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

Poems on Several Occasions

By Mary Masters

Masters, Mary (ca. 1706-ca. 1759)

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TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE Earl of BURLINGTON.

My LORD,

While you in gilded Palaces reside,
The Muses Patron, and a Monarch's Pride;
And your bright Consort swells the shining Scenes,
A meet Companion to the best of Queens;
While, justly, both the Royal Favours share,
The Toils of Empire lessen'd by your Care:

Far far remote I live, a lowly Maid,
In humble Solitude and rural Shade;
A Stranger to the Splendors of a Court,
Where Noble Lords and Princely Dames resort.
How shall I then, in so obscure a State,
Ah! with what Confidence address the Great?
Unskill'd in Converse, and in Schools untaught,
Artless my Words, and unrefin'd my Thought:
What Numbers shall I chuse, to form a Lay
Th' incumbent Debt of Gratitude to pay?

O happy Pope, blest with auspicious Fate!
On whom the Muses and the Graces wait,
Who never o'er the Silver Quill did bow,
But Floods of Harmony were sure to flow.
Would thy vast Genius lend me half its Fire,
And one short Hour my panting Breast inspire;

By just Degrees the stately Verse should grow,
And with strong Sense the strong Expression glow;
In one short Hour a lasting Fame I'd raise,
And Burlington should smile upon my Lays.

To me the tuneful Art did ne'er belong;
Why should I then protract an erring Song?
Yet when a British Peer has deign'd to shed
His gen'rous Favours on my worthless Head;
Silent shall I receive the welcome Boon?
No; 'tis a Crime to take and not to own.

The Honour yet above the Gift I place,
When such high Names my humble Volume grace,
So much distinguish'd by the Voice of Fame,
That ev'ry Author would the Sanction claim.

The Female Triumph.

Swell'd with vain Learning, vainer Man conceives,
That 'tis with him the bright Minerva lives;
That she descends to dwell with him alone,
And in his Breast erects her starry Throne:
Pleas'd with his own, to Female Reason blind,
Fansys all Wisdom in his Sex confin'd.
Proudly they boast of Philosophick Rules,
Of Modes and Maxims taught in various Schools,
And look on Women as a Race of Fools.
But if Calista's perfect Soul they knew,
They'd own their Error, and her Praise pursue.
Centred in her the brightest Graces meet,
Treasures of Knowledge and rich Mines of Wit.

Her Thoughts are beautiful, refin'd and new,
Polish'd her Language, and her Judgment true;
Each Word deliver'd with that soft address,
That as she speaks the melting Sounds we bless.
O! could I praise her without doing wrong,
Could to the Subject raise my daring Song;
Were I enrich'd with Prior's Golden Vein,
Her would I sing in an exalted Strain;
Her Merit in the noblest Verse proclaim,
And raise my own upon Calista's Fame:
Her elevated Sense, her Voice, her Mien,
Her innate Goodness, and her Air serene,
Should in my Lays to future Ages shine,
And some new Charm appear in ev'ry Line.

Fir'd with the Theme how great would be the Flight?
In what unbounded Numbers should I write!

Each Line, each Word, would more majestick grow,
And ev'ry Page with finish'd Beauty glow.

But me alas the tuneful Nine disdain,
Scorn my rude Verse, and mock my feeble Strain:
No kind Poetick Pow'rs descend to fill
My humble Breast, and guide my trembling Quill:
My Thoughts, in rough and artless Terms exprest,
Are incorrect and negligently drest.
Yet sure my just Ambition all must own
The well-chose Subject has my Judgment shown
And in the weak Attempt my great Design is known.

AN ANSWER TO A PANEGYRICK,

In which the unknown Author, writing in the Pastoral Style, supposes me handsome.

Who-e'er thou art, so tuneful are thy Lays,
Tho' misapply'd, I must approve the Praise.
The great Encomiums (not my Due) refuse,
Yet own the Force of thy superior Muse.
O happy they, who live in rural Plains,
Where Shepherds sing in such melodious Strains!
Alas! my humble Thoughts could ne'er aspire
To equal thine, or emulate thy Fire:

My Songs th' attentive Nymphs with Pleasure hear,
Because in me no Rival-charms they fear.
My Shape erroneous, and my Stature low
Can to the Eye no dang'rous Beauty show.
The list'ning Youths, who at a distance hear,
Secure of Freedom, may approach more near.
All I can boast, is this one single Grant,
Just Sense enough to know how much I want:
Unfit to teach, the Office I decline,
And ask Instruction from such Pens as thine.

To Marinda, at Parting.

Think it not strange, that I profess a Love
To one so finish'd, and so form'd to move:
In my fond Heart a tender Friendship grew,
Ere yet I could your pleasing Image view:

The deep Impression in my Soul was made,
When first I listen'd in the Jess'min Shade;
I mark'd the graceful Musick of your Tongue,
And on your Words my whole Attention hung.
So ripe a Judgment, such a Flow of Wit,
So much Discretion too commanding it,
In one so young, till now I never knew:
What Praise what Honour to such Worth is due?
Each flying Hour does unknown Charms unbind,
And opens more the Beauties of your Mind.
Your Conversation gives a solid Joy,
Which Absence will too cruelly destroy:
For Scenes of Happiness are always short,
And we in vain the fleeting Pleasure court.
Since adverse Fortune hurries you away,
And I in vain must wish your longer Stay,

Allow me thus my new Distress to paint,
Nor be offended at the kind Complaint.

Why, O ye Pow'rs, that govern human Thought,
Was dear Marinda to my Knowledge brought?
Or, when disclos'd, why must I lose her Sight?
O transient Pleasure! O too short Delight!
Alas, how quick the joyous Moments pass!
While those of Sorrow clog the lazy Glass.
But since we can't reverse the Will of Fate,
Nor give our Woes, nor give our Joys a Date;
I will at least suspend my present Care,
And for your Safety offer up a Pray'r.

May friendly Angels their soft Wings display
And be your Guard in ev'ry dang'rous Way:

May all your future Life be blest with Peace,
And ev'ry Day the Springs of Joy encrease;
In ev'ry State may you most happy be,
And tho' far distant often think on me.

A Question to Marinda.

Why are the Nuptial Rites so long delay'd?
Why is my Friend a yet-unbrided Maid?
Methinks I see your Lover's Heart beat high,
Swell'd with the Hopes of his approaching Joy;
But sinks again at this unkind Delay,
Lest ought prevent the great, the solemn Day.
He begs, you'd make his future Pleasure sure,
Let him no more the Pangs of Doubt endure;

No longer hold your Beauties from his Arms,
But since 'tis so ordain'd, resign your Charms.
Propitious Hymen at the Temple stands,
Has fir'd his Torch, and waves his awful Hands,
Beckons you forward to the Sacred Shrine,
And bids you Now in faithful Union join.
The sportive Loves they too have waited long
By Hymen's Side; a fond and busy Throng!
They grow impatient for the loit'ring Fair,
And fear to lose the long-expected Pair.
Why are the Nuptial Rites so long delay'd?
Why is my Friend a yet-unbrided Maid?

On Marinda's Marriage.

The Day is come, the mystick Knot is ty'd,
And Hymen laughs upon the beaut'ous Bride.
Amidst her Maids, see gay Marinda shine,
Newly conducted from the Sacred Shrine:
Great Heav'n, the wise Disposer of her Charms,
Consigns them to a happy Lover's Arms:
Happiest among the Happy here below,
On whom th' indulging Fates such Gifts bestow.

In fair Marinda's Person is exprest,
All that can most delight the Human Breast.
Motion its Charms in full Perfection spreads,
Where with a graceful Negligence she treads,

And Innocence, which might the First-born Pair
Adorn, displays itself in ev'ry Air.
Yet tho' her Form has various Beauties join'd,
It yields in Beauty to her brighter Mind:
Amidst the Virgin Train she first is nam'd,
For Wit, for Eloquence, and Virtue, fam'd.
When-e'er she speaks, who strives not to be near?
See warm'd Attention bend the list'ning Ear!
With still Surprize, see the fond Hearers gaze!
While ev'ry Heart beats Measure to her Praise:
Experienc'd Age may by her Youth be taught,
So sage Her Maxims, so sublime her Thought.

But lo! the happy Bridegroom now draws nigh,
His Soul's in Triumph, and his Heart beats high:
A livelier Red inflames his am'rous Cheek,
And in his Voice the tend'rest Accents break:

With Looks erect, and with a manly Air
He meets the softer Beauties of the Fair.
The dedicated Nymph each Thought employs,
See from his Eyes the emanating Joys!
He seats himself with Pleasure by her side,
And looks transported on his blushing Bride.

Hail, wedded Pair! O may your Union prove
The brightest Pattern of Connubial Love!
And may this Day, select by smiling Fate,
Parent of Blessings in your Nuptial State,
Revolving often with the rolling Years,
Ne'er bring less Joy than what the present wears.
Nor melancholy Cares, nor stormy Strife,
Trouble the Tenour of your future Life.

And when the tender Pledges of your Love
In Years to come Marinda's Form improve.
New Charmers (yet unborn) shall fire the Muse,
And endless Beauties endless Verse diffuse.

The Defense of my self.

A Lady of my Acquaintance having suffered very much in a Law-Suit (which she lost) through the Malice and Perjury of a vile Set of Men, and she and her Family being insulted in a barbarous and insolent manner by the same Persons, it occasioned me to write a satyrical Song upon the Adversaries of my Friend. A certain Gentleman, who saw that Piece, was pleased to send me a Poetical Letter, which he entitl'd an Essay on Satyr; in answer to which the following Lines were penn'd.

Ingenious Monitor, whose ev'ry Line
At once displays the Poet and Divine;

Your tuneful Letter gladly I receive,
And Thanks to the judicious Author give.
Abash'd, yet pleas'd, in secret I peruse
The friendly Labours of your faithful Muse.
Confess the Justness of each candid Thought,
And self-condemn'd am free to own my Fault.
Yet I might quote the Words of heav'nly Men
To justify the Failures of my Pen.
Unhappy Children felt Elisha's Rage,
When they despis'd the Prophet's blasted Age:
Deep Execrations on the Sinner's Head
Thro' all the Psalmist's royal Strains are spread
Invectives there, with heavy Curses, flow,
Such as I dare not wish my greatest Foe.
What tho they're utter'd by the best of Kings,
My bright Redeemer teaches kinder things;

More gen'rous Precepts in his Gospel shine,
Mercy and Truth embellishing each Line,
And of all Virtues none I think so fair,
None can with Christian Charity compare.
Tho' warm Resentment for an injur'd Friend
Provok'd my Spleen, and caus'd me to offend;
Yet let me palliate an erroneous Song,
Assert the Rage, but own th' Expression wrong.
When Indignation rises in my Breast,
It is the Sin, not Sinner I detest:
Tho' angry Passions in my Bosom roll,
Malice and Hate could ne'er debauch my Soul.
As ev'ry Grace from Heaven's high King descends,
So Sin proceeds from Hell's malignant Fiends.
Bad Men their Agents oftentimes I name,
And may perhaps with too much Heat declaim:

But never yet did any Verse of mine
Th' Offender to eternal Flames consign.
Not the rash Man, who, joyful to offend,
Drank deep Damnation to my dearest Friend:
Nor threaten'd Murder to my self, could e'er
Extort a Sentence, that is so severe.
No, tho' harsh Terms the Criminals pursue,
Yet whilst I blame 'em I forgive 'em too.
My utmost Wish is that they might be brought,
To mourn the Mischiefs which their Madness wrought.
But the leud Race of these degen'rate Times
Rejoice in Guilt, and triumph in their Crimes.
So cruel Nero once his Harp employ'd,
When his curst Arts imperial Rome destroy'd.
Thus far at least I've kept my Conscience free,
I've done no more than I'd have done to me,

Should I at any time false Witness bear,
Oppress a Widow or an Infant Heir:
If e'er I travel in the Wanton's Road,
Or with licentious Tongue prophane my God;
Insult my Neighbour, wound his honest Fame,
Or with false Scandals blast his precious Name.
For Crimes like these the Lash would be my Due,
I should deserve it, and expect it too.
Yet think not, Sir, that your Advice is vain,
Who can be careless of so sweet a Strain?
Fools hate Reproof, and scorn to be made wise,
But gen'rous Minds will prudent Counsel prize:
Th' instructive Theme is wrought with so much Art,
I'll wear the golden Precepts in my Heart.

The Rules you give, I gladly would pursue,
But find the Task more adequate to you:
You best can teach the Christian's sacred Law,
And Vice in all her guilty Colours draw:
'Tis more than time you should th' Attempt begin,
To check the monstrous growth of ev'ry Sin.
The daily Practice of unthinking Men
Loudly demands the Censor's striking Pen;
Divine Astrea from the Earth is fled,
And proud Oppression governs in her stead.
Pleasures forbid are lawlessly enjoy'd,
And Babes in Embryo secretly destroy'd:
Man preys on Man, the Tyrant gains Applause,
And few durst plead the injur'd Widow's Cause.
Rapine, Revenge, Hypocrisy and Pride,
Dire Perjury, cruel Uxoricide,

Pass with Impunity in these sad Days,
And some ev'n dare the vilest Acts to praise:
Tormenting Passions tear the human Breast;
For Minds implacable can never rest.
Avarice in some does most intensely glow,
And Gold's the brightest Deity they know.
The poor Man labours for his Bread in vain,
Whilst the stern Master, heedless of his Pain,
Keeps back the Wages of his weekly Task,
And frowns and threatens, if he's bold to ask:
The weary Slave goes home with wat'ry Eyes,
And lanquishes for Nature's due Supplies.
The Mother and her Babes together mourn,
Finding no kind Relief at his return:
They all are pinch'd, all want the dear earn'd Stock
That should suffice himself and little Flock.

Un-nam'd, un-number'd Vices more there are,
Which well deserve your kind, correcting Care;
And while your friendly and judicious Page
Rebukes the Follies of this sinful Age,
Your pious Arguments shall strongly move,
Enforc'd by Reason and impress'd by Love;
Shall stop the Venom of the Sland'rer's Tongue,
And bold Oppressors cease from doing Wrong;
Repenting Souls shall humbly bow to Heav'n,
And supplicating beg to be forgiv'n.
Where soft Humanity retains her Seat,
Your tender Lines will kind Acceptance meet;
But let the Vengeance of thy Verse be shed,
In Terms of Terror, on the perjur'd Head:

Correct with freedom, and with warmth reprove;
His Heart's too hard for gentle Strokes to move:
His Conscience sleeps, whilst mild Perswasion charms,
And must be wak'd by Dread and loud Alarms:
He (for you cannot well be too severe)
A publick Mark of Infamy should wear,
Lest others fall in his perfidious Snare.
From him, let Virtue's honest Sons recede,
For 'tis a Crime to countenance the Deed.
Of all the Vices that I yet have nam'd,
Perj'ry's the blackest, and should most be blam'd;
It strikes whole Families in one sad Hour,
And quite subverts the Legislative Pow'r.
In vain are wholesome Laws for Justice meant,
When faithless Oaths can frustrate their Intent.

For other Faults some little may be said,
The Man of Pleasure is by Sense betray'd;
By beauteous Looks the Am'rous are undone,
While native Frailty helps their Ruin on.
Delicious Morsels court the Glutton's Taste,
And he offends at the luxurious Feast.
The sparkling Glass allures the Drunkard's Eye,
It warms his Blood and lifts his Spirits high;
He drinks, grows mad, becomes a guilty Soul,
Deceiv'd by the inebriating Bowl.
And Cholerick Men, by Provocation fir'd,
Are with a transient Lunacy inspir'd:
In height of Rage they deal the hasty Blow,
And inadvertent strike at Friend or Foe;
Without Design a hasty Blow may kill:
The perjur'd Man's deliberately Ill.

'Tis not an inconsiderate, sudden Start,
He meditates the Mischief in his Heart:
'Tis all injurious, wicked, full of Spite,
And not one Sense regal'd with soft Delight.
So far from Pleasure is the cruel Fact,
That Nature shrinks in the detested Act.
Shews her Abhorrence, and her deep Regrets,
In trembling Agonies, and dewy Sweats.
But the bold Sinner scorns to quit the Field,
Resolv'd he swears, and Nature's forc'd to yield.
Affronted Conscience too retires to Rest,
And sleeps unactive in his guilty Breast.
Till Death or some kind Monitor, like you,
Shall with strong Hand the dismal Scene renew,
Shall sting his Bosom with unwonted Pain,
And make him wish for Innocence again.

Clemene's Character.

As Painters, when they first design a Face,
With chalky Lines the beauteous Features trace,
And only shadow out the future Grace,
The various Tinctures, that appear so fair,
The Master Strokes, that give it Life and Air,
Are wanting yet, and that, which now we see,
Is but the Type of what it ought to be.

So I that would Clemene's Picture paint,
That finish'd Beauty, and that perfect Saint;
Having no Colours for a Piece so fine,
Must only mark it with a pallid Line.

But the rich Shades and intermixing Light,
Which ought to rise in native Glory bright,
The ornamental Touch, the moving Grace,
Leave for a more distinguish'd Hand to place;
That knows orig'nal Beauties to display,
And breathing Charms in living Colours lay.

Clemene is with ev'ry Virtue fraught,
All pure in Action, and unstain'd in Thought;
All that can Love and Admiration raise,
All that excites our Wonder or our Praise,
Does in her Person with full Vigour blaze.
Never did Form and Mind more justly fit,
The fairest Beauty with the brightest Wit.
Her Prudence shines in ev'ry Scene of Life,
A tender Mother and a faithful Wife;

Reserv'd and Chaste as Innocence should be,
But yet from formal Affectation free.
Whene'er she speaks, 'tis more than Joy to hear,
So sweet her Voice, so grateful to the Ear.
Her gentle Nature with soft Pity's crown'd,
She does so much in Tenderness abound,
That not an Insect in her Sight is slain,
But kind Clemene suffers half the Pain.
O! most exalted Elegance of Thought!
Which feels each little Tragedy that's wrought.
She truly is of ev'ry Grace possest,
That can in lovely Woman be exprest.
Here Beauty, Wisdom, Virtue, all combine
To make the Workmanship appear Divine.
Can she be less than Favourite of Heaven,
To whom these bright Advantages are given?

Is she the Darling of Superiour Pow'rs?
Can she be their's and shall she not be Our's?

Since ev'ry Good, since Gifts all perfect flow
From Heav'n's high Lord, to Mortals here below;
To Heav'n's high Lord my humble Voice I'll raise,
And with the good Clemene join in Praise:
For all that she enjoys his Name I'll bless,
And beg his Favours never may be less.

To Clemene.

To the same, early in the Spring, occasioned by her taking a journey, and my retiring into the Country soon after.

Wheree'er I go, or whatsoe'er I do,
How pleasing 'tis to tell it all to you!

Hear then, auspicious Mistress of my Theme,
What now I dictate by a purling Stream.
The Grief, by your Departure first imprest,
Encreasing grew a Burden at my Breast:
Depriv'd of you, I sought no new Delight,
Nothing could please but Solitude and Night:
These suited best my melancholy Mind,
Which no Redress in length of time could find:
Pensive and sad, in secret still I griev'd,
Till soothing Scenes my anxious Pain reliev'd.

By a kind Friend oft courted, I repair
To breathe the Fragrance of the Country Air:
Here oft in Silence by myself I rove,
In Paths perplex'd thro' all the naked Grove,
Yet find a Pleasure in the sylvan Scene,
Void as it is of ornamental Green.

The Primrose oft I see, scented and pale
Adorn the rising Hill, or sinking Vale:
Near it (for Nature stains with various Dies)
The Violet does in purple Odours rise,
Which with descending Hand I strait arrest,
Pluck the young Flow'rs, and plant them in my Breast:
And then reflect, were my Clemene here,
How soon would I the Vernal Pride transfer?
Pleas'd, if I could the early Buds convey
To Thee more sweet, to Thee more fair than they.
The Charms of Nature, wheresoe'er I go,
In lovely Negligence her Beauties show.
A Flood transparent in Meanders glides,
The silver Swan upon its Surface slides.
Within its Current sports the scaly Breed,
And on its Bank up shoots the bending Reed:

Around, the verd'rous Meads extended lye,
And with new Graces catch my wand'ring Eye.

Sometimes I mark th' Inclosures wooded Rows,
Whose swelling Banks luxurious growth disclose:
And on their sloping sides display to view,
A thousand Shrubs of diff'rent size and hue.
A Mind contemplative has Joy in these,
Whose various Figures can so justly please.
For while I view the Products of the Spring,
I find a God in the minutest Thing.
I grow inspir'd, and hardly can restrain
The struggling Muse, that would begin again,
Prompts me again to view the Wonders round,
The genial Springs and ornamented Ground.
Bids me behold but with astonish'd Eyes
The bright Expansion of the vaulted Skies;

The radiant Planet, that enkindles Day,
And warms the World with his benignant Ray:
From Causes numberless I might explore
The Cause Supreme, and as I write, adore.

Oh! had I Time and Judgment to indite,
The pious Muse should not in vain excite:
Her noble Dictates gladly I'd rehearse,
And dress my Theme in the sublimest Verse,
Expatiate on the Miracles I see,
And dedicate the finish'd Piece to Thee.

The 139th Psalm.

Thou hast, O Lord, my secret Soul descry'd,
Search'd thro' my Heart, and ev'ry Corner try'd:
My Sitting down and my Uprising are,
Within the Bounds of thy extensive Care.
Far off, my Thoughts were open to thy View,
Ere yet my Brain the young Conceptions knew.
With number'd Steps, I walk a measur'd Way,
Environ'd and encompass'd all the Day:
And, bending to my Bed, each gloomy Night,
I lay me down, and slumber in Thy Sight.
What need my Tongue my conscious Silence break?
Thou know'st my Words, before my Words I speak.

I am beset, as with an armed Band,
And fast enclos'd with thy restraining Hand;
Thy Knowledge does to ev'ry thing extend,
Which my weak Reason cannot comprehend.
Oh! whither shall I from thy Presence fly?
Or where conceal me from thy piercing Eye?
If I to Heav'n could climb the starry Way,
And thro' the shining Path my self convey,
To thy full View I clearly must be shown,
For there thou reign'st on thy eternal Throne.
Or should I to infernal Caves repair,
Thou still would'st see me, thou art present there.
Nor would it ought avail if I should flee,
Where humid Sun-beams rising leave the Sea;
Ev'n there thy Hand my wat'ry Way must guide,
And bear me safely o'er the dang'rous Tide.

Or if I say, the Darkness shall conceal
What busy Light's detecting Beams reveal;
Thy searching Eye will the deep Gloom pervade,
And Night it self be destitute of Shade.
The thickest Darkness can no Cov'ring be,
For Light and Darkness shine alike to Thee:
The Shadows flee before thy piercing Ray,
With Thee 'tis ever un-remitting Day.

Thou hast possest my very Reins and Heart,
And Life by Thee is stretch'd thro' ev'ry Part;
For me thou didst the nursing Womb prepare,
And lodg'd me safe from cold inclement Air.
Thee will I sing, dwell on thy Praises long,
Thou Theme of Angels, and the Seraph's Song!
Alas I do not, cannot understand
The fearful Wonders of thy forming Hand.

But yet my Soul does all thy Pow'r confess,
And owns it great to an extreme excess.
To thee, my previous Substance did appear,
Unfelt by her, who did the Substance bear.
Ere yet the swelling Womb its Burden knew,
While unperceiv'd the lifeless Matter grew;
In low and secret Darkness was I wrought,
And finely modell'd by Creating Thought.
My Infant Form to thee discover'd was,
Wrapt in a crude inseparated Mass;
And all my little Limbs thou didst behold,
Within thy Book thou hadst them all enroll'd,
Which lengthen'd Time did fashion and unfold.

Thy gracious Thoughts, how boundless they appear!
How to my Soul beyond Expression dear!

In vain I try to count thy Mercies o'er,
The Sands are fewer on the Sea-beat Shore.
Thou art an ever-present God to me,
When I awake, I find my self with Thee.

Sure thou wilt slay the Wicked and Unjust,
Leave me, ye Fools, who make not God your Trust.
Unrighteous Men thy holy Ways prophane,
And boldly take thy mighty Name in vain.
I hate them, Lord, who speak to thy Dispraise,
And grieve to see thy violated Ways.
With fiercest Rage my angry Bosom glows,
And with my own I number all thy Foes.

Search me again, O God, and try my Heart,
Lest secret Guilt should lurk in any Part.

Cleanse ev'ry Stain and guide me in the Way
That upwards shall my happy Soul convey,
To dwell with thee in everlasting Day.

To a Gentleman who questioned my being the Author of the foregoing Verses.

Sir, 'tis allow'd, as it has oft been said,
Poets are only Born and never Made.
Where Nature does her friendly Warmth exert,
A Genius may supply the Pedant's Art.
Hence 'tis, that I, unletter'd Maid, pretend
To paraphrase a Psalm, or praise a Friend;
Wholly unpractis'd in the learned Rules,
And arduous Precepts of the noisy Schools;

Nature's strong Impulse gives my Fancy Wings:
Prompted by her, I sing of various Things,
A flow'ry Meadow, or a purling Stream,
And Notes that differ with the diff'ring Theme.
But still the Poem, howsoe'er design'd,
Is a true Picture of the Author's Mind.
Whate'er I write, whatever I impart,
Is simple Nature unimprov'd by Art.
Search but those Strains, you think so much excel,
Scan ev'ry Verse, and try the Numbers well:
You'll plainly see, in almost ev'ry Line,
Distinguishing Defects to prove them Mine.

On the Death of Miss Molly Lombe.

Inscrib'd to Mrs. Lombe.

Insatiate Death! could'st thou not glut thy Rage
With hoary Victims bent with Care and Age?
Whose weighty Sorrows with their years encrease,
Invoke thy Pow'r, and beg for a Release:
Oh! why must this fair Child resign her Breath?
Thy blooming Sacrifice, insatiate Death!
In her sweet Form, united Graces strove
To raise our Fondness, and allure our Love.
Her Infant Tongue with broken Accents fraught,
Half-form'd her Words, yet perfect was her Thought.

Sure dawning Reason ne'er appear'd so strong,
Ne'er shone so bright before in one so young.

Oft has the Mother, with fond Transport, prest
The little Charmer to her tender Breast;
Would round her Neck her happy Arms extend,
And promise to her self a future Friend.
But Fate unkind has all her Wishes crost,
And with the Child the promis'd Friend is lost.
In vain do we expect a distant Joy,
When one short Moment can our Hopes destroy.
For oh! she's gone! her Parents left to mourn
The sweetest Innocent that e'er was born!
The Glass is broke, hardly a Minute run,
And Life is finish'd tho' but new begun.

Methinks, I see the Father's Sorrows flow,
And hear the Mother vent her rising, Woe;
Alas! my Child, my darling Child is dead,
My past Delight and future Pleasure fled.
The rich Endowments of her Youth are gone,
Th' expected Wonders of her Age are flown;
Silent's the Tongue that once could move so sweet,
With Words too wise for Children to repeat.
See! where she lyes, extended, void of Breath,
And all her Beauties swallow'd up in Death:
His icy Hand does all her Sweetness blast,
And to the Ground the faded Blossom's cast:
Ah! why am I preserv'd such Grief to see?
Would I had dy'd, my dearest Babe, for Thee!

Thus Nature prompts, thus Fondness will complain,
But Reason dictates in another Strain;

She chides our Tears, and bids us wipe our Eyes,
To view the little Saint in Paradise,
With Glory crown'd, and never ending Joys.

And, Thou bright Nymph, to whom her Birth she owes;
To ease thy Pain, and mitigate thy Woes,
Reflect; to thee the mighty Favour's giv'n
To see thy honour'd Offspring call'd to Heav'n;
Remov'd from hence to a divine Abode,
And made the blest Companion of a God.
That God who still thy Lucia's Life doth spare,
The only Branch of thy maternal Care.
This tender Plant shall flourish in thy Dome,
An Earnest of his Favours yet to come:
Then cease thy Grief, fair Mourner, thou shalt see,
Unnumber'd Blessings are reserv'd for Thee.

To the same, on the Birth of her Son.

Rise, drooping Muse, contract thy falling Wing,
My Friend is safe, and thou hast leave to sing:
Go, and in humble Strains address the Fair,
Of late thy weightiest and thy only Care:
The happy Mother in soft Numbers greet,
And lay the tuneful Off'ring at her Feet.
She now is from the painful Conflict free,
And Joy arises in a just Degree.
Tell her with Pleasure I behold her Son,
Whose Presence must his Sister's Loss attone:
So kind, so careful, is indulgent Heav'n
To ease the Pain, whene'er a Wound is giv'n.

May this young Branch, this Prop of future Years,
This present Object both of Hopes and Fears,
Live and encrease in Stature and in Fame,
And be the Glory of his Father's Name:
May He the Genius of the Lombes possess,
Their depth of Thought, Sagacity, Address:
That boundless Fancy, that surprizing Skill,
Which shews its Pow'r extensive as its Will.
Be all these noble Qualities his own,
Which are in Them so eminently shown:
And that he may the more illustrious shine,
To these, may all his Mother's Virtues join;
May He her Piety and Beauty share,
And be her Merit's more than Fortune's Heir:
Then, nothing will be wanting to compleat,
This happy Child, this Favourite of Fate,
So throughly perfect, and so truly great.

To the Sun, in a cold dry Season.

Parent of Light, whose ever-shining Ray,
Quickens the Globe, and kindles up the Day:
Collect thy Force, thy Ardors all prepare,
To mitigate and warm the frigid Air:
Send forth, bright Prince, a more extensive Glow,
And let us feel thy chearing Pow'rs below.
Let humid Vapours leave their native Streams,
Exhal'd from thence by thy attracting Beams;
In rising Mists our Ev'ning Walks attend,
And kindly on the soft'ning Earth descend.
Or else, invisibly expanding, rise
Mix into Clouds, and float along the Skies;
There all the Day in bright Suspension stay'd,
And beautiful by thy Reflection made;

Border'd with Gold, or ting'd with purple Hue,
Like rich Embossings on a Ground of Blue,
To the pleas'd Eye present a gaudy Scene,
Whilst the pure Æther heav'nly looks between.
Let nightly Show'rs refresh the thirsty Earth,
And daily Fervors give her Plants a Birth:
Beneath our Feet the flow'ry Buds shall spring,
And on each side the wing'd Musicians sing:
Th' indulgent Skies shall bless the Peasant's Toil,
Call forth rich Crops, and make all Nature smile.

Then shall Mecenas grace his rural Seat,
Healthful and happy in a warm Retreat:
The neighbouring Towns by his dear Presence blest,
Shall hail and welcome the illustrious Guest:
Maria too the general Joy will share,
Applaud his Merit, and divide his Care:

For like thy Beams, his gen'rous Virtues spread,
And shine benignant on the humble Head.

Defence of Myrtillo .

Long hath it been the Critick's poor Delight,
To damn the Piece, they wanted Sense to write.
Where-e'er superior Qualities abound,
The snarling Crew too surely will be found:
Myrtillo now provokes their venom'd Wit,
He has excell'd, and therefore merits it.
But the bright Youth above their Malice shines,
Secure in his unperishable Lines:

So barking Curs pursue the gen'rous Horse,
Who blest with nobler Parts and greater Force,
Disdains their little Fury to engage,
And is unmov'd at such enervate Rage.

Here I should stop, lest I my self expose
To the Resentment of Myrtillo's Foes.
For what am I, a poor illit'rate Maid,
That durst their learn'd Authority invade?
True; but my Safety is in being mean,
A foolish Thing, that's plac'd below their Spleen.
Yet had I Merit to deserve their Hate,
I'd mock their Censure and provoke my Fate.
Judicious Heat my glowing Bosom fires,
And equitable Rage my Soul inspires.
I hate the carping Tribe, their Knowledge slight,
Nor would enjoy their Learning with their Spite.

Void of their Envy and its pointed Stings,
I taste Good-nature's more delightful Springs.
Where I see Merit, I admire it too,
A gen'rous Virtue which they never knew.

With Pleasure I Myrtillo's Lines peruse,
The charming Products of a vig'rous Muse.
All that is soft, that's delicate and fine,
Does in his Verse in nameless Beauties join.
Such moving Language and the Sense so strong,
While ev'ry Grace adorns the pleasing Song:
Nature and Art, to give me Joys, unite,
And ev'ry Word administers Delight.
But, if there's ought defective or untrue,
Take it, ye Criticks, That belongs to you.

The Poems here vindicated make up a small Volume published by the Author at 18 Years of Age, under the Title of Poems on several Occasions, by a young Gentleman, and printed for W. Mears, at the Lamb without Temple-Bar. 1724. Price 1 s. 6 d.

Sent to a Lady with Myrtillo's Poems.

Had I Myrtillo's Judgment to indite,
And could his soft, transporting Numbers write:
I then might hope to paint thy ev'ry Grace,
And beauteously in native Order place
The meeting Virtues; perfectly imprest
On sacred Sheets, in thy Ethereal Breast.
Thee only for my fav'rite Theme I'd chuse,
The fit Employment of a lawrell'd Muse:
I then would try the utmost Force of Art,
And with All-conqu'ring Verse invade your Heart:
The Pow'rs of Wit and Poetry should join,
And Words, like his, improve each sprightly Line;

Till Harmony, to just Perfection brought,
Should find a Charm for the severest Thought.
I'd bribe your Favour with so rich a Strain,
That nicest Caution should be us'd in vain.
Strictest Reserves without Success be try'd,
And Terms of high Distinction thrown aside.
Ev'n you, my great Superior, should descend
Humbly to wear the milder Name of Friend.
Kind Epithet! which only to repeat
Gives to my Heart a more exalted Heat,
And makes it with redoubled Motions beat.

To Clemene, leaving the Country in Autumn.

From ruin'd Shades, where chilling Breezes rise,
To warmer Climes the fair Clemene flies.
The lovely Spring with blooming Sweets is fled,
Its chearful Greens and gay Productions dead;
And wealthy Summer has resign'd her Throne,
With all the Treasures that around her shone.
Bleak Autumn comes, and with her killing Blasts
From their high Tops the fading Honours casts:
The warbling Birds in fainter Accents sing,
And seem to languish for the distant Spring.

So do I for my lost Clemene mourn,
And pensively implore her wish'd Return:

From whose improving Converse I receive,
More Joy than any of the Seasons give.

On Beauty.

Sure, Beauty is a Light Divine,
That does with awful Lustre shine;
Rises more strong at ev'ry View,
And does the proudest Hearts subdue.
Where is the Man, that durst defy
The blooming Cheek and dazling Eye;
The lovely Shape, the winning Air,
And graceful Motions of the Fair?
Stoicks themselves could find no Arms
'Gainst Beauty's bright tremendous Charms:
This Cato by Example prov'd,
A rigid Stoick, yet he lov'd:

And both his am'rous Sons display'd
Their rival Flames for one fair Maid.
Beauty still triumphs o'er the Schools,
With all their Philosophick Rules;
She breaks their surest best Defence,
Reason, the feeble Guard of Sense.

All feel her Force, her Laws obey,
Compell'd to own her potent Sway.
But 'tis th' unblemish'd Form I praise,
Where Virtue shines with equal Rays!
For Beauty, stain'd, has lost her Pow'r,
And, Virtue gone, she charms no more.

To Bellaria, looking at Philander, as he counterfeited Sleep in an Alcove.

While mimick Slumbers close Philander's Eyes,
Bellaria views him with a soft Surprize.
Not Cynthia with more Pleasure e'er survey'd
Her dear Endymion, on Mount Latmos laid:
Nor was the Youth possest of nobler Charms,
Altho' a Goddess took him to her Arms.

Lovely Impostor, ope thy piercing Eye,
And warn the dazled Nymph from Death to fly.
For while you veil the fair, destructive Light,
Too safe, and yet too fatal is the Sight.

Turn, heedless Maid, the tempting Danger shun,
Who dares to look, is sure to be undone.
While negligently thus the Charmer lies,
To full Advantage in this fair Disguise;
Fearless we view the Wonders of his Face,
Run o'er each Line, and ev'ry Beauty trace:
Unaw'd, the whole harmonious Form survey,
And fondly gaze our Liberty away.

Thus, Madam, tho' I sing Philander's Praise,
And talk with Freedom in advising Lays:
Tho' I presume his Person to commend,
Yet fear no Rival in a faithful Friend:
Far from my Thoughts such Insolence remain,
Who never durst indulge a Wish so vain:
Love does not always move the Poet's Pen,
You are more dear than all the Race of Men.

'Tis for your sake Philander is ador'd,
Bellaria's Fav'rite but Maria's Lord.

A Petition to a Steel Thimble, which a Lady usually wore in her Bosom; wrote at the Request of a Gentleman.

Go to thy own beloved Nest,
Where thou so often tak'st thy Rest:
There, while thou dost in Ambush lie,
Securely hid from ev'ry Eye,
Steal softly to her Heart, and see,
If any Room be left for me;
And if one Place be unpossess'd,
Fit to receive so true a Guest;

Be Thou my Advocate, and tell
What Flames within my Bosom dwell.
Say, that my Passion is sincere,
Say, that I beg to enter there:
And, if by Thy prevailing Art,
I gain Admission to her Heart;
If, by this Stratagem of Thine,
The Nymph to Kindness shall incline;
My Friend I will esteem thee more
Than ought that e'er thy Figure bore:
Unenvious then, I will intreat
That thou may'st keep thy downy Seat:
A League with thy bright Metal seal,
And Gold shall yield its Fame to Steel.

To Marinda, on the New-year, being the first Year of her Marriage.

Since you, Marinda, whom I dearest prize,
Must live secluded from my longing Eyes;
With-held by Absence from my friendly Arms,
And leave me only Images of Charms:
Vain is my Voice, that would my Thoughts impart,
And shew the tender Dictates of my Heart.
In vain I strive, with Friendship's fondest Phrase,
To speak my Kindness, and enhance thy Praise:
The flying Sound, too weak to reach so far,
Dies in its Progress and is lost in Air.
The Task does chiefly to the Pen belong,
And the drench'd Quill must aid the failing Tongue:

This Paper must my Substitute appear,
To bring you Greeting on the New-born Year.

O may each Hour of its distinguish'd Round
Pass smiling by, with Health and Pleasure crown'd.
Be Thine, whatever happy Mortals know;
Round thy fair Head may endless Blessings flow:
Far from thy Breast may ev'ry Care remove,
But what arises from endearing Love:
May'st thou enjoy, whate'er thy Heart desires;
And blest with all thy virt'ous Soul requires,
See the whole Year with new Delights draw on,
And know no Pain, but that which brings a Son.

Another on the same.

To you, my Friend, my dearest best Delight,
In fond Epistles I could ever write:
For since your Merit and your Form I knew,
My kindest Thoughts have all been turn'd to you.
Whate'er my searching Soul has most admir'd,
Whate'er my warmest Wishes have requir'd,
To meet in one, that should my Heart divide,
In whom I might an equal Trust confide,
I find in Thee most perfectly exprest;
Thou faithful Inmate of my secret Breast!
Thou art complete, thou hast no Faults to mend,
My most engaging and instructive Friend.
Thou art become my chief and constant Care,
The precious Burden of my daily Pray'r:

And now the Year, to a full Period brought,
Inflames my Zeal, and wakes each pious Thought.
Deign then the Purport of my Soul to know,
See what Desires within my Bosom glow.

O thou! who dost Eternity possess,
Who never canst be more or ever less,
Who still unchang'd for ever shalt remain,
The First and Last, confirm'd in endless Reign;
Most gracious Father, thy Indulgence show,
(If Sinners may presume to call thee so)
While for my self and one more dear I plead,
Incline thine Ear, and my Desires succeed.
For our Offences past, Remission grant,
And give us all things which our Frailties want.
Preserve us thro' the Year we now begin
From Sorrow, from Disease, and ev'ry Sin.

For all thy boundless Love my Thanks receive
And let thy Servants in thy Favour live.
Her, whom I most esteem, do thou prefer,
O, let thy brightest Gifts be sav'd for her.
And while my Pray'rs before thy Throne ascend,
Bless me, my God, and doubly bless my Friend.

Upon his late Majesty's going to Sea, in June 1724.

Come, gentle Winds, and with propitious Gales,
Triumphant fill a mighty Monarch's Sails:
Swift and secure, Britannia's King convey
O'er the smooth Surface of a smiling Sea.
Weeping Religion, with a waving Hand,
Beckons our Sovereign to a distant Land;

Requires his Aid her Altars to restore;
Waft him, ye Winds, to the inviting Shore!

Methinks, I see the royal Vessel glide
With happy Omens thro' the yielding Tide:
Round her gilt Sides a wanton Dolphin plays,
And boldly aims at Majesty to gaze.
While, from above, descending Angels spread
Their sacred Wings o'er his anointed Head.
Assembled Kings for his Arrival wait,
And Nations from his Mouth must meet their Fate.
Tremble, ye Poles, at your approaching Dooms,
Britannia's King, the Tyrant's Terror, comes:
Near and more near the rapid Vengeance draws,
For violated Faith and injur'd Laws.
Justice and Mercy warm his Royal Breast,
Foe to th' Oppressor, Friend to the Opprest.

Ye widow'd Mourners, whose dear Kindred fell
A bloody Sacrifice to Romish Zeal;
Raise your declining Heads, and cease to grieve,
For what your own Augustus will not give,
Ye shall ere long from juster Pow'rs receive.
Britain's dread Lord and Prussia's awful King
Shall to your Aid united Succours bring.
Ignatius' plotting Sons, with Lips prophane,
Mary's dumb Image shall invoke in vain:
Each Statue fam'd for Miracles adore,
Roll o'er their Beads, and fansy'd Help implore.
From mere mechanick Forms, drest up for show,
From Mortals dead a thousand Years ago;
Deluded Fools! what Help can they bestow?
How small will be your courted Idols Aid,
When Force superior shall your Land invade?

To whose bright Arms your painted Gods must bow,
The weak Ador'd, and blind Adorers too.

To Myrtillo, desiring him to write a Poem on the Coronation of their present Majesties.

When Sounds of Triumph ev'ry Tongue employ,
And Nations labour with Excess of Joy;
When dazling Scenes the ravish'd Muse invite,
To Paths of Fame and Prospects of Delight;
Why does the Silver Quill neglected lie?
Or why the sable Stream stand useless by?
The spotless Paper silently complains,
And seems to beg for thy enriching Stains.

Inimitable Youth! begin the Song,
Which does to thy superior Pen belong.
Collect thy Genius, fan thy native Fire,
And let Britannia's Bliss thy Soul inspire.
To royal Themes thy tuneful Numbers raise,
And for a while forget Saphira's Praise.
Let sanguine Verse the mighty George proclaim,
And softest Notes speak Carolina's Name.
Thou, whose rich Thoughts with vast Conceptions swell,
Can best their Goodness and their Glory tell:

O! quickly the unerring Song prepare,
I pant, I long the rapt'rous Strains to hear.

There is just now published a new Edition of the Poems to Saphira, with the following Title, The Ladies Muse, or a curious Collection of Poems to Saphira, on various Occasions; to which is added, the Turtle and Sparrow, by Matthew Prior Esq; Printed for Richard Wellington at the Dolphin and Crown without Temple-Bar, and E. Lewes in Flower-de Luce Court near Fetter-Lane in Fleetstreet. The artful Ambiguity with which this Title is drawn up, is evidently intended by the said Booksellers to pass the whole Collection upon the World for the Work of Mr. Prior, much to the Injury of that excellent Poet; to clear whose Memory from the Imputation of being the Author of Writings below his Genius, the true Author of those Poems takes this occasion to declare, that if Mr. Prior has any Property in that Collection, it is only in the Tale of The Turtle and Sparrow.

The Heir of Arthington,

inscrib'd to Mrs. Arthington.

Whilst num'rous Friends, who come with warm Address,
In common Prose uncommon Joy express;
Let sprightly Numbers make my Pleasure known,
And hail the blooming Heir of Arthington.
For fair Events, and Joy that is extreme,
Were ever Thought the Muses proper Theme.
What Scene more joyous? what Event more fair?
A new-born Son! a long-requested Heir!
Whose welcome Birth preserves a large Domain.
Him will I sing: (accept the fervent Strain)

A Son and Heir! let Eccho spread it round
While the Muse dwells on the delighting Sound.

Distinguish'd be the Day, that gave him Birth,
And dedicated to superior Mirth.
May future Blessings mark the rising Morn,
As it shall make its annual Return.

Shine, happy Stars; look down, propitious Heav'n,
And aid the lovely Boy that thou hast giv'n.
Let Dreams of Paradise his Sleep employ,
And tincture all his waking Hours with Joy.
Let the bright Guards, that keep off adverse Fate,
Attentive near the smiling Infant wait:
That no Obstruction stop his precious Breath,
Or strong Convulsion bring untimely Death.

No, let him live, (Great Ruler of Mankind)
Let Strength and Beauty in his Form be join'd,
And ev'ry manly Virtue grace his Mind.
To a long Date extend his growing Years,
Replete with good and undisturb'd with Cares:
May Riches, Honour, Health and Peace attend
His Hours of Life, and happy be his End:
To latest Times may his great Name be known,
And ev'ry Age enjoy an Arthington.

To Belinda, a Love Epistle, wrote at the Request of a Gentleman.

Oh matchless Maid, so strangely form'd to move,
Inspiring Wonder, and creating Love;
Look on a Youth, that owns your potent Sway,
And Mercy equal to your Pow'r display.
Oh Fair Belinda! thou art all my Theme,
My daily Wishes and my nightly Dream.
Each Thought of you enkindles gen'rous Heats,
My flutt'ring Heart with quicker Motion beats,
And rising Blushes do my Cheeks inflame,
If unawares I hear your fav'rite Name.

So strangely will such repetitions move
The secret Passions, when sincere we love.
Your beauteous Form still skims before my Sight,
Diffusing thro' my Soul a soft Delight;
From my warm Bosom drives each other Care,
And leaves no room but for Belinda there.
Ev'n now I see thee drest with ev'ry Grace,
Behold the radiant Honours of thy Face,
With all those Charms, that first inflam'd my Heart,
And those dear Eyes that shot the fatal Dart.

But these delightful Scenes my Fancy feigns,
And with imagin'd Pleasures mock my Pains.
'Tis but the Copy that remains with me,
And I the bright Original would see.
Yet much I fear, it will my Pain encrease
To view the Foe, that has disturb'd my Peace.

Well I remember, when I saw you last,
My Lot was drawn, my certain Doom was pass'd;
And ev'ry charming, tempting Look you gave,
Confirm'd me your's, and made me more a Slave.
Long have I lov'd, but still conceal'd my Flame,
Lest you the daring Passion should disclaim:
In secret still I did the Torment bear,
So much I fear'd to disoblige my Fair.
But now my Love is grown to that excess,
I can no more the raging Pain suppress,
But tell it you in hopes to find Redress.
Ah! do not then, bright Maid, my suit disdain.
Nor let your faithful Lover plead in vain:
But kindly yield with pitying Eyes to view
A Youth, who languishes and dies for you.

To the same.

A heart long since, (for 'twas your due)
Too lovely Maid, I gave to you.
The Present you with Smiles receiv'd,
And I the charming Cheat believ'd.)
With seeming Joy you hugg'd the Slave,
And feigned Love for real gave.
But then with a relentless Dart,
In barb'rous Sport you stuck each Part.
Till, weary'd with the cruel Play,
You cast the bleeding Wretch away;
Who wounded thus, will not complain
Of the dear Author of his Pain:

But whilst he's made a Sacrifice,
Adores the Hand by which he dies.

Occasion'd by Clemene's refusing a Request.

Her much fam'd Kindness have I try'd,
Have often ask'd, as often been deny'd,
What shall I call it, Prejudice or Pride?

No; She's all Goodness and she cannot err;
Necessity constrains when She's severe,
Or I am Guilty; there's no Fault in Her.

My Form or Humour has some great defect,
Some Imperfection that deserves neglect:
Then why should I Clemene's Love expect?

Yet Fondness still should propagate its Kind,
Breed answ'ring Fondness in the gen'rous Mind,
And still from Fav'rites we should Favours find.

On the Marriage of Captain C.

Inscrib'd to the Bride.

Hail! happy Pair, whose Nuptial Rites demand,
Congratulations from a Stranger's Hand:
Thus then, due Honours to your Names I pay,
And thus my Wishes from afar convey.

Touch'd with the Praises of your gen'rous Friend,
Who seems most pleas'd when he can most commend;
I felt my Breast with secret Ardor glow,
Tho much he said, yet more I wish'd to know.

He spoke; he prais'd; I hearken'd with delight,
And found a strong Propensity to write:
Ideal Scenes my list'ning Soul inspire,
And warm my Bosom with poetick Fire.
In Thought I see the young and beauteous Bride,
Modestly blushing by her Lover's side;
Fair in her Form, but more in Virtue bright,
Made to procure and perfect his delight:
Attending Loves fly round in wanton Rings,
And strive to fan her with their am'rous Wings.
He claims by Merit the distinguish'd Fair,
And she is worthy of his fondest Care.
Courage with Beauty is most aptly join'd,
And happy Venus when with Mars combin'd.

O! may they long be in each other blest,
Smil'd on by Fate, by faithful Friends carest;

And may old Time his brittle Glass employ
To measure out successive Hours of Joy;
May nothing interrupt the Cares of Life,
No Doubts or Fears, no Jealousies or Strife;
Nor fierce Bellona with her dire Alarms,
Force the young Hero from his fair one's Arms.

And may the Nymph to whom I send these Lays,
Accept the Verses which she cannot praise:
Her Sex's Errors she may best excuse,
And kindly patronize a Virgin-Muse.

To Mrs. Barker of York,

On some ingenious Letters wrote by her (to me) in an advanc'd Age.

How am I pleas'd to read your charming Lines!
Where Manly Strength with Female Sweetness joins;
Where the just Thoughts are drest in Language fit,
In all the flowing Elegance of Wit.
Strange at your Age such steady Sense to find!
Such Indications of the clearest Mind!
When we alas! too often may observe
That Reason totters with the slacken'd Nerve.
But if the Setting-Sun such Beams display,
How dazling was its bright Meridian Ray!
When Health and Youth invigorate the Thought,
And Fancy is with strong Ideas fraught.

When the free Mind rejoices in her Bloom,
Nor dreads the blasting Season still to come.
But your's, like Italy's fam'd Gardens fair,
Brings Flow'rs and Fruits thro' all the various Year;
In spight of Time, a gay Production shows,
And buds and bears amidst the Winter Snows.

At taking Leave of a Lady, who was reading Norris's Poems.

Madam, observe these melancholy Tales,
And see how Grief o'er generous Minds prevails;
See there the Reverend Norris drown'd in Tears,
Robb'd of the Joy of all his future Years.
With strict Attention read each tender Line,
And as you read, think all his Suff'rings mine.

See here my Grief in aptest Terms exprest,
And view your self with just Perfection drest:
Such was the Nymph, to whom his Tears were due,
And such his Sorrows, as I feel for you.

To a Lady on her Birth-Day.

Permit me, Madam, gratefully to pay
A Friendly Tribute on this happy Day:
This Day which first your Infant Form disclos'd,
And to the World the darling Child expos'd.

Kind Heav'n, my Friend, has with indulgent Care
To the past Reck'ning join'd another Year.
But then, alas! there's an unchanging Doom,
That Ages past must shorten those to come.

O! that a Life so innocent and pure,
Could but, as long as Time it self, endure!
That so, you might a future Race adorn,
And bless a People, that are yet unborn.
Ages to come, by your Example taught,
Should by Degrees be to Perfection brought.
For you of ev'ry Virtue are possest,
That can or should adorn a pious Breast.

But since the Great Creator has thought fit,
That all must to one common Fate submit,
That all things must be transient here below,
And all must once a fatal Period know;
May you possess the largest Count of Years,
Uninterrupted by perplexing Cares;
May all pass smoothly, free and happy on,
Till from the Glass your latest Hour be run.

The 39th Psalm.

I said, I will with strictest Caution tread,
And ever jealous my own Rashness dread;
Lest haply, my unguarded Tongue betray
Impatient Sense of Providence's Sway.
My Mouth, as with a Bridle, I'll restrain,
And wicked Men shall watch my Words in vain.

Determin'd thus, I kept my Silence long,
Nor Good or Evil issu'd from my Tongue.
But secret Musings secret Pains impart,
And Grief supprest inflam'd my burning Heart.
Till warm Reflection kindled in my Breast,
And thus my Tongue the fervent Thought exprest.

Teach me, O Lord, to mark, with Wisdom's Eyes,
The narrow Bounds in which my Being lies;
The scanty Measure of my Years to weigh,
And know my frail Affinity with Clay.
Behold, how transient is the Creature Man!
His longest Period lies within a Span.
His Age ev'n seems as Nothing in thine Eye,
And all his Glory is but Vanity.
Soon flit his Visionary Joys away,
Himself the empty Pageant of Day:
Yet the fond Wretch consumes himself with Care,
Collecting Riches for an unknown Heir.

Since then each Man is Vanity and Dust,
In whom shall I repose my Hope and Trust?
Where shall my Soul for real Good attend?
Where but on Thee, the never-failing Friend?

Of Guilt and Shame remove the pressive Load,
And let me still find Favour with my God.
Oh! let me from my Enemies have rest,
And be exempted from the Scorner's Jest.
Speechless I suffer what's ordain'd by Thee,
And by my Silence own the just Decree:
Yet oh! remove or mitigate my Woe,
Alas! I faint beneath the pond'rous Blow:
How should a Worm before thy Terrors stand?
Or bear the Crush of an Almighty Hand?
When thy just Vengeance chastens Man for Sin,
And Conscience stings the guilty Wretch within;
His Frame decays, his blooming Beauty dies,
And from his Cheek the lively Colour flies.
So eating Moths consume the Weaver's Toils,
Fret the rich Web and triumph in the Spoils.

Surely each Man is vain to an extreme,
Himself a Vapour, and his Life a Dream.

Hear, mighty God, consider all my Pray'rs,
And give an Answer to my falling Tears.
Lo! thou hast fix'd my short Abode on Earth,
A Stranger and a Pilgrim from my Birth;
A Traveller who soon must disappear,
Ev'n such am I, and such my Fathers were.
Oh! for a while reprieve me from the Tomb,
Pity my Youth and heal its fading Bloom.
Suspend my Fate, my wasted Strength repair,
Before I leave the well-known Objects here.
Ere in the Grave I shall forgotten lie,
Lost to my Friends and hid from ev'ry Eye.

The Resolution broke.

Stunn'd with the Clamours of the noisy Town,
The Muse her humblest Vot'ry did disown:
From sad Maria's Breast she took her Flight,
And charg'd the pensive Maid no more to write:
I heard the Charge, which was pronounc'd aloud,
And strait a lasting firm Obedience vow'd.
Yet one Half-day from Smoke and Strife remov'd,
To tread the Earth and breathe the Air I lov'd,
I felt a Pow'r, too strong to be supprest,
Move with poetick Rapture in my Breast.
Scenes all-transporting set my Soul on fire,
And Fields and Meads their wonted Thoughts inspire.
Each fruitful Hedge inviting Themes supplies,
“In ev'ry Field harmonious Numbers rise.

Here the green Wheat dispos'd in even Rows
(A pleasing View!) on genial Ridges grows,
It's cluster'd Heads on lofty Spires ascend,
And frequent with delightful Wavings bend;
There younger Barley shoots a tender Blade,
And spreads a level Plain with verdant Shade.
The wreathing Pea extends its bloomy Pride,
And flow'ry Borders smile on either side.

Whate'er I see, does Admiration draw,
And strikes my Soul with a religious awe.
The annual Offspring of the pregnant Year
Does well the great Creator's Love declare.
For our Support the Field produces Bread,
And 'tis for Us the flow'ry Scene is spread.
In all his Works his Providence I scan,
His never-ceasing Care to thankless Man.

Prostrate on Earth, myself I humbly fling,
In Adoration of th' Almighty King.
My grateful Heart dissolves in mental Pray'r,
And Thoughts too big for Words are lab'ring there.
Again I rise from off the fertile Ground,
Again I view the pleasing Prospects round.
Where-e'er I turn, instructive Scenes arise,
And with new Wonders meet my ravish'd Eyes.
The feather'd Songsters well deserve a Lay,
And murm'ring Streams in flowing Verse should stray.

But hold the pleasing Lyre must be unstrung,
And thousand Beauties must remain unsung:
For should I thro' each gaudy Meadow rove,
And paint the vary'd Greens in ev'ry Grove,
Sing with each Bird, and purl with ev'ry Stream,
I might enlarge, but never end my Theme.

To Mrs. Masters, occasion'd by her Resolution to write no more.

By Mr. J. W.

When seated on a blooming Spray,
Sweet Philomela deigns to sing:
The list'ning Flocks forget to stray,
And all the Groves with Transports ring.

But if, too cruel and unkind,
She drops the much expected Lay;
The Birds are hush'd, the Flocks repine,
And Streams in Murmurs roll away.

'Tis thus, from your own genial Light,
Our sympathetick Hearts you fire:

When you, fair Maid, no more shall write,
No more shall we be taught t' admire.

No more the various Flow'rs shall give
Fresh Glories to the smiling Year:
From you these Beauties only live,
With you those Glories disappear.

Far greater Ills, than these can dread,
Your fatal Silence would ensue:
Not only Groves and Meads would fade,
The Muse would hourly languish too.

Mourn'd not the God, whose baffled Care
His flying Daphne ceas'd to move,
Whose Arms, extended for the Fair,
Embrac'd a dry tho' laurell'd Grove?

Who then his Anguish could disclose,
If ev'n his own his Fav'rite Tree,
By rigid Fate be doom'd to lose
Its loveliest greenest Boughs in Thee?

The Answer to the foregoing Verses.

If Poetry be blest with genial Pow'rs,
Can gild the Meads, and animate the Flow'rs;
Do thou vouchsafe to paint the flowing Spring,
And in thy Verse its various Beauties sing.
More sweet, more fair the lovely Plants shall rise,
And brighter Scenes shall treat our wond'ring Eyes.
Who reads thy Lines, is certain to admire
Thy easy softness and thy native Fire;

100

That artful Sweetness that harmonious Vein,
Possest by none, but great Apollo's Train.

When Daphne from thy radiant Father fled,
And in a Laurel hid her Virgin Head;
His vital Pow'r was on the Branches seen,
And the distinguish'd Tree is ever green.
So I, that would thy potent Brightness shun,
And veil myself from his poetick Son;
Feel the soft Force of thy pursuing Lays,
And draw fresh Verdure from the quick'ning Blaze.

101

Maria in Affliction.

The Merchant's Wealth, still floating on the Sea,
By Storms and Tempests oft is cast away;
Yet he, undaunted, can resolve again
To try his Fortune on the dang'rous Main:
He'll trust the faithless Element once more,
In hopes to raise his late exhausted Store.
Nor are his Hopes deceiv'd; auspicious Gales
With kindly Breathings swell the flying Sails:
The Winds and Waves, in gentle Union join'd,
Waft the rich Cargo to the Port assign'd.
Treasures immense his ravish'd Eyes behold,
Gay glitt'ring Gems, and precious heaps of Gold.

102

Thus foreign Jewels, Silks, and shining Ore,
Compensate for the Loss sustain'd before.

But I, unhappy, see no Prospect near,
To give me Hope and dissipate my Fear.
Plac'd in Affliction's Vale, what Tongue can tell
The painful Anguish I am doom'd to feel?
Remov'd from ev'ry Joy, depriv'd of all
That I could Fair, or Good, or Pleasant call.
Ah! who can guess the Torments which I bear,
Amidst the horrid Regions of Despair?

The Pen, I thought, might yield me some Relief,
And by discharging it, allay my Grief.
Vainly I thought: for it can never free,
Or paint the Mis'ry of a Wretch like me.

103

For soon as Fate brings one Misfortune forth,
Another is conceiv'd, and ripe for Birth.
The Years, on which my largest Hopes were plac'd,
Drew near, then came, and like the former pass'd.

Long have I waited for Redress in vain,
Encreasing Hours but aggravate my Pain.
The Sun his annual Course complete has made,
And Cynthia oft receiv'd his friendly Aid.
Their swift and radiant Journies practis'd o'er,
Add to the Pressure, which I felt before.
Thro' each appointed Sign by Turns they go,
And circling bring another Round of Woe.

104

The Consolations of Friendship.

Address'd to Calista.

Few Days are past, since my unquiet Breast
Was with conflicting Agonies opprest.
Contesting Passions in a Torrent rose,
My Bosom swell'd with its o'erflowing Woes:
Grief and Despair the Pow'rs of Thought controul,
And sadly triumph o'er my wounded Soul.

Thus rack'd alternately by diff'rent Care,
With aking Heart, I to a Friend repair;
Whose healing Counsel might relieve my Pain,
'Twas thus I hop'd; nor did I hope in vain:
Calista was her Name, a Virgin fair,
And kind as interceding Angels are.

105

No lawless Passion can her Reason blind,
Whose Aspect shews her inward Peace of Mind.
Soon as I was with her sweet Presence blest,
'Twas Peace, 'twas Joy, 'twas Heav'n within my Breast:
Grief and her gloomy Train were banish'd thence,
As I approach'd her purer Excellence.

Say, my Calista, by what wondrous Art
Didst thou allay the Torments of my Heart?
How was it done? say, by what Pow'r Divine?
And where was lodg'd the precious Anodyne?
Thou only could'st Tranquillity restore,
And change me from the Wretch I was before.
My Bosom is from ev'ry Passion free;
Mild, calm, serene, I now resemble Thee.

106

On a White-Rose presented me on the 10th of June. Extempore.

So may Rebellion hang its drooping Head,
As thou, its darling Badge, shalt quickly fade.

Sent to a Friend on Valentine-day.

Now the sweet Birds in joyful Accents sing,
Harmonious Prelude of the sprightly Spring.
Each feather'd Warbler her fond Mate receives,
With whom in Hymen's social State she lives.
Hence Nymphs and Swains a nobler Union made,
Conforming to the Orders of the Shade.

Since Nymphs and Swains the tender Rite approve,
And on this Day are pair'd in mutual Love;

107

Why may not Friendship her soft Pow'r exert,
And chuse a Partner for a faithful Heart?
Observant of the Law, these Lines I send,
And chuse Marinda for a constant Friend.

On Oriana's Marriage.

Address'd to herself.

Kindly receive, and candidly excuse,
The fond Intrusion of a friendly Muse,
Who comes, unlook'd for, to your Nuptial Feast,
Yet hopes, unbid, to be a welcome Guest.

To fair Aminda first this Debt I paid,
A grateful Tribute to the charming Maid.
With no less Pleasure now I sing your Praise,
And thus present my well-intended Lays.

108

This Day, which gives you to a Husband's Arms,
Gives him a lasting Title to your Charms.
Each Lover, now, must gaze with vain Desire,
In vain your Air, your Shape, your Face admire.
Cease, ye fond Swains, the am'rous Chase give o'er,
Your pleasing Flatt'ries now will move no more:
Your Hopes are vanish'd, all extinguish'd quite,
Her Beauties are become another's Right!
And happy He, that with prevailing Art
Could gain a Conquest o'er her Virgin Heart.
So well I know her lovely Form and Mind,
He must be bless'd, since Oriana's kind.
Mighty and endless must the Transport be,
Where Beauty, Wit, Good-humour, all agree
With spotless Virtue, to augment the Joy,
And make it pure, without the least Alloy.

109

Wit's pointed Charms in various Talents lie,
And Beauty is the Blessing of the Eye.
But Virtue is a Ray of heav'nly Grace,
Which makes the Mind shine brighter than the Face;
This Ornament of Souls, divinely fair,
With an unfading Lustre, triumphs there.

Methinks, I see the joyful Bridegroom drest,
A Tide of Pleasure flowing in his Breast:
Well may his Bosom beat with secret Pride,
Made the rich Owner of so sweet a Bride.

110

To Clemene on her Birth-day.

Being the Epiphany.

Weary of Sleep, I watch'd the breaking Day,
I saw the Sun and bless'd his early Ray,
Whose Beams diffusive did at once impart
Light to my Eyes, and Pleasure to my Heart.
For 'tis a Day, which I have mark'd for Mirth,
Hallow'd to me by good Clemene's Birth,
Tho' it long since has shone among the rest,
In Robes of Red canonically drest,
Of sacred Fame a thousand Years ago;
But you, fair Saint, have made it doubly so.

May Constellations of propitious Pow'rs
Presiding rule, and influence the Hours:

111

That all its happy Births may justly bless
The bright Ascendants of their Happiness.
And may you see its oft-repeated Round
With calm Delights, and softest Pleasures crown'd;
Be long preserv'd, free from uneasy Cares,
And not grow old in any thing but Years.

To Guardian Angels.

Ye Pow'rs, whose Task is understood
To follow, and protect the Good;
To guard the Trav'lers on their Way,
And keep them safe by Night and Day:
Where-e'er ye do at present wait,
With friendly Care preventing Fate;
Quickly your lesser Toils forsake,
A more important Charge to take.

112

What, tho' the Worthless court your Aid,
And think the Help too long delay'd;
Yet do not their Petition grant,
Clemene will your Infl'ence want:
Ye Pow'rs of Safety all draw nigh,
And round the favour'd Chariot fly.
Come bring your shelt'ring Wings, and spread
Over her dear selected Head:
Where-e'er she goes, preserve her still,
In all that's Good, from all that's Ill.

113

On changing my Lodgings.

Tho I have chang'd my nightly Home,
To take a Lodging here;
Yet still, to Thee, my God! I come,
For thou art ev'ry where.

I trust, that Angels round my Bed
Shall my blest Guardians be:
And when to sleep I lay my Head,
I hope to rest with Thee.

Supply me, Lord, with pious Dreams,
Let no vain Scenes arise:
And give my Heart some heav'nly Themes,
When I unclose my Eyes.

114

That, waking and asleep, I may
In Thee alone delight:
May meditate thy Works all Day,
And see thy Face at Night.

Emblems of Clemene.

Oft have I seen, with ravish'd Eyes,
The Beauty of unclouded Skies,
When the pure Light its Lustre sheds,
And o'er the spotless Azure spreads.
Such is Clemene's peaceful Breast
When ev'ry Passion's lull'd to Rest:
Her Smiles, her lucid Eyes impart
Transports to ev'ry Gazer's Heart.

115

Oft have I seen the troubled Air,
When sable Clouds were gath'ring there.
Darkness the Face of Heav'n deforms,
Presage of Thunder and of Storms.
So, when the chang'd Clemene shows
Displeasure on her bended Brows:
When angry Looks and Frowns appear,
To shade the Heav'n of Beauty there;
Trembling, we view her threat'ning Eye,
And dread the Tempest that is nigh.

As fairest, and as sweetest Flow'rs
Prest with the Weight of many Show'rs,
Bend down the melancholy Head,
And beautiful in Ruin fade:
Such is Clemene, when her Mind
Is to invading Grief resign'd.

116

And Tears steal forth, her self serene,
As if they meant to fall unseen:
While all, that view the pensive Fair,
Would gladly half her Sorrow bear:
Nay, the whole Burden of her Grief,
Would it but give her Soul Relief.

To Mrs. M. E. who gave me a Plaister of her own making, when I had wrench'd my Ancle.

Madam, your Art has with Success been crown'd
As, by Experience, I have gladly found.
Thanks to your Care, I now am free from Pain,
And move each Limb with former Ease again.
Your pow'rful Med'cines, in their quick Relief,
Equal our Wishes, and exceed Belief.

117

Great is your Skill, beneficent your Art,
And gen'rous you, that did its Aid impart.
In vain the healing Secret you had known,
Were not the Judgment to apply, your own.
Your female Breast a richer Mine can boast,
Than fam'd Peru, or India's Diamond Coast.
Wisdom is Wealth from worldly Dross refin'd,
And your's is Wisdom of the noblest Kind.

Mistress of Science, I thy Art adore,
Thy Godlike Art, that can the Lame restore;
And if I e'er so superstitious be
T' invoke a Saint, O! Magdalen, 'tis Thee.

118

An Answer to Mr. G's Invitation to the Fields and Groves.

Whene'er the peaceful Muse invites,
To sylvan Scenes, and pure Delights,
I readily prepare:
And follow, where she kindly leads,
To friendly Groves, or flow'ry Meads,
Those soft Retreats from Care:
I go to breathe fresh Odours of the Spring,
To see the painted Birds, and hear them sing.

Already I have pass'd the Plains,
Am come where solid Pleasure reigns
Amidst the silent Groves:

119

Far from the Town's distracting Noise,
Far from the Scene of guilty Joys,
To what my Soul approves.
And on a verdant Bank serenely laid,
Enjoy the Pleasures of the secret Shade.

How grateful are the murm'ring Streams!
My Thoughts are turn'd to heav'nly Themes,
Chaste Raptures fire my Heart:
Ah! what are Crowns compar'd to This,
Or all the Sum of earthly Bliss,
Where Virtue has no Part?
Transported thus in Eden's fragrant Bow'rs,
The first fond Pair employ'd their happy Hours.

120

Till Sin, that gives a deadly Wound,
Had drove them from celestial Ground
To Labour and to Care:
Then let us fly the Tempter's Call,
Instructed by our Parents Fall,
And shun the gilded Snare.
They for lost Innocence to Earth were driv'n;
Let us retain it and ascend to Heav'n.

Sent to Marinda from the North of England.

Ere Phœbus did his golden Beams display,
To give the World a shining Proof of Day;
Ere bright Aurora did the Skies adorn,
Or the shrill Cock proclaim'd the rising Morn;

121

I wak'd; nor mourn'd my interrupted Rest,
A solemn Pleasure reign'd within my Breast.
Fancy a Scene of pleasing Visions wrought,
And dear Marinda entertain'd my Thought.
Your Form, which still before my Eyes I keep,
More than repaid me for the Loss of Sleep;
Whose fair Idea, fruitful of Delight,
Seem'd to give Lustre to the Shades of Night.
Oft I recall'd, the Pleasures I possest,
When by Marinda each soft Hour was blest.
Oh! with what Rapture have I heard that Tongue,
Where Harmony in easy Sweetness hung;
Where solid Sense and graceful Speech combin'd,
To please my Ear and cultivate my Mind!

But now no more thy various Charms can please,
Divided far by Mountains and by Seas:

122

Far in the dreary North, secluded long
From Thee, the tender Subject of my Song.
Lost to your Converse, hidden from your View,
And ev'ry thing but Images of you.

SELF-DECEIT.

Will no Experience make poor Mortals wise?
Nor Hopes deceiv'd, nor disappointed Joys?
Will they be still decoy'd by empty Dreams,
And trust their own imaginary Schemes?

'Tis GOD's Command, and sure it ought to move,
That as ourselves we should our Neighbour love:
But human Nature, ever prone to Ill,
Resists the Dictates of Almighty Will;

123

We, partial to ourselves, hold nothing dear,
Where Int'rest has not a proportion'd Share.
If once defrauded by the Man of Trade,
We cautious grow, and are of Knaves afraid:
Or if a Friend betray his secret Trust,
We shun the Person of the base Unjust.
But, self-deceiv'd, we soon the Fraud forget,
Soon trust the greatest, and most dang'rous Cheat:
Each Day deluded, baffled ev'ry Hour,
Credit again our ever-failing Pow'r.
On Time and Thought for future Good depend,
And make not him, that is All-good, our Friend.
Hence spring our fruitless Hopes, and daily Fears,
Our endless Toils and everlasting Cares.
Our easy Confidence is centred wrong,
And on our selves we build a Faith too strong.

124

Then, let us all our ways to God submit,
And trust no more our own fallacious Wit.

To Mrs. B.

Occasioned by her fear of the Pestilence, when it rag'd at Marseilles.

I own alas! the Danger is too near,
But let your Reason combate with your Fear.
Suppose the fierce Destroyer should be sent
By angry Heav'n, for our just Punishment;
And we should fall beneath a sudden Blow,
That thousand destin'd Heads must undergo:
'Tis then but Death, a fix'd, a certain Doom,
Tho' sweeping Pestilence ne'er aid the Tomb.
Why should we hope our common Fate to shun?
Life is a Race, and it will soon be run:

125

To the last Stage we ev'ry Day draw nigh,
And as we once were born, we once must die.

Nor dread the Swiftness of the poison'd Dart,
Whose venom'd Point, corroding to the Heart,
Thro' ev'ry Part a strong Infection spreads,
And cuts with fatal Speed the vital Threads.
Be humbly glad, that the Destroyer's Hands
So long are held from Britain's favour'd Lands:
That she, blest Isle, was not by Heav'n decreed
To fall, unwarn'd, and unprepar'd to bleed.

Taught by the Ills, which distant Climes endure,
We may in time th' important Stake secure.
Provide with Care for the tremendous Blow,
And chearful wait the blackest Scene of Woe.

126

Whatever Scourge by Providence is sent,
Trust thou in God, and fear not the Event.

An Imitation of a Poem in Dryden's Collections, entitled Anacreontick.

Beneath a thick and silent Shade,
That seem'd for sweet Devotion made,
In holy Rapture stretch'd along,
(Urania by to aid my Song)
I tun'd my Voice, and touch'd the Lyre,
While heav'nly Themes the Muse inspire:
I sung the Beauties of the Grove,
I sung th' Almighty Pow'r above.
But, striving more my Notes to raise,
And to my Subject suit my Lays;

127

A String, o'er strain'd, in Pieces flew,
And sudden from its Place withdrew.
Under my Hand the Chord I found,
But lost, alas! the sprightly Sound.

So, pierc'd by Death's relentless Dart
We view the lifeless, earthly Part.
The Soul invisible takes wing,
As Sound that leaves the breaking String.

On a Gnat flying about a Candle.

Extempore.

Pretty little Flutt'rer, why
Wouldst thou the shining Ruin try,
And in a gay Destruction dye!

128

To a Lady going to Church.

Go, brightest Saint, to sacred Seats repair,
Unlock thy Bosom, and disclose thy Care:
Thy list'ning God will surely hear thy Pray'r.

Fly to the Temple, on Devotion's Wings,
There join in Concert to the King of Kings,
Divine's the Musick, when an Angel sings.

Nocturnal Thoughts.

Thus, wrapt in Shades, must I for ever lie?
Will Day for ever close its glorious Eye?
Alas! the cheerless Gloom still mocks my Sight,
And makes its look seem everlasting Night.

129

In Joshua's Time the Sun and Moon stood still,
And could no more their wonted Task fulfill,
Till he, triumphant, left the bloody Plain,
And by his Arms five num'rous Hosts were slain.

As then, sure now, some Cause, to us unknown,
Forbids the rolling Planets to move on.
Sure some strange Thing is working, and the Sun
Must stay, to see th' important Business done.
But haste, bright Ruler of all-chearing Day,
Shine on a Wretch that mourns thy absent Ray.
Phoebus at last has heard my ardent Pray'r,
And comes with living Light to end my Care;
Once more he does the shady Night controul,
And with refreshing Beams revives my Soul.

130

To Clemene on the New Year.

Had I with Fortune's affluent Stores been blest,
You, then, should be in apter Form addrest:
As swift-wing'd Time his annual Course renews,
Not only This (the Tribute of the Muse)
But nobler Presents should my Love explain,
A Ring, a Snuff-box, or a painted Fan;
Rich with Italian Stains, the Mount should glow,
Its Sides the curious Hand of Sculpture show;
And, on the slitted Ivory, be display'd
Rows of bright Studs in artful Figures laid.
Soft Scenes of Joy the Landskip should unfold,
In various Tinctures beauteous to behold.
The God of Love, or Friendship's chaster Pow'r
A Chrystal Current, or a Marble Tow'r;

131

With Forms that should in diff'ring Beauties rise,
To grace the Piece, and entertain your Eyes.
This or some worthier Thing should you receive,
Such as Maria might unblushing give.

But, since amongst the human Race we find,
A niggard Fate oft stints a gen'rous Mind;
O may my Wish my want of Pow'r attone!
Let me enjoy your Smiles, tho' Fortune frown:
And may kind Heav'n this warm Petition hear,
For surely none was ever more sincere.

O Pow'r Divine! enthron'd in Light above,
The highest, holiest Object of our Love;
Let her be blest, to whom these Lines I send,
Ever to her thy choicest Gifts extend:

132

To her be ev'ry Joy of Life reveal'd;
From her be ev'ry Cause of Grief conceal'd:
When-e'er she kneels, accept the pure Address,
Her Self, her Husband, and her Children bless.

On hearing some Reflections upon a deceas'd Lady.

Could weak Humanity Perfection bear,
The bright Example had been seen in her.
A thousand Virtues grac'd her pious Mind,
And scarce a Folly in her Life we find.
Some little Stains sharp Envy might espy,
So Spots sometimes we in the Sun descry.
No Mortal e'er was free from Error yet,
When Faults are few we should those Faults forget:

133

Hid in her Grave let all her Failings lie,
She had her Frailties: so have you and I.

The 29th Psalm.

Ye mighty Ones, who keep the World in awe,
Supremely plac'd to give the Nations Law;
Heroes and Kings, a grand illustrious Race,
Whom martial Deeds, and Royal Honours grace;
Yield to the Lord a tributary Song,
For Strength and Glory to the Lord belong.
Kneel at his Altars with a Mind sincere,
And the bright Scenes of his Abode revere.
Hear his loud Voice in wat'ry Realms on high;
The God of Glory thunders in the Sky:
Down rush the Rains, affrighted Ocean roars,
And swells and trembles to his utmost Shores.

134

The Voice of God strikes ev'ry Breast with Fear,
'Tis too tremendous for a mortal Ear;
The great, majestick, formidable Sound
Meets tow'ring Trees, and bears them to the Ground.
The shatter'd Cedar into Air is born,
And the whole Forest from her Basis torn.
The solid Mountains from their Centre start,
Like wanton Kids, or like the bounding Hart.

Cleav'd by his Voice the Cloud-imprison'd Flame
Breaks out, and scatters thro' the gen'ral Frame;
Round the wide World the rapid Lightnings fly,
And streak with horrid Day the Midnight Sky.
Then Cadesh thro' her boundless Desarts quakes,
Deep Horror then her grisly Monsters shakes:
To their close Dens they creep, with cowring Fear,
If once His Voice, His potent Voice they hear.

135

Th' astonish'd Hinds prostrate themselves along,
And on the trembling Earth emit their Young.
The ravag'd Woods are left without a Shade,
Their dark Recesses to the View display'd;
Where the strip'd Tiger meditates his Prey,
And where the panting Lion shuns the Day.

Within his Temple do the Saints adore,
All own his Goodness and declare his Pow'r.
All worship him the dread immortal King,
All speak his Praises and his Glory sing.
His Throne is fixt above the wat'ry Main,
And to eternal Ages he shall reign.
Blessings of Strength shall on his People wait,
And endless Peace enrich their happy State.

136

To my Infant Niece; her little Sister dying the Instant she was born.

Welcome sweet Innocence to Light,
Which Thou behold'st with wat'ry Eyes:
Too potent Rays oppress thy Sight,
And early Sorrows urge thy Cries.

Thou weep'st alas! and know'st not why,
Yet ev'ry Day the Cause will show:
More Knowledge will more Tears supply,
Thou com'st into a World of Woe.

Thy Sister not a year had stay'd,
Hardly attain'd a Gleam of Sense:

137

Yet at thy Entrance, Child, she fled,
She took a happy Journey hence.

Tho' young she dy'd, she had her share
Of Life's too certain painful Ills:
Torments, as great as Flesh can bear,
When sharp Disease relentless kills.

But, now, by Death, she's kindly freed
From the unequal, cruel Strife.
Blest be the Pow'r, that has decreed
A Period to this wretched Life.

138

Upon the same.

How wonderful art Thou, O Lord, most high!
Who dares thy active Providence deny?
Whate'er occurs beneath the rising Sun,
By thy Permission or Command is done.
My Soul adores, and magnifies thy Pow'r,
For precious Mercies, I receive each Hour.
Blessings on me, or on my Friends bestow'd,
Excite perpetual Praises to my God.
Who could the cruel Pangs of Child-birth bear,
If not supported by thy tender Care?
Those wond'rous Agonies of Nature shew,
An Act of Justice and of Goodness too:
Thy Justice, which the Suff'ring did ordain,
Thy Goodness, that relieves the mighty Pain.

139

My Sister, lately from these Torments freed,
(For so thou hadst indulgently decreed)
Forgets, how great, how vast her Sorrows were,
And in a Mother's Fondness sinks her Care.
By thy preserving Pow'r the Infant lives,
And Pleasure to its joyful Parents gives:
Its little Sister dies, by thy Command,
An equal Blessing from thy bounteous Hand.
From This recall'd, to That thou givest Breath;
Then blessed be the Lord of Life and Death.

140

A Journey from Otley to Wakefield.

From Otley, now, our destin'd Course we steer,
Contentious Town, to Lawyers ever dear.
To the rough Chiver, first our Way we bend
Its rocky Path by slow Degrees ascend;
Whilst murm'ring Rivulets, on either side,
Down the steep Hill precipitately glide.
Then, having gain'd the Mountain's lofty Brow,
With Pleasure we survey the Vales below.
What vast Variety the Prospect yields,
Of Rocks, and Woods, and Lawns, and flow'ry Fields!
Like one large Garden, the whole Dale appears,
Laid out in fair Enclosures, like Parterres.

141

The winding Wharf, the diff'rent Shades of Green,
Houses and Hills diversify the Scene.
Oh! could my Thoughts in rising Numbers flow,
Sprightly as Wharf, and as delightful too:
Strong but yet clear the wand'ring Stream should glide,
Rush o'er its stony Bed and pour a Silver Tide,
With diff'rent Courses, thro' the verdant Vale,
The chiefest Beauty of the beauteous Dale.

But, as we further press our short'ning Way,
The vary'd Scenes more vary'd Charms display,
Whilst the wide Heath in Summer-pride looks gay.
The prickly Furz their grateful Scent disclose,
Which from ten thousand golden Blossoms flows.
From hence the Lark begins his early Songs,
And tow'ring high in Air his Notes prolongs.

142

Tho', lost to View, his Melody we hear,
Like Magick Sounds it strikes the wond'ring Ear.
So, when departing Saints resign their Breath,
Unwonted Harmony attends their Death:
The ambient Air with heav'nly Musick's fill'd,
And yet the bright Musicians are conceal'd.

A narrow Lane, now, gives new pleasing Scenes,
Shady and thick with interweaving Greens;
Where num'rous Birds their gaudy Plumes display,
That dance and flutter on the trembling Spray.
Here tuneful Linnets stretch a warbling Throat,
And answ'ring Linnets catch the falling Note.

Still as we pass, fresh Objects of Delight
Adorn the Way, and satisfy the Sight.

143

Fair Domes and fruitful Fields at once arise,
With mingling Grace, to feast the Trav'ler's Eyes.
I point at That, which Volumes should explain,
And leave the Task for the harmonious Train.

At length I breathe sweet Wakefield's purer Air,
That Seat of Joy and kind Relief of Care.
Its lovely Situation I survey,
And still o'er new enchanting Prospects stray.
See! how the fertile Meads lie smiling round,
With fragrant Greens and flow'ry Beauties crown'd.
Enamell'd Hills, high Trees in shady Rows,
A finish'd Landskip near the Town disclose.
A Town with Pleasure and with Wealth supply'd,
By limpid Coldar's navigable Tide.
Yet more than this, superior to the rest,
With sweet Society 'tis highly blest.

144

Its kind Inhabitants, with winning Art,
Attract the Soul, and captivate the Heart.
Whose Converse, easy, affable, refin'd,
Can both improve, and entertain the Mind.
Whatever can administer Delight,
To glad the Ear, or gratify the Sight.
And make the Hours of Life pass smiling round,
O happy Wakefield! may in Thee be found.
There cou'd I pass the dear Remains of Life,
Remov'd from Care, from Envy and from Strife.

145

To Olinda, taken ill with a Fever at the same time that I recover'd of one.

Cruel Disease! that wouldst no longer stay
With me, thy worthless but thy willing Prey.
Olinda, now, is made thy fatal aim,
A Nymph, as beautiful as Thought can frame.

Oh! spare my Friend, from her lov'd Breast remove,
And mine will gladly all thy Torments prove.
Thou with unbounded Tyranny may'st reign,
And spread Infection thro' each boiling Vein.

But, oh! be that engaging Fair unharm'd,
Who ev'ry Age and either Sex has charm'd.

146

How canst thou, with malignant Ills, design,
To blast a Form, where all the Graces shine.

Oh Death! thou mighty Prince of Shades, from whom
Distempers, quick-destroying, ever come:
From Thee proceeds the dark and dismal Scene,
For if no Death, there had no Sickness been.

Diseases are thy Slaves, which at thy Will
Torment, or spare, or (if thou pleasest) kill.
But hear, and grant this one Request I make,
Oh! spare Olinda for Maria's sake.

Deep in my Bosom fix thy keenest Dart,
And dip its Feathers in my bleeding Heart.
But ah! forbear that tender Breast to wound,
Where Friendship is in full Perfection found.

147

Great King of Terrors! spare the faithful Maid,
I'll be a free-will Off'ring in her stead.

To the same; enquiring why I wept.

You fix a Dagger in my Heart,
You wound me in the tend'rest Part,
And then enquire the Reason of my Smart.

Alas! you talk of Death and Woe
That you must quickly undergo;
Yet ask the Cause whence all my Sorrows flow.

Ah! do you think my Love so small,
That I could part with Thee, my all,
Yet not permit one friendly Tear to fall?

148

Tell me, my dear Olinda, why
You question my Fidelity,
Methinks with Thee I cou'd ev'n wish to die.

On a Nosegay made by Clemene.

This fragrant Emblem of her curious Thought
Was, by Clemene's snowy Fingers wrought.
First the pale Jess'min rears its Silver Head,
And next a Clove exults in joyful Red.
Artful Design; for had they been alone,
This would too faint, and That too rash have shown.
Near these a painted Row promiscuous rise
Rich in their Stains, and bright in blended Dyes.
To ev'ry Flower she assigns a Place
Which gives to each a more than native Grace,

149

And all may now distinguish'd Beauties boast,
Which lay before in wild Confusion lost.

To Mr. J. P. on his Marriage.

Joy to you, Sir, and to your Bride the same,
For both the kindest of my Wishes claim:
Permit me, a Relation and a Friend,
With hailing Verse your Marriage to attend.

No Medium in the Wedded Life we find,
To Grief or Pleasure, in Extremes, consign'd.
Happy or wretched they must still remain,
Ordain'd to bless, or curse the binding Chain.
Where rigid Pow'r th' unwilling Couple joins,
Or Love is barter'd for the Dust of Mines;

150

Contentious Brawls and frequent Jars arise,
And cold Indiff'rence poisons all their Joys.
No solid Comfort, no becalming Ease,
Can e'er proceed from Marriages like these.
But, blest are they, whose Inclination ties
The friendly Knot, their Union never dies.
When the fond Pair with equal Passion burn,
And mutually the gentle Flame return.
A sweet Compliance soft Delight supplies
And Time unheeded swift and pleasant flies.
Each Look, each Action, does engaging prove,
And ev'ry thing will please from them we love.

From mutual Cares a mutual Blessing flows,
And the firm Union more cemented grows,
That yours will e'er relax you need not fear,
For it is founded on a Love sincere.

151

Both shall, since each is made the other's Choice,
In the dear Object of your Vows rejoice;
And Heav'n, indulgent to your tender Care,
Shall smiling bless the fondly-loving Pair.

To Lucinda.

Lucinda, you in vain disswade
Two Hearts from mutual Love.
What am'rous Youth, or tender Maid
Could e'er their Flames remove?

What, if the Charms in him I see
Only exist in Thought:
Yet Cupid's like the Medes Decree,
Is firm and changeth not.

152

Seek not to know my Passion's spring,
The Reason to discover:
For Reason is an useless Thing,
When we've commenc'd the Lover.

Should Lovers quarrel with their Fate,
And ask the Reason why,
They are condemn'd to doat on That,
Or for This Object die?

They must not hope for a Reply,
And this is all they know;
They sigh, and weep, and rave, and die,
Because it must be so.

Love is a mighty God you know,
That rules with potent Sway:

153

And, when he draws his awful Bow,
We Mortals must obey.

Since you the fatal Strife endur'd,
And yielded to his Dart:
How can I hope to be secur'd,
And guard a weaker Heart?

To Clemene, leaving the Country in a gloomy Day.

Since warm Affections in my Bosom dwell
Permit me, in a Lover's strain, to tell
How much I suffer, how sincere I grieve,
When you the Country and Maria leave.
Tho' op'ning Flow'rs erect their shining Heads,
And look, like Gems, upon the spangled Meads,

154

Tho' lovely, verdant Crops of Infant Corn,
In comely Order rang'd, the Fields adorn;
Tho' the tall Trees, as if on purpose made,
Offer their Branches for a grateful Shade;
And ev'ry Bird stretches its little Throat,
To melting Accents in a warbling Note:
Yet, in your Absence, I no Joy can find,
In all the glitt'ring Scenes you leave behind.

Let others praise the Beauty of the Skies,
When fair Aurora does unclouded rise:
When bright Apollo shoots a vig'rous Ray,
And gaudy Beams adorn the lucid Day.
These melancholy Shades appear to me,
More welcome, than refulgent Light would be;
When my Clemene does from hence depart,
All should be sad and gloomy as my Heart.

155

To the same weeping.

Cease, charming Mourner, cease your precious Tears,
Suspend these Thoughts and dissipate your Fears.
For, if you lavish those expensive Show'rs,
My sympathetick Grief will equal Yours.
Such are the noble Heights of Friendship's Laws,
Two Fortunes still depending on one Cause.
A single Sorrow neither Party bears,
But both alike divide their common Cares:
And mutual Bliss their happy Hours renew,
The Pleasure doubles when enjoy'd by two.

156

To a Lady, who ask'd my Opinion of an old Gentleman she design'd to marry.

Since you will have me speak, I must confess
The happy Man, whom you are doom'd to bless,
Has nothing in his Aspect or his Air,
To recommend him to the youthful Fair.
Superior Age may feel a Lover's Fire,
But Youth and Beauty, plant the soft Desire.
By these solicited, the heedless Maid
To smiling Ruin is too oft betray'd.
She sees the gaudy Outside, set for Show,
Nor dreads the Curses wedded with a Beau.
But fair Selinda's Thoughts can higher rise,
She to sublimer Joys erects her Eyes:

157

Her Soul is form'd of a distinguish'd Ray,
And takes its happier Bent a nobler Way.
Merit alone must challenge her Respect,
Who sensual Pleasures can with Ease neglect:
Transports and Raptures are but idle Dreams,
Short is the Bliss that's centred in Extremes.
A lasting calm Content, all Mankind know,
Is the sincerest Happiness below.

On seeing a Lady with a new fashion'd Riding-Dress, and a Hat cock'd up.

The Round-ear'd Cap (once worn with decent Pride)
And Velvet Bonnet both are thrown aside;
The Beaver, now, cock'd up with bolder Air,
And manly Habit, please the fickle Fair.

158

Yet, for Excuse, it justly may be said,
A Scheme with deepest Policy is laid:
Since, among Men, there is a stupid Race,
Who slight the Graces of the Female Face:
Since Fops so long have self-enamour'd been,
And view the Mirror with a raptur'd Mien;
They hope in this Disguise each Beau to charm,
And win th' Apostates with a mimick Form.
With happy Art so justly they improve,
Sure all must now the Manlike Beauties love.

159

To Clemene, on her Birth-day.

Hail, Thou most lov'd! replete with ev'ry Charm,
Angel Incarnate! Virtue's brightest Form!
What Words, what Numbers shall I now select
To speak thy Praises and my own Respect?
What potent Language shall my Thoughts convey,
To tell the Wonders of this pregnant Day?
Vainly the Muse attempts the daring Song,
Her self so feeble and her Theme so strong.
Abash'd, she shuns the envy'd Height to soar,
And hails the Goodness which she can't explore.
Yet hopes, at least, you will her Zeal approve,
Who shews her Weakness to express her Love.
Fondly to Thee she wings her airy Way,
To greet Thee on thy own important Day:

160

A Day my grateful Heart has sacred held,
For having first Thy beauteous Form reveal'd.
Distinguish'd from the rest, it shall appear,
For ever honour'd and for ever dear.

Oh that my Pen soft Blessings could dispense,
And Streams of Happiness distill from thence!
How greatly blest, how far remov'd from Cares,
Should be Clemene's easy-flowing Years!
Not one should roll, no not an Hour take Flight,
Unmark'd with Joy, un-colour'd with Delight.
The hasty Moments, eager to be gone,
Should, big with Pleasure, crowd each other on;
And This great Day, superior to the rest,
Should oft return, and be as often blest.

161

Verses occasion'd by a Lady being extremely ill one Night, and perfectly well the next Day.

With rapid Force, the fierce Destroyer came,
Threat'ning Destruction to the beauteous Frame,
Quick were the Throes, unlimited the Pain,
Which shot impetuous thro' each boiling Vein.
In vain, for Ease, were various Methods try'd,
And every Remedy in vain apply'd.
No healing Drugs th' intestine War compose,
No lulling Slumber her fair Eyelids close.
Stranger to Rest, from side to side she turns,
And scorch'd with fev'rish Heats incessant burns.

162

One Night, unbounded, did the Tyrant reign.
Spreading Disorder and diffusing Pain:
But could no longer hold his cruel Sway,
He lost his Pow'r with the returning Day.
The Nymph deliver'd by her Guards Divine,
This short Eclipse will make her brighter shine.

So, oft in Summer does a sudden Show'r
Of falling Rain oppress a tender Flow'r:
But, that once o'er, the Flow'r so late opprest
Shall glorious rise, in fairer Colours drest.

163

A Reflection upon my own Formation.

When I reflect upon this mortal Frame,
And the Original, from whence I came;
In this fine Form, what various Organs play,
Where Crimson Streams in Purple Channels play:
Where Springs of Life in ev'ry Part abound,
And in a Million none are useless found:
With Admiration struck, that Pow'r I praise,
Which out of Nothing could such Wonders raise:
None but a Deity could Being give,
Build up the Man, and bid the Creature live.

Great is the Wisdom, but the Love is more,
Which in the finish'd Fabrick we adore:

164

The Work, for noble Purposes design'd,
His Breath enrich'd with an Immortal Mind;
A Substance, form'd for a divine Abode,
T' enjoy the Smiles and Converse of a God.

Then, oh! my Soul! with noble Pride disdain,
Whatever may thy native Lustre stain:
Thy blest Redeemer's just Commands obey,
And grateful Homage to thy Maker pay.

A Morning Hymn.

Behold the Morning Sun arise,
And with new Lustre paints the Skies!
The gladded World his Beams surveys,
And bless his all-enliv'ning Rays.

165

Arise, great God! and on me shine,
Shew me thy Excellence divine.
Sun of my Soul! do thou appear,
Thy Presence will my Spirits chear.
Keep Thou, for-ever, in my Sight,
And bless my Morn, my Noon and Night.
The Sun, that only shines by Day,
Swiftly pursues his airy Way:
Yet as he flies from Clime to Clime,
Shadows each Hour, and measures Time.
Such a Director, please to be,
And point out all my Time to me.
Let all my Hours by Thee be blest,
And teach me how to spend them best.
Be Thou, my God, for ever nigh,
Let not a vacant Minute fly.

166

For if one Moment thou withdraw'st,
My poor benighted Soul is lost.
Be Thou, all Day, my constant Guide,
And then my Foot-steps shall not slide.
Govern my Passions and my Will,
And keep me, Lord, from all that's Ill.

In this low World the Night to Day
Succeeds, and bears alternate Sway.
But there's a World, I hope to gain,
Where high immortal Pleasures reign:
Where the dull Shades of gloomy Night,
Can never overcast its Light:
From Thee, incessantly it streams
In strong and everlasting Beams.
Oh! bring me to that blest Abode,
Where stands thy Throne, my King and God;

167

That I with Angels may adore,
Thy Deity for evermore.

The Penitent.

Inscrib'd to ------

The base Usurpers of my Soul are gone,
And Reason long depos'd regains her Throne
She comes at last, a Friend sincerely kind,
With prudent Counsel to reform my Mind:
With gentle Force she bends my stubborn Will,
Points out the Good, and bids me shun the Ill.
A wond'rous Glass the wise Dictatress shews,
Which, Objects long forgot, again renews:
There's not an Action past, but she'll recall,
For her clear Mirror can reflect them all.
My Passions all are represented there,
My Joy, my Hope, my Sorrow and my Fear.

168

What-e'er I know, is all at once display'd,
And Friends and Foes together are survey'd.
But so alike in Colour and in Show,
I know not which the Friend or which the Foe.

Among the various Figures that arise,
On thy distinguish'd Form I fix my Eyes.
A tempting glorious Thing thou dost appear,
The only Blessing that I sought with Care.
Each Act of Thine I surely did approve,
And next to Adoration was my Love.
Neglectful of my self, my God forgot,
Thou wert the Vision of my constant Thought.
Thee, but his Image, I an Idol made,
So foolishly my wanton Heart has stray'd.
My Folly, now, with Penitence I see,
And Mercy ask for too much loving Thee.

169

May that great Pow'r, that I've offended high,
Blot the Affronts, done to his Deity.
May he forgive the Errors of my Youth,
And kindly lead me in the Way of Truth.
To him I with unfeign'd Contrition move,
To him I look with Fervency and Love.
May he, All-gracious, to my Pray'rs attend,
And be my God, my Saviour, and my Friend.

To my Self.

Maria, now, leave all that thou hast lov'd,
And be, no more, by outward Objects mov'd.
Quit the vain World, and its alluring Toys,
Its airy Pleasures, and fictitious Joys.
False are the Colours, high is the Deceit,
And that, which fairest seems, the greatest Cheat.

170

Turn then, fond Maid, from the Delusion fly,
And guide thy future Aims by Reason's Eye.
No more let Sense the radiant Queen depose,
Or the fair Monarch her just Sceptre lose.
Let Her mild Dictates bend thy stubborn Will,
And keep thy wild impetuous Passions still:
Let gentle Prudence her soft Pow'r exert,
And curb the Transports of thy foolish Heart.
Tempestuous Anger, and tumultuous Joy,
Both are uncomely, both the Health destroy.
These, and all others of the ardent Kind,
Are prejudicial to a peaceful Mind,
Then, shun extremes, and calmly bear thy Fate,
Not too dejected, nor too much elate.
If thy kind Lord a prosp'rous Lot has giv'n,
Bless the Indulgence of all-bounteous Heav'n.

171

Or, if he fixes a severer Doom,
And should think fit to call his Favours home;
Humbly submit to the divine Decree,
None but himself his wise Designs can see.

A Prayer for a sick Friend.

Father of Mercies, who alone can'st save
Our tott'ring Bodies from the silent Grave;
Before thy awful Throne Arch-angels bend,
And Day and Night thy great Commands attend.
Thou reign'st for ever, an Almighty King,
While Seraphims Thy sacred Praises sing.
Yet, plac'd on high, thou humbly deign'st to hear,
From faithful Lips, a suppliant Mortal's Pray'r.

172

A Friend I have, for whom I deeply grieve,
Beyond the Prospect of the least Reprieve.
Long has she struggled with the latent Pain,
And try'd the Pow'r of healing Arts in vain:
All their Endeavours unsuccessful prove,
That should the secret unknown Cause remove:
The strong Distemper mocks their utmost Skill,
But Thou canst cure her, if it be Thy Will.
Health is a Blessing, only Thou can'st give,
“Return again ye Sons of Men and live.
Thus can'st Thou say, thus ward th' impending Doom,
And snatch the Mortal from the gaping Tomb.
Low on my Knees, in humble Faith, I bend
And beg Assistance for my suff'ring Friend.
Hear me, oh! hear me, Comforter divine,
Oh! let thy Attribute of Mercy shine:

173

Abate her Pains, and all her Wants redress,
And crown her, Lord, with Health and Happiness.
In kind Compassion grant this gracious Boon,
Yet not my Will, but Thine alone be done.

On Her Death.

Alas! what Words can utter my Distress,
Or half the Sorrows of my Soul express?
Content is grown a Stranger to my Breast,
By anxious Care and heavy Ills opprest.
Sad mournful Visions of a dying Friend
Do ev'ry Night my troubled Dreams attend;
And all the Day in pensive Thought is spent,
For Her whose Loss I ever must lament.

174

I mourn the young Bellaria's blasted Charms,
Too early ravish'd from a Husband's Arms.
Like freshest Roses, pluck'd in Morning Dew
With all their Sweets and all their Beauties too;
So fell my Friend, in Youth's exalted State,
A patient Victim to her hasty Fate.

How good she was, how gen'rous, and how kind,
How fair her Form, how beautiful her Mind,
Are, what will dwell for ever in my Thought,
As much too excellent to be forgot.
Sweet was her Temper, and serene her Mind,
For her good Nature with good Sense was join'd:
Just to her Neighbour, humble to her God,
Her pious Soul was guiltless of a Fraud.
Quick to forgive, and easy to persuade,
And true to all the Promises she made:

175

Careful to please, and fearful to offend,
A kind, a faithful, and a constant Friend.

But not her Merit, nor her Charms cou'd save
Their lovely Owner, from the darksome Grave.
'Tis such a Loss, I know not how to bear:
How can I part, with what I held so dear?

So quickly snatch'd! Oh Thought too full of Pain!
My friendly Visit was design'd in vain:
In vain the Rites, that faithful Love demands,
The chearing Cordials from officious Hands:
No parting Kiss I gave, no pitying Sighs,
Or clos'd with trembling Hand her faded Eyes.
This, unperform'd, still aggravates my Grief,
And makes it great, almost beyond Relief.

176

Now the pure Spirit to its Heav'n is fled,
And the pale Corpse is rang'd among the Dead.
Tho', low in Earth, a thoughtless Lump, it lies
Disfigur'd and unlovely to the Eyes;
I could, ev'n now, with fond Desire behold,
That Case which did the precious Gem infold:
Close in my Arms th' Insensible I'd take,
And press those Lips that want the Pow'r to speak.
To her cold Face my glowing Cheek I'd lay,
And strive to re-inform the lifeless Clay.

But since this flatt'ring Wish is vainly made,
And 'tis impossible to raise the Dead.
Since there has been a Day so much unblest,
T'admit a Cause, so fatal to my Rest;
My true afflicted Soul shall constant pay,
A mournful Tribute on this hapless Day:

177

Still, as it comes with the revolving Year,
To Her dear Mem'ry drop a friendly Tear,
And, by my Grief, shew that I lov'd sincere.

The 37th Psalm.

Inscrib'd to an Injur'd Friend.

Fret not thy self when wicked Men prevail,
And bold Iniquity bears down the Scale.
They and their Glory quickly shall decay,
Swept by the Hand of Providence away,
As verdant Grass, cut from its vital Root,
That, with'ring, dies beneath the heedless Foot:
In Piety resolv'd, on Heav'n depend;
His Hand shall feed thee, and his Arm defend.

178

Delight in Him, who hath the Pow'r to bless,
And what thy Soul desires thou shalt possess.
In all thy Ways on Providence recline,
So shall he vindicate each just Design.
Thy Virtue in full Prospect shall be shown,
Clear as the Morn, bright as the Mid-day Sun.
In humble Silence ever-patient be,
Wait the Event of his divine Decree.
Tho' guilty Policy her Schemes fulfil,
Fret not thy self, nor Imitate the ill.
Sudden the Sons of Vice shall be destroy'd,
And desolate the Place they once enjoy'd.
But he that's humble, merciful and just,
And in his God reposes all his Trust,
Shall see his Days protracted, void of Cares,
And pass with Pleasure all his smiling Years.

179

The harden'd Wretch, that's grown from bad to worse,
May grind his Teeth, or vent the dreadful Curse;
Or the black Schemes of hidden Mischief lay,
Heav'n's fav'rite Children eager to betray.
Th' Almighty views him with a scornful Eye;
Knowing the Day of his Destruction nigh.
In vain he draws the Sword, and bends the Bow,
And levels at the Just the murd'ring Blow.
His own false Heart shall feel the fatal Wound,
And the snapt Bow lay shiver'd on the Ground.
The humble Pittance, by the Good enjoy'd,
With Labour gain'd, with Probity employ'd,
Is better far, and more to be desir'd,
Than wealthy Stores, by wicked Men acquir'd:
Whose Arms shall fail, whose Strength shall Weakness prove,
But the just Man no Pow'r on earth shall move.

178

His God is his Support, his Joy, his Rest,
And to Eternity he shall be blest.
When heavy Judgments sweep o'er guilty Lands,
Secure in conscious Innocence he stands:
When Fountains fail, and Earth denies her Grain,
When pinching Want and meagre Famine reign;
In his fair Fields shall fruitful Harvests grow,
And his fresh Springs with Chrystal Streams o'erflow.

But stubborn Sinners shall no Mercy find;
For as light Vapours fly before the Wind,
As offer'd Lambs on glowing Altars lay,
Whose burning Fat consumes and melts away,
So, shall they perish all, and disappear,
As Clouds of Smoke disperst in thinner Air.
All that is Just the wicked Man declines,
False are his Words, and fraudful his Designs.

181

With Ease he'll promise, and with Ease betray,
“Lend me, says he:” but never means to pay.

What diff'rent Virtues grace the pious Mind!
Here Mercy is with chearing Bounty join'd,
Here open-handed Charity is seen,
And soft Compassion with a gentle Mien;
Such is the Man, who long Heav'n's Favour shares,
And leaves the copious Blessing to his Heirs.
But he that travels on in wicked Ways,
Is most accurst, and short shall be his Days.
A good Man's Steps are all with Caution trod,
At once the Charge and Fav'rite of his God:
And if he slips (as sure the Best may err)
He's still supported by Almighty Care.

182

From blooming Youth to my declining Years,
I ne'er beheld the Righteous or his Heirs
Unfriended, wand'ring, piteously implore
The Dole of Charity from Door to Door.
His Pray'rs, his Pity, ev'ry gracious Deed
Entails a lasting Blessing on his Seed.

Observe what's right, let Sin be most abhorr'd,
Immortal Life shall be the great Reward.
For Truth and Virtue are by Heav'n approv'd,
And the just Man shall be by Heav'n belov'd.
Protected by his God, he knows no Fear,
For ever safe beneath his Guardian's Care.
That Friend of Saints will lengthen out their Days,
When sudden Death cuts off the wicked Race.
But he, whose Life is regular and pure,
Shall make his Name to latest Times endure.

183

Nor thro' unnumber'd Ages shall decline,
The patrimonial Honours of his Line.
What Wisdom dictates, he with Pleasure tells,
While his glad Tongue on sweet Instruction dwells.
Within his Heart his Maker's Law presides,
And firm he treads whom true Religion guides.
In vain he's watch'd by his insidious Foe,
That seeks to slay him with a secret Blow.
For Heav'n, still careful of its Servant's Good,
Shall free him from the Hand distain'd with Blood.
Or, if malicious Sycophants combine,
If wicked Men in wicked Counsels join.
And thro' black Perjury and canker'd Spight,
Perverted Judgment seize his legal Right;
Intrepid he sustains the pressive Ill,
Conscious his God will hold him guiltless still.

184

With patient Hope the Path of God pursue,
Thine Eyes a strange Vicissitude shall view.
Thy Right restor'd with larger Tracts of Land,
And Pow'r, unknown before, shall bless thy Hand.
Thy late insulting Foe to thee shall bend,
And thou shalt mark his miserable End.

I have my self, a potent Villain see,
Like the young Laurel, vig'rous, lovely, green,
With Pow'r invested, stretch from side to side,
Vain with Success, and swell'd with inward Pride,
Yet soon this mighty Man was shrunk to Earth;
'Twas scarce remembred that he e'er had Birth.
I sought the Place, where he so lately shone,
'Twas all a Waste, the faithless Master gone.

185

Behold the Man, whose Life's unblemish'd round,
Is with fair Truth, and bright Perfection crown'd:
With what Composure he resigns his Breath,
Serenely smiling in the Arms of Death!
But the transgressing Tribe shall soon decay,
Tho' Mercy for a while their Fate delay.
A certain Vengeance on their Race shall fall,
And one vast Ruin overwhelm them all.

To the just Man Prosperity is giv'n,
And his Redeemer is the Lord of Heav'n.
But if a Tryal of his Faith be meant,
And for that End severe Affliction's sent,
His Arm sustains him in the Day of Woe,
And gives him strength to bear the chast'ning Blow.
When angry Men, a vile perfidious Band,
Approach to wound him with unhallow'd Hand;

186

To Heav'n he looks, expecting safety thence,
And the Most High will be his sure Defence;
Will crush his Foes and their mad Pow'r restrain,
For none e'er trusted in the Lord in vain.

A Meditation upon these Words, Arise, ye Dead, and come to Judgment.

Methinks, I hear a Sound of Dread,
Those awful words “Arise ye Dead”
To Judgment come, without delay,
'Tis, now, the great accounting Day.
Behold! the Moon in Blood is set,
The Heav'ns consume with fervent Heat.
Loud Thunders roar, Destruction falls,
And whirls along in flaming Balls.

187

The Lamp of Day, O horrid Sight!
Extinguish'd lies in fatal Night.
Now spreading Flames, from Pole to Pole,
O'er the wide Earth devouring roll;
Drink up her Seas, dissolve her Hills,
And Heav'n with Smoke and Tempest fills.
The last tremendous Trumpet's Sound
Summons the People under-ground.
See! how the frighted Nations rise,
Observe, my Soul! with what Surprize!
From op'ning Graves some croud in haste,
Some are from foaming Billows cast;
From brazen Urn, and Marble Tomb,
See the collected Bodies come!
Egyptian Kings no more are hid
Within a stately Pyramid;

188

But, mixing in the common Throng,
Advance with trembling Steps along.
None are exempted from the Call,
The dreadful Word is meant to all.
Without Distinction or Delay,
The dreadful Summons all obey.
How vast a Multitude is here!
How great the Numbers that appear!
On ev'ry side in Crouds they come,
And hasten to their final Doom.

But hark! the Trumpet's shriller Cry
Proclaims the awful Judge is nigh:
Behold! he is already here,
And all the Just in Hope draw near,
But 'tis a Hope chastis'd with Fear.

189

For who a Judge, a God can view,
And not some Signs of Terror shew?

The Book of Life is open'd, where
Their Names in purest Leaves appear.
Thrice happy they, who fill a Line
Within that History divine!
Oh may it be my chiefest Care
To get my Name recorded there!
Black Fiends with fruitless Spite arraign,
And blotted Crimes revive in vain.
For who can fear Infernal Hate
When Jesus is their Advocate?
Their Judge and Saviour He whose veins
With cleansing Streams wash'd off their Stains.
Ye faithful Bands, he cries, draw near,
To Me, to my great Father dear;

190

Receive the rich, the vast Reward,
So long expected from your Lord.
Design'd for Joys at his Right-Hand,
The choice elected Numbers stand.

And, now, he turns with wrathful Eye,
The wicked on his Left to try.
An angry God their Judge must be,
A high offended Deity.
The Volume of their Sin is brought,
The Register of ev'ry Fault.
The mystick Book is strait unseal'd,
The Secrets of their Hearts reveal'd.
Those Crimes, they hop'd should ne'er be known,
To Angels, Men, and Devils shown.
Confus'd and Dumb, their Horrors shew
The faithful Record is too true.

191

Conscience the Worm, that ne'er shall rest,
Now preys upon their guilty Breast.

Go, says the Judge, ye cursed, go
To Darkness, Flames, and boundless Woe.
With Dæmons dwell in lasting Pain,
Where unextinguish'd Fires remain.
Where, when ten thousand Years are gone,
And twenty times ten thousand done,
Your Punishments, without a Date,
Shall nor in Length nor Force abate.

Alas! what Flesh has Pow'r to bear
A Sentence that is so severe!
See! how the helpless Wretches fly,
To save them from the Danger nigh;

192

Curse (but too late) their former Ills,
And Shelter ask from neighb'ring Hills.
To neighbouring Hills in vain they call,
To crush them by a friendly Fall.
Devils, impatient of their Prey,
Hurry the shrieking Crew away;
Down, headlong down, the Wretches tear,
To the dark Dungeons of Despair.

And, now, the great Tribunal's o'er,
And Fate is fix'd for evermore.
No more the radiant Spheres shall rise,
They're vanish'd from the desart Skies.
The Earth's consum'd, and in its Place
Nothing remains but empty Space.
The Damn'd are gone to endless Night,
And all the Just to Realms of Light.

193

The Vanity of Human Life.

Ah! what is Life? how mutable and vain!
An Hour of Pleasure, and an Age of Pain.
Where changing Seasons are but vary'd Woes,
And with each Morning early Sorrow flows.
The busy Mind, with adverse Passions rent,
Still searches on, a Stranger to Content.
One Hour in gay and sprightly Mirth is pass'd,
The next with melancholy Shades o'ercast.
Alternate Joy, alternate Grief we know,
Yet scarce can tell, whence these Excesses flow.
Elate to Day, we laugh and play and sing,
To-morrow sees a wretched, abject Thing.

194

With deep, dejecting Cares we lie opprest,
And pensive Thoughts disturb the gloomy Breast
Till other Thoughts revolve to our Relief,
And fansy'd Joys elude a real Grief.
Flatt'ring ourselves, we fond Ideas frame
Of Human Happiness, an empty Dream.
Yet Man, whom ev'ry Show of Bliss deceives,
Full Credit to the soothing Image gives.

We've found (at least we think so) what, alone,
Can give the longing Mind a Peace unknown:
Had we but That, 'twou'd certain Ease restore,
Grant it, ye Pow'rs, and we desire no more.
Yet if kind Fate the wish'd-for Blessing grant,
We're still dissatisfy'd, and something want:
Then, with repeated Care and anxious Pain,
We seek another Trifle to attain;

195

Our wonted Vigilance and Toil renew,
To gain the glorious Thing we have in view.
And, if we do the mighty Something get,
Again are we deceiv'd, 'tis all a Cheat.
Nor will this second Disappointment prove
Severe enough, our Folly to remove.
Still with a discontented, restless Mind,
We search for That, which we can never find.
Erring before, we mourn'd; but, now, are sure
We know, what will a lasting Joy secure.

And did we err before? so err we now,
If we expect true Happiness below.
Should Heav'n, indulgent, lavish all its Store,
And give so largely we could wish no more;
This surely would our wayward Fancy please,
And bring our weary, lab'ring Spirits Ease.

196

We should indeed be blest, should for a While,
Our Hopes with transitory Rest beguile.
Forgetful of the Pow'r Supreme, that may,
When-e'er he pleases, snatch our Joys away.
Ah foolish Mortals, credulous and vain!
Prepare to meet the quick-returning Pain:
Still let us keep Futurity in View,
The Hand that gave the Gift, can take it too.

But cannot Gold afford a full Delight?
How the rich Metal glitters to the Sight!
O dazling Lustre! what would we not do,
What Toils not take, what Dangers not pursue,
For much of Thee, thou bright deluding Ill!
And in the warm Pursuit advance unweary'd still?

197

In search of Toys, we precious Moments waste,
For Wealth has Wings, and often flies in haste.
The mighty Man, with ample Fortunes blest,
Of pond'rous Bags and stately Domes possest;
At Noon replete with all his Soul's Desire,
At Night impov'rish'd by destructive Fire.
Such things may be, for such have often been,
A thousand fatal Mischiefs lurk unseen.

The busy Merchant trafficks o'er the Main,
And rifles foreign Countries for his Gain.
Nor Earth nor Water from his Spoils are free,
To heap up Gold, he'll compass Land and Sea.
Behold him, waiting at the Ocean's side,
While Ships from India break the flashing Tide:
Now one, long wish'd for with impatient Thought,
Is by his friendly Glass in Prospect brought.

198

Freighted with Gold and Silks of various Dyes,
And in her Womb an Ivory Treasure lies.
See, what calm Seas, and what propitious Gales,
Support her Keel, and swell her flying Sails!
His Thoughts flow quicker, and his Heart beats high,
His Joys increasing as the Barque draws nigh.
When lo! a sudden Change the Air invades,
And the Clouds thicken into sullen Shades:
Fierce Tempests beat, and angry Billows roar,
Distracting Sight to him that stands on shore.
Just ready to cast Anchor near the Coast,
Sad Terror to his Soul! the Ship is lost.

Oh! false and slipp'ry State of human Things!
What sad Distress one hapless Moment brings!

199

So Job with more than orient Brightness drest,
The Pride and Worship of the wondring East;
Sought by the Old, and honour'd by the Young,
The list'ning Ear paid Homage to his Tongue;
Princes arose, when he appear'd in Sight,
And the charm'd Eye beheld him with Delight.
For, Years he liv'd, with Health and Glory crown'd,
And, like a God, dispens'd his Blessings round.
On either Hand, his Sons and Daughters sate,
And help'd to swell the Fullness of his State.
Yet this consummate Grandeur prov'd in vain,
For all was chang'd to Poverty and Pain,
His Honour blasted, and his Children slain.
Sprinkled with Dust, and prostrate on the Earth,
In Bitterness of Soul he curs'd his Birth.

200

Oh Impotence of Wealth! can ought avail,
Where Gold, Magnificence, and Empire fail?

Yes, something more substantial yet remains,
A Sovereign Med'cine for severest Pains:
When great Afflictions overwhelm the Mind,
When ev'ry Faculty's to Grief resign'd;
When the whole Soul is sunk in deep Distress,
Friendship's soft Pow'r can make its Sorrows less;
That nearest Emblem of indulgent Heav'n,
To sweeten Life's predestin'd Ills, was giv'n.
A faithful Friend is our extremest Good,
The richest Gift, that ever Heav'n bestow'd.
When the prest Bosom heaves with weighty Cares,
This kind Companion half the Burden bears:
With healing Counsel mitigates our Woe,
Or wisely teaches how to bear the Blow.

201

Our Pleasures too the much-lov'd Friend divides,
Adds Joy to Joy, and swells the happy Tides.

Pleas'd with my Subject, more than fond of Fame,
I much could say on this delightful Theme.
But 'tis too copious and sublime a Strain,
More fit for Young, or Pope's unbounded Vein.
The brightest Numbers that were ever penn'd,
Should celebrate the just and gen'rous Friend.
On me would partial Fortune this bestow,
'Tis all the Happiness I'd ask below.
Yet, of a Treasure so immense possest,
Vainly we hope to be for ever blest.
Still are we govern'd by inconstant Fate,
And the first Turn may change our pleasing State:
May force us (tho' with deep Regret) to part
From the dear, trusted Inmate of our Heart.

202

Oh Agony of Thought! what Breast can bear
So vast a Shock, or who the Grief declare?

David alone the great Distress could paint,
And in fit Language form the just Complaint.
To his dear Jonathan due Rites he paid,
He lov'd him living, and he mourn'd him dead.
Mourn'd him in such a graceful, moving Strain,
As all admire, and emulate in vain.
His sweet, pathetick Sorrows finely show,
The noblest Heights of Tenderness and Woe.
While sacred Leaves record the pious Theme,
A lasting Monument to Friendship's Name.

Sometimes we more exalting Joys pursue,
And Pleasures charm us in a diff'rent View.

203

One beauteous Form has struck upon the Mind,
A sweet Impression, casual, or design'd.
To one fix'd Centre all our Wishes move,
And the transported Heart rebounds with Love.
In that fond Passion we expect to meet
A full Content, a Happiness complete.
Then, with glad Toil and with incessant Care,
We strive to gain what seems so wond'rous fair.
Whilst the dear Object, we most highly prize,
Rejects our Vows, and mocks our promis'd Joys.
And sure we can no greater Torment prove,
Than cold Disdain repaid for constant Love.

But should our Passion meet a just Return,
And either Breast with mutual Ardor burn,
Some unforseen Misfortune may divide,
Those faithful Hearts, which equal Love has ty'd.

204

Then, who can dictate, or what Words can show
The agonizing Pain, the pungent Woe?

But we'll suppose a milder Fortune still,
A present Pleasure and a distant Ill:
Our Wishes crown'd, the Prize obtain'd at last,
The bright Reward of all our Labours past:
The Danger over, and absolv'd the Vow,
O, Joy too great! what can afflict us now?
Yet Time's frail Glass is fill'd with flitting Sand,
And held too in a paralytick Hand.
That soon may break, or That may quickly run,
Which holds a Life more precious than our own,
And then alas the Hour of Joy is done.

So Jacob, after being blest for Years,
Fair Rachel mourn'd with unavailing Tears.

205

She, for whose Sake his Youth and Strength he gave,
And fourteen annual Circles liv'd a Slave;
Breathless and cold before her Lover laid,
Snatch'd from his Arms and number'd with the Dead.

And, thus, we see, 'tis evidently plain,
What-e'er depends on Life, is weak and vain.
Gold is too fleeting, Friendship's healing Pow'r
May be dissolv'd in one destructive Hour.
That Love's fantastick Bliss is not sincere,
That Human Life is Hope, and Doubt, and Fear,
A little Pleasure and a Load of Care.

206

Reasons against deifying the Fair Sex.

By another Hand.

Madam, I own I was so smit
What with your Beauty and your Wit,
That I began, which very odd is,
To thing of making you a Goddess;
I talk'd of building you a Temple,
And off'ring up for an Ensample,
My own dear Heart in low Prostration,
With all the Cant of Adoration.
But thinking closely on the Matter,
I've since concluded, 'twoud be better
You'd be above such Vanity,
And keep to your Humanity.

207

For first, if you a Goddess be,
What will become of Mortal Me?
Cloath'd in your Majesty Divine,
I tremble to approach your Shrine.
At awful distance, lo! I stand
With quiv'ring Lip and shaking Hand;
Or beg, on bended Knee, to greet
With humble Kiss your heav'nly Feet.
For Venus can't descend to any
So low as romping like—Miss Nanny.

Again, consider, shou'd you rise
To the high rank of Deities;
You cannot long support your Reign,
Nor long your Goddess-ship maintain:
For you must know, Deification
Is brought to pass by Incantation;

208

By Words of elevating Sound,
From Lips of Lover on the Ground
Utter'd in Raptures; Flames and Darts,
Altars, Worship, bleeding Hearts,
Sun, Venus, Quintessence of Worth,
Extasies, Heav'n, and so forth.
Now when you condescend to wed,
And take the Mortal to your Bed,
One Moon has scarce her Period crown'd;
Ere the rude Creature turns him round,
And with familiar Airs of Spouse,
(Reverse of what he wont to use)
Treats you like one of this our Earth:
You, conscious of Your heav'nly Birth,
Th' irreverent Liberty disdain,
And tell the Wretch “He turns prophane:

209

At this th' audacious Thing grows hot,
Calls you Chit, Woman, and what not?
Mumbling, in direful retribution,
Some other Forms of Diminution
Malign; your Glories vanish quick,
Olympus turns to house of Brick.
Instead of Cupids and the Graces,
Plain earthly Betty takes their places:
Your Altars (which who won't recoil at?)
Change to Tea-table or a Toilet:
The Goddess sinks to Flesh and Blood;
While Husband in the cooing Mood,
Gives you a Buss, nor cares who sees it,
And fondly cries, “My Dear how is it?”

Thus, Madam, not to keep you longer,
(For I can urge no Reasons stronger)

210

You plainly see, it is not fitting,
That you among the stars be sitting.
Wherefore, I think, you won't desire
To leave our Species for a higher.
But be content, with what's your due,
And what your Rivals think so too;
That, for soft Charms and Sense refin'd,
You shine the Pride of Woman kind.

211

The Morning Frolick.

By the same.

Half a dozen young Gentlemen, in a certain Sea-Port, propos'd over Night, to take a ride early the next Morning to some publick Gardens, a few Miles out of Town. And to make the Diversion complete, it was agreed, to prevail with some young Ladies of their Acquaintance to favour them with their Company. All succeeded in their Applications, but one, who therefore rode on horseback: the rest were dispos'd into pairs. One couple rode in a Chaise, the other four in a kind of Vehicle, between a Chaise and a Wheelbarrow, drawn by one Horse, and fitted to contain two Persons. The vulgar Natives call them Carts, the better sort of People, Coaches. This suppos'd Adventure is the Subject of the following Poem; which it is hop'd will not offend any grave and serious Tempers, partly on Account of the Innocence of the whole, and partly in regard of the several moral Reflections which are interspers'd throughout the Work.

212

The fictitious Names are as follows.

The Gentlemen.

Manlius.
Formoso.
Dulcimore, a Dantzick Gentleman upon his Travels.
Hilario.
Mercatorio.
Florio.

The Ladies.

Pastorella.
Ingenia.
Volatilla.
Sobrina.
Grandiforma.

'Twas in a Town, hard by the Ocean,
Where Folks are always in Commotion;
Where gentle Husbands go to Sea,
And Wives make Visits to drink Tea,
To chat of Fashions and the Weather,
And make out who and who's together.
Where Misses from Mamma elope,
At Back-door, Window, sometimes—Shop,

213

When wheedling Youths frail Maids allure,
To Ev'ning Walk, or Morning Tour:
In this fam'd Town for Mirth and Leisure,
Six gallant Blades (no foes to Pleasure.)
Once Hero-like (as Story goes)
Renounc'd four Hours of sweet Repose,
And vow'd, by Proserpine and Styx,
To meet next Morning—when? by six.
By six? Yes—for the Morning Air
Is wholesom—ask the Doctor there.
But what will Morning Air avail
Without a Female in the Gale,
Whose Breath the Suckling's Scent may raise,
Whose Face may gild Apollo's Rays?
For as our Spirits ebb and flow,
All Objects gay or gloomy show;

214

And eke, when by the Pow'r of Venus,
Our Blood and Spirits dance within us,
Each joyous Scene will shine more bright,
And fill us with a fresh delight.
'Twas wisely spoke, the Council cry'd,
And to a Nymph each Swain apply'd,
How cou'd such Gentles be deny'd?
No, well-bred Ladies are too good
To nip these Projects in the bud.
So, all as heart could wish succeeded
But one,—alas! in vain he pleaded;
Mamma's irrevocable Doom
Detain'd th' unwilling Nymph at home.

And now, just yawning from their Beds,
With staring Eyes, and aching Heads,

215

In Troops the gay Adventurers meet,
Bow, curtsie, smile, advance and greet;
Then ev'ry Squire his Damsel snatches,
As Bird with Bird in Spring-time matches,
To pass the jovial Season thro' with,
To toy and sing, to bill and coo with.

To Manlius of the gen'rous Mind,
Soft Pastorella was consign'd.
Attractive Fair! thy modest Mien,
Thy gentle Manners, Air serene,
And Eyes with artless Beauty shining.
Conquer all Hearts without designing.
Blest Manlius! blest Formoso too!
With you, Ingenia, pair'd, with you.
Comely Formoso! born to vex,
With Gold-lac'd Beaver, all the Sex.

216

'Twas cock'd so exquisitely smart,
What Female could defend her Heart?
And cou'd Formoso keep his own,
When once Ingenia's Charms were shown?
When, sweetly eloquent of Tongue,
She pour'd abundant Wit along,
And with such Eyes as never fail,
Enliven'd every well-wrought Tale?

Hold—I won't make the Ladies wait.
“The Carts are ready at the Gate
“Genteels, cries Tom, in humble Tone,
“Carts, say you, Sirrah? be it known
“That vulgar Term our Rank reproaches,
“We Folks of fashion call them Coaches.

217

Weak Subterfuge of human Pride!
Fondly industrious to hide
Beneath some honourable Name,
Its Folly, Poverty, or Shame.
But 'tis no time to moralize:
Methinks one of the Ladies cries,
“This Pedant sure is mighty wise.
'Tis a sad World! for Pallas knows
Grave Things won't please 'mong Belles and Beaus,
A Scholar's but an awkward Tool,
And Women chuckle at a Fool.

Each Couple now a Car ascends,
Each Charioteer his Whip extends:
Train'd to the Lash the raw-bon'd Steed
Pricks forward with an Ass-like Speed.

218

While Florio, pretty Sprig of Beauty,
On ambling Nag rides by on Duty:
Officious Squire! so prone to wait,
So dexterous to open Gate,
And with a lowly well-bred Bow,
Salute the Coach as it goes through.

What mortal Wight did ever see,
At Wake, at Fair, at Jubilee,
Or Nuptials of the rural Maid,
So fine, so gay a Cavalcade?
There Dulcimore, with melting Eye,
And softest Manners, passes by:
A Native he, of Dantzick City,
Yet thinks our English Ladies pretty:
And as full proof, that Poles love Mirth,
His choice call'd Volatilla forth:

219

A Nymph, as light as any Feather,
Simpring and giggling in all Weather.
A Nymph who never kept her Seat
The while a Watch two Ticks can beat.

What Youngster's That, who drives yon way?
O, tis Hilario the gay.
That Female Beaver, which he wears,
Inspires him with those freakish Airs.
This Moment, in a Flight of Joy,
He seiz'd upon the silken Toy.
Swift as a Weaver shoots his Thread,
He whirl'd it from his Fair one's Head:
Sobrina she, of temp'rate Blood,
Dull as a Naiad of the Mud:
Her solemn Tongue was seldom stirring,
Grave as a Cat, in Corner purring;

220

Unmov'd with every thing that passes,
Nor giv'n to Tears, nor to Grimaces.

Make room—good Cupid! who are These?
They drive as if they drove for Fees.
How rapidly they whirl along!
They leave afar the lagging Throng:
The Youths stretch o'er the loosen'd rein,
The Coursers scour the dusty Plain.
Formoso and Olinda? Yes—
And who are They that on them press?
They seem to fret at the disgrace,
That Cart shou'd of a Chaise take place.
'Tis GRANDIFORMA, buxom Lass,
No spindle Shape, nor Baby Face;
As the full Moon her Glories shine,
As Juno Grand, her Air Divine.

221

The Youth, who does her side adorn,
Seems in some soft Desires to burn;
He keeps yon Rival Car in view,
But often turns his Eye askew,
And steals a Glance, and draws a sigh—
Poor Mercatorio! do not dye!
Damsels are nothing now so cruel,
As when sick Knights drank Water-gruel,
And starv'd in Armour half a Year,
To mollify the ruthless Fair.

Hah! on the Credit of a Poet,
That Shock will surely overthrow it;
The Chaise is jostled in the Ditch—
Formoso flies upon the stretch,
Swift the triumphant Victor flies,
Swift as the Motion of our Eyes.

222

O fatal Appetite of Praise,
That ruins us ten thousand Ways;
For Thee, Bear-garden Hero bleeds,
Smit with the Love of gen'rous Deeds:
For thee, oft Brother-Poets rue
(Alas! my Ditty is too true)
In aching Bones, and jumbled Brain,
The tossing Blanket, basting Cane:
For Thee, for Thee, e'en now the Lover,
Had well nigh turn'd his Mistress over.

Pardon, good Reader, this Digression,
Among us Poets 'tis the Fashion:
We heav'nly Mad-folks scorn the Rules,
Which fetter up the plodding Schools;
Beyond our Theme we soar away,
And among Clouds and Thunders play.

223

Now—to take up my Tale anew,
The sought-for Gardens rise in view,
A pretty, solemn, rural Shade,
By Trees of humble lineage made
That front-ways in long order stand,
First the pleas'd Trav'ller's Eye demand.
Delicious, lovely, lonesome Walk,
For all that to themselves wou'd talk!
What tho' no Fountains purl along
Responsive to the Lovers Song;
No River pour his Currents down,
For Swains that are dispos'd to drown;
Yet if to hang they be inclin'd,
Here they may ease their tortur'd Mind.
Here on some Sallow's friendly Bough,
Ye may fulfill the noble Vow;

224

Enclose your Necks in garter'd Noose,
And die, ev'n glorious, in your Shoes.
And while you dangle in the Air,
The Satyrs shall around repair,
To wail your Fate, and curse the Fair.

The Coaches stop, the Knights descend,
Their Hands unto the Ladies lend
And humbly bow: The Smack goes round,
And Mirth and Laughter shake the Ground.
When lo! (ah! dismal to be told,
But still more dismal to behold)
A Gown new-wash'd, and white as Snow
Foul'd by the Leavings of some Cow,
Or ill-bred Steed, who did impart
Their Goings-forth unto the Cart.

225

Poor Volatilla! such hard Fate
Does on our mix'd Condition wait;
We Mortals ne'er pass through a Day,
But meet some Evil in the Way:
Our Frolicks After-Sorrows bring,
And every Pleasure has its Sting:
Yet, good now, moderate thy Grief,
While Pastorella fetch Relief.
The pitying Nymph obsequious stands,
With Bowl of Water in her Hands,
And now the cleansing Stream she pours,
And now she rubs, and now she scours.

So, when black Lies from Slander's Tongue,
On some fair Name with Zeal are flung;
A faithful Friend, with timely Pains,
Wipes off the foul injurious Stains.

226

The Water boils, the Cloth is laid,
The Cups are wash'd, the Tea is made,
Now GRANDIFORMA lifts on high
The Pot, conspicuous to the Eye:
Swift forth the reeking Currents flow,
And flash into each Vase below.
The sputt'ring Streams with Froth abound,
The Vases to the Fall resound.

Thus, rushing thro' the Mountain-wood,
Velino's airy rapid Flood
Throws from a Precipice's Height,
His Torrents, dreadful to the Sight.
And dashing on the rocky Plain,
Whirls the black Waves and foams amain.
Loudly the sounding Billows roar,
The Rocks rebellow from the Shore.

227

Thick Mists, like Clouds of Smoke, arise
And half obscure the Noon-day Skies.

Here might the Muse her Accents raise,
And utter in sublimer Lays,
What mighty Themes, and Talk profound
Employ'd the busy Table round:
How Hats are cock'd, and Heads shou'd sit,
What Edging were for Fanny fit:
How long large Sleeves wou'd be in fashion,
Or Whalebone Hoops molest the Nation;
Whether the Tea was strong or small,
Who'd go at Night unto the Ball:
How Ladies, when they blush'd, look'd pretty,
And Gentles, when they laugh'd, were witty;
With many like important Matters,
Worthy of reasonable Creatures,

228

Who born for no ignoble end,
Each precious Point of Being spend
In virtuous Deeds, or Converse wise,
And to immortal Honours rise.

Thus, gentle Reader, ends my Tale;
My Spirits like thy Patience fail:
But if the Fortunes you'd be knowing
Of our Advent'rers, homeward going,
I pray to thy Remembrance bring
That mighty memorable King,
Who twenty thousand brave Men led,
Boldly up to the Mountain's Head;
Who led them up the Hill, I say,
Then led them down the self-same Way.

Gave hints of who and who's together,
Then fell to talking of the Weather.

Cadenus and Vanessa.

Vid. Mr. Addison's Travels, p. 156. 8vo Edit.

229

The Dedication to Manlius.

Accept this Present from the Muses hand,
Who in such Numbers sung at your command;
Advent'rously essaying to rehearse,
In the gay Records of a sportive Verse;
The Acts of gentle Knights, and Damsels fair,
Who rose by six, to take the Morning Air.
What tho' in harmless Raillery she plays,
And seems a Satyr in the laughing Lays;
Yet let them not offend, or Belle, or Beau;
These Lines from Mirth, and not Ill-nature flow.
Perhaps Sobrina thinks me rough at best,
Pshaw! Madam all I said was but in Jest:
We Poets are a modest, well-bred Race,
Who ne'er offend a Lady to her Face;

230

And when a Face is so extremely pretty,
Who will not say, the Owner on't is witty?
Belles have no Faults, or we no Faults must see,
Such are the Laws of Love and Gallantry.

To Mrs. Masters, upon reading the 139th Psalm turned into Verse by her.

By T. SCOTT.

Too long, I own, harmonious Maid,
I have the grateful Verse delay'd:
With conscious Blushes I peruse
The friendly Labours of your Muse,
A Muse, who with the Critick's Rage
Did in a generous Strife engage;

231

Vindictive of my youthful Lays
Below their Censure, or your Praise.
Wou'd I, in heav'nly Verse like yours,
Had laid out my Poetick Hours!

Instructive Pleasures charm my Ear,
When with devout Surprize I hear
The soft melodious Hebrew's Voice
In your sweet, ecchoing Notes rejoice;
With a sublime and solemn Sound
Diffuse his Maker's Praise around,
Measure the broad, all-seeing Eye,
And travel thro' Immensity.

O boundless Plenitude divine!
Whom not the highest Heav'ns confine;

232

O infinitely-piercing View,
That sees the secret Spirit through!
O more than mortal Poet! tell,
How cou'd thy opening Fancy swell
To compass so immense a Theme:
Thy Fancy felt the Pow'r supreme,
The Pow'r supreme inform'd the Birth,
And call'd the vast Ideas forth.
Thrice happy Maid! who cou'd transfuse
The Genius of so great a Muse,
Who cou'd in no unfaithful Lay
Her Majesty of Thought display.

How many, in redundant Strains,
With fruitless paraphrasing Pains,
The sacred Poet have diffus'd,
Unmann'd his Verse, his Sense abus'd!

233

While in luxuriant Lines they play,
And in the Maze of Fancy stray,
They waste the Vigor of his Song,
They sink the Grandeur of his Tongue;
(Frugal his Words, profuse his Thought)
Till down to Earth from Heaven brought
Languid and low, the Prophet lies,
And in the Paraphraser dies.

So when the Sun his Noon adorns,
In a less Orb his Glory burns;
And the collected beams display
A statelier Blaze, a stronger Day.
But rolling down the Western Sky,
Thro' Mists expanding to the Eye,
Faintly he sheds the scattering Light,
And fading falls away in Night.

234

Judicious Maid! with steddier View
The great Orig'nal you pursue,
And, season'd with religious Fear,
Print off each heav'nly Thought with Care:
Pure from false mixtures, every Line
Does with a Virgin-Lustre shine.
Your Muse a decent Vesture wears,
Modest her Mein, and chaste her Airs:
With simple Elegance she charms;
While easy Majesty informs
The Verse, and to remembrance brings,
You but resound, what David sings.

O! then the noble Task renew,
A Task which seems reserv'd for you.
In ev'ry British Soul, inspire
A Passion for the Hebrew Lyre;

235

And let your fair Translations show
What Beauties in the Scriptures grow:
What Fires in heav'nly Bosoms glow'd,
When lab'ring with no fansy'd God:
How high the tow'ring Mind could soar,
Which the celestial Dove upbore.
Then Wits in silence shall admire
Isaiah's more than Homer's Fire;
Pindar to David yield the Prize,
And Virgil's Majesty in Moses rise.

Vid. p. 54.

236

An Epistle to my Wife.

Wrote from London in the second Year of our Marriage.

By the Same.

Health to his best-belov'd her Lover sends:
For this the daily Knee to Heav'n he bends,
For this ten thousand tender Wishes rise,
And Care for this ten thousand Fears supplies,
O may kind Heav'n, in pity to my Pain,
Vouchsafe to give me to thy Arms again!
With living Lustre, to behold thy Face
Adorn'd, and blooming with its usual Grace!

237

Not the bright Beauties, this gay Town can boast,
Not all the Joys, which every Sense accost,
While You are absent, can presume to please,
Or give my solitary Spirit Ease.
From Wine, from Wits, from Pleasures of the Sight
You and the sylvan Scenes my Muse invite.
The sylvan Scenes, with your dear Presence blest,
Inspire delicious Raptures in my Breast:
With spritely Images my Fancy raise,
And wake the Spirit of harmonious Lays.

Marriage! sweet Theme of unpolluted Song,
Cement of Souls, so fine and yet so strong!
Thine is the chaste Desire, the Love sincere,
Unstain'd with Guilt and unconfus'd by Fear;
The fervent Care to please, the social Joys,
Excited by the Charms each Sex employs.

238

Pleasure unknown, beneath thy gentle Sway,
A thousand trivial Incidents convey:
Unknown to those, who thy Dominion scorn,
A Race of Mortals, lonesome and forlorn:
Unloving and unlov'd they live, and die
Bewail'd by no kind Tear, or pitying Sigh:
They disappear, as Clouds before the Wind,
And leave no Traces of themselves behind.

239

Verses on the Coronation.

Wrote at the Request of Mrs. Masters, in 1727.

By the Same.

Young tho' I be, unskillful to rehearse
The Praise of Princes in sonorous Verse;
Fir'd with my Country's Joys, the Muse essays
Her Sov'reigns Honours in aspiring Lays,
And humble Homage brings: with ravish'd Ear
High Strains of Musick and the Shouts I hear
Of raptur'd Nations; while before my Eyes,
Freedom and Fame in shining Prospect rise;
Peace waves her Olive, Plenty lifts her Horn;
Another Brunswick on this radiant Morn,

240

Rises with all his Father's vanish'd Ray,
To rule our Sky, and shed an equal Day.

The purple Throne is rais'd: O King, ascend;
(Let Greatness in her Forms of Pomp attend)
The Voice of Heav'n, distinguishing thy Worth,
To Empire and to Glory calls thee forth.
Sublime he sits: behold! what manly Grace
Adorns and dignifies the Monarch's Face!
Her princely Spots, see! the proud Ermin throws
Wide o'er his Back; see! round his awful Brows
An Arch of Gold, instarr'd with Gems, displays
Strong as the Hero's Eyes, a Sun-like Blaze:
A Golden Scepter, in his better Hand,
He waves aloft; dread Ensign of Command.

241

Such was the Semblance, the fam'd Vision took,
Such his great Air, and such his heav'nly Look.
A Linnen Mantle o'er his Shoulders flow'd,
As Lamps of Fire, his Eyes effulgent glow'd;
Bright as the vivid Lightning gleam'd his Face,
And shone his Arms and Feet, like burnish'd Brass.

Let Turks before a haughty Sultan bend,
And glory in the Death their Lord shall send:
The Wealth of Worlds, Hispania be thy Boast
And thine, O Italy! a blooming Coast.
Our's, is a Prince whom Justice will sustain,
To whom the Wretched ne'er shall kneel in vain:
Oppression trembles with her hundred hands,
Falls her stern Voice, and drops her iron Bands.

242

Faction is silenc'd, hoary Discord dies,
And hush'd to Peace each angry Passion lies;
While from his Lips the gracious Accents fall,
And, like refreshing Dews, descend on all.
“Britains, the delegated Trust I own,
“And with a Parent's Cares ascend the Throne.
“Be mine the Praise t'enroll beneath my Sway
“A Free-born People, willing to obey.
“To listen to the injur'd Orphan's Cry,
“And wipe the Sorrows from the Widow's Eye.
“Religion too in diff'rent Forms shall meet
“Beneath my op'ning Wing, with safe Retreat;
“In mitred Pomp, in simple Weeds array'd,
“Her Sons I'll shelter in my fost'ring Shade.”

Fame! tow'r aloft, and all thy Pow'rs employ,
Raise thy strong Voice, proclaim Britannia's Joy;

243

Brunswick and Liberty proclaim around,
Till Heav'n, and Earth, and Seas, the Notes rebound.

But turn, my Eyes! yon gentle Scene survey,
The Queen, soft-smiling as the new-born Day;
The matchless Queen, with inward Lustre crown'd,
Her honourable Women wait around.
The Form distinguish'd, o'er the glitt'ring Bands
Rising in graceful Majesty, commands
Our silent Awe; and yet, an Air so sweet
Bids with embold'ning Hopes our Bosoms beat.

So in some Picture, where the Pencil plays
In various Shapes, and various pleasing Ways;
The sov'reign Figure does our Eye controul,
Arrests th' Attention, and usurps the Soul.

244

Those Charms thro' mighty Realms diffus'd their Reign,
Austria's young Hope once su'd, but su'd in vain:
The Heroine spurn'd the suppliant Crowns away,
And scorn'd the Glories of Imperial Sway:
Nor tho' the Western World, from all her Shores,
To swell the Bribe, pour'd her exhaustless Stores,
Wou'd the dear Cause of Heav'n and Truth disclaim,
Or give t' Imposture and to Rome her Name.
Heav'n saw, and the vast Recompence decreed;
Heav'n gives her Britain for the gen'rous Deed.

Such was the Zeal, thy mighty Master show'd,
With such Disdain his holy Bosom glow'd,
When the wide Earth, view'd from the Mountain's Brow,
Her dazling Scenes of Grandeur spread below,
When all her proffer'd Glory vainly strove
To tempt his Homage from the Pow'r above.

245

Unequall'd Princess! zealous in thy Cares
To sow thy own great Virtues in thy Heirs.
With blooming Health, and lively Verdure crown'd,
The beauteous Olive-plants the Throne surround;
Blest with the Dews of Heav'n, the Shoots ascend:
May the rich Fruit to future Ages bend!

O William! dear, immortal Name! we owe
To Heav'n and Thee, these Hopes which round us grow.
Dissatisfy'd to bless one Age alone,
Thy Counsels reach'd thro' Times e'en yet unknown;
Built the strong Barriers James nor Rome can pass,
The great Succession form'd and fix'd in Brunswick's Race.

How cou'd I dwell on this delightful Strain!
But Wisdom warns me timely to refrain;

246

Mindful, that such exalted Themes refuse
The feeble Pinions of a youthful Muse.

Had this bright Day an Addison possest,
What Zeal had warm'd the Patriot-Poet's Breast!
A Flood of Verse, swift-gushing from his Soul,
In rising Numbers, sounding as they roll,
Had flow'd with easy Majesty along,
And George and Carolina swell'd the Song.
Yet One there lives, a Bard well known to Fame,
Whom great Apollo fills with all his Flame.
O! wou'd He touch the lofty Epick Lyre,
Exert his Muse, and call up Homer's Fire,
His Genius might the pond'rous Task sustain
Nor shou'd the Noble Theme the Noble Lines disdain.

Dan. x. 5, 6, 18, 19. One like the Similitude of the Sons of Men, one like the Appearance of a Man, &c.

247

Verses to the Memory of Mr. Addison.

Wrote in July 1732. By the Same.

O Warwick! plac'd in awful Height,
In your own native Lustre bright;
In Courts, in Palaces renown'd,
With dazling Titles guarded round;
How shall my trembling Muse draw near?
Or, in what Style bespeak your Ear?
Fain wou'd she rise, fain wou'd she sing,
And spreads and shakes her doubtful Wing:

248

But conscious of the Danger run,
Shou'd she approach too near the Sun,
The Fate of Icarus she fears,
And the rash Task a-while forbears.

At length, embolden'd by her Choice,
She dares to raise her feeble Voice:
When Addison's her Theme, in vain
The pressing Impulse I restrain.

No venal Flame my Verse inspires,
Nor vain Ambition fans my Fires;
But love to that immortal Name,
The Fav'rite and the Boast of Fame.
To Thee, to Albion so endear'd,
By Nations, and by Kings rever'd:

249

That Name which diff'rent Tongues resound,
In the remotest Climes renown'd
Where-e'er the Beams of Learning pierce,
Or his own everlasting Verse.

In those sweet Strains what Honey flows!
Melting as Dews or falling Snows:
Smoothly the Numbers bowl along,
Rolling with Pleasure o'er the Tongue.

So, with a free, not careless Rein,
Bounds the light Courser o'er the Plain;
Measures his Strokes with charming Grace,
Gains, without straining, in his Pace:
Sprightly, not fierce, unspent his Force,
With ease He finishes his Course.

250

Who but admires those spotless Lines
Where Fancy in Perfection shines,
Paints an Elysian Land, and shews
Nature in all her brightest Hues?
Judgment the curious Pencil guides,
And o'er the splendid Work presides.
Amidst a thousand, glitt'ring Scenes
Of Citron Groves, and Myrtle Greens;
Of Sun-gilt Streams, and blooming Plains,
And ancient Rome's August Remains,
That in a rich Confusion rose
To view; the skilful Master chose
What strikes most strongly on the Sight
And ravishes with most Delight.
With fine and never-failing Art,
He rang'd and join'd each answ'ring Part;

251

Enliv'ning with Poetick Soul
The fair, compleat, harmonious Whole.

Now in his pure, clean Verse We seem
Pleas'd, as with some transparent Stream,
That winding thro' a flow'ry Land
A Bottom shews of Golden Sand.
Now by the rising Subject fir'd,
His Muse, with growing Heat inspir'd,
Claps the strong Wing and tow'rs away
Exulting in the noble Prey;
Keeps her great Theme in ardent Sight
And mounts, and soars, a wond'rous Height!

I feel, I feel the catching Flame,
It spreads, it rushes thro' my Frame:

252

I pant with Extasies unknown,
And utter Transports not my own.

Such, lately in the Rural Shade,
Far from the noisy World convey'd,
I felt; deep-musing on the Page
Where the great Poet spends his Rage.
Next o'er that various Work I bend,
Which all the polish'd Arts commend:
Where Learning's choicest Wealth appears,
Treasures of late or antient Years;
What Greece began, what Rome improv'd
Or Albion by the nine belov'd.
Here the gay Page, with sprightly Airs
And sparkling Wit, dispels our Cares:
In sadder Colours there it draws
Vice, of all Ills the direful Cause.

253

O Warwick! I am all on Fire,
I spurn at every low Desire;
When the bright Leaves to view display
The Regions of eternal Day;
O'er Ages and o'er Ages roll,
And trace the never-fading Soul;
As, rip'ning still, her Beauties grow,
Sill fresh her rising Pleasures flow.
But then, the Sage, to quell our Pride,
Shows us to dust and Worms ally'd;
Leads us among the Mighty Dead
With solemn Thought, and silent Tread
To where, upon the sculptur'd Stone,
O Grave! thy Victories are shown;
Where Poets, Heroes, Kings, around,
Lie mouldring in the vaulted Ground:

254

Where now, in Hope, a-while repos'd,
His nobler Ashes are enclos'd.

O much-belov'd, and quickly lost!
How short the Joy we value most!
Much-honour'd! much-lamented Shade!
Ne'er shall thy sacred Laurels fade.
Thy Name unhurt, untarnish'd bears
Its Glories to succeeding Years.
Tho' thirteen Winters round thy Urn
Have roll'd, with sorrowful Return;
Still recent is the fatal Blow,
Still bleeds each Heart with gen'rous Woe,
Britannia still her Grief retains,
And for Her Addison complains.

255

O! had He reach'd the farthest Stage
That Heav'n assigns to Mortal Age;
Still had his undiminish'd Ray
Pour'd on the Mind informing Day:
Then had we seen with weeping Eyes
Thee, Socrates! the Good, the Wise,
Greatly resign thy God-like Soul,
And smiling quaff the Martyr's Bowl.
Then too Religion wou'd have shown
The Raptur'd Poet, all her Own,
And heard the consecrated Lays
Sublimely sound the Saviour's Praise.
But (for the Banquets of the Blest
Impatient call'd for such a Guest)

256

Scarce had her tuneful Vot'ry brought
The fair First-offering of his Thought;
His Harp within her Temple hung,
Ere Death the pious Harp unstrung:
Snatch'd Him to the Celestial Quire,
And grac'd him with a Seraph's Lyre.

When the Author wrote these Lines he had not heard of the Countess of Warwick's Death.

The Letter from Italy.

Spectators, Tatlers, &c.

Alluding to the Papers on the Immortality of the Soul.

Alluding to the Paper on Westminster Abbey.

Mr. Addison died June 17th 1719.

He intended to have wrote a Tragedy, upon the Story of Socrates; vid. His Life, by Mr. Tickell.

He had form'd a Resolution, before he died, to dedicate his Poetick Talent wholly to Religion.

257

The XC Psalm, translated from the Original.

[_]

Being a Composure of Moses on the sufferings of the Israelites in the Wilderness, in consequence of the Sentence pronounced upon them at Kadesh Barnea: mentioned Numb. xiv. 23, 29, 32, 34.

By the Same.

Verse I.

Monarch of Heav'n, and Earth, and Sea,
Patron of Israel's Progeny;
In every Clime from Age to Age
Our Line survives all hostile Rage,
With thy Divinity immur'd,
As in a Dome of Rock secur'd.

258

Verse II.

Ancient of Days! ere this wide Earth
With all her Hills disclos'd, to birth
Arose; ere yon bright Lamps on high
Were kindled thro' the boundless Sky;
Thou hadst a Life Eternal pass'd,
That with Eternity shall last.

Verse III.

But what is Man? thy sov'reign Doom
Soon hurls the Mortal to a Tomb:
“Return to dust,” thy voice commands,
Death hears, and sweeps off half the Lands.

Verse IV.

While so immense, thy Life appears,
That, ev'n a thousand rolling Years,
Diminish, in thy vast Survey,
To an elaps'd, forgotten Day:

259

Whole Ages vanish in thy sight
Like the short Portion of a Night.

Verse V.

How oft (amazing to behold!)
Destruction has her Torrents roll'd!
Born headlong down the violent Stream,
The Mighty perish, like a Dream!
Sad Devastation! swift and wide!
Thus blooms at Morn, the Meadows Pride,

Verse VI.

At Morn, in lusty Verdure gay,
At Eve, the Sickle's hapless Prey
A wide-extended Ruin lies
On the bare Waste, and with'ring dies.

Verse VII.

O'er-whelm'd with Terror and Amaze,
We see thy Wrath, around us, blaze.

260

Consum'd by thine avenging Ire
With copious Death our Hosts expire.

Verse VIII.

Thy Face, by its own Beams, descries
All our conceal'd Iniquities.
Stern Justice every Crime arraigns,
And lays on each its Load of Pains.

Verse IX.

All our sad Days, thy Frowns we mourn,
Sickly, and weak, with Sorrow worn;
And mounting to our Noon a-pace,
And quickly finishing the Race,
The Measure of our Years is run,
Spent like a Tale.

Verse X.

The deathless Sun
Scarce seventy Springs renews his round,
Ere we lie mould'ring in the Ground:

261

Or should the vig'rous and the strong
Ten Winters more drag Life along,
'Tis a Reprieve, devoid of Rest,
Harrass'd with Toils, with Fears opprest,
And in our Strength cut off at last,
We vanish: thus a sudden Blast,
When fatal Shears the Fleece divide,
Whirls out of sight the falling Pride.

Verse XI.

Dread Sov'reign when thy Vengeance glows,
Who its full Force and Fury knows?
Great as our Fears, and unconfin'd
As thy own vast Almighty Mind.

Verse XII.

Make us, O make us, Father, wise
To mark the Moment, as it flies,

262

Keep the small Sum of Life in view
And, whither Wisdom leads, pursue.

Verse XIII.

Return, offended Pow'r, we pray,
How long ------? O torturing Delay!
Pity the Pains thy Servants feel,
At length the stern Decree repeal.
Bid the auspicious Morning smile,
That finishes our Years of Toil.

Verse XIV.

Let Mercy then prepare a Feast,
And let our Nation be the Guest:
Till in full Tides our Joys arise,
Our Acclamations rend the Skies;

Verse XV.

Till in full Tides our Joy o'erflows,
Lasting and great, as now, our Woes.

263

Verse XVI.

Before our steps, thy Pow'r display,
With Wonders mark the shining Way:
O let thy Patronage Divine
Diffuse a Glory round our Line,

Verse XVII.

Thy Patronage Divine proclaim,
Thro' ev'ry Land our honour'd Name.
Secure of thy Almighty Aid,
On that Eternal Basis laid,
May all our Plans of Conquest stand,
And all the Labours of our Hand.