Miscellanies in Prose and Verse :: :: University of Virginia Library

Where shall the trembling Muse begin her flight,
Confin'd in fancy, as obscur'd in sight?
Could I the force of heav'nly rays receive,
From Homer's Helen, or from Milton's Eve,
Beauty and Taste in every thought should shine,
This form the words, that decorate the line;

Beauty, first figur'd in th' Almighty's throne,
The next, in this great world's creation's shewn;
He first conceiv'd, then form'd this solid earth,
And gave to symmetry and order birth;
Delightful order on its surface spread,
Rais'd the tall hills, and stretch'd the lowly mead;
To ev'ry part its signal use assign'd,
And elegance to just proportion join'd;
Then added motion's vivifying soul,
Saw that the whole was good, and prais'd the whole.

No less in forming thee, enchanting Fair!
We trace the work of Heav'n's peculiar care;
Beauty, fair emblem of thy soul serene,
Blooms in thy face, and shines thro' all thy mien;
And we, with generous sense of virtue, prove
Thy innate goodness from thy country's love;
Such love the Grecian dames for Greece possess'd,
And such Rome's matrons for old Rome profess'd,

Ierne's sons, for arts and arms renown'd,
Have been, for true desert, with glory crown'd;

To war and science have an equal claim,
And nobly triumph in immortal fame;
And you, Ierne's fairest daughter, shew
Our fame in virtue, and in beauty too.
The laurel wreath in foreign realms they bore,
And you, your conquest to your native shore.
But brightest excellence may lie supine,
And ev'ry grace and worth unheeded shine:
In vain the ruby all its radiance plays,
Or the clear diamond shoots its vivid rays,
If knowing Taste pass unattentive by,
Nor there direct the sharp and curious eye;
Taste, which instruction can alone dispense,
And observation ripen into sense;
The sum of all philosophy can preach,
Or time, or thought, or wise experience teach:
This the true standard for perfection names,
And the rich gem's intrinsic worth proclaims.
By this young Ammon Homer's merit knew,
And Ilium's sacred tale from darkness drew;

By this, that Phrygian's just decree was seen,
Who gave love's apple to the Cyprian queen;
Guided by truth, mature in early years,
Thy taste, illustrious HAMILTON! appears;
Distinguish'd excellence confirms thy choice,
And fame applauds with universal voice.

Rent from the commerce of the good and great,
By wrecks of time, and turns of varying fate,
Doom'd to oblivion in my native soil,
No more by Stanhope cheer'd, nor charm'd by Boyle;
Left at each day's revival to renew,
A tear, for friendship dead in Montesquieu;
A bard, whose soul detest'd the sordid tribe,
Who praise for lucre, or who fawn for bribe;
Her long deserted lyre to numbers strings,
And this disinterested tribute brings.

On a Lord Lieutenant of Ireland visiting the Lying-Inn Hospital there.

Celestial Charity! with ray divine,
Exulting rise, before thy awful shrine.
See Cavendish, with heart-felt raptures stand!
Grace in his smile, and bounty in his hand;
Struck by thy temple's rich becoming state,
He feels his soul rejoice, his bosom beat;
Thy lofty temple, soaring still more high,
In just proportion to the kindred sky;
An emblem of thy form and face serene,
With temper'd majesty, is gladly seen.
He comes with keenest fervours to thy fane,
With health, and joy, and virtue in his train.
All hail, illustrious chief! propitious guest!
See Charity exult with glowing breast!
See Charity thy kind protection seek!
Awfully lovely, and sublimely meek!
She came at first, by heav'n's supreme command,
To visit earth, with Concord, hand in hand:

The infant twins, the sister virtues came,
Religion nurs'd them, that indulgent dame.
Wisdom and power, and piety and sense,
With public love and sweet benevolence,
From age to age, their kindred guardians prov'd,
By good men honour'd, and by angels lov'd.
Your smile, great Sir, shall all their joys renew;
For all those virtues shine, confess'd, in you.

On the Success of Major-General JOHNSON in America.

No more revile Hibernia's warlike story!
Has she not now retriev'd Britannia's glory?
When ill-conducted skirmishes had fail'd,
Has not the valour of her son prevail'd?
To JOHNSON's arms America we owe,
To him the humbling of the vaunting foe?
When Braddock fail'd, America was gone,
George said, “Let Johnson fight,” and 'twas re-won.

On the late Earthquakes in ENGLAND and IRELAND.

Britons, attend! Ierne, mind the call
Of voice divine, proclaim'd aloud to all.
Once had Juverna felt convulsive shocks,
Which swell'd her seas, and rent her solid rocks,
And twice hath Albion totter'd like a wall,
Portending cumb'rous ruin by its fall.
Lethargic natives of this northern clime,
Awake! awake! reform, repent in time;
With inmost dread observe the last alarm,
Wrath is gone out, th' Almighty lifts his arm.

An Apology for declining the melancholy Task of a Poem on the Death of his Serene Highness the Stadtholder.

While some, in studied elegance of verse,
Strew gaudy flow'rs on Nassau's precious herse;
With real patriots oft my tears I blend,
Tears for Batavia's, Albion's, Europe's friend;
Or in dark solitude, where Fancy reigns,
Brood over black imaginary scenes:
Ev'n now I see the fun'ral pomp appear,
Tears stream from all, and sighs disturb the ear.

With arms revers'd, and ensigns trail'd along,
A band of warriors heads the mourning throng;
Warriors preferr'd of late, for solid worth,
Not weigh'd in cheating scales of wealth or birth:
Oh! had he led them to the bloody plain,
Soon had their swords wip'd off their country's stain:
By him inspir'd, nor menaces nor arts,
Nor pow'rful bribes, had sway'd their loyal hearts.

Behold! his banner wav'd aloft by Fame,
While, with her silver trump, she sounds his name:
His titles and atchievements rais'd to view,
Serve but to swell the tide of grief anew.

Say who that mourner, with dejected air?
'Tis Commerce, once great NASSAU's princely care.

See next where Piety, with raptur'd look,
Revolves the pages of the sacred book:
In that bless'd mirror sees her hero rise,
Wafted on cherub's wings thro' yonder skies.

Whence flows this burst of glory on my sight?
Justice and Truth, array'd in dazzling white!

And now, the social Virtues, hand in hand,
Marshall'd by Prudence, form another band.

Thou too, fair Liberty! though wan and pale,
Dartest thy beauties through that Cypress veil.
Willing Obedience, with her silken chain,
Attends thy steps, and holds thy flowing train.

But most on you, my gloomy thoughts I turn,
Who, in your feeble hands, support that urn.

That babe too weeps; alas! he knows not why,
Catching th' infection from a parent's eye.
Her elder Comfort sinks [OMITTED]
[OMITTED]

Through such appalling scenes, how can the Muse,
Or flowing numbers, or just words infuse?
To warmer fancies be the task consign'd:
Thoughts but congeal within a languid mind.

On seeing Mr. MOSSOP perform.

'Tis Merit calls, awake the grateful lyre,
With manly measures and with kindred sounds,
That, correspondent, picture to the ear
And raptur'd breast, elate, thy awful image,
Imprinted deep within the yielding mind,
To rouze, alarm, and captivate the soul.
O, Eloquence divine! at thy command,
See Nature bend; the passions at her side,
In all their various liv'ries deck'd, await
Obedient to thy nod. Lo, reason wears
Thy chain! Thy elocution sways discreet,

By sense directed, and by genius fir'd,
The sceptre of the soul; like him that erst,
In Doric, or in Lydian strains divine,
Transform'd, at will, the mighty son of Jove,
When, strong inspir'd, the god-like master touch'd
The pow'rful string, when glory, war, and love
Successive reign'd, obsequious to his hand,
Within the hero's heart exulting high;
His changing hand, with various magic fraught,
To soothe, to soften, and to melt the mind,
To sink on radiant beauties blooming breast,
Dissolv'd in rapture, and by love subdu'd,
The master of the world: but see! he awakes,
He starts, he frowns, he glows, the alter'd note,
With deep sonorous and tempestuous sound,
Like the dread prelude of his father's thunder,
Arouz'd young Ammon from the blessful trance:
He raves, he burns, and shakes the dreadful spear.
Lo, Tully and Timotheus join'd! behold
Where sense and harmony, and warmth divine,

Emphatic eloquence, and pathos meet,
Confess'd, with Greek and Roman grace adorn'd,
To rule the judgment and to charm the soul;
Where art and nature in perfection crown
The finish'd high, the manly various task,
When Taste applauds, and MOSSOP fills the scene.

A PROLOGUE at a Benefit Play for an Hospital.

With sympathetic warmth to feel the throws,
And racking anguish of another's woes;
For others pains to heave the swelling breast,
Where strong benevolence lies deep imprest:
To melt with pity, and with tender care,
To drop, for deep distress, the generous tear:
These are the marks which heav'n itself design'd,
The sterling standards of the human mind;
And these the lines which in the bosom trace,
The fair resemblance of celestial grace.
Yet more it meant than mere compassion can,
By placing kindness in the heart of man:

'Tis not enough to sympathize with grief,
Unless we labour to afford relief;
The will to mortals vainly might be giv'n,
But Power's the great prerogative of heav'n;
And heav'n, who gave that power, will sure demand
Its full exertion from the bounteous hand.
Obedient to this call, with true delight,
We view the fair assembly of to-night;
All met your generous bounty to extend,
And to the sick and poor your succour lend;
While we our little mite with pleasure join,
Proud to be aiding this humane design.

Fain would the Muse the grateful thanks bestow,
Of those whom now your bounty guards from woe;
But that the orphans and the widows pray'rs,
And succour'd sorrows joy, created tears;
More free shall waft to heav'n their gen'rous praise,
Than all the study'd arts of labour'd lays,
And your own hearts more true reward receive,
From one good act, than all that praise can give.

Ode on SCIENCE.

Oh, heav'nly born! in deepest cells,
If fairest Science ever dwells
Beneath the mossy cave,
Indulge the verdure of the woods,
With azure beauty gild the floods,
And flow'ry carpets lave;
For melancholy ever reigns,
Delighted in the sylvan scenes
With scientific light;
While Dian, huntress of the vales,
Seeks lulling sounds and fanning gales,
Tho' wrapt from mortal fight;
Yet, Goddess, yet, the way explore,
With magic rites and heathen lore,
Obstructed and depress'd:
'Till wisdom gave the sacred nine,
Untaught, not uninspir'd, to shine,
By Reason's power redress'd.

When Solon and Lycurgus taught
To moralize the human thought
Of mad opinion's maze,
To erring zeal they gave new laws;
Thy charms, O Liberty, the cause,
That blends congenial rays,
Bid bright Astræa gild the morn,
Or bid a hundred suns be born,
To hecatomb the year.
Without thy aid in vain the poles,
In vain the zodiac system rolls,
In vain the lunar sphere:
Come, fairest princess of the throng,
Bring sweet philosophy along
In metaphysic dreams;
While raptur'd bards no more behold
A vernal age of purer gold,
In Heliconian streams.

Drive thraldom, with malignant hand,
To curse some other destin'd land,
By Folly led astray:
Ierne bear on azure wing,
Energic let her soar and sing,
Thy universal sway.
So when Amphion bade the lyre
To more majestic sounds aspire,
Behold the madding throng,
In wonder and oblivion drown'd,
To sculpture turn'd by magic sound,
And petrifying song.

A Morning REFLECTION.

All hail, Omnipotence! whose out-stretch'd arm,
Whose mighty fiat bid existence rise;
Aw'd by the sound, elastic nature sprung,
From dross refin'd, confess'd to open day:
Chaos no more broods o'er Confusion's mass,
But ope's the long-clos'd portals of her dome,
Whence issues symmetry in fair proportion.
No longer silent horrid Darkness reigns,
But glorious rising from the cheary gloom,
Th' enlivening sun burst forth with blaze of light,
And wide disclos'd the wonders of the whole.
Thus have the vaulted heavens, th' etherial orb,
The trackless ocean, and the solid earth,
Fulfill'd the ends great Nature had design'd.
But man, rebellious man, insidious, false,
Rash and imperious, turbulent and proud,
Prone to all evil, retrograde to good,
Still acts subversive of the general plan.

Whence this delusion? Where's the great reward,
To pay the sacrifice of every virtue?
What can compensate for the dreadful risque,
Of bliss immortal in the great hereafter?
What are the boasted pleasures of this world,
The fond pursuits and objects of our wish?
But empty bubbles dying with a breath,
And fleeting shadows that delude fruition;
The span of life scarce answers to our souls.

God of all mercies! source of every joy,
Parent of peace, of harmony, and love,
Pour out thy spirit on this wretched land;
Nor let Detraction, with invenom'd tooth,
Poison the fame of characters rever'd.
Let dark Suspicion, with her jaundic'd eye,
Let haggard Envy, and opprobrious Hate,
Let clamorous Faction, and malignant Spleen,
Relinquish wrongs they meditate in vain:
Let discord cease, and close unite our hearts,
In amity's soft, pleasing, gentle bands.

On the Recovery of the Right Honourable Lord Viscount MOLESWORTH, from his Illness, in the Year 1755.

Welcome once more to chearful light, to life,
To health, to virtue, and to virtue's friends,
O MOLESWORTH! best belov'd; the winged seraph
Destin'd to waft thee through th' etherial space;
Above the distant sun's diminish'd orb,
And starry climax of aspiring worlds;
Where time and nature from the soul recede,
And all the wide, extended, vast, creation,
In one contracted viewless point is lost:
The heav'nly minister, by prayer depriv'd,
Joyless return'd, without his charge on high,
Where kindred saints, and bright seraphic friends,
Associates of thy youthful, glorious war,
On Hockstet's and Malplaquet's sanguin'd plains,
Expecting thy triumphant coming, stood:
There Churchill's, and thy godlike father's shade,

With never-fading various trophies crown'd:
The meed of learning, and of matchless war,
(With philosophic palms, the growth of heav'n)
Waited thy presence on the blessful shore;
On thy accomplish'd brow to bind the rich,
United, and immortal wreath, thy due,
Whom both Minerva's and the Graces crown.
With patience then endure this mortal state,
For mankind's good; a little longer hold
This tenement of clay; from endless joys,
A few short years refrain; nor pine the loss,
For, O! eternity has endless date.
Thy lease from nature is not yet expir'd,
And heav'n, at virtue's ardent pray'r, renews it.
Thou worthy, noble, much-belov'd, thou just,
Thou blameless man, O welcome back to life,
To social sweets sincere, parental joys,
Connubial love, domestic happiness,
The public wish, and friendship's sacred joys.

On the Invention of LETTERS and the Utility of the PRESS.

Thou thought-revealing charm! in silence shewn,
Like the swift intercourse of angels known,
Intuitive exchange, by vision made,
Of mutual minds, without the tardy aid
Of sense-conveying sounds, which language lends,
To partial compacts ty'd, and local ends:
Thy wond'rous pow'r can waft th' extended soul,
From clime to clime, and bear from pole to pole:
What godlike energy inform'd his breast,
Who all th' impassion'd soul through thee express'd!
Who all th' intestine throbs the heart invade,
In speaking silence to the sight display'd!
Through mystic types, firm fix'd, on lasting ground,
The signs of thought, and shades of social sound,
Rich as the sun they shine, with mental ray,
In one continu'd, intellectual day.

O sacrid legacy! O gift divine!
With still increasing force, for ever shine!
Ambition here is virtue; Learning, rise,
Subdue the earth, explore thy native skies!
Thy potent sceptre o'er the world extend,
And awful justice from her foes defend.
May Liberty beneath thy pow'rful hand,
Unmov'd, uninjur'd, and immortal stand!
That glorious gift, to Virtue's sons more dear
Than conquest, honour, worlds, or vital air:
'Tis her's, thro' scenes of death, to spurn the chain,
'Tis her's (that heav'n-born goddess) to complain,
Through Learning's awful voice, to seek redress
From nature, reason, and th' important Press;
That source of patriot strength, when pure it runs,
Unstirr'd by Fraud and Faction's furious sons:
To truth, to public virtue, ever dear,
For ever copious, and for ever clear,
May healing Wisdom from that fountain flow,
And Wealth and Concord ever round it grow.

On hearing the Design of erecting a MONUMENT to the Memory of THOMAS PRIOR, Esq; by Subscription, in the Year 1751.

'Tis all that goodness left behind can shew,
Or gratitude on worth made blest, bestow;
Departed worth the pillar'd pomp disdains,
The sculptur'd marble, and the heart-felt strains;
Heedless of after fame and frail renown,
Conscious of virtue only, and her crown,
The shrinking trophies in her flight she spurns,
Of earth forgetful, and with seraphs burns.

And yet the fervent vow must still be paid,
The pious off'ring to the patriot shade;
'Tis meet it should: then rear the awful bust,
And consecrate your fame o'er PRIOR's dust.

Ye heav'n-touch'd few, whom Wisdom warms to bless
Her sacred schemes, and give her toils success,
Distinguish'd patriots, who have firmly stood,
Th' unshaken pillars of your country's good;

You knew his heart, and felt the social fire,
Which kindl'd in his soul each pure desire
To serve the public, with unweary'd pain;
To know he serv'd it, was his greatest gain.

Down, down, ye stately monuments of guilt,
On ruin founded, and by rapine built,
Detested witnesses of mischief's power,
Nor longer with upbraiding insults tow'r,
The firm reproach of haughty pride misled,
T'infect the living, and impeach the dead:
Learn hence, ye monarchs that would grasp the globe,
The sceptre's office and the ermin'd robe;
To wield the one for universal good,
Nor stain the other with innoxious blood;
Learn hence the social system, peaceful plan,
And each kind office due from man to man;
Learn hence to live, and let ambition try
The virtuous path he trod, and learn to die.

O dear to gratitude, to virtue dear,
For thee, the public groan, the public tear,

Are heard and seen; thy sound they sadly flow,
Th' unceasing marks of unaffected woe;
For thee, the widow'd arts and virtues mourn,
With pale Religion bending o'er thy urn,
Whilst meek Benevolence, with all her train,
In Sorrow's sable robe for thee complain.

Here then draw nigh, ye thoughtless, vain, ye proud,
And envy PRIOR in his humble shrowd;
To triumph o'er yourselves, be all your view,
And ev'ry passion to its poize subdue.

Not raise the Monument! Forbid it, Shame,
And snatch a people from perpetual blame.
Forbid it, Gratitude; forbid it, Pride,
Nor to his dust be this small mark deny'd.
O vindicate yourselves, he wants it not;
Immortal worth can never be forgot.

But, see! the solemn pile begins to rise,
Indecent pomp! before my ravish'd eyes:
To Fancy's view memorial trophies swell,
The sculptur'd marble all his virtues tell.

The patriot's form already seems confess'd,
Half-sunk and leaning on his country's breast,
Whilst BERKLEY's muse prepares th' immortal lore,
And Virtue sighs out—PRIOR is no more.

On the Return of the Right Honourable Lord Viscount CHARLEMONT, from his Travels, to Ireland, in the Year 1755.

Once more, my Lord, the Muse would tune her lays,
Your country bids it, and the Muse obeys:
Your country bids, and merit claims the choice,
By Fame inspir'd, and Europe's gen'ral voice,
She sings thy wish'd return, thou noble youth,
Impell'd by gratitude, and taught by truth;
She bids thee welcome, with thy various store
Of treasur'd knowledge, to thy native shore.

What energy divine! what ardent guest!
By heav'n implanted in the human breast,
With thirst of fame, excites the gen'rous heart
To ransack Nature, and to drink up Art!

In copious currents, that inspiring glide,
From purest fountains, with prolific pride:
Insatiate still, with stronger thirst to glow,
And quaff the fountains, whence these currents flow.
O guiltless pride! O glorious thirst of fame!
Worthy a patriot or a prince's name;
Intrinsic gem, that in the soul must live,
Which only Wisdom sees, and Heav'n can give;
Above all pomp, all titles, and all pride,
To statesman oft, to heroes, kings, deny'd;
Charlemont, 'tis thine, th' immortal treasure's thine,
Bless'd with each gift, and born aloft to shine,
Bless'd with each art, with ev'ry virtue bless'd,
By nations honour'd, and by kings caress'd;
Illustrious youth! thy country's boast and pride,
For whom her raptur'd arms she opens wide,
For whom her throbbing bosom beats sincere,
Her long-expected bliss, her hope, her fear;
At thy approach the drooping Virtues smile,
And frowning Discord smoothes her front a while:

At thy approach the drooping Arts look gay,
The sister Arts their mutual charms display;
Painting, her pencil shapes; the Muse, her lay.
On thee shall Taste in all her forms attend,
In thee shall heav'n-born Genius find a friend:
Let Rancour hence, and hateful Envy see
One great exception, and the instance Thee
One glorious instance of deserv'd applause,
One champion, firm to Worth, to Virtue's cause!
One noble youth return'd, with honours crown'd,
By Truth applauded, and by Fame renown'd;
Who shines triumphant in the wreaths he bore,
From ev'ry hostile wave, from ev'ry shore;
Whose temper'd shield repells each deadly blow,
For Virtue finds in ev'ry land a foe,
To join with youth, at Pleasure's hasty call;
But strong Discretion stood, and vanquish'd all.
O sweet reflection! O extatic thought!
Not Philip's dreaded son so firmly fought;

Nor he, who earth subdu'd, the boast of Rome,
Brought half such virtuous wealth, such treasures home.

And You, whose guiding hand, whose tender love,
First led his steps in Virtue's path to move;
Whose early precept taught his heart to know
The throb humane, rising for others woe;
Whose wise example taught, and presence fir'd,
Whose counsels form'd him, and whose deeds inspir'd;
Rejoice, exulting, banish now thy cares,
Behold the plant you rear'd, the fruit it bears!
Behold the fertile branches blooming wide,
With all the beauties of each summer's pride!
In smiling Nature's various robes array'd,
Behold your anxious toils, your cares repaid!
Accomplish'd youth, whose freighted bosom bears
The precious fruits of nine rich plenteous years,
By wisdom gather'd, with incessant toil,
To store thy mind, and bless thy native soil,
The god-like task begin, ascend thy sphere,
And make thy country's good thy lasting care;

There shine confess'd, let all thy splendors see,
And taste and mortals copy still from thee.

An Elegy on the much-lamented Death of the Right Reverend Father in God, THOMAS, Lord Bishop of SODOR and MAN.

By a Gentlewoman of the Isle of Man, in the Year 1755.

A chilling damp invades my trembling heart,
Steals thro' each vein, and sickens ev'ry part!
The morning weeps, and wears a sullen face:
Sure Nature feels some sudden sad distress!
Dejected looks, and deep corroding care,
Display the sable ensigns of despair.
What mean these presages?—Hark! the bell—
It sounds a solemn, slow departing knell.
Ah! hold, my boding heart—is SODOR dead!
Is Mona's guardian-angel from her fled?
Yes, his pure active soul has took its flight,
From these dark regions to the realms of light;

There tunes his voice with angels sacred strains,
And soars sublime above the lucid plains.
Ah! hapless Mona, long shalt thou lament
Thy Parent, Patriot, Prelate, from thee rent.
No balmy hope remains to heal thy wound,
For, ah! what pastor can like him be found?
Revolving suns shall light a thousand years,
Ere such a phœnix in the world appears.

Weep on, ye hapless orphans—Now you may;
He's gone who us'd to wipe your tears away.
And you, pale sons of penury, deplore
The liberal hand that gave you all his store,
And thought that all too little to be giv'n,
For he laid up no treasure but in heav'n.
For you the yellow'd harvest crown'd his field,
To you his snowy flocks their fleeces yield:
With undissembl'd sorrow you will mourn;
'Till now you ne'er were wretched nor forlorn.
To all degrees his healing hand he lent,
Gave to their bodies ease, their souls content.

As heav'n's benevolence is unconfin'd,
All shar'd th' immortal treasures of his mind,
An universal friend to all mankind.
Oh! Bishop's-Court, now at thy hallow'd gate
No hospitable harbinger doth wait,
To welcome in the tired hungry guest,
Where elegance and temperance crown'd the feast.
Near sixty autumns his paternal hand
The crosier held in this late happy land.

Tell me, ye learned, what enraptur'd flight
Can wing its way to his superior height?
His merit would exhaust the florid store
Of elocution, and make rhetoric poor.
His learn'd and pious works demonstrate best
What holy ardour glow'd within his breast;
Diffusing round the globe its radiant beam,
Remotest India bless'd the sacred flame.
His reverend looks had sweetness that might win
Obdurate sinners from their darling sin:

Inspiring Virtue, with her charming grace,
We saw her lovely image in his face.
When he declaim'd, Vice hung its guilty head,
Before him Ignorace and Error fled.
Divine Persuasion dwelt upon his tongue,
Dispensing wisdom to th' admiring throng,
With so much energy, such heav'nly art,
He drew compunction from the hardest heart.
With sanctity of manners richly fraught,
His life evinc'd the doctrine that he taught.
Fourscore and ten full years this vale he trod,
Still fervent in the service of his God.
Away, fond heralds, with your mould'ring praise,
His glorious deeds his monuments shall raise.
T'embellish latest time his fame shall live,
And to worlds to come a bright example give.
He, lov'd, lost patriarch, Mona still shall mourn,
And with her filial tears bedew his hallow'd urn.

The antient name for the Isle of Man.

On the Report of Mr. SHERIDAN's giving a Benefit-Play towards defraying the Expence of Dr. SWIFT's Monument, in the Year 1752.

Shall fame this blemish to the world display?
The Drapier's aweful dust like vulgar clay!
Trampled, unheeded, undistinguish'd lies,
Whilst weeping Gratitude, with down-cast eyes,
And drooping Genius, o'er his slighted urn,
With injur'd Justice, and the Muses, mourn.
Oh! tell it not where Britain's sons are laid;
Her laurel'd sons, with all their pomp display'd;
With all the trophies which their country gave,
To crown desert, and dignify the grave;
Nor let it yet in Gallia's realms be known,
That SWIFT still wants a monumental stone.
Ye heav'n-touch'd few, redeem the social name,
And give the deathless patriot all his fame;
His fame already to the poles hath spread,
And wreaths immortal bloom around his head;

When marbles moulder, and historic brass,
When weary Time his latest round shall pass,
Enough, my Muse! the world has heard it all,
Where-e'er the lucid beams of science fall,
Or Virtue lifts her radiant head on high,
Beneath th' extended concave of the sky,
Shall SWIFT's unrival'd worth be always known,
By ev'ry country honour'd, but his own.

On Sir PETER WARREN.

Here lieth
Sir PETER WARREN,
Knight of the Bath,
And
Vice Admiral,
Active, judicious, brave,
Successful:
The faithful protector of our merchants:
The bane of our enemies:
A most generous encourager of all useful arts,

In peace and War:
Honest, religious,
Polite, accomplished,
In all respects:
The glory of Ireland:
Loaded with honours by his king and country,
But
Not elated with them: who, being
(Alas! too soon)
Tired with earthly triumphs,
Took his flight, from his much beloved country,
To attain glory of a more lasting nature,
On the 29th of July,
1752.

The TEST, in the Year 1754.

Since now thy patriot sons, Ierne, claim
Virtue's reward on earth, immortal fame;
And since, thro' all degrees alike profest,
The generous ardor glows in ev'ry breast,
Nor men alone defend the public weal,
But patriots matrons emulate their zeal;
Sure, now, the period's come, the golden age,
When public merit must all hearts engage;
The friend of Ireland now may well expect,
All honours, blessings, gratitude, respect.
Yes!—where's this friend? this hero? bring him forth,
That acclamations may proclaim his worth.
Where is he, where?—In sight, at hand, you'll find,
Unless you blindly follow leaders blind;
Trust not your ears, believe your faithful eyes;
Facts can't deceive:—reports may all be lies
Therefore on fact, on rigid fact, depend,
And then determine who is Ireland's friend.

Discuss this question: In your late distress,
Your stock but little, and your credit less,
Quite drain'd your cash, the vitals of your trade,
The merchant, trader, artist, all dismay'd!
Who interpos'd, and, with a godlike hand,
Diffusing treasures, fed a famish'd land?
The public store to private wants convey'd,
Redeem'd your credit, and reviv'd your trade?
Who, but the friend of Ireland!—Goddess Fame,
What need to tell that DORSET is his name?

An Answer to the TEST.

The rule your candour recommends,
To judge, from facts alone, of friends;
The public, whom you late address'd,
Ackowledges th' unerring Test.
Your question fairly it discuss'd,
And soon pronounc'd your reas'ning just.
The people now on facts depend;
By facts they try'd, and found their friend;

Their benefactor great and good,
Who in the gap of ruin stood,
When rapid, like an inundation,
'Twas bursting to o'erwhelm the nation;
Who propt their credit, quite decay'd,
Supply'd the sinews of their trade;
The treasures, for the state amass'd,
Like “bread upon the waters cast,”
And, by the gracious well-tim'd grant,
Prevented bankruptcy and want;
Public calamities, more dire
Than ravages by sword and fire.

All this is known—'tis felt at heart,
Self-sprung, and uninstill'd by art.
Hence then, delusion, envy, lies,
We're all resolv'd to use our eyes;
Let truth and gratitude prevail,
And DORSET, Ireland's friend, all hail.

They have prevail'd—the nation round,
The grateful acclamations sound;

All ranks of men, and parties now,
The truth a while deny'd, allow.
Lords, commons, traders, high and low,
Such crowds their strong affections show,
That shou'd your heathen goddess Fame,
Attempt to reckon every name,
'Twou'd only prove her strength of lungs,
And tire, at last, her hundred tongues.

Some STANZAS from a famous Club.

Fair Venus, the goddess of beauty and love,
Arose from the froth and foam of the sea;
Minerva leap'd out of the noddle of Jove,
A coy sullen prude, as most authors agree:
Blithe Bacchus, they tell us, the prince of good fellows,
Was hatch'd in Jove's thigh; but attend to my tale,
For they who thus chatter, know nought of the matter,
He rose from a hogshead of excellent ale:

Then having survey'd the butt whence he sprung,
And finding it empty, he sorrowful grew,
So mounting astride, set his rump on the bung,
And away to the gods and the goddesses flew:
From the skies he look'd down, with many a frown,
Then swore 'twas a pity, that casks e'er should fail,
For that his birth-chamber, once held liquid amber,
And that gods had ne'er tasted such nectar as ale.

Ye Galens, who more execution have done,
With bolus, and draught, with powder, and pill,
Than the halter, the block with the axe, or the gun,
Or even than gin, that such numbers does kill,
To dispatch us the quicker, you forbid us malt liquor,
Till our bodies grow thin, and our faces look pale;
Regard 'em who pleases, what cures our diseases,
Like a cordial doze of sound mantling ale?

Ye prelates, deans, deacons, priests, curates, or vicars,
Whose joy is the tankard, you'll vouch it as true,
That the soft Derby malt makes the best of all liquors,
And none understand the good creature like you;
It dispells e'ery vapour, saves pen, ink, and paper;
And when you're dispos'd from the rostrum to rail,
It moistens your throats, and you preach without notes,
Inspir'd with the spirit of stout humming ale.

Let each lover that talks of flames, darts, and daggers,
With sparkling mild ply the nymph pretty hard;
Then, then never fear, but she'll tope till she staggers,
And soon be dispos'd, her sweet swain to reward;
He may turn her, and twist her, as much as he'd list, Sir,
And o'er all the feints of her coyness prevail;
Then fill the glass often, for nothing can soften,
And open each heart, like our right nappy ale.

The CHANGES.

Like mine, or some dull brother's rhimes,
Or like, O Islington, thy chimes,
Which oft as in our ears they tingle,
Return the same unvary'd jingle;
Or like the catguts of a fiddle,
That squeak, first, second, last or middle,
Yet neither treble yield, nor bass,
Unless some master's hand take place:

Our Ch---fs, so chance or folly ranges,
In all the modern c---tly changes:
On method though they form to border,
We ne'er can say they are in order.
No choice of talents in the clan,
For any post suits any man,
So shap'd their honesty and wit,
Like pegs, each other's place they fit.

Knit by their interest in a cluster,
Still the same roll they always muster:

The knot has many tags, we find,
Yet know not which hangs fore or hind,

Busy they buz about a while,
From board to board, from isle to isle,
Till one by one, in life's declension,
They settle quarter'd on a pension.

The name of Mystery adorns,
The beast with many heads and horns,
These mystic men, that we may read 'em,
Some genius rise, supplant or lead 'em.

Fell Amphis Bæna, in the fable,
At each rump head alike was able:
The monster either way could bend,
And stink or sting at either end.
But Bacchus (tho' a sot, no dunce)
Lash'd the whole length to death at once.

To CÆLIA.

To CÆLIA dear! queen of May!
This tribute, tho' homely, I bring.
'Tis her virtue inspires my lay,
'Tis her beauty that tempts me to sing.

For who so well merits my song,
Like her who can challenge my praise?
Round whose person the graces all throng,
Whose soul ev'ry goodness displays?

Then aid me, ye powers divine,
To win the esteem of my fair.
Oh, let that rich treasure be mine!
Crowns and sceptres I give to the air.

OVID's Description of NIOBE, when she heard of the Death of her Children, and ran to find their dead Bodies.

How different from that Niobe, whose pride
The sacred rites to heav'nly powers deny'd;
Whose haughty look, and insolence of mien,
Mov'd indignation wheresoe'er 'twas seen;
Now humbled by distress, and chang'd by woe,
Might melt to tears the most obdurate foe.

PROLOGUE, first Night, Spoken by a Young Gentleman in the Character of Cato.

For this bold task, ere on the stage we tread,
To shew, for Freedom's cause, how Romans bled,
Fain wou'd I strive, some pleasing art wou'd use,
To beg th' assistance of th' indulgent Muse,
Gain your attention, and ourselves excuse.
If then great Addison, whose worth sublime
Shall ever triumph o'er the spoils of time,

In brightest thought plann'd out the brave design,
Till it grew up into a work divine;
A work refulgent to adorn the stage,
To mend our morals, and improve the age;
With love of freedom to inspire mankind,
And nobly arm the true heroic mind;
What greater glory cou'd we youths pursue
Than this, to pay the homage justly due,
To ancient virtues, which in heroes grew?
Virtues! to which, reflecting glorious rays,
The bard, immortal, ow'd his deathless bays?
Virtues! in which, 'bove all the neighb'ring isles,
Britannia triumphs, and victorious smiles!
Such godlike actions, by the wise approv'd,
Admir'd by all, and by the learn'd belov'd,
This night we mean, in all the pomp of state,
Boldly to aim at, and to imitate.
If chance some errors in a faint disguise,
Shou'd to your view from our rude actions rise,

'Tis humbly hop'd your pardon you'll extend,
O'erlook those we deeds wou'd, but can't amend.
Your censure kindly spare, and, pleas'd, applaud the end.

PROLOGUE, second Night, Spoken by Marcia.

Welcome, fair ladies, to this night's repast,
All I've to do's to thank you for the last;
For 'twas your beauties, not desire of fame,
Which kindl'd in our breasts the Roman flame:
Tho' great our author was, yet sure 'tis true,
Such charms as these might all his soul subdue,
And tho' great Cato bled for him, he dies for you.
He dies, 'tis true; yet tho' he boldly dies,
And Marcia weeps, and Lucia frantic cries,
'Twere nobler far, far better now to say,
He lives, and, smiling, we—our thanks do pay.

The Rural LASS.

My father and mother (what ails 'em)
Pretend I'm too young to be wed;
They expect (but in troth I shall fail 'em)
That I finish my chairs and my bed.

Provided our minds are but cheary,
Wooden chairs wonnot argue a glove,
Any bed will hold me and my deary,
The main chance in wedlock is love.

My father, when ask'd if he'd lend us
An horse to the parson to ride,
In a wheel-barrow offer'd to send us,
And John for the footman beside.

Wou'd we never had ask'd him, for, whip it,
Tho' to church is two miles and a half,
Twice as far 'twere a pleasure to trip it;
But then how the people wou'd laugh!

The neighbours are nettled most sadly,
Was e'er such a forward bold thing!
Sure never girl acted so madly!
Thro' the parish these backbitings ring.

Yet I will be marry'd to morrow,
And charming young Harry's the man;
My brother's blind nag we can borrow,
And he may prevent us that can.

Not waiting for parents consenting,
My brother took Nell of the Green,
Yet both far enough from repenting,
Now happy and jocund are seen.

Pray when will your gay things of London,
Produce such a strapper as Nell?
These wives by their husbands are undone,
As Saturday's news-paper tells.

Poll Barnley said, over and over,
I soon shou'd be left in the lurch;
For Harry, she knows, was a rover,
And never wou'd venture to church.

And I know the sorrows that wound her;
He courted her once, he confest:
With another too great when he found her,
He bid her take him she lik'd best.

But all that are like her, or wou'd be,
May learn from my Harry and me,
If maids wou'd be maids while they shou'd be,
How faithful their sweet hearts wou'd be.

My mother says, cloathing and feeding
Will soon make me sick of a brat:
But tho' I prove sick in my breeding,
I care not a farthing for that.

For if I'm not hugely mistaken,
We can live by the sweat of our brow,
Stick a hog, once a year, for fat bacon,
And all the year round keep a cow.

I value no dainties a button,
Coarse food nature's wants will allay;
If we cannot get veal, beef, or mutton,
A chine and a pudding we may.

What care I for rich silks and brocades?
In linsey there's nothing that's base;
Your finery presently fades,
My dowlas will last beyond lace.

I envy not wealth to the miser,
Nor wou'd I be plagu'd with his store:
To eat all, and wear all, is wiser;
Enough let me have, and no more.

So nothing shall tempt me from Harry,
His heart is as true as the fun;
Eve with Adam was order'd to marry;
This world it shou'd end as begun.

The CONTENTION.

The god of wine and god of love,
(Highest of all the powers above)
Contending for imperial sway,
Anxious each to gain the day,
Resolv'd that one alone should reign,
Their pow'r they try'd upon a swain.

The god of love, his golden dart
Let fly, and hit the shepherd's heart;

Colin, abandoning his sheep,
His scrip and crook, his food and sleep,
A vot'ry bows at Chloris' shrine,
For Chloris now was all divine;
Nought left of human in her nature,
But all a bright celestial creature.

The god of wine then fill'd a glass,
In hopes to drive away the lass
From Colin's thoughts; yet all in vain,
He quaff'd and smil'd, and lov'd again.
The swain was ask'd, the swain confess'd
The passion stronger in his breast,
But that the wine had chear'd his hope,
And drove out thoughts of knife and rope.

The god of love then sneez'd aloud,
And all the little Cupids bow'd;
He then let fly another dart,
Which more inflam'd the shepherd's heart.
Then Bacchus gave a flowing cup,
The shepherd smil'd, and quaff'd it up;

The swain was ask'd, the swain confess'd,
The passion stronger in his breast;
But now being rais'd to Chloris' sphere,
He had discharg'd all grief and fear.

The god of love twice sneez'd aloud,
And all the little cupids bow'd;
The third and last shaft now was sent,
Which less effected than it meant;
For Bacchus with a flowing bowl
Enlarg'd the shepherd's joyful soul.
The swain was ask'd, the swain confess'd,
The passion now had left his breast;
He found himself grow all divine,
And Chloris at a distance shine;
Himself the bright celestial creature,
And she returned to human nature.

The Bacchanals, with loud huzza's,
Proclaim their god, whose bowl displays
Such influence, and gain'd the odds,
In placing man among the gods.

The god of love withdrew, and swore
He never would encounter more
The mighty bowl, but always yield,
To Bacchus the disputed field.

The FARMER and the HARE.

A TALE.

A HARE did to a garden get,
Belonging to a farm,
Where she threw up the earth, and eat,
And did some little harm.

The farmer cours'd her round and round,
But got her not away;
Puss took a liking to the ground,
And there resolv'd to stay.

Well, quoth the fellow in a fret,
Since you are grown so bold,
I shall some more assistance get,
And drive you from your hold.

And straight he sends to a young 'squire,
That he, by break of day,
Would with his pack of hounds repair,
And sport himself that way.

The 'squire, as ask'd, attended came,
With folks, and horse, and hounds,
And in pursuance of the game,
Rode over all the grounds.

They leapt and broke the hedges down,
And made most fearful waste;
They trampled all the garden round,
And kill'd poor puss at last.

At this the farmer tore his heir,
And swore most bloodily,
Z---ds! what confounded work was here,
And what a fool am I!

Not fifty hares, in fifty days,
Had so much mischief done,
As this good 'squire (whom I must praise,
And thank) hath wrought in one.

RETIREMENT.

An Ode.

Difficile & proprie communia dicere.
Hor.

Hail, sweet Retirement, Wisdom's peaceful seat!
Where, lifted from the crowd, and calmly placid,
Beyond the deafning roar of human strife,
The Athenian sage his happy followers taught,
That pleasure sprang from virtue. Gracious heavens!

How worthy thy divine beneficence,
This fair establish'd truth; ye blessful bowers,
Ye vocal groves, whose echo caught his lore,
O! might I have, thro' Time's long wreck, convey'd
The moral lessons taught beneath your shades!
And, lo! transported to the sacred scenes,
(Such the divine enchantment of the Muse)
I see the sage; I hear, I hear his voice.

“While busy cares mankind employ,
“How blest in this Retirement
“Do I the gifts of heaven enjoy,
“With sweet content.

“Let princes to the world proclaim,
“Their power, their crimes, their importance,
“And heroes boast immortal fame,
“Vain recompence.

“The sun's effulgent light appears
“Obscur'd, when storms invest the air;
“So earthly pomp is dull'd with fears,
And anxious care.

“When jarring winds tear up the deep,
“And fright the trembling mariner,
“In quiet I can wake or sleep,
“Without a fear.

“Here fixed I seek no better state,
“Here shun the hurry, strife and noise,
“Which on a life of business wait,
“For purer joys.”

Tumultuous pleasures hence be far,
Joys fleeting false how dearly bought;
Foes to fair Virtue's prudent care,
To peace, to thought?

Peace ever shuns the hurry'd mind,
Thro' which thought passes like the air,
Leaving a cheerless waste behind,
Or pensive care.

The thought serene the heart inspires,
With pure Religion, Peace, and love,
Which lift from earth our low desires
To those above.

“As Cynthia from the orb of day,
“Receives her brightness in the night,
“My soul receives from Virtue's ray
“A surer light;

“Which, with a mild compulsive sway,
“O'er all my thoughts and actions reigns,
“And as a guide directs my way,
“To starry plains.

“Here with great Newton, Albion's pride,
“I Nature's laws well pleas'd explore,
“Or thought-plac'd by Columbus' side,
“Some new found shore.

“Sometimes, as now, I touch the lyre,
“With trembling hand; sometimes I read,
“How Homer sings Achilles' ire,
“Or Hector dead:

“Or learn from the historian's page
“What revolutions time produc'd,
“What glorious deeds surpriz'd each age,
“What powers reduc'd.

“Sometimes I love the rural cheer,
“Sometimes I view my fertile soil,
“Or set my nets, or chace the deer,
“With pleasing toil.”

Yet cheerless was my day, my night,
Till Hebe glad'n'd my retreat;
Hebe, whose beauty charm'd my sight,
And taught my heart to beat.

Hebe (whom modesty adorns,
Whom sensibility inspires,
Whose every action grace informs,
Whose chaste desires,

Spake charming in her looks confus'd,
And dear enchanting fault'ring voice,
For me, wealth, pride and pomp refus'd,
Made love and peace her choice.

Nor did she wed because she lov'd,
By tyrant passion blindly led,
Her reason first the man approv'd,
Then wisely lov'd and wed.

She knew him honest, generous, good,
Studious in wisdom to improve,
Whose heart for ever open stood,
To friendship and to love.

Ye fair, for delicacy form'd,
Endearing sensibility,
With beauty, sense and wit adorn'd,
From Hebe learn and me.

Shun, shun the barb'rous herd, who know,
Nor Virtue's worth, nor Beauty's power,
Insensibles who never glow
But for the richest dower;

Beasts who, promiscuous in desire,
Prize not the glories of the mind,
Prize not the spark of heavenly fire,
Found in a soul refin'd.

Hebe and I together rove,
Together share each varying joy,
And now the plain, and now the shady grove,
Please or instruct without alloy.

Or with the sprightly lark awake the dawn,
The sweet dawn of healthful morn,
Returning with fresh life to ev'ry lawn,
Like Nature when first born.

Ye great, ye miserably great,
O turn from mad ambition, foolish pride,
O turn and view our happier state,
See how our hours sweetly glide.

What seek ye? why this bustle, why this pain?
O see ye not how wide ye stray!
Your labours how unnatural, how vain!
List, list unto the moral lay:

See, see the poor, the happy swain,
With his little healthy store,
Want makes him labour, this cures pain,
Can kings, can wealth give more?

And if to these he hap to join
A feeling heart, and great extended mind,
Great God! let such a lot be mine;
In this be merciful, in this be kind.

Fair friendship, charity and love,
Shall then inspire, enlarging ev'ry joy;
'Tis thus the angels live above,
Where pride, and folly ne'er annoy.

In blessing others, we ourselves are blest;
All happiness consists in mutual love,
(Divine exertion of almighty power)
Diffus'd in heav'n above,

On earth below, and thro' all nature spreads,
In high, and low, wise, great, and small,
Blessing the living and the worthy dead,
Connecting, bounding all.

See where deciet and malice, selfish pride,
And envy, bursting with infernal spite,
Are doom'd eternally to hide,
From love's sweet influence, from her heav'nly sight;

A wretch who knows not how to love,
Can ne'er enjoy the bliss it gives,
The want of love, his hell must prove,
Whether he dies or lives.

And there benign, all-loving Lord!
Who so much bliss, such wond'rous works hast rais'd,
Thy name be ever lov'd, be still ador'd,
Thy name, all nature echoes, e'er be prais'd.

The needle, by magnetic force,
Tho' toss'd thro' the wild raging sea,
Still to the north directs its course,
True to its way.

E'en so the virtuous man's free will,
Tho' thro' the storms of passion driv'n,
Yet still will shun the tempting ill,
And points to heav'n.

[_]

The irregularity of the verses in this Poem are not only common, but have been studied and practised by the greatest Poets.

VERSES,

Written to a Friend on his Marriage.

What! has that heart, so wild, so roving,
So prone to changing, sighing, loving,
Which widows, maids, attack'd in vain,
At last submitted to the chain?
Who is this paragon, this matchless she,
That's fix'd a weather-cock like thee?

The REPLY.

I'll tell thee, friend, that heart so roving,
So prone to changing, sighing, loving,
No more with empty pleasures fir'd,
Is now to real bless retir'd:
The wand'rer's lodg'd within a breast,
A loving and beloved guest;
Exchanging care and transient toys,
For wish'd content and lasting joys;
Nor is't, my friend, her speaking face,
Her shape, her youth, her winning grace,
Mere outward charms, that pass away,
But those that bloom when they decay,
Have reach'd my heart, the fair one's mind,
Bright as her eyes, yet soft and kind;
A gaiety with innocence,
A soft address with manly sense,

Bewitching manners void of art,
A chearful, firm, yet feeling heart;
Beauty that shuns all public gaze,
And humble, amidst pomp and praise:
These are the charms my heart have bound,
Charms often sought, but rarely found;
Nor think the lover's partial voice,
In flattering accents decks his choice:
When you Maria hear and see,
You will not wonder such a she
Has fix'd a weather-cock like me.

QUESTION, on the Art of Writing.

Tell me what genius did the art invent,
The lively image of a voice to paint!
Who first the secret how to colour sound,
And to give shape to reason, wisely found!
With bodies how to cloathe ideas taught,
And how to draw the pictures of a thought!
Who taught the hand to speak, the eye to hear,
A silent language roving far and near!

Whose softest notes out-strip loud thunder's sound,
And spread their accents through the world's vast round!
Yet with kind secrecy securely roll,
Whispers of absent friends from pole to pole.
A speech heard by the deaf, spoke by the dumb,
Whose echo reaches far in time to come,
Which dead men speak as well those that live!
Tell me what genius did this art contrive?

EPIGRAM.

Severus, fumbler on the grey goose quill,
Writes about all men, and on all writes ill;
Scribbler, proceed, with spite and envy curst,
Since no man reads thee, pr'ythee write thy worst.

Occasioned by reading of the Death of Sir CHARLES AMIAND PAWLET, the Day his Ticket, No. 40,718, was drawn the Ten Thousand Pound Prize.

Kind Fortune, as the wheel went round,
Drew PAWLET out ten thousand pound;
When jealous Fate assum'd her rank,
Cut short the thread, and mark'd him blank.

To the Memory of W. D. Esq

Interr'd beneath lies one, who never bow'd
The knee to Baal; amongst an erring croud,
Upright, and pure in every word and thing,
He fear'd his God, and honoured his king;
Gen'rous and just, regardful of the poor,
Too wise to wed, too tender to abjure;
Reader, if thou would'st lead his happy life,
Beware, like him, take neither oath nor wife.

REFLECTIONS on the Uncertainty of all Sublunary Enjoyments.

How vain is man, how flutt'ring are his joys,
When what one moment gives, the next destroys!
Hope and despair fill up his round of life,
And all his days are one continual strife;
Still struggling to be rich, yet always poor,
Urg'd by ambition still to covet more;
Reason (which ought to be his only guide)
He idly barters for an anxious pride;
And all his hopes are but uncertainty,
The parent of despair and misery.

Thus foolishly roll on the days of man,
(A tedious journey, tho' a little span)
The court, the park, the play, are pompous wiles,
To make him fancy that his fortune smiles;
When like a jilt she turns his joy to grief,
By disappointment of his fond belief;

And cool reflection teaches him to see,
The giddiness of all his vanity.
His self-conciet, his fancy'd power and skill,
Which bid defiance to th' Almighty's will,
Destroy'd by secret springs, he knows not how,
Should learn him to th' Almighty's will to bow:
For to his providence alone we owe,
All we possess of good, and all we know;
'Tis he who raises us, and brings us low.
Cease then, proud man, of thy own strength to boast,
Who of thyself canst little do at most;
Thou art the Maker's image, struck in clay,
Who with one blast can blow that form away,
Which moulders to its parent earth each day.

Then let not thy unruly fancy rove,
On any thing but what is fix'd above;
Be kind, be humble, merciful, and just,
In Providence alone put all thy trust:
For what thou hast, to him give all the praise,
Or never hope to meet with happy days.

EPITAPH on a very Worthy DIVINE.

Who shall describe the virtues of his mind,
His upright heart, benevolent and kind!
Where honour, truth, and candour did abound!
When will, alas! such ample worth be found?
They, whom we most esteem, oft soon decay,
Snatch'd by decrees of Providence, away;
While sordid wretches struggle still with fate,
Ward off each blow, and reach the longest date.

JUDITH's speech to the Elders of ISRAEL, Paraphrased.

Attend, ye fathers, nor too rashly run,
To meet the evil, which you still may shun;
What tho' his succour God a while forbear,
In the last hopeless moment he can spare;
Defeat the strength of your devouring band,
And drive them spoil'd and scatter'd from our land.

But think not man, vain creature, may presume,
To teach his Maker, or to chuse his doom.
Oft has afflicted Isr'el been restor'd,
None trust in vain the mercy of the Lord.
Our resignation still he means to try;
We live, if patient; if we murmer, die.
Learn this hard burthen, for a time, to bear,
And God, relenting, will his people hear,
Not now averse, as when, in impious croud,
At Baal's shrine our fathers lowly bow'd;
When lost, abandon'd, and with sin defil'd,
Aliens, by heaven's decree, their riches spoil'd,
Or dreadful Midian to the dens and rocks,
In chace, pursu'd them like affrighted flocks;
No idol now can Israel's homage boast,
No god is worshipp'd but the Lord of Host;
And shall we miscreants to the foe give way,
And leave his house and sacred ark a prey,
For Judah round, by our default compell'd,
To hands profane their holy things must yield?

How better far our dearest blood were spilt,
Than we partakers in so foul a guilt!
How worse than death our slavery must prove,
Oppress'd below, and frown'd on from above!
No hope of better days our souls to chear,
Remorse our comfort, and our friend despair!
Ah! change we for a worse our present state,
Who love the treach'ry, tho' the traitor hate!
The gen'rous soul, whose bleeding country lies,
Smoaking around in one sad sacrifice,
Who late resigns his unavailing sword,
Who holds his virtue, tho' he change his Lord,
May meet compassion from the fairest foe,
May smile in bondage, and outlive his woe;
But traitors, scorn'd by all of human kind,
Implore the favour which they never find.
Let us then face the dreadest front of war,
God on our side, the fiercest perils dare;
Firm keep the field, till death shall force us hence,
Or live our country's glory and defence.

To CELIA.

Thou fairest excellence of heav'n,
To thee my grateful thanks I give;
To thee, like that, it sure is giv'n,
To bless with hope, and bid us dare to live.

Yet, CELIA, tell, why so austere,
Dost thou my real meaning wrest?
O charming maid, be not severe,
But calm, with wish'd-for peace, my troubl'd breast.

How chearful were my former days,
My life, oh, CELIA, how serene!
Alas! how chang'd, depriv'd of ease,
I mourning wander o'er the once-lov'd plain!

My dearest friends I fearful fly,
And from their prying sight remove;
Then peace of mind to gain I try,
Yet deeper plunge in th' abyss of love.

Then cease my anguish to beguile,
Let me at least thy charms adore;
With pity on my fortune smile,
Desponding now, and lost, I ask no more.

On PATIENCE.

Lest that the feeble heart of suff'ring man,
Too low should sink beneath some keen distress;
Lest fell Despair, in league with pungent Pain,
Should overwhelm us in their wild excess;
Kind Hope, her daughter Patience sends from high,
To soothe each heart-felt woe, to wipe each trickling eye.

Hail, bless'd Divinity! kind Patience, hail!
Soft-handed, meek-ey'd maid, whose powerful breath,
And strong persuasive eloquence prevail,
Against all ills of life, all tears of death:
Come, lenient Virtue! spread thy healing wing,
And gently calm my breast, whilst I thy praises sing.

In all this toilsome round, and maze of life,
Where follies vex, or dulness pert annoys,
Where teazing trifles end in serious strife,
Where pelf can bribe, when worth neglected lies;
What honest spirit would not burst with rage,
If Patience lent not aid his passion to assuage!

No state or rank but must to Patience bow:
The tradesman must have Patience for his bill;
He must have Patience who to law will go,
And if he lose his right, more Patience still:
Yea, to prevent, or heal full many a strife,
How oft, how long, must man have Patience with his wife!

An ample Patience should their hopes sustain,
Who dare the mineral regions to explore;
Invading earth's recesses deep, to gain,
By toil and hazard, her metallic store.
Firm Patience too should well support his mind,
Whose ships vast oceans cross, the sport of waves and wind.

When the shrill, cackling, and long-winded dame,
Her tedious, vague, unmeaning tale repeats;
Confus'd, and wand'ring round and round her theme,
Till lost, and puzzl'd, she the chain forgets;
Yet still talk on with unabating speed,
Ye Gods! who hears her out, must Patience have indeed.

And so, when some lack-learning smug divine,
In solemn dulness veil'd, unfolds his text,
Dark and more dark grows what he should define,
And ev'ry sentence more and more perplext;
Yet still he blunders on the same blind course,
Teaching his weary'd hearers Patience upon force.

Without mild Patience, who could ever bear
To court the great, and cringe with forced smile;
Fed with some promises, or speeches fair,
Meant their too easy credence to beguile:
While still they wait, tho' ripe with rage to burst,
Much to complain inclin'd, if to complain they durst.

O heav'nly guardian of th' attemper'd breast,
Against th' oppressor's insolence and pow'r,
Against the scorner's sneer, the fool's dull jest,
And 'gainst each falshood new born with the hour,
Patience! to thee these lowly lays I bring,
Craving thy aid to those who here me sing.

Rural HAPPINESS.

Happy the man, to whom kind heav'n
A few paternal fields has giv'n,
Thereon a useful stock to graze,
To guard from want, and live at ease;
A cottage neatly kept and clean,
And by it close a running stream;
A garden join'd, that does afford
Sufficient for its master's board,
Therein a bower, where jessamine,
And fragrant honeysuckles twine,
In artful wreaths, at scorching noon,
T'expel the fury of the sun.

If such my lot, what shou'd I more?
I'd covet not the miser's store;
I' wou'd not wish for shining state,
Or view with envious eyes the great;
Or sigh for splendors of a court,
Where kings themselves are fortune's sport.

Unmov'd and calm, I'd hear from far
The noise and thunder of the war,
Where 'midst alarms and cannons roar,
Midst dying groans, and seas of gore,
The guilty soldier hunts for fame,
And, stain'd with blood, acquires a name.
I'd unconcern'd the merchant view,
Thro' stormy seas his way pursue,
In search of gain, still wanting more,
(Tho' rich enough) t'increase his store;
Exempt from suits, serenely hear
The brawls of the litigious bar;
Where perjur'd gownmen wrest the laws,
And brib'd give up the justest cause.

From giddy crowds and faction free'd,
When earn'd I'd eat my peaceful bread;
Nor shou'd my hand refuse the plough,
Or gather what I did not sow:
Nor would I undeserving wear,
What from my sheep I did not shear;
All labour needful to bestow,
With chearful heart I'd undergo.

Reliev'd from that, and time to spare,
I now and then wou'd course a hare;
Another time the angler's skill
A vacant hour or two shou'd fill,
Diversions each, with moderate use,
That to a reverend age conduce.

Sometimes to know the deeds of yore,
I'd ransack the historic store,
Or else an hour or two I'd spend
With Pope, or some poetic friend;
Each in degree my shelf shou'd grace,
From Homer down to Hudibras.

On Sunday always, once a day,
I'd go to hear the parson pray,
Or from his pulpit make oration,
With now and then a good quotation;
And if his text he handled nice,
Perhaps I'd go to hear him twice.

Another time, in chearful mood,
If near my homely dwelling stood,
(And that I'd wish) a cot or two,
With a good honest friend, or so,
I wou'd a pleasant evening pass,
Where, free from scandal, o'er a glass,
Or white crown'd jug of mantling beer,
(To Burgundy superior far)
We wou'd of various things debate,
Or pun, or joke, or tale relate:
And then anon the subject turn,
And talk about our own concern;
As how our fields we shou'd bestow,
Which best for pasture, which for plough;

What fruit wou'd such an orchard yield,
What loads of corn wou'd such a field.
That o'er, we'd chat of other things;
We'd boldly weigh the fate of kings;
And, free from passion, gravely chatter,
Our sentiments upon the matter;
How far their quarrels bad or good,
And which the right or wrong pursu'd:
Or else compare our happy station,
With those called rulers of the nation;
Who, ignorant of the blessful fate,
That smiles upon an humble state,
And placing all their happiness
In grandeur, poorly sell their peace.
Thus wou'd we chat, till each opprest
With sleep should steal away to rest.

One thing remains to sweeten life,
An honest and a careful wife;
Who lov'd and loving, soft and kind,
When gloomy cares would fill my mind,

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With sweet endearments wou'd repel
The fiend, and crush the growing ill;
And, more to bless the nuptial tye,
A blooming girl or lusty boy,
T'enjoy, when we are dead and gone,
The little spot we bred 'em on,
To close our eyes, when stealing death
Should rob us of our parting breath.
For I this other boon wou'd crave,
One dart to send us to the grave.

Nor should our lives be only such,
As just to guard us from reproach;
But valu'd by our neighbours round,
May they attend us to the ground
With grief unfeign'd, and bid the stone,
Say (for the little good we had done)
“Rest, happy pair! from trouble free'd;
“When living lov'd, and mourn'd when dead.”

108

The MISTAKE.

As love's bright queen with pleasing wonder stood,
Viewing th' inconstant surface of the flood,
The roving god of love by chance came by,
And from his twanging bow a shaft let fly.
The flaming arrow whizzes thro' the air,
And strikes the breast of the celestial fair.
Soon as she felt the tickling poison run
Thro ev'ry vein, she thus bespoke her son:
“Unlucky boy, thus to incite love's fire,
“And thy own mother wound with fierce desire.”

When Cupid heard her speak, the voice he knew,
Straight he grows pale, and tears his cheeks bedew;
Trembling he cries, “Fair Celia's charms appear
“So much like your's, I vow I thought you her.”

109

A Description of a Cottage, rebuilt and fitted up in a Rustic Taste, by a Noble Lord.

Whilst others praise in pompous rhyme,
Villa's, and palaces sublime,
Chatsworth, that much applauded seat,
Romantic Stowe, or Blenheim great;
Let me attempt, in humbler strain,
To sing a cottage, neat and plain,
Where you, my Lord, not uninspir'd,
Chusing to be sometimes retir'd,
Have bid old Worth afresh to bloom,
And call forth Virtue from the tomb.

In days of pious persecution,
When saints would mend the constitution,
A loyal sage azylum chose
In this bless'd spot, from threat'ning foes.
Here, free from sacrilegious riot,
He study'd, pray'd, and liv'd in quiet;

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Furnish'd with books, and rustic spade,
Alternately to dig and read,
By Death, and Time, tho' long since fell,
Both the good hermit, and the cell;
Yet you, my Lord (whose noble spirit
Still prompts you to distinguish merit)
The cot memorial now restore,
In simple plainness, as before;
And have supply'd all useful tools,
With huge arm'd chairs, and tall joint-stools.

The door appears like coat of mail,
Emboss'd with heads of many a nail;
Then for to guard the habitation,
'Gainst witches, spells, and fascination,
A horse-shoe at the threshold lies,
And all unhallow'd feet defies.
Within, upon the walls, we see
Wainscot of ancient pedigree;
Here pannels smooth, there fluted traces,
With carved scrolls, and old mens faces;

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Oak standing cupboards, black as jet,
Mock the bureau, and plate-beaufet,
And the long table's gloss may vie
With ebon or mahogany.

Hail, ever venerable oak,
Beneath whose shade the Druids spoke;
Of misletoe, productive tree,
And sacred long, by prophecy;
Each British bard, thy fame should sing,
Who whilom sav'd a British king.

The porrengers, a glittering band,
All rang'd aloft, in order stand;
And maple trenchers, decent sight,
Rear'd on the shelves, display their white.
A looking-glass, with frame of red,
Still meets you at the window-head;
On side of which, just close together,
Hang razor-case, and strap of leather,
For things by use so near ally'd,
Not too great distance should divide;

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An hour-glass plac'd upon a stand,
Pours out our time in streams of sand.
Above the high-rais'd rack behold
An implement of antique mould,
Where swords, by scabbards long forsaken,
Do fiercely guard some rusty bacon.
Rop'd onions there are hung in view,
Of anchorites the high ragout;
These valu'd erst in Hebrew ages,
Are us'd in modern hermitages:
This strengthening food, in early days,
Stupendous pyramids could raise;
And now its od'rous poignant taste,
Affords our hinds a rich repast.

Nor do andirons of old size,
Or pots and kettles, 'scape our eyes;
Whose brazen covers shining bright,
Like Pallas' shield, reflect the light.
A tinder-box, of fire secure,
With all its wonted furniture,

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Hangs, near the rush-light candles ty'd,
Good useful neighbours, side by side.

Nor shall thy worth unsung remain,
O Wassail-bowls, of fashion plain;
Thy pleasing bev'rage can inspire
The clown with glee, the bard with fire,
Thou source of many a midnight tale,
When fill'd with spice-enriched ale.

In the small gardens, weeded clean,
Clipp'd box, and yew, look ever green;
Here rosemary and sweet briars grow,
And sav'ry pot-herbs in a row,
With parsley, not unknown to fame,
Priz'd garland at Olympic game!
Near these, a little pond contains,
Like eastern reservoirs, the rains;
Clear pool, which never soaks away,
Lin'd with impenetrable clay.

Here you, my Lord, oft condescend,
T'advise and entertain a friend;

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Or with a knowing neighbour scan,
Some mapp'd domain, or drawing plan,
Hear what your tenants have to say,
Of stacks of corn, or ricks of hay;
Here lay aside all forms of state,
The splendid harness of the great;
Read and converse with whom you please,
And live in philosophic ease,
Yet exercise your ample mind
T'instruct and to delight mankind.

Great Dioclesian thus withdrew,
Scipio and Cincinnatus too,
And truly triumph'd then, much more,
Than all their conquests did before.

Life's a mere farce; and much he's blest,
Who worldly bustles quits for rest;
Who finds a calm tranquil retreat,
In rural cot, or bow'ry seat,
Can rightly there his thoughts engage,
And slight the follies of the age.

119

An Encomium on the Game of BRAG.

Now Brag the beaut'ous sex controuls,
And is the window to their souls;
No more let man complain he's fated
By subtle females to be cheated,
For Brag most wisely was design'd,
To shew each pimple of the mind,
The faithful mirror of the heart,
Each lurking foible to impart.
Upwards the ugly passion flies,
We read it in the fair one's eyes;
How bless'd a sight for once to see,
Women from all disguise set free!

125

KITTY and her Mamma; or, the New Style.

Says the mother, Ah, Kitty, these frolics, I said,
Would certainly bring an old house on your head.
You promis'd to stay but one night when you went,
And now 'tis the twelfth, to my sore discontent.
Indeed these elopements are not very pretty;
What have you been doing, my far-gadding Kitty?
I've been but one night, (cries poor Kit): O, I burst.—
Sure, of liars, these almanac folks are the worst!

126

The British pickled Herring and Anchovy.

Quo' the last to the first, with an insolent scoff,
Whence com'st thou, intruder? March instantly off.
What! thou me supplant, who, from earliest days,
For enliv'ning a bumper have won ev'ry praise;
Who, exalting rich sauces, and crowning deserts,
Am oft, at kings tables, the rival of tarts?

Not shock'd at th' attack, tho' amaz'd at the pride,
With an air of disdain the bright Herring reply'd,
'Tis own'd, you add flavour to generous wine;
That a hash you improve, and a sauce you refine;
I add, for the latter, you're known to excel;
Yet in height'ning a toast surely I bear the bell.
Besides, your an alien, the son of a pope,
Whence multitudes think that you merit a rope.
But I, born a Briton, to freedom true blue,
Will soon rid the land of such whiflers as you.

127

A Paraphrase on the 104th PSALM, in Imitation of MILTON's Style.

Bless, O my soul, the Lord, exceeding awful!
On the high arch of heav'n he sits enthron'd,
With daz'ling light array'd, and blaze, and glory!
Whose ample skirts diffusing orient beams,
Illumine all the blue translucid æther!
Majestic, lo! he walks upon the wings
Of all the winds! while airy meteors flash
Abroad his dreadful messages! 'Twas he,
Wide circling on the centre, fix'd this earth
High in the ambient air, and spread her face,
With seas, and oceans, and unnumber'd streams!

Great are thy works, O God! thou hast ordain'd
Eternal bounds unto the raging seas!
And thro' the porous womb of rocks, and hills,
Let out the gushing fountains; falling tuneful,
From rock to rock, adown their shaggy sides,

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And thence meandring in the lawns and meads,
Where herbs and flow'rets grow in various hue.

From his high chambers, in the fleecy clouds,
He sendeth soft'ning rain, moisture prolific,
That gently watereth thirsty hill and dale,
Till earth, with plenty crown'd of golden fruits,
Smiles amiable; tender blades of grass
He causeth spring, that cattle there may browse
Luxurious: nor for man's relief are wanting
Herbs, part exhaling aromatic fumes,
Of healing virtue; part with juice delicious,
Inviting sweet repast; with wine to cheer
The heavy heart, and gloomy cares dispel;
And corn, the cherisher of human nature.

The trees of God are flourishing and fair,
Without the art of man. The mountain cedars,
Upon the pathless heights of Lebanon,
Advance to mighty stature, and expand
An ample shelter to the storks and eagles!

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Wide, when he spreads the curtain of the night,
The forests he unlocks, and lets the lions
Roar thro' the silent wilderness for prey,
And seek their meat from him, whose liberal hand
The universe sustains! All night they proul,
Secure and undisturb'd, till morn returns;
Back to their haunts he sends the ravagers,
And man arises to renew his toil.

How manifold, O Lord! thy works appear!
Thee, the large earth, and th' unbounded air,
Reptiles, and beasts, and birds, proclaim thy bounty!
And from the deep the huge leviathan,
Up-heaves his cumb'rous mail, attesting thee!
On thee they all for sustenance attend;
Thou freely giv'st, and they are fill'd with good;
And when thou turn'st away thy face they perish.
But still a standing monument of praise
The world remains; and thou, with bounteous hand,
Dost the wide waste of mould'ring time repair.

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In hymns to God, from whom I have my being,
I will my life, he has bestow'd, employ;
Sweet exercise! that to my soul will yield,
Soft peace, and streams of joy, heav'nly solace!
Let impious men, by impious deeds, draw down
Almighty vengeance on their guilty heads,
And swift destruction seize the direful crew;
Bless thou, my soul, the Lord thy God, and join
In concert all the list'ning worlds around.

On the Death of the Right Hon. Thomas Marlay, Esq

What! Marlay gone! O death, how do I grudge
Thy prize, the scholar, gentleman, and judge!
Of manners easy, and of taste refin'd,
The sweetest picture of the sweetest mind;
Soul of true humour, yet in sense a sage,
The Pollio and Mæcenas of the age.
Serenely as he liv'd, behold he dies,
Bless'd weeping friends around, and clos'd his eyes.

131

To THOMAS SHERIDAN, Esq; on his performing the Part of ARCHER.

The comic Muse, once more, shall smile elate,
Thy happy genius shall redeem her fate.
No tears shall mourn a Wilkes, a Cibber gone,
Since both their merits live in thee alone.
How did thy step thro' Archer's humour stray,
And chas'd each care, but that of love, away!
The livery vainly strives to cover grace,
Beneath its mask gentility we trace.
Won by thy air, how ev'ry bosom thrills!
We view the eye, that fires; the smile, that kills;
But at thy voice what female bosoms bound!
The god of love accepts the pleasing sound.
Tho' manly, clear; tho' steddy, yet not dull;
Soft without weakness, without harshness, full.
When thy poor nymph deplored her wedded fate,
Sighing for joys deny'd her by her mate,

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And wished for her—a youthful bridgroom drest,
Your heav'nly shape at once thy charms confest.
The well-trimm'd garb the woman's pride restor'd,
It spoke the deity she had ador'd.
So when in rising Carthage on the coast,
The Trojans moan'd their prince, their hero, lost;
The beauteous Dido join'd her friendly tear,
Sigh'd for her hero—yet not thought him near.
At once Æneas, chasing their alarms,
Broke from his dark disguise to beauty's arms,
And shone before her eyes in all his godlike charms.

The inimitable Mrs. Woffington.

An EPIGRAM.

Three times I took, for better and for worse,
A bed-fellow, a fortune, and a nurse:
How bless'd the state, which such good things produce,
How dear that sex, which serves such various use!

140

EPIGRAM.

The traitor Judas stands upon record,
For selling to the Jews our blessed Lord;
But he, in traffic, will a novice seem,
To all who hear how we've improv'd his scheme.
He to the Jews but once his Lord cou'd sell,
How often we may do't no man can tell;
And (to his shame, and our renown, be't told)
He made but silver of him, we make gold.

ANOTHER.

Though Dunstan the elder, more pious than civil,
Wou'd contend for the faith, till he'd muzzle the devil;
Yet Dunstan the younger, less zealous and true,
Will join with the devil, and vote for a Jew.
Let the sign be revers'd then, I humbly propose,
And that Satan may take the new saint by the nose.

141

A POEM on the Art of PRINTING.

Hail, sacred art, thou gift of heaven, design'd
T'impart the charms of wisdom to mankind,
To call forth learning from the realms of night,
And bid bright knowledge rise to public sight.
Th' immortal labours of old Greece and Rome,
By thee secured from fate, shall ever bloom,
To farthest times their lasting charms display,
Nor worn by age, nor subject to decay.

By thee subdu'd, no longer ign'rance reigns,
Nor o'er the world her barb'rous power maintains:
Fair Science reassumes her ancient sway,
To her the nations their glad homage pay;
At length ev'n rude, unletter'd realms refine,
And the pale crescent now begins to shine.

Bless'd be the monarch who thy worth can prize,
And, spipte of superstition, dares be wise;
But doubly bless'd be he, whose happy thought
The rare invention into being brought.

142

Two rival artists this high honour claim;
(Noble the strife, when the reward is fame)
Each pleading right, the glorious prize demands;
In deep suspence, divided judgment stands,
On either side their forces take the field,
But neither conquers, nor will either yield:
Then let them both the common prize receive,
And Fust and Closters' names for ever live.

To a young Gentleman on the Death of his FATHER.

Let joyful heirs, in mock procession slow,
Display the pomp of counterfeited woe,
For odious dotards, miserable elves,
Who neither liv'd for others, nor themselves,
But pin'd in opulence, and in their death
Could lose no property beside their breath,
To mean demerit, breathing bustos raise,
And wound the marble with dishonest praise.

'Tis thine to bear the filial pious part,
And deep impress his virtues on thy heart;

143

Thine to lament, that half thy joys must end,
With such a parent, and with such a friend;
The friend of human race, in whom combin'd,
The softest manners, and the meekest mind,
The seal of probity, the test of truth,
The force of manhood, and the ease of youth.

Peace he pursu'd, and through the level race,
Of lengthen'd life, ador'd the God of peace.
Sure such a soul, that fully had discharg'd,
All bonds of duty, long'd to be enlarg'd.

To sum up all, his fair account was past,
And nature's debt was only now the last.
Mellow'd with age, he gently dropt to rest,
Secure to wake again among the blest;
The common father summon'd him from thee,
Nor thou, my friend, repine at heaven's decree,
Nor grieve, that he should sink without complaints,
To sleep with mortals, and awake with saints.

144

To HIBERNIA, represented leaning on her HARP.

Fear not, Hibernia, Dorset ne'er will dart,
Like Saul, the javelin at his charmer's heart.
There sweetness reigns, no terror on thee waits,
The lion slumbers, justice guards the gates.
Then tune the lyre; and now, in lofty tone,
Sing Dorset, Jocelyn, Egmont, and Malone;
Now softer tell, that Belvidera's name
Will shine, like Sappho's, in the books of fame.

PROLOGUE, spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the Character of the Tragic Muse.

When Athens, mistress of the world, appear'd
In arms tremenduous, and for arts rever'd,
With all the pomp of majesty array'd,
I rul'd unrival'd, and mankind obey'd;
They own'd the right was mine, with various art,
To sway the different movements of the heart;

145

To fill the breast with terror, or with woe,
To kindle rage, or make soft pity flow.
Polite the audience then, all eye, all ear,
Prais'd with a sigh, applauded with a tear,
And still the mighty rulers of the state,
To hear my strains, in silent wonder sate.
From those bless'd times, to this important hour,
Ne'er did I know such full extent of pow'r.
Once more I move a queen, once more command,
Once more, methinks, I reign in Attic land,
To Attic power restor'd, by Dorset's hand.
O born by nature, form'd by art to please,
To soften pow'r, join dignity with ease;
Polish'd in courts, in weighty councils prov'd,
Honour'd in public life, in private lov'd;
Preside as from the first, be Dorset still,
Wise to consult, and steady to fulfil:
Best image of the prince, whose sword you bear,
Who tempers royal with paternal care:

146

Thee, a glad nation, to her vows restor'd,
Welcomes, and gratulates her wish'd-for lord;
Returning, hails thee, with consenting voice,
And owns her sovereign's goodness in the choice.
Yet while, the sweetest music to the ear,
The praises of a greatful state you hear,
Whilst in return, with still unweary'd zeal,
Anxious you labour for the public weal;
Sometimes thy mind from cares sublime unbend,
And hither, to the muse's voice, descend;
Let softer evenings, toilsome days repair,
Amid these circles of the gay and fair.
So Phœbus, ere still night, to Thetis' court
Descends, where Ocean's sons and nymphs resort,
Hears syrens warble, tritons tune the shell,
Attendant muses the full concert swell:
Thence his high toil resumes, with brighter ray,
And to the busy world distributes day.

147

A FRAGMENT, from a polite Poetical Assembly.

To make the villa more delightful,
Planted has been a pleasant grove;
Let then the envious and the spiteful,
Shew less of hatred, more of love.

There both Apollo and the nine,
And nymphs and swains, their charms display;
Cameleon-like, together dine,
And drink and sing, and nothing pay.

Such is the sweet refreshing air,
And such the Heliconian spring,
That all are welcome, who repair,
To share kind nature's offering.

148

On the Death of a Promising Young Gentleman.

Here native worth, and honest love of good,
Beam'd in the dawn, and flourish'd in the bud,
Anticipated manhood, early prime,
Out-stripp'd the lingering influence of time.
As Sol's strong beams, and zephyr's genial wing,
In happy soils graft autumn on the spring;
In innocence a child, a youth in age,
In sense a man, in fortitude a sage;
In him no solitary Virtue shin'd;
But all in social harmony combin'd,
A glorious constellation of the mind.
While fell disease his outward beauty raz'd
His soul with more distinguish'd lustre blaz'd:
So growling shocks, that earth's rent womb explore,
Display the radiance of the imprison'd ore.
For him the old, the young, the grave, the gay,
With undistinguish'd moans their woe betray.

149

Each brow a cloud of kindred sorrow wears,
Each friend laments him with a brother's tears;
The charming object of our grief and pride,
Liv'd to be lov'd, to be lamented dy'd!

An ODE presented to a NOBLEMAN on his Birth-Day.

To sov'reign Jove what shall I pray,
For Pollio, on his natal day?
Not titles; with their pomp he's crown'd,
Deriv'd from ancestors renown'd;
Not riches, with their flow he's blest;
Not genius, Clio warms his breast;
Not learning, boundless is his store;
Not patriot fire—Rome scarce breath'd more.

“What means this flourish, flattering knave?
(Cries Pollio) “Say, what would'st thou crave?”

Pollio, believe, with soul sincere
Thy social virtues I revere,

150

Am struck when I thy form survey,
As Indians with the God of day;
For thou'rt to me, as cheering light,
And all that can the thought delight.
Hence thou my ev'ry wish must claim,
For lengthen'd years, and health, and fame.
To charm thee, Hymen gave a fair,
Among her sex a phœnix rare.—
A son (ye fates) to stretch thy line,
A son, then will each joy be thine!

On Reading an Article in a News-Paper.

Why bleeds my heart these drops of woe?
What stranger sorrow bids them rise?
Alas! what tortures must I know,
What pangs, what horrors undergo,
What streams fall from my eyes!

151

Too long my love has hopeless been,
In secret silence roll'd my tear;
Despair hung o'er, an iron queen,
And scarce a ray of hope was seen,
My gloomy soul to cheer.

Delusive hope ne'er fill'd my breast,
Or did my eager wishes feed;
My wishes ne'er, by fortune blest,
Too long has fortune love opprest:
Ah! when shall love succeed?

Then, since not e'en day's fairest beam,
Could give or shew me one delight,
I but lament, and cannot blame,
Those low'ring clouds, that frowning came,
And sunk me into night.

152

Thus I, in secret pining thrown,
My heart with tender sorrow wring;
Yet sooth'd, if she, my fair, alone,
Unknowing me, herself unknown,
Will pity while I sing.

On Rear-Admiral WARREN being presented with the Freedom of the City of DUBLIN.

Return'd from martial toil to native land,
Bearing the peaceful olive in thy hand,
HIBERNIA's darling son, hail, patriot, hail!
Who sav'd your country's honour, and her weal;
Who roll'd her awful thunders o'er the main,
And nobly check'd the pow'r of France and Spain;
Whose bright success retriev'd our sinking trade,
While crafty Holland trembled and obey'd;
O'er Ocean's bound its realms didst lordship keep,
And bid Britannia reign sole mistress of the deep,

153

Whene'er an hostile ship met Warren's eye,
Quick as the wind he bid his vessel fly,
With crowded sail he rides the foaming waves,
And dauntless every wat'ry danger braves;
Fir'd with his spirit, all his trusty crew,
Pant to o'ertake, to combat, to subdue;
While their loud cannon, in terrific blaze,
Shew their defiance o'er the foaming seas.
Thy shores, Iberia, tremble at the sound,
And useless, Gallia, all thy wiles are found:
Your turrets fall, your flags submissive bow,
And half your naval pride is Britain's now.
Warren, proceed, our sister now shall know
HIBERNIA's sons can guard her from the foe.
The motto Chace, apt adjunct to thy arms,
With pleasure now each patriot bosom warms.
Conscious of merit, Britain's sons each day,
For his heroic deeds, just homage pay,

154

Who with intrepid heart her ensigns bore,
And spread her conquest to Cape Breton's shore:
See now Eblana's sons, quick on the wing,
Their grateful tribute to their patriot bring.

While British oak th' extended main shall plough,
Or laurel wreaths adorn the victor's brow,
So long our annals shall record thy praise,
So long our bards shall sing thy deeds in tuneful lays.

This alludes to the arms of Admiral WARREN, the supporters of which were two Sailors in their proper dress, and the motto Chace.

A Call to the JEWS.

Come, Abram's sons, from ev'ry quarter come,
Britain now bids you call her land your home;
Here you may rest secure from future harms,
A fairer Can'an courts you to her arms;
If you have gold, you nothing have to fear,
Bring with you gold, and all is your's here?
A new Jerusalem you soon may raise,
And give to golden calves again your praise.

155

TRANSLATED.

That fam'd cross block, at which the Jews did stumble,
No longer Jews, or wiser Greeks, doth humble:
Grecians may call it foolishness indeed
Afresh, while Hebrews make Christ's members bleed.
A land they curse, invites them and their spouses,
And offers them its fruits, the parks, the houses.
Come, sons of Heber, each Jew bring his wench;
Lo! seat yourselves, and sport on yonder bench.
Each post of honour Jews will greatly grace,
When left by B---ns base degen'rate race.
O sons of lucre! whence this thirst for gold?
Remember Judas too Christ Jesus sold,
Sold to the devil his peace, for sordid pelf,
Then, trembling, sneak'd away, and hang'd himself.

156

EPITAPH on a CLERGYMAN.

Of excellent natural abilities, well improv'd;
A fair scholar, and a faithful divine,
Of honest and polite manners,
Charitable, hospitable, equitable:
A Man
Of opulence and influence in his country,
Which he constantly and exactly employed
In the service of God and man.

To Mr. MASON, on his ELFRIDA.

Hence, livid Envy, murkiest fiend of hell,
Hence, blood-stain'd Malice, to thy baleful cell;
Avaunt, and shed not here your venom'd rage,
Nor with your touch pollute the sacred page;
To MASON the melodious lays belong,
MASON, the soul of genius and of song!

157

Hail, bard sublime, with raptur'd eyes we see
The soul of Sophocles reviv'd in thee;
Hail, wondr'ous youth! in whose bright strains conspire
Plato's cool judgment, and warm Pindar's fire;
Whilst Homer's grandeur, Virgil's sweetness join,
To make each noble sentiment divine.

What grief, that scenes, which in an earlier age
Had won the wreath on Athen's polish'd stage;
Those scenes produc'd beneath bright learning's throne,
Which Delpho's god without a blush might own;
Those scenes where fire-fraught fancy's strongest ray
Adorns and animates the moral lay;
What grief that scenes like these, by wayward chance,
Must yield to pantomime, or paultry dance?
While the true Attic elegance and wit,
Dare hope no plaudit from a British pit.

What is th' applause of a theatric croud!
The breath of folly, by caprice bestow'd.

158

A soul like thine disdains such trivial praise,
Nor seeks to mount to fame by vulgar ways;
Nobly content with modest merit's due,
The just applause of the judicious few.

That just applause for ever shall be thine,
And thro' all ages thy Elfrida shine;
Elfrida's still shall live with MASON's name,
Distinguish'd in the brightest rolls of fame.

See one of the letters prefixed to the Drama.

The following EPIGRAM on the two Betas (or B and B) written Extempore.

Old B, the valiant cock, stout, stood the fight,
Young B, his valiant chick, swift, led the flight:
The hardy sire, for bravery's renown'd,
The son, with equal praise, for prudence crown'd;
Th' old cock a thousand deaths by standing brav'd,
His chick a thousand lives by running sav'd.
Thus equal laurels equal heroes grace,
One won the battle, t'other won the race.

159

On General BLAKENEY's Defence of Fort St. PHILIP.

The Gaul, in tactics, long the palm has bore,
But now the palm the Gaul shall wear no more;
The conqu'ror's badge shall Blakeney's brows adorn,
And Europe laugh the vapouring foe to scorn:
Blakeney has practis'd more than Blondel thought,
Than Louis thunder'd, or his Vauban taught.
The Irish annals shall sound forth his fame,
And distant ages hail his sacred name.
Whilst Dukes and Princes undistinguish'd die,
Blakeney's immortal deeds shall reach the sky.

The art military.

Two authors who wrote on fortifications and the art of war.

160

LOVE and PRUDENCE.

Love summon'd Collin to his court,
For having of his rites made sport,
And stol'n his fav'rite's heart:
The culprit own'd his crime, yet swore,
That none admir'd sweet Phœbe more,
Or more had felt Love's smart.

On this stepp'd Hymen forth, and said,
What hinders that this couple wed,
Whose hearts are thus conjoin'd?
'Tis Prudence bars, the swain reply'd;
But Prudence strait the charge deny'd,
For she the match design'd.

Then finding all his arts were vain,
Thus frankly own'd the rebel swain,
Ambition 'twas and pride:
But since both Love and Prudence join,
To make the charming Phœbe mine,
O let her be my bride.

161

To the Memory of Mrs. SUSANNA MASON, Daughter of Sir JOHN MASON, Knight, after a Life of exemplary Piety.

At this fair shrine let not a tear be shed,
Till piety and charity are dead;
Nor let the great and good her loss deplore,
While they pursue the paths she trod before.
But should her bright example cease to shine,
Grieve then, ye righteous, and, ye poor, repine.

No ostentatious hand this marble plac'd,
No flattering pen the just encomium trac'd;
Such virtues to transmit, is only giving
Praise to the dead, to edify the living.

162

On Mr. PELHAM's Death.

A statesman dead! the Muses now must mourn,
And with their tears bedew a Pelham's urn;
Noble by birth, to noble blood ally'd,
Nor stain'd that blood, but much lamented dy'd.
A monarch mourn'd a faithful servant's death,
His pious offspring mourn'd his flitting breath;
Many still mourn in him a steady friend,
For ever gone; but he has gain'd his end.
In blessful ease he no detraction fears,
Nor calumny's black lies insult his ears;
No broils nor troubles discompose his breast,
Nor party-jarrings now disturb his rest.

An EPIGRAM, as old as the Reign of Henry IV.

Heedless the great, and helpless are the small,
The middle folk supply the needs of all.

163

On Captain JAMES CORNWALL, by the Right Hon. Sir George Lyttleton, Bart.

To the Memory of
Captain JAMES CORNWALL,
Commander of his Majesty's ship the Marlborough,
Who was slain in the engagement with the
French and Spanish fleets,
Off Toulon,
February 11th, 1743–4,
This Monument was erected,
At the public expence,

In consequence of a Vote of the House of Commons, who addressed his MAJESTY for that purpose.

THO' Britain's genius hung her drooping head,
And mourn'd her ancient naval glory fled;
On that fam'd day, when France, combin'd with Spain,
Strove for the wide dominion of the main:

164

Yet, Cornwall, all with gen'ral voice agree,
To pay the tribute of applause to thee.
When his bold chief, in thickest fight engag'd,
Unequal war with Spain's proud leader wag'd,
With indignation mov'd, he timely came,
To rescue from reproach his country's name:
Success too dearly did his valour crown,
He sav'd his leader's life, but lost his own.

These fun'ral rites a grateful nation pays,
That latest times may learn the hero's praise;
And chiefs, like him, shall unrepining bleed,
When senates thus reward the glorious deed.

The REVENGE, an EPIGRAM.

Niger, with treach'ry, lies, and spite,
My reputation slays;
Whilst I the paultry knave requite,
By loading him with praise.

165

How oddly happy is my case,
'Tis easy to conceive
Since whatsoever either says
No mortal can believe.

By the Reverend Mr. PULLEIN.

While Blakeney, from Minorca's thundering towers,
Fearless of fate, aspiring to the skies,
We see a mortal to an angel rise.—
While Warren's spirit coasts the abandon'd shore,
Where Britain's naval thunder flames no more,
And sorrowing, views his life's contracted span,
We hear an angel wish to be a man.

One finish'd, one his course of glory runs,
And heav'n divides with earth Ierne's sons.

166

The BATCHELOR's Choice.

A Song.

I have seriously weigh'd it, and find it is just,
That a wife makes a man either bless'd or curst;
I declare I will marry, if I can but find
(Mark me well, ye young lasses!) the maid to my mind.

Not the pert little miss, who advice will despise,
Nor the girl that's so foolish to think herself wise;
Nor she who to all men alike would prove kind;
Not one of these three are the one to my mind.

Not the prude, who in public will never be free,
(Yet in private for ever a toying will be);
Nor coquette, that's too forward, nor jilt that's unkind;
Not one of these three is the maid to my mind.

Not she who for pleasure her husband will slight,
Nor the positive dame who thinks always she's right,
Nor she who a dupe to the fashion's inclin'd;
Not one of these three is the maid to my mind.

167

But the fair, with good nature, and carriage genteel,
Who her husband can love, and no secrets reveal,
In whose breast I may virtue and modesty find,
This, this, and this only's the maid to my mind.

The British TULLY.

If words mellifluent ever charm'd the ear,
Or force of language pierc'd the solid breast,
If strength of judgment can the soul endear,
Behold, where all united shine confest.

Hail, flower of eloquence and manly wit!
What once grac'd Tully, Britons boast in PITT.

168

On CHLOE's Tooth-Ach.

Gentle Cupid, god of love,
Regard an humble lover's prayer;
Look with pity from above,
Have compassion on my fair.

A tooth you know's her cause of grief,
Apply thy powerful art;
While to her pain you give relief,
Oh make her feel thy dart.

This to the world will plainly show,
That Cupid's power's divine;
Then Chloe's heart will partly know
The constant pangs of mine.

ALEXIS.

169

PROLOGUE to the Tragedy of CATO.

Unus'd to kneel, untrain'd to arts of woe,
With tears which struggling shame forbids to flow,
No common mourners interest our scene,
To plead distress, beyond its pow'r to feign;
'Tis your's to raise them, fan their hopeless fires,
And while you bless the sons, forgive the sires,
Who, nobly careless, heap'd no hoarded chest,
But fix'd on one reversion, scorn'd the rest.

Ye gentle youths, who, with observant eyes,
Sigh for the fair, and faintly hope she sighs;
Ye fair, who love's first sweet emotions prove,
Nor know the sweet emotions spring from love;
These anxious breasts, which claim your tender cares,
Once throbb'd with other hopes and other fears;
Like yours their infant passions first begun,
But never may yours end as these have done.
To you, selected spirits, next I bend,
Whose high conceptions larger views extend;

170

Who greatly overpower'd by love of fame,
Slight life's short lamp for her eternal flame;
'Tis thus on social virtue's wings you rise,
Emerge from earth's cold shades, and seize the skies:
From social virtue flows each deathless deed,
Her gen'rous impulse makes the Roman bleed,
Enriches Addison's immortal vein,
And forms an audience worthy of the scene.
O glorious zeal! with heav'n herself to share,
Adopt her children, and divide her care!
O pleasing task, to stop the rising sigh,
Flush the wan cheek, and light the faded eye!
The widow's, orphan's, happiness to plan,
And prove humanity the boast of man.

This the rare boast, to greatness seldom known,
With taste peculiar Dorset makes his own,
Who, thron'd sublime on fortune's splendid wheel,
Yet stoops to miseries he cannot feel;
Prevents the public pray'r before they sue,
Dispels false tears, and medicates the true.

171

For these deserts, if Dorset's name be sung,
As each warm heart shall prompt the faithful tongue,
Still, to your glory, be this truth confest,
Who emulates his virtue, praises best.

Wrote by a GENTLEMAN, extempore, on hearing a celebrated Beauty blamed by some of her own Sex for her Sprightliness.

P---tt---y, persist in conqu'ring still,
Let peevish prudes say what they will,
And call thee proud coquette:
'Tis envy to those matchless charms,
That face that ev'ry heart alarms,
And lively turn of wit.

Tell them with equal sense and truth,
That beauty, join'd to wit and youth,
Will gay and sprightly be:
That mirth from innocence still flows,
And joys that virtue only knows,
All which are found in thee.

172

Inscription on the Monument of Thomas Tickel, Esq

Read Tickel's name, and gently tread the clay,
Where lie his sole remains that could decay:
Then pensive sigh, and thro' fair science trace
His mind, adorn'd with every pleasing grace;
Worth such as Rome would have confess'd her own,
Wit such as Athens would have proudly shewn.
Substance to thought, and weight to fancy join'd,
A judgment perfect, and a taste refin'd;
Admir'd by Gay, by Addison belov'd,
Esteem'd by Swift, by Pope himself approv'd.
His spirit, rais'd by that sublime he knew,
Hence to the seat of bright perfection flew,
Leaving to sorrowful Clotilda here,
A mourning heart, and ever-flowing tear.

173

To the Marquis of HARTINGTON.

Discord was prowling thro' the land,
When Mercury drew near;
Told him 'twas Hartington's command,
And he must disappear.

I must! replied the fiend, and why,
I would be glad to know.
Come, come, cried Hermes, no reply,
He bids, and you must go.

Why, what the devil, Sir, quoth he,
Is this same Hartington?
I'll tell you, friend, quoth Mercury,
He is his father's son.

174

On the Death of a Young GENTLEMAN.

If e'er with justice man complain'd
How hardly pleasure is retain'd,
How ills succeeding, leave behind
No traces of an happy mind;
We surely now might well lament,
That friendship's fairest ornament,
And all that wisdom e'er approv'd,
Admir'd, respected, and belov'd,
Was snatch'd away. O scarce in prime!
A comet of a little time!
Had nature giv'n (but partly kind)
A body suited to his mind,
She then had done the most she can,
And we had seen a perfect man.

175

On Mr. WOODWARD's Performance.

The ladies in clusters to Woodward repair,
In spite of engagements, of drums, and the weather.
See! see! how they throng! how the wise and the fair,
Press in, to fill up that circle together.

Ah, how they glow! how they shine as they sit!
Fanning, with rapture, their bosoms and faces;
Exulting, they smile on the crowded gay pit,
Whilst squeezing still closer to give their friends places.

'Tis Woodward, 'tis Woodward invites:
The ladies of Dublin have taste and true spirit,
They flock with impatience to fill up his nights,
To laugh at his humour, and honour his merit.

In Woodward's elastic, yet delicate line,
The belle, and the beau, and the critic may see,
How wit, and how beauty, how judgment should shine,
What taste, and what talents, what prudence should be.

176

That medium his genius has happily hit,
So near the licentious, yet nearer the true,
Triumphant alone, and unrivall'd shall sit,
On merit's firm basis, in envy's full view.

Then night after night, with vigour still comes,
Next Saturday, ladies, we hear, is the last;
O pray you then throw by the whist and the drums,
Encourage the future, remember the past.

On Miss FANNY CARELESS.

Careless by name, and careless by nature,
Careless of shape, and careless of feature,
Careless in dress, and careless in air,
Careless in riding in coach or in chair,
Careless of love, and carless of hate,
Careless if crooked, and careless if strait,
Careless at table, and careless in bed,
Careless if maiden, and careless if wed,
Careless at church, and careless at play,
Careless if company go or they stay,

177

Careless if Strephon shews any desire,
Careless of what all the sex does admire,
E'en careless at tea, not midnight's chit-chat,
So careless, she's careless for this or for that;
Careless of all love or wit can propose;
She's careless, so careless, there's nobody knows.

Oh! how could I love thee, thou dear careless thing!
(O happy, thrice happy! I'd envy no king!)
Were you careful for once to return me your love,
I car'd not how careless to others you prove.
I then should be careless how careless you were;
And the more careless you, still the less I should care,

178

On HANS BALLIE,

Esq; of the City of Dublin.

The envious all concur to aim
Their arrows at superior fame;
To shoot at glory, and bring down
All virtues level with their own:
But as the sun's refulgent light
Dazzles the most accurate sight,
Exalted to a noble pitch,
Men may admire, but cannot reach;
So Hans, adorning worth with state,
Stands as a monument elate,
For all the great to imitate.
Ev'n Envy's dumb, she smoothes her brow,
Languid all her vipers now;
Unable, or to wound his fame,
Or blast the glories of his name.

London long view'd, with just applause,
This manly patron of the laws;

179

Extoll'd his glory to the stars,
And wish'd th' Hibernian consul her's.

May second Ballies always fill
Th' illustrious chair of Dublin still;
May they, with Hans's worth endow'd,
Grow eminent by being good;
Like him by all as well approv'd,
As much admir'd, as much belov'd.

On Lady JUVERNA's last Marriage.

Widows, who must have second dears,
Soon make a shift to dry their tears;
Their first good man is quite forgotten,
Before his winding-sheet is rotten.
This is Juverna's case at present:
The dame looks brisk again, and pleasant;
Yet vows, when-ever she grows mellow,
My D**rs**t never had his fellow.

180

Good Lady, no one disallows
The merit of your present spouse;
And people who have seen him lately,
Tell me that they all like him greatly.
But did some other fill his place,
If possible, with equal grace,
He would not only please as well,
But must be deem'd a nonpareil.
Fie! (quoth Juverna) what d'ye mean?
I'll never love so well again.

Well, Madam, may this fondness last,
Till scores of honey-moons are past:
But, for my part, while I'm alive,
I shall remember forty-five.

181

To the inimitable Mrs. WOFFINGTON, on seeing her in several Characters.

In silent wonder sunk, in rapture bound,
My captivated thoughts no utt'rance found;
Each faculty o'erwhelm'd, its vigour lost,
And all my soul from theme to theme was tost.
Whate'er the heart can feel, the tongue express,
The springs of joy, the floods of deep distress,
The passions utmost pow'r, o'er-rul'd by laws,
Which genius dictates, and which judgment draws,
Subdu'd thus long my bosom's grateful fire,
Silent to gaze, and with the crowd admire.
Stand forth confest, unrivall'd, and alone,
And view the human passions all your own;
Reign o'er the heart with unresisted sway,
The heart must beauty, and must power obey;
Each Muse hath plac'd her scepter in your hand,
And ready rapture waits on your command,

182

Extremes all mingl'd in a mind so clear,
The dawn of radiant hope, the cloud of fear,
With terror's tempest, and with pity's gale,
Through your inchanting look, the soul assail.
A glance your vocal thunder might supply,
And every language listens from your eye.
There joy and grief, there transport and despair,
By turns triumphant, all their trophies wear.
Such various powers have won for you each palm,
Such powers, so various in a mein so calm.
Th' elastic fluid thus that wraps the globe,
And o'er the vaulted space expands its robe,
In crimson rolls, to deck the evening skies,
Or tinge th' ætherial bow with beaut'ous dyes,
Beneath o'er flowing lawns will gently sweep,
And fan the glassy surface of the deep.
Whilst murmuring bees, and painted insects play,
And smiling nature bids the world look gay.
But if awak'd at her impassion'd call,
Then rage shall rouze, and terror shake the ball.

183

Exerted air, the marble rocks shall rend,
The surges swell, and rapid shower descend;
Each mortal bosom feels the dreadful blast,
And ev'ry thinking creature stands aghast.

Addressed to Mrs. WOFFINGTON.

When graceful Woffington adorns the scene,
A pleasing tremor thrills thro' ev'ry vein,
Charms so uncommon strike with such surprise,
We doat, yet doubt; see, yet suspect our eyes.
Long absent mariners, with like delight,
View their own shores, and scarce believe the sight.
A form like her's, if wishes could have done,
Each rival goddess had to Paris shewn;
Her sparkling eyes beam forth unusual fires,
Age feels their force, and burns with new desires.
Some copy nature well, but she alone
Has skill to make each character her own;
At once the author's whole design she sees,
New points the jests, and gives it pow'r to please,

184

Each word its tone, each action knows its place,
Each suits the other with peculiar grace.
Whether she mourns her Hector's hapless fate,
Or plagues her lovers with dissembled hate,
Now peals of laughter the full benches break,
Or falling tears bedew the virgin cheek.
By nature fram'd in ev'ry shape to please,
See her assume the manly gait with ease;
So justly she sustains Sir Harry's part,
Her beauty only can betray her art.
Soft music now invites the sprightly fair,
Graceful she moves obedient to the air:
So when bright Venus in the 'midst of spring,
Sports with the graces in the verdant ring,
The nymphs, the fawns, the sylvan croud admire,
And Pan himself looks stupid with desire;
With easy airs the lively Cyprian queen
Treads the light maze, and skims the level green.

185

To the Memory of THOMAS PRIOR, Esq

The lover and beloved of his country;
A most useful member of the Dublin society;
A society in himself,
For patronizing arts and sciences,
For improving husbandry and manufactures;
In projects for the public good
Most assiduous,
In effecting it active and happy;
Of real use, an ornament to the nation,
Whose care, co-operating strenuously
With that glorious patriot's bounty,
Doctor Madden, and the Dublin society,
Kindled an universal emulation,
From which various invention springs;
Arts flourish'd, tillage spread, labour lost its toil,
Industry and excellence found encouragement;
Possess'd of all the substance of worth without shew,
Himself seeming the only stranger to his merits:

186

Of piety to God, and of course a friend to man;
An Israelite indeed;
Amidst the many public ornaments that he raised,
He has given birth, alas! to one,
(The only one which shews his country to be a loser)
This,
Which the grateful public, by voluntary subscription,
Has erected.

To Mr. SOWDEN, on the close of the Year.

The season clos'd, your reign expir'd,
The players and the people tir'd,
The town grown thin, the weather hot,
And ------ now almost forgot;
A grateful Muse her tribute pays,
(Although dethron'd she sings your praise)
Your subject once, and still your friend,
(How few on fallen power attend);
Yet she, with retrospective eye,
Esteems your worth, as when on high;

187

Your friendly worth, and moral mind,
To honesty and truth inclin'd;
Above deceit and selfish pride,
No fraud in view, no tricks to hide;
Ingenuous, candid, and sincere,
Your friendship's fix'd, your conduct clear.
This much my own experience can,
With truth assert, to praise the man:
The player too applause demands,
You had it from impartial hands;
When Prejudice herself asham'd,
Her own intestine malice blam'd,
And join'd with judgment, sense and taste;
For such your manly scenes have grac't,
To give desert its just reward,
A task indeed both rare and hard;
Yet this the publick paid to you,
With ardent hands, your merit's due.
Severest truth much more may say on,
Ventidius, Hotspur, Kitely, Leon.

188

A PROLOGUE to JONES's ESSEX.

Spoken by Mr. SOWDEN.

To night, your bard salutes his native plains,
And shews true grief in unaffected strains.
Indebted to pure nature for his skill,
He boasts no merit but the sense to feel:
Not warp'd by study, not debauch'd by art,
He paints the honest feelings of his heart:
Quick, from within, each ardour as it grows,
His pencil catches, and the canvas glows.

To these unlabour'd scenes the British fair
Oft lent a pitying and attentive ear.
Albion's best fears for Essex learn'd to flow,
And each soft bosom heav'd with Rutland's woe.

Such praises by our sister realm supply'd,
The modest poet owns he felt with pride;
But the same praise, should it reward him here,
A thousand social transports wou'd endear.

189

Fame! fortune! country! all th' engaging ties,
Which consecrates applause, before him rise:
And his heart treasures ev'ry smile you lend,
As the kind rapture of a chosen friend.

Ye fair! just brivals of each British charm,
With equal goodness let your bosoms warm;
Cherish this flow'r, make its young beauties known,
Nor prize it less because it is your own.
But claim your bard, and let his native air
Yield the same sunshine which refresh him there.
So shall new ardour each bless'd youth inspire,
Again shall music wake th' Hibernian lyre;
Phœbus again shall bless the sacred isle,
And our wits brighten, as our beauties smile.

190

On ALEXANDER's FEAST being performed for a distressed Family.

Music, that charms and elevates the soul,
Attunes your reason to the friendly bowl;
That harmonizes social joys, that move
The heart, and ev'ry faculty to love.
Love! so inspir'd, seraphic and benign,
That fills the mind with sentiments divine,
Sues for relief from ev'ry gen'rous heart,
For her aged sons, who well perform'd their part;
So often pleas'd you with their tuneful strain:
Let not my sons then sue, and sue in vain.

Hibernia, still renown'd for charity,
Let not your elder sister rival thee;
Shew your true taste in arts and science too,
In those no nations should shine more than you;
Whom distant records dedicate to fame,
Secur'd of glory, and illustrious name.

191

Hark! who presides, and animates our land;
Dubourgh! our envy'd son, whose happy hand
Commands the science, and directs the band.

On the MARRIAGE of a handsome Couple.

If fools (as they say) spring from parents of sense,
And ugly half-monsters from two that are fair;
'Tis much to be dreaded, a little while hence,
We shall have a strange breed from this new-marry'd pair.

Rural LIFE, in an high Class.

But sing, O Muse! the swain, the happy swain,
Whom taste and nature leading o'er his fields,
Conduct to every rural beauty! See!
Before his footsteps winds the waving walk,
Here gently rising, there descending slow,
Thro' the tall grove, or near the water's brink,
Where flow'rs besprinkled paint the shelving bank,
And weeping willows bend to kiss the stream.
Now wand'ring o'er the lawn he roves, and now,

192

Beneath the hawthorn's secret shade reclines,
Where purple violets hang their bashful head,
Where yellow cowslips, and the daffodils,
Their mingled sweets, and lovely hues combine.

Here shelter'd from the north, his ripening fruits,
Display their sweet temptations from the wall,
Or from the gay espaliers; while below,
His various esculents, from glowing beds,
Give the fair promise of delicious feasts.

Then from his forming hand new scenes arise,
The fair creation of his fancy's eye.
Lo! bosom'd in the solemn shady grove,
Whose rev'rend branches wave on yonder hill,
He views the moss-grown temple's ruin'd tow'r,
Cover'd with creeping ivy's cluster'd leaves;
The mansion seeming of some rural god,
Whom nature's choristers, in untaught hymns,
Of wild yet sweetest harmony, adore.
From the bold brow of that aspiring steep,
Where hang the nibbling flocks, and view below

193

Their downward shadows in the glossy wave,
What pleasing landscapes spread before his eye!
Of scatter'd villages, and winding streams,
And meadows green, and woods, and distant spires,
Seeming, above the blue horizon's bound,
To prop the canopy of heaven, now lost,
Amidst a blooming wilderness of shrubs;
The golden orange, arbute ever green,
The early blooming almond, the strait pine,
And gelder-rose, to spring, to autumn dear,
And the sweet shades of varying verdure, caught,
From soft Acacia's gently-waving branch.
Heedless he wanders, while the grateful scents,
Of sweet-briar, roses, honeysuckles wild,
Regale the smell; and to th' enchanted eye,
Mezereon's purple, laurustinus' white,
And pale laburnum's pendant flow'rs, display
Their diff'rent beauties, o'er the smooth shorn grass,
His lingering footsteps leisurely proceed,

194

In meditation deep: when, hark! the sound,
Of distant water steals upon his ear!
And sudden opens to his pausing eye,
The rapid rough cascade, from the rude rock,
Down dashing in a stream of lucid foam:
Then glides away, meand'ring o'er the lawn
A liquid surface; shining seen afar,
At intervals, beneath the shadowy trees,
Till lost and bury'd in the distant grove.

Wrapt into sacred musing he reclines,
Beneath the covert of embow'ring shades;
And painting to his mind the bustling scenes,
Of pride and bold ambition, pities kings.

195

Upon the Arrival in Dublin of the Marquis of HARTINGTON, when Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.

Ierne, wipe the falling tear away,
The night wears out, salute the beam of day;
With gratitude receive that friend, whose hand
Holds out the olive branch to all thy land;
Whose pow'r assumes the reconciling part,
The fellow labourer of an honest heart:
Who bids the rancour of dissension cease,
And lulls contention on the breast of peace:
Returning love with fiercer ardour glows;
The fractur'd bone, united, stronger grows;
So from our union shall our strength improve,
Draw in one knot, and that our country's love;
And what Menenius did for ancient Rome,
Be told of Hartington in times to come.

196

On seeing Mr. BARRY perform the Parts of Othello, Romeo, Jaffier, and Castalio.

As once assembled in the elysian plains,
Immortal bards round Phœbus tun'd their strains,
The God two Britons saw with grief opprest,
And sympathetic sorrow touch'd his breast.
He saw his Shakespeare's and his Otway's grief,
Inquir'd the fatal cause, and vou'd relief.
Through all the quire a murm'ring whisper ran,
But all was hush'd, when Shakespeare thus began:
“Hail, God of verse! who art by Jove assign'd
“To raise the soul, and harmonize the mind,
“From thee alone my inspiration came,
“Guided by thee, I soar'd to deathless fame.
“You gave me Betterton that fame to raise,
“And beam new lustre on my glowing lays;
“Then ev'ry passion stoop'd to my command,
“As harmony attends Gu'ardigni's hand.

197

“But, sad reverse! in this degen'rate age,
“They chill my warmth, and damp my godlike rage,
“Grumble my passions, mouth my tender scenes,
“And with false pomp burlesque my noblest strains.”
He spoke: Otway, in terms like his, exprest
The kindred anguish lab'ring in his breast.
The god reply'd, “Lo! on Ierne's shore,
“A youth thy glories destin'd to restore;
“Ye loves, and young desires, to him repair,
“Give him your soothing smiles and winning air;
“Ye sister graces, teach his form to please,
“Join strength with beauty, dignity with ease;
“Ye nine Aonian maids, around him throng,
“And tune, with heav'nly sounds, his flowing tongue;
“But chief, Melpomene, your gifts impart,
“The graceful tear, that speaks the feeling heart,
“The broken accent, sadly pleasing sigh,
“The soothing voice, the soft, yet piercing eye,
“The warm enthusiasm, and the rapt'rous glow,
“The thrilling note , that melts like feather'd snow.

198

“Haste then, ye pow'rs, my orders to perform,
“And a new Roscius shall the stage adorn;
“You, Shakespeare, shall again each bosom warm,
“And Otway's tender lays once more shall charm.”
Thus Phœbus spoke, the sacred pow'rs obey,
And to the favour'd island wing their way.
Then, born on wings of fire, bright Genius came,
And Judgment follow'd to direct his flame;
All for the stage the chosen youth prepare,
All guide his steps, and all inspire him there.

Shakespeare with joy surveys him from above,
And smiling views him with a father's love,
Beholds in Romeo charms before unknown,
And wonders at the beauties not his own.
Otway his Jaffier's sighs with rapture hears,
And triumphs in his lov'd Castalio's tears,
Sees his own genius animate each line,
His spirit, tenderness, and warmth divine.
Lee, Southern, Rowe, with these their joy proclaim,
And, while they aid, partake their Barry's fame.

See Cibber's description of Montfort.

199

A SONG.

Ye Coxcombs and Beaux, and ye grave wiser things,
Who walk in this frolicsome round,
Pray tell me from whence your ill-nature could spring,
At once the fair sex to confound?
To censure those fair who are dressing for you,
Indeed is unkind without measure:
Then teach us the way, and, O! give us the clue,
To hold you, we'll keep it as treasure.

The maid who has copy'd the statue admir'd,
And modestly turn'd from your view,
Her have you not left, tho' you knew she desir'd,
None other alliance but you?
Who has felt your approach, with a warmth like a Jove,
When Venus before him appear'd,
The stare not return'd, yet with ardour she lov'd,
To the free you have flown, left her passion unheard.

200

Fanny's and Lucy's, and some other names,
Their hats we all thought was the clue,
Then did we pursue, both their flirting and fame,
For their dress, and for every thing new.
And have you not forc'd us to have this recourse,
To catch but one glance of your eye?
For when Murray, or Charlotte, or Lucy, appear'd,
Ah! to them, how eager you'd fly!

And be ty'd by their streamers, for ten tedious rounds,
On Ranelagh's famous parade;
O! could we forbear, to try if that snare
Would call you from jilts and from jades!
But now we'll grow wise, these follies despise,
Lead you but to Wisdom the way,
We'll hold her as fast, we'll adore her as much,
And shine forth as god of the day.

201

ANOTHER,

Reversed, and applied to the Men, in Vindication of the Ladies.

Ye Beaux and ye Bloods, and ye fierce looking things,
Who strut in this light-headed round,
Pray tell me from whence this audaciousness springs,
To frighten our sex, and confound?

Why thus bloody your looks, so void of all grace,
That your hats e'en seem as they'd swear,
More fit for the bully, or bravo-like face,
Than the gentleman's civiliz'd air?

We the modes of the men much ape, I confess,
In fashions, in manner, and way;
If we masculine look, or offend by our dress,
Blame those who first led us astray.

202

If our air and our hats ill suit us, we own
The fault from example we drew;
Which will be sufficient, we hope, to atone,
Since we faintly are copying you.

The man who on fortune depends for support,
May call ev'ry art to his aid,
His sportsman's long stick, and his wig pigeon'd short,
Are implements but of his trade.

But those of true worth (why should they practise wiles,
Or endeavour to takes us by stare?)
They should frankly attack us with mildness and smiles,
Not with subtle or Pistol-like air.

The club that you stalk with so terribly big,
As if in a desperate way;
To pursue us by flight, wings at each wig,
Or beat up and knock down your prey.

203

By such methods as these, or other worse snare,
Like poachers you may us trapan;
But give us the law due to play that is fair,
Then catch us you may—if you can.

The Apollo, whose statue delights all mankind,
How majestic, tho' modest, is seen;
And surely it was by the artist design'd
As a pattern to model your mein.

Let always his beauties be seen in your look,
And learn how to copy his grace;
Nor boldness affect, 'tis but manhood mistook,
And insolence stepp'd in it's place.

The courage of Mars, with the mildness of May,
Are charms which no art can procure,
O! be but as men, and all homage we pay,
And your empire's solid and sure.

204

But if highwayman-like by you we're attack'd,
And put thus in fear of our lives,
You may get on the road what the law don't exact,
But, believe me, you'll never get wives.

The FARMER.

O happy he! happiest of mortal men!
Who, far remov'd from slavery as from pride,
Fears no man's frown, nor cringing wants to catch
The gracious nothing of a great man's nod:
Where the lac'd beggar bustles for a bribe,
The purchase of his honour; where deceit,
And fraud, and circumvention, dress'd in smiles,
Hold shameful commerce, and beneath the mask
Of friendship and sincerity, betray'd
Him; nor the stately mansion's gilded pride,
Rich with whate'er the imitative arts,
Painting or sculpture, yield to charm the eye;

205

Nor shining heaps of massy plate, enwrought
With curious, costly workmanship, allure.
Tempted nor with the pride nor pomp of power,
Nor pageants of ambition; nor the mines
Of grasping av'rice, nor the poison'd sweets
Of pamper'd luxury, he plants his foot
With firmness on his own paternal fields,
And stands unshaken. There sweet prospects rise,
Of meadows smiling in their flow'ry pride,
Green hills and dales, and cottages embower'd,
The scenes of innocence and calm delight.
There the wild melody of warbling birds,
And cool refreshing groves, and murm'ring springs,
Invite to sacred thought, and lift the mind
From low pursuits to meditate on GOD!

206

ADVICE to the LADIES,

On reading the Story of Iphis and Anaxarete, in Ovid's Metamorphoses.

Ye matchless fair, who grace the British isle,
Whose frown is destiny, and heav'n your smile,
Oh keep your bosoms free from foul disdain,
Nor let fell cruelty your beauties stain;
So shall your vot'ries bless your lenient power,
Admire with reason, and with joy adore,
While other climates, not so bless'd as we,
With envy shall the Albion lovers see.

But if with scorn this counsel you repay,
Resolved to rule with a despotic sway,
And carelessly behold your vassals die,
Unpitied victims of your cruelty;
Let sad example teach this dreadful truth,
Heav'n still avenges the love-martyr'd youth;

207

And tho' deferr'd, each scornful fair will know,
Delay but doubly points the awful blow.

This Ovid, master of love's gentle art,
Did, to the Roman fair, of old impart,
When singing Iphis, too untimely slain,
By Anaxarete's severe disdain,
Sang too how equal heav'n his wrongs repaid,
And well aveng'd him on the haughty maid.

Let this example then, ye nymphs, persuade,
Nor scorn the suff'rings which yourselves have made,
Lest Anaxarete's your fate should be,
Lest you, unpitied, share her destiny;
But, timely wise, affected pride discard,
Nor rob a constant flame of its reward;
Let mutual love your melting bosoms warm,
And bid good mature heighten ev'ry charm;

208

Kindly receive the youth whom heav'n decrees,
And native worth, the one best form'd to please;
So, bless'd and blessing, shall each happy hour
Glide gently on, unknown to sorrow's pow'r,
Till time, with pleasing pace, at length shall close
The smiling scene, and give to you repose.

She was turned into stone, as she stood to behold the body of Iphis (who hanged himself for the love of her) pass by to the sepulcher.

A CAUTION to the LADIES.

Attend, ye fair, while briefly I relate
What direful ills on jealousy await,
(The deadliest canker of the nuptial state)
And, warn'd by other's errors, timely flee
The dang'rous rocks of fond credulity;
Nor lend an ear to ev'ry tale you learn,
Till you the motives and the cause discern.

There are, who, under friendship's sacred veil,
The rankest envy in the heart conceal;
Your charms, perhaps, a female may offend,
Your virtue a male tale-bearing friend;

209

And ev'ry art, and ev'ry well-turn'd lie,
To wound your peace and happiness they'll try.
And here beware how you too strong believe
Your own resolves; too often they deceive;
And she who thinks herself securest arm'd
'Gainst jealousy's attacks, is soonest harm'd;
For think not that it does at first assail
With snakey locks, and visage wan and pale;
No! like connubial love the fiend is drest,
Till it has stole unheeded to your breast.
Now light suspicions first in order move,
Then anxious doubts, which all seem born of love;
Then comes resentment for neglected charms,
Then fell revenge your troubled soul alarms;
Misconstru'd now each word, each look is dy'd
With foul intent, and from their scope applied,
Till thus the wily mischief eats its way,
And, uncontroul'd, does on your vitals prey,
Till baneful jealousy's destructive pow'r
Deadens each joy, and damps the genial bow'r;

210

Then, tho' too late, when you're oblig'd to bear
The goady stings of anguish and despair,
You'll curse, in vain, your fond credulity,
Live unlamented, and unpitied die.

An IDEA of GOD and his POWER.

Translated from the French of Monsieur Racine's Tragedy of Esther.

That God who rules supreme o'er heav'n and earth,
Is not what error paints him to your eyes.
The LORD's his name, and this great world his work!
Propitious he hears the humble's cry,
Wrong'd by the proud oppressor's lawless force,
And from the heighth of his celestial throne,
Interrogates the sov'reigns of the earth.
Th' annihilation of proud states to him
Is when he will, but as the mean essay,
The sportive play of his all-potent arm.

211

Vainly 'gainst him, in feeble league conjoin'd,
Would all the powers of the earth maintain
Unequal combat! What are slings 'gainst him?
To dissipate their force he but appears,
Speaks, and to native nothing they return.
Before his voice ocean retires astonished.
This mighty universe, extensive round,
As nothing shews to his unbounded sight,
And human kind, poor shuttle-cocks of fate,
Are in his eyes as tho' they ne'er had been.

225

A DESCRIPTION of a Manner of LIFE.

I pass the silent rural hour,
No slave to wealth, no tool to power.
My mansion's warm, and very neat;
You'd say, a pretty snug retreat.
My rooms no costly paintings grace,
The humbler print supplies their place.
Behind the house my garden lies,
And opens to the southern skies:
The distant hills gay prospects yield,
And plenty smiles in ev'ry field.

226

The faithful mastiff is my guard;
The feather'd tribes adorn my yard,
Alive my joy, my treat when dead,
And their soft plumes improve my bed.

My cow rewards me all she can,
(Brutes leave ingratitude to man);
She daily thankful to her lord,
Crowns with nectareous sweets my board.
Am I diseas'd? the cure is known,
Her sweeter juices mend my own.

I love my house, and seldom roam,
Few visits please me more than home.
I pity that unhappy elf
Who loves all company but self,
By idle passions borne away
To op'ra, masquerade, or play,
Fond of those hives where Folly reigns,
And Britain's peers receive her chains.

Do not arraign my want of taste,
Or sight to ken where joys are plac'd.

227

They widely err who think me blind,
And I disclaim a stoic's mind.
Like your's are my sensations quite,
I only strive to feel aright.
My joys, like streams, glide gently by,
Tho' small their channel, never dry;
Keep a still, even, fruitful wave,
And bless the neighb'ring meads they leave.

My fortune (for I'll mention all,
And more than you dare tell) is small;
Yet every friend partakes my store,
And want goes smiling from my door.
Will forty shillings warm the breast
Of worth, or industry distress'd;
This sum I chearfully impart,
'Tis fourscore pleasures to my heart;
And you may make, by means like these,
Five talents ten, whene'er you please.

FINIS.