Poems upon several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Merchant, when his Vessel's toss't
By Storms upon a Rocky Coast,
Where furious Winds the mounting Billows ride,
To Madness lashing on the foaming Tide;
Whose flaggy Wings the Ocean sweep,
And Battel join upon the boiling Deep:
When he beholds a wat'ry War
Of military Waves march rolling from afar,
While the pale sickly Moon's expiring Light
With humid Beams dissolve into the Night,

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And faithful Stars, by which he us'd to steer,
Quench all their vital Flames, and die away with Fear:
His Conscience starts from her Lethargick Sleep,
Rouz'd by the loud Alarms upon the Deep:
And as he now reflects on ev'ry Sin,
As great a Tempest shakes his sinking Heart within.

II.

Now at one horrid View his Guilt presents
His former Crimes, and future Punishments.
In vain he does to Heav'n complain,
And, prodigal of Vows, he importunes in vain;
Thunders more loud the wrathful Pow'rs declare,
And Heav'n displeas'd forbids the Gods to hear,
Deafens his Cries, and intercepts his Pray'r.
Not all the Freight his Vessels hold,
Not all his Purple, Gems, and Gold,

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Can reconcile the Sea, or Wind,
Or bribe the angry Gods, or buy a Peace of Mind.

III.

The Hardy German, Mercenary Swiss,
(Tho' they by Arms and Publick Discord thrive,
Tho' they on Blood and Rapine live)
Address to Heav'n for such a Peace as this.
The inward Terrors, sharp Remorse we find,
Rage, Anguish, and wild Uproar of the Mind,
Are louder, and more dreadful far
Than all the bell'wing Engines of the War:
By these our Cares are with us slain,
By those we're rack'd anew, and kept alive for Pain.
No Wealth, no Pomp, or Princely State,
No swelling Titles of the haughty Great,

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Nor the High Blood that from Old Monarchs came,
With which the Herald paints his Book of Fame,
Can our tumultuous Thoughts controul,
Or calm the ruffling Blasts that discompose the Soul.

IV.

Tho' Crowds of proud Attendants wait
Around th' ambiguous Minister of State,
(Officious to chastise the Throng
That gaze upon the Pageant as he moves along)
Yet his Retinues insufficient are
To guard him from insulting Care.
Care Grandeur does affect, and Kingly Port,
And is Ambitious to be seen at Court:
The Greatest Monarch is not free
From her assiduous Importunity,
She'll be deny'd on no Pretence,
But will be introduc'd, and must have Audience.

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If to his Closet he repair,
She dogs him thither, and torments him there;
Licentiously bold, She dares obtrude
On his obscure Retreat, and haunts his Solitude.

V.

Shou'd Earth's Capacious Globe, the Air, and Sea
Be ransack'd to indulge his Luxury;
Shou'd Florence, Bourdeaux, and the Rhine,
In a Confederacy join,
To send him Presents of the richest Wine;
To them in vain he for Relief will call,
They're nauseous, and insipid all.
Let him his melting Hours employ
In a refin'd Variety of Joy,
And as the gay voluptuous Minutes fly,
Let ev'ry soft harmonious Air
Of Musick entertain the Ear,
And blooming Beauty feast the ravish'd Eye;

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He'll find these Joys too impotent, and dull
To charm the Hag that nightly rides his Soul;
His Couches now no longer please,
Down-Beds no more invite him to his Ease,
On his distorted Brow Care ever wakeful lies,
To brush the balmy Slumbers off, that hover o're his Eyes.

VI.

Thrice happy He! whom nor the Smiles of Fate,
Nor Fortune with delusive Arts can cheat
With any Thought so Mean, as that of being Great.
Pleas'd with his small Hereditary Store,
If he should ask, She cannot grant him more.
His Table's plentifully spread
From his own Granary that yields him Bread,
A little Field, and Garden Fruits supply
A wholesom clean Repast,
And vertuously regale the Taste
With Parsimonious Luxury.

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Amidst his Friends he quaffs with sweet Delight,
And a plain hearty Meal can eat,
Without his Services of Plate,
Or Cyprian Wines to cure a sickly Appetite.
No Dread of Midnight Thieves his Thoughts molest,
Or interrupt his pleasing Rest;
No Fear of Losing, or Desire of Gain
Can discompose him, or distract his Brain;
Peaceful, and undisturb'd, secure he lies
From all the Bosom Throws of Sordid Avarice.

VII.

Riches the Target is, at which we dart
From the well-furnish'd Quiver of the Heart:
The Arrows fledg'd with wing'd Desires are sent,
But to our Wishes disobedient,

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The Wanderers at random fly,
And sweeping graze below, or flutt'ring mount too high;
Wanting the Skill to guide 'em right,
We rarely win the Prize, or hit the White.
Why do we glitt'ring Piles of Treasure rear,
The few Expences to defray,
Upon th' Unhospitable Way
Of Life's short Journey here?
Or why to distant Countries roam,
Hoping to leave our watchful Cares at Home?
Shou'd we approach the Scythian Coast,
Where Snows inhabit, and Eternal Frost,
Thro' Frost, and Snows they will pursue,
And cease not to torment wheree're we go.
Besides our Native Soil our Hearts will charm,
And like the Lamp that gilds the Skies,
Or our Fair Mistress's brighter Eyes,
Will at that Distance warm.

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Thither our Inclinations bend;
Thither th' impatient Motions tend
Of the Enamour'd Soul;
And so the constant Needle points, and trembles to the Pole.

VIII.

We fly for Refuge to the Stormy Seas,
For a Vicissitude of Ease;
We fondly thus our selves deceive,
In Noise and Discord Care delights to live.
Tho' for the Indies we're design'd,
And spread our Canvas to provoke the Wind;
Yet Care, that on far swifter Pinions flies,
Than Winds that chase the Clouds along the Skies,
Will board the Vessel, tho' she find
The Sides with Tyres of Cannon lin'd,

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Which from their brazen Wombs enlarge
A Thousand fiery Births, a Thousand Deaths discharge.

IX.

Why do we search with a too Curious Eye
Into th' Abyss of Dark Futurity?
At airy Forms we strike, at Phantoms catch,
And gay Appearances beyond our Reach.
Dull Expectation is a hungry Treat,
The Charity, and Alms of a penurious Fate.
Let us with Gratitude receive
The present Good kind Chance is pleas'd to give;
Let no one Moment glide away,
Without its double Share of Joy.
Of what we now possess we are not sure,
Since 'tis in fickle Fortune's Pow'r;
And what may be remanded, if she frown,
Improperly we call our own.

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A wise Man's his own Fortune, and will stand,
Let her assault him upon either Hand;
She can't with her insidious Art
Attract his Eyes, or tempt his guarded Heart.
Let her before his Feet pour down
Wealth, Glory, Beauty, Honour, and Renown,
Thro' Greatness of his Soul he can despise
The shining Pomp, and tinsel'd Braveries,
Unmov'd he can the gilded Trash survey,
And when she courts him—turn his Face away.
But if Indiff'rency, and Scorn
Into Revenge her Favours turn,
He singly dares her num'rous Troops engage,
And by his Conduct soon disarms her Rage,
Well fortify'd within, he does no Danger dread,
Tho' all the Burst of War was thund'ring round his Head.

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X.

The World no Fav'rite e're caress'd
That we cou'd call entirely bless'd.
That Prince, who high on his exalted Throne
In full Meridian of his Glory shone,
By Fortune's Treachery at last
Had all his Grandeur, all his Pomp laid waste;
She her Arrears of Malice paid,
While by an Insolence scarce known,
The Trayt'ress boldly seiz'd his Throne,
And tore the Sacred Honours from his Hoary Head.
Deluded thus by Court-Deceit,
And gilded Pageantry of State,
To make him doubly Wretched, first She made him Great.
Had He not been by Priests betray'd,
To faithless Rome a Victim made,

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Oppress'd with Age H' had not been sent
In Tears to mourn a Second Banishment.
But Gods decreed his Fall, and who can be
Sufficient to withstand what Gods decree?
And thus He bow'd beneath the Doom,
Thus bow'd, thus fell He to ungrateful Rome,
And more ungrateful Patriots at Home:
Betray'd, abandon'd, left forlorn,
The Peoples Idol once, now made their Scorn;
Deserted by false Friends his Bounty fed,
Who plunder'd him, of what He gave them, Bread;
Stripp'd of his Wealth and Pow'r, the Nerves that bring
Strength to a Crown, and Safety to a King.
So sunk the Atlas of our State
Beneath the Pressure of Three Kingdoms Weight;
The too unruly Sceptre foil'd his Hand,
Nor cou'd He fill the Circle of his wide Command.

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XI.

Sated with Life thus some survive to see,
And to protract, their Misery;
Others, untimely snatch'd away,
Fade in the Bud, or in the Flow'r decay.
Death, that beholds us prodigally waste,
Calls in the Principle in Haste,
Impatient long to wait a desp'rate Sum,
Th' uncertain Interest of Bankrupt Years to come.
When the young Hero from afar,
With glowing Eyes beholds th' embattl'd War,
The jointed Armour, portray'd Shield,
And waving Banners of the Crested Field;
His fev'rish Heart begins to beat
With an impatient Bridegroom's Heat,
And now transported with the fierce Delight,
He claims the Battel, and demands the Fight;

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But if the Trumpet's Sound he hear,
His Limbs all shiver, and prepare
To mount the fi'ry Steed, and shake the glitt'ring Spear.
Warmly he pushes on the Game,
Resolv'd to win immortal Fame,
And in the bold Advent'rous Play,
At one Chance throws the Jewel Life away;
Extended on the Earth, his Grave,
Now lies the Valiant, Youthful, and the Brave:
His Soul soars upward to the Blest Abode,
Falling a Mortal here, and rising there a God.

XII.

The crowding Years, which Fools so vainly prize,
Avoid the Great, as Riches shun the Wise.
But your distinguish'd Worth, and wond'rous Sense,
Have reconcil'd the Laws of Providence.

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YOU, Sir, are bless'd with ample Store,
Nor do You Ask, but to Distribute more,
Which You as gen'rously Bestow,
As Gracious Heav'n conferr'd the Gift on You.
As Jove to Danae of old,
You glitter down in sparkling Show'rs of Gold;
The Torrent flows with such a swift Increase,
That You surprize Us into Happiness.
Amidst a Plentiful Estate,
You from your Old Hereditary Seat,
In the cool Bosom of the Vale below,
See your fat Oxen feed, and hear 'em low,
And as the woolly Flocks bleat o're the Plain,
The Hills around low back, and Echo bleats again.

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XIII.

You no Diversions ask but what the Field,
And Rural Sports with Innocence may yield;
Shunning the Gaudy Pomp, and State
Of guilty Pleasures that attend the Great.
Life lengthens with the Chase; which You repair
By drawing wholsom Draughts of Vital Air.
Like Spring your Looks; fresh, fair, and young,
Which gives us Hopes we shall enjoy You long:
Thus You th' united Force of Maladies withstand,
By Lenitives prescrib'd by kindly Nature's Hand.

XIV.

The nimble-footed Fallow Deer,
The wily Fox, and tim'rous Hare,

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Or runs the wand'ring Maze, or lightly bounds
Before the chearful Consort of your well-breath'd Hounds;
And as the op'ning Beagles shake the Grove,
Echo repeats the Cry, and hunts above.
Fowls of a rank, or feeble Wing,
That springing rise for Game, or sit and sing,
The bright-plum'd Pheasant with indented Crest,
And Em'ralds set in Gold profusely dress'd;
Swift-gliding Shoals that row with finny Oars,
And nimbly scud along the Shores,
That arm'd with Silver Scales disportive run,
Twinkling with nimble Glance against the Mid-day Sun:
All Creatures that or go, or swim, or fly,
That graze the Mead, or Pastures of the Sky,
Upon your God-like Bounty feed;
Breathe for your Pleasure, at your Pleasure bleed:

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They all your Vassals are, for your Delight renew,
From You they Hold, Lease out their Lives to You.

XV.

The Royal Stag, Lord of the Sylvan Chase,
Monarch of all the Wood-land Race,
With humble Pride submits, declining low
The graceful Terrors of his shady Brow;
Whose branching Honours, high aspiring, spread
Like some tall Oak upon a Mountain's Head.
Th' obedient Herd in Expectation stands,
Ambitiously contending, and demands
The flying Wound directed by your Hands:
The Pious Victim to Advantage dies,
That falls to Heav'n, and You, a willing Sacrifice.

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XVI.

Now let the Gen'rous Courser breath a-while;
No more, my Lord, pursue your pleasing Toil;
Forsake the Woods, and humble Plain,
And listen to a more exalted Strain.
Under the Conduct of the Muse I dare
Attempt the Hero, and his Toils in War,
To Kings, and their Victorious Arms aspire,
And to the Trumpet raise the tuneful Lyre.
Now my aspiring Soul presumes to try
Her daring Pinions, and invades the Sky:
When lo! I'm upward shot
By Extasy, and Energy of Thought,
And, sailing on the Clouds, descry
Thunders that in the Womb yet forming lie;
While others ripe for Birth, too closely pent,
Murmuring roll, and struggle for a Vent;

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Till the unruly, monstrous Birth at length,
Must'ring up all its Terror, Rage, and Strength,
Tears thro' the yawning Cloud a furious Way;
And forcibly enlarg'd explodes aloud for Joy.
Then from a dreadful Precipice's Height,
With an undaunted, steady Sight,
A mighty Void I trace
Of the Imaginary Space;
And ever as I mount, and upward go,
With Scorn look down, with Scorn behold, th' ill-natur'd World below.