all hail,
Ye tenants of the forest and the field!
My fellow subjects of th'eternal King,
I gladly join your Mattins, and with you
Confess his presence, and report his praise.

O Thou, who or the Lambkin, or the Dove,
When offer'd by the lowly, meek, and poor,
Prefer'st to Pride's whole hecatomb, accept

This mean Essay, nor from thy treasure-house
Of Glory' immense, the orphan's might exclude.

What tho' th'Almighty's regal throne be rais'd
High o'er yon azure Heav'n's exalted dome
By mortal eye unken'd—where East nor West
Nor South, nor blust'ring North has breath to blow;
Albeit He there with Angels, and with Saints
Hold conference, and to his radiant host
Ev'n face to face stand visibly confest:
Yet know that nor in Presence or in Pow'r
Shines He less perfect here; 'tis Man's dim eye
That makes th'obscurity. He is the same,
Alike in all his Universe the same.

Whether the mind along the spangled sky
Measure her pathless walk, studious to view
Thy works of vaster fabrick, where the Planets
Weave their harmonious rounds, their march directing
Still faithful, still inconstant to the Sun;
Or where the Comet thro' space infinite
(Tho' whirling worlds oppose, and globes of fire)
Darts, like a javelin, to his destin'd goal.
Or where in Heav'n above the Heav'n of Heav'ns
Burn brighter Suns, and goodlier Planets roll
With Satellites more glorious—Thou art there.

Or whether on the Ocean's boist'rous back
Thou ride triumphant, and with out-stretch'd arm
Curb the wild winds and discipline the billows,

The suppliant Sailor finds Thee there, his chief,
His only help—When Thou rebuk'st the storm—
It ceases—and the vessel gently glides
Along the glassy level of the calm.

Oh! cou'd I search the bosom of the sea,
Down the great depth descending; there thy works
Wou'd also speak thy residence; and there
Wou'd I thy servant, like the still profound,
Astonish'd into silence muse thy praise!
Behold! behold! th'unplanted garden round
Of vegetable coral, sea-flow'rs gay,
And shrubs, with amber, from the pearl-pav'd bottom
Rise richly varied, where the finny race
In blithe security their gambols play:
While high above their heads Leviathan
The terror and the glory of the main
His pastime takes with transport, proud to see
The ocean's vast dominion all his own.

Hence thro' the genial bowels of the earth
Easy may fancy pass; till at thy mines,
Gani, or Raolconda, she arrive,
And from the adamant's imperial blaze
Form weak ideas of her maker's glory.
Next to Pegu or Ceylon let me rove,
Where the rich ruby (deem'd by sages old
Of Sovereign virtue) sparkles ev'n like Sirius
And blushes into flames. Thence will I go

To undermine the treasure-fertile womb
Of the huge Pyrenean, to detect
The Agate and the deep-intrenched gem
Of kindred Jasper—Nature in them both
Delights to play the Mimic on herself;
And in their veins she oft pourtrays the forms
Of leaning hills, of trees erect, and streams
Now stealing softly on, now thund'ring down
In desperate cascade, with flow'rs and beasts
And all the living landskip of the vale.
In vain thy pencil, Claudio, or Poussin,
Or thine, immortal Guido, wou'd essay
Such skill to imitate—it is the hand
Of God himself—for God himself is there.

Hence with th'ascending springs let me advance,
Thro' beds of magnets, minerals and spar,
Up to the mountain's summit, there t'indulge
Th'ambition of the comprehensive eye,
That dares to call th'Horizon all her own.
Behold the forest, and th'expansive verdure
Of yonder level lawn, whose smooth-shorn sod
No object interrupts, unless the oak
His lordly head uprears, and branching arms
Extends—Behold in regal solitude,
And pastoral magnificence he stands
So simple! and so great! the under-wood
Of meaner rank an awful distance keep.

Yet Thou art there, yet God himself is there
Ev'n on the bush (tho' not as when to Moses)
He shone in burning Majesty reveal'd
Nathless conspicuous in the Linnet's throat
Is his unbounded goodness—Thee her Maker,
Thee her preserver chants she in her song;
While all the emulative vocal tribe
The grateful lesson learn—no other voice
Is heard, no other sound—for in attention
Buried, ev'n babbling Echo holds her peace.

Now from the plains, where th'unbounded prospect
Gives liberty her utmost scope to range,
Turn we to yon enclosures, where appears
Chequer'd variety in all her forms,
Which the vague mind attract and still suspend
With sweet perplexity. What are yon tow'rs
The work of lab'ring man and clumsy art
Seen with the ring-dove's nest—on that tall beech
Her pensile house the feather'd artist builds—
The rocking winds molest her not; for see,
With such due poize the wond'rous fabrick's hung,
That, like the compass in the bark, it keeps
True to itself and stedfast ev'n in storms.
Thou ideot that assertst there is no God,
View and be dumb for ever—
Go bid Vitruvius or Palladio build
The bee his mansion, or the ant her cave—

Go call Correggio, or let Titian come
To paint the hawthorn's bloom, or teach the cherry
To blush with just vermillion—hence away—
Hence ye prophane! for God himself is here.
Vain were th'attempt, and impious to trace
Thro' all his works th'Artificer divine—
And tho' nor shining sun, nor twinkling star
Bedeck'd the crimson curtains of the sky;
Tho' neither vegetable, beast, nor bird
Were extant on the surface of this ball,
Nor lurking gem beneath; tho' the great sea
Slept in profound stagnation, and the air
Had left no thunder to pronounce its maker;
Yet man at home, within himself, might find
The Deity immense, and in that frame
So fearfully, so wonderfully made,
See and adore his providence and pow'r—
I see, and I adore—O God most bounteous!
O infinite of Goodness and of Glory!
The knee, that thou hast shap'd, shall bend to Thee,
The tongue, which thou hast tun'd, shall chant thy praise,
And thy own image, the immortal soul,
Shall consecrate herself to Thee for ever.

ON THE OMNISCIENCE OF THE SUPREME BEING,

A POETICAL ESSAY.

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A. Fellow of Pembroke-Hall in the University of Cambridge.

TO THE MOST REVEREND HIS GRACE THE LORD ARCH-BISHOP OF CANTERBURY; THIS POETICAL ESSAY ON The OMNISCIENCE of the SUPREME BEING, Is with all humility Inscribed, By His Grace's Most dutiful, most obliged, And most obedient humble Servant, C. SMART .

Arise, divine Urania, with new strains
To hymn thy God, and thou, immortal Fame,
Arise, and blow thy everlasting trump.
All glory to th'Omniscient, and praise,
And pow'r, and domination in the height!
And thou, cherubic Gratitude, whose voice
To pious ears sounds silverly so sweet,
Come with thy precious incense, bring thy gifts,
And with thy choicest stores the altar crown.
Thou too, my Heart, whom he, and he alone,
Who all things knows, can know, with love replete,
Regenerate, and pure, pour all thyself
A living sacrifice before his throne:
And may th'eternal, high mysterious tree,

That in the center of the arched Heav'ns
Bears the rich fruit of Knowledge, with some branch
Stoop to my humble reach, and bless my toil!

When in my mother's womb conceal'd I lay
A senseless embryo, then my soul thou knewst,
Knewst all her future workings, every thought,
And every faint idea yet unform'd.
When up the imperceptible ascent
Of growing years, led by thy hand, I rose,
Perception's gradual light, that ever dawns
Insensibly to day, thou didst vouchsafe,
And teach me by that reason thou inspir'dst.
That what of knowledge in my mind was low,
Imperfect, incorrect—in Thee is wondrous,
Uncircumscrib'd, unsearchably profound,
And estimable solely by itself.

What is that secret pow'r, that guides the brutes,
Which Ignorance calls Instinct? 'Tis from Thee,
It is the operation of thine hands,
Immediate, instantaneous; 'tis thy wisdom,
That glorious shines transparent thro' thy works.
Who taught the Pye, or who forwarn'd the Jay
To shun the deadly nightshade? tho' the cherry
Boasts not a glossier hue, nor does the plumb
Lure with more seeming sweets the amorous eye,
Yet will not the sagacious birds, decoy'd
By fair appearance, touch the noxious fruit.

They know to taste is fatal, whence alarm'd
Swift on the winnowing winds they work their way.
Go to, proud reas'ner, philosophic Man,
Hast thou such prudence, thou such knowledge?—No,
Full many a race has fall'n into the snare
Of meretricious looks, of pleasing surface,
And oft in desart isles the famish'd pilgrim
By forms of fruit, and luscious taste beguil'd,
Like his forefather Adam, eats and dies.
For why? his wisdom on the leaden feet
Of slow experience, dully tedious, creeps,
And comes, like vengeance, after long delay.

The venerable Sage, that nightly trims
The learned lamp, t'investigate the pow'rs
Of plants medicinal, the earth, the air,
And the dark regions of the fossil world,
Grows old in following, what he ne'er shall find;
Studious in vain! till haply, at the last
He spies a mist, then shapes it into mountains,
And baseless fabric from conjecture builds.
While the domestic animal, that guards
At midnight hours his threshold, if oppress'd
By sudden sickness, at his master's feet
Begs not that aid his services might claim,
But is his own physician, knows the case,
And from th'emetic herbage works his cure.
Hark from afar the feather'd matron screams,

And all her brood alarms, the docile crew
Accept the signal one and all, expert
In th'art of nature and unlearn'd deceit:
Along the sod, in counterfeited death,
Mute, motionless they lie; full well appriz'd,
That the rapacious adversary's near.
But who inform'd her of th'approaching danger,
Who taught the cautious mother, that the hawk
Was hatcht her foe, and liv'd by her destruction?
Her own prophetic soul is active in her,
And more than human providence her guard.

When Philomela, e'er the cold domain
Of crippled winter 'gins t'advance, prepares
Her annual flight, and in some poplar shade
Takes her melodious leave, who then's her pilot?
Who points her passage thro' the pathless void
To realms from us remote, to us unknown?
Her science is the science of her God.
Not the magnetic index to the North
E'er ascertains her course, nor buoy, nor beacon.
She heav'n-taught voyager, that sails in air,
Courts nor coy West nor East, but instant knows
What Newton, or not sought, or sought in vain.

Illustrious name, irrefragable proof
Of man's vast genius, and the soaring soul!
Yet what wert thou to him, who knew his works,

Before creation form'd them, long before
He measur'd in the hollow of his hand
Th'exulting ocean, and the highest Heav'ns
He comprehended with a span, and weigh'd
The mighty mountains in his golden scales:
Who shone supreme, who was himself the light,
Ere yet Refraction learn'd her skill to paint,
And bend athwart the clouds her beauteous bow.

When Knowledge at her father's dread command
Resign'd to Israel's king her golden key,
Oh to have join'd the frequent auditors
In wonder and delight, that whilom heard
Great Solomon descanting on the brutes!
Oh how sublimely glorious to apply
To God's own honour, and good will to man,
That wisdom he alone of men possess'd
In plenitude so rich, and scope so rare!
How did he rouse the pamper'd silken sons
Of bloated ease, by placing to their view
The sage industrious ant, the wisest insect,
And best œconomist of all the field!
Tho' she presumes not by the solar orb
To measure times and seasons, nor consults
Chaldean calculations, for a guide;
Yet conscious that December's on the march
Pointing with icy hand to want and woe,
She waits his dire approach, and undismay'd

Receives him as a welcome guest, prepar'd
Against the churlish winter's fiercest blow.
For when, as yet the favourable Sun
Gives to the genial earth th'enlivening ray,
Not the poor suffering slave, that hourly toils
To rive the groaning earth for ill-sought gold,
Endures such trouble, such fatigue, as she;
While all her subterraneous avenues,
And storm-proof cells, with management most meet
And unexampled housewifry, she forms,
Then to the field she hies, and on her back,
Burden immense! she bears the cumbrous corn.
Then many a weary step, and many a strain,
And many a grievous groan subdued, at length
Up the huge hill she hardly heaves it home:
Nor rests she here her providence, but nips
With subtle tooth the grain, left from her garner
In mischievous fertility it steal,
And back to day-light vegetate its way.
Go to the Ant, thou sluggard, learn to live,
And by her wary ways reform thine own.
But, if thy deaden'd sense, and listless thought
More glaring evidence demand; behold,
Where yon pellucid populous hive presents
A yet uncopied model to the world!
There Machiavel in the reflecting glass
May read himself a fool. The Chemist there

May with astonishment invidious view
His toils outdone by each plebeian Bee,
Who, at the royal mandate, on the wing
From various herbs, and from discordant flow'rs
A perfect harmony of sweets compounds.

Avaunt Conceit, Ambition take thy flight
Back to the Prince of vanity and air!
Oh 'tis a thought of energy most piercing,
Form'd to make pride grow humble; form'd to force
Its weight on the reluctant mind, and give her
A true but irksome image of herself.
Woful vicissitude! when Man, fall'n Man,
Who first from Heav'n, from gracious God himself,
Learn'd knowledge of the Brutes, must know by Brutes
Instructed and reproach'd, the scale of being;
By slow degrees from lowly steps ascend,
And trace Omniscience upwards to its spring!
Yet murmur not, but praise—for tho' we stand
Of many a Godlike privilege amerc'd
By Adam's dire transgression, tho' no more
Is paradise our home, but o'er the portal
Hangs in terrific pomp the burning blade;
Still with ten thousand beauties blooms the Earth
With pleasures populous, and with riches crown'd.
Still is there scope for wonder and for love
Ev'n to their last exertion—show'rs of blessings
Far more than human virtue can deserve,

Or hope expect, or gratitude return.
Then, O ye People, O ye Sons of men,
Whatever be the colour of your lives,
Whatever portion of itself his Wisdom
Shall deign t'allow, still patiently abide,
And praise him more and more; nor cease to chant
All Glory to th'Omniscient, and Praise,
And Pow'r, and Domination in the height!
And thou, cherubic Gratitude, whose voice
To pious ears sounds silverly so sweet,
Come with thy precious incense, bring thy gifts,
And with the choicest stores the altar crown.

ΤΩ ΘΕΩ ΔΟΞΑ.

The Hen Turkey.

The Longitude.

ON THE POWER OF THE SUPREME BEING,

A POETICAL ESSAY.

BY CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A. Follow of Pembroke-Hall in the University of Cambridge.

“Tremble, thou earth! th'anointed poet said,
At God's bright presence, tremble, all ye mountains,
And all ye hillocks on the surface bound.”
Then once again, ye glorious thunders roll,
The Muse with transport hears ye, once again
Convulse the solid continent, and shake,
Grand music of omnipotence, the isles.
'Tis thy terrific voice; thou God of power,
'Tis thy terrific voice; all Nature hears it
Awaken'd and alarm'd; she feels its force,
In every spring she feels it, every wheel,
And every movement of her vast machine.
Behold! quakes Apennine, behold! recoils
Athos, and all the hoary-headed Alps

Leap from their bases at the godlike sound.
But what is this, celestial tho' the note,
And proclamation of the reign supreme,
Compar'd with such as, for a mortal ear
Too great, amaze the incorporeal worlds?
Shou'd ocean to his congregated waves
Call in each river, cataract, and lake,
And with the watry world down a huge rock
Fall headlong in one horrible cascade,
'Twere but the echo of the parting breeze,
When Zephyr faints upon the lily's breast,
'Twere but the ceasing of some instrument,
When the last ling'ring undulation
Dies on the doubting ear, if nam'd with sounds
So mighty! so stupendous! so divine!

But not alone in the aërial vault
Does he the dread theocracy maintain;
For oft, enrag'd with his intestine thunders,
He harrows up the bowels of the earth,
And shocks the central magnet.—Cities then
Totter on their foundations, stately columns,
Magnific walls, and heav'n-assaulting spires.
What tho' in haughty eminence erect
Stands the strong citadel, and frowns defiance
On adverse hosts, tho' many a bastion jut
Forth from the ramparts elevated mound,
Vain the poor providence of human heart,

And mortal strength how vain! while underneath
Triumphs his mining vengeance in th'uproar
Of shatter'd towers, riven rocks, and mountains,
With clamour inconceivable uptorn,
And hurl'd adown th'abyss. Sulphureous pyrites
Bursting abrupt from darkness into day,
With din outrageous and destructive ire
Augment the hideous tumult, while it wounds
Th'afflicted ear, and terrifies the eye,
And rends the heart in twain. Twice have we felt,
Within Augusta's walls twice have we felt
Thy threaten'd indignation, but ev'n Thou,
Incens'd Omnipotent, art gracious ever:
Thy goodness infinite but mildly warn'd us
With mercy-blended wrath; O spare us still,
Nor send more dire conviction: we confess
That thou art He, th'Almighty: we believe.
For at thy righteous power whole systems quake,
For at thy nod tremble ten thousand worlds.

Hark! on the winged Whirlwind's rapid rage,
Which is and is not in a moment—hark!
On th'hurricane's tempestuous sweep he rides
Invincible, and oaks and pines and cedars
And forests are no more. For conflict dreadful!
The West encounters East, and Notus meets
In his career the Hyperborean blast.

100

The lordly lions shudd'ring seek their dens,
And fly like tim'rous deer; the king of birds,
Who dar'd the solar ray, is weak of wing,
And faints and falls and dies;—while He supreme
Stands stedfast in the center of the storm.

Wherefore, ye objects terrible and great,
Ye thunders, earthquakes, and ye fire-fraught wombs
Of fell volcanos, whirlwinds, hurricanes,
And boiling billows hail! in chorus join
To celebrate and magnify your Maker,
Who yet in works of a minuter mould
Is not less manifest, is not less mighty.

Survey the magnet's sympathetic love,
That wooes the yielding needle; contemplate
Th'attractive amber's power, invisible
Ev'n to the mental eye; or when the blow
Sent from th'electric sphere assaults thy frame,
Shew me the hand, that dealt it!—baffled here
By his omnipotence Philosophy
Slowly her thoughts inadequate revolves,
And stands, with all his circling wonders round her,
Like heavy Saturn in th'etherial space
Begirt with an inexplicable ring.

If such the operations of his power,
Which at all seasons and in ev'ry place
(Rul'd by establish'd laws and current nature)
Arrest th'attention! Who? O Who shall tell

101

His acts miraculous, when his own decrees
Repeals he, or suspends, when by the hand
Of Moses or of Joshua, or the mouths
Of his prophetic seers, such deeds he wrought,
Before th'astonish'd Sun's all-seeing eye,
That Faith was scarce a virtue. Need I sing
The fate of Pharoah and his numerous band
Lost in the reflux of the watry walls,
That melted to their fluid state again?
Need I recount how Sampson's warlike arm
With more than mortal nerves was strung t'o'erthrow
Idolatrous Philistia? Shall I tell
How David triumph'd, and what Job sustain'd?
—But, O supreme, unutterable mercy!
O love unequall'd, mystery immense,
Which angels long t'unfold! 'tis man's redemption
That crowns thy glory, and thy pow'r confirms,
Confirms the great, th'uncontroverted claim.
When from the Virgin's unpolluted womb,
Shone forth the Sun of Righteousness reveal'd
And on benighted reason pour'd the day;
Let there be peace (he said) and all was calm
Amongst the warring world—calm as the sea,
When Peace, be still, ye boisterous Winds, he cry'd,
And not a breath was blown, nor murmur heard.
His was a life of miracles and might,
And charity and love, ere yet he taste

102

The bitter draught of death, ere yet he rise
Victorious o'er the universal foe,
And Death, and Sin and Hell in triumph lead.
His by the right of conquest is mankind,
And in sweet servitude and golden bonds
Were ty'd to him for ever.—O how easy
Is his ungalling Yoke, and all his burdens
'Tis ecstacy to bear! Him blessed Shepherd
His flocks shall follow thro' the maze of life,
And shades that tend to Day-spring from on high;
And as the radiant roses, after fading,
In fuller foliage and more fragrant breath
Revive in smiling spring, so shall it fare
With those that love him—for sweet is their savour,
And all eternity shall be their spring.
Then shall the gates and everlasting doors,
At which the King of Glory enters in,
Be to the Saints unbarr'd: and there, where pleasure
Boasts an undying bloom, where dubious hope
Is certainty, and grief-attended love
Is freed from passion—there we'll celebrate
With worthier numbers, him, who is, and was,
And in immortal prowess King of Kings
Shall be the Monarch of all worlds for ever.

103

ON THE GOODNESS OF THE SUPREME BEING.

POETICAL ESSAY.

By CHRISTOPHER SMART, M. A. Of Pembroke Hall in the University of Cambridge.

105

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF DARLINGTON THIS ESSAY ON The GOODNESS of the SUPREME BEING. Is Inscribed, By His Lordship's Most obliged, And obedient Servant, C. SMART .

113

Orpheus, for so the Gentiles call'd thy name,
Israel's sweet Psalmist, who alone couldst wake
Th'inanimate to motion; who alone
The joyful hillocks, the applauding rocks,
And floods with musical persuasion drew;
Thou who to hail and snow gav'st voice and sound,
And mad'st the mute melodious!—greater yet
Was thy divinest skill, and rul'd o'er more
Than art or nature; for thy tuneful touch
Drove trembling Satan from the heart of Saul,
And quell'd the evil Angel:—in this breast
Some portion of thy genuine spirit breathe,

114

And lift me from myself, each thought impure
Banish; each low idea raise, refine,
Enlarge, and sanctify;—so shall the muse
Above the stars aspire, and aim to praise
Her God on earth, as he is prais'd in heaven.

Immense Creator! whose all-powerful hand
Fram'd universal Being, and whose Eye
Saw like thyself, that all things form'd were good;
Where shall the tim'rous bard thy praise begin,
Where end the purest sacrifice of song,
And just thanksgiving?—The thought-kindling light,
Thy prime production, darts upon my mind
Its vivifying beams, my heart illumines,
And fills my soul with gratitude and Thee.
Hail to the chearful rays of ruddy morn,
That paint the streaky East, and blithsome rouse
The birds, the cattle, and mankind from rest!
Hail to the freshness of the early breeze,
And Iris dancing on the new-fall'n dew!
Without the aid of yonder golden globe
Lost were the garnet's lustre, lost the lilly,
The tulip and auricula's spotted pride;
Lost were the peacock's plumage, to the sight
So pleasing in its pomp and glossy glow.
O thrice-illustrious! were it not for thee
Those pansies, that reclining from the bank,
View thro' th'immaculate, pellucid stream

115

Their portraiture in the inverted heaven,
Might as well change their triple boast, the white,
The purple, and the gold, that far outvie
The Eastern monarch's garb, ev'n with the dock,
Ev'n with the baneful hemlock's irksome green.
Without thy aid, without thy gladsome beams
The tribes of woodland warblers wou'd remain
Mute on the bending branches, nor recite
The praise of him, who, e'er he form'd their lord,
Their voices tun'd to transport, wing'd their flight,
And bade them call for nurture, and receive;
And lo! they call; the blackbird and the thrush,
The woodlark, and the redbreast jointly call;
He hears and feeds their feather'd families,
He feeds his sweet musicians,—nor neglects
Th'invoking ravens in the greenwood wide;
And tho' their throats coarse ruttling hurt the ear,
They mean it all for music, thanks and praise
They mean, and leave ingratitude to man;—
But not to all,—for hark! the organs blow
Their swelling notes round the cathedral's dome,
And grace th'harmonious choir, celestial feast
To pious ears, and med'cine of the mind;
The thrilling trebles of the manly base
Join in accordance meet, and with one voice
All to the sacred subject suit their song:
While in each breast sweet melancholy reigns

116

Angelically pensive, till the joy
Improves and purifies;—the solemn scene
The Sun thro' storied panes surveys with awe,
And bashfully with-holds each bolder beam.
Here, as her home, from morn to eve frequents
The cherub Gratitude;—behold her eyes!
With love and gladness weepingly they shed
Extatic smiles; the incense, that her hands
Uprear, is sweeter than the breath of May
Caught from the nectarine's blossom, and her voice
Is more than voice can tell; to him she sings,
To him who feeds, who clothes and who adorns,
Who made and who preserves, whatever dwells
In air, in stedfast earth, or fickle sea.
O He is good, he is immensely good!
Who all things form'd, and form'd them all for man;
Who mark'd the climates, varied every zone,
Dispensing all his blessings for the best
In order and in beauty:—raise, attend,
Attest, and praise, ye quarters of the world!
Bow down, ye elephants, submissive bow
To him, who made the mite; tho' Asia's pride,
Ye carry armies on your tow'r-crown'd backs,
And grace the turban'd tyrants, bow to him
Who is as great, as perfect and as good
In his less-striking wonders, till at length
The eye's at fault and seeks th'assisting glass.

117

Approach and bring from Araby the blest
The fragrant cassia, frankincense and myrrh,
And meekly kneeling at the altar's foot
Lay all the tributary incense down.
Stoop, sable Africa, with rev'rence stoop,
And from thy brow take off the painted plume;
With golden ingots all thy camels load
T'adorn his temples, hasten with thy spear
Reverted, and thy trusty bow unstrung,
While unpursu'd the lions roam and roar,
And ruin'd tow'rs, rude rocks and caverns wide
Remurmur to the glorious, surly sound.
And thou, fair Indian, whose immense domain
To counterpoise the Hemisphere extends,
Haste from the West, and with thy fruits and flow'rs,
Thy mines and med'cines, wealthy maid, attend.
More than the plenteousness so fam'd to flow
By fabling bards from Amalthea's horn
Is thine; thine therefore be a portion due
Of thanks and praise: come with thy brilliant crown
And vest of fur; and from thy fragrant lap
Pomegranates and the rich ananas pour.
But chiefly thou, Europa, seat of grace
And Christian excellence, his goodness own,
Forth from ten thousand temples pour his praise;

118

Clad in the armour of the living God
Approach, unsheath the spirit's flaming sword;
Faith's shield, Salvation's glory,—compass'd helm
With fortitude assume, and o'er your heart
Fair truth's invulnerable breast-plate spread;
Then join the general chorus of all worlds,
And let the song of charity begin
In strains seraphic, and melodious pray'r.
“O all-sufficient, all beneficent,
“Thou God of Goodness and of glory, hear!
“Thou, who to lowliest minds dost condescend,
“Assuming passions to enforce thy laws,
“Adopting jealousy to prove thy love:
“Thou, who resign'd humility uphold,
“Ev'n as the florist props the drooping rose,
“But quell tyrannic pride with peerless pow'r,
“Ev'n as the tempest rives the stubborn oak.
“O all-sufficient, all-beneficent,
“Thou God of Goodness, and of glory, hear!
“Bless all mankind, and bring them in the end
“To heav'n, to immortality, and Thee!

See this conjecture strongly supported by Delany, in his Life of David.

119

THE HOP-GARDEN.

A GEORGIC. IN TWO BOOKS.

Me quoque Parnassi per lubicra culmina raptat
Laudis amor: studium sequor insanabile vatis,
Ausus non operam, non formidare poetæ
Nomen, adoratum quondam, nunc pæne procaci
Monstratum digito. ------
Van. Præd. Rust.

121

BOOK THE FIRST.

The land that answers best the farmer's care,
And silvers to maturity the Hop:
When to inhume the plants; to turn the glebe;
And wed the tendrils to th'aspiring poles:
Under what sign to pluck the crop, and how
To cure, and in capacious sacks infold,
I teach in verse Miltonian. Smile the muse,
And meditate an honour to that land
Where first I breath'd, and struggled into life,
Impatient, Cantium, to be call'd thy son.

Oh! cou'd I emulate skilled Sydney's muse,
Thy Sydney, Cantium—He from court retir'd.

122

In Penshurst's sweet elysium sung delight,
Sung transport to the soft-responding streams
Of Medway, and enliven'd all her groves:
While ever near him, goddess of the green,
Fair Pembroke sat, and smil'd immense applause.
With vocal fascination charm'd the hours
Unguarded left Heav'n's adamantine gate,
And to his lyre, swift as the winged sounds
That skim the air, danc'd unperceiv'd away.
Had I such pow'r, no peasants humble toil
Shou'd e'er debase my lay: far nobler themes,
The high atchievements of thy warrior kings
Shou'd raise my thoughts, and dignify my song.
But I, young rustic, dare not leave my cot,
For so enlarg'd a sphere—ah! muse beware,
Lest the loud larums of the braying trump,
Lest the deep drum shou'd drown thy tender reed,
And mar its puny joints: me, lowly swain,
Every unshaven arboret, me the lawns,
Me the voluminous Medway's silver wave,
Content inglorious, and the hopland shades!

123

Yeomen and countrymen, attend my song:
Whether you shiver in the marshy Weald,
Egregious shepherds of unnumber'd flocks,
Whose fleeces, poison'd into purple, deck
All Europe's kings: or in fair Madum's vale
Imparadis'd, blest denizons, ye dwell;
Or Dorovernia's awful tow'rs ye love:
Or plough Tunbridgia's salutiferous hills
Industrious, and with draughts chalybiate heal'd,
Confess divine Hygeia's blissful seat;
The muse demands your presence, ere she tune
Her monitory voice; observe her well,
And catch the wholesome dictates as they fall.

'Midst thy paternal acres, Farmer, say
Has gracious heav'n bestow'd one field, that basks.
Its loamy bosom in the mid-day sun,
Emerging gently from the abject vale,
Nor yet obnoxious to the wind, secure
There shall thou plant thy hop. This soil, perhaps,
Thou'lt say, will fill my garners. Be it so.
But Ceres, rural goddess, at the best
Meanly supports her vot'ry', enough for her,
If ill-persuading hunger she repell,
And keep the soul from fainting: to enlarge,

124

To glad the heart, to sublimate the mind,
And wing the flagging spirits to the sky,
Require th'united influence and aid
Of Bacchus, God of hops, with Ceres join'd.
'Tis he shall generate the buxom beer.
Then on one pedestal, and hand in hand,
Sculptur'd in Parian stone (so gratitude
Indites) let the divine co-partners rise.
Stands eastward in thy field a wood? tis well.
Esteem it as a bulwark of thy wealth,
And cherish all its branches; tho' we'll grant,
Its leaves umbrageous may intercept
The morning rays, and envy some small share
Of Sol's beneficence to th'infant germ.
Yet grudge not that: when whistling Eurus comes,
With all his worlds of insects in thy lands
To hyemate, and monarchize o'er all
Thy vegetable riches, then thy wood
Shall ope it's arms expansive, and embrace
The storm reluctant, and divert its rage.
Armies of animalcules urge their way
In vain: the ventilating trees oppose
Their airy march. They blacken distant plains.

This site for thy young nursery obtain'd,
Thou hast begun auspicious, if the soil
(As sung before) be loamy; this the hop
Loves above others, this is rich, is deep,

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Is viscous, and tenacious of the pole.
Yet maugre all its native worth, it may
Be meliorated with warmth compost. See!
Yon craggy mountain, whose fastidious head
Divides the star-set hemisphere above,
And Cantium's plains beneath; the Appennine
Of a free Italy, whose chalky sides
With verdant shrubs dissimilarly gay,
Still captivate the eye, while at his feet
The silver Medway glides, and in her breast
Views the reflected landskip, charm'd she views
And murmurs louder ectasy below.
Here let us rest awhile, pleas'd to behold
Th'all-beautiful horison's wide expanse,
Far as the eagle's ken. Here tow'ring spires
First catch the eye, and turn the thoughts to heav'n.
The lofty elms in humble majesty
Bend with the breeze to shade the solemn groves,
And spread an holy darkness; Ceres there
Shines in her golden vesture. Here the meads
Enrich'd by Flora's dædal hand, with pride
Expose their spotted verdure. Nor are you,
Pomona, absent; you 'midst hoary leaves
Swell the vermilion cherry; and on yon trees
Suspend the pippen's palatable gold.

126

There old Sylvanus in that moss-grown grot
Dwells with his wood-nymphs: they with chaplets green
And russet mantles oft bedight, aloft
From yon bent oaks, in Medway's bosom fair
Wonder at silver bleak, and prickly pearch,
That swiftly thro' their floating forests glide.
Yet not even these—these ever varied scenes
Of wealth and pleasure can engage my eyes
T'o'erlook the lowly hawthorn, if from thence
The thrush, sweet warbler, chants th'unstudied lays
Which Phœbus' self vaulting from yonder cloud
Refulgent, with enliv'ning ray inspires.
But neither tow'ring spires, nor lofty elms,
Nor golden Ceres, nor the meadows green,
Nor orchats, nor the russet-mantled nymphs,
Which to the murmurs of the Medway dance,
Nor sweetly warbling thrush, with half those charms
Attract my eyes, as yonder hop-land close,
Joint-work of art and nature, which reminds
The muse, and to her theme the wand'rer calls.

Here then with pond'rous vehicles and teams
Thy rustics send, and from the caverns deep
Command them bring the chalk: thence to the kiln
Convey, and temper with Vulcanian fires.
Soon as 'tis form'd, thy lime with bounteous hand
O'er all thy lands disseminate; thy lands

127

Which first have felt the soft'ning spade, and drank
The strength'ning vapours from nutricious marl.

This done, select the choicest hop, t'insert
Fresh in the opening glebe. Say then, my muse,
Its various kinds, and from th'effete and vile,
The eligible separate with care.
The noblest species is by Kentish wights
The Master-hop yclep'd. Nature to him
Has giv'n a stouter stalk, patient of cold,
Or Phœbus ev'n in youth, his verdant blood
In brisk saltation circulates and flows
Indesinently vigorous: the next
Is arid, fetid, infecund, and gross,
Significantly styl'd the Fryar: the last
Is call'd the Savage, who in ev'ry wood,
And ev'ry hedge unintroduc'd intrudes.
When such the merit of the candidates,
Easy is the election; but, my friend,
Would'st thou ne'er fail, to Kent direct thy way,
Where no one shall be frustrated that seeks
Ought that is great or good. Hail, Cantium, hail!
Illustrious parent of the finest fruits,

128

Illustrious parent of the best of men!
For thee Antiquity's thrice sacred springs
Placidly stagnant at their fountain head,
I rashly dare to trouble (if from thence
I ought for thy utility can drain)
And in thy towns adopt th'Ascræan muse.
Hail heroes, hail invaluable gems.
Fav'rites of heav'n! to whom the general doom
Is all remitted, who alone possess
Of Adam's sons fair Eden—rest ye here,
Nor seek an earthly good above the hop;
A good! untasted by your ancient kings,
And to your very sires almost unknown.

In those blest days when great Eliza reign'd
O'er the adoring nation, when fair peace
Or spread an unstain'd olive round the land,
Or laurell'd war did teach our winged fleets
To lord it o'er the world, when our brave sires
Drank valour from uncauponated beer;
The hop (before an interdicted plant,
Shun'd like fell aconite) began to hang
Its folded floscles from the golden vine,
And bloom'd a shade to Cantium's sunny shores
Delightsome, and in chearful goblets laught
Potent, what time Aquarius' urn impends
To kill the dulsome day—potent to quench
The Syrian ardour, and autumnal ills

129

To heal with mild potations; sweeter far
Than those which erst the subtile Hengist mix'd
T'inthral voluptuous Vortigern. He, with love
Emasculate and wine, the toils of war
Neglected, and to dalliance vile and sloth
Emancipated, saw th'incroaching Saxons
With unaffected eyes; his hand which ought
T'have shook the spear of justice, soft and smooth,
Play'd ravishing divisions on the lyre:
This Hengist mark'd, and (for curs'd insolence
Soon fattens on impunity! and rises
Briareus from a dwarf) fair Thanet gain'd.
Nor stopt he here; but to immense attempts
Ambition sky-aspiring led him on
Adventrous. He an only daughter rear'd,
Roxena, matchless maid! nor rear'd in vain.
Her eagle-ey'd callidity, deceit,
And fairy fiction rais'd above her sex,
And furnish'd with a thousand various wiles
Preposterous, more than female; wondrous fair
She was, and docile, which her pious nurse
Observ'd, and early in each female fraud
Her 'gan initiate: well she knew to smile,
Whene'er vexation gall'd her; did she weep
'Twas not sincere, the fountains of her eyes

130

Play'd artificial streams, yet so well forc'd
They look'd like nature; for ev'n art to her
Was natural, and contrarieties
Seem'd in Roxena congruous and allied.
Such was she, when brisk Vortigern beheld,
Ill-fated prince! and lov'd her. She perceiv'd,
Soon she perceiv'd her conquest; soon she told,
With hasty joy transported, her old sire.
The Saxon inly smil'd, and to his isle
The willing prince invited, but first bad
The nymph prepare the potions; such as fire
The blood's meand'ring rivulets, and depress
To love the soul. Lo! at the noon of night
Thrice Hecate invok'd the maid—and thrice
The goddess stoop'd assent; forth from a cloud
She sloop'd, and gave the philters pow'r to charm.
These in a splendid cup of burnish'd gold
The lovely sorceress mix'd, and to the prince
Health, peace and joy propin'd, but to herself
Mutter'd dire exorcisms, and wish'd effect
To th'love-creating draught: lowly she bow'd
Fawning insinuation bland, that might
Deceive Laertes' son; her lucid orbs
Shed copiously the oblique rays; her face
Like modest Luna's shone, but not so pale,
And with no borrow'd lustre; on her brow
Smil'd Fallacy, while summoning each grace,

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Kneeling she gave the cup. The prince (for who!
Who cou'd have spurn'd a suppliant so divine?
Drank eager, and in ecstasy devour'd
Th'ambrosial perturbation; mad with love
He clasp'd her, and in Hymeneal bands
At once the nymph demanded and obtain'd.
Now Hengist, all his ample wish fulfill'd,
Exulted; and from Kent th'uxorious prince
Exterminated, and usurp'd his seat.
Long did he reign; but all-devouring time
Has raz'd his palace walls—Perchance on them
Grows the green hop, and o'er his crumbled bust
In spiral twines ascends the scantile pole.—
But now to plant, to dig, to dung, to weed;
Tasks humble, but important, ask the muse.

Come, fair magician, sportive Fancy, come,
With wildest imagery; thou child of thought,
From thy aeriel citadel descend,
And (for thou canst) assist me. Bring with thee
Thy all-creative Talisman; with thee
The active spirits ideal, tow'ring flights,
That hover o'er the muse-resounding groves,
And all thy colourings, all thy shapes display.
Thou too be here, Experience, so shall I
My rules nor in low prose jejunely say,
Nor in smooth numbers musically err;
But vain is Fancy and Experience vain,

132

If thou, O Hesiod! Virgil of our land,
Or hear'st thou rather, Milton, bard divine,
Whose greatness who shalt imitate, save thee?
If thou, O Philips, fav'ring dost not hear
Me, inexpert of verse; with gentle hand
Uprear the unpinion'd muse, high on the top
Of that immeasurable mount, that far
Exceeds thine own Plinlimmon, where thou tun'st
With Phœbus' self thy lyre. Give me to turn
Th'unwieldly subject with thy graceful ease,
Extol its baseness with thy art; but chief
Illumine, and invigorate with thy fire.

When Phœbus' looks thro' Aries on the spring,
And vernal flow'rs teem with the dulcet fruit,
Autumnal pride! delay not then thy sets
In Tellus' facile bosom to depose
Timely: if thou art wise the bulkiest chuse:
To every root three joints indulge, and form
The Quincunx with well regulated hills.
Soon from the dung-enriched earth, their heads
Thy young plants will uplift their virgin arms,
They'll stretch, and marriageable claim the pole.

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Nor frustrate thou their wishes, so thou may'st
Expect an hopeful issue, jolly Mirth,
Sister of taleful Momus, tuneful Song,
And fat Good-nature with her honest face:
But yet in the novitiate of their love,
And tenderness of youth suffice small shoots
Cut from the widow'd willow, nor provide
Poles insurmountable as yet. 'Tis then
When twice bright Phœbus' vivifying ray,
Twice the cold touch of winter's icy hand,
They've felt; 'tis then we fell sublimer props.
'Tis then the sturdy woodman's axe from far
Resounds, resounds, and hark! with hollow groans
Down tumble the big trees, and rushing roll
O'er the crush'd crackling brake, while in his cave
Forlorn, dejected, 'midst the weeping dryads
Laments Sylvanus for his verdant care.
The ash or willow for thy use select,
Or storm enduring chesnut; but the oak
Unfit for this employ, for nobler ends
Reserve untouch'd; she when by time matur'd,
Capacious of some British demi-god,
Vernon, or Warren, shall with rapid wing
Infuriate, like Jove's armour-bearing bird,
Fly on thy foes; They, like the parted waves,
Which to the brazen beak murmuring give way
Amaz'd and roaring from the fight recede.—

134

In that sweet month, when to the list'ning swains
Fair Philomel sings love, and every cot
With garlands blooms bedight, with bandage meet
The tendrils bind, and to the tall pole tie,
Else soon, too soon their meretricious arms
Round each ignoble clod they'll fold, and leave
Averse the lordly prop. Thus, have I heard
Where there's no mutual tye, no strong connection
Of love-conspiring hearts, oft the young bride
Has prostituted to her slaves her charms,
While the infatuated lord admires
Fresh-butting sprouts, and issue not his own.
Now turn the glebe: soon with correcting hand
When smiling June in jocund dance leads on
Long days and happy hours, from ev'ry vine
Dock the redundant branches, and once more
With the sharp spade thy numerous acres till.
The shovel next must lend its aid, enlarge
The little hillocks, and erase the weeds.
This in that month its title which derives
From great Augustus' ever sacred name!
Sovereign of Science! master of the Muse!
Neglected Genius firm ally! Of worth
Best judge, and best rewarder, whose applause
To bards was fame and fortune! O! 'twas well,
Well did you too in this, all glorious heroes!

135

Ye Romans!—on Time's wing you've stamp'd his praise,
And time shall bear it to eternity.

Now are our labours crown'd with their reward,
Now bloom the florid hops; and in the stream
Shine in their floating silver, while above
T'embow'ring branches culminate, and form
A walk impervious to the sun; the poles
In comely order stand; and while you cleave
With the small skiff the Medway's lucid wave,
In comely order still their ranks preserve,
And seem to march along th'extensive plain.
In neat arrangement thus the men of Kent,
With native oak at once adorn'd and arm'd,
Intrepid march'd; for well they knew the cries
Of dying Freedom, and Astræa's voice,
Who as she fled, to echoing woods complain'd
Of tyranny, and William; like a god,
Refulgent stood the conqueror, on his troops
He sent his looks enliv'ning as the sun's,
But on his foes frown'd agony, and death.
On his left side in bright emblazonry
His falchion burn'd; forth from his sevenfold shield
A basilisk shot adamant; his bow
Wore clouds of fury'!—on that with plumage crown'd
Of various hue sat a tremendous cone:
Thus sits high-canopied above the clouds,

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Terrific beauty of nocturnal skies,
Northern Aurora; she thro' th'azure air
Shoots, shoots her trem'lous rays in painted streaks
Continual, while waving to the wind
O'er Night's dark veil her lucid tresses flow.
The trav'ler views th'unseasonable day
Astound, the proud bend lowly to the earth,
The pious matrons tremble for the world.
But what can daunt th'insuperable souls
Of Cantium's matchless sons? On they proceed,
All innocent of fear; each face express'd
Contemptuous admiration, while they view'd
The well fed brigades of embroider'd slaves
That drew the sword for gain. First of the van,
With an enormous bough, a shepherd swain
Whistled with rustic notes; but such as show'd
A heart magnanimous: The men of Kent
Follow the tuneful swain, while o'er their heads
The green leaves whisper, and the big boughs bend,
'Twas thus the Thracian, whose all-quick'ning lyre
The floods inspir'd, and taught the rocks to feel,
Enchanted dancing Hæmus, to the tune,
The lute's soft tune! The flutt'ring branches wave,
The rocks enjoy it, and the rivulets hear,

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The hillocks skip, emerge the humble vales,
And all the mighty mountain nods applause.
The conqueror view'd them, and as one that sees
The vast abrupt of Scylla, or as one
That from th'oblivious streams of Lethe's pool
Has drank eternal apathy, he stood.
His host an universal panic seiz'd
Prodigious, inopine; their armour shook,
And clatter'd to the trembling of their limbs;
Some to the walking wilderness gan run
Confus'd, and in th'inhospitable shade
For shelter sought—Wretches! they shelter find,
Eternal shelter in the arms of death!
Thus when Aquarius pours out all his urn
Down on some lonesome heath, the traveller
That wanders o'er the wint'ry waste, accepts
The invitation of some spreading beech
Joyous; but soon the treach'rous gloom betrays
Th'unwary visitor, while on his head
Th'inlarging drops in double show'rs descend.

And now no longer in disguise the men
Of Kent appear; down they all drop their boughs,
And shine in brazen panoply divine.
Enough—Great William (for full well he knew
How vain would be the contest) to the sons
Of glorious Cantium gave their lives, and laws,
And liberties secure, and to the prowess

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Of Cantium's sons, like Cæsar, deign'd to yield.
Cæsar and William! Hail immortal worthies,
Illustrious vanquish'd! Cantium, if to them,
Posterity with all her chiefs unborn,
Ought similar, ought second has to boast.
Once more (so prophecies the muse) thy sons
Shall triumph, emulous of their sires—till then
With olive, and with hop-land garlands crown'd,
O'er all thy land reign Plenty, reign fair Peace.

Sister to Sir Philip Sydney.

— Πυλαι μυκον ουρανου ας εχον Ωραι. Hom. E.

Flumina amem, sylvasque in glorius!

Virg. Georg. 2.

Commonly, but improperly called, the Wild.

Maidstone.

Canterbury.

Boxley-Hill, which extends through great part of Kent.

Ascræumque cano Romana per oppida carmen.

Virg. Georg. 2.

See the following story told at large in Lambarde's perambulation of Kent.

At ipse
Subtilis Veterum judex & callidus audis.
Horat.

Mr. John Philips, author of Cyder, a poem.

Miraturque novas frondes, & non sua poma. Virg.

Aurora Borealis, or lights in the air; a phœnomenon which of late years has been very frequent here, and in all the more northern countries.

139

BOOK THE SECOND.

Omnia quæ multo ante memor provisa repones,
Si te digna manet divini gloria ruris.
Virg. Geor. lib. 2.

141

At length the muse her destin'd talk resumes
With joy; agen o'er all her hop-land groves
She seeks t'expatiate free of wing. Long while
For a much-loving, much-lov'd youth she wept,
Sorrowing in silence o'er th'untimely urn.
Hush then, effeminate sobs; and thou, my heart,
Rebel to grief no more—And yet a while,
A little while, indulge the friendly tears.
O'er the wild world, like Noah's dove, in vain
I seek the olive peace, around me wide
See! see! the wat'ry waste—In vain forlorn
I call the Phœnix fair Sincerity;

142

Alas!—extinguish'd to the skies she fled,
And left no heir behind her. Where is now
Th'eternal smile of goodness? Where is now
That all-extensive charity of soul,
So rich in sweetness, that the classic sounds
In elegance Augustan cloath'd, the wit
That flow'd perennial, hardly were observ'd,
Or, if observ'd, set off that brighter gem.
How oft, and yet how seldom did it seem!
Have I enjoy'd his converse?—When we met,
The hours how swift they sweetly fled, and till
Agen I saw him how they loiter'd. Oh!
Theophilus, thou dear departed soul,
What flattering tales thou told'st me? How thou'dst hail
My muse, and took'st imaginary walks
All in my hopland groves; Stay yet, oh stay!
Thou dear deluder, thou hast seen but half—
He's gone! and ought that's equal to his praise
Fame has not for me, tho' she prove most kind.
Howe'er this verse be sacred to thy name,
These tears, the last sad duty of a friend.
Oft I'll indulge the pleasurable pain
Of recollection; oft on Medway's banks
I'll muse on thee full pensive; while her streams
Regardful ever of my grief, shall flow
In sullen silence silverly along

143

The weeping shores—or else accordant with
My loud laments, shall ever and anon
Make melancholy music to the shades,
The hopland shades, that on her banks expose
Serpentine vines and flowing locks of gold.

Ye smiling nymphs, th'inseparable train
Of saffron Ceres; ye, that gamesome dance,
And sing to jolly Autumn, while he stands
With his right hand poizing the scales of heav'n,
And while his left grasps Amalthea's horn:
Young chorus of fair bacchanals, descend,
And leave awhile the sickle; yonder hill,
Where stand the loaded hop-poles, claims your care.
There mighty Bacchus seated cross the bin,
Waits your attendance—There he glad reviews
His paunch, approaching to immensity
Still nearer, and with pride of heart surveys
Obedient mortals, and the world his own.
See! from the great metropolis they rush,
Th'industrious vulgar. They, like prudent bees,
In Kent's wide garden roam, expert to crop
The flow'ry hop, and provident to work,
Ere winter numb their sunburnt hands, and winds
Engoal them, murmuring in their gloomy cells.
From these, such as appear the rest t'excell
In strength and young agility, select.
These shall support with vigour and address

144

The bin-man's weighty office; now extract
From the sequacious earth the pole, and now
Unmarry from the closely clinging vine.
O'er twice three pickers, and no more, extend
The bin-man's sway; unless thy ears can bear
The crack of poles continual, and thine eyes
Behold unmoved the hurrying peasant tear
Thy wealth, and throw it on the thankless ground.
But first the careful planter will consult
His quantity of acres, and his crop,
How many and how large his kilns; and then
Proportion'd to his wants the hands provide.
But yet of greater consequence and cost,
One thing remains unsung, a man of faith
And long experience, in whose thund'ring voice
Lives hoarse authority, potent to quell
The frequent frays of the tumultuous crew.
He shall preside o'er all thy hop-land store,
Severe dictator! His unerring hand,
And eye inquisitive, in heedful guise,
Shall to the brink the measure fill, and fair
On the twin registers the work record.
And yet I've known them own a female reign,
And gentle Marianne's soft Orphean voice
Has hymn'd sweet lessons of humanity
To the wild brutal crew. Oft her command

145

Has sav'd the pillars of the hop-land state,
The lofty poles from ruin, and sustain'd,
Like Anna, or Eliza, her domain,
With more than manly dignity. Oft I've seen,
Ev'n at her frown the boist'rous uproar cease,
And the mad pickers, tam'd to diligence,
Cull from the bin the sprawling sprigs, and leaves
That stain the sample, and its worth debase.
All things thus settled and prepar'd, what now
Can stop the planters purposes? Unless
The heavens frown dissent, and ominous winds
Howl thro' the concave of the troubled sky.
And oft, alas! the long experienc'd wights
(Oh! could they too prevent them) storms foresee.
For, as the storm rides on the rising clouds,

146

Fly the fleet wild-geese far away, or else
The heifer towards the zenith rears her head,
And with expanded nostrils snuffs the air:
The swallows too their airy circuits weave,
And screaming skim the brook; and fen bred frogs
Forth from their hoarse throats their old grudge recite:
Or from her earthly coverlets the ant
Heaves her huge eggs along the narrow way:
Or bends Thaumantia's variegated bow
Athwart the cope of heav'n: or sable crows
Obstreperous of wing, in clouds combine:
Besides, unnumber'd troops of birds marine,
And Asia's feather'd flocks, that in the muds
Of flow'ry edg'd Cayster wont to prey,
Now in the shallows duck their speckled heads,
And lust to lave in vain, their unctious plumes
Repulsive baffle their efforts: hearken next
How the curs'd raven, with her harmful voice,
Invokes the rain, and croaking to herself,
Struts on some spacious solitary shore.

147

Nor want thy servants and thy wife at home
Signs to presage the show'r; for in the hall
Sheds Niobe her prescient tears, and warns
Beneath thy leaden tubes to fix the vase,
And catch the falling dew-drops, which supply
Soft water and salubrious, far the best
To soak thy hops, and brew thy generous beer.
But tho' bright Phœbus smile, and in the skies
The purple-rob'd serenity appear;
Tho' every cloud be fled, yet if the rage
Of Boreas, or the blasting East prevail,
The planter has enough to check his hopes,
And in due bounds confine his joys; for see
The ruffian winds in their abrupt career,
Leave not a hop behind, or at the best
Mangle the circling vine, and intercept
The juice nutricious: Fatal means, alas!
Their colour and condition to destroy.
Haste then, ye peasants; pull the poles, the hops;
Where are the bins? Run, run, ye nimble maids,
Move ev'ry muscle, ev'ry nerve extend,
To save our crop from ruin, and ourselves.

Soon as bright Chanticleer explodes the night
With flutt'ring wings, and hymns the new-born day,
The bugle-horn inspire, whose clam'rous bray
Shall rouse from sleep the rebel rout, and tune
To temper for the labours of the day.

148

Wisely the several stations of the bins
By lot determine. Justice this, and this
Fair Prudence does demand; for not without
A certain method cou'dst thou rule the mob
Irrational, nor every where alike
Fair hangs the hop to tempt the picker's hand.

Now see the crew mechanic might and main
Labour with lively diligence, inspir'd
By appetite of gain and lust of praise:
What mind so petty, servile, so debas'd,
As not to know ambition? Her great sway
From Colin Clout to Emperors she exerts.
To err is human, human to be vain.
'Tis vanity, and mock desire of fame,
That prompts the rustic, on the steeple top
Sublime, to mark the area of his shoe,
And in the outline to engrave his name.
With pride of heart the churchwarden surveys,
High o'er the bellfry, girt with birds and flow'rs,
His story wrote in capitals: “'Twas I
“That bought the font; and I repair'd the pews.”
With pride like this the emulating mob
Strive for the mastery—who first may fill
The bellying bin, and cleanest cull the hops,
Nor ought retards, unless invited out
By Sol's declining, and the evening's calm,
Leander leads Lætitia to the scene

149

Of shade and fragrance—Then th'exulting band
Of pickers male and female, seize the fair
Reluctant, and with boist'rous force and brute,
By cries unmov'd, they bury her i'th' bin.
Nor does the youth escape—him too they seize,
And in such posture place as best may serve
To hide his charmer's blushes. Then with shouts
They rend the echoing air, and from them both
(So custom has ordain'd) a largess claim.

Thus much be sung of picking—next succeeds
Th'important care of curing—Quit the field,
And at the kiln th'instructive muse attend.

On your hair-cloth eight inches deep, nor more,
Let the green hops lie lightly; next expand
The smoothest surface with the toothy rake.
Thus far is just above; but more it boots
That charcoal flames burn equably below,
The charcoal flames, which from thy corded wood,
Or antiquated poles, with wond'rous skill,
The sable priests of Vulcan shall prepare.
Constant and moderate let the heat ascend;
Which to effect, there are, who with success
Place in the kiln the ventilating fan.
Hail, learned, useful man! whose head and heart
Conspire to make us happy, deign t'accept

150

One honest verse; and if thy industry
Has serv'd the hopland cause, the muse forebodes
This sole invention, both in use and fame,
The mystic fan of Bacchus shall exceed.

When the fourth hour expires, with careful hand:
The half-bak'd hops turn over. Soon as time
Has well exhausted twice two glasses more,
They'll leap and crackle with their bursting seeds,
For use domestic, or for sale mature.

There are, who in the choice of cloth t'enfold
Their wealthy crop, the viler, coarser sort,
With prodigal œconomy prefer:
All that is good is cheap, all dear that's base.
Besides, the planter shou'd a bait prepare,
T'intrap the chapman's notice, and divert
Shrewd Observation from her busy pry.

When in the bag thy hops the rustic treads,
Let him wear heel-less sandal; nor presume
Their fragrancy barefooted to defile:
Such filthy ways for slaves in Malaga
Leave we to practice—Whence I've often seen,
When beautiful Dorinda's iv'ry hands
Has built the pastry-fabric (food divine
For Christmas gambols and the hour of mirth)

151

As the dry'd foreign fruit, with piercing eye,
She culls suspicious—lo! she starts, she frowns
With indignation at a negro's nail.

Should'st thou thy harvest for the mart design,
Be thine own factor; nor employ those drones
Who've stings, but make no honey, selfish slaves!
That thrive and fatten on the planter's toil.

What then remains unsung? unless the care
To stack thy poles oblique in comely cones,
Lest rot or rain destroy them—'Tis a sight
Most seemly to behold, and gives, O Winter!
A landskip not unpleasing ev'n to thee.

And now, ye rivals of the hopland state,
Madum and Dorovernia now rejoice,
How great amidst such rivals to excel!
Let Grenovicum boast (for boast she may)
The birth of great Eliza.—Hail, my queen!
And yet I'll call thee by a dearer name,
My countrywoman, hail! Thy worth alone
Gives fame to worlds, and makes whole ages glorious!

Let Sevenoaks vaunt the hospitable seat
Of Knoll most ancient: Awefully my muse,

152

These social scenes of grandeur and delight,
Of love and veneration, let me tread.
How oft beneath yon oak has amorous Prior
Awaken'd Echo with sweet Chloe's name!
While noble Sackville heard, hearing approv'd,
Approving, greatly recompens'd. But he,
Alas! is number'd with th'illustrious dead,
And orphan merit has no guardian now!

Next Shipbourne, tho' her precincts are confin'd
To narrow limits, yet can shew a train
Of village beauties, pastorally sweet,
And rurally magnificent. Fairlawn
Opes her delightful prospects; Dear Fairlawn
There, where at once at variance and agreed,
Nature and art hold dalliance. There where rills
Kiss the green drooping herbage, there where trees,
The tall trees tremble at th'approach of heav'n,
And bow their salutation to the sun,
Who fosters all their foliage—These are thine,
Yes, little Shipbourne, boast that these are thine—
And if—But oh!—and if 'tis no disgrace,
The birth of him who now records thy praise.

Nor shalt thou, Mereworth, remain unsung,
Where noble Westmoreland, his country's friend,
Bids British greatness love the silent shade,

153

Where piles superb, in classic elegance,
Arise, and all is Roman, like his heart.

Nor Chatham, tho' it is not thine to shew
The lofty forest or the verdant lawns,
Yet niggard silence shall not grudge thee praise.
The lofty forests by thy sons prepar'd
Becomes the warlike navy, braves the floods,
And gives Sylvanus empire in the main.
Oh that Britannia, in the day of war,
Wou'd not alone Minerva's valour trust,
But also hear her wisdom! Then her oaks
Shap'd by her own mechanics, wou'd alone
Her island fortify, and six her fame;
Nor wou'd she weep, like Rachael, for her sons,
Whose glorious blood, in mad profusion,
In foreign lands is shed—and shed in vain.

Mr. Theophilus Wheeler, of Christ Church, Cambridge.

The Author's youngest Sister.

Nunquam imprudentibus imber
Obfuit. Aut illum surgentem vallibus imis
Aëriæ fugere grues! aut bucula cœlum
Suspiciens, patulis captavit naribus auras:
Aut arguta lacus circumvolitavit hirundo:
Et veterem in limo ranæ cecinere querelam.
Sæpius & tectis penetralibus extulit ova
Angustum formica terens iter, & bibit ingens
Arcus, & e pastu decedens agmine magno
Corvorum increpuit densis exercitus alis.
Jam varias pelagi volucres, & quæ Asia circum
Dulcibus in stagnis rimantur pratra Caystri,
Certatim largos humeris infundere rores;
Nunc caput objectare fretis, nunc currere in undas,
Et studio incassum videas gestire lavandi.
Tum cornix plena pluviam vocat improba voce,
Et sola in sicca secum spatiatur arena,
Nec nocturna quidem carpentes pensa puellæ
Nescivere hyemem.
Virg. Georg. 1.

Iris.

Dr. Hales.

Mystica Vannus Iacchi. Virg. George. 1.

Greenwich, where Q. Elizabeth was born.

The seat of the Duke of Dorset.

The seat of Lord Vane.

169

THE HILLIAD:

AN EPIC POEM.

By C. SMART. A. M. Fellow of Pembroke-Hall, in the University of Cambridge.

------ Pallas te hoc vulnere, Pallas
Immolat, & pœnam scelerato ex sanguine sumit.
Virg.

171

BOOK THE FIRST.

Thou God of jest, who o'er th'ambrosial bowl,
Giv'st joy to Jove, while laughter shakes the pole;
And thou, fair Justice, of immortal line,
Hear, and assist the poet's grand design,

172

Who aims at triumph by no common ways,
But on the stem of dulness grafts the bays.

173

O thou, whatever name delight thine ear,
Pimp! Poet! Puffer! 'Pothecary! Play'r!

174

Whose baseless fame by vanity is buoy'd,
Like the huge earth, self-center'd in the void,
Accept one part'ner thy own worth t'explore,
And in thy praise be singular no more.

175

Say, Muse, what Dæmon, foe to ease and truth,
First from the mortar dragg'd th'adventrous youth,
And made him, 'mongst the scribbling sons of men,
Change peace for war, the pestle for the pen?
'Twas on a day (O may that day appear
No more, but lose its station in the year,
In the new style be not its name enroll'd
But share annihilation in the old!)

176

A tawny Sybil, whose alluring song,
Decoy'd the 'prentices and maiden throng,
First from the counter young Hillario charm'd,
And first his unambitious soul alarm'd.—
An old strip'd curtain cross her arms was flung,
And tatter'd tap'stry o'er her shoulders hung;

177

Her loins with patch-work cincture were begirt,
That more than spoke diversity of dirt;
With age her back was double and awry,
Twain were her teeth, and single was her eye,
Cold palsy shook her head—she seem'd at most
A living corps, or an untimely ghost,
With voice far-fetch'd from hollow throat profound,
And more than mortal was th'infernal sound.

“Sweet boy, who seem'st for glorious deeds design'd,
“O come and leave that clyster pipe behind;
“Cross this prophetic hand with silver coin,
“And all the wealth and fame, I have, is thine—
She said—he (for what stripling cou'd withstand?)
Strait with his only six-pence grac'd her hand.
And now the prescious fury all her breast
At once invaded, and at once possess'd;
Her eye was fix'd in an extatic stare,
And on her head uprose th'astonish'd hair:

178

No more her colour, or her looks the same,
But moonshine madness quite convuls'd her frame,
While, big with fate, again she silence broke,
And in few words voluminously spoke.

“In these three lines athwart thy palm I see,
“Either a tripod, or a triple-tree,
“For Oh! I ken by mysteries profound,
“Too light to sink thou never can'st be drown'd—
“Whate'er thy end, the fates are now at strife,
“Yet strange variety shall check thy life—
“Thou grand dictator of each publick show,
“Wit, moralist, quack, harlequin, and beau,
“Survey man's vice, self-prais'd, and self-preferr'd,
“And be th'Inspector of th'infected herd;

179

“By any means aspire at any ends,
“Baseness exalts, and cowardice defends,
“The checquer'd world's before thee—go—farewell,
“ Beware of Irishmen—and learn to spell.”
Here from her breast th'inspiring fury flew:
She ceas'd—and instant from his sight withdrew.
Fir'd with his fate, and conscious of his worth,
The beardless wight prepar'd to sally forth.
But first ('twas just, 'twas natural to grieve)
He sigh'd and took a soft pathetic leave.

180

“ Farewel, a long farewel to all my drugs,
“My labell'd vials, and my letter'd jugs;
“And you, ye bearers of no trivial charge
“Where all my Latin stands inscrib'd at large:
“Ye jars, ye gallipots, and draw'rs adieu,
“Be to my memory lost, as lost to view,
“And ye, whom I so oft have joy'd to wipe,
“Th'ear-sifting syringe, and back-piercing pipe,
“Farewel—my day of glory's on the dawn,
“And now,—Hillario's occupation's gone.”

Quick with the word his way the hero made,
Conducted by a glorious cavalcade;
Pert Petulance the first attracts his eye,
And drowsy Dulness slowly saunters by,
With Malice old, and Scandal ever new,
And neutral Nonsense, neither false nor true.

181

Infernal Falshood next approach'd the band
With --- and the koran in her hand.
Her motley vesture with the leopard vies,
Stain'd with a foul variety of lies.
Next spiteful Enmity, gangren'd at heart,
Presents a dagger, and conceals a dart.

182

On th'earth crawls Flatt'ry with her bosom bare,
And Vanity sails over him in air.

Such was the groupe—they bow'd and they ador'd,
And hail'd Hillario for their sovereign lord.
Flush'd with success, and proud of his allies,
Th'exulting hero thus triumphant cries.
“Friends, brethren, ever present, ever dear,
“Home to my heart, nor quit your title there,
“While you approve, assist, instruct, inspire,
“Heat my young blood, and set my soul on fire;

183

“No foreign aid my daring pen shall chuse,
“But boldly versify without a Muse.
“I'll teach Minerva, I'll inspire the Nine,
“Great Phœbus shall in consultation join,
“And round my nobler brow his forfeit laurel twine.

He said—and Clamour of Commotion born,
Rear'd to the skies her ear-afflicting horn,
While Jargon grav'd his titles on a block,
And styl'd him M. D. Acad. Budig. Soc.

184

But now the harbingers of fate and fame
Signs, omens, prodigies, and portents came.
Lo! (though mid-day) the grave Athenian fowl,
Eyed the bright sun, and hail'd him with a howl,
Moths, mites, and maggots, fleas, (a numerous crew!)
And gnats and grubworms crouded on his view,

185

Insects! without the microscopic aid,
Gigantic by the eye of Dulness made!
And stranger still—and never heard before!
A wooden lion roar'd, or seem'd to roar.
But (what the most his youthful bosom warm'd,
Heighten'd each hope and every fear disarm'd)
On an high dome a damsel took her stand,
With a well-freighted jordan in her hand,
Where curious mixtures strove on every side,
And solids sound with laxer fluids vied—
Lo! on his crown the lotion choice and large,
She soused—and gave at once a full discharge.

186

Not Archimedes, when with conscious pride,
I've found it out! I've found it out! he cry'd,
Not costive bardlings, when a rhyme comes pat,
Not grave Grimalkin when she smells a rat:
Not the shrewd statesman when he scents a plot,
Not coy Prudelia, when she knows what's what,
Not our own hero, when (O matchless luck!)
His keen discernment found another Duck;

187

With such extatic transports did abound,
As what he smelt and saw, and felt and found.
“Ye Gods I thank ye to profusion free,
“Thus to adorn and thus distinguish me,
“And thou, fair Cloacina, whom I serve,
“(If a desire to please is to deserve,)
“To you I'll consecrate my future lays,
“And on the smoothest paper print my soft essays.”

188

No more he spoke; but slightly slid along,
Escorted by the miscellaneous throng.

And now, thou Goddess, whose fire-darting eyes
Defy all distance and transpierce the skies,
To men the councils of the Gods relate,
And faithfully describe the grand debate.

189

The cloud-compelling thund'rer, at whose call
The Gods assembled in th'etherial hall,
From his bright throne the deities addrest:
“What impious noise disturbs our awful rest,
“With din prophane assaults immortal ears,
“And jars harsh discord to the tuneful spheres?
“Nature, my hand-maid, yet without a stain,
“Has never once productive prov'd in vain,
“'Till now—luxuriant and regardless quite
“Of her divine, eternal rule of right,
“On mere privation she's bestow'd a frame,
“And dignify'd a nothing with a name,
“A wretch devoid of use, of sense and grace,
“Th'insolvent tenant of incumber'd space.

190

“Good is his cause, and just is his pretence,”
(Replies the God of theft and eloquence.)
“A hand mercurial, ready to convey,
“E'en in the presence of the garish day,
“The work an English classic late has writ,
“And by adoption be the sire of wit—
“Sure to be this is to be something—sure,
“Next to perform, 'tis glorious to procure.

191

“ Small was th'exertion of my God-like soul,
“When privately Apollo's herd I stole,
“Compar'd to him, who braves th'all-seeing sun,
“And boldly bids th'astonish'd world look on.

Her approbation Venus next exprest,
And on Hillario's part the throne addrest,

192

“If there be any praise the nails to pare,
“And in soft ringlets wreathe th'elastic hair,
“In talk and tea to trifle time away;
“The mien so easy and the dress so gay!
“Can my Hillario's worth remain unknown,
“With whom coy Sylvia trusts herself alone.
“With whom, so pure, so innocent his life,
“The jealous husband leaves his buxom wife.
“What tho' he ne'er assume the post of Mars,
“By me disbanded from all amorous wars;

193

“His fancy (if not person) he employs,
“And oft ideal countesses enjoys—
“Tho' hard his heart, yet beauty shall controul,
“And sweeten all the rancour of his soul,
“While his black self, Florinda ever near,
“Shews like a Diamond in an Ethiop's ear.”

194

When Pallas—thus—“Cease—ye immortals—cease
“Nor rob serene stupidity of peace—
“Should Jove himself in calculation mad
“Still negatives to blank negations add,
“How could the barren cyphers ever-breed,
“But nothing still from nothing would proceed?
“Raise or depress—or magnify—or blame,
“ Inanity will ever be the same.”

195

“Not so (says Phœbus) my celestial friend,
“E'en blank privation has its use and end—
“How sweetly shadows recommend the light,
“And darkness renders my own beams more bright!
“How rise from filth the violet and rose!
“From emptiness how softest musick flows!

196

“How absence to possession adds a grace,
“And modest vacancy to all gives place?
“Contrasted when fair nature's works we spy,
“More they allure the mind and more they charm the eye.
“So from Hillario some effect may spring,
“E'en him—that slight Penumbra of a thing.”

197

Morpheus at length in the debate awoke,
And drowsily a few dull words he spoke—
Declar'd Hillario was the friend of ease,
And had a soporific pow'r to please,
Once more Hillario he pronounc'd with pain,
But at the very sound was lull'd to sleep again.

198

Momus the last of all, in merry mood,
As moderator in th'assembly stood.
“Ye laughter-loving pow'rs, ye Gods of mirth,
“What! not regard my deputy on earth?
“Whose chymic skill turns brass to gold with ease,
“And out of Cibber forges Socrates?

199

“Whose genius makes consistencies to fight,
“And forms an union betwixt wrong and right?
“Who (five whole days in senseless malice past)
“Repents, and is religious at the last?

200

“ A paltry play'r, that in no parts succeeds,
“A hackney writer, whom no mortal reads.

201

“ The trumpet of a base deserted cause,
“Damn'd to the scandal of his own applause;
“While thus he stands a general wit confest,
“With all these titles, all these talents blest,
“Be he by Jove's authority assign'd,
“The Universal Butt of all mankind.”

So spake and ceas'd the joy-exciting God,
And Jove immediate gave th'assenting nod,
When Fame her adamantine trump uprear'd,
And thus th'irrevocable doom declar'd.

“While in the vale perennial fountains flow,
“And fragrant Zephyrs musically blow;
“While the majestic sea from pole to pole,
“In horrible magnificence shall roll,

202

“While yonder glorious canopy on high
“Shall overhang the curtains of the sky,
“While the gay seasons their due course shall run,
“Ruled by the brilliant stars and golden sun,
“While wit and fool antagonists shall be,
“And sense and taste and nature shall agree,
“While love shall live, and rapture shall rejoice,
“Fed by the notes of Handel, Arne and Boyce,

203

“While with joint force o'er humour's droll domain,
“Cervantes, Fielding, Lucian, Swift shall reign,
“While thinking figures from the canvas start,
“And Hogarth is the Garrick of his art.
“So long in gross stupidity's extreme,
“Shall H*ll th'arch-dunce remain o'er every dunce supreme.

Conclusion.

And now candid reader, Martinus Macularius hath attended thee throughout the first book of this most delectable poem. As it is not improbable that those will be inquisitive after the particulars relating to this thy

204

commentator, he here gives thee notice that he is preparing for the press, Memoirs of Martinus Macularius, with his travels by sea and land, together with his flights aerial, and descents subterraneous, &c. And in the mean time he bids thee farewell, until the appearance of the second book of the Hilliad, of which we will say, speciosa miracula prometi And so as Terence says, Vos valeta & plaudite.

END OF BOOK THE FIRST.

As the design of heroic poetry is to celebrate the virtues and noble atchievements of truly great personages, and conduct them through a series of hardships to the completion of their wishes, so the little epic delights in representing, with an ironical drollery, the mock qualities of those, who, for the benefit of the laughing part of mankind, are pleased to become egregiously ridiculous, in an affected imitation of the truly renown'd worthies above-mentioned. Hence our poet calls upon Momus, at the first opening of his poem, to convert his hero into a jest. So that in the present case, it cannot be said, facit indignatio versum, but, if I may be allowed the expression, facit titillatio versum; which may serve to shew our author's temper of mind is free from rancour, or ill-nature. Notwithstanding the great incentives he has had to prompt him to this undertaking, he is not actuated by the spirit of revenge; and to check the fallies of fancy and humourous invention, he further invokes the goddess Themis, to administer strict, poetic justice.

Several cavils have been raised against this passage. Quinbus Flestrin, the unborn poet, is of opinion that it is brought in merely to eke out a verse; but though in many points I am inclined to look upon this critick as irrefragable, I must beg leave at present to appeal from his verdict; and, tho' Horace lays it down as rule not to admire any thing, I cannot help enjoying so pleasing an operation of the mind upon this occasion. We are here presented with a grand idea, no less than Jupiter shaking his sides and the heavens at the same time. The Pagan thunderer has often been said to agitate the pole with a nod, which in my mind gives too awful an image, whereas the one in question conveys an idea of him in good humour, and confirms what Mr. Orator Henley says in his excellent tracts, that “the deity is a joyous being.” Martinus Macularius, M. D. Reg. Soc. Bur. &c. Soc.

Much puzzle hath been occasioned among the naturalists concerning the engraftmen here mentioned. Hill's natural history of trees and plants, vol. 52, page 336 saith, it has been frequently attempted, but that the tree of dulness will not admit any such inoculation. He adds in page 339, that he himself tried the experiment for two years successively, but that the twig of laurel, like a feather in the state of electricity, drooped and died the moment he touched it. Notwithstanding this authority, it is well known that this operation has been performed by some choice spirits. Erasmus in his encomium on Folly shews how it may be accomplished; in our own times Pope and Garth found means to do the same: and in the sequel of this work, we make no doubt but the stem here-mentioned will bear some luxuriant branches, like the tree in Virgil,

Nec longum tempus, et ingens
Exiit ad Cœlum ramis felicibus arbos,
Miraturque novas frondes et non sua Poma.

An old English word for a mean fellow; see Chaucer and Spencer.

Quinbus Flestrin saith, with his usual importance, that this is the only piece of justice done to our hero in this work. To this assents the widow at Cuper's who it seems is not a little proud of the “words by Dr. Hill, and the musick by Lewis Granon, Esq;”. This opinion is further confirmed by Major England, who admires the pretty turns on Kitty, and Kate, and Catherine and Katy, but from these venerable authorities, judicious Reader, you may boldly dissent, meo periculo. Mart. Mac.

Of this talent take a specimen. In a letter to himself he saith; “you have discovered many of the beauties of the ancients; they are obliged to you; we are obliged to you; were they alive they would thank you; we who are alive do thank you.” His constant custom of running on in this manner, occasioned the following epigram,

Hill puffs himself, forbear to chide;
An insect vile and mean,
Must first, he knows, be magnify'd
Before it can be seen.

For both these vide Woodward's letter, passim.

The allusion here seems to be taken from Ovid, who describes the earth fixed in the air, by its own stupidity, or vis inertiæ:—

Pendebat in aere tellus,
Ponderibus librata suis. ------

But, reader, dilate your imagination to take in the much greater idea our poet here presents to you: consider the immense inanity of space, and then the comparative nothingness of the globe, and you may attain an adequate conception of our hero's reputation, and the mighty basis it stands upon. It is worth observing here that our author, quasi aliud agens, displays at one touch of his pen more knowledge of the planetary system, than is to be found in all the volumes of the mathematicians.

This note is partly by Macularius, and partly by Mr. Jinkyns, Philomath.

Observe, gentle reader, how tenderly our author treats his hero throughout his whole poem; he does not here impute his ridiculous conduct, and all that train of errors which have attended his consummate vanity, to his own perverse inclination, but with greater candour insinuates that some Dæmon, foe to Hillario's repose, first misled his youthful imagination; which is a kind of apology for his life and character. He is not the only one who has been seduced to his ruin in this manner. We read it in Pope,

Some Dæmon whisper'd, Visto have a taste.

Hence then arise our hero's misfortunes; and that the Dæmon above-mentioned was a foe to truth, will appear from Hilliario's notable talent at misrepresenting circumstances, for which vide all the Inspectors.

This seems to be wrote with an eye to a beautiful passage in a very elegant poem;

Ye Gods annihilate both space and time,
And make two lovers happy. ------

The request is extremely modest, and I really wonder it was never complied with; but it must be said in favour of Mr. Smart, that he is still more reasonable in his demand, and it appears by the alteration in the stile, that his scheme may be reduced to practice though the other is mighty fine in theory. The Inspector is of this opinion, and so is Monsieur de Scaizau.

Our Author has been extremely negligent upon this occasion, and has indolently omitted an opportunity of displaying his talent for poetick imagery. Homer has described the shield of Achilles with all the art of his imagination; Virgil has followed him in this point, and indeed both he and Ovid, seem to be delighted when they have either a picture to describe, or some representation in the labours of the loom. Hence arises a double delight; we admire the work of the artificer, and the poet's account of it; and this pleasure Mr. Smart might have impressed upon his readers in this passage, as many things were wrought into the tapestry here-mentioned. In one part our hero was administering to a patient, “and the fresh vomit runs for ever green.” The theatre at May-fair made a conspicuous figure in the piece— the pit seemed to rise in an uproar—the gallery opened its rude throats—and apples, oranges and halfpence flew about our hero's ears.—The mall in St. James's Park was displayed in a beautiful Vista, and you might perceive Hillario with his janty air waddling along.—In Mary le Bone fields, he was dancing round a glow worm, and finally the Rotunda at Ranelagh filled the eye with its magnificence, and in a corner of it stood a handsome young fellow holding a personage, dressed in blue silk, by the ear; “the very worsted still looked black and blue.” There were many other curious figures, but out of a shameful laziness has our poet omitted them. Polymetis Cantabrigiensis.

This passage seems to be an imitation of the Sybil in the sixth book of Virgil;

Subito non vultus, non color unus
Nec comtæ mansere comæ. ------

and is admirably expressive of the witch's prophetic fury, and ushers in the prediction of Hillario's fortune with proper solemnity.—

This note is by one of the Æolists, mentioned with honour in the Tale of a Tub.

When the Distemper first raged among the hoined cattle, the king and council ordered a certain officer to super-intend the beasts, and to direct that such, as were found to be infected, should be knocked in the head. This officer was called the Inspector, and from thence I would venture to lay a wager, our hero derived his title. Bentley, Junior.

It extremely probable that our poet is intimately acquainted with the classics; he seems frequently to have them in his eye, and such an air of enthusiasm runs through his whole speech, that the learned reader may easily perceive he has taken fire at some of the prophecies in Homer and Virgil.—The whole is delivered in breaks, and unconnected transitions, which denote vehement emotions in the mind; and the hint here concerning the Irish is perfectly in the manner of all great epic poets, who generally give the reader some idea of what is to ensue, without unfolding the whole. Thus we find in Virgil,

Bella, horrida bella,
Et Tybrim multo spumantem sanguine cerno.

and again,

Alius Latio jam partus Achilles.

And in the sequel of this work, I believe, it will be found, that as Æneas had another Achilles, so our hero has had as formidable an adversary.

The ingenious Mr. L---der says that the following passage is taken from a work, which he intends shortly to publish by subscription, and he has now in the press a pamphlet, called “Mr. Smart's Use and Abuse of the Moderns.” But, with his leave, this passage is partly imitated from Cardinal Wolsey's speech, and from Othello.

The train, here described, is worthy of Hillario, pertness, dulness, scandal and malice, &c. being the very constituents of an hero for the mock heroic, and it is not without propriety that nonsense is introduced with the epithet, neutral; nonsense being like a Dutchman, not only in an unmeaning stupidity, but in the art of preserving a strict neutrality. This neutrality may be aptly explained by the following epigram,

Word-valiant wight, thou great he shrew,
That wrangles to no end;
Since nonsense is nor false nor true,
Thou'rt no man's foe or friend.

This lady is described with two books in her hand, but our author chusing to preserve a neutrality, though not a nonsensical one, upon this occasion, the tories are at liberty to fill up this blank with Rapin, Burnet, or any names that will fit the niches; and the whigs may, if they please, insert Echard, Higgons, &c. But why, exclaimeth a certain critic, should falshood be given to Hillario?—Because, replieth Macularius, he has given many specimens of his talent that way. Our hero took it into his head some time since to tell the world that he caned a gentleman, whom he called by the name of Mario; what degree of faith the town gave him upon that occasion, may be collected from the two following lines, by a certain wag who shall be nameless.

To beat one man great Hill was fated;
What man?—a man that he created.

The following epigram may be also properly inserted here.

What H---ll one day says, he the next does deny,
And candidly tells us—'tis all a damn'd lye:
Dear Doctor—this candour from you is not wanted;
For why shou'd you own it? 'tis taken for granted.

Our hero is as remarkable for his encomiums, where it is his interest to commend, as for his abuse, where he has taken a dislike; but from the latter he is easily to be bought off, as may be seen in the following excellent epigram.

An author's writings oft reveal,
Where now and then he takes a meal.
Invite him once a week to dinner,
He'll faint you, tho' the vilest sinner.
Have you a smiling, vacant face,
He gives you soul, expression, grace.
Swears what you will, unswears it too;
What will not beef and pudding do?

No the devil a bit!—I am the only person that can do that!—My poems, written at fifteen, were done without the assistance of any muse, and better than all Smart's poetry.—The Muses are strumpets—they frequently give an intellectual gonorrhæa—Court debt not paid—I'll never be poet laureate.—Coup de grace unanswerable—Our foes shall knuckle—five pounds to any bishop that will equal this— Gum guiacum for Latin lignum vitæ.—Adam the first Dutchman— victorious stroke for Old England—Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee. Oratory-Right-Reason-Chapel, Saturday 13th of January, and old stile for ever.

Jargon is here properly introduced graving our hero's titles, which are admirably brought into verse, but the gentleman who wrote the last note, Mr. Orator H---ley, takes umbrage at this passage, and exclaimeth to the following effect. “Jargon is meant for me.” There is more music in a peal of marrowbones and cleavers than in these verses.—I am a logician upon fundamentals.—A rationalist,— lover of mankande, Glastonberry thorn,—huzza, boys.—Wit a vivacious command of all objects and ideas.—I am the only wit in Great Britain. See Oratory tracts, &c. 10036.”

Patience, good Mr. Orator! We are not at leisure to answer thee at present, but must observe that Jargon has done more for our hero, than ever did the society at Bordeaux, as will appear from the following extract of a letter sent to Martinus Macularius, by a fellow of that society:

J'ai bien reçu la lettre, dont vous m'avez fait l'honneur le 12 me passé. A l'égard de ce Monsieur Hillario, qui se vante si prodigieusement chez vous, je ne trouve pas qu'il est enrollé dans notre société, & son. nom. est. parfaitment inconnu ici. J'attends de vous nouvelles, &c.

And reason given 'em but to study slies.

M. Macularius.

This passage may be properly illustrated by a recollection of two lines in Mr. Pope's essay on criticism.

As things seem large which we thro' mists descry,
Dulness is very apt to magnify.

Not the black lion in Salisbury-court, Fleet-street, where the New Craftsman is published, nor yet the red lion at Brentford, but the beast of the Bedford, who may truly be said to have been alive, when animated by Addison and Steel, though now reduced to that state of Block-headism, which is so conspicuous in his master. Ficulnus, inutile lignum! Bentley, junior.

Reader do not turn up your nose at this passage! it is much more decent than Pope's—Recollect what Swift says, that a nice man has filthy ideas, and let it be considered this discharge may have the same effect upon our hero, as a similar accident had upon a person of equal parts and genius.

Renew'd by ordure's sympathetic force,
As oil'd by magic juices for the course,
Vig'rous he rises from th'effluvia strong,
Imbibes new life and scours and stinks along.

Pope's Dunciad.

As soon as the Philosopher here mentioned discovered the modern Save-all, and the New-invented patent black-ball, he threw down his pipe, and ran all along Piccadilly, with his shirt out of his breeches, crying out like a madman, ευρηκα! ευρηκα! which in modern English is, the job is done! the job is done! Vetus Schol.

Hillario having a mind to celebrate and recommend a genius to the world, compares him to Stephen Duck, and at the close of a late Inspector, cries out, “I have found another Duck, but who shall find a Caroline?

Our hero for once has spoke truth of himself, for which we could produce the testimonies of several persons of distinction. Bath and Tunbridge wells have upon many occasions testified their gratitude to him on this head, as his works have been always found of singular use with the waters of those places. To this effect also speaketh that excellent commedian, Mr. Henry Woodward, in an ingenious parody on busy, curious, thirsty fly, &c.

I

Busy, curious, hungry Hill,
Write of me and write your fill.
Freely welcome to abuse,
Could'st thou tire thy railing muse.
Make the most of this you can,
Strife is short and life's a span.

II

Both alike your works and pay,
Hasten quick to their decay,
This a trifle, those no more,
Tho' repeated to threescore.
Threescore volumes when they're writ,
Will appear at last b---t.

This invocation is perfectly in the spirit of ancient poetry. If I may use Milton's words, our author here presumes into the heavens, an earthly guest, and draws empyreal air. Hence he calls upon the Goddess to assist his strain, while he relates the councils of the Gods. Virgil, when the plot thickens upon his hands, as Mr. Byes has it, has offered up his prayers a second time to the Muse, and he seems to labour under the weight of his subject, when he cries out,

Majus opus moveo, major rerum mihi nascitur ordo.

This is the case at present with the writer of the Hilliad, and this piece of machinery will evince the absurdity of that Lucretian doctrine, which asserts that the Gods are wrapped up in a lazy indolence, and do not trouble themselves about human affairs. The words of Lucretius are,

Omnis enim per se divûm natura necesse est:
Immortali ævo summa cum pace fruatur,
Semota a rebus nostris, disjunctaque longè:

It is now recommended to the editors of the Anti-Lucretius to make use of this instance to the contrary in the next publication of that work.— M. Macularius.

Jupiter's speech is full of pomp and solemnity, and is finely closed by a description of our hero, who is here said to take up a place in the creation to no purpose. What a different notion of the end of his existence has Hillario, from what we find delivered by the excellent Longinus in his treatise on the sublime. The passage is admirable, translated by the author of the pleasures of imagination. “The Godlike geniuses of Greece were well-assured that nature had not intended man for a low spirited or ignoble being; but bringing us into life and the midst of this wide universe, as before a multitude assembled at some heroic solemnity, that we might be spectators of all her magnificence, and candidates high in emulation for the prize of glory. she has therefore implanted in our souls an inextinguishable love of every thing great and exalted, of every thing which appears divine beyond our comprehension. Hence by the very propensity of nature we are led to admire, not little springs or shallow rivulets, however clear and delicious, but the Nile, the Rhine, the Danube, and much more than all the Ocean.”—Instead of acting upon this plan, Hillario is employed in pursuit of insects in Kensington-gardens, and as this is all the gratitude he pays for the being conferred upon him, he is finely termed an Insolvent tenant.

Our hero has taken an entire letter from Sir Thomas Fitz-Osborne, and with inimitable effrontery published it in his Inspector, No. 239, as a production of his own. We are informed that, having been taxed with this affair, he declares with a great deal of art, that it was given him by another person, to which all we have to say is, that the receiver is as bad as the thief. M. Macularius.

If our author could be thought capable of punning, I should imagine that the word procure, in this place, is made use of in preference to an appellation given to our hero in the commencement of this poem, viz. a Pimp, but the reader will please to recollect that the term Pimp is not in that passage used in its modern acceptation.

Not so fast, good poet, cries out in this place, M. Macularius. We do not find that Hillario, upon any occasion whatever, has been charged with stealing Apollo's quiver, and certain it is, that those arrows, which he has shot at all the word, never were taken from thence. But of Mercury it is recorded by Horace, that he really did deceive the God of wit in this manner;

Te boves olim nisi reddidisses
Per dolum amotas, puerum minaci
Voce dum terret viduus pharetra
Risit Apollo.

Venus rises in this assembly quite in the manner attributed to her in the ancient poets; thus we see in Virgil that she is all mildness, and at every word breathes Ambrosia;

------ At non Venus aurea contra,
Pauca refert. ------

She is to speak upon this occasion, as well as in the case produced from the Æneid, in favour of a much loved son, though indeed we cannot say that she has been quite so kind to Hillario, as formerly she was to Æneas, it being evident that she has not bestowed upon him that lustre of youthful, bloom, and that liquid radiance of the eye, which she is said to have given the pious Trojan.

------ Lumenque juventæ
Purpureum, et lætos oculis afflavit honores.

On the contrary Venus here talks of his black self, which makes it suspected that she reconciled herself to this hue, out of a compliment to Vulcan, of whom she has frequent favours to solicit: and perhaps it may appear hereafter, that she procured a sword for our hero from the celestial blacksmith's forge. One thing is not a little surprizing, that, while Venus speaks on the side of Hillario, she should omit the real utility he has been of to the cause of love by his experience as an apothecary, of which he himself hath told us, several have profited; and it should be remembered at the same time, that he actually has employed his person in the service of Venus, and has now an offspring of the amorous congress. It is moreover notorious, that having, in his elegant language, tasted of the cool stream, he was ready to plunge in again, and therefore publicly set himself up for a wise, and thus, became a fortune-hunter with his pen, and if he has failed in his design, it is because the ladies do not approve the new scheme of propagation without the knowledge of a man, which Hillario pretended to explain so handsomely in the Lucina sine concubitu.—But the truth is, he never wrote a syllable of this book, though he transcribed part of it, and shewed it to a bookseller, in order to procure a higher price for his productions. Quinbus Flestrin.

There is neither morality, nor integrity, nor unity, nor universality in this poem.—The author of it is a Smart; I hope to see a Smartead published; I had my pocket picked the other day, as I was going through Paul's Church-yard, and I firmly believe it was this little author, as the man who can pun, will also pick a pocket. John Dennis, Junior.

Our author does not here mean to list himself among the disputants concerning pure space, but the doctrine he would advance, is, that nothing can come from nothing. In so unbelieving an age as this, it is possible this tenet may not be received, but if the reader has a mind to see it handled at large, he may find it in Rumgurtius, vol. 16, pagina 1001. “De hac re multum et turpiter hallucinantur scriptores tam exteri quam domestici. Spatium enim absolutum et relativum debent distingui, priusquam distincta esse possunt; neque ulla alia regula ad normam rei metaphysicæ quadrabit, quam triplex consideratio de substantiâ inanitatis, sive entitate nihili, quæ quidem consideratio triplex ad unam reduci potest necessitatem; nempe idem spatium de quo jam satis dictum est.” This opinion is further corroborated by the tracts of the society of Bourdeaux. “Selon la distinction entre les choses, qui n'ont pas de difference, il nous faut absolument agréer, que les idées, qui ont frappé l'imagination, peuvent bien être effacées, pourvu qu'on ne s'avise pas d'oublier cet espace immense, qui environne toute la nature, et le systême des étoiles.” Among our countrymen, I do not know any body that has handled this subject so well as the accurate Mr. Fielding, in his essay upon Nothing, which the reader may find in the first volume of his miscellanies; but with all due deference to his authority, we beg leave to dissent from one assertion in the said essay; the residence of nothing might in his time have been in a critick's head, and we are apt to believe that there is a something like nothing in most critick's heads to this day, and this false appearance misled the excellent metaphysician just quoted; for nothing, in its puris naturalibus, as Gravesend describes it in his experimental philosophy, does subsist no where so properly at present as in the pericranium of our hero. Mart. Macularius.

Persons of most genius, says the Inspector, Friday Jan. 26, Number 587, “have in general been the fondest of musick; Sir Isaac Newton was remarkable for his affection for harmony; he was scarce ever missed at the beginning of any performance, but was seldom seen at the end of it.” And indeed of this opinion is M. Macularius; and he further adds, that if Sir Isaac was still living it is probable he would be at the beginning of the Inspector's next song at Cuper's, but that he would not be at the end of it, may be proved to a mathematical demonstration, though Hillario takes so much pleasure in beating time to them himself, and though he so frequently exclaims, very fine!—O fine!—vastly fine!—Since the lucubration of Friday Jan. 26th has been mentioned, we think proper to observe here, that his Inspectorship has the most notable talent at a motto—Quinbus Flestrin saith, “he is a tartar for that,” and of this, learned reader, take a specimen along with you. How aptly upon the subject of musick does he bid his readers pluck grapes from the loaded vine!

Carpite de plenis pendentes vitibus uvas.
Ovid.

The above-mentioned Quinbus Flestrin, peremptorily says, this line has been cavilled at by some minor critics, because, “the grapes are sour;” and indeed of that way of thinking is Macularius, who hath been greatly astonished at the taste of Hillario, in so frequently culling from Valerius Flaccus. But he is clearly of opinion, that the lines from Welstead and Dennis, are selected with great judgment, and are hung out as proper signs of what entertainment is to be furnished up to his customers.

Whatever mean opinion Dr. Phœbus may entertain of his terrestial brother physician and poet: on earth, Hillario is talked of in a different manner, as will appear from the following parody on the lines prefixed by Mr. Dryden, to Milton's Paradise Lost:

Three wise great men in the same Æra born,
Britannia's happy island did adorn:
Henley in care of souls display'd his skill,
Rock shone in physick, and in both John H---ll,
The force of nature could no farther go,
To make a third, she join'd the former two.

Quinbus Flestrin.

The hypnotick, or soporiferous quality of Hillario's pen, is manifest from the following asseveration, which was published in the New Craftsman, and is a letter from a tradesman in the city.

“SIR,

From a motive of gratitude, and for the sake of those of my fellow-creatures, who may unhappily be afflicted; as I have been for some time past, I beg leave, through the channel of your paper, to communicate the disorder I have laboured under, and the extraordinary cure I have lately met with. I have had for many months successively a slow nervous fever, with a constant flutter on my spirits, attended with pertinacious watchings, twitchings of the nerves, and other grievous symptoms, which reduced me to a mere shadow. At length, by the interposition of divine providence, a friend who had himself experienced it, advised me to have recourse to the reading of the Inspectors. I accordingly took one of them, and the effect it had upon me was such, that I fell into a profound sleep, which lasted near six and thirty hours. By this I have attained a more composed habit of body, and I now doze away almost all my time, but for fear of a lethargy, am ordered to take them in smaller quantities. A paragraph at a time now answers my purpose, and under heaven I owe my sleeping powers to the above-mentioned Inspectors. I look upon them to be a grand soporificum mirabile, very proper to be had in all families. He makes great allowance to those who by them to sell again, or to send abroad to the plantations; and the above fact I am ready to attest whenever called upon. Given under my hand this 4th day of January, 1753.

Humphrey Roberts, Weaver, in Crispin-street, Spitalfields, opposite the White Horse.”

Socrates was the father of the truest philosophy that ever appeared in the world, and though he has not drawn God's image, which was reserved for the light of the gospel, he has at least given the shadow, which together with his exemplary life, induces Erasmus to cry out, Sancte Socrates ora pro nobis; of Mr. Cibber we shall say nothing; as he has said abundantly enough of himself, but to illustrate the poet's meaning in this passage, it may be necessary to observe that when the British worthy was indisposed some time since, the Inspector did not besitate to prefer him to the God-like ancient philosopher. O'te, Bollane, cerebri felicem. M. Macularius.

Alluding to his egregious talent at distinctions without a difference.

On every Saturday the florid Hillario becomes, in Woodward's phrase, a lay preacher; but his flimsey, heavy, impotent lucubrations have rather been of prejudice to the good old cause; and we hear that there is now preparing for the press; by a very eminent divine, a defence of christianity against the misrepresentations of a certain officious writer; and for the present we think proper to apply an epigram, occasioned by a dipute between two beaux concerning religion.

I

On grace, free will, and myst'ries high,
Two wits harangu'd the table;
J---n H---ll believes he knows not why,
Tom swears 'tis all a fable.

II

Peace, idiots, peace, and both agree,
Tom kiss thy empty brother;
Religion laughs at foes like thee,
But dreads a friend like t'other.

It appears that the first effort of this universal genius, who is lately become remarkable as the Bobadil of literature, was to excell in Pantomime. What was the event?—he was damned.—Mr. Cross, the prompter, took great pains to fit him for the part of Oroonoko—he was damned.—He attempted Captain Blandford—he was damned. —He acted Constant in the Provok'd Wife—he was damned. —He represented the Botanist in Romeo and Juliet, at the Little Theatre in the Hay-market, under the direction of Mr. The. Cibber—he was damned.—He appeared in the character of Lothario, at the celebrated theatre in May-Fair—he was damned there too. Mr. Cross, however, to alleviate his misfortune, charitably bestowed upon him a 15th part of his own benefit. See the Gentleman's Magazine for last December, and also Woodward's letter, passim.

Notwithstanding this assertion of Momus, our hero pro eâ quâ est, verecundiâ, compareth himself to Addison and Steele, which occasioned the following epigram, by the right hon. the earl --- addressed to the right honourable G---e D---n.

Art thou not angry, learning's great protector,
To hear that flimsey author, the Inspector,
Of cant, of puff, that daily vain inditer,
Call Addison, or Steele, his brother writer?
So a pert H---ll (in Æsop's fabling days)
Swolu up with vanity, and self-giv'n praise,
To his huge neighbour mountain might have said,
“See; (brother) how We Mountains lift the head!
“How great We shew! how awful, and how high,
“Amidst these paultry Mounts, that here around us lie!”

And now, reader, please to observe, that, since so ingenious a nobleman hath condescended to take notice of his Inspectorship, Mr. Smart doth not need any apology for the notice he hath also taken of him. M. Macularius.

In a very pleasant account of the riots in Drury-lane Play-house, by Henry Fielding, Esq; we find the following humorous description of our hero in the character of a trumpeter. “They all ran away except the trumpeter, who having an empyema in his side, as well as several dreadful bruises on his breech, was taken. When he was brought before Garrick to be examined, he said the ninnies, to whom he had the honour to be trumpeter, had resented the use made of the monsters by Garrick. That it was unfair, that it was cruel, that it was inhuman to employ a man's own subjects against him. That Rich was lawful sovereign over all the monsters in the universe, with much more of the same kind; all which Garrick seemed to think unworthy of an answer; but when the trumpeter challenged him as his acquaintance, the chief with great disdain turned his back, and ordered the fellow to be dismissed with full power of trumpeting again on what side he pleased.” Hillario has since trumpeted in the cause of Pantomime, the gaudy scenery of which with great judgment he dismisses from the Opera-house, and saith, it is now fixed in its proper place in the theatre. On this occasion, Macularius cannot help exclaiming, “O Shakespear! O Johnson! rest, rest perturbed spirits.”

The first of these gentlemen may be justly looked upon as the Milton of musick, and the talents of the two latter may not improperly be delineated by calling them the Drydens of their profession, as they not only touch the strings of love with exquisite art, but also, when they please, reach the truly sublime.

The opinion which Mr. Hogarth entertains of our hero's writings, may be guess'd at, by any one who will take the pleasure of looking at a print called Beer-street, in which Hillario's critique upon the Royal Society is put into a basket directed to the trunk-maker in St. Paul's Church-yard. I shall only just observe that the compliment in this passage to Mr. Hogarth is reciprocal, and reflects a lustre on Mr. Garrick, both of them having similar talents, equally capable of the highest elevation, and of representing the ordinary scenes of life, with the most exquisite humour.

205

THE JUDGMENT OF MIDAS,

A MASQUE.

Auriculas Asini Mida Rex habet. Juv.

206

PERSONS REPRESENTED.

APOLLO.
PAN,
TIMOLUS, God of the Mountain.
MIDAS.
CALLIOPE.
MELPOMENE.
AGNO, Wood-Nymph.
MELINOE, Wood-Nymph.
SATYRS, &c.

207

Timolus, Melinoe and Agno, two Wood-nymphs.
Timolus.
Agno, to-day we wear our acorn crown,
The parsley wreath be thine; it is most meet
We grace the presence of these rival gods
With all the honours of our woodland weeds.
Thine was the task, Melinoe, to prepare
The turf-built theatre, the boxen bow'r,
And all the sylvan scenery.

Melinoe.
That task,
Sire of these shades, is done. On yester eve,
Assisted by a thousand friendly fays,
While fav'ring Dian held her glitt'ring lamp,
We ply'd our nightly toils, nor ply'd we long,
For Art was not the mistress of our revels,
'Twas gentle Nature, whom we jointly woo'd;

208

She heard, and yielded to the forms we taught her,
Yet still remain'd herself—Simplicity,
Fair Nature's genuine daughter, too was there,
So soft yet so magnificent of mien,
She shone all ornament without a gem.
The blithsome Flora, ever sweet and young,
Offer'd her various store: we cull'd a few
To robe, and recommend our darksome verdure,
But shun'd to be luxuriant.—

Timolus.
It was well.
Agno, thy looks are pensive: What dejects
Thy pleasure-painted aspect? Sweetest nymph,
That ever trod the turf, or sought the shade,
Speak, nor conceal a thought.

Agno.
King of the woods,
I tremble for the royal arbiter.
'Tis hard to judge, whene'er the great contend,
Sure to displease the vanquish'd: When such pow'rs
Contest the laurel with such ardent strife,
'Tis not the sentence of fair equity,
But 'tis their pleasure that is right or wrong.

Timolus.
'Tis well remark'd, and on experience founded.
I do remember that my sister Ida

209

(When as on her own shadowy mount we met,
To celebrate the birth-day of the Spring,
And th'orgies of the May) wou'd oft recount
The rage of the indignant goddesses,
When shepherd Paris to the Cyprian queen,
With hand obsequious gave the golden toy.
Heav'n's queen, the sister and the wife of Jove,
Rag'd like a feeble mortal; fall'n she seem'd,
Her deity in human passions lost:
Ev'n Wisdom's goddess, jealous of her form,
Deem'd her own attribute her second virtue.
Both vow'd and sought revenge.

Agno.
If such the fate
Of him who judg'd aright, what must be his
Who shall mistake the cause? for much I doubt
The skill of Midas, since his fatal wish,
Which Bacchus heard, and curs'd him with the gift.
Yet grant him wise, to err is human still,
And mortal is the consequence.

Melinoe:
Most true.
Besides, I fear him partial; for with Pan
He tends the sheep-walks all the live-long day,
And on the braky lawn to the shrill pipe
In aukward gambols he affects to dance,

210

Or tumbles to the tabor—'tis not likely
That such an umpire shou'd be equitable,
Unless he guess at justice.

Timolus.
Soft—no more—
'Tis ours to wish for Pan, and fear from Phœbus,
Whose near approach I hear. Ye stately cedars
Forth from your summits bow your awful heads,
And reverence the gods. Let my whole mountain tremble,
Not with a fearful, but religious awe,
And holiness of horror. You, ye winds,
That make soft, solemn music 'mongst the leaves,
Be all to stillness hush'd; and thou their echo
Listen, and hold thy peace; for see they come.

SCENE opens, and discovers Apollo, attended by Clio and Melpomene, on the right hand of Midas and Pan on the left, whom Timolus, with Agno and Melinoe, join.
Midas.
Begin, celestial candidates for praise,
Begin the tuneful contest: I, mean while,
With heedful notice and attention meet,
Will weigh your merits, and decide your cause.

211

Apollo.
From Jove begin the rapturous song,
To him our earliest lays belong,
We are his offspring all;
'Twas he, whose looks supremely bright,
Smil'd darksome chaos into light,
And fram'd this glorious ball.

Pan.
Sylvanus, in his shadowy grove,
The seat of rural peace and love,
Attends my Doric lays;
By th'altar on the myrtle mount,
Where plays the wood-nymph's favourite fount,
I'll celebrate his praise.

Clio.
Parnassus, where's thy boasted height,
Where, Pegasus, thy fire and flight,
Where all your thoughts so bold and free,
Ye daughters of Mnemosyne?
If Pan o'er Phœbus can prevail,
And the great god of verse shou'd fail?

Agno.
From nature's works, and nature's laws,
We find delight, and seek applause;
The prattling streams and zephyrs bland.
And fragrant flow'rs by zephyrs fann'd,

212

The level lawns and buxom bow'rs,
Speak Nature and her works are ours.

Melpomene.
What were all your fragrant bowr's,
Splendid days, and happy hours,
Spring's verdant robe, fair Flora's blush,
And all the poets of the bush?
What the paintings of the grove,
Rural music, mirth and love?
Life and ev'ry joy wou'd pall,
If Phœbus shone not on them all.

Melinoe.
We chant to Phœbus, king of day,
The morning and the evening lay.
But Pan, each satyr, nymph and fawn,
Adore as laureat of the lawn;
From peevish March to joyous June,
He keeps our restless souls in tune,
Without his oaten reed and song,
Phœbus, thy days wou'd seem too long.

Apollo.
Am I not he, who prescient from on high,
Send a long look thro' all futurity?
Am I not he, to whom alone belong
The powers of Med'cine, Melody and Song?

213

Diffusely lib'ral, as divinely bright,
Eye of the universe and sire of light.

Pan.
O'er cots and vales, and every shepherd swain,
In peaceable pre-eminence I reign;
With pipe on plain, and nymph in secret grove,
The day is music, and the night is love.
I, blest with these, nor envy nor desire
Thy gaudy chariot, or thy golden lyre.

Clio.
Soon as the dawn dispels the dark,
Illustrious Phœbus 'gins t'appear,
Proclaimed by the herald lark,
And ever-wakeful chanticleer,
The Persian pays his morning vow,
And all the turban'd easterns bow.

Agno.
Soon as the evening shades advance,
And the gilt glow-worm glitters fair,
For rustic gambol, gibe and dance,
Fawns, nymphs and dryads all prepare,
Pan shall his swains from toil relieve,
And rule the revels of the eve.

214

Melpomene.
In numbers as smooth as Callirhoe's stream,
Glide the silver-ton'd verse when Apollo's the theme;
While on his own mount Cyparissus is seen,
And Daphne preserves her immutable green.
We'll hail Hyperion with transport so long,
Th'inventor, the patron, and subject of song.

Melinoe.
While on the calm ocean the Halcyon shall breed,
And Syrinx shall sigh with her musical reed,
While fairies, and satyrs, and fawns shall approve
The music, the mirth, and the life of the grove,
So long shall our Pan be than thou more divine,
For he shall be rising when thou shalt decline.

Midas.
No more—To Pan and to his beauteous nymphs
I do adjudge the prize, as is most due.

Enter two Satyrs, and crown Midas with a pair of ass's ears.
Apollo.
Such rural honours all the gods decree,
To those who sing like Pan, and judge like thee.

[Exeunt omnes.

215

REASON AND IMAGINATION.

A FABLE.

Imagination, in the flight
Of young desire and gay delight,
Began to think upon a mate;
As weary of a single state;
For sick of change, as left at will,
And cloy'd with entertainment still,
She thought it better to be grave
To settle, to take up, and save.
She therefore to her chamber sped,
And thus at first attir'd her head.
Upon her hair, with brilliants grac'd,
Her tow'r of beamy gold she plac'd;
Her ears with pendant jewels glow'd
Of various water, curious mode,
As nature sports the wintry ice,
In many a whimsical device.
Her eye-brows arch'd upon the stream
Of rays, beyond the piercing beam;
Her cheeks in matchless colour high,
She veil'd to fix the gazer's eye;

216

Her paps, as white as Fancy draws,
She cover'd with a crimson gauze;
And on her wings she threw perfume
From buds of everlasting bloom.
Her zone, ungirded from her vest,
She were across her swelling breast;
On which, in gems, this verse was wrought,
“I make and shift the scenes of Thought.”
In her right hand a wand she held,
Which Magick's utmost pow'r excell'd;
And in her left retain'd a Chart,
With figures far surpassing art,
Of other natures, suns and moons,
Of other moves to higher tunes.
The Sylphs and Sylphids, fleet as light,
The Fairies of the gamesome night,
The Muses, Graces, all attend
Her service, to her journey's end:
And Fortune, sometimes at her hand,
Is now the fav'rite of her band,
Dispatch'd before the news to bear,
And all th'adventure to prepare.

Beneath an Holm-tree's friendly shade,
Was Reason's little cottage made;
Before, a river deep and still;
Behind, a rocky soaring hill.
Himself, adorn'd in seemly plight,
Was reading to the Eastern light;

217

And ever, as he meekly knelt,
Upon the Book of Wisdom dwelt.
The Spirit of the shifting wheel,
Thus first essay'd his pulse to feel.—
“The Nymph supreme o'er works of wit,
“O'er labour'd plan, and lucky hit,
“Is coming to your homely cot,
“To call you to a nobler lot;
“I, Fortune, promise wealth and pow'r,
“By way of matrimonial dow'r:
“Preferment crowns the golden day,
“When fair Occasion leads the way.”
Thus spake the frail, capricious dame,
When she that sent the message came.—

“From first Invention's highest sphere,
“I, Queen of Imag'ry, appear;
“And throw myself at Reason's feet,
“Upon a weighty point to treat.
“You dwell alone, and are too grave;
“You make yourself too much a slave;
“Your shrewd deductions run a length,
“'Till all your spirits waste their strength:
“Your fav'rite logick is full close;
“Your morals are to much a dose;
“You ply your studies 'till you risk
“Your senses—you should be more brisk—
“The Doctors soon will find a flaw,
“And lock you up in chains and straw.

218

“But, if you are inclin'd to take
“The gen'rous offer, which I make,
“I'll lead you from this hole and ditch,
“To gay Conception's top-most pitch;
“To those bright plains, where crowd in swarms
“The spirits of fantastic forms;
“To planets populous with elves;
“To natures still above themselves,
“By soaring to the wond'rous height
“Of notions, which they still create;
“I'll bring you to the pearly cars,
“By dragons drawn, above the stars;
“To colours of Arabian glow;
“And to the heart-dilating show
“Of paintings, which surmount the life:
“At once your tut'ress, and your wife.”—
“—Soft, soft, (says Reason) lovely friend;
“Tho' to a parley I attend,
“I cannot take thee for a mate;
“I'm lost, if e'er I change my state.
“But whensoe'er your raptures rise,
“I'll try to come with my supplies;
“To muster up my sober aid,
“What time your lively powr's invade;
“To act conjointly in the war
“On Dullness, whom we both abhor;
“And ev'ry sally that you make,
“I must be there, for conduct's sake;

219

“Thy correspondent, thine ally;
“Or any thing, but bind and tye—
“But, e'er this treaty be agreed,
“Give me thy wand and winged steed:
“Take thou this compass and this rule,
“That Wit may cease to play the fool;
“And that thy vot'ries who are born
“For praise, may never sink to scorn.”

221

ODE TO LORD BARNARD,

on his Accession to that Title.

Sis licet felix ubicunque mavis,
Et memor nostri.
Hor.

Melpomene, who charm'st the skies,
Queen of the lyre and lute,
Say, shall my noble patron rise,
And thou, sweet Muse, be mute?

222

Shall Fame, to celebrate his praise,
Her loudests, loftiest accents raise,
And all her silver trumps employ,
And thou restrain thy tuneful hand,
And thou an idle list'ner stand
Amidst the general joy?

Fobid it, all ye powers above,
That human hearts can try,
Forbid it gratitude and love,
And every tender tye:
Was it not he, whose pious cares
Upheld me in my earliest years,
And chear'd me from his ample store,
Who animated my designs,
In Roman and Athenian mines,
To search for learning's ore?

The royal hand my Lord shall raise
To nobler heights thy name,
Who praises thee, shall meet with praise
Ennobled in thy fame.
A disposition form'd to please,
With dignity endear'd by ease,
And grandeur in good nature lost,
Have more of genuine desert,
Have more the merit of the heart,
Than arts and arms can boast.

223

Can I forget fair Raby's towers,
How awful and how great!
Can I forget such blissful bowers,
Such splendour in retreat!
Where me, ev'n me, an infant bard,
Cleveland and Hope indulgent heard.
(Then fame I felt thy first alarms)
Ah, much lov'd pair!—tho' one is fled,
Still one compensates for the dead,
In merit and in charms.

O more than compensation, sure!
O blessings on thy life!
Long may the three-fold bliss endure,
In daughters, sons, and wife!
Hope, copyist of her mother's mind,
Is loveliest, liveliest of her kind,
Her soul with every virtue teems,
By none in wit or worth outdone,
With eyes, that shining on the sun,
Defy his brightest beams.

Hark! Charity's cherubic voice
Calls to her numerous poor,
And bids their languid hearts rejoice,
And points to Raby's door;

224

With open heart and open hands,
There Hospitality—she stands,
A nymph, whom men and gods admire,
Daughter of heavenly Goodness she,
Her sister's Generosity,
And Honour is her sire.

What tho' my Lord, betwixt us lie,
Full many an envious league,
Such vast extent of sea and sky,
As even the eye fatigue;
Tho' interposing ocean raves,
And heaves his heaven assaulting waves,
While on the shores the billows beat,
Yet still my grateful muse is free,
To tune her warmest strains to thee,
And lay them at thy feet.

Goodness is ever kindly prone
To feign what fate denies,
And others want of worth t'attone,
Finds in herself supplies:
Thus dignity itself restrains,
By condescension's silken reins,
While you the lowly Muse upraise;
When such the theme, so mean the bard,
Not to reject is to reward,
To pardon is to praise.

His Lordship's seat in the county of Durham.

Her late Grace of Cleveland.

The Honourable Mrs. Hope.

225

ODE TO LADY HARRIOT.

I

To Harriot all accomplish'd fair,
Begin, ye Nine, a grateful air;
Ye Graces join her worth to tell,
And blazon what you can't excell.

II

Let Flora rifle all her bow'rs,
For fragrant shrubs, and painted flow'rs,
And, in her vernal robes array'd,
Present them to the noble maid.

III

Her breath shall give them new perfume,
Her blushes shall their dyes outbloom;
The lilly now no more shall boast
Its whiteness, in her bosom lost.

IV

See yon delicious woodbines rise
By oaks exalted to the skies,
So view in Harriot's matchless mind
Humility and greatness join'd.

226

V

To paint her dignity and ease,
Form'd to command, and form'd to please,
In wreaths expressive be there wove
The birds of Venus and of Jove.

VI

There where th'immortal laurel grows,
And there, where blooms the crimson rose,
Be with this line the chaplet bound,
That beauty is with virtue crown'd.

Ode to the Earl of Northumberland,

On his being appointed Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, presented on the Birth-Day of Lord Warkworth.

Whate'er distinguish'd patriots rise,
The times and manners to revise,
And drooping merit raise,
The song of triumph still pursues
Their footsteps, and the moral muse
Dwells sweetly on their praise.

It is a task of true delight,
The ways of goodness to recite,
And all her works refin'd;
Tho' modest greatness under rate
Its lustre; 'tis as fix'd as fate,
Says truth with music join'd.

227

All hail to this auspicious morn,
When we, for gallant Warkworth born,
Our gratulations pay:
Tho' virtue all the live long year,
Refuse her eulogy to hear,
She must attend to-day.

All hail to that transcendant fair,
That crown'd thy wishes with an heir,
And bless'd her native land:
Still shoots thy undegenerate line,
Like oak from oak, and pine from pine,
As goodly and as grand.

O how illustrious and divine
Were all the heroes of thy line,
'Gainst Rome's ambitious cheat!
Born all these base insidious arts,
Which work the most in weakest hearts
To dare and to defeat!

Live then in triumph o'er deceit,
That with new honours we may greet
The house of arms and arts,
'Till blest experience shall evince
How fairly you present that prince,
Who's sovereign of our hearts.

In pity to our sister isle
With sighs we lend thee for a while;

228

O be thou soon restor'd,
Tho' Stanhope, Hallifax were there,
We never had a man to spare
Our love could less afford.

THE SWEETS OF EVENING.

The sweets of evening charm the mind,
Sick of the sultry day;
The body then no more confin'd,
But exercise with freedom join'd,
When Phœbus sheathes his ray.

While all-serene the summer moon
Sends glances thro' the trees,
And Philomel begins her tune,
Asteria too shall help her soon
With voice of skilful ease.

A nosegay, every thing that grows,
And music, every sound
To lull the sun to his repose;
The skies are coloured like the rose
With lively streaks around.

Of all the changes rung by time
None half so sweet appear,
As those when thoughts themselves sublime,
And with superior natures chime
In fancy's highest sphere.

229

ODE to a Virginia Nightingale, which was cured of a Fit in the Bosom of a young Lady, who afterwards nursed the Author in a dangerous Illness.

Sweet bird! whose fate and mine agree,
As far as proud humanity,
The parallel will own;
O let our voice and hearts combine,
O let us, fellow-warblers join,
Our patroness to crown.

When heavy hung thy flagging wing,
When thou could'st neither move nor sing,
Of spirits void and rest;
A lovely nymph her aid apply'd,
She gave the bliss to heav'n allied,
And cur'd thee on her breast.

Me too the kind indulgent maid,
With gen'rous care and timely aid,
Restor'd to mirth and health;
Then join'd to her, O may I prove
By friendship, gratitude, and love,
The Poverty of Wealth.

230

Martial. Book 1, Ep. 26.

When Brutus' fall wing'd same to Porcia brought,
Those arms her friends conceal'd, her passion sought.
She soon perceiv'd their poor officious wiles,
Approves their zeal, but at their folly smiles.
What Cato taught heaven sure cannot deny,
Bereav'd of all, we still have pow'r to die.
Then down her throat the burning coal conveyed,
Go now, ye fools, and hide your swords, she said.

On a Lady throwing Snow-Balls at her Lover.

From the Latin of Petronious Ascanius

When, wanton fair, the snowy orb you throw,
I feel a fire before unknown in snow.
E'en coldest snow I find has pow'r to warm
My breast, when flung by Julia's lovely arm.
T'elude loves powerful arts I strive in vain,
If ice and snow can latent fires contain.
These frolicks leave: the force of beauty prove,
With equal passion cool my ardent love.

End of Vol. I.

II. VOL. II.

FABLES.

The WHOLESALE CRITIC and the HOP-MERCHANT.

FABLE I.

Hail to each ancient sacred shade
Of those, who gave the Muses aid,
Skill'd verse mysterious to unfold,
And set each brilliant thought in gold.
Hail Aristotle's honour'd shrine,
And great Longinius hail to thine;
Ye too, whose judgment ne'er cou'd fail,
Hail Horace, and Quintilian hail;
And, dread of every Goth and Hun,
Hail Pope, and peerless Addison.

Alas! by different steps and ways
Our modern critics aim at praise,

And rashly in the learned arts,
They judge by prejudice and parts;
For crampt by a contracted soul,
How shou'd they comprehend the whole?

I know of many a deep-learn'd brother,
Who weighs one science by another,
And makes 'mongst bards poetic schism,
Because he understands the prism;
Thinks in acuteness he surpasses,
From knowledge of the optic glasses.
There are some critics in the nation,
Profoundly vers'd in gravitation;
Who like the bulky and the great,
And judge by quantity and weight.
Some who're extremely skill'd in building,
Judge by proportion, form, and gilding,
And praise with a sagacious look
The architecture of a book.

Soon as the hops arriv'd from Kent,
Forth to the quay the merchant went,
Went critically to explore
The merit of the hops on shore.
Close to a bag he took his standing,
And at a venture thrust his hand in;
Then with the face of a physician,
Their colour scann'd and their condition;
He trusts his touch, his smell, his eyes,
The goods at once approves and buys.

Catchup so dextrous, droll, and dry,
It happen'd Catchup there was by,
Who like Iago, arch on all,
Is nothing, if not critical.
He with a sneer and with a shrug,
With eye of hawk, and face of pug,
Cry'd; fellow I admire thy fun,
“Thou most judiciously hast done,
“Who from one handful buyst ten ton.
“Does it not enter in thy crown,
“Some may be mouldy, some be brown;
“The vacancies with leaves supplied,
“And some half pick'd and some half dry'd?”
The merchant, who Tom Catchup knew,
(A merchant and a scholar too)
Said “what I've done is not absurd,
“I know my chap and take his word.—
“On thee, thou caviller at large,
“I here retort thy random charge;
“Who, in an hypercritic rage,
“Judgest ten volumes by a page;
“Whose wond'rous comprehensive view
“Grasps more than Solomon e'er knew;

“With every thing you claim alliance,
“Art, trade, profession, calling, science;
“You mete out all things by one rule,
“And are an universal fool.
“Tho' swoln with vanity and pride,
“You're but one driv'ller multiplied,
“A prig—that proves himself by starts,
“As many dolts—as there are arts.

O, gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing if not critical.
Othello, Act. 2, scene 5.

The ENGLISH BULL DOG, DUTCH MASTIFF, and QUAIL.

FABLE II.

Are we not all of race divine,
Alike of an immortal line?
Shall man to man afford derision,
But for some casual division?
To malice, and to mischief prone,
From climate, canton, or from zone,
Are all to idle discord bent,
These Kentish men—those men of Kent;
And parties and distinction make,
For parties and distinction's sake.
Souls sprung from an etherial flame,
However clad, are still the same;

Nor should we judge the heart or head,
By air we breathe, or earth we tread.
Dame Nature, who, all meritorious,
In a true Englishman is glorious;
Is lively, honest, brave and bonny,
In Monsieur, Taffy, Teague, and Sawney.
Give prejudices to the wind,
And let's be patriots of mankind.
Biggots, avaunt, sense can't endure ye,
But fabulists should try to cure ye.

A snub-nos'd Dog to fat inclin'd.
Of the true hogan mogan kind,
The favourite of an English dame,
Mynheer Van Trumpo was his name:
One morning as he chanc'd to range,
Met honest Towzer on the 'Change;
And whom have we got here, I beg,
Quoth he,—and lifted up his leg;
An English dog can't take an airing,
But foreign scoundrels must be staring.
I'd have your French dogs and your Spanish,
And all your Dutch and all your Danish,
By which our species is confounded,
Be hang'd, be poison'd, or be drowned;
No mercy on the race suspected,
Greyhounds from Italy excepted:
By them my dames ne'er prove big bellied,
For they poor toads are Farrinellied.

Well of all dogs it stands confess'd,
Your English bull dogs are the best;
I say it, and will set my hand to't,
Cambden records it, and I'll stand to't.
'Tis true we have too much urbanity,
Somewhat o'ercharg'd with soft humanity;
The best things must find food for railing,
And every creature has it's failing.

And who are you? reply'd Van Trump,
(Curling his tail upon his rump)
Vaunting the regions of distraction,
The land of party and of faction.
In all fair Europe, who but we,
For national œconomy;
For wealth and peace, that have more charms,
Than learned arts, or noisy arms.
You envy us our dancing hogs,
With all the music of the frogs;
Join'd to the Fretchscutz's bonny loon,
Who on the cymbal grinds the tune.
For poets, and the muses nine,
Beyond comparison we shine;
Oh! how we warble in our gizzards,
With X X's, H H's and with Z Z's.
For fighting—now you think I'm joking;
We love it better far than smoaking.
Ask but our troops, from man to boy,
Who all surviv'd at Fontenoy.

'Tis true, as friends, and as allies,
We're ever ready to devise;
Our loves, or any kind assistance,
That may be granted at a distance;
But if you go to brag, good bye t'ye,
Nor dare to brave the High and Mighty.

Wrong are you both, rejoins a Quail,
Confin'd within it's wiry jail:
Frequent from realm to realm I've rang'd,
And with the seasons, climates chang'd.
Mankind is not so void of grace,
But good I've found in every place:
I've seen sincerity in France,
Amongst the Germans complaisance;
In foggy Holland wit may reign,
I've known humility in Spain;
Free'd was I by a turban'd Turk,
Whose life was one entire good work;
And in this land, fair freedom's boast,
Behold my liberty is lost.
Despis'd Hibernia have I seen,
Dejected like a widow'd queen;
Her robe with dignity long worn,
And cap of liberty were torn;
Her broken fife, and harp unstrung,
On the uncultur'd ground were flung;
Down lay her spear, defil'd with rust,
And book of learning in the dust;

Her loyalty still blameless found,
And hospitality renown'd:
No more the voice of fame engross'd,
In discontent and clamour lost.—
Ah! dire corruption, art thou spread,
Where never viper rear'd it's head?
And didst thy baleful influence sow,
Where hemlock nor the nightshade grow.
Hapless, disconsolate, and brave,
Hibernia! who'll Hibernia save?
Who shall assist thee in thy woe,
Who ward from thee the fatal blow?
'Tis done, the glorious work is done,
All thanks to heav'n and Hartington,

FASHION AND NIGHT.

FABLE III.

Quam multa prava atque injusta fiunt moribus. Terent.

Fashion, a motley nymph of yore,
The Cyprian Queen to Porteus bore:
Various herself in various climes,
She moulds the manners of the times;

And turns in every age or nation,
The chequer'd wheel of variegation;
True female that ne'er knew her will,
Still changing, tho' immortal still.
One day as the inconstant maid
Was careless on her sofa laid,
Sick of the sun and tir'd with light,
She thus invok'd the gloomy night:
“Come—these malignant rays destroy,
“Thou skreen of shame, and rise of joy.
“Come from thy western ambuscade,
“Queen of the rout and masquerade:
“Nymph, without thee no cards advance,
“Without thee halts the loit'ring dance;
“Till thou approach, all, all's restraint,
“Nor is it safe to game or paint;
“The belles and beaux thy influence ask,
“Put on the universal mask.
“Let us invert, in thy disguise,
“That odious nature, we despise.”
She ceas'd—the sable mantled dame
With slow approach, and awful, came;
And frowning with sarcastic sneer,
Reproach'd the female rioteer:
“That nature you abuse, my fair,
“Was I created to repair.
“And contrast with a friendly shade,
“The pictures heaven's rich pencil made;

“And with my sleep alluring dose,
“To give laborious art repose;
“To make both noise and action cease,
“The queen of secresy and peace.
“But thou a rebel, vile, and vain,
“Usurp'st my lawful old domain;
“My scepter thou affect'st to sway,
“And all the various hours are day;
“With clamours of unreal joy,
“My sister silence you destroy;
“The blazing lamps unnatural light
“My eye balls weary and affright;
“But if I am allow'd one shade,
“Which no intrusive eyes invade,
“There all the atrocious imps of hell,
“Theft, murder, and pollution dwell:
“Thinks then how much, thou toy of chance,
“Thy praise is likely worth t'inhance;
“Blind thing that runst without a guide,
“Thou whirlpool in a rushing tide,
“No more my fame with praise pollute,
“But damn me into some repute.

WHERE'S THE POKER?

FABLE IV.

The Poker lost, poor Susan storm'd,
And all the rites of rage perform'd;

As scolding, crying, swearing, sweating,
Abusing, fidgetting, and fretting.
“Nothing but villany, and thieving;
“Good heavens! what a world we live in?
“If I don't find it in the morning,
“I'll surely give my master warning.
“He'd better far shut up his doors,
“Than keep such good for nothing whores;
“For wheresoe'er their trade they drive,
“We vartuous bodies cannot thrive.”
Well may poor Susan grunt and groan;
Misfortunes never come alone,
But tread each other's heels in throngs,
For the next day she lost the tongs:
The salt box, cullender, and pot,
Soon shar'd the same untimely lot.
In vain she vails and wages spent
On new ones—for the new ones went.
There'd been, (she swore) some dev'l or witch in,
To rob or plunder all the kitchen.
One night she to her chamber crept,
(Where for a month she had not slept;
Her master being, to her seeming,
A better play fellow than dreaming.)
Curse on the author of these wrongs,
In her own bed she found the tongs,
(Hang Thomas for an idle joker!)
In her own bed she found the poker;

With salt box, pepper box, and kettle,
With all the culinary metal.—
Be warn'd, ye fair, by Susan's crosses,
Keep chaste, and guard yourselves from losses;
For if young girls delight in kissing,
No wonder, that the poker's missing.

The TEA-POT and SCRUBBING-BRUSH.

FABLE V.

A tawdry Tea-Pot, a-la-mode,
Where art her utmost skill bestow'd,
Was much esteem'd for being old,
And on its sides with red and gold
Strange beasts were drawn, in taste Chinese,
And frightful fish, and hump-back trees.

High in an elegant beaufet,
This pompous utensil was set,
And near it, on a marble slab,
Forsaken by some careless drab,
A veteran Scrubbing-Brush was plac'd,
And the rich furniture disgrac'd.
The Tea-Pot soon began to flout,
And thus its venom spouted out:
“Who from the scullery or yard,
“Brought in this low, this vile blackguard,

“And laid in insolent position,
“Among us people of condition?
“Back to the helper in the stable,
“Scour the close-stool, or wash-house table;
“Or cleanse some horsing block, or plank,
“Nor dare approach us folks of rank.
“Turn—brother coffee-pot, your spout,
“Observe the nasty stinking lout,
“Who seems to scorn my indignation,
“Nor pays due homage to my fashion;
“Take, silver sugar dish, a view,
“And cousin cream pot, pray do you.
“Pox on you all, replies old Scrub,
“Of coxcombs ye confederate club.
“Full of impertinence, and prate,
“Ye hate all things that are sedate.
“None but such ignorant infernals,
“Judge, by appearance, and externals:
“Train'd up in toil and useful knowledge,
“I'm fellow of the kitchen college,
“And with the mop, my old associate,
“The family affairs negociate.—
“Am foe to filth, and things obscene,
“Dirty by making others clean.—
“Not shining, yet I cause to shine,
“My roughness makes my neighbours fine;
“You're fair without, but foul within,
“With shame impregnated, and sin;

“To you each impious scandal's owing,
“You set each gossip's clack a going.—
“How Parson Tythe in secret sins,
“And how Miss Dainty brought forth twins:
“How dear delicious Polly Bloom,
“Owes all her sweetness to perfume;
“Tho' grave at church, at cards can bet,
“At once a prude and a coquette.—
“'Twas better for each British virgin,
“When on roast beef, strong beer, and sturgeon,
“Joyous to breakfast they set round,
“Nor were asham'd to eat a pound.
“These were the manners, these the ways,
“In good Queen Bess's golden days;
“Each damsel ow'd her bloom and glee,
“To wholesome elbow-grease, and me,
“But now they center all their joys
“In empty rattle traps and noise.
“Thus where the Fates send you, they send
“Flagitious times, which ne'er will mend,
“'Till some Philosopher can find,
“A Scrubbing-Brush to scour the mind.

The DUELLIST.

FABLE VI.

What's honour, did your Lordship say?
My Lord, I humbly crave a day.—
'Tis difficult, and in my mind,
Like substance, cannot be defin'd.
It deals in numerous externals,
And is a legion of infernals;
Sometimes in riot and in play,
'Tis breaking of the Sabbath day:
When 'tis consider'd as a passion,
I deem it lust and fornication.
We pay our debts in honour's cause,
Lost in the breaking of the laws:
'Tis for some selfish impious end,
To murder the sincerest friend;
But wou'd you alter all the clan,
Turn out an honourable man.
Why take a pistol from the shelf,
And fight a duel with yourself.—
'Twas on a time, the Lord knows when,
In Ely, or in Lincoln fen,
A Frog and Mouse had long disputes,
Held in the language of the brutes,
Who of a certain pool and pasture,
Shou'd be the sovereign and master.

Sir, says the Frog, and d---n'd his blood,
I hold that my pretension's good;
Nor can a Brute of reason doubt it,
For all that you can squeak about it.
The Mouse averse to be o'erpower'd,
Gave him the lie, and call'd him coward;
Too hard for any frog's digestion,
To have his froghood call'd in question!
A bargain instantly was made,
No mouse of honour could evade.
On the next morn, as soon as light,
With desperate bullrushes to fight;
The morning came—and man to man,
The grand monomachy began;
Need I recount how each bravado,
Shone in montant and in passado;
To what a height their ire they carry'd,
How oft they thrusted and they parry'd;
But as these champions kept dispensing,
Finesses in the art of fencing,
A furious vulture took upon her,
Quick to decide this point of honour,
And, lawyer like, to make an end on't,
Devour'd both plaintiff and defendant.
Thus, often in our British nation,
(I speak by way of application)
A lie direct to some hot youth,
The giving which perhaps was truth,

The treading on a scoundrel's toe,
Or dealing impudence a blow,
Disputes in politics and law,
About a feather and a straw;
A thousand trifles not worth naming,
In whoring, jockeying, and gaming,
Shall cause a challenge's inditing,
And set two loggerheads a fighting;
Meanwhile the father of despair,
The prince of vanity and air,
His querry, like an hawk discovering,
O'er their devoted heads hangs hovering,
Secure to get in his tuition,
These volunteers for black perdition.

The COUNTRY SQUIRE and the MANDRAKE.

FABLE VII.

The sun had rais'd above the mead,
His glorious horizontal head;
Sad Philomela left her thorn;
The lively linnets hymn'd the morn,
And nature, like a waking bride,
Her blushes spread on ev'ry side;
The cock as usual crow'd up Tray,
Who nightly with his master lay;

The faithful spaniel gave the word,
Trelooby at the signal stirr'd,
And with his gun, from wood to wood
The man of prey his course pursu'd;
The dew and herbage all around,
Like pearls and emeralds on the ground;
Th'uncultur'd flowers that rudely rise,
Where smiling freedom art defies;
The lark, in transport, tow'ring high,
The crimson curtains of the sky,
Afflicted not Trelooby's mind—
For what is beauty to the blind?
Th'amorous voice of silvan love,
Form'd charming concerts in the grove;
Sweet zephyr sigh'd on Flora's breast,
And drew the black-bird from his nest;
Whistling he leapt from leaf to leaf;
But what is music to the deaf?

At length while poring on the ground,
With monumental look profound,
A curious vegetable caught
His—something similar to thought:
Wond'ring, he ponder'd, stooping low,
(Trelooby always lov'd a show)
And on the Mandrake's vernal station,
Star'd with prodigious observation.
Th'affronted Mandrake with a frown,
Address'd in rage the wealthy clown.

“Proud member of the rambling race,
“That vegetate from place to place,
“Pursue the leveret at large,
“Nor near thy blunderbuss discharge.
“Disdainful tho' thou look'st on me,
“What art thou, or what can'st thou be?
“Nature, that mark'd thee as a fool,
“Gave no materials for the school.
“In what consists thy work and fame?
“The preservation of the Game.—
“For what? thou avaricious elf,
“But to destroy it all thyself;
“To lead a life of drink and feast,
“T'oppress the poor, and cheat the priest,
“Or triumph in a virgin lost,
“Is all the manhood thou canst boast.—
“Pretty, in nature's various plan,
“To see a weed that's like a man;
“But 'tis a grievous thing indeed.
“To see a man so like a weed.”

The BROCADED GOWN and LINEN RAG.

FABLE VIII.

From a fine lady to her maid,
A Gown descended of brocade.

French!—Yes, from Paris—that's enough,
That wou'd give dignity to fluff.
By accident or by design,
Or from some cause, I can't divine;
A Linen Rag, (sad source of wrangling!)
On a contiguous peg was dangling,
Vilely besmear'd—for late his master,
It serv'd in quality of plaister.
The Gown, contemptuous beholder,
Gave a French shrug from either shoulder,
And rustling with emotions furious,
Bespoke the Rag in terms injurious.
“Unfit for tinder, lint or fodder,
“Thou thing of filth, (and what is odder)
“Discarded from thy owner's back,
“Dar'st thou proceed, and gold attack?
“Instant away—or in this place,
“Begar me give you coup de grace.”

To this reply'd the honest Rag,
Who lik'd a jest, and was a wag;

“Tho' thy glib tongue without a halt run,
“Thou shabby second-hand subaltern,
“At once so antient and so easy,
“At once so gorgeous and so greasy,;
“I value not thy gasconading,
“Nor all thy alamode parading;
“But to abstain from words imperious,
“And to be sober, grave, and serious.

“Tho' says friend Horace, 'tis no treason,
“At once to giggle, and to reason,
“When me you lesson, friend, you dream,
“For know I am not what I seem;
“Soon by the mills refining motion,
“The sweetest daughter of the ocean,
“Fair Medway, shall with snowy hue,
“My virgin purity renew,
“And give me reinform'd existence,
“A good retention and subsistence.
“Then shall the sons of genius join,
“To make my second life divine.
“O Murray, let me then dispense,
“Some portion of thy eloquence;
“For Greek and Roman rhetoric shine,
“United and improved in thine.
“The spirit stirring sage alarms,
“And Ciceronian sweetness charms.
“Th'Athenian Akenside may deign
“To stamp me deathless with his pen.
“While flows approv'd by all the Nine
“Th'immortal soul of every line.
“Collins, perhaps, his aid may lend,
“Melpomene's selected friend.
“Perhaps our great Augustan Gray
“May grace me with a Doric lay;

“With sweet, with manly words of woe,
“That nervously pathetic flow,
“What, Mason, may I owe to you?
“Learning's first pride, and nature's too;
“On thee she cast her sweetest smile,
“And gave thee Art's correcting file;
“That file, which with assiduous pain,
“The viper Envy bites in vain.—
“Such glories my mean lot betide,
“Hear, tawdry fool, and check thy pride.—
“Thou, after scouring, dying, turning,
“(If haply thou escape a burning)
“From gown to petticoat descending,
“And in a beggar's mantle ending,
“Shalt in a dunghill or a stye,
“'Midst filth and vermin rot and die.

Demosthenes.

MADAM and the MAGPIE.

FABLE IX.

Ye thunders roll, ye oceans roar,
And wake the rough resounding shore;
Ye guns in smoke and flames engage,
And shake the ramparts with your rage;
Boreas distend your chops and blow;
Ring, ring, ye bonny bells of Bow;

Ye drums and rattles, rend the ears,
Like twenty thousand Southwark fairs;
Bellow ye bulls, and bawl ye bats,
Encore, encore, ye amorous cats;
In vain poor things ye squeak and squall,
Soft Sylvia shall out-tongue you all:
But here she comes—there's no relief,
She comes, and blessed are the deaf.
“A Magpie! why, you're mad, my dear,
“To bring a chattering Magpie here.
“A prating play thing, fit for boys—
“You know I can't endure a noise.—
“You brought this precious present sure,
“My headach and my cough to cure.
“Pray hand him in and let him stain
“Each curtain, and each counterpane;
“Yes, he shall roost upon my toilet,
“Or on my pillow—he can't spoil it:
“He'll only make me catch my death.—
“O heavens! for a little breath!—
“Thank God, I never knew resentment,
“But am all patience and contentment,
“Or else, you paltry knave, I shou'd
“(As any other woman wou'd)
“Wring off his neck, and down your gullet
“Cram it, by way of chick or pullet.—
“Well, I must lock up all my rings,
“My jewels, and my curious things:

“My Chinese toys must go to pot;
“My dear, my pinchbecks—and what not?
“For all your Magpies are, like lawyers,
“At once thieves, brawlers, and destroyers.—
“You for a wife have search'd the globe,
“You've got a very female Job,
“Pattern of love, and peace and unity,
“Or how cou'd you expect impunity?
“O Lord! this nasty thing will bite,
“And scratch and clapper, claw and fight.
“O monstrous wretch, thus to devise,
“To tear out your poor Sylvia's eyes.
“You're a fine Popish plot pursuing,
“By presents to affect my ruin;
“And thus for good are ill retorting
“To Me, who brought you such a fortune;
“To Me, you low-liv'd clown, to Me,
“Who came of such a family;
“Me, who for age to age possess'd
“A lion rampant on my crest;
“Me, who have fill'd your empty coffers,
“Me, who'd so many better offers;
“And is my merit thus regarded,
“Cuckold, my virtue thus rewarded.
“O 'tis past sufferance—Mary—Mary,
“I faint—the citron, or the clary.

The poor man, who had bought the creature,
Out of pure conjugal good-nature,

Stood at this violent attack,
Like statutes made by Roubilliac,
Tho' form'd beyond all skill antique,
They can't their marble silence break;
They only breathe, and think, and start,
Astonish'd at their maker's art.
“Quoth Mag, fair Grizzle, I must grant,
“Your spouse a magpye cannot want:
“For troth (to give the dev'l his due)
“He keeps a rookery in you.
“Don't fear I'll tarry long, sweet lady,
“Where there is din enough already,
“We never shou'd agree together,
“Although we're so much of a feather;
“You're fond of peace, no man can doubt it,
“Who make such wond'rous noise about it;
“And your tongue of immortal mould
“Proclaims in thunder you're no scold.
“Yes, yes, you're sovereign of the tongue,
“And, like the king, can do no wrong;
“Justly your spouse restrains his voice,
“Nor vainly answers words with noise;
“This storm, which no soul can endure,
“Requires a very different cure;
“For such sour verjuice dispositions,
“Your crabsticks are the best physicians.

The BLOCKHEAD and BEEHIVE.

FABLE X.

The fragrance of the new-mown hay
Paid incense to the god of day;
Who issuing from his eastern gate,
Resplendent rode in all his state,
Rous'd by the light from soft repose,
Big with the Muse, a Bard arose,
And the fresh garden's still retreat
He measur'd with poetic feet.
The cooling, high, o'er-arching shade,
By the embracing branches made,
The smooth shorn sod, whose verdant gloss,
Was check'd with intermingled moss,
Cowslips, like topazes that shine,
Close by the silver serpentine,
Rude rustics which assert the bow'rs,
Amidst the educated flow'rs.
The lime tree and sweet-scented bay,
(The sole reward of many a lay)
And all the poets of the wing,
Who sweetly without salary sing,
Attract at once his observation,
Peopling thy wilds, Imagination!
“Sweet nature, who this turf bedews,
“Sweet nature, who's the thrush's muse!

“How she each anxious thought beguiles,
“And meets me with ten thousand smiles!
“O infinite benignity!
“She smiles, but not alone on me;
“On hill, on dale, on lake, on lawn,
“Like Celia when her picture's drawn;
“Assuming countless charms and airs,
“'Till Hayman's matchless art despairs,
“Pausing like me he dreads to fall
“From the divine original.”

More had he said—but in there came
A lout—Squire Booby was his name.—
The bard, who at a distant view,
The busy prattling blockhead knew,
Retir'd into a secret nook,
And thence his observations took.
Vex'd he cou'd find no man to teize,
The squire 'gan chattering to the bees,
And pertly with officious mien,
He thus address'd their humming queen:
“Madam, be not in any terrors,
“I only come t'amend your errors;
“My friendship briefly to display,
“And put you in a better way.
“Cease, Madam, (if I may advise)
“To carry honey on your thighs,
“Employ ('tis better, I aver)
“Old Grub the fairies coach-maker;

“For he who has sufficient art
“To make a coach, may make a cart.
“To these you'll yoke some sixteen bees,
“Who will dispatch your work with ease;
“And come and go, and go and come,
“To bring your honey harvest home.—
“Ma'm, architecture you're not skill'd in,
“I don't approve your way of building;
“In this there's nothing like design,
“Pray learn the use of Gunter's line.
“I'll serve your Highness at a pinch,
“I am a scholar every inch,
“And know each author I lay fist on,
“From Archimedes down to Whiston.—
“Tho' honey making be your trade,
“In chemistry you want some aid.—
“Pleas'd with your work, altho' you sing,
“You're not quite right—'tis not the thing
“Myself wou'd gladly be an actor,
“To help the honey manufacture.—
“I hear for war you are preparing,
“Which I should like to have a share in;
“Yet tho' the enemy be landing,
“'Tis wrong to keep an army standing.—
“If you'll ensure me from the laws,
“I'll write a pamphlet in your cause.—
“I vow I am concern'd to see
“Your want of state—œconomy.

“Of nothing living I pronounce ill,
“But I don't like your privy-council.”
“There is, I know, a certain bee,
“(Wou'd he was from the ministry)
“Which certain bee, if rightly known,
“Wou'd prove no better than a drone;
“There are (but I shall name no names,
“I never love to kindle flames)
“A pack of rogues with crimes grown callous,
“Who greatly wou'd adorn the gallows,;
“That with the wasps, for paltry gold,
“A secret correspondence hold,
“Yet you'll be great—your subjects free,
“If the whole thing be left to me.—

Thus, like the waters of the ocean,
His tongue had run in ceaseless motion,
Had not the Queen ta'en up in wrath,
This thing of folly and of froth.

“Impertinent and witless medler,
“Thou smattering, empty, noisy pedlar!
“By vanity, thou bladder blown,
“To be the football of the town.
“O happy England, land of freedom,
“Replete with statesmen, if she need'em,
“Where war is wag'd by Sue or Nell,
“And Jobson is a Machiavel!—
“Tell Hard-wick that his judgment fails,
“Show Justice how to hold her scales.—

“To fire the soul at once, and please,
“Teach Murray and Demosthenes;
“Say Vane is not by goodness grac'd,
“And wants humanity and taste.—
“Tho' Pelham with Mæcenas vies,
“Tell Fame she's false, and Truth she lies;
“And then return, thou verbal Hector,
“And give the bees another lecture.”

This said, the portal she unbarr'd,
Calling the Bees upon their guard,
And set at once about his ears
Ten thousand of her granadiers.—
Some on his lips and palate hung,
And the offending member stung.
“Just (says the bard from out the grot)
“Just, tho' severe, is your sad lot,
“Who think, and talk, and live in vain.
“Of sweet society the bane.
“Business misplac'd is a mere jest,
“And active idleness at best.”

The CITIZEN and the RED LION of BRENTFORD.

FABLE XI.

I love my friend—but love my ease,
And claim a right myself to please;

To company however prone,
At times all men wou'd be alone.
Free from each interruption rude,
Or what is meant by solitude.
My villa lies within the bills,
So—like a theatre it fills:
To me my kind acquaintance stray,
And Sunday proves no Sabbath day;
Yet many a friend and near relation,
Make up a glorious congregation;
They croud by dozens and by dozens,
And bring me all their country cousins.
Tho' cringing landlords on the road,
Who find for man and horse abode;
Tho' gilded grapes to sign-post chain'd,
Invite them to be entertain'd,
And straddling cross his kilderkin,
Tho' jolly Bacchus calls them in;
Nay—tho' my landlady wou'd trust 'em,
Pilgarlick's sure of all the custom;
And his whole house is like a fair,
Unless he only treats with air.
What? shall each pert half witted wit,
That calls me Jack, or calls me Kit,
Prey on my time, or on my table?
No—but let's hasten to the Fable.

The eve advanc'd, the sun declin'd,
Ball to the booby-hutch was join'd,

A wealthy cockney drove away,
To celebrate Saint Saturday;
Wife, daughter, pug, all crouded in,
To meet at country house their kin.
Thro' Brentford, to fair Twickenham's bow'rs,
The ungreased grumbling axle scow'rs,
To pass in rural sweets a day,
But there's a Lion in the way:
This Lion a most furious elf,
Hung up to represent himself,
Redden'd with rage, and shook his mane,
And roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd again.
Wond'rous, tho' painted on a board,
He roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd, and roar'd.
“Fool! (says the majesty of beasts)
“At whose expence a legion feasts,
“Foe to yourself, you those pursue,
“Who're eating up your cakes and you;
“Walk in, walk in, so prudence votes)
“And give poor Ball a feed of oats,
“Look to yourself, and as for ma'm,
“Coax her to take a little dram;
“Let Miss and Pug with cakes be fed,
“Then honest man go back to bed;
“You're better, and you're cheaper there,
“Where are no hangers on to fear,
“Go buy friend Newbery's new Pantheon,
“And con the tale of poor Acteon,

“Horn'd by Diana, and o'erpower'd,
“And by the dogs he fed devour'd.
“What he receiv'd from charity,
“Lewdness perhaps may give to thee;
“And tho' your spouse my lecture scorns,
“Beware his fate, beware his horns.”

“Sir,” says the Cit, (who made a stand,
And strok'd his forehead with his hand)
“By your grim gravity and grace,
“You greatly wou'd become the mace.
“This kind advice I gladly take,—
“Draw'r, bring the dram, and bring a cake,
“With good brown beer that's brisk and humming.”
“A coming, Sir! a coming, coming!
The Cit then took a hearty draught,
And shook his jolly sides and laugh'd.
Then to the king of beasts he bow'd,
And thus his gratitude avow'd.—
“Sir, for your sapient oration,
“I owe the greatest obligation.
“You stand expos'd to sun and show'r,
“I know Jack Ellis of the Tow'r;
“By him you soon may gain renown,
“He'll show your Highness to the town;
“Or, if you chuse your station here,
“To call forth Britons to their beer,
“As painter of distinguish'd note,
“He'll send his man to clean your coat.”

The Lion thank'd him for his proffer,
And if a vacancy shou'd offer,
Declar'd he had too just a notion,
To be averse to such promotion.
The Citizen drove off with joy,
“For London—Ball—for London—hoy.”
Content to bed, he went his way,
And is no Bankrupt to this day.

The HERALD and HUSBAND-MAN.

FABLE XII.

—Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus. Juvenal.

I with friend Juvenal agree,
Virtue's the true nobility;
Has of herself sufficient charms,
Altho' without a coat of arms.
Honestus does not know the rules,
Concerning Or and Fez, and Gules.
Yet sets the wond'ring eye to gaze on,
Such deeds no herald e'er could blaze on.
Tawdry atchievements out of place,
Do but augment a fool's disgrace;
A coward is a double jest,
Who has a lion for his crest;

And things are come to such a pass,
Two horses may support an ass;
And on a Gamester or Buffoon,
A moral motto's a lampoon.
An honest rustic having done
His master's work 'twixt sun and sun,
Retir'd to dress a little spot,
Adjoining to his homely cot,
Where pleas'd, in miniature, he found
His landlord's culinary ground,
Some herbs that feed, and some that heal,
The winter's medicine or meal.
The sage, which in his garden seen,
No man need ever die I ween;
The marjoram comely to behold,
With thyme, and ruddiest marygold,
And mint and penny-royal sweet,
To deck the cottage windows meet;
And baum, that yields a finer juice
Than all that China can produce;
With carrots red, and turnips white,
And leeks, Cadwallader's delight;
And all the savory crop that vie
To please the palate and the eye.
Thus, as intent, he did survey
His plot, a Herald came that way,

A man of great escutcheon'd knowledge,
And member of the motley college.
Heedless the peasant pass'd he by,
Indulging this soliloquy;
“Ye gods! what an enormous space,
“'Twixt man and man does nature place;
“While some by deeds of honour rise,
“To such a height, as far out-vies
“The visible diurnal sphere;
“While others, like this rustic here,
“Grope in the groveling ground content,
“Without or lineage or descent.
“Hail, Heraldry! mysterious art,
“Bright patroness of all desert,
“Mankind would on a level lie,
“And undistinguish'd live and die;
“Depriv'd of thy illustrious aid,
“Such! so momentous is our trade.

“Sir, says the clown, why sure you joke,
“(And kept on digging as he spoke)
“And prate not to extort conviction,
“But merrily by way of fiction.
“Say, do your manuscripts attest,
“What was old father Adam's crest;
“Did he a nobler Coat receive
“In right of marrying Mrs. Eve;
“Or had supporters when he kiss'd her,
“On dexter side, and side sinister;

“Or was his motto, prithee speak,
“English, French, Latin, Welch, or Greek;
“Or was he not, without a lye,
“Just such a nobleman as I?
“Virtue, which great defects can stifle,
“May beam distinction on a trifle;
“And honour, with her native charms,
“May beautify a coat of arms;
“Realities sometimes will thrive,
“E'en by appearance kept alive;
“But by themselves, Gules, Or, and Fez,
“Are cyphers, neither more or less:
“Keep both thy head and hands from crimes,
“Be honest in the worst of times:
“Health's on my countenance impress'd,
“And sweet content's my daily guest,
“My fame alone I build on this,
“And Garter King at Arms may kiss.”—

Cur moriatur Homo, cui salvia crescit in horto?

A STORY of a COCK and a BULL.

FABLE XIII.

Yes—we excell in arts and arms,
In learning's lore and beauty's charms.
The seas wide empire we engross,
All nations hail the British cross;

The land of liberty we tread,
And woe to his devoted head,
Who dares the contrary advance,
One Englishman's worth ten of France.
These these are truths, what man won't write for,
Won't swear, won't bully, or won't fight for;
Yet (tho' perhaps I speak thro' vanity)
Wou'd we'd a little more humanity;
Too far, I fear, I've drove the jest,
So leave to Cock and Bull the rest.

A Bull who'd listen'd to the vows
Of above fifteen hundred cows;
And serv'd his master fresh and fresh,
With hecatombs of special flesh,
Like to an hermit or a dervise,
(Grown old and feeble in the service)
Now left the meadow's green parade,
And sought a solitary shade.
The cows proclaim'd in mournful lowing,
The Bull's deficiency in wooing,
And to their disappointed master,
All told the terrible disaster.

“Is this the case (quoth Hodge) O rare!
“But hold, to-morrow is the fair.
“Thou to thy doom, old boy, art fated,
“To-morrow—and thou shalt be baited.”
The deed was done—curse on the wrong!
Bloody description, hold thy tongue.—

Victorious yet the Bull return'd,
And with stern silence inly mourn'd.

A vet'ran, brave, majestic Cock,
Who serv'd for hour glass, guard, and clock,
Who crow'd the mansion's first relief,
Alike from goblin and from thief;
Whose youth escap'd the Christmas skillet,
Whose vigour brav'd the Shrovetide billet,
Had just return'd in wounds and pain,
Triumphant from the barbarous train.—
By riv'let's brink, with trees o'er grown,
He heard his fellow sufferer's moan;
And greatly scorning wounds and smart,
Gave him three cheers with all his heart.

“Rise, neighbour, from that pensive attitude,
“Brave witness of vile man's ingratitude;
“And let us both with spur and horn,
“The cruel reasoning monster scorn.—
“Methinks at every dawn of day,
“When first I chant my blithsome lay,
“Methinks I hear from out the sky,
“All will be better by and by;
“When bloody, base, degenerate man,
“Who deviates from his maker's plan;
“Who nature and her works abuses,
“And thus his fellow servants uses,
“Shall greatly, and yet justly want,
“The mercy he refus'd to grant;

“And (while his heart his conscience purges)
“Shall wish to be the brute he scourges.”

The SNAKE, the GOOSE, and NIGHTINGALE.

Humbly addressed to the Hissers and Catcallers attending both Houses.

FABLE XIV.

When rul'd by truth and nature's ways,
When just to blame, yet fix'd to praise,
As votary of the Delphic God,
I reverence the critic's rod;
But when inflam'd with spite alone,
I hold all critics but as one;
For tho' they class themselves with art,
And each man takes a different part;
Yet whatsoe'er they praise and blame;
They in their motives are the same.

Forth as she waddled in the brake,
A grey Goose stumbled on a Snake,
And took th'occasion to abuse her,
And of rank plagiarism accuse her.
“'Twas I, quoth she, in every vale,
“First hiss'd the noisy Nightingale;
“And boldly cavill'd at each note,
“That twitter'd in the Woodlark's throat:

“I, who sublime and more than mortal,
“Must stoop to enter at the portal,
“Have ever been the first to show
“My hate to every thing that's low;
“While thou, mean mimic of my manner,
“(Without inlisting to my banner)
“Dar'st in thy grov'ling situation,
“To counterfeit my sibilation.”

The Snake enrag'd, reply'd, “Know, Madam,
“I date my charter down from Adam;
“Nor can I, since I bear the bell,
“E'er imitate where I excell.
“Had any other creature dar'd
“Once to aver, what you've aver'd,
“I might have been more fierce and fervent,
“But you're a Goose,—and so your servant.”
“Truce with your folly and your pride,”
The warbling Philomela cry'd;
“Since no more animals we find
“In nature, of the hissing kind,
“You should be friends with one another,
“Nay, kind as brother is to brother.
“For know, thou pattern of abuse,
“Thou Snake art but a crawling goose;
“And thou dull dabbler in each lake,
“Art nothing but a feather'd Snake.”

Mrs. ABIGAIL and the DUMB WAITER.

FABLE XV.

With frowning brow and aspect low'ring,
As Abigail one day was scow'ring,
From chair to chair she past along,
Without soliloquy or song;
Content, in humdrum mood, t'adjust
Her matters to disperse the dust.—
Thus plodded on the sullen fair,
'Till a Dumb-Waiter claim'd her care;
She then in rage, with shrill salute,
Bespoke the inoffensive mute:—
“Thou stupid tool of vapourish asses,
“With thy brown shelves for pots and glasses;
“Thou foreign whirligigg, for whom
“US honest folks must quit the room;
“And, like young misses at a christ'ning,
“Are forc'd to be content with list'ning;
“Tho' thou'rt a fav'rite of my masters,
“I'll set thee gadding on thy castors.”
This said—with many a rough attack,
She scrubb'd him 'till she made him crack;
Insulted stronger still and stronger,
The poor dumb thing, could hold no longer.—
“Thou drab, born mops and brooms to dandle,
“Thou haberdasher of small scandal,

“Factor of family abuse,
“Retailer of domestic news;
“My lord, as soon as I appear,
“Confines thee in thy proper sphere;
“Or else, at ev'ry place of call,
“The chandler's shop, or cobler's stall,
“Or ale-house, where (for petty tales,
“Gin, beer, and ale are constant vails)
“Each word at table that was spoke,
“Wou'd soon become the public joke,
“And chearful innocent converse,
“To scandal warp'd—or something worse.—
“Whene'er my master I attend,
“Freely his mind he can unbend;—
“But when such praters fill my place,
“Then nothing should be said—but grace.”

The BAG-WIG and the TOBACCO-PIPE.

FABLE XVI.

A bag-wig of a jauntee air,
Trick'd up with all a barber's care,
Loaded with powder and perfume,
Hung in a spendthrift's dressing-room:
Close by its side, by chance convey'd,
A black Tobacco-pipe was laid;

And with its vapours far and near,
Outstunk the essence of Monsieur;
At which it's rage, the thing of hair,
Thus, bristling up, began declare.

“Bak'd dirt! that with intrusion rude
“Breakst in upon my solitude,
“And whose offensive breath defiles
“The air for forty thousand miles—
“Avaunt—pollution's in thy touch—
“O barb'rous English! horrid Dutch!
“I cannot bear it—Here, Sue, Nan,
“Go call the maid to call the man,
“And bid him come without delay,
“To take this odious pipe away.
“Hideous! sure some one smoak'd thee, Friend,
“Reversely, at his t'other end.
“Oh! what mix'd odours! what a throng
“Of salt and sour, of stale and strong!
“A most unnatural combination,
“Enough to mar all perspiration—
“Monstrous! again—'twou'd vex a saint!
“Susan, the drops—or else I faint!”
The pipe (for 'twas a pipe of soul)
Raising himself upon his bole,
In smoke, like oracle of old,
Did thus his sentiments unfold.

“Why, what's the matter, Goodman Swagger,
“Thou flaunting French, fantastic bragger?

“Whose whole fine speech is (with a pox)
“Ridiculous and heterodox.
“'Twas better for the English nation
“Before such scoundrels came in fashion,
“When none sought hair in realms unknown,
“But every blockhead bore his own.
“Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
“Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe,
“Who, with my cloud-compelling aid
“Help our plantations and our trade,
“And am, when sober and when mellow,
“An upright, downright, honest fellow.
“Tho' fools, like you, may think me rough,
“And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff,
“Yet your contempt I glad receive,
“'Tis all the fame that you can give:
“None finery or fopp'ry prize;
“But they who've something to disguise;
“For simple nature hates abuse,
“And Plainness is the dress of Use.”

CARE and GENEROSITY.

FABLE XVII.

Old Care with Industry and Art,
At length so well had play'd his part;

He heap'd up such an ample store,
That Av'rice cou'd not sigh for more:
Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with gold;
The land all round him was his own,
With corn his crowded granaries groan.
In short so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain:
With happiness oppress'd he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd;
Good, amiable, sincere and free,
Her name was Generosity.
'Twas her's the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe.
Her doors to all were open'd wide,
The pilgrim there might safe abide:
For th'hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew;
There Sickness laid her aching head,
And there Distress cou'd find a bed.—
Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffus'd she blessings round the land:
Her gifts and glory lasted long,
And numerous was th'accepting throng.
At length pale Penury seiz'd the dame,
And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,

She found her riches at an end,
And that she had not made one friend.—
All curs'd her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before;
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her came Care.—
And cry'd, my dear, if you will join
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
All will be well—you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with Wealth no more.—
Tho' I restrain your bounteous heart,
You still shall act the generous part.—
The Bridal came—great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest;
The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd of Care and Glee,
They christen'd her Œconomy;
And styled her fair Discretion's Queen,
The mistress of the golden mean.
Now Generosity confin'd,
Perfectly easy in her mind;
Still loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care.

The PIG.

FABLE XVIII.

In every age, and each profession,
Men err the most by prepossession;
But when the thing is clearly shown,
And fairly stated, fully known,
We soon applaud what we deride,
And penitence succeeds to pride.—
A certain Baron on a day,
Having a mind to shew away,
Invited all the Wits and Wags,
Foot, Massey, Shuter, Yates and Skeggs,
And built a large commodious stage,
For the Choice Spirits of the age;
But above all, among the rest,
There came a Genius who profess'd
To have a curious trick in store,
Which never was perform'd before.
Thro' all the town this soon got air,
And the whole house was like a fair;
But soon his entry as he made,
Without a prompter, or parade,
'Twas all expectance, all suspence,
And silence gagg'd the audience.
He hid his head behind his wig,
And with such truth took off a Pig,

All swore 'twas serious, and no joke,
For doubtless underneath his cloak,
He had conceal'd some grunting elf,
Or, was a real hog himself.
A search was made, no pig was found—
With thund'ring claps the seats resound,
And pit, and box, and galleries roar,
With—O rare! bravo! and encore.
Old Roger Grouse, a country clown,
Who yet knew something of the town,
Beheld the mimic and his whim,
And on the morrow challeng'd him,
Declaring to each beau and bunter,
That he'd out-grunt th'egregious grunter.
The morrow came—the croud was greater—
But prejudice and rank ill-nature
Usurp'd the minds of men and wenches,
Who came to hiss, and break the benches.
The mimic took his usual station,
And squeak'd with general approbation.
Again, encore! encore! they cry—
'Twas quite the thing—'twas very high:
Old Grouse conceal'd, amidst the racket,
A real Pig beneath his jacket—
Then forth he came—and with his nail
He pinch'd the urchin by the tail.
The tortur'd Pig from out his throat,
Produc'd the genuine nat'ral note.

All bellow'd out—'twas very sad!
Sure never stuff was half so bad!
That like a Pig!—each cry'd in scoff,
Pshaw! Nonsense! Blockhead! Off! Off! Off!
The mimic was extoll'd; and Grouse
Was hiss'd, and catcall'd from the house.—
“Soft ye, a word before I go,”
Quoth honest Hodge—and stooping low
Produc'd the Pig, and thus aloud
Bespoke the stupid, partial croud:
“Behold, and learn from this poor creature.
“How much you Critics know of Nature.”

BALLADS.

SWEET WILLIAM.

BALLAD I.

I

By a prattling stream, on a Midsummer's eve,
Where the woodbine and jess'mine their boughs interweave,
Fair Flora, I cry'd, to my harbour repair,
For I must have a chaplet for sweet William's hair.

II

She brought me the vi'let that grows on the hill,
The vale-dwelling lilly, and gilded jonquill:
But such languid odours how cou'd I approve,
Just warm from the lips of the lad that I love.

III

She brought me, his faith and his truth to display,
The undying myrtle, and ever-green bay:
But why these to me, who've his constancy known?
And Billy has laurels enough of his own.

IV

The next was a gift that I could not contemn,
For she brought me two roses that grew on a stem:
Of the dear nuptial tie they stood emblems confest,
So I kiss'd 'em, and press'd 'em quite close to my breast.

V

She brought me a sun-flow'r—This, fair one's, your due;
For it once was a maiden, and love-sick like you:
Oh! give it me quick, to my shepherd I'll run,
As true to his flame, as this flow'r to the sun.

The LASS with the GOLDEN LOCKS.

BALLAD II.

I

No more of my Harriot, of Polly no more,
Nor all the bright beauties that charm'd me before;
My heart for a slave to gay Venus I've sold,
And barter'd my freedom for ringlets of gold:
I'll throw down my pipe, and neglect all my flocks
And will sing to my lass with the golden locks.

II

Tho' o'er her white forehead the gilt tresses flow,
Like the rays of the sun on a hillock of snow;
Such painters of old drew the Queen of the Fair,
'Tis the taste of the antients, 'tis classical hair:
And tho' witlings may scoff, and tho' raillery mocks,
Yet I'll sing to my lass with the golden locks.

III

To live and to love, to converse and be free,
Is loving, my charmer, and living with thee:
Away go the hours in kisses and rhime,
Spite of all the grave lectures of old father Time;
A fig for his dials, his watches and clocks,
He's best spent with the lass of the golden locks.

IV

Than the swan in the brook she's more dear to my sight,
Her mien is more stately, her breast is more white,
Her sweet lips are rubies, all rubies above,
They are fit for the language or labour of love;
At the park in the mall, at the play in the box,
My lass bears the bell with her golden locks.

V

Her beautiful eyes, as they roll or they flow,
Shall be glad for my joy, or shall weep for my woe;
She shall ease my fond heart, and shall sooth my soft pain;
While thousands of rivals are sighing in vain;
Let them rail at the fruit they can't reach, like the fox,
While I have the lass with the golden locks.

On my WIFE's BIRTH-DAY.

BALLAD III.

I

'Tis Nancy's birth-day—raise your strains,
Ye nymphs of the Parnassian plains,
And sing with more than usual glee
To Nancy, who was born for me.

II

Tell the blithe Graces as they bound?
Luxuriant in the buxom round;
They're not more elegantly free,
Than Nancy, who was born for me.

III

Tell royal Venus, tho' she rove,
The Queen of the immortal grove;
That she must share her golden fee
With Nancy, who was born for me.

IV

Tell Pallas, tho' th'Athenian school,
And ev'ry trite pedantic fool,
On her to place the palm agree,
'Tis Nancy's, who was born for me.

V

Tell spotless Dian, tho' she range,
The regent of the up-land grange,
In chastity she yields to thee,
O, Nancy, who wast born for me.

VI

Tell Cupid, Hymen, and tell Jove,
With all the pow'rs of life and love,
That I'd disdain to breathe or be,
If Nancy was not born for me.

The DECISION.

BALLAD IV.

I

My Florio, wildest of his sex,
(Who sure the veriest saint wou'd vex)
From beauty roves to beauty;
Yet, tho' abroad the wanton roam,
Whene'er he deigns to stay at home,
He always minds his duty.

II

Something to every charming she,
In thoughtless prodigality,
He's granting still and granting,
To Phyllis that, to Cloe this,
And every madam, every miss;
Yet I find nothing wanting.

III

If haply I his will displease,
Tempestuous as th'autumnal seas
He foams and rages ever;

But when he ceases from his ire,
I cry, such spirit, and such fire,
Is surely wond'rous clever.

IV

I ne'er want reason to complain;
But sweet is pleasure after pain,
And every joy grows greater.
Then trust me, damsels, whilst I tell,
I should not like him half so well,
If I cou'd make him better.

Tho TALKATIVE FAIR.

BALLAD V.

I

From morn to night, from day to day
At all times and at every place,
You scold, repeat, and sing, and say,
Nor are there hopes you'll ever cease:

II

Forbear, my Celia, oh! forbear,
If your own health, or ours you prize
For all mankind that hear you, swear
Your tongue's more killing han your yes.

III

Your tongue's a traitor to your face,
Your fame's by your own noise obscur'd,
All are distracted while they gaze;
But if they listen, they are cur'd.

IV

Your silence wou'd acquire more praise,
Than all you say, or all I write;
One look ten thousand charms displays;
Then hush—and be an angel quite.

The SILENT FAIR.

BALLAD V.

I

From all her fair loquacious kind,
So different is my Rosalind,
That not one accent can I gain
To crown my hopes, or sooth my pain.

II

Ye lovers, who can construe sighs,
And are the interpreters of eyes,
To language all her looks translate,
And in her gestures read my fate.

III

And if in them you chance to find
Aught that is gentle, aught that's kind,

Adieu mean hopes of being great,
And all the littleness of state.

IV

All thoughts of grandeur I'll despise,
Which from dependence take their rise;
To serve her shall be my employ,
And love's sweet agony my joy.

The FORCE of INNOCENCE.

BALLAD VII.

To Miss C---.

I

The blooming damsel, whose defence
Is adamantine innocence,
Requires no guardian to attend
Her steps, for modesty's her friend:
Tho' her fair arms are weak to wield
The glitt'ring spear, and massy shield;
Yet safe from force and fraud combin'd,
She is an Amazon in mind.

II

With this artillery she goes,
Not only 'mongst the harmless beaux:
But e'en unhurt and undismay'd,
Views the long sword and fierce cockade,

Tho' all a syren as she talks,
And all a goddess as she walks,
Yet decency each action guides,
And wisdom o'er her tongue presides.

III

Place her in Russia's showery plains,
Where a perpetual winter reigns,
The elements may rave and range,
Yet her fix'd mind will never change.
Place her, Ambition, in thy tow'rs,
'Mongst the more dang'rous golden show'rs,
E'en there she'd spurn the venal tribe,
And fold her arms against the bribe.

IV

Leave her, defenceless and alone,
A pris'ner in the torrid zone,
The sunshine there might vainly vie
With the bright lustre of her eye;
But Phœbus' self, with all his fire,
Cou'd ne'er one unchaste thought inspire;
But Virtue's path she'd still pursue
And still, my fair, wou'd copy you.

The DISTRESSED DAMSEL.

BALLAD VIII.

I

Of all my experience how vast the amount,
Since fifteen long winters I fairly can count!
Was ever a damsel so sadly betray'd,
To live to these years and yet still be a maid?

II

Ye heroes triumphant by land and by sea,
Sworn vot'ries to love, but unmindful of me;
You can storm a strong fort, or can form a blockade,
Yet ye stand by like dastards, and see me a maid.

III

Ye lawyers so just, who with slippery tongue,
Can do what you please, or with right, or with wrong,
Can it be or by law or by equity said,
That a buxom young girl ought to die an old maid

IV

Ye learned physicians, whose excellent skill
Can save, or demolish, can cure, or can kill,
To a poor, forlorn damsel contribute your aid,
Who is sick—very sick—of remaining a maid.

V

Ye fops, I invoke, not to list to my song,
Who answer no end—and to no sex belong;
Ye echoes of echoes, and shadows of shade—
For if I had you—I might still be a maid.

The FAIR RECLUSE.

BALLAD IX.

I

Ye ancient patriarchs of the wood,
That veil around these awful glooms,
Who many a century have stoode
In verdant age, that ever blooms.

II

Ye Gothic tow'rs, by vapours dense,
Obscur'd into severer state,
In pastoral magnificence
At once so simple and so great.

III

Why all your jealous shades on me,
Ye hoary elders, do ye spread?
Fair Innocence shou'd still be free,
Nought shou'd be chain'd, but what we dread.

IV

Say, must these tears for ever flow?
Can I from patience learn content,
While solitude still nurses woe,
And leaves me leisure to lament.

V

My guardian see!—who wards off peace,
Whose cruelty is his employ,
Who bids the tongue of transport cease,
And stops each avenue to joy.

VI

Freedom of air alone is giv'n,
To aggravate, not sooth my grief,
To view th'immensely-distant heav'n,
My nearest prospect of relief.

To Miss --- one of the Chichester Graces.

BALLAD X.

Written in Goodwood Gardens, September, 1750.

I

“Ye hills that overlook the plains,
“Where wealth and Gothic greatness reigns,
“Where Nature's hand by Art is check'd,
“And Taste herself is architect;
“Ye fallows grey, ye forests brown,
“And seas that the vast prospect crown,
“Ye fright the soul with Fancy's store,
“Nor can she one idea more!”

II

I said—when dearest of her kind
(Her form, the picture of her mind)
Chloris approach'd—The landskip flew!
All Nature vanish'd from my view!
She seem'd all Nature to comprize,
Her lips! her beauteous breasts! her eyes!
That rous'd, and yet abash'd desire,
With liquid, languid, living fire!

III

But then—her voice!—how fram'd t'endear!
The music of the Gods to hear!
Wit that so pierc'd, without offence,
So brac'd by the strong nerves of sense!
Pallas with Venus play'd her part,
To rob me of an honest heart;
Prudence and Passion jointly strove,
And reason was th'ally of Love.

IV

Ah me! thou sweet, delicious maid,
From whence shall I solicit aid?
Hope and despair alike destroy,
One kills with grief, and one with joy.
Celestial Chloris! Nymph divine!
To save me, the dear task be thine.
Tho' conquest be the woman's care,
The angel's glory is to spare.

LOVELY HARRIOT,

A Crambo Ballad.

BALLAD XI.

I

Great Phœbus in his vast career,
Who forms the self succeeding year,
Thron'd in his amber chariot;

Sees not an object half so bright,
Nor gives such joy, such life, such light,
As dear delicious Harriot.

II

Pedants of dull phlegmatic turns,
Whose pulse not beats, whose blood not burns,
Read Malebranche, Boyle and Marriot;
I scorn their philosophic strife,
And study nature from the life,
(Where most she shines) in Harriot.

III

When she admits another wooer,
I rave like Shakespeare's jealous Moor,
And am as raging Barry hot.
True, virtuous, lovely, was his dove,
But virtue, beauty, truth and love,
Are other names for Harriot.

IV

Ye factious members who oppose,
And tire both Houses with your prose,
Tho' never can ye carry aught;
You might command the nation's sense,
And without bribery convince,
Had ye the voice of Harriot.

V

You of the music common weal,
Who borrow, beg, compose, or steal,
Cantata, air, or ariet;

You'd burn your cumb'rous works in score,
And sing, compose, and play no more,
If once you heard my Harriot.

VI

Were there a wretch who dar'd essay,
Such wond'rous sweetness to betray
I'd call him an Iscariot;
But her e'en satire can't annoy,
So strictly chaste, but kindly coy,
Is fair angelic Harriot.

VII

While sultans, emperors, and kings,
(Mean appetite of earthly things)
In all the waste of war riot;
Love's softer duel be my aim,
Praise, honour, glory, conquest, fame,
Are center'd all in Harriot.

VIII

I swear by Hymen and the pow'rs
That haunt Love's ever blushing bow'rs,
So sweet a nymph to marry ought;
Then may I hug her silken yoke,
And give the last, the final stroke,
T'accomplish lovely Harriot.

To JENNY GRAY.

BALLAD XII.

I

Bring, Phœbus, from Parnassian bow'r,s
A chaplet of poetic flowers,
That far out bloom the May;
Bring verse so smooth, and thoughts so free,
And all the Muses heraldry,
To blazon Jenny Gray.

II

Observe yon almond's rich perfume,
Presenting Spring with early bloom,
In ruddy tints how gay!
Thus, foremost of the blushing fair,
With such a blithsome, buxom air,
Blooms lovely Jenny Gray.

III

The merry, chirping, plumy throng,
The bushes and the twigs among
That pipe the sylvan lay,
All hush'd at her delightful voice
In silent extacy rejoice,
And study Jenny Gray.

IV

Ye balmy odour-breathing gales,
That lightly sweep the green robed vales,
And in each rose-bush play;

I know you all, you're arrant cheats,
And steal your more than natural sweets,
From lovely Jenny Gray.

V

Pomona and that Goddess bright,
The florist's and the maids delight,
In vain their charms display;
The luscious nectarine, juicy peach,
In richness, nor in sweetness reach
The lips of Jenny Gray.

VI

To the sweet knot of Graces three,
Th'immortal band of bards agree,
A tuneful tax to pay;
There yet remains a matchless worth,
There yet remains a lovelier fourth,
And she is Jenny Gray.

To Miss KITTY BENNET and her Cat Crop.

BALLAD XIII.

I

Full many a heart, that now is free,
May shortly, fair one, beat for thee,
And court thy pleasing chain;
Then prudent hear a friend's advice,
And learn to guard, by conduct nice,
The conquests you shall gain.

II

When Tabby Tom your Crop pursues,
How many a bite, and many a bruise
The amorous Swain endures?
E'er yet one favouring glance he catch,
What frequent squalls, how many a scratch
His tenderness procures?

III

Tho' this, 'tis own'd, be somewhat rude,
And Puss by nature be a prude,
Yet hence you may improve;
By decent pride, and dint of scoff,
Keep caterwauling coxcombs off,
And ward th'attacks of love.

IV

Your Crop a mousing when you see,
She teaches you œconomy,
Which makes the pot to boil:
And when she plays with what she gains,
She shews you pleasure springs from pains,
And mirth's the fruit of toil.

The PRETTY BAR-KEEPER of the MITRE.

BALLAD XIV.

Written at College, 1741.

I

“Relax, sweet girl, your wearied mind,
“And to hear the poet talk,
“Gentlest creature of your kind,
“Lay aside your sponge and chalk;
“Cease, cease the bar-bell, nor refuse
“To hear the jingle of the Muse.

II

“Hear your numerous vot'ries prayers,
“Come, O come, and bring with thee
“Giddy whimsies, wanton airs,
“And all love's soft artillery;
“Smiles and throbs, and frowns, and tears,
“With all the little hopes and fears.

III

She heard—she came—and e'er she spoke,
Not unravish'd you might see
Her wanton eyes that wink'd the joke,
Ee'r her tongue could set it free.
While a forc'd blush her cheeks inflam'd,
And seem'd to say she was asham'd.

IV

No handkerchief her bosom hid,
No tippet from our sight debars
Her heaving breasts with moles o'erspread,
Mark'd, little hemispheres, with stars;
While on them all our eyes we move,
Our eyes that meant immoderate love.

V

In every gesture, every air,
Th'imperfect lisp, the languid eye;
In every motion of the fair
We awkward imitators vie,
And forming our own from her face,
Strive to look pretty, as we gaze.

VI

If e'er she sneer'd, the mimic crowd
Sneer'd too, and all their pipes laid down;
If she but stoop'd, we lowly bow'd,
And sullen if she 'gan to frown
In solemn silence sat profound—
But did she laugh!—the laugh went round.

VII

Her snuff-box if the nymph pull'd out,
Each Johnian in responsive airs
Fed with the tickling dust his snout,
With all the politesse of bears.
Dropt she her fan beneath her hoop,
Ev'n stake-stuck Clarians strove to stoop.

VIII

The tons of culinary Kays
Smoaking from the eternal treat,
Lost in extatic transport gaze,
As tho' the fair was good to eat;
Ev'n gloomiest King's men, pleas'd awhile,
“Grin horribly a ghastly smile.”

IX

But hark, she cries, “my mama calls,”
And strait she's vanish'd from our fight;
'Twas then we saw the empty bowls,
'Twas then we first perceiv'd it night;
While all, sad Synod, silent moan,
Both that she went—and went alone.

The WIDOW's RESOLUTION.

A Cantata.

BALLAD XV.

Recitative.

Sylvia, the most contented of her kind,
Remain'd in joyless widowhood resign'd:
In vain to gain her every shepherd strove,
Each passion ebb'd, but grief, which drowned love.

Air.

Away, she cry'd, ye swains, be mute,
Nor with your odious fruitless suit
My loyal thoughts controul;

My grief on Resolution's rock
Is built, nor can temptation shock
The purpose of my soul.

Tho' blith content with jocund air
May balance comfort against care,
And make me life sustain;
Yet ev'ry joy has wing'd its flight,
Except that pensive dear delight
That takes it's rise from pain.

Recitative.

She said:—A youth approach'd of manly grace,
A son of Mars, and of th'Hibernian race:—
In flow'ry rhetorick he no time employ'd,
He came—he woo'd—he wedded and enjoy'd:

Air.

Dido thus of old protested,
Ne'er to know a second flame;
But alas! she found she jested,
When the stately Trojan came.

Nature a disguise may borrow,
Yet this maxim true will prove,
Spite of pride, and spite of sorrow,
She that has an heart must love.

What on earth is so enchanting
As beauty weeping on her weeds!
Thro' flowing eyes on bosom panting
What a rapturous ray proceeds?

Since from death there's no returning,
When th'old lover bids adieu,
All the pomp and farce of mourning
Are but signals for a new.

EPISTLES.

EPISTLE to Mrs. TYLER.

It ever was allow'd, dear Madam,
Ev'n from the days of father Adam,
Of all perfection flesh is heir to,
Fair patience is the gentlest virtue;
This is a truth our grandames teach,
Our poets sing, and parsons preach;
Yet after all, dear Moll, the fact is
We seldom put it into practice;
I'll warrant (if one knew the truth)
You've call'd me many an idle youth,
And styled me rude ungrateful bear,
Enough to make a parson swear.

I shall not make a long oration
In order for my vindication,
For what the plague can I say more
Than lazy dogs have done before;
Such stuff is naught but mere tautology,
And so take that for my apology.

First then for custards, my dear Mary,
The produce of your dainty dairy,
For stew'd, for bak'd, for boil'd, for roast,
And all the teas and all the toast;
With thankful tongue and bowing attitude,
I here present you with my gratitude:
Next for your apples, pears and plumbs
Acknowledgment in order comes;
For wine, for ale, for fowl, for fish—for
Ev'n all one's appetite can wish for:
But O ye pens and, O ye pencils,
And all ye scribbling utensils,
Say in what words and in what metre,
Shall unfeign'd admiration greet her,
For that rich banquet so refin'd
Her conversation gave the mind;
The solid meal of sense and worth,
Set off by the desert of mirth;
Wit's fruit and pleasure's genial bowl,
And all the joyous flow of soul;
For these, and every kind ingredient
That form'd your love—your most obedient.

To the Rev. Mr. Powell, on the Non-performance of a Promise he made the Author of a Hare.

Friend, with regard to this same hare,
Am I to hope, or to despair?

By punctual post the letter came,
With P---ll's hand, and P---ll's name:
Yet there appear'd, for love or money,
Nor hare, nor leveret, nor coney.
Say, my dear Morgan, has my lord,
Like other great ones kept his word?
Or have you been deceiv'd by 'squire?
Or has your poacher lost his wire?
Or in some unpropitious hole,
Instead of puss, trepann'd a mole?
Thou valiant son of great Cadwallader,
Hast thou a hare, or hast thou swallow'd her?

But, now, me thinks, I hear you say,
(And shake your head) “Ah, well-a-day!
“Painful pre-em'nence to be wise,
“We wits have such short memories.
“Oh, that the act was not in force!
“A horse!—my kingdom for a horse!
“To love—yet be deny'd the sport!
“Oh! for a friend or two at court!
“God knows, there's scarce a man of quality
“In all our peerless principality—

But hold—for on his country joking,
To a warm Welchman's most provoking.
As for poor puss, upon my honour,
I never set my heart upon her.
But any gift from friend to friend,
Is pleasing in it's aim and end.

I, like the cock, wou'd spurn a jewel,
Sent by th'unkind, th'unjust, and cruel.
But honest P---!—Sure from him
A barley-corn wou'd be a gem.
Pleas'd therefore had I been, and proud,
And prais'd thy generous heart aloud,
If 'stead of hare (but do not blab it)
You'd sent me only a Welch rabbit.

EPIGRAMS.

The SICK MONKEY.

Epigram I.

A lady sent lately for one Doctor Drug,
To come in an instant, and clyster poor Pug—
As the fair one commanded he came at the word;
And did the grand office in tie-wig and sword.

The affair being ended, so sweet and so nice!
He held out his hand with “you—know, ma'am, my price.”
“Your price,” says the lady—“Why, Sir, he's your brother,
“And doctors must never take fees of each other.”

APOLLO and DAPHNE.

Epigram II.

When Phœbus was am'rous, and long'd to be rude,
Miss Daphne cry'd pish! and ran swift to the wood,

And rather than do such a naughty affair,
She became a fine laurel to deck the god's hair.

The nymph was be sure of a cold constitution,
To be turn'd to a tree was a strange resolution;
But in this she resembled a true modern spouse,
For she fled from his arms to distinguish his brows.

The MISER and the MOUSE.

Epigram III.

[_]

(From the Greek.)

To a Mouse says a Miser, “my dear Mr. Mouse,
“Pray what may you please for to want in my house?”
Says the Mouse, “Mr. Miser, pray keep yourself quiet,
“You are safe in your person, your purse, and your diet:
“A lodging I want, which ev'n you may afford,
“But none wou'd come here to beg, borrow, or board.”

Epigram IV. On a Woman who was singing Ballads for Money to bury her Husband.

For her Husband deceas'd, Sally chants the sweet lay,
Why, faith, this is singular sorrow;
But (I doubt) since she sings for a dead man to-day,
She'll cry for a live one to-morrow.

To the Right Hon. Earl of Darlington, on his being appointed Paymaster of his Majesty's Forces.

“The royal hand, my Lord, shall raise
“To nobler heights thy name;
“Who praises thee shall meet with praise,
“Ennobled in thy same.
Smart's Ode.

What the prophetic muse foretold is true,
And royal justice gives to worth its due;
The Roman spirit now breathes forth again,
And Virtue's temple leads to honour's fane;
But not alone to thee this grant extends,
Nor in thy rise great Brunswick's goodness ends:
Whoe'er has known thy hospitable dome,
Where each glad guest still finds himself at home:
Whoe'er has seen the numerous poor that wait
To bless thy bounty at the expanded gate;
Whoe'er has seen thee general joy impart,
And smile away chagrin from every heart,
All these are happy—pleasure reigns confest,
And thy prosperity makes thousands blest.

On the Death of Master Newbery, after a lingering Illness.

Henceforth be every tender tear supprest,
Or let us weep for joy, that he is blest;
From grief to bliss, from earth to heav'n remov'd,
His mem'ry honour'd, as his life belov'd:
That heart o'er which no evil e'er had pow'r;
That disposition sickness could not sour;
That sense so oft to riper years denied,
That patience heroes might have own'd with pride.
His painful race undauntedly he ran,
And in the eleventh winter died a man.

Epitaph on the Rev. Mr. Reynolds, at St. Peter's in the Isle of Thanet.

Was Rhetoric on the lips of sorrow hung,
Or cou'd affliction lend the heart a tongue,
Then should my soul, in noble anguish free,
Do glorious justice to herself and thee.
But ah! when loaded with a weight of woe,
Ev'n nature, blessed nature is our foe.
When we should praise, we sympathetic groan,
For sad mortality is all our own.

Yet but a word: as lowly as he lies,
He spurns all empires and asserts the skies.
Blush, power! he had no interest here below;
Blush, malice! that he dy'd without a foe;
The universal friend, so form'd to engage,
Was far too precious for this world and age.
Years were deny'd, for (such his worth and truth)
Kind heaven has call'd him to eternal youth.

To my worthy Friend Mr. T. B one of the People called Quakers.

Written in his Garden July, 1752.

Free from the proud, the pompous, and the vain,
How simply neat, and elegantly plain
Thy rural villa lifts its modest head,
Where fair convenience reigns in fashion's stead;
Where sober plenty does its bliss impart,
And glads thine hospitable, honest heart.
Mirth without vice, and rapture without noise,
And all the decent, all the manly joys!
Beneath a shadowy bow'r, the summer's pride,
Thy darling Tullia sitting by thy side;
Where light and shade in varied scenes display
A contrast sweet, like friendly yea and nay.
My hand, the secretary of my mind,
Leaves thee these lines upon the poplar's rind.

His daughter.

On seeing the Picture of Miss R--- G---N. Drawn by Mr. Varelst, of Threadneedle-street.

Shall candid

See Verses on a Flower painted by Varelst.

Prior, in immortal lays,
Thy ancestor with generous ardour praise;
Who, with his pencil's animating pow'r,
In liveliest dies immortaliz'd a flow'r,
And shall no just, impartial bard be found,
Thy more exalted merits to resound?
Who giv'st to beauty a perpetual bloom,
And lively grace, which age shall not consume;
Who mak'st the speaking eyes with meaning roll,
And paint'st at once the body and the soul.

An Invitation to Mrs. Tyler, a Clergyman's Lady, to dine upon a Couple of Ducks on the Anniversary of the Authors Wedding-Day.

Had I the pen of Sir John Suckling,
And could find out a rhyme for duckling,
Why dearest madam, in that case,
I would invite you to a brace.
Haste, gentle shepherdess, away,
To morrow is the gaudy day,

That day, when to my longing arms,
Nancy resign'd her golden charms,
And set my am'rous inclination
Upon the bus'ness of the nation.
Industrious Moll,

The Maid.

with many a pluck,
Unwings the plumage of each duck;
And as she sits a brooding o'er,
You'd think she'd hatch a couple more.
Come, all ye Muses, come and sing—
Shall we then roast them on a string?
Or shall we make our dirty jilt run,
To beg a roast of Mrs.

The Landlady of the Public House.

Bilton?
But to delight you more with these,
We shall provide a dish of pease:
On ducks alone we'll not regale you,
We'll wine, we'll punch you, and we'll ale you.
To-morrow is the gaudy day,
Haste, gentle shepherdess, away.

As every good parson is the shepherd of his flock, his wife is a shepherdess of course.

To MISS S--- P---E.

Fair partner of my Nancy's heart,
Who feel'st, like me, love's poignant dart;
Who at a frown can'st pant for pain,
And at a smile revive again;

Who doat'st to that severe degree,
You're jealous, e'en of constancy;
Born hopes and fears and doubts to prove,
And each vicissitude of love!
To this my humble suit attend,
And be my advocate and friend.
So may just heav'n your goodness bless,
Successful ev'n in my success!
Oft at the silent hour of night,
When bold intrusion wings her flight,
My fair, from care and bus'ness free,
Unbosoms all her soul to thee,
Each hope with which her bosom heaves,
Each tender wish her heart receives
To thee are intimately known,
And all her thoughts become thy own:
Then take the blessed blissful hour,
To try love's sweet infectious pow'r;
And let your sister souls conspire
In love's, as friendship's calmer sire.
So may thy transport equal mine,
Nay—every joy be doubly thine!
So may the youth, whom you prefer,
Be all I wish to be to her.

After Dining with Mr. MURRAY.

O thou, of British Orators the chief
That were, or are in being, or belief;
All eminence and goodness as thou art,
Accept the gratitude of POET SMART,—
The meanest of the tuneful train as far,
As thou transcend'st the brightest at the bar.

INSCRIPTIONS ON AN ÆOLIAN HARP.

On one End.

Partem aliquam, O venti, divûm referatis ad aures.

On one Side

Salve, quæ fingis proprio modulamine carmen,
Salve, Memnoniam vox imitata lyram!
Dulcè O divinùmque sonas sine pollicis ictu,
Dives naturæ simplicis, artis inops!
Talia, quæ incultæ dant mellea labra puellæ,
Talia sunt faciles quæ modulantur aves.

On the other Side.

HAIL heav'nly harp, where Memnon's skill is shewn,
That charm'st the ear with musick all thine own!
Which tho' untouch'd, can'st rapt'rous strains impart.
O rich of genuine nature, free from art!
Such the wild warblings of the sylvan throng,
So simply sweet the untaught virgin's song,

On the other End.

Christophorus Smart Henrico Bell Armigero.

The Long-Nosed Fair.

ONCE on a time I fair Dorinda kiss'd,
Whose nose was too distinguish'd to be miss'd;
My dear, says I, I fain would kiss you closer,
But tho' your lips say aye—your nose says, no, Sir.—
The maid was equally to fun inclin'd,
And plac'd her lovely lilly-hand behind;
Here, swain, she cry'd, may'st thou securely kiss,
Where there's no nose to interrupt thy bliss.

The PRETTY CHAMBERMAID:

In Imitation of Ne sit Ancillæ tibi amor pudori, &c. Of Horace.

I

Collin, oh! cease thy friend to blame,
Who entertains a servile flame.
Chide not—believe me, 'tis no more
Than great Achilles did before,
Who nobler, prouder far than he is,
Ador'd his chambermaid Briseis.

II

The thund'ring Ajax Venus lays
In love's inextricable maze.
His slave Tecmessa makes him yield,
Now mistress of the sevenfold shield.
Atrides with his captive play'd,
Who always shar'd the bed she made.

III

'Twas at the ten years siege, when all
The Trojans fell in Hector's fall,
When Helen rul'd the day and night,
And made them love and made them fight;
Each hero kiss'd his maid, and why,
Tho' I'm no hero, may not I?

IV

Who knows? Polly, perhaps, may be
A piece of ruin'd royalty.
She has (I cannot doubt it) been
The daughter of some mighty queen;
But fate's irremeable doom
Has chang'd her sceptre for a broom.

V

Ah! cease to think it—how can she,
So generous, charming, fond, and free,
So lib'ral of her little store,
So heedless of amassing more,
Have one drop of plebeian blood
In all the circulating flood?

VI

But you, by carping at my fire,
Do but betray your own desire—
Howe'er proceed—made tame by years,
You'll raise in me no jealous fears.
You've not one spark of love alive,
For, thanks to heav'n, you're forty-five.

The famous general EPITAPH

From DEMOSTHENES.

These for their country's cause were sheath'd in arms
And all base imputations dare despise;
And nobly struck with Glory's dreadful charms,
Made death their aim, eternity their prize.
For never could their mighty spirits yield,
To see themselves and country-men in chains;
And earth's kind bosom hides them in the field
Of battle, so the WILL SUPREME ordains;
To conquer chance and error's not reveal'd,
For mortals sure mortality remains.

163

THE HORATIAN CANONS OF FRIENDSHIP.

Nay, 'tis the same with all th'affected crew
Of singing men and singing women too:
Do they not set their catcalls up of course?
The King himself may ask them till he's hoarse;
But wou'd you crack their windpipes and their lungs,
The certain way's to bid them hold their tongues.
'Twas thus with Minum—Minum one wou'd think,
My Lord Mayor might have govern'd with a wink.

164

Yet did the Magistrate e'er condescend
To ask a song, as kindsman or as friend,
The urchin coin'd excuses to get off,
'Twas—hem—the devil take this whoreson cough.
But wait awhile, and catch him in the glee,
He'd roar the Lion in the lowest key,
Or strain the morning Lark quite up to G.
Act Beard, or Lowe, and shew his tuneful art
From the plumb-pudding down to the desert.

Never on earth was such a various elf,
He every day possess'd a different self;
Sometimes he'd scow'r along the streets like wind,
As if some fifty bailiffs were behind;
At other times he'd sadly, saunt'ring crawl,
As tho' he led the hearse, or held the sable pall.

Now for promotion he was all on flame,
And ev'ry sentence from St. James's came.
He'd brag how Sir John --- met him in the Strand,
And how his Grace of --- took him by the hand;

165

How the Prince saw him at the last review,
And ask'd who was that pretty youth in blue?
Now wou'd he praise the peaceful sylvan scene,
The healthful cottage, and the golden mean.
Now wou'd he cry, contented let me dwell
Safe in the harbour of my college cell;
No foreign cooks, nor livry'd servants nigh,
Let me with comfort eat my mutton pye;
While my pint-bottle, op'd by help of fork,
With wine enough to navigate a cork,
My sober solitary meal shall crown,
To study edge the mind, and drive the vapours down.
Yet, strange to tell, this wond'rous student lay
Snoring in bed for all the livelong day;
Night was his time for labour—in a word,
Never was man so cleverly absurd.

But here a friend of mine turns up his nose,
And you (he cries) are perfect, I suppose:

166

Perfect! not I (pray, gentle Sir, forbear)
In this good age, when vices are so rare,
I plead humanity, and claim my share.
Who has not faults? great Marlborough had one,
Nor Chesterfield is spotless, nor the Sun.
Grubworm was railing at his friend Tom Queer,
When Witwoud thus reproach'd him with a sneer,
Have you no flaws, who are so prone to snub,
I have—but I forgive myself, quoth Grub.
This is a servile selfishness, a fault
Which Justice scarce can punish, as she ought.
Blind as a poking, dirt-compelling mole,
To all that stains thy own polluted soul,
Yet each small failing spy'st in other men,
Spy'st with the quickness of an eagle's ken.
Tho' strong resentment rarely lag behind,
And all thy virulence be paid in kind.

Philander's temper's violent, nor fits
The wond'rous waggishness of modern wits;

167

His cap's awry, all ragged is his gown,
And (wicked rogue!) he wears his stockings down;
But h'as a soul ingenuous as his face,
To you a friend, and all the human race;
Genius, that all the depths of learning sounds,
And generosity, that knows no bounds.
In fruits like these if the good youth excel,
Let them compensate for the aukward shell,
Sift then yourself, I say, and sift again,
Glean the pernicious tares from out the grain;
And ask thy heart if Custom, Nature's heir,
Hath sown no undiscover'd fern-feed there.
This be our standard then, on this we rest,
Nor search the Casuists for another test.

Let's be like lovers gloriously deceiv'd,
And each good man a better still believ'd;

168

E'en Celia's wart Strephon will not neglect,
But praises, kisses, loves the dear defect.
Oh! that in friendship we were thus to blame,
And ermin'd candour, tender of our fame,
Wou'd cloath the honest error with an honest name!
Be we then still to those we hold most dear,
Fatherly fond, and tenderly severe.
The sire, whose son squints forty thousand ways,
Finds in his features mighty room for praise:
Ah! born (he cries) to make the ladies sigh,
Jacky, thou hast an am'rous cast o'th' eye.
Another's child's abortive—he believes
Nature most perfect in diminutives;
And men of ev'ry rank, with one accord
Salute each crooked rascal with My Lord.
(For bandy legs, hump-back, and knocking knee,
Are all excessive signs of Q---ty.)
Thus let us judge our friends—if Scrub subsist
Too meanly, Scrub is an œconomist;
And if Tom Tinkle is full loud and pert,
He aims at wit, and does it to divert.

169

Largus is apt to bluster, but you'll find
'Tis owing to his magnitude of mind:
Lollius is passionate, and loves a whore,
Spirit and constitution!—nothing more—
Ned to a bullying peer is ty'd for life,
And in commendam holds a scolding wife;
Slave to a fool's caprice, and woman's will;
But patience, patience is a virtue still!
Ask of Chamont a kingdom for a fish,
He'll give you three rather than spoil a dish;
Nor pride, nor luxury, is in the case,
But Hospitality—an't please your Grace.
Should a great gen'ral give a drab a pension—
Meanness!—the devil—'tis perfect condescension.
Such ways make many friends, and make friends long,
Or else my good friend Horace reasons wrong.

But we alas! e'en virtuous deeds invert,
And into vice misconstrue all desert.
See we a man of modesty and merit,
Sober and meek—we swear he has no spirit;
We call him stupid, who with caution breaks
His silence, and will think before he speaks.

170

Fidelio treads the path of life with care,
And eyes his footsteps; for he fears a snare.
His wary way still scandal misapplies,
And calls him subtle, who's no more than wise.
If any man is unconstrain'd and free,
As oft, my Lælius, I have been to thee,
When rudely to thy room I chance to scour,
And interrupt thee in the studious hour;
From Coke and Littleton thy mind unbend,
With more familiar nonsense of a friend;
Talk of my friendship, and of thy desert,
Shew thee my works, and candidly impart
At once the product of my head and heart,
Nasutus calls me fool, and clownish bear,
Nor (but for perfect candour) stops he there.

Ah! what unthinking, heedless things are men,
T'enact such laws as must themselves condemn?

171

In every human soul some vices spring
(For fair perfection is no mortal thing)
Whoe'er is with the fewest faults endu'd,
Is but the best of what cannot be good.
Then view me, friend, in an impartial light,
Survey the good and bad, the black and white;
And if you find me, Sir, upon the whole,
To be an honest and ingenuous soul,
By the same rule I'll measure you again,
And give you your allowance to a grain.
'Tis friendly and 'tis fair, on either hand,
To grant th'indulgence we ourselves demand.
If on your hump we cast a fav'ring eye,
You must excuse all those who are awry.
In short, since vice or folly, great or small,
Is more or less inherent in us all,
Whoe'er offends, our censure let us guide,
With a strong bias to the candid side;

172

Nor (as the stoicks did in ancient times)
Rank little foibles with enormous crimes.

If, when your butler, e'er he brings a dish,
Should lick his fingers, or shou'd drop a fish,
Or from the side-board filch a cup of ale,
Enrag'd you send the puny thief to gaol;
You'd be (methink) as infamous an oaf,
As that immense portentous scoundrel--- .
Yet worse by far (if worse at all can be)
In folly and iniquity is he;
Who, for some trivial, social, well-meant joke,
Which candour shou'd forget as soon as spoke,
Wou'd shun his friend, neglectful and unkind,
As if old Parson Packthread was behind:
Who drags up all his visitors by force,
And, without mercy, reads them his discourse.

173

If sick at heart, and heavy at the head,
My drunken friend should reel betimes to bed;
And in the morn, with affluent discharge,
Should sign and seal his residence at large;
Or should he in some passionate debate,
By way of instance, break an earthen plate;
Wou'd I forsake him for a piece of delph?
No—not for China's wide domain itself.
If toys like these were cause of real grief,
What shou'd I do, or whither seek relief,
Suppose him perjur'd, faithless, pimp, or thief?
Away—a foolish knavish tribe you are,
Who falsely put all vices on a par.
From this fair reason her assent withdraws,
E'en sordid interest gives up the cause,
That mother of our customs and our laws.

174

When first yon golden sun array'd the east,
Small was the difference 'twixt man and beast;
With hands, with nails, with teeth, with clubs they fought,
'Till malice was improv'd, & deadlier weapons wrought.
Language, at length, and words experience found,
And sense obtain'd a vehicle in sound.
Then wholesome laws were fram'd, and towns were built,
And justice seiz'd the lawless vagrants guilt;
And theft, adultery, and fornication
Were punish'd much, forsooth, tho' much in fashion:

For long before fair Helen's fatal charms
Had many a------

Hiatus magnus lacrymabilis

set the world in arms.

175

But kindly kept by no historian's care,
They all goodlack, have perish'd to an hair.
But be that as it may, yet in all climes,
There's diff'rent punishment for diff'rent crimes.
Hold, blockhead, hold—this sure is not the way,
For all alike I'd lash, and all I'd slay,
Cries W---n, if I'd sovereign sway.
Have sov'reign sway, and in imperial robe,
With fury sultanate o'er half the globe.
Meanwhile, if I from each indulgent friend,
Obtain remission, when I chance t'offend,
Why, in return, I'll make the balance even,
And, for forgiving, they shall be forgiven.

With zeal I'll love, be courteous e'en to strife,
More blest than Emperors in private life.

The Lion's Song, in Pyramus and Thisbe.

A song in one of Mr. Handel's Orations.

An infamous attorney.

A word coined in the manner of Mr. W---n.

176

An occasional Prologue and Epilogue to Othello, as it was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, on Thursday the 7th of March, 1751, by Persons of Distinction for their Diversion.

[While mercenary actors tread the stage]

While mercenary actors tread the stage,
And hireling scribblers lash or lull the age,
Our's be the task t'instruct, and entertain,
Without one thought of glory or of gain.
Virtue's her own—from no external cause—
She gives, and she demands the self-applause:
Home to her breast she brings the heart-felt bays,
Heedless alike of profit, and of praise.
This now perhaps is wrong—yet this we know,
'Twas sense and truth a century ago:
When Britain with transcendant glory crown'd,
For high atchievements, as for wit renown'd;
Cull'd from each growing grace the purest part,
And cropt the flowers from every blooming art,
Our noblest youth would then embrace the task
Of comic humour, or the mystic masque.
'Twas theirs t'incourage worth, and give to bards
What now is spent in boxing and in cards:
Good sense their pleasure—Virtue still their guide,
And English magnanimity—their pride.
Methinks I see with Fancy's magic eye,
The shade of Shakespeare, in yon azure sky.

177

On yon high cloud behold the bard advance,
Piercing all Nature with a single glance:
In various attitudes around him stand
The Passions, waiting for his dread command.
First kneeling Love before his feet appears,
And musically sighing melts in tears.
Near him fell Jealousy with fury burns,
And into storms the amorous breathings turns;
Then Hope with heavenward look, and Joy draws near,
While palsied Terror trembles in the rear.

Such Shakespeare's train of horror and delight,
And such we hope to introduce to-night.
But if, tho' just in thought, we fail in fact,
And good intention ripens not to act,
Weigh our design, your censure still defer,
When Truth's in view 'tis glorious e'en to err.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Desdemona.

True woman to the last—my peroration
I come to speak in spite of suffocation;
To shew the present and the age to come,
We may be choak'd, but never can be dumb.
Well now methinks I see you all run out,
And haste away to Lady Bragwell's rout;

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Each modish sentiment to hear and weigh,
Of those who nothing think, and all things say.
Prudella first in parody begins,
(For Nonsense and Buffoonery are twins)
“Can beaux the court for theatres exchange?
“I swear by Heaven 'tis strange, 'tis passing strange;
“And very whimsical, and mighty dull,
“And pitiful, and wond'rous pitiful:
“I wish I had not heard it—blessed dame!
Whene'er she speaks her audience wish the same.
Next Neddy Nicely—“Fye, O fye, good lack,
“A nasty man to make his face all black.”
Then Lady Stiffneck shews her pious rage,
And wonders we shou'd act—upon a stage.
“Why, ma'am, says Coquetilla, a disgrace?
“Merit in any form may shew her face:
“In this dull age the male things ought to play,
“To teach them what to do, and what to say.”
In short, they all with diff'rent cavils cram us,
And only are unanimous to damn us.
But still there are a fair judicious few,
Who judge unbiass'd, and with candour view;
Who value honesty, tho' clad in buff,
And wit, tho' dress'd in an old English ruff.
Behold them here—I beaming sense decry,
Shot from the living lustre of each eye.
Such meaning smiles each blooming face adorn,
As deck the pleasure-painted brow of morn;

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And shew the person of each matchless fair,
Tho' rich to rapture, and above compare,
Is, ev'n with all the skill of heav'n design'd,
But an imperfect image of their mind;
While chastity unblemish'd and unbrib'd
Adds a majestic mien that scorns to be describ'd:
Such, we will vaunt, and only such as these,
'Tis our ambition, and our fame to please.

EPILOGUE TO THE APPRENTICE.

(Enters reading a Play Bill)
A very pretty bill—as I'm alive!
The part of—nobody—by Mrs. Clive!
A paltry scribbling fool—to leave me out—
He'll say, perhaps—he thought I cou'd not spout.
Malice and envy to the last degree!
And why?—I wrote a farce as well as he,
And fairly ventur'd it—without the aid
Of prologue dress'd in black, and face in masquerade;
Oh! Pit—have pity—see how I'm dismay'd!
Poor soul! this canting stuff will never do,
Unless like Bayes he brings his hangman too.
But granting that from these same obsequies,
Some pickings to our bard in black arise;

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Should your applause to joy convert his fear,
As Pallas turns to feast—Lardella's bier;
Yet 'twould have been a better scheme by half
T'have thrown his weeds aside, and learnt with me to laugh.
I cou'd have shewn him, had he been inclin'd,
A spouting junto of the female kind.
There dwells a milliner in yonder row,
Well dress'd, full voic'd, and nobly built for shew,
Who, when in rage she scolds at Sue and Sarah,
Damn'd, damn'd dissembler!—thinks she more than Zara.
She has a daughter too that deals in lace.
And sings—O ponder well—and Chevy Chase,
And fain wou'd fill the fair Ophelia's place.
And in her cock'd up hat, and gown of camblet,
Presumes on something—touching the Lord Hamlet.
A cousin too she has with squinting eyes,
With wadling gait, and voice like London Cries;
Who for the stage too short by half a story,
Acts Lady Townly—thus—in all her glory.
And while she's traversing her scanty room,
Cries—“Lord! my lord, what can I do at home!”
In short, we've girls enough for all the fellows,
The ranting, whining, starting and the jealous,
The Hotspurs, Romeos, Hamlets, and Othelles.
Oh! little do these silly people know,
What dreadful trials—actors undergo.

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Myself—who most in harmony delight,
Am scolding here from morning until night.
Then take advice from me, ye giddy things,
Ye royal milliners, ye apron'd kings;
Young men beware, and shun our slippery ways,
Study arithmetic, and shun our plays;
And you, ye girls, let not our tinsel train
Enchant your eyes, and turn your madd'ning brain;
Be timely wise, for oh! be sure of this;
A shop with virtue, is the height of bliss.

EPILOGUE Spoken by Mr. Shuter, at Covent Garden, after the Play of the CONSCIOUS LOVERS, acted for the Benefit of the Middlesex Hospital for Lying-in Women, 1755, in the Character of a Man-Midwife.

(Enters with a Child)

Whoe'er begot thee, has no cause to blush:
Thou'rt a brave chopping boy, (child cries)
nay, hush! hush! hush!
A workman, faith! a man of rare discretion,
A friend to Britain, and to our profession:

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With face so chubby, and with looks so glad,
O rare roast beef of England—here's a lad! (Shews him to the Company.)
(Child makes a noise again)

Nay if you once begin to puke and cough,
Go to the nurse. Within!—here take him off.
Well, heav'n be prais'd, it is a peopling age,
Thanks to the bar, the pulpit, and the stage;
But not to th'army—that's not worth a farthing,
The captains go too much to Covent Garden,
Spoil many a girl,—but seldom make a mother,
They foil us one way—but we have them t'other. (Shakes a box of pills.)

The nation prospers by such joyous souls,
Hence smokes my table, hence my chariot rolls.
Tho' some snug jobs, from surgery may spring,
Man-midwifry, man-midwifry's the thing!
Lean shou'd I be, e'en as my own anatomy,
By mere catharticks and by plain phlebotomy.
Well, besides gain, besides the pow'r to please,
Besides the music of such birds as these, (Shakes a purse.)

It is a joy refin'd, unmix'd and pure,
To hear the praises of the grateful poor.
This day comes honest Taffy to my house,
“Cot pless her, her has sav'd her poy and spouse,
“Hersav'd her Gwinnifrid, or death had swallow'd her,
“Tho' creat crand, creat crand crand child of Cadwallader.”

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Cries Patrick Touzl'em, “I am bound to pray,
“You've sav'd my Sue in your same physick way,
“And further shall I thank you yesterday.”
Then Sawney came and thank'd me for my love,
(I very readily excus'd his glove)
He bless'd the mon, e'en by St. Andrew's cross,
“Who cur'd his bonny bearn and blithsome lass.”

But merriment and mimickry apart,
Thanks to each bounteous hand and gen'rous heart
Of those, who tenderly take pity's part;
Who in good-natur'd acts can sweetly grieve,
Swift to lament, but swifter to relieve.
Thanks to the lovely fair ones, types of heaven,
Who raise and beautify the bounty given;
But chief to him in whom distress confides,
Who o'er this noble plan so gloriously presides.

The Earl afterwards Duke of Northumberland.

THE END.