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

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

THE Muse's Original:

AN ODE.

INSCRIB'D TO AARON HILL, Esq;

[I.]

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

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

II.

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

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

III.

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

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

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

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

V.

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

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

VI.

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

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

VII.

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

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

VIII.

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

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

IX.

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

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

X.

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

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

XI.

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

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

XII.

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

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

XIII.

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

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

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

AN ODE ON THE Power of Musick.

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

I.

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

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

II.

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

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

III.

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

IV.

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

V.

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

VI.

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

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

VII.

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

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

VIII.

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

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

IX.

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

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

X.

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

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

XI.

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

XII.

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

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

XIII.

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

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

XIV.

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

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

XV.

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

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

Louisa to Abelard.

Aaron Hill, Esq;

AN ODE, ON BUCHANAN.

INSCRIB'D TO Mr. Thomas Gordon.

I.

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

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

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

II.

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

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

III.

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

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

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

IV.

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

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

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

V.

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

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

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

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

VI.

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

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

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

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

VII.

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

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

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

VIII.

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

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

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

IX.

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

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

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

X.

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

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

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

THE Charms of Indolence.

DEDICATED TO A certain Lazy PEER.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE CUDGEL:

AN Heroic POEM. In Six Canto's.

Inscrib'd to Sir Robert Montgomery, Bart.

CANTO I.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The End of the First CANTO.

Hiatus ad Finem usque deflendus.

Pythagoras.

Sir R. Montgomery.

The Bubbling Season.

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

THE JUDGMENT OF HERCULES.

A POEM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

100

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

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

101

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

102

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

103

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

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

104

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

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

105

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

106

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

107

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

108

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

109

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

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

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

110

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

111

JONAH,

A Poetical Paraphrase.

Inscrib'd to the Reverend Mr. Isaac Watts.

117

Nil Mortale loquor.
Horat.

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

118

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

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

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

119

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

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

120

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

121

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

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

122

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

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

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

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

123

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

124

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

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

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

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

125

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

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

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

126

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

127

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

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

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

128

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

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

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

129

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

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

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

130

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

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

131

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

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

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

132

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

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

133

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

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

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

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

134

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

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

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

135

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

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

136

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

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

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

137

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

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

138

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

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

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

139

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

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

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

140

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

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

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

141

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

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

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

142

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

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

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

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

143

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

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

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

144

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

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

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

145

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

146

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

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

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

147

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

148

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

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

149

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

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

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

150

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

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

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

151

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

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

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

152

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

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

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

153

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

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

154

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

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

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

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

155

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

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

156

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

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

157

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

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

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

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

158

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

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

159

Psalm the 139th.

I.

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

160

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

161

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

II.

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

162

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

163

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

III.

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

164

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

165

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

Isaiah, Chapter 13.

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

166

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

167

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

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

168

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

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

169

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

170

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

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

171

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

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

172

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

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

173

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

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

174

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

177

A Familiar Epistle, TO Major Richardson Pack,

With the following PASTORAL.

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

178

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

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

August 2, 1720.

181

THE DOLEFUL SWAINS:

A Pastoral Poem

[_]

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

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

183

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

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

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

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

185

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

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

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

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

187

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

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

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

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

189

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

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

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

191

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

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

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

193

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

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

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

195

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

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

197

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

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

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

199

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

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

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

201

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

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

203

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

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

205

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

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

207

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

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

209

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

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

211

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

A Scotch Poet.

Mr. Secretary Burchet, a Patron of Ramsay.

212

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE MUSE.

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

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

213

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

214

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

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

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

215

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

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

216

To the Right Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq;

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

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

217

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

218

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

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

219

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

220

AN ODE On receiving a Wreath of Bays from OPHELIA.

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

I

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

II

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

III

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

222

IV

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

V

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

VI

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

223

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

VII

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

VIII

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

224

IX

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

On OPHELIA.

I

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

225

II

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

III

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

IV

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

226

V

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

To OPHELIA, With the Power of Beauty.

A POEM.

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

227

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

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

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

228

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

229

THE POWER of BEAUTY.

A POEM.

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

230

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

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

231

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

232

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

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

233

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

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

234

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

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

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

235

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

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

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

236

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

237

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

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

238

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

ON A FLY,

Drown'd in a Lady's Eye.

I

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

239

II

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

III

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

IV

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

240

V

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

To a young Lady,

on her Marriage with an old Gentleman.

I

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

241

II

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

III

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

IV

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

242

THE KISS:

OR, THE Shepherd's Cure.

I

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

243

II

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

III

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

IV

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

244

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

V

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

VI

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

245

VII

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

VIII

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

IX

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

246

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

X

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

247

To a Singing Bird.

An ANACREONTIC.

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

248

A Memorial to Virtue, Unfinished.

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

249

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

250

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

251

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

252

An ODE,

(In Allusion to the 2d of Horace)

To His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales,

In the Year 1720.

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

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

I

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

253

II

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

III

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

IV

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

254

V

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

VI

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

VII

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

255

VIII

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

IX

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

X

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

256

XI

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

XII

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

XIII

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

257

XIV

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

XV

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

XVI

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

258

XVII

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

XVIII

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

XIX

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

259

XX

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

XXI

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

XXII

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

260

XXIII

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

XXIV

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

XXV

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

261

XXVI

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

262

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

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

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

263

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

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

264

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

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

265

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

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

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

266

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

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

267

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

268

TO Mr. Allan Ramsay.

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

269

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

270

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

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

271

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

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

272

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

273

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

274

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

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

275

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

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

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

276

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

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

277

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

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

278

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

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

A Poem, by Mr. Ramsay.

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

279

A HYMN TO THE MUSES.

I

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

II

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

280

III

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

IV

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

281

TO Mr. M---

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

282

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

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

283

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

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

284

TO Mr. M---l.

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

285

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

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

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

286

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

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

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

287

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

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

288

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

289

To His Grace JOHN, Duke of Argyle and Greenwich.

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

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

290

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

291

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

292

VERSES,

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

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

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

293

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

294

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

295

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

296

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

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

297

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

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

298

AN EPITAPH ON A GLUTTON.

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

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

299

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

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

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

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

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

300

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

301

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

302

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

303

TO Aaron Hill, Esq

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

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

304

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

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

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

305

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

306

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

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

307

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

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

308

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

309

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

310

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

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

311

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

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

312

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

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

313

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

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

Gideon, an Epic Poem by Aaron Hill, Esq;

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

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

TO Sir Richard Steel.

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

314

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

315

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

316

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

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

317

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

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

318

A POETICAL DREAM,

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

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

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

319

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

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

320

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

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

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

321

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

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

322

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

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

323

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

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

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

324

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

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

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

325

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

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair,

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

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

326

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

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

327

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

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

328

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

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

Sir David Dalrymple, Bart.

329

MITCHELL, Solus,

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

[_]

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

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

330

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

331

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

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

332

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

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair.

1724.

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

333

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

334

THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT,

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair

1726.

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

335

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

336

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

337

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

338

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair,

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

His Majesty's Advocate for North Britain.

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

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

339

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

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

340

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

341

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

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

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

342

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

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

343

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

344

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

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

345

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

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

346

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

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

347

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

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

348

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

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

349

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

[_]

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

350

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

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

Cœlum ipsum petimus stultitia.
Hor.

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

351

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

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

352

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

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

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

353

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

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

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

354

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

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

355

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

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

356

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

357

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

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

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

358

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

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

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

Sublimi feriam Sidera vertice.

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

A Gentleman remarkable for fine Cloaths.

359

TO Dr. Arbuthnot,

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

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

360

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

361

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

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

362

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

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

363

BOLD COUNSEL,

To the Right Honourable John Earl of Stair, 1728.

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

364

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

365

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

366

VERSES To the Right Honourable the Lady Sommerville,

On her Marriage.

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

367

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

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

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

368

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

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

369

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

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

370

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

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

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

371

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

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

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

372

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

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

373

PETER:

AN Heroi-Comical Poem. In Six Canto's

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

CANTO I.

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

374

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

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

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

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

375

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

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

376

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

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

377

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

378

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

379

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

380

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

381

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

382

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

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

383

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

Capt. Lemuel Gulliver.

The Rabbit-Woman.

The End of the First Canto.

Hiatus ad Finem deflendus.

384

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

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

The End of the First Volume.

University of Virginia Library

VOL. I.

THE Muse's Original:

AN ODE.

[I.]

II.

III.

III.[_] The section number in the source document has been followed.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

AN ODE ON THE Power of Musick.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

XI.

XII.

XIII.

XIV.

XV.

AN ODE, ON BUCHANAN.

I.

II.

III.

IV.

V.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

X.

THE Charms of Indolence.

THE CUDGEL:

AN Heroic POEM. In Six Canto's.

CANTO I.

THE JUDGMENT OF HERCULES.

A POEM.

JONAH,

A Poetical Paraphrase.

Psalm the 139th.

I.

II.

III.

Isaiah, Chapter 13.

A Familiar Epistle, TO Major Richardson Pack,

With the following PASTORAL.

THE DOLEFUL SWAINS:

A Pastoral Poem

INSTRUCTIONS TO THE MUSE.

To the Right Honourable JAMES CRAGGS, Esq;

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

AN ODE On receiving a Wreath of Bays from OPHELIA.

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

On OPHELIA.

I

II

III

IV

V

III.
[_]

The section number in the source document has been followed.