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

TO THE Noble and Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, &c. This Volume is Dedicated, As a lasting Monument OF Esteem, Gratitude, and Submission; BY His Honour's most Obliged and most Obedient Humble Servant, MITCHELL.

------ Nobis hæc otia fecit.
Virg.

Congratulatory Verses To His Excellency Joseph Mitchell, Esq;

On a Report of his being preferr'd to the Government of Duck-Island, in St. James's Park.

Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero
Pulsanda tellus ------
Hor.

When to my Ears the joyful Tidings came,
That Mitchell, Son of Phoebus, and of Fame!
Was rais'd, by Walpole's most auspicious Smile,
To sway the Sceptre of St. James's Isle,
Unusual Raptures in my Bosom sprung,
Beam'd in my Eyes, and trickled from my Tongue:

Nor ceas'd the social Sharers of the News,
T'extol the Patron and to hail the Muse.

Cou'd sage St. Evremond's immortal Shade
Know who his honour'd Successor is made,
In Realms of Death, he'd raise a tuneful Voice,
And kindred Bards, in Concert, wou'd rejoice.
Methinks, I hear the Burden of their Song—
“All Praise to Walpole! may he prosper long!
“Mitchell the great St. Evremond succeeds,
“And Ducks and Geese, with like Discretion, feeds.

Yet tho' thy Shoulders were by Nature meant,
To bear the mighty Load of Government,
Wear not away the Springs of Life too fast,
Nor, with unwonted Toils, thy Spirits waste:
Appoint some Swain thy Regions to o'er-see,
A Vicar-general, or a Deputy,
And oh! that mine the happy Post might be!

But if the Trust, or Profit, seem too great,
Make me your Chaplain, or your Laureat.

'Tis done—And, now, my Muse, unbounded, roves
Thro' twining Thickets, and embow'ring Groves;
On ev'ry mossy Bank with Rapture dwells,
And to each Tree the joyful News reveals;
Joins the loud Choirs that to the Groves resort,
Or Tench and Carp, that in the Waters sport.

A Libyan sage, once, in his dark Abode,
Taught Jays and Magpies to proclaim him God:
Then to the Woods dispatch'd the chattering Crew,
Who spread his Godship's Name, where'er they flew.
The People listen'd, wonder'd, and ador'd,
And μεγας Θεος ψαρων was the Word.

But leaving Heathen Greek, and Heathen Stories,
Let's now survey the happy State before us:

Where ev'ry free-born Subject still enjoys
His Liberty, and Property, of Noise:
Where none oppress'd, in vain, for Justice calls;
No secret Treason broods within your Walls:
No cursed Bribery corrupts the Chair,
No Duns, no Catch-poles, ever enter there.
No Cart, no Coach, no Chimney-sweeper, seen,
To break your Rest, or edge you off the Green.
Your Laws are just; your Ducks at Pleasure stray
From Pool to Pool, with Chearfulness obey,
And whake your Praise aloud, as well as they may.
For you, your Geese their grateful Notes employ,
Nod their grave Heads, and gabble forth their Joy.

J. ROOKE.

THE SINE-CURE: A Poetical PETITION To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE, Esq;

FOR The Government of Duck-Island, in St. James's Park.

Wearied with vain Pursuits, and humble grown,
Sad in the Country, and too poor for Town,
O how long, in some soft, silent, Seat,
To taste calm Quiet, in serene Retreat;
Where Books, and Ease, and Time for serious Thought,
May make Wit Wisdom ere I'm good for nought!

Walpole, to thee, the Muse, afflicted, flies,
And, from the Deep, like Shipwreck'd Jonah, cries.
Thou! the Right-hand of Fortune! form'd to give!
Let me not die, before I've learn'd to live.

I, not for lordly Post, or Pension, plead,
(Scarce can a Hope, so modest, not succeed.)
St. James's Wilderness, the Park's fair Isle,
Wou'd crown my Wish, and Care's long Hand beguile.
On that delightful, and sequester'd, spot,
Fitted for me, as Zoar was for Lot!
I'd full Content and Satisfaction find,
And cultivate the Garden of my Mind.
There, like St. Evremond, I'd grow a Sage,
And War with Nonsense, Vice, and Folly wage:

There, cabin'd safe, in Solitude and Peace,
Think who's at Helm, nor fear the Storm's Increase.

What princely Pleasure, in that envied Scene,
To hold high Empire o'er the peopled Green!
Each rosy Morn the rising Sun to wait,
And walk, with him, around my Orb, in State!
My subject Ducks shou'd watch my gracious Will,
And passive Geese bequeath me ev'ry Quill.
To each, in order, traversing my Land,
I'd toss due Blessings, with impartial Hand.
Birds shou'd by Love, and Beasts by Fear obey;
But all pay Homage in th' Imperial Way.
Yet no tyrannick Pow'r shou'd pinch their Right,
Nor bold Rebellion wing their Wills for Flight.

Still I'd adorn my State with something new,
Prune its wild Prospects, and enlarge its View;
Mazes of knotty Politicks invent,
And, in each open Quarter, plant Content.
Then, when dispos'd for solitary Thought,
Inspir'd by Leisure, and by Duty taught,
I'd run thro' Nature, and the Causes find,
Which lift some single Souls above Mankind;
Which, thro' descending Ages, lengthen Fame,
And mark a Tully's, or a Walpole's Name.

Kindling, at this, to a sublimer Fire,
My grateful Heart might teach me to aspire;
Smit with my Country's Love, might Truth pursue,
And charm an unborn Race, by painting You.

Exhaustless Store my subject Isle contains,
For apt Allusions to adorn my Strains.
In narrow Compass, what not there compriz'd?
Britannia's Sea-girt Land epitomiz'd!
From crowded Scenes of great Augusta rent,
As our blest Kingdom from the Continent!
A Colony of feather'd People! where
(If we, with great, may smaller Things compare)
I, like a Bishop, wou'd o'ersee my Cure,
Or govern, like a King, in Miniature!

When my few Friends to visit me shou'd please,
How sweet to walk betwixt embow'ring Trees!
Or, soft-reclining in a short Repose,
Pluck the surrounding Fruitage as it grows!
I, to these Friends, instructive—but not vain,
Wou'd, like St. John in Patmos, Truth explain;

Teach them, that Happiness in Silence reigns,
And builds her bow'ry Seats, on peaceful Plains;
While they tell News of Mischiefs hourly known,
And every Word, they speak, confirms my own.

But should my Patron deign to leave the Court,
And humbly to my Hermitage resort,
Ambitious, I my self wou'd waft him o'er,
And hail his Presence on my happy Shore.
There might he, safe, unbend his active Mind,
Or form, perhaps, some Scheme to bless Mankind.
Then wou'd the golden Age be mine again,
And Charles's shou'd be lost in George's Reign.

How pleas'd is Fancy! how do Dreams delight?
And ah! what pity mine shou'd prove a Bite!

Hear me, thou Atlas of our leaning State,—
Consent, at least, to make one Poet great:
On thee, the Muses then shall fix their Eye,
And, for thy Glory, whole Parnassus vie.
To guard our Hopes has been the Hero's Pride!
'Tis good to have the Poets on thy Side.
I, for return, will yearly Homage pay,
And hail the Rising of thy natal Day.
Nor only this,—but, now and then, afford
A Fish, or Fowl, to dignify thy Board.

'Tis done!—I hear the happy Mandate giv'n,—
“Let Mitchell have his poor poetic Heav'n,
“And, to support his Government, we grant
“Twice fifty Pounds per Annum—All I want!
Boy, fill the Bowl;—'tis decent to be glad;—
Homer, on less Occasion, had run mad.

J. M.

Monsieur de St. Evremond was preferr'd to the Government of Duck-Island by King Charles II. and had a considerable yearly Pension allow'd him.

THE EQUIVALENT:

A SECOND POETICAL PETITION To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE, Esq;

Life of your Country's Hopes! the Bard, whose Strain
Aspiring, late, to Power, aspir'd in vain,
Unshock'd by hapless Disappointments past,
Renews his Pray'r, and hopes you'll hear at last.

Now, not for Government of Ducks he sues,—
A muddy Province! and below the Muse!
Poets are born for Feeders of Mankind,
And Place is best, proportion'd to the Mind.
Wisely you knew it, and but made me wait
For fitter Fortune, in a nobler State;
Whence some well-judg'd Equivalent might rise,
And Wit find Favour in a great Man's Eyes!
The Stars are kind;—Behold a vacant Place!
And Fortune smiles; ev'n in a Poet's Face!
Pow'r, Honour, Business, Profit, all agree
To make (strange Chance!) a noted Man of me!
Nothing to wish, but his prolifick Word,
Whose Pleasure can—what can it not afford?

And now, the Patron's Meaning Smile enquires
What wish'd Equivalent his Bard desires.—
“Give me its Name and Quality, (he says,)
“If I approve, you're made for all your Days.”
With grateful Rev'rence, and a gladden'd Heart,
Thus I—“O Walpole! Theme of Poet's Art!
“If e'er my Muse thy list'ning Ear cou'd pierce,
“Make me a First great Minister of Verse.
“Important Sound, to call Ambition forth!
“Hail to the Poet-Laureat of the North.
Nor, Eusden, tho' thy Brother Sov'reign made,
Mean I thy peaceful Regions to invade,
Conscious, alas! that all thy Toils are vain,
On English Ground, at once to please and reign.

Berwick on Tweed thy Ne plus ultra stands!
Thy Name, unknown, in Caledonian Lands!
Mine, far and wide, has warm'd a frozen Clime!
Remotest Thule celebrates my Rhyme!
Orkney and Zetland my Applauses sound!
And I'm among the Hebrides renow'd!
Where is the Highland Hill, or Lowland Tree,
That bears no grateful Characters of me?
All read, with Wonder, my unrival'd Lays,
And know no Head-piece, worthier of the Bays.
Ev'n Pennicuick, and Ramsay, own my Claim!
'Tis past Dispute, when once confess'd by them.

The Name of the present Laureat of England.

The Names of Two rival Verse-makers, now living in Scotland.

Nor would I take the Laureat's Hire for nought—
A Sine-Cure indulges want of Thought.

I wou'd, in Poetry, a Pastor prove,
And guide my tuneful Flock to Walpole's Love.
Charm'd by his Worth, their Looks shall all grow gay,
And sullen Faction smile Despair away.
O cou'd my Patron search my labouring Brain!
What Hopes, what Schemes, my busy Thoughts contain!
What Politicks, in Poetry, I've found!
What Projects, to make Him, and Me, renown'd!
Soon wou'd he stamp his Fiat on my Lays,
And soon prefer his Mitchell to the Bays.
Hark! He approves;—“Give North and South their Due;
“The laurell'd Scots should have their Laureat too!
“Inflam'd amidst hereditary Snows,
“In their brave Bosoms, Love of Glory glows!

“Unchill'd by wintry Bleaks, their Spirits blaze,
“And Arts and Sciences proclaim their Praise.
Io Triumphe! Io Pæans sing!
Let the glad News to great Edina ring!
Behold, my Friends, behold a Tun of Wine—
(An annual Income for the Northern Nine!)
Twice Fifty Pounds!—Now, greet my State with Odes:
Let George and Walpole, rise o'er modern Gods,
To George, to Walpole, consecrate your Lays:
But mine be all your Hailings, and the Bays.
Already, lo! I see a crowded Hall!
A frequent Congregation! Poets all!
Behold! I mount, inspir'd, my sacred Throne!
Hear! I declaim, with an enchanting Tone!

Kirkmen, themselves, begin to think me Good,
And, now, repent they were so blindly rude!
Fain to their Fold they'd bring the banish'd Sheep!
Fain, to themselves, the Poet-Laureat keep!
Free Testimonials, proffer'd, come at last;
With large Indulgence for Offences past:
But, heedless, I my proper Province mind,
And leave the Cripple to conduct the Blind.
Intent to polish and refine the Young,
I rack Invention, and new-tune my Tongue.
Heav'ns! how I lecture! ('tis a Laureat's Part)
Like Aristotle, on poetick Art.
Horace, and Vida, Boileau, Buckingham,
Are Harbingers to my exalted Name:

Their various Institutions I'd make known,
And add a thousand Beauties of my own.

The Presbytery of Edinburgh refus'd the Author (who had studied Divinity) free Testimonials, because he had read Plays, and would not acknowledge the Use of them to be simply, and absolutely unlawful.

Authors who have severally written Arts of Poetry fit to be lectur'd on.

Yet let me no scholastick Jargon use;
Pedantick Methods are below the Muse.
I'd train my tuneful Sons a nobler Way,
And, in one View, poetick Art display.
The living Bards shou'd teach them what to shun!
The Dead, how they immortal Garlands won!

Thus I'd declaim;—“My Sons, consider well
“Your Laureat's Dictates, as ye hope to excell.
“ Think not, by writing much, t'establish Fame,
“Like B---e, whom Damnation cannot tame;

“Nor seek, by Spleen or Spite, Success to find,
“Like D---s, Scourge and Scorn of all Mankind.
“Avoid, as you'd be guarded from a Pest,
“V---h's Mechanicks, C---e's bawdy Jest,
“T---p's priestly Rage, and H---'s party Zeal;
“Nor sleep, like J---n; nor, like C---r, steal.
“Save you, good Heav'n! from S---t's unhallow'd Vein,
“From P---e's Resentment, and from H---ll's Disdain,
“W---d's Self-flatt'ry, Y---g's unmeaning Rant;
“T---d's low Farce, and W---s' eternal Cant.
“Never, like P---s, think hard Labour Wit;
“Nor own, like S---e, what abler Authors writ;
“Like S---n, Farce with Tragedy confound;
“Like F---n with forc'd Similies abound;
“Like G---e, or like T---l, sing no more,
“To make Men doubt if e'er you sung before;

“Like W---n, J---b, M---e, and F---d, disperse
“Lampoon and Lewdness, jumbled into Verse.
“O let no Son of mine be deem'd, in Town,
“Coxcomb, like B---l; or, like G---y, a Clown;
“Punster, like A---t; or, like B---d, a Sot,
“A Tool, like S---ll; or, like S---e, nought.

N. B. The Author design'd this, and the following Paragraph as a Contrast: Like Light and Shade, the one sets off the other with Advantage. That which points out the peculiar Beauties and Excellencies of the Dead, would give little Offence, even tho' the Characters were unjust. But this, wherein the Faults and Foibles of the Living are represented, however justly, may be misconstrued by narrow Minds. Therefore, the Author hereby declares to all, whom it concerneth, that he has no personal Pique at any one, and cannot be at War with all the Fraternity; besides, he has nam'd none whom he does not esteem; and omitted few, whom he thought worth naming.

“But wou'd you shine? With due Attention read,
“And imitate the Beauties of the Dead.
“Let Homer lend you Majesty and Fire,
“And Virgil with judicious Rage inspire:
“Let Horace gay Variety impart,
“And Ovid's Softness humanize the Heart.
“Nor pass the English Excellencies by—
“Heav'ns! what bright Beauties in their Remnants lie!
“How rare t'impropriate Chaucer's cheerful Vein,
“Spencer's rich Fancy, Shakespear's nervous Strain,

“Milton's sublime, and Cowley's glitt'ring Wit,
“With all that Denham thought, or Waller writ?
“How great the Bard! his Labour how divine!
“Where Johnson's Depth, with Dryden's Numbers join?
“Where Butler's Humour, and Roscommon's Taste,
“Etheridge's Manners, Prior's courtly Jest,
“Rowe's Flow of Words, and Addison's good Fate,
“Conspire to make one Character compleat!
“Their various Virtues, blended in your Lays,
“Wou'd stamp Distinction, and perpetuate Praise.

Blest Sermon! Hail to the ingenious Throng,
That, list'ning, learn Perfection from my Song.
Cherish'd beneath my most auspicious Wing;
The Scotian Youth, like honour'd Ancients, sing!
See! ravish'd Crowds, with Rev'rence gather round,
Admire the Doctrine, and devour the Sound.

Disputes to my Decision are referr'd,
And what, like ipse dixit, is rever'd?

“My Friends (I cry) my purpos'd Task to aid,
“Be all your Heads, with mine, together, laid:
“What must his Learning, what his Genius, be,
“Who sings a Walpole, as he's known to me?
“To touch a Theme, so nobly warm, aright,
“Greece, Rome, and Britain, shou'd their Pow'rs unite.

'Tis said;—But lo! from far, amidst the Crowd,
A thinking Bard replies, serenely loud,
“Well has our Laureat Mitchell sought our Aid:
“The ablest, in such Tasks, are most afraid!
“But, as Resolves, so weighty, ask some Time,
“And Reason still shou'd be preferr'd to Rhyme,
“I humbly move,—that we postpone his Suit,
“'Till his chymeric Pow'r grows absolute.

THE PROMOTION:

A THIRD POETICAL PETITION To the Right Honourable ROBERT WALPOLE, Esq;

FOR The Office and Importance of Secretary of State for SCOTLAND.

------ Sume Superbiam
Quæsitam Meritis.
Hor.

------ Levis hæc Insania, quantas
Virtutes habeat.
Ib.

Twice has the Muse to Walpole told my Case,
And twice petition'd for some puny Place;
But He, wise Statesman! weighing my Desert,
By meaning Silence, more inflames my Heart.
Mitchell was born (methinks his Smiles import)
For Honours, and for Offices, at Court!

So prophesied my Grandame at my Birth,
When Signs and Wonders usher'd me to Earth.

Then forward let my favour'd Genius move,
I but obey what was decreed Above.
If ought indecent from my Fingers fly,
Prevailing Fate is more in Fault, than I.
Poets are influenc'd by celestial Pow'rs;
'Tis theirs to dictate, and to write is ours.

Resistance, when the Spirit moves, were vain;
Ev'n now, I feel it working in my Brain;
Like Secrets, in a Woman's Bosom pent,
It frets and rumbles, 'till it finds a Vent.

Yet, howsoe'er inspir'd, Hibernian Brass,
Dear, cath'lick, Virtue! make my Labour pass:

Thy friendly Aid is needful, to promote
The proper Means t'attain my destin'd Lot,
And make me stand confess'd a Man of Note.

Thus qualify'd, the bashful Muse grows bold,
And grasps at Glory, Government, and Gold.
Unblushing, now I claim the Royal Grace,
And ask (strange Flight!) a Secretary's Place!
'Tis fit there be, at least, One Bard of State—
Who knows but mine may prove the lucky Fate?
It suits my Soul—and, were I but preferr'd,
What Man of Verse would then be more rever'd?
I'd cut a Figure, so extremely new,
The World, with Wonder, would my Conduct view!
Yet never wou'd forget I walk'd on Foot—
I'd be important; but I wou'd not strut.

Mortals (whose Taste 'twere criminal to hit!
By Nature curst with the wrong Side of Wit!)
Will shake their Pates, and damn my daring Aim,
Or, sneering, shew Propensity to blame;
Mitchell aspire to Government! (they'll cry)
A Poet fit for Offices so high!
Forgetful, that Mæcenas was a Bard,
And Hallifax's Muse had this Reward;
That Verse rais'd Sylvius to the triple Crown,
And Buchanan to Places and Renown;
Distinguish'd Prior from the common Crowd,
And Pow'r and Praise on Addison bestow'd.

But I, tho' bold the new Demand may seem,
Appeal to WALPOLE's Judgment and Esteem;
To Him, great Arbiter of Truth and Wit!
To Him and Reason! I the Cause submit.

Say, is the Soul, inspir'd with Heav'nly Rage,
In State Affairs unable to engage?
Are Arts, and Laws, and Politicks, unknown
To tuneful Sons of Helicon alone?
Say, if the greatest Difficulty lies,
In painting Nature, or chastising Vice?
If, to crown Virtue, to preserve the Peace,
To quell Sedition, and our Wealth encrease,
More great, laborious, and important, be,
Than to write Verse, like Milton, or like me?
Did Phalaris receive a weak Reply?
Or had Stesichorus more Worth than I?

Hail Poesie! Inspirer of the Mind!
Thou art the Test, and Glory, of Mankind!
From Thee, all mortal Acts receive a Grace!
Thy Sons are born prepar'd for any Place!
By Intuition, every Thing they know—
But Men of Prose, however sure, are slow!
By lazy Labour, These acquire a Name:
But Those, like Eagles, tow'r, at once to Fame!

Yet, O ye Witlings, an egregious Throng!
Who think there's mighty Merit, in a Song;
That, if ye can but versify with Ease,
And tag dull Prose with Rhime, you've Right to please;
Or, labouring hard, perhaps a Piece produce,
Which Rooke might call a Copy of the Muse;
Avaunt—nor, vainly, think the Honours, due
To genuine Poets, are design'd for you.
Say, are your Souls impress'd with Stamp divine?
On every Subject, can ye nobly shine?
From barren Fields, make beauteous Flow'rs arise?
And, in poor Soils, display a Paradise?
Can ye, in Garrets, scorn the Vulgar Great?
And, when ye want a Groat, outbrave your Fate?
Dare ye, divinely, injur'd Truth assert?
And sooth the Sorrows of the Sufferer's Heart?

With Zeal impartial, proud Ambition sting?
And clouded Charms of tatter'd Virtue sing?
Ah! meanly Soul'd, in vain ye court the Bays—
In vain aspire to ancient Poets Praise—
As well might Fops, or Clowns, pretend to teach
Hoadly, and Clark, and Waterland to preach;
Correct great Newton; Law, in Figures, match;
And rival Peterborough's quick Dispatch;
Do Good, like Chandos; or, like Dorset, grace
A Court with Virtues, worthy of his Race;
Like Stair, be modest—yet, in Arts of State,
Like him, accomplish'd, and divinely Great;
Direct the Senate with a Compton's Skill;
The Judgment Seat, like King, with Honour, fill;
Th' Achilles of the War, like Greenwich, move;
Or th' Atlas of the State, like WALPOLE, prove.

How few, who deal in Metre, were design'd
For Offices of Pow'r, in any Kind?
How few cut out for Government appear?
An universal Genius is so rare!
But, as no Rules without Exceptions be,
Behold an Instance of the Thing, in Me!

It is confest—The ablest Umpire stands,
Well satisfy'd, that Trust, in Mitchell's Hands,
Wou'd be discharg'd, with an impartial Zeal,
For GEORGE's Glory, and Britannia's Weal.
He knows his honest Poet would disdain
To make the publick Loss a private Gain;
To head a Faction, or encourage Strife,
To prove a Cypher, or a Sot in Life;

To loll supine, like lazy Lords; be dull,
Yet of himself superlatively full.
Mitchell, divinely fir'd, has nobler Views,
Seeks sacred Truth, and Equity pursues,
The publick Good prefers above his own,
And covets Grandeur less, than fair Renown.

Heav'n too approves—For, lo! a vacant Place—
And who more proper to succeed his Grace?
Scotia demands a Secretary still—
To sink the Office might be taken ill.
A Name, a Shadow, tho' there were no more,
Is requisite to gloss the Matter o'er.
Is it a Sine-Cure? 'Tis shap'd for me!
And, if 'tis Business, I'd not idle be.
Let me but try—and, if I misbehave,
I'll ne'er One Shilling of the Salary crave.

Dubb me no Knight, or Blue, or Green, or Red,
But, in the Tow'r, confine me, 'till I'm dead,
With Pen, Ink, Paper, Water, Light, and Bread.

Ne'er had Man's Fancy more Delight in Dreams,
Than mine receives from high and mighty Schemes.
How I'd reform and civilize the North!
Controul Rebellion! and distinguish Worth!
From labouring Clowns, remove Complaints of Want!
And rid the Kirk of Bigotry and Cant!
Then Charity, and Money, shou'd be found!
And Learning, Truth, and Liberty, abound!
No furious Zeal shou'd Then embroil the Land!
No poor Man groan beneath th' Oppressor's Hand!
No Sufferer cry, in vain, for due Redress!
No noble Genius languish in Distress!

Arts, Arms, Religion, Sciences, and Trade,
Shou'd flourish all, beneath my friendly Shade.
Mæcenas, Woolsey, Richlieu, Names renown'd!
Shou'd Then, in my Superior Name, be drown'd.

How sacred wou'd the mighty Monarch be,
Who boasts a premier Minister, like Me!

Yet, 'midst the troublous Toils of State, sometimes,
My Soul wou'd take its dear Delight, in Rhimes—
Rhimes! not Amusements to my self alone,
But useful to my Country, when I'm gone.
I'd sing its Story; and produce to Light
Important Facts, involv'd in silent Night.
The Muse can Merit from Oblivion save,
And glorify the Virtuous, and the Brave.

Methinks, I see the Scotian Race unborn,
By me inspir'd, their native Land adorn!
Observe the Aged point the Way to Fame!
And hear the Children lisp their Poet's Name!
All read with Pleasure, and with Pride rehearse
Th' immortal Annals of my Patriot Verse;
How their Forefathers, venerable grown!
Liv'd, sought, and dy'd, from First Great Fergus down.
Then shou'd our Heroes, long, long dead, revive,
And, clear'd from Clouds of dark Oblivion live!
The World again shou'd great Galgacus see,
And Sholto's Resurrection owe to me!
Wallace, in Verse, shou'd prove a Patriot still,
And Bruce, with Wonder, coming Ages fill!
Fresh Laurel crown th'unrival'd Douglas, Line;
In deathless Glory, Hays and Seatons shine,
And Campbells, Grahams, and Murrays, be divine.

What Wonders wou'd the Muse, and I, not do,
Were we prefer'd, and set but fair in View!

Yes, Mirabel! It is the Statesman's Part,
To give to Truth the Preference of Art.
Integrity deserves the first Regard,
And cannot miss, while Walpole rules, Reward.
Well have you sung the Praise to Virtue due,
And set the Charms of Friendship fair in View.
A Kingdom, curst with Men of Manners loose,
And Minds unsocial, needed such a Muse.
In Season you appear; When but to write,
Or think, in Verse, is to be ruin'd quite.

Poets, by You, get Credit, even from Those,
Who wou'd distrust their Creed, if 'twere not Prose.
Yet, O retract—recall the Bolt you've thrown
To baulk bold Genius, or to bring it down;
For, certes, Wit and Virtue are not Foes
In Men of Verse, and always Friends in Prose.
Why so distinguish'd? Why, with Rival Rage,
Strive they the Statesman's Favour to engage?
Compatible, at least, they are avow'd;
For are not both in Mirabel allow'd?
Or say, is Place for clod-pate Virtue fit?
Virtue, without the social Aid of Wit!
Virtue, alone, is like a Snail, that creeps,
Or heavy Clown, who, on his Journey, sleeps;

Expos'd to Fops, and Coxcombs Scorn it lies,
Loses its Way, and unregarded dies;
If friendly Genius does not interpose,
And bear it far beyond the Paths of Prose.
How low a Figure Virtue, singly, makes!
How liable, in Office, to Mistakes!
Genius prevents, or wards the publick Scoff,
And sets plain Probity with Honour off.
It animates, and adds a double Grace,
As sprightly Eyes enrich a lovely Face.

Yet, Muse, detract not from dear Virtue's Praise,
Nor Genius high, above its Value, raise,
Tho' That but like an Ass, in Business, moves,
And This an active, lordly Lion proves.
But let the Man, prefer'd by WALPOLE, be
Possest of Both, like Mirabel, and Me;

Or, if disjoin'd, the Place to Genius give,
And, on a Pension, let plain Virtue live.

Mortals, my Freedom and Conceit excuse—
Which of you all wou'd not Distinction chuse?
Who is not Solon in his own Conceit,
With Sense, Experience, Arts, and Spirit, fit
To guide the State, and give the Stamp to Wit?
Ye think yourselves sufficient—I but tell
The secret Thoughts, that in your Bosoms dwell.
Ye are, in Heart, as impudent and vain—
I, more ingenuous, your dark Sense explain;
And, were the Truth, perhaps, but clearly known,
My Wishes are more modest, than your own.

Who knows but I (if 'twere my lucky Fate
To be declar'd a Secretary of State)

Wou'd, like King Saul, most slily step aside,
And, for a while, my worthy Person hide?

But, after all, shou'd WALPOLE gravely say,
“Mitchell, you must not turn your Head this Way—
Check'd, to my Patron's Judgment I'd agree,
And Roxburgh might resume his Post for Me.

Nay, whether I shall be preferr'd to Place,
Or humbly sneak from Court with some Disgrace,
My purpos'd Muse no other Means shall try,
Nor cou'd she, cordial, any where apply,
Since 'tis resolv'd by the whole House of Me,
That I'll not rise, O WALPOLE, but by Thee.

Phalaris, Tyrant of Agrigentum, in an Epistle to Stesichorus, the Poet, says, “But, for Heaven's Sake, tell me, what made you, who are a Poet, forsake the quiet and sedate Course of Life, which that Art affords, to throw your self into the tumultuous State of a busy Patriot, when you might have enjoy'd that pleasing Ease the Muses delight in, unforc'd? Now, since your Ambition has transported you from a Poet to a Statesman, you must no longer expect the Rewards of a Poet, but of a pretending Medler in Government, who aims at Things above his Capacity. Farewell.” Select Letters of the Ancients.

Stesichorus, the Poet, in his Answer to Phalaris's Epistle, says, “I wonder at your odd Notion, that because I am a Poet, I should not aim at State Affairs; for do you think He, that has Capacity to write as a Poet, should find any Difficulty in administring the the Affairs of the Common-Wealth? The Difficulty of that is not so great: 'Tis only made so by Knaves of a private Spirit, who contrive and interweave their own Interests with that of the Government. The Administration of Justice, the Execution of the Laws, punishing of Vice, rewarding Virtue, disciplining the People, securing Trade, encouraging Arts, providing for Publick Security, and the like, are Things perhaps none are so fit for as a Poet; for he is not biass'd by private Gain to Partiality; he regards his own Interest last; and knows, that while the Publick's in Danger, nothing private can be secure. A Poet loves the publick Good, and publick Liberty above all private Advantages; for he can never enjoy that pleasing and sacred Rest, you speak of, under a despotic Government, where nothing is secure the Tyrant dislikes; where all Words are liable to be punish'd; and, where Liberty of Acting and Words are restrain'd, there can be no Room for any generous Art. Farewell.

Author of a late celebrated Epistle to the Right Honourable Sir Robert Walpole.

Lines in the Epistle.

“But yet, believe your undesigning Friend,
“When Truth and Genius for your Choice contend,
“Tho' both have Weight, when in the Ballance cast,
“Let Probity be first, and Parts the last.

THE ALTERNATIVE:

AN Anacreontic Petition To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE,

FOR THE Power and Glory of a Royal COMMISSION, To superintend the next Publick LOTTERY, Or the next General Assembly of the KIRK.

------ Nil sine Te mei
Hor.

Possunt Honores
Totum muneris hoc tui est,
Quod monstror Digito Prætereuntium.
Ib.

Wearied by continuous Strife
In the Lottery of Life,
(Where, as yet, no noble Prize
To my Share has chanc'd to rise)

O how happy shall I be,
If, indulg'd by Heav'n and Thee,
I, commission'd, may appear
At the Lottery of this Year!
If my Art cou'd ever hit
Taste, like Thine—If I have Wit—
If there's Virtue in my Mind—
If my Works are well design'd—
If I'm worth a SINE-CURE—
All the MUSES Thee conjure,
By the BATH, an Order blest!
By Thy Self, of Knights confest
Most deserving, honour'd most,
Europe's Wonder, Britain's Boast!
As Thou lov'st, or pity'st, Me,
WALPOLE, speak, and It shall be.

With what Majesty and Grace
Mitchell then wou'd shew his Face!
How he'd dignify the Chair!
How preserve Decorum There!
Be inspir'd with nobler Flame!
Rival Pope in Verse and Fame!
Pay his Debts! appear at Court!
Rise to Place, and thank Thee for't.

But, if that Commission's full,
If thou can'st not make One null,
If his Muse too late apply'd,
If there's any Cause beside
For a Disappointment, yet
Mitchell scorns to be in Pet,

Or Despair, while Place remains
Unsupply'd, and worth his Pains.

One there is—but, gracious Heav'n,
May I seek, and be forgiv'n?
WALPOLE's merciful; and I,
Tho' my Hopes are low, may try.
Never venture, never win,
Says the Proverb—Muse, begin:

Since, for Custom, Law, or Conscience,
(Or, for any Cause, but Nonsense)
One of Rank and high Degree
(Such as I'd be glad to be)
Once a Year is order'd North,
To convene our Holders-forth,

And to speech it for the King,
And to hear Them Pray and Sing;
Hear them preach, and hear them prate,
Hear them quibble and debate,
With religious Tone and Eyes,
Very learned, most precise,
Wond'rous eloquent and wise!
May not I, O WALPOLE, stand
Candidate?—The Time's at Hand:
Men and Brethren meet in May,
Danger lies in long Delay;
And your Honour knows that I
Must equip, and cannot fly.

As I'm orthodox true Blue,
And a clever Fellow too;

From the Cradle nurs'd and bred
More to lead, than to be led;
Yet, because I'm all bemus'd,
By the Presbytery refus'd;
But as fit as any Priest,
Cromwell-like, to cant, at least;
Please to put me in the Place—
Lift your Poet to his Grace—
That, as Horace struck the Sky,
I may, stately strutting by,
Numerous pointed Fingers see,
All in Wonderment at Me!
And the Hum of Thousands hear
Fraught with my Encomiums dear!
Mix'd with thine, my worthy Knight,
My Mæcenas, my Delight!

Be it so—Amen, say I—
See! I'm now prepar'd! I fly!
I've already got half Way!
Clear the Coast, ye Men of Clay—
Kindred Souls, come out, and meet me—
Countrymen, be glad, and greet me—
Io Pæan, cordial, sing—
Mitchell represents the KING!

Now, methinks, I see my self
(What Conceit inspires an Elf?)
Thron'd within an Elbow Chair,
Full of Majesty and Care;
And, below, the Kirkmen pent,
Full of Grace and Government!

Elders, Ministers, and People,
From grave Paunch and holy Weep-well,
Down to precious Leer and Whine,
Rev'rend all, and all Divine!
Moderator at their Head,
Powder'd much, and Sage, indeed!
Zeal and Spittle in his Mouth!
Language heav'nly, tho' uncouth!
Charitable all, and civil!
Strong against the Pope and Devil!
Mighty true to GEORGE and Thee!
Wond'rous complaisant to Me!
Buried Disputations past,
Reconcil'd and just, at last!
B---al---n---n Himself, grown mild,
Fawning, cringing, like a Child,

Owning Verse may be of Use,
And the Stage without Abuse!
Wish---rt, Fl---nt, M---cl---n, H---rt,
Strange to hear it! take my Part:
Ready, wer't not vain, to creep
To bring Home the banish'd Sheep—
Not to guide him, like a Lamb,
But observe him, as a Ram.

Lucky Chance in lucky Time,
Lucky Suit in lucky Rhime,
Thou of Patrons ever best,
I of Poets most carest,
Shou'd my Projects but succeed!
Shoud'st thou say the Word indeed!

WALPOLE, thus, in various Strain,
Have I pray'd, and pray'd again,

Studious to make Thee my Friend,
And be happy in the End.
Isaac wanted thus to eat,
Ere he dy'd, of savoury Meat.
He was bit—but Heav'n forbid
I should take a Calf for Kid.

THE MEMORIAL:

An ODE (Being the last Poetical Petition)

To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

The Sum of all I have to say,
Is, Please to put me in a Way,
And your Petitioner shall pray.
Prior.

I.

For Years had Walpole, good and great,
Upheld and grac'd the British State,
Ere any Bard of Skill and Spirit
Attempted to record his Merit!

II.

I, blushing for my Brothers Shame,
And wond'ring at his Worth and Fame,
With Caledonian Bravery, durst
Petition and proclaim Him, first.

III.

Then Eusden, Beckingham, and Young,
Yea, D---d---g---n, et cætera, sung—
Lord! what Epistles, and what Odes,
Extoll'd his Honour to the Gods!

IV.

But Walpole well their Value knows,
And what chief End the Bards propose;
Nor will He give them Place, or Pension,
While his own Mitchell make Pretension.

V.

What tho' my Fortune's less severe,
Since You have join'd with generous Stair
To crown my Muse, and kill my Care—
This daring Soul will never rest,
'Till I'm a Senator, at Least!

VI.

Ambition, manag'd well by Reason,
Can hardly deviate into Treason:
Mine is to do a World of Good,
Else I'd be pleas'd with Agur's Food.

VII.

The Common-weal I have at Heart;
Unbrib'd, I'd act a Patriot's Part;
And, by my gratis Zeal and Votes,
Atone for five and forty S---ts.

VIII.

Some Souls, originally bright,
Need only to be brought to Light:
Draw but aside this Veil of mine,
You'll see how gloriously I'll shine!

IX.

Prior had ne'er been Plenipo;
Nor Stepney, Addison, and Rowe,
Made such an high and mighty Show;
Had no Mæcenas mark'd their Worth,
And to Advantage set them forth.

X.

Who knows what Figure I might cut,
Were I but in Commission put,
Now Kings and Queens go by the Ears,
And States beat up for Voluntiers?

XI.

Many a despicable Elf,
Far more unlikely than my Self,
In Peace, or War, has Wonders done—
—But, 'till one's try'd, He's never known.

XII.

Then, noble Patron, weigh the Case,
And put Me, while You can, in Place;
For certes Life and Power are Things,
Which always had, and will have, Wings.

XIII.

It is not Money, Sir, I seek;
(Tho' that's the same Thing in the Greek)
But an Employment, that may fit
Alike my Virtue and my Wit.

XIV.

What Joy, or Sorrow, will the News
Of Walpole's Treatment of the Muse
Thro' all the Elysian Plains diffuse,
When I to kindred Shades relate
The Story of my Life and Fate?

XV.

When Britons, yet unborn, shall view
The List of Men, preferr'd by You,
(Which all our Chronicles will shew)
Who knows but they'll make bold to blame
Your Honour, shou'd they miss my Name?
Then shining high in deathless Fame!

XVI.

'Twou'd vex a Saint, to have it said,
By future Burnetts, when we're dead,

That Walpole did a World of Good—
—But pass'd his Poet in the Crowd,
As one He never understood.

XVII.

But, if the Government is full,
And not one Post at present null,
Some Vacancies will, weekly, fall—
Your Vote and Interest, Sir, is all!

XVIII.

Congreve, the darling Wit and Friend,
Is ill (alas!) and near his End—
Whene'er He gains our kindred Skies,
Let Mitchell to his Honours rise—

XIX.

Or, if his Secretary's Place
Is promis'd—which may be the Case—

Other Reversions are not scant—
Pass but some promissory Grant—
Your Word's a Bond! and all I want!

XX.

Mean while, with Patience, Faith and Hope,
I'll wait, and versify with Pope;
And, now and then, with Watts and Stevens,
Pray for Reversion in the Heavens.

XXI.

But shou'd capricious Fortune frown,
And cross my Way to wish'd Renown,
I'll learn, revengeful, to despise her,
And leave the Court, like Uncle Sizer.

XXII.

What Soul of Sense wou'd still depend,
Who has a Plough, or Flock, to tend?
Rather than sue in vain, I'd take a
Desperate Voyage to Jamaica.

XXIII.

Nay, prove my Fortune bad, or better,
Be this my last Poetic Letter;
For, truly, 'tis a Jest to teaze Him,
Who will do just as it shall please Him.

XXIV.

Then, tho' deny'd, I'll be at Rest,
And of my Income make the Best:
But, rather without Straw raise Brick,
Then at our Constitution kick.

XXV.

I'll ne'er like W---rt---n, Malecontent,
Affront the King, or Government:
Nor C---st---ld, and P---lt---y too,
(Tho' honourable Men, and true)
Shall influence Me to bark at You.

XXVI.

When I prove Traitor, or Ingrate,
Let Stair forget the Arts of State,
Let King turn base, Ophelia froward,
The brave Argyle commence a Coward,
And Charms abandon Madam H---

XXVII.

But, ah! must Loyalty and Love
Neglected, vain, and useless prove?

Shall Merit unrewarded pass?
And Mitchell look so like an Ass?

XXVIII.

In London let it not be told,
From Edinburgh the Tale with-hold,
Lest Blockheads, Fools, and Knaves grow glad,
And Bards and Criticks run stark mad.

The Sine-Cure, The Equivalent, &c.

Give me neither Poverty, nor Riches: but feed me with Food convenient for me. Prov. xxx. 8.

Mr. Congreve is Secretary to the Government of Jamaica.

Roger Sizer, Esq; who was first Pay-master of the Army Abroad, and afterwards of the Houshold, in King William's Reign; but at Queen Anne's Accession to the Throne (when He met with some Disappointments) left both Court and Town for Ever.

Mrs. Mitchel.

Tell it not in GATH, publish it not in the Streets of Askelon, lest the Philistines rejoyce, and the uncircumcised triumph, 2 Sam. i. 20.

AN ODE To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath;

On his being Elected into, and Invested with the Ensigns of, the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

Thus shall it be done to the Man, whom the King delighteth to honour.
Esther.

I

When fam'd Eliza grac'd the Throne;
And England in its Lustre shone;
A Garter'd Commoner was seen,
Whose Counsels glorify'd the Queen!
He well deserv'd the Honours, that He wore—
Honours, paid Him, honour'd his Country more.

II

So, while great George the Scepter wields;
And ev'ry Land to Britain yields;
A Commoner supports the Crown,
And gives the Nation its Renown!
What Marks of Royal Favour are too great
For this distinguish'd Atlas of our State?

III

Behold! the gracious Monarch still
Prevents our Wishes, by his Will:
Before our grateful Voice is heard,
See! He confers the due Reward.
A greater Name, than great Eliza, gives!
A greater Name, than Walsingham, receives!

IV

Walpole, all Hail! thou honour'd Knight!
Thy Country's Glory and Delight!

Thou Soul, that animates our State!
Thou Arbiter of Europe's Fate!
How shall thy favour'd Mitchell wish Thee Joy?
And, in what Strain, his raptur'd Muse employ?

V

O cou'd I, equal to the Theme,
Thy Actions, and their Springs, proclaim!
Thy matchless Eloquence display!
And sing thy Soul-endearing Way!
Faction, and Foes, and People yet to Be,
Shou'd own the Garter borrow'd Grace of Thee.

VI

Dull'd by Petitionary Lays,
My Muse could never reach thy Praise;
Tho', by the Great, the Godlike Stair
Indulg'd, and tempted ev'n to dare.

How vain the Toil, for such a Dwarf, as I,
With Giant Hopes, to scale the lofty Sky!

VII

Let D---d---t---n, or Young, shew forth
(They better can, and know) thy Worth;
What Thou, in private Life, hast done;
And how, in publick Station, shone;
What Honours got; what Glory yet remains
To crown thy Fortune, and reward thy Pains—

VIII

Methinks, the wish'd-for Time is nigh,
When Thou, O Walpole, Titled high,
Shalt fix the Crowd's adoring Eyes,
As now thy Virtues charm the Wise.
How will they worship, when they view the Duke,
Who, at the Knight, with Fear and Reverence, look?

IX

Then let the Bards thy Bounty fed,
Or whom thy Praise and Friendship made,
With Strength and Skill, united, Joyn
To make thy Monument divine—
No borrowed Ornaments they need to use:
Thy native Worth will best supply the Muse.

X

Upon the noble Pile of Fame,
Which Others rear to Walpole's Name,
May my small Turret find a Place,
Nor to the Building bring Disgrace!
Joyn'd to their Works, how lasting wou'd it be?
How shine, when gilded with the Praise of Thee?

The Sine-Cure, Equivalent, Promotion, and Alternative.

THE SUBSCRIPTION:

AN ANACREONTIQUE, To the Noble and Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE, Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter.

------ Nile sine Te ------
Hor.

Walpole, Oracle of Sense!
Prodigy of Eloquence!
Guarantee of Publick Credit;
And the very Man, who made it!

Best of Ministers and Friends!
See, O See, your Poet bends—
Mitchell makes another Leg,
And has something new to beg.

Lo! to curry your Excuse,
In his Hand he brings the Muse,
Not for Place, or Pension praying,
Nor his Worth and Parts displaying;
But most humbly representing,
That his Works are now a Printing,
Volumes two! Octavo size!
Royal Paper! Guinea Price!
One to Stair, and one address'd
To your Self, his Patrons best!
Patrons, Both of noble Names!
Mitchell's ever sacred Themes!

And, whereas He has not yet
Got the Riches He's to get;
Nor can well defray this Charge,
Without a Subscription large;
May it therefore please your Honour,
(Once a Year to him a Donor)
To accept and to dispose
Ten Times Ten Receipts in Prose—
Or (which is the same in Greek,
If a Muse so plain may speak)
Pay the Value, half, or whole;
Either wou'd inspire his Soul,
Whether Peace, or War, ensue,
Still to Sing, and Sing of You.

TO THE Right Honourable The Lord Viscount KILLMOREY.

Killmorey, Chief of long ennobled Blood!
Young, and yet Wise! and, tho' a Gallant, Good!
Last, but not least of Patrons to a Bard,
Who never basely buckled for Reward;
Never to Fools or Knaves inglorious bow'd,
Flatter'd the Vulgar Great, nor coax'd the abject Crowd.

To such a Bard, distinguishably odd!
Permission grant to deviate from the Mode:
Let your lov'd Mitchell offer you his Lays,
Unstain'd by venal, prostituted, Praise.
He, highly favour'd, but presumes to bring
The Strains Your Self inspir'd his Muse to sing;
Thoughts on an humble Theme, in Verse unchim'd,
By your own Influence happily sublim'd!
So Phillips sung: Your Poet eyes his Muse,
As distant, He, great Milton's Track pursues!
No trivial Task to keep such Worth in View:
But great, indeed, to be indulg'd by You!
Whose Morn of Life, like other's Noon, appears!
Mature in Glory, while but green in Years!
Improve the Age's Wonder and Delight—
But can a human Mind be more divinely bright?

In vain, my Lord, in foreign Courts you roam—
You carried greater Excellence from Home.
In your Deportment, we behold, at once,
The boasted Charms of Italy and France.
Places and Things, unseen, you may explore;
But learn no Virtues strange to you before;
No nobler Manners, no politer Turn;
Nothing that more Killmorey can adorn!
O may your Life be Heaven's peculiar Care,
And, for Britannia's sake, her Hope and Glory spare!
But, doom'd to narrow Bounds, and humble State,
In vain your Poet tries to temper Fate:
Capricious Fortune down his Genius weighs,
And feeds his Muse with unsubstantial Praise,
Tho' Stair and Walpole promise better Days!

By Them, that fickle Goddess fix'd, may yet
Smile on his Labours, and enrich his Wit.
The Time approaches, I the Day foresee,
When Mitchell worth ten thousand Pounds shall be!
In Coach and Chariot, loll away his Cares!
Nor need a Cobler—but for Flanders Mares!

LONDON, May 1726.

Mitchell.

THE SHOE-HEEL:

A RHAPSODY.

Dicam insigne recens, adhuc
Indictum Ore alio ------
Hor.

Ill fare the Miscreant, who, to Mischief prone,
In fatal Hour, by Star malignant rul'd,
The whole World's Crimes appropriating, first,
Invented Styles, dire Structures! to oppose
And break the peaceful Course of Passengers
In rural Fields. The Wretch, by Heav'n abandon'd,
Had studied long, and try'd ten thousand Sins
Of blackest Dye, ere this curs'd Art was found,
To thoughtful Men eternally a Plague.

This, whilom wandering by fair Iver's Stream,
Across the Meads, unwary, I experienc'd;
For, (wonderful to tell!) as stradling o'er
A Log, that high above its Fellows rais'd
Its Head inglorious, sudden slipp'd my Foot,
And, from my Shoe, its Heel attendant forc'd,
Deplorable! A Step of Danger full!
So had it prov'd to my important Limbs,
But that they're sacred, as my Muse, inspir'd
With Thoughts of Virtue, and Killmorey's House,
Bless'd House! where Plenty and Content abound;
And He, young Peer, the Shame of hoary Years,
And Standard of Nobility, vouchsafes
Friendship to Bards. O long, long may He live
His Country's Blessing, and its Boast renown'd!
This be my Morning and my Evening Prayer.
Of him, most grateful Theme! my Thoughts were full,

As from the Style, astonied, erst I fell,
Yet rose unhurt—Such was the Care of Heav'n!
So to be sav'd, I'll ever have such Thoughts,
And to Killmorey consecrate the Muse.

Had Vice employ'd my Mind, or any Theme
Less worthy than that Peer, of Parts egregious!
My Neck itself, in Twain disjoin'd, had then
Vented last Breath, Terrifick Thought! Alone,
And unassisted, I had left the Stage,
Stripp'd of my mortal Garments, immature;
And, on the Banks of Iver's crystal Stream,
My Ghost had murmur'd with the rolling Tide,
Incessant! dismal Consort to my Friends,
Shou'd any Friends my Funeral survive.

Thou, Stuart, Friend select, wou'dst then have wept
O'er my benighted Corps; and seen it laid,
With due Decorum, in a solemn Vault,
From Eyes and Hands, unhallowed, far apart.
Near fair Stuarta, too soon faded Flow'r,
Sister of Murray's Earl, Great Scotian Chief,
In Church of Iver, consecrated Ground,
My stranger Clay might decently have lain,
Pacifick, till the dreadful Trumpet's Sound
Summon the Dead to Judgment, Great Assize!
To Sons of Men eternally momentuous!

Mean while, Killmorey, generous Lord, had deign'd
To wait my Hearse, and see due Honours paid
To Bard, late lov'd. Nor had'st ev'n Thou, Maria,
Pattern of Virtue and refin'd Behaviour!

Deny'd thy condescending Grace. Perhaps
Thy Female Offspring, heavenly fair! had join'd
Maternal Pity; and vouchsaf'd, lamenting,
To say of me, “He dy'd, alas! too soon,
“And merited a better Fate.” Sweet Words
From Lips more sweet! so to be prais'd and mourn'd,
What Poet would not die? bless'd Elegy,
Inspir'd by Excellence so near Divine!

Yet stop, my Fancy—the Idea pains:
'Tis better far, that I the Danger 'scap'd,
Exulting: Ev'n my Ancle is unsprain'd!
Only, like a lame Traveller, o'er the Fields,
Darkling, I hopp'd. So Mulciber, of Old,
(As Homer, Sire of Verse, majestick, sings)
Limp'd as he walk'd; for, thrown by angry Jove,
Sheer o'er the crystal Battlements of Heav'n,

A Summer's Day he fell; and, in the Fall,
Batter'd his Skull and Heel, on Lemnian Ground.
This Vulcan was a God! a Mortal I,
By Birth—But deathless, by the Muse, confirm'd!
As heal'd, by Sinthians He, so was my Shoe,
By Killingsworth, at Iver much Renown'd;
Cobler in Chief to the laborious Swains!

To him, great Man! did soon a trusty Page,
Eager t'oblige a Bard (for all Domesticks
Of Lord Killmorey boast a Taste refin'd)
Convey my Calches. He, well-skill'd in Art,
In Minutes few, in perfect Union join'd
The sever'd Parts. So whilom Anna spoke
Discordant Kingdoms into lasting Peace.

O may kind Pow'rs his pious Pains reward,
And soon distorted Muscles of his Wife,
(Of which my broken Calches was a Type
Prophetick,) be replac'd! prodigious Chasm
In Female Mould! So yawn'd Rome's Forum wide,
'Till Curtius, noble Youth! jump'd in, undaunted.
But Killingsworth, heroick Youngster, forth
From Orifice wide, discontinuous, broke;
Promise of future Usefulness to Men!
Offspring immortal, of a deathless Sire,
O'er rev'rend Crispin's self Superior fam'd;
Or him, who, whistling, happy in his Stall,

Eighth Harry, Royal Rambler, erst observ'd,
Envious, astonish'd; and, ambitious won,
By means of Shoe, by regal Force unheel'd,
To Friendship high. Such shou'd the Friendship be
Of Kings and Coblers. So great Harry judg'd,
And to a Cellar call'd his lov'd Compeer;
For Wine reveals and joins the Hearts of Men.
Social, they drank, and laugh'd, and talk'd, and sung;
Nor parted, till, in homely Hall, a Pot
Of nappy Ale, twice ten Years barrell'd up,
And Anno Domini with Rev'rence nam'd,
Was quaff'd. But Joan, of Fellowship the Bane,
Waking from Sleep, and grumbling, drove the Prince
To Court, reluctant: Yet not ere join'd Hands
Sanction'd the mutual Promise of true Love
And Friendship lasting. Soon to Court the Son
Of Crispin hied, a City Beau! to find

His Harry Tudor; not without Consent,
(Who wou'd have thought it?) of imperious Joan!
But Wives, sometimes, are christianly dispos'd!
Can Language tell the Cobler's vast Surprize,
Terrors, Distraction, when in Royal Robes
He found his Fellow? but divested soon
Of Majesty and State, to Cellar rich,
Th' indulgent Prince the welcom Fav'rite led,
And drank him up to Sov'reignty of Soul!
Fit Partner and Companion then confest!
Mirth was renew'd, and Friendship faster bound.
Nor stop'd Great Harry, till fair forty Marks,
Huge Pension then! were settled on the Man
Of gentle Craft. Example take, ye Kings;
And wisely chuse the Fav'rites of your Grace.
Merit, like Air, is unconfin'd and free,
But most in Stalls and humble Huts abounds.

Did not divine Eumæus keep the Hogs?
And, in his Garden, old Laertes seek
Sweet Consolation for his absent Son,
Ulysses sage; nor yet disdain'd to plow
And dung his Ground with his imperial Hand?
This weighing well, I, more than mortal Bard,
Have made a Friend of Killingsworth, renown'd!
Ne'er may the Union of our Hearts be broke.
Vain Fear! while Iver nappy Ale affords;
Or various Wines Killmorey's Cellar stores.

Hadst thou, O Philips, Bard prodigious! found
A Taylor, dextrous as my Cobler, ne'er
Had Verse of thine the horrid Chasm confess'd
Of Galligaskins; at which Winds alternate
With chilling Blasts, tumultuous enter'd in.
Oft, as I read thy live Description, Tears

My Cheeks bedew; and oft, I curse the Times,
And Taste of Men, who suffer'd Thee to sing
Thy Woes so rueful! Had I flourish'd then,
My Coat, my Shirt, had freely gone to Pawn,
To purchase Galligaskins sound for Thee.
Long, very long, may I th' Affliction scape!
And Cash or Credit find t'appear Abroad,
Decent in Dress! ne'er may my leathern Bag,
Or silken Purse, a splendid Shilling want.
Twice ten fair Pieces, Residue of Cash
By generous Stair, on Fav'rite Bard bestow'd,
Enrich'd my Fob, and cheer'd the grateful Muse,
When whilom Killingsworth, with Art ingenious,
Doctor'd my Shoe—Homer had ne'er so much!
A Sterling Pound how rare the Poet's Boast,
In Iron Age; when Patrons rise as rare,
As Peaches, in rough Hyperborean Climes,

And ope their Coffers bounteous to the Muse,
As Priests to Parish Poor distribute Alms;
Or Presbytry fair Testimonials gives
To free-born Genius, and Wit unslav'd.
Tremendous Zeal of Kirk-men, blindly urg'd
Against Heav'n's Gift, and Providence Supreme!
Such I experienc'd, in my youthful Days,
Where Love of Poesy was deem'd a Crime,
By blind Prosaick Leaders of the Blind;
Source of the Sorrows I have felt, or feel,
In Life! Thee Ballandine, how shall I thank
For Cash, or Credit, Liberty, or Breath?
In future Ages thou shalt live in Song,
Tartuf the Second:—This thy Merits claim,
And I th' Arrears to Merit due will pay.

But stop, my Muse, thy Course digressive here,
Nor Killingsworth with Ballandine profane,
By Episode, unwary, hurried far.
Joyous, I turn to hail the Cobler's Art,
And, in my Verse, emblaze his proper Acts,
Momentuous! May I ne'er debase the Theme!
O cou'd my Muse pursue th' Example bright!
As well-beat Leather, strong shou'd be my Sense,
And sharp, as Awls, my Wit. His hempen Threads
No surer stitch the Chasms of broken Soles,
Than my Connexion, nervous, firm my Strains,
And fit my Labours for eternal Use.
But I, alas! at Distance far, unskill'd,
Copy the Pattern of great Killingsworth,
Unrivall'd Cobler! what Physician fam'd,
Arbuthnot, Mead, or Sloan, with like Success,

Can cure the human Body, spent with Toil,
Or worn with Age? Well were it for the Town,
Could'st thou, St. Andre, of upstarted Fame!
Or thou, O Douglas, dislocated Bones
Rejoin, secure; or broken Limbs restore
To pristine Soundness; as ingenious He,
Sudden and cheap, renews decrepit Shoes,
Or stops an Orifice in leathern Boots!
Thou R---n, vers'd in Ruptures by Receipt,
And deem'd a Doctor for thy want of Skill,
Why rid'st thou in gilt Chariot, while a-Foot
Great Killingsworth, in Art and Virtue grey,
Is doom'd, alas! to trudge it all in Rags?
Well for the Church, that Wake and Hoadley, fam'd,
By his Example, and unerring Method,
Cou'd cure the wounded Consciences of Men,
And heal the Souls of Sinners; direful Case!

But, O how bless'd, how happy were the Realm,
Did Statesmen learn of Killingsworth to act,
Preserve the Peace, and hoard no ill-got Wealth!
But George's Reign, like old Saturnian Times,
Screens no malignant Mind, no Practice vile.

Thee, Killingsworth, no Subtlety perverts,
No Vanity, no Pride inflames. Thy Stall,
Sweet Seat! is void of Envy, Cares, and Strife.
There sitt'st Thou, arm'd with Hammer, Lench, and Awl,
Within pacifick Walls enthron'd, and pleas'd:
So, in his Tub, Diogenes was wont
To scorn the World, and feast on calm Content.
O how unlike was he, of Ludgate-Hill!
Whose Pride, elate, by Bickerstaff expos'd,
Is Satire pointed at all Ranks of Men,

Fantastick, and high-fum'd. This Artist, vain,
Great Lover of Respect, (aloof from him,
Fateful, alas! with-held,) the Figure of a Beau,
In Window plac'd; vile Sycophant of Wood,
Bending profound to pay unmeant Respect.
Under left Arm a Hat, and, in right Hand
Of Arm extended, was some Wax, or Thread,
Or Candle held, as most the Master's Use
Avail'd. O strange Idolatry inverted!
In which the Image to the Man did Homage!
But Earth abounds with his upheav'd Compeers.
All meditate Dominion, and wou'd rule
O'er Birds, or Beasts, or their own Kind, tyrannick.
Each Mortal from Inferiors looks for Praise,
Observance, or Submission, to Desert
Imagin'd due; for few in Question call
Their proper Merit, and superior Right

To Rev'rence; nor, but scantling, cease Emprize
Enormous, proud Ambition's End to reach.
Curs'd Affectation of despotick Sway!
Of human Nature, Reason, Sense, the Bane,
Reproach, Disgrace! on Folly founded still!
By Puffs of Flatt'ry oft to Madness blown!
But most absurd in Minds of low Degree,
Heav'n-doom'd to Darkness, and Oblivion dire.
Such this Invention, upon Ludgate-Hill,
Of Cobler, erst anonymous. In Cits
Of humblest Rank, and weakest Brain, Conceit
Reigns lawless, insolent; and through all Steps
Of Greatness, may be trac'd infuriate. But
Exempt from this Disease, wide spreading, stands
Wise Killingsworth: Nor human Nature he,
Nor gentle Craft disfigures: Ever calm,
Modest and Meek, his peerless Mind controlls

Secret Resentment, Seeds of Self-Esteem,
And Passions, that make Havock of the Brain.
Let Young and Old, the Rich and Poor observe
The Pattern rare; so shall they 'scape Contempt
Or Bedlam, natural Consequence of Pride,
Dire Prologue to a World of Woes, Hell-bred.

Why, O my Stars, was I not bred a Cobler?
A Trade unsordid! Tricking Mortals, learn
To cobble Shoes, and let the World grow good.
Ye Jobbers, Jews, and Brokers, O be taught
To deal upright, as Killingsworth directs
By Pattern honest. Let Attorneys quit
Their Pettifogging Arts, and leave Mankind
To follow Nature, Equity's great Friend.
Justice, and Law, and Peace, are best maintain'd
By Reason plain and pure. These, ever sound,

No Cobling need; or but few Sages wise
In good Repair to keep the Commonweal.
O when will Men improve the Trade of Truth,
Know their own Strength, and use their Talents right!
Discern, ye Scriblers, O discern your Skill,
Your proper Genius, and betimes apply
Your Talents, studious, to Creation's End.
For me, I'd rather serve a Swain for Hire,
And purchase Bread according to the Curse
Of Adam, fall'n from Grace, than plague Mankind
With senseless Metre; or ev'n shine renown'd
In noble Verse, for all Things else unfit,
In all Things else unskill'd. Condition dire!
So great Achilles, in the Elysian Scenes,
Preferr'd a Life of Abstinence and Toil,
Before Dominion o'er unbody'd Shades.

O Happiness of humble State and Rank!
Sweet Industry, the Child of sacred Virtue!
How bless'd is Life, sequester'd from the Town,
Where one eternal Round of Hurry reigns.
In humble Greatness Killingsworth grows old,
Happy, and useful to his Neighb'ring Swains,
A Loyal Subject, and a Churchman true!
Yet both by Chance—for he's above Design:
Assur'd that bold Enquiry might disturb
His Halcyon Ease, and Primitive Repose.
Whatever Mischief happens on the Earth,
In his Asylum, 'midst his Tools invelopt,
Safe, he remains, and, unconcern'd, is blest!
So while rough Thunder rends the dark'ning Clouds,
And dreadful Bolts their furious Forces waste
On tow'ring Hills, the humble Plain, secure,
Mocks the loud Roar, and Heav'n's Artillery 'scapes.

Were I to have my Choice (but ah! my Stars
Look with ill Aspect, and deny my Wish,)
Near Iver's Stream, of Waters most Supreme!
A Residence I'd chuse: best Boon of Heav'n!
Such Cobler's-Hall delectable appears,
Rare Product of ingenious Skill and Toil
Of Killingsworth, Sire to the boasted Man,
Whom fain my Muse wou'd imitate and praise.
Happy Killmorey, who, in Cobler's-Hall,
Enjoyest Elysium. But that Thou dwell'st there,
I'd covet that Abode, of rural Seats
Pre-eminent. Yet Me, an humble Bard,
An humbler House may please. A narrow Room
May serve my Rank: But let me have it neat,
And clean, ye Gods; tho' but one Chair, or Stool,
Stand by th' Table—and let Sheets be savoury,

100

And Landlady not sluttish, nor severe,
As whilom G---r, Parsons's Relict, prov'd
To R---t and B---n, who fair Iver chose
For Residence. Good Taste! to fix on Iver;
But too hard Fate, to meet ill Usage there!
Yet cheer, fair Ladies, and recal to Mind,
How, ev'n in Seats celestial, Discord rose
Thro' Pride of Lucifer, of Rebels chief,
Whom Pow'r Almighty, (so great Milton sings)
Hurl'd headlong, flaming, from the Ethereal Sky
With hideous Ruin and Combustion, down
To bottomless Perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine Chains, and penal Fire.

Save us, good Heav'n, from such a dire Extreme,
Of Crime and Vengeance—Fate of Souls abandon'd
Of Grace! But, shun, my Muse, the dismal Thought,

101

Nor with horrifick Images confound
Iver, the Scene of Pleasure and of Love,
My Residence desir'd. There lodg'd, I'd pass
My flying Years, from Noise and Hurry free,
O'er all my Passions watchful, and supreme!
As from the snowy Tops of Alpine Hills,
I'd view the spacious Sea of human Woes,
Pitying and pleas'd. Oh sacred heav'nly Life,
Undash'd with Cares, or Spleen; and wrapt secure
In ornamental Virtues, Garment rare!
Thus shou'd my Years, in grateful Circle, rowl;
And fair shou'd be my Character and Fame,
Fair as the new-fall'n Snow, or whiter Skin
Of Curate's Daughter, Jane, an Iver Toast!
Tho' to adorn my Head, no Bays arise,
The peaceful Olive shou'd content my Mind.
Instead of marble Pillars, I'd survey

102

Tall Pyramids of Cypress Ever-green;
And, in the Place of arch'd and gilded Roofs,
Contemplate Heaven's great Canopy of State.
Forgetful, Thornhill, of thy Light and Shade,
Thy blended Colours, artfully dispos'd,
My Eyes wou'd feast on variegated Scenes,
And Prospects, form'd by Nature for Delight;
Palms, Myrtle-Groves, green Valleys, Mountains, Hills,
And bubbling Streams, as Crystal clear, and cold
As Thracian Ice, thro' flow'ry Meads, dispers'd,
Should more than make amends for want of Art,
On Canvas drawn by thy ingenious Hand.
Content with Little, and retir'd from Crowds,
My Stock of Wit I would not misapply,
To flatter Fools, or wicked Men in Pow'r.
Domestick Troubles too I'd wisely shun,
And rather fly, like J---n, Bard of Beef!

103

To an aërial Citadel, well-pleas'd,
Than, in first Floor of sumptuous Shew, reside,
With Dame contentious. So, in holy Writ,
Avers the Wisdom of the wisest Man,
Hight Solomon, of Israel erst the King.
His Song of Songs I'd oft repeat, enraptur'd:
And oft, O C---ll, thy Circassian read,
Of Verse politest It, of Priests thy self!
Oft wou'd I drown dull Thought in homely Ale
Of Country Vicar. Oft with honest Swains,
On quaint Expressions and Conundrums keen,
I'd whiff Tobacco, grateful Herb: yet ne'er
Wou'd I lose Time with Master, whom Estate
And want of Wit, make Coxcomb; Booby bred!
He with strong Beer and Ale the Country rules,
By long hereditary Right of Folly.
I love the Simple, Jovial Swains,—but tremble

104

At Sight of Fools. So, with her Hairs erect,
And chilly Sweat, Ophelia, harmless Soul!
Beholds a Rat, or Mouse, a-cross the Floor
Scud fleet, or sculk in Closet dark perdue.
Me no deep Veneration does inspire
For eldest Sons of Squires, with Coats broad-lac'd,
That smell like Civit Cats. Come not, my Soul,
Into their Habitation; nor again
Ride out by Five, and pass half Days fatigu'd,
With T---, like Nimrod, mighty Huntsman, there.
Why should my Pleasure issue in Fatigue?
Such prov'd the Sport, when whilom with thy Hounds
And Thee, I beat the neighbouring Thickets round
Fair Iver many a Mile, prodigious Task!
And all in vain,—but that I found a Crab,
Apple delicious to a thirsty Palate!
In Fields of Lady Montague yclip'd.

105

So, to a Traveller o'er Numidian Wastes,
A Stream proves Luxury! exhausted quite,
And tir'd, he takes the Fortune of the Chase,
Whether in quest of Prey, the Desart wide
He traverses, or seeks some distant Land.

Me long and tedious Courses never please:
Rather, for Recreation, let me walk
And exercise my Limbs! and oft, O sweet!
Angle the River! oft, o'er Birds unweeting,
Spread the delusive Net. Yet save me, Heaven,
From each Desire voluptuous and cruel;
By Massacre of thy defenceless Creatures,
To feed my Maw, and make my self the Grave
Of Beasts, and Birds, and Fish, Creation's Pride.
For Sport, I'd catch 'em—but to let 'em 'scape
Unhurt! the short-liv'd Sorrow wou'd enhance
The joyous Boon of Liberty aerial.

106

Thrice wretched Men, from whom wise Heav'n conceals
The Knowledge of this great, important, Truth,
That little with Contentment is best Cheer,
And half a large Estate excells the Whole!
Unhappy, who cou'd ne'er perceive the Sweets,
The Luxury of wholsome Roots and Herbs!
But blest beyond Expression They, who crown'd
With Plenty, chuse Retirement from the Crowd,
And please themselves with what the Country yields.
How greatly Horace, at his Sabin Seat,
Or fair Tiburtin Manor blest, declin'd
The Pride and Cares of State, tho' Cæsar's Self
Invited, as a Friend! Nor was he blam'd.
Wise Men have idle Hours t'unbend their Minds,
Turmoil'd with Cares and Studies, Flesh-corroding.
From Books and Men, St. Evremond and Steele,

107

Lov'd Names and everlasting! oft repair'd
To fam'd Duck-Island, Government desir'd,
And with the feath'ry Habitants convers'd,
Hens, Ducks, and Geese, by crumbled Bread made social,
And fatned for the Royal Board; as erst
(So Romish Legends tell, and Dupes believe)
With Gospel Food the Father fed the Fish
Esurient, and confirm'd them in the Faith;
Fit Dishes then for Table of the Saints!
If Saints, Heav'n shrin'd, in Delicates delight,
Sav'ry to Priests, and Cardinals, and Popes,
All Maw-devoted, tho' in Spirit pure!
Heroes and Kings, Philosophers and Bards,
Great Souls! sometimes regale themselves, unbent,

108

With low Diversions, vulgarly yclip'd
Dishes of Romps. Agesilaus, erst
On Hobby-Horse astride, with Children dear,
Was by th' Ambassadors of Sparta found,
Surpriz'd; but soon his Dignity resum'd.
Transition strange, but nat'ral to the Great!
Scipio and Lælius, Noble, Brave, Polite,
Sought Moments vacant; and, with low Disport,
Varied Retirement, and their Friendship crown'd:
Oft on the Sea-shore would they gather Shells,
Amusive; and their Shape and Colour view;
As Woodward, curious Modern! or Sir Hans,
The unregarded Works of Nature eyes,
Enamour'd; and by Trifling grows a Sage!
Trifling agreeable, by Tully prais'd,
Stern Cato's self descended oft to Glee,
Soul-cheering; and, incellar'd with a Knot

109

Of honest Friends, wou'd put the Bottle round
Frank and facetious. Rome's imperial Lord,
Augustus hight, with Moorish Boys vouchsaf'd
To play at Marbles, Rival Game of Taw,
By Moderns us'd! sweet Relaxation That
From Government of all the World below.
But not among Amusements of the Great
Be nam'd Domitian's Exercise with Flies,
Ridiculous, horrifick. Far from Praise
Of hallow'd Muse be Princes and their Crimes,
To Virtue, Innocence, and Truth estrang'd,
Howe'er, by Parasites deceitful, hail'd.
Ev'n in their Gambols graceful are the Wise;
Their Condescensions elegant and lovely!
How amiable Walpole with his Friends,
His old, well-try'd, and honest Friends, retir'd
From publick State and Care! whether a Pot

110

Of sober Porter, healthful English Drink,
Or Punch more potent, he vouchsafe to taste,
Social, good-humour'd; or a Hunting rides,
Easy and free, as rural Squire, unvers'd
In Policy and Government Sublime.
'Twould do one Good to see how I, ev'n I,
Bred on Parnassus' Summit, condescend,
In Stall of Killingsworth, to low Chit-chat,
And, greatly humble, finger Threads and Wax,
And Awl, like one in Arts of cobling skill'd!
We God-like Minds disdain not abject State,
By Virtue bless'd; and are the more rever'd,
The less tremendous we appear to Mortals.

Serv'd with clean Linnen, and with simple Fare,
I'd rise from Table, or from verdant Turf,
With Appetite to Study, or for Sport.

111

Variety, and new-found Dishes, I
Not covet: They bring on a noxious Train
Of foul Diseases on the human Frame;
And Bodies, so affected, clog the Mind,
Dire Influence! and urge untimely Death.
Rather I'd glut my Soul with Heav'nly Truths,
And Nature's Store, than pamper mortal Flesh.
But most in Conversation wou'd I joy
With Stuart, of Companions most refin'd!
Or thou, O Wright, an honest Lawyer! vers'd
In Reason's School, should'st entertain my Ear
With Sentiments of Freedom, British Boast;
And greedily thy Notions of the Priests,
In Craft accomplish'd, wou'd my Soul receive.
And, Oh! how charmful there, with antient Times,
Oft to converse! Thy Trumpet, Homer, now,
Now, Ovid's Lute, shou'd vary my Delight.

112

Thy Judgment Maro, and the Sterling Wit
Of Horace, favourite Bard! shou'd raise my Mind
To Rapture. And, when modern Names invite,
Buchanan, deathless Bard! shou'd first engage
My Reverence: Shakespeare, Spencer, Milton, next;
Nor Thee, harmonious Cowley, wou'd I slight,
Nor Dryden, thee: No better Strains I'd court,
Nor better cou'd I find. Sometimes my self,
By these inspir'd, wou'd string the gentle Lyre,
Perhaps awake the Trumpet, and sublime
My Strains, to Heav'n and to my Country due!

But, when Civility or just Respect
Obliges me to visit honest Friends,
Or neighbouring Dwellers, on a pacing Nag,
Sober, I'd make a Tour to Windsor now,

113

And now to Uxbridge. Thy calm Seat, O Booth,
Pride of the British Stage, I'd not pass by,
Tho' Dennis self, indignant, warn'd me thence.
Oft on the verdant Margin of the Stream,
That, circling flows, as Crystal clear, along
Th' exterior Bounds of thy Inclosures fair,
I'd walk transported! while thy Silver Tongue,
More tuneful than the gently gliding Rills,
Thro' list'ning Ears, shou'd strike my ravish'd Soul,
And charm it into Extasie! Nor wou'd
I pass thy Dwelling, Ol---, but that Rage
And Jealousy might seize thy manly Friend.
Me no base Thoughts possess: To shew Respect
Is all my Meaning. Shall a Bard not praise
The Beauty, Wit and Taste, he must admire?

114

Excellent Actress, follow Nature still,
Heedless of what the Cynick World can say.
So, when soft Venus conquer'd warlike Mars,
And, curling in his Arms, by Vulcan's Net,
Lay in dear Thraldom, every conscious God,
Who call'd it Shame, his happy Station wish'd,
And, in his Heart, pronounc'd it sweet Disgrace.

Thus wou'd I live, prepar'd for all Events
Of Fortune, and for Change or Loss of Friends;
For all below is vain, as Shadows fleet.
And, when my merry Years and Days are gone,
(For Piety itself cannot withstand
Th' Approach of wrinkled Age, and certain Death,)
I'd keep at Home, sollicitous to drop
Like Autumn Fruit, well-mellow'd, to the Earth,
My kindred, and maternal Clay! at Peace

115

With Heav'n, my Conscience, and Mankind, at once.
Yet would I die before my Senses fail,
Ere I grow irksom to my self and Friends,
Without the Ceremony of a Priest,
Or Form of a Physician. Rather may
My Relatives invite to my Bed-Side
Sage Killingsworth, to witness how I leave
The World by him despis'd: Or let a Choir
Of skill'd Musicians, both for Voices fam'd,
And Instruments select, attune my Soul,
And on their Notes transport it to the Skies!
How fitted then, I'd mix among the Saints!

116

With Moses, David, Casimir, Carstairs,
Musicians, Poets, Priests, and Kings, enthron'd,
Hymning, extatick, to th' Eternal's Praise!
And, if the Pow'r Almighty and All-wise
Approve my Wish, I shall not wail the Loss
Of visual Orbs; tho', by thick Films suffus'd
And painful Weakness, much I dread the Fate
Of Milton, who, with darken'd Eyes, but Mind
Illumin'd bright, in Verse unchim'd, the Dictates
Of Heav'n proclaim'd to Men, prodigious Bard!
When under Turf or Stone my Corps is laid,
(Both equal to me then!) I shall not care,
Nor know, what Men say of my Works and me.
Words are but Wind, in Latin or in Greek.
Yet for the Satisfaction of the Few,
Who wish my Memory well, may what is said
Be good, tho' little: I'd have honest Fame,

117

However small! and let my noble Stair,
Argyle, or Walpole, Hamilton, Balfour,
Or Lauderdale, Kilmorey, or the King,
(For Poets are the great Concern of all!
And all to Mitchell Patrons are confess'd!)
My sacred Bones deposite in the Isle,
To Bards devoted; and a decent Tomb,
Near Philips, raise, with Epitaph deserv'd:
Or, if in Caledonian Climes I drop,
(For I not yet foresee my Place of Death)
At Ratho, mix'd with Kindred Clay, I'd rest
Beneath a Marble Stone, inscrib'd J. M.
To tell Posterity whose Dust lies there.
No richer Epitaph I court! what Profit
Cou'd studied Phrases bring my mouldring Part?

118

And, for my Soul, it then wou'd have no Leisure,
Howe'er dispos'd in Realms of Bliss or Woe,
To mind what's written, or what Men might say.

Thus, in continu'd Rhapsody, I've sung,
Philippian Verse, unknowing ev'ry Line
What next wou'd follow: Inspiration strange!
Thus holy Men, in early Christian Times,
Careless of a To-morrow, took no Thought
What then might happen, and were bless'd of Heav'n.

Mrs. Killingsworth was deliver'd of a young Cobler, the very Night after her Husband had mended the Poet's Shoe. Such was the Will of Fate!

The tutelar Saint and Patron of Coblers in Popish Countries. No doubt, the Man had been extremely devout in his Stall, and wrought Miracles with his Awl and Hempen Threads.

Pity his Name is not recorded in our Chronicles. The Curious may see the History at large in a little Treatise, entitled, The History of the King and the Cobler, adorn'd with Cuts.

See the Splendid Shilling.

The Presbytery of Edinburgh, where the Author some time studied to be a Parson, refused him their Testimony and Licence, because he had read and recommended Dramatic Poetry, and would not believe and pronounce the Stage to be in itself absolutely unlawful, and an Abomination in the Eyes of the Lord.

See the Tattler, Number 127.

See the Sine-Cure: A Poetical Petition to the Right Honourable Robert Walpole, Esq; for the Government of Duck-Island in St. James's Park.

It is storied by Popish Writers, that when Men refused to hear and believe his Doctrine, the great St. Anthony of Padua preach'd to a Congregation of Fishes, who greedily devour'd the Gospel, and were miraculously converted to the Faith. See Addison's Travels.

Mr. Booth had a Country Seat at Cowley, which he has sold to Mr. Rich, since this Poem was writ.

See the Ode on the Power of Musick, (first publish'd Anno Dom. 1710.) In which are these Lines;

------ And when I die,
For Love I bore to Harmony,
May round my Bed a Sacred Choir
Of skill'd Musicians sweep the Lyre;
That, dying with the gentle Sounds,
My Soul, well-tun'd, may rise,
And break o'er all the common Bounds
Of Minds, that grovel here below the Skies.

The Monument of Mr. John Philips in Westminster Abbey.

The Name of the Parish and Village where the Author was born in North-Britain.

119

EPILOGUE TO THE Spanish Fryar.

[_]

Spoken by Mr. QUIN, on Saturday, May 2. 1725. In the Character of the Fryar.

[_]

The Lines mark'd with a Star [*] are borrow'd from the Original Epilogue.

Grace after Meat, is decent, Sirs, at least,
And who's so fit to say it, as a Priest?
—But there are scrup'lous Souls, I understand,
Who will not take a Blessing off my Hand.
'Tis true, according as I have been painted,
I'm not, as yet, prepar'd for being Sainted.

120

Yet, 'tis as true, some have been Canoniz'd,
Whose Wickedness was little more disguis'd.
Two Blacks indeed can never make a White,
Nor others Faults make me the more Upright.
I frankly own, I'm a sad Dog—By Trade,
A carnal Pimp, in pious Masquerade.
(And this Confession from a Priest, you'll say,
Is not a Thing that happens every Day.)
Sin is my Business, and my Daily Bread,
From People's Vice my Benefits proceed.
* 'Tis by their living ill, that I live well,
* And their Debauches these fat Paunches swell.
The Priest's a Fool, who is at Vice displeas'd—
Are Doctors vex'd to find Mankind diseas'd?
* But whether we be angry, Sirs, or civil,
* 'Tis a Mock-War betwixt us, and the Devil.

121

At this my Doctrine, some may take Offence;
But Lovers, sure, are Folks of better Sense.
And, if Intriguing be the Good Old Way,
Then Popery's best, whate'er Reformers say,
At least, most pleasing, in this Month of May.
Whoe'er wou'd give a Loose to Nature, come,
And revel in the Courts of Love, and Rome.
With us, Love's Carnival is still in Season,
And Absolution asks no Leave of Reason.
* Gold is the Word—bring that, and all goes well,
* There is no Dives in the Roman Hell.
There's no Indulgence, without ready Rhino,
That only makes our Blessings Jure Divino.
That rules the World, and puts Things in right Posture;
But ------
No Pay, no Swiss; no Pence, no Pater-Noster.

122

POLTIS, King of Thrace;

OR, THE Peace-Keeper:

A TALE, from Plutarch: Address'd to the Powers of Europe, in the Year 1726.

Ere Europe's Peace is broken quite,
Ere Fleets and Armies meet in Fight,
Ere Blood is spilt, and Treasure spent,
Ere Crowns are lost, and Kingdoms rent,
Ye jarring Powers, with Patience, hear
A Tale, from Plutarch, worth your Ear.

When Greeks, revengeful, had decreed
Against the Trojans to proceed,

123

'Twas thought expedient to take in
What neighbouring Forces they cou'd win;
That, by collected Rage and Strength,
The Town might be their own at length.

Ambassadors, among the rest,
To Poltis carried their Request.

The Thracian, tardy, as the Dutch,
Car'd not for War and Mischief much;
But, warily, the Cause enquir'd
That had the Grecian Chiefs inspir'd
With hostile Fury—

'Twas told, with Circumstances strong,
That Menelaus suffer'd Wrong

124

From Paris, unprovok'd,—and how
Th' Adulterers liv'd together now:
But that, with his concurring Aid,
They were not in the least afraid,
But Helen shou'd be had again,
And Troy laid level with the Plain.

He, good and wise! the Matter weigh'd,
And then, in peaceful Manner, said;

“Is that your Quarrel? That your Strife?
“Is all this Pother for a Wife?
“For shame, ye Greeks, your Anger stifle,
“Nor break the Peace for such a Trifle.
“What tho' the Rape was most injurious?
“Consider, Paris' Love was furious.

125

“'Twas wrong the Grecian to supplant,
“And 'twere so, shou'd the Trojan want.
“Both must have Wives. Come,—I have two,
“And, for the Sake of Peace and you,
“(Tho' both are as belov'd by me,
“As Wives, in Conscience, ought to be)
“I'll one to that same Trojan send,
“And t'other to my Grecian Friend.
“If either of 'em shou'd again
“For want of Female Flesh complain,
“The Devil's in him. For my Part,
“I'm satisfy'd, with all my Heart;
“And must be very sick of Life,
“When I take Cudgels for a Wife.

The Greeks despis'd those Ways and Means,
T'accommodate the Difference:

126

But, headlong to the Battle rush'd,
And Ten long Years for Conquest push'd;
Lost many Pounds, and many Lives,
Worth twenty times as many Wives;
And, when, at last, the War was o'er,
What was it from the Field they bore?
Why, Falstaff's Honour, and a Whore!

127

A Lilliputian ODE ON CLARA's Dog.

I.

Little Hetty,
Kind and pretty,
Clara's Care!
O how rare
Charms like thine!
Sparks divine
Seem to shine
In thy Eyes,
Bright and wise.

128

There's a Grace
In thy Face,
Which the Sages
Of all Ages
Might admire.
It would tire
Pope and Gay
To display
Such a Dog.
Molly Mog,
Rural Toast,
England's Boast,
And thy Foil,
With less Toil,
Was proclaim'd
By their Muses fair and fam'd.

129

II.

Who wou'd not
Wish thy Lot!
To be kist,
And carest
By such Charms!
And in Arms,
So Divine,
Rest Supine
Every Night,
With Delight!
And at Board,
Like a Lord,
On a Chair
Great appear!

130

Or to lie
Softly by,
And be fed
With the Bread
And the Meats
Clara eats!
Well attended,
And defended
By her Train,
Maids and Men,
Of so great an Honour vain!

III.

What Distress
Will possess
And controul
Clara's Soul,

131

When grim Death
Stops thy Breath!
Then a Crowd,
Crying loud,
To the Clay
Shall convey
Beauty gone:
And a Stone
Shall proclaim
Thy lov'd Name:
And a Verse
Shall rehearse
And shew forth
All thy Worth.
But no Art
Can impart

132

Clara's Grief!
Nor Relief
Can her Mind
Ever find,
While poor Hetty
Fills her Thoughts—and that's Pity.

133

THE Vicar and Waggoner.

A Sunday Conversation.

Thus to his Parish Waggoner, a Priest
His Soul's Resentment zealously address'd—
“How long, how long shall I beseech in vain?
“How long of thy malignant Course complain?
“Say what I can, thou, with uplifted Hand,
“Wilt drive thy Waggon thro' the Fourth Command.
“O worse than Jew, or Infidel, or Turk,
“Why, why, on Sunday's, dost thou dare to work!
“Hop'st thou for Heav'n?—The Waggoner said, Ay,
If there's no wicked Turnpike in the Way.

134

“Turnpike! (enrag'd the holy Man reply'd)
“'Tis full of Turnpikes, and of Thorns beside.
“Yea, 'tis a narrow Path, a rugged Road—
Then, Sir, 'tis worse than e'er my Cattle trod:
Better to keep the Way, that's beat and broad.
“I tell Thee, Waggoner, the beaten Path,
“However easy, leads to certain Death.
I ne'er found that: but, Sir, what Toll's to pay?
“The Toll, (reply'd the Priest) is fast and pray.
I can't afford to fast; I can't indeed—
“Then you'll be damn'd, as sure as there's a Creed.
Ay, marry, rather than be fool'd by Priests
To starve my self, and Jade my worthy Beasts.

135

Miss Charlote at Church.

I

Miss Charlote just was Four Years old,
When first she went to Church,
Where first she saw, in a white Sheet,
A Woman at the Porch.

II

“Mamma, (she cry'd) why, all in White,
“Stands this poor Woman here?
Because she is a naughty Jade,
And has done Ill, my Dear.

III

Scarce said, when Parson C--- came,
Array'd in Surplice bright—

136

“Has he done Ill? Is he too naught?
“Or why, Mamma, in White?

IV

His Garment shews the Man of God
Is spotless all within—
“Ha! can a Sheet at once be put
“For Sanctity and Sin?

V

Hussy, be hush; you must believe,
And check such Notions wild—
But every Day makes it appear
You're Dada's own dear Child.

137

THE TOTNESS ADDRESS, VERSIFIED.

Among the many warm Addresses
Of Mayors, Aldermen, Burgesses,
And other People, truly Loyal,
(Who, now, their Zeal and Wits employ all,
To shew Your Majesty, that They
Resolve to Do, as well as Say)
We, Men of Totness, Devon, beg
Our Liege, to let us make a Leg,

138

And eke a Speech to daunt our Foes,
Where-e'er the London-Gazette goes.

Imprimis, Sir, in Strain most humble,
We'd have you know how much we grumble,
At Germany and Spain, who durst
Unite—before they warn'd us first!
And might have (had we not found out
Their Machinations) brought about
A World of Woe to You and Your Hope,
To Totness, Britain, and to Europe.

Their Schemes, too black to be reveal'd,
And yet too true to be conceal'd,
Must strike, with terrible Surprize,
All People, who have Ears and Eyes;

139

When 'tis but known they were intended
By Princes, we, so late, defended!
Princes, in whose divided Cause,
All Christendom a Deluge was!
But, now, colleagu'd, wou'd Matters jumble,
And Treaties topsy-turvy tumble!
Anticipate, the Conflagration,
By setting Fire to every Nation!
Tho' we, (who made 'em) go to Ruin—
Did ever Mortals see such Doing?

But vain are Menaces and Threats—
Forsooth, we know their former Feats;
And value, like so many Posts,
Spanish Armada's, German Hosts!
Such scare-crow Potentates may vaunt,
But not your valiant Britons daunt.

140

Alas! their whimsical Chimeras
Can ne'er affright a Land of Heroes?
Especially, since You, no doubt,
Have been at Pains to look sharp out;
And, timely, taken such wise Measures,
As will ensure our Lives and Treasures.
Then, there's your Parliament, so able;
And Ministry, incomparable,
With Spirits, indefatigable!

But, most of all—now Blood is up—behold
Your Men of Devon, ever brave and bold!
Bless us! what Heroes has our County bred?
And how your Royal Ancestors have sped,
In like Conjunctures, by their gallant Aid?
We furnish'd Drake, a Man of mighty Fame!
The Sons of Spain still tremble at his Name!

141

A Raleigh, too, from Devonshire proceeded—
But him we claim not—for he was beheaded!
And, tho' the Dorset Gentry make a Fuss,
Churchill first breath'd the vital Air with Us—
We mean great Marlborough, of immortal Story,
(Hochstedt's a Witness of this Hero's Glory)
To whose sole Arm the Empire Safety owes,
And its great Head his Victory o'er his Foes!
True; These are Dust—But some remain alive,
Who to the Devil Your Enemies will drive.
WAGER and HOSIER! There's a Brace of Tars!
Each more than Neptune, and at least a Mars!
We warrant it, they'll make the Spaniards mind 'em!
And leave to Fishes many Feasts behind 'em!
Besides, our Burough to your Senate sends,
A WILLS, among the bravest of Your Friends!

142

He, Sir, ev'n He, who now Presents our Speech,
Your Foreign Foes Fidelity will teach.
Lord, how he scourg'd rebellious Rogues, at Preston!
Ay, that's a Proof he's one, whom you may rest on!
Take but our Words, and give him Chief Command,
Ostend shall sink, and Gibraltar shall stand.

But, lest you think, Sir, this is Rant,
Nothing but Bamm, and empty Cant,
We, honest, hearty Cocks are willing,
Per Pound Land Tax to pay Four Shilling;
Nay, with such Cheerfulness allow it,
We'll toss the other SIXTEEN to it;
Tho' we should mortgage Lands and Houses,
And eke our Children and our Spouses.
Moreover, we'll most frankly part
With all we have, with all our Heart,

143

Rather than let our Faith's Defender
Be bullied, by a base Pretender—
A spurious, Popish Brat, abjur'd
By all of Loyalty assur'd!
If this we did in sober Sadness,
What mayn't we do when rouz'd to Madness?
We vow and swear, by Life's great Giver,
To fight him to our longest Liver;
And, when our longest Liver's dead,
Our Ghosts shall haunt Him, in our stead,
And fill his Coward-Soul with Dread!

This Resolution we have taken,
That, warn'd, He may preserve his Bacon;
Or shou'd he ever chance to win
A bloody Battle, and come in;

144

(Which Heav'n forbid shou'd ever be!)
Know, by these present Lines, that we
Assure Him, he'll be fairly bit,
And, on your Throne, unkingly sit;
When none is left for such a Tartar
To head, and hang, and draw, and quarter!

And now, Sir, to conclude our Speech,
And shew we pray, as well as preach,
We've clubb'd an Hymn, and cordial given
Our Cares, in humble Staves, to Heaven.

I

“God prosper well our noble King,
“Our Lives and Fortunes all!
“May Peace, and Truth, and Wit, and Wealth,
“The Britons brave befall!

145

II

“Late, very late, may our good Liege
“A Heavenly Crown obtain!
“And eke his Royal House ne'er want
“A Prince, so fit to reign!

III

“O may our Happiness, so rare,
“To future Times go down!
“Let all the People say, Amen!
“Amen, says Totness Town!

146

EPITAPH ON ROGER SIZER,

Of Great Abington, in the County of CAMBRIDGE, Esq;

[_]

Who, having been bred under Sir Stephen Fox, was early preferr'd to considerable Posts; and, upon the Revolution, made Paymaster of King William's Army Abroad, for several Years; and afterwards Treasurer of the Chamber; till the Accession of Queen ANNE; when he retir'd to his Country Seat, where he serv'd as Deputy Lieutenant of the County, Captain of the Militia, and one of His Majesty's Justices of the Peace, till his Death. Anno Dom. 1726. Æt. 66.

If Skill in Business, Honour, Health,
Courage and Bravery, Pow'r and Wealth,
Candour and Truth, cou'd Mortals save—.
Then Sizer had not grac'd the Grave.

147

All that was Manly, Generous, Great,
Made His a Character compleat!
The Force of Virtue cou'd not mend,
In Him, the Patriot and the Friend!
—Yet, ah! how earthly Glories fade!
Ev'n He is low and silent laid;
And scarce, but in Records of Fame,
By Verse preserv'd, a living Name!
—What then may vulgar Souls expect
But Death, Oblivion, and Neglect?

148

EPITAPH ON Madam MARIA JANE,

The Widow of ROGER SIZER, Esq;

[_]

A French Lady of uncommon Accomplishments, both of Mind and Person, who dy'd Anno Dom. 1727. Æt. 65.

If Beauty, Humour, Knowledge, Sense,
And Wit, had prov'd a sure Defence
Against the Darts of conquering Death,
Maria had not yielded Breath.
—Ye fair ones, tremble at the News—
Since she, so worthy of the Muse,

149

So well accomplish'd, nought cou'd save,
—How shall ye scape the gaping Grave?
How leave an everlasting Name,
Unless, like Her, ye merit Fame?
—But, ere appears, among your Kind,
Her Match, in Person and in Mind,
The Marble Monuments shall break,
And she, with Charms immortal, wake.

150

AN ODE

Occasion'd by the Last Will and Death of Madam SIZER.

I.

What Credit shall my Muse obtain?
Who will believe I more than feign?
When, weeping o'er Maria's Hearse,
I strow around my melancholy Verse?
She gave me Fortune, left me her sole Heir,
Dispell'd my Doubts, controul'd Despair,
And cur'd at once my Care.

151

She did all this—and yet I mourn,
Incessant o'er her sacred Urn,
And wish, in vain, she cou'd to Life return.

II.

Tho' Youth and Beauty long were fled,
Ere she was number'd with the Dead;
Tho' she had ceas'd to charm the Eye,
I wish'd she might not quickly die:
And now, to her dear Memory Just,
Revere her hallow'd Dust;
Nor think I can enough her Worth proclaim,
And pay due Honours to her valued Name.

III.

How can I e'er forget?
Or when discharge my Debt
To one, whose Love and Zeal, for me,
Disinterested were, and free?

152

What had I done to merit and engage
The Grace and Bounty of experienc'd Age?
To move a Mind, for noble Sense renown'd,
To pass her Kindred and her Country by,
Neglect a Crowd of old Companions round,
And on a Stranger set a Price so high?

IV.

Was it because I had a Share
Of thy Esteem, my Patron Stair?
To Walpole's Favour owe I hers?
Or was she captiv'd by my Verse?
Was sweet Ophelia the engaging Cause
Of all her Goodness and Applause!
Or, generous and unprompted, did she chuse
Her Heir, for his own Sake, and for his Muse?

153

Whate'er the Motive of her Love,
O let me not ingrateful prove!
Indelible may her Idea last,
In my most faithful Breast;
Or, when I drop Remembrance of her Name,
My Hand its Cunning lose, my Muse her Fame.

V.

No; from my grateful Heart
Her Image ne'er can part.
Each Place she visited and lov'd,
Whate'er she prais'd or disapprov'd;
Persons and Things which she held dear,
But most her Picture, ever near
My Sight, will keep her in my Mind,
Preserve the deep Impression made,
As if they were by her Last Will design'd
To Guarantee my Reverence for her Shade.

154

VI.

Condemn me not, Companions, now,
If pensive I shou'd grow.
Say not I'm full of Worldly Care,
And anxious how to use my Store;
Nor wish I had not been her Heir,
But still Poetically Poor—
They need to know my Spirit more,
Who think that Avarice dwells there.
'Tis Thought of what Maria was,
And what sad Loss I now sustain,
That puts me in this wretched Case,
And keeps alive my Pain.
What she cou'd do, she did for me;
And I despair, among her Sex, to see
One so accomplish'd, so Divine, as she.

155

VII.

Boast not, ye Beaus and Fops profane,
Of Favours from the Fair;
What Boon, what Bliss did e'er ye gain,
That might with mine compare?
What boots your momentary Joys?
Your Pleasure, that in Tasting, cloys!
What is it Beauty e'er bestows
Equal to what from Friendship flows?
Feast on the Sex's fancied Charms;
Go, riot in their fond and folding Arms—
Be it my Pride, that one, who knew
The World, and look'd it thro' and thro',
Cou'd judge of Books and Men aright,
The fairest once, and always most polite!

156

That she, regardless of the Crowd,
On me her envied Favours all bestow'd.
This Thought, amid my Sorrow, gives me Ease,
And never fails to please.

157

RATHO;

A POEM TO THE KING.

TO THE Right Honourable CHARLES Earl of Lawderdale, Lord Lieutenant and High-Sheriff of Edingburgshire; Master-General of His Majesty's Mint in Scotland, One of the Lords of Police; Superior of the Parishes of Ratho, &c.

171

Nescio qua natale Solum Dulcedine Musas
Ducit, & immemores non sinit esse sui!
Ovid.

I sing of RATHO. Help me to relate
Its past, its present, and its future State,
Ye Pow'rs celestial; and enroll, in Fame,
The Lays inscrib'd to GEORGE's sacred Name.
And thou, dread Monarch, deign a kind Regard—
Thy Smiles are Sanction, and thy Praise Reward.

172

For These I bend; for These permit my Pray'r;
With These, propitious, crown thy Servant's Care;
If e'er the Muse afforded Thee Delight,
If e'er a Bard found Favour in thy Sight.

West from Edina—Caledonian Pride,
And Wonder of the neighbouring World beside!—
A champian Country, hedg'd on every Hand
With stately Hills, adorns the Lothian Land;
By Nature form'd to give the Muse Delight,
Inspire her Rapture, and her Verse invite.

Tho' here no Cedar tow'rs its ample Head;
No spicy Gums and Frankincense are spread;
No clustring Vines and rich Pomegranates glow;
No limpid Streams of Milk and Honey flow;

173

Tho' the blue Fig and yellow Olive fail,
And blushing Peaches shun the Wint'ry Gale:
Yet here, uncurst with Skies inclement, Groves
For Contemplation, and Repose, and Loves;
Corn, Plants, and Flowers, of native Product, spring;
Fish glad the Streams, and Birds harmonious sing;
Hawks, Hounds, and Guns, have here unbounded Scope;
And eager Sportsmen crown their rural Hope;
Here bleating Flocks and lowing Herds abound;
And sweet Content spreads Happiness around.

But (so Heaven's Will, all-governing, ordain'd)
Unprais'd for Ages has this Scene remain'd,
Unknown to modern Bards, or by them scorn'd,
And, now, too late, by Mitchell's self adorn'd,
Tho' none so dear, so lovely in his Sight
Of all the Lands, the Sun o'erspreads with Light!

174

Thus Trojan Tow'rs in Ashes long had lain,
Ere Homer's Verse restor'd their Pride again,
And with immortal Glory rais'd the Slain.

But Sages, more discerning, saw this Seat,
They saw and chose it for a calm Retreat,
Before the World confest the Christian Name,
Or Albion knew the Greek and Roman Fame!
Here hoary Hermits first Possession took,
And, greatly good, their All for Heav'n forsook!
Here self taught Bards from Nature Knowledge drew,
Look'd past, and present, and the future thro',
Sung sacred Things, and sacred were confest,
Their Minds and Morals of all Men the best!
Here venerable Druids, with Renown,
Transmissive, Truths Historic handed down,

175

The Will of Fate oraculous explain'd,
And by their Lives immortal Honours gain'd!
Here constant Vows by Travellers were paid,
Where holy Horrours solemniz'd a Shade!
And Courtiers, weary of the World, were found
In Greens embow'ring, or on Banks embrown'd!
At last, so famous grew the sacred Place,
Heroes and Kings resolv'd to give it Grace—
First, with a glorious Principle inspir'd,
To follow Nature from the Crowd retir'd,
In Groves and Grotto's of the silent Wood,
Observ'd the Duties of the Wise and Good;
Till, by Degrees of humble Blessings cloy'd,
Blessings possess'd, and not alike enjoy'd!
They let in Pomp and Noise, and Innocence destroy'd

176

Among th' Admirers of this beauteous Scene,
Shone RATHO fair, a famous Pictish Queen,
Ere Scottish Power o'erthrew her Nation's State,
And made that People Fugitives of Fate.
Fond of the Mountains, Vallies, and the Woods,
The Meads and Dales, the Forests and the Floods,
(For these, in those far distant Ages, grac'd
This rural Seat, and every where were prais'd!)
Romantic, she converts a lovely Bow'r,
Her favourite Mansion! to a Royal Tow'r,
Which, gathering by Degrees, a City grew,
(So Legends tell, and what they tell is true)
A City, known in early Times to Fame,
The Lothian Boast, and RATHO was its Name;
A Name from RATHO, Pictish Queen renown'd,
And to this Day with Veneration own'd!

177

Now Walls and Bulwarks for Defence were rear'd,
Columns, and Spires, and Palaces appear'd!
Domes crowd on Domes, and Fanes with Temples vye!
And Courts and Castles tire the wondering Eye!
High o'er the rest th' imperial Structure shone,
Antique the Building, but of burnish'd Stone!
Along the middle Street, from End to End,
A limpid Stream did cooling Comfort lend,
Whence the great Cross of solid Rock took Name,
And to this Day is styl'd the RATHO-RAME.
Like Babel-Tow'r, it grac'd a rising Ground,
Center of all Rathonian Domes around!
From whose broad Base, so wonderful to tell,
A sacred Fluid, call'd the Rame-Stone Well,
Incessant flow'd, with various Virtues blest,
But most with Health and Joy to the Distrest!

178

Around whose verdant Borders oft were seen
The Moonlight Gambols of a Fairy Queen,
With her gay Train, (as Legends tell) in green:
Her all rever'd, as Genius of the Stream,
Much was she prais'd, and LADA was her Name.

Here first my Mind from Nature Knowledge brought,
Thro' gross Effects their mystic Causes sought;
Explor'd the Wonders too refin'd for Sense,
And Order found too regular for Chance.
Here first my Youth, with love of Song possest,
Felt heavenly Fire, and was with Visions blest;
Here, Studious, first unlock'd the ancient Store,
And Spoils of Learning from the Classicks bore.
Here too, alas! in youthful Days, my Heart
Was first transfix'd with Love's almighty Dart;

179

And here my Muse first plain'd the mighty Woe
My Soul first knew, and evermore must know—
The best of Brothers and of Friends inhum'd,
When fresh his Virtues with Life's Vigour bloom'd!
Untimely snatch'd from these admiring Eyes,
Whose Image ever to my Thought must rise!
O! while his Spirit, mix'd with social Saints,
Estrang'd to Sorrow, and above Complaints,
The Earnest of eternal Bliss enjoys,
(Till, from the Dust his kindred Ashes rise,
And with it, perfect, gain Empyreal Skies;
May guardian Angels faithful Vigils keep
Around the Tomb, where now these Ashes sleep!
May no dire Horrors of a Shade surround,
Nor mortal Hands disturb, the sacred Ground!
When shall the Virtues, Loves and Graces find
A purer Body for so pure a Mind?

180

When, when have Cause to tend another Urn,
And, for a truer, dearer, Votary mourn?

But human Blessings are precarious still,
And Time must Nature's great Behests fulfil.
Thro' Length of Years minutest Things grow great,
And highest Glories feel Reverse of Fate.
Thrice happy RATHO, had it still remain'd
A City, or its natural Charms retain'd!
But Picts o'ercome, soon dwindled antient Pride,
And what the Conquerors left it, Time destroy'd!

Scarce can our Eyes, with curious Search, behold
The sunk Foundations of the Walls of old!
We can but guess where stood the Imperial Dome,
Long, long engulph'd in Earth's capacious Womb!

181

Hardly the sacred Temples can be trac'd,
And glitt'ring Spires for ever lie disgrac'd!
The Rame-Stone, once a Monument so high,
Piercing thro' Clouds and gaining on the Sky,
Now, mouldring, scarce a Yard of Length retains,
The Prey of ever-wasting Winds and Rains!
And the clear Stream, that gently roll'd along,
In antient Times, the Bards and Lovers Song,
Now, mix'd with Mud, ignobly Passage makes,
Or, here absorpt, another Channel takes!
Where beauteous Bridges arch'd aloft before,
And Pleasure Boats row'd by from Door to Door,
Vile Steps of Stone and Logs of Wood appear,
And sordid Fragments tumble all the Year!
The sacred Well the common Lot partakes—
Health-giving Virtue now its Spring forsakes!

182

For vigorous Rame (as antient Bards rehearse
In venerable Tales and antique Verse)
Enamour'd, stole on LADA's gentle Charms,
Mix'd with her Soul, and melted in her Arms:
She, all abash'd, the blushing Scene forsook,
And, with her Train, in Plett a Refuge took—
Plett! hospitable Height of Land, where I,
(As Flamstead erst from Greenwich) gaz'd the Sky;
Oft, in my Youth, my happier Days, alone,
Or with a Friend, the rolling Orbs, that shone
Distant, like twinkling Tapers in the Night,
Observ'd with curious Wonder and Delight;
And oft, the Blessings of a private State
Admiring, learnt Compassion for the Great.
For ever fam'd and sacred be thy Sides,
O Hill, whence LADA weeps her silver Tides;

183

Like Helicon, inspiring be the Tears,
And let the Well immortal live in Verse,
Her Well, where, oft o'ercharg'd with amorous Woe,
My swelling Heart has taught my Eyes to flow,
As SYLVIA coy, or CELIA false I sung,
Or, all untun'd, my Harp on Willows hung.

But, Muse, a Veil of dark Oblivion cast
On thy fond Master's various Sufferings past;
No Image of long-finish'd Grief recall—
—Ophelia more than makes Amends for all.

Of antient RATHO, rear'd with Cost and Pain,
How few and wretched Monuments remain!
Sometimes the Plough, from Fields adjacent, tears
The Limbs of Men, and Armour broke with Years;

184

Sometimes a Medal, all effac'd, is found,
And mouldring Urns are gather'd from the Ground:
But who, ah! who, can decent Honours pay,
Or sep'rate Vulgar from Imperial Clay?
Dire Fate of Mortals! Cottagers and Kings
Promiscuous lie, alike unheeded Things!
Destroying Time and the devouring Grave
Alike confound the Coward and the Brave!
Distinction's lost! no Marks of State adorn!
And RATHO looks, like Troy, a Field of Corn!

Yet, as in th' Ark the chosen NOAH sail'd,
When o'er the World the pouring Floods prevail'd;
So still some Remnants of primæval Grace,
From blank Oblivion, save th' imperial Place:
Some true Traditions, in the Country known,
In spite of Time, are handed careful down.

185

Tho', with its Walls and Battlements, are lost,
All the Records th' Inhabitants cou'd boast,
Among the Lothian Seats shines RATHO's Name,
And its new People burn with antient Flame.
As Generations in their Course decay,
(This flourishing, when That is past away)
The wither'd Leaf of pristine Glory falls,
And Buds of Virtue croud the modern Walls—
A simple, frugal, hospitable Race,
With little Wealth, but Revenues of Grace,
To Labour bred, without Ambition brave,
Chearful of Heart, and pleas'd with what they have!

As needy Peasants destin'd to reside
Remote from Neighbours, in a Desart wide,
Studious to save what Human Wants require,
In Embers heap'd preserve the sacred Fire;

186

So true RATHONIANS, with unwearied Pains,
Trace ancient Paths, and dig for old Remains,
Their Predecessors Merit keep alive,
And, to be like Them, ever-labouring strive.
From Them the curious Stranger now may hear
How Men of old were summon'd far and near,
Compleat in Arms, at RATHO-RAME t'appear!
How Renfrew, Ruglin, Givin, Glasgow, Towns
Far distant, answer'd on Rathonian Downs!
How fair EDINA was design'd to rise
Where now in Ruins antient RATHO lies?
What circling Castles, Palaces, and Tow'rs,
Burroughs, and Cities, Villages, and Bow'rs,
From Gogar gay to Hatton's lofty Spires,
And all around to Norton and the Byres
Of RATHO held, to RATHO Homage paid,
RATHO, that o'er the Rest its Head display'd

187

High, as the Mountain Oak, or stately Pine,
O'ertops the prickly Thorn, or Ivy-clasping Vine.

But not alone from History something sav'd
Shews what it was, and how their Sires behav'd—
Let Roman Walls and Monuments declare,
And what once were be known from Things that are.
Ah! had no Strife and Fury broke between,
The Scots and Picts triumphant still had been,
And modern Ages antient RATHO seen!

Yet Hope remains—as when the Mountain's Head
With scowling Shadows all around is spread,
Sudden the Lightning with a flashing Ray,
Bursts thro' the Darkness, and lets down the Day;
So ruin'd RATHO shall regain Renown,
By Royal Bounty of the British Crown.

188

The Time will come (a Tale Prophetic says)
But, ah! how distant! when a Sprig of Bays,
From Reliques of a sacred Wreath shall spring,
And round the Royal-Oak devoutly cling:
The Royal-Oak will condescend t'embrace
The gentle Sprig, and shield and shade the Place.
“This (says Tradition) shews a Bard will rise,
“In future Time, where now another lies!
“His Lays will charm inexorable Fate,
“And move a Monarch to restore the State
“Of RATHO.
SIRE,
The Monarch art not Thou?
And am not I the Bard, who humbly bow?
What modern Muse, but mine, from RATHO sprung?
And to what King, but Thee, has Mitchell sung?

189

Tho' born of Blood, by long disastrous Fate,
Debarr'd the Glories of the vulgar Great;
Yet this my Boast, my Birth-Place was a Doom,
Where stood of old a Temple and a Tomb!
What store of hallowed Bone and sacred Clay
Beneath my Bed and infant Cradle lay!
Deep in the Reliques took my Laurel Root,
And o'er the Ruins did my Branches shoot,
Branches, that now with pious Duty greet
The Royal-Oak, and bloom about his Feet!
Now, shall another Monarch be that Oak,
Of which the Sage, with Soul illumin'd, spoke?
Forbid it, Heav'n, that any Prince beside
To RATHO should restore its pristine Pride.
Leave not, O gracious Sire, so great a Thing,
So vast a Glory, to a future King.

190

Be it, my Master, be it only thine,
At Mitchell's Suit, to make his RATHO shine.

When ALEXANDER, in Atchievements great,
Had broke alike the Theban Pow'r and State;
Entering the Town, he had his Soldiers spare;
“For Pindar's sacred dwelling Place was there!
And, for the sake of Sophocles's Muse
Athens obtain'd the Conqueror's Excuse!
Thus Syracuse, so long defended, lost,
The brave Marcellus charg'd his Roman Host,
“Not to revenge the Nation's Blood and Strife
“On venerable Archimede's Life!
So, when Ulysses round his Vengeance spread,
And all who wrong'd their absent Lord lay dead;
When ev'n Liôdes, Priest and Augur, fell,
Phemius, who drank of the Pierian Well,

191

Phemius, the sweet, the Heav'n-instructed Bard,
Alone was, for his sacred Virtues, spar'd!

Such Instances let others boast and praise—
My Leige will do more Honour to my Lays;
Not barely save the Place where I was born,
But with superior Pow'r and Grace adorn.

'Tis done—Behold, th' ideal Muse can see
A City built by GEORGE's great Decree!
What Domes and Tow'rs their lofty Summits rear!
How Temples shine, and crowded Courts appear!
Distinct in Rows, where-e'er my Eyes I turn,
Columns amidst a Blaze of Glory burn!
What ample Gates! and how, with airy Mounds,
A Strength of Wall the guarded City bounds!

192

Old RAME afresh forsakes his oozy Bed,
Again, envigour'd, lifts his azure Head!
See, from his Urn, he pours the silver Stream,
Again the Poet's and the Lover's Theme!
Bridges and Boats for Pleasure crown the Scene,
And ne'er was RATHO known so sweet and clean!

Thus when of Salem sage Haggai foretold
That its new Temple should exceed the old,
'Twas done—for Herod's Bounty gave it more
Magnificence, than e'er it had before!

How glorious this Reverse of Fortune shows,
And how to Me she pays the Debt she owes!
To Me what noble Proofs of Love are rais'd,
Not fond of Flatt'ry, nor with Praise unpleas'd?

193

For, lo! rich Honours now the House adorn,
Where I, the destin'd Sprig of Bays, was born!
A pompous Palace rises in its Place,
The Pride of RATHO, and Britannia's Grace!
With Statues, Sculptures, Pictures finely drest,
And my sage Busto looking o'er the rest!
Nor Prior to Himself, nor Rotterdame
T'Erasmus, rear'd such Monuments of Fame!

But yonder, where the RAME-STONE stood of old,
The second GEORGE on Horseback, all in Gold!
Prodigious Sight! nor boastful Rome, nor Greece,
Cou'd ever shew so beautiful a Piece!
Nor cou'd their famous Progeny afford
A braver Hero and a better Lord!
For all the various Attributes of Fame,
Collected, shine compleat in GEORGE's Name.

194

Ye guardian Genii of the Good and Great,
Unwearied round the Royal Person wait.
Your sacred Aid the God-like Monarchs own,
Who merit first, before they mount a Throne.
You he reveres, as We his dread Command,
O! crown his Reign, as he preserves the Land,
Persists the Pattern of Imperial Sway,
Makes righteous Laws, Himself the first t'obey!
Fast by his Throne, whilst fairest Fame resides,
Let Peace and Wealth incessant roll their Tides.
And late, O! late, and but by slow Decays,
Unknown to Pain, may he conclude his Days;
To the dark Grave retiring, as to Rest;
Blessing his People, and in Blessing blest!

195

Be this my Morning and my Evening-Pray'r,
My Life's true Pleasure and devoted Care,
Ambitious to resemble my great Patron, STAIR,
A Soul by Principles of Honour led;
To Truth, to Liberty, and Virtue, bred!
True to his King, his Country, and his Word!
No mercenary, cringing, cunning, Lord!
Conscious of his uncommon Worth and Parts;
But scorning mean, sinister, sordid Arts!
Whether with honest Place and Pension crown'd,
Or unrewarded, ever faithful found!
Ever the same disinterested Mind!
The finish'd Statesman, Soldier, Patriot, join'd!
Abroad, at Home, by all the Just, confest
In Peace and War the ablest and the best!

196

—Long may my Liege find Servants such as He!
Their Aim his Glory, more than Favour, be!
His Annals sung by nobler Bards than Me!

O! how I long to hail the happy Day,
When Majesty its Glory shall display
In CALEDONIA's antient Realm again!
A pious Wish! And may it not prove vain!
When shall EDINA, as in Times of old,
Receive her King? O! when shall SCOTS behold
A Royal Progress thro' their Native Land,
And gazing Crowds grow loyal as they stand?
Methinks, like his great Ancestors inspir'd,
The Second GEORGE complies to what's desir'd!
Io Triumphe! Countrymen and Friends,
The King a Visit to the North intends!

197

Prepare the Way—our gracious King will come,
As CONSTANTINE in Triumph to his ROME,
When eager Subjects on his Chariot hung,
And the proud Scene with Io Pæan rung!
With equal Joy, may duteous Subjects meet
Our glorious Liege, and his Procession greet;
Let every Tongue with Transport sound his Praise,
And every Eye, as on an Angel, gaze,
Who, like a GOD, in Glory deigns to move
The publick Wonder, and the publick Love!
O! if, from this important Æra, Peace
Might stand confirm'd, and Faction ever cease!

But howsoe'er a Rebel-Race behave,
Open, ye Gates of RATHO, to receive
The British King, your Patron ever dear!
Let grateful Gladness in each Face appear!

198

Meet him, conducted by your noble Head,
(Proud to be led, as LAWDERDALE to lead)
Ye Habitants renown'd, both great and small,
Let Loyalty and Love transport you all,
To hail the Hand, from whence your Blessing springs,
And praise the best of all the British Kings,
A King, who takes no Lustre from a Throne,
But, by his Virtues, dignifies his Crown!

Ye generous Bards of ALBION's frosty North,
Too little known, tho' not the least in Worth,
Awake, awake—a Theme, like This, might warm
The coldest Breast, and brightest Fancy charm.
Let distant Ages in your Numbers view
The first of Monarchs and of Poets too.
With faithful Care discharge your glorious Trust.
O sing great GEORGE, and save yourselves from Dust.

199

Let Inspiration leave me and my Lays,
When I turn silent in my Sov'reign's Praise.
From my right Hand and sounding Lyre depart
Poetic Cunning, when I move my Heart,
O RATHO, darling Native Seat, from Thee,
Like Salem sweet, or Eden blest, to Me!

But shou'd reluctant Fate suspend the Bliss
Of such a lovely, sacred Scene, as This—
Shou'd Second GEORGE his Royal Ear refuse,
And scorn the gentle Courtship of the Muse—
Have Prophecies and Legends all prov'd vain,
Or Bards pronounc'd in an ambiguous Strain—
If neither Brunswick be the destin'd Oak,
Nor I the Bays, of whom the Sages spoke—

200

This solemn Purpose in my Soul I fix,
And swear by RAME, a River dread as Styx,
RATHO, like Thebes, shall rise again in Fame,
And, with Amphion, MITCHELL find a Name!

Poets of God's Omnipotence partake!
From nothing we can Worlds of Wonder make!
Sure to survive, when Time shall whelm in Dust
The Arch, the Marble, and the mimick Bust!
Let others rise by Labours not their own—
Out of myself be struck my bright Renown!
Yet rather perish, with my Life, my Praise,
Than RATHO shine not in immortal Lays.
Dearer than Fame be still my Country's Good,
And for its Glory cheap esteem'd my Blood;
In the true Briton, sunk the Scholar's Boast,
And the proud Poet, in the Patriot lost.

201

To their Most Excellent MAJESTIES,

THE HUMBLE ADDRESS and PETITION OF THE Water-drinking POETS of Great-Britain.

[_]

In Brobdingnaggian Verse. Presented at Kensington, by Mr. Mitchell.

Whereas, in late King GEORGE's Reign,
it was our Fate to miss
Both Place and Pension, (but, we own,
it was no Fault of his;)

202

And when our Brothers Dodington,
and Congreve, Tickell, Young,
Philips, and Pope, beneath their Vine
and Fig Trees, sat and sung;
We (clever Fellows too!) were oft
oblig'd, alas! of course,
To drink weak Water, or to dine
with Humphrey, which was worse!
But Whereas, Now, your Majesties'
Accession pleases All,
And every Thing to every One
aright is like to fall:
Permit us humbly, in the Crowd,
to make you this Address,
(Tho' written in a Style below
the Spirit of Totness)

203

To welcome you with all our Hearts
unto your rightful Throne,
And wish all Health and Happiness
your lengthen'd Years may crown:
And, by the by, to Beg and Pray
your Majesties may please,
In your great Wisdom, Pow'r, and Grace,
to set our Lives at Ease;
For, certes, if you should not turn
our Water into Wine,
We shan't have Spirit left to sing,
of GEORGE and CAROLINE!
Now, would it not, in such a Reign,
be deem'd a dismal Case,
Should Folks, so good as We, wait still,
when worse are put in Place?

204

Besides, 'twould vex us in our Graves,
shou'd any Blame be laid,
On our Account, upon a King
and Queen, to whom we pray'd:
Who knows but Bards and Criticks might,
in future Times, make bold
To censure your most gracious Reign,
as we the Reigns of old?
Then may it please your Majesties,
to fall on Ways and Means,
T'enable Us to fix your Fame,
in our immortal Strains;
And your Petitioners will live,
delighted, all our Days,
And, as in Duty bound, convert
our humble Pray'r to Praise.

205

An ANSWER.

Ingenious Water-drinking Bards,
your Liege approves your Wit,
But must excuse himself from granting
what wou'd not be fit;
For, first, the Treasury would be broke,
ere each of you were blest,
And, next, you'd grow as dull, as Those
already on the List.

206

AN ANACREONTIC TO THE Right Honourable Philip Earl of Chesterfield,

THE British MŒCENAS: ON HIS MAJESTY's Accession to the Throne.

Chesterfield , the Friend of Arts!
Noble Peer of noble Parts!
To thy Kindred Poets dear!
Honour'd with the Royal Ear!

207

Would'st thou spread thy growing Fame,
And deserve a deathless Name?
Deign, O deign to introduce,
To His Majesty the Muse:
Bless, O bless the Sacred Nine,
With the Smiles of CAROLINE.

Long, alas! in former Reigns,
Poets sung in servile Chains—
Ever wretched, tho' belov'd!
Still neglected, yet approv'd!
Shall their Fate unalter'd be,
Now they bend to GEORGE and Thee!
Moecenas thou! Augustus He!

Hence Despair—The Day is come,
Treasur'd long in Time's dark Womb,

208

When, no more to Merit blind,
Fortune turns the Muses' Friend;
And the tuneful Tribes behold
Golden Years, like those of old
By the Patriarch Wits proclaim'd,
Ever in their Annals fam'd!

Genius lifts again his Head
From the Depths, where he lay dead!
Greek and Roman Virtue, lost,
Is become Britannia's Boast!
Publick Spirit, new-inspir'd,
Prompts Us on to Deeds desir'd!
Fame, with Bays and Lawrels crown'd,
Flyes and spreads Desert around!
Arts and Artists nobly thrive!
Credit, Trade, and Stocks revive!

209

See, with yellow Plenty drest,
Hills and Vales are fully blest:
Careful Merchants plough the Seas,
And their Magazines increase!
Foreign Jars and Discords fail,
British Cæsar holding Scale!
Civil Rage and Faction pine,
Struck by Charms of CAROLINE!

For their Reign, and for their Years,
Let our Temples eccho Prayers:
Let the British Sires and Dames
Teach their Children Royal Names:
While, on Wings of Raptures new,
Bards no vulgar Aim pursue;

210

But the deathless Actions trace
Of our Godlike Royal-Race,
From the Bruce to Brunswick down,
In a Strain before unknown!

Me let Art and Nature quit,
When I dull and silent sit;
When I cease to sweep the Lyre,
Which Heroic Acts inspire:
Happy, cou'd my Loyal Muse
Merit Chesterfield's Excuse;
Happier, cou'd my sacred Lays
Blazon Thine and George's Praise.
Second Charles and Buckingham
Shou'd but Second Honours claim!
William and his Montague
Only shou'd be next to You!

211

A Picture of HYMEN, OR Matrimony A-la-mode:

A TALE.

Wou'd you all your Art discover?
(To a Painter said a Lover)
Draw me Hymen with the Graces,
Charming Figures! lovely Faces!
Lively! ravishing! divine!
All that's exquisitely fine!
—But, remember what I say,
As it merits I will pay.

212

Home th' ingenious Painter hies,
And his utmost Talent tries;
Ovid o'er and o'er peruses;
Takes Advice of all the Muses;
All the Masters of Designing,
And of Colours dark and shining;
Statuaries new and old,
Famous for the Soft or Bold;
In a Word, from Death and Life,
Borrows with a generous Strife:
So Apelles form'd his Piece,
Out of all the Charms in Greece.

On the Lover's Wedding-Night,
(When Ideas of Delight
Were exalted to their Height;

213

Finish'd Hymen was presented—
“How it look'd! and what it wanted!
“Lord, Sir, (says the fond Bridegroom)
“Who wou'd give this Picture Room?
“Where's the Gaiety of Air?
“Je ne scai quoi, debonair?
“More than Venus and Adonis?
“Piece, that parallel'd by none is?
“Take your Daubing back again,
“Or Five Pounds, and don't complain.

Painter was a Man of Wit!
More than for mere Business fit!
Seem'd to be with Sorrow mov'd;
What the Lover spake approv'd;
But, withal, begg'd leave to say,
“Hymen merits better Pay,
“And will please another Day!

214

“For, Sir, in a few Months Space,
“Charms will rise upon that Face,
“And such Life inspire these Eyes,
“As will e'en your self surprize.
“'Twill appear in different View;
“Time improves whate'er I do.
“'Tis my Manner, Sir, I own;
“And I'm famous for it grown.

“Say you so? (reply'd the Lover)
“—But that I may Truth discover,
“Keep it by you, till you find
“Hymen alter'd to your Mind.
“I'm not urgent to be paid,
“Nor in Doubt, (the Painter said)

215

“But 'twill ripen to your Taste
“Ere your Honey-Moon is past.
Long the Picture had not lain
Ere the Husband sent again,
Curious to behold a Change
So incredible and strange.
Back 'twas brought: “Here's nothing wanting;
“Sir, you've brought another Painting—
“Gods, what Eyes and Lips are there!
“Graceful Attitude and Air!
“Charms unnumber'd, and divine!
“Beauty exquisitely fine?
“This is Hymen.—Painter, say,
“What's the Value? Here's your Pay.

216

“If the Picture has a Fault,
“'Tis too ravishingly wrought.
—Laughing then, the Painter swore,
'Twas the same he brought before.
“Change may be, Sir, in your Case,
“Hymen is the Thing he was.
—Fancy is the Lover's Cheat!
Wou'd ye prove the Pudding? Eat.

217

VERSES To the Memory of JOHN CLARK, Esq

Is Clark no more? Has Death so soon destroy'd
His Country's Honour, and his Parents Pride?
Ungrateful News! I mourn his early Fate!
But Blessings ne'er are permanent, as great!
Fain would I praise, fain make his Vertues known,
By every Tongue commended, but his own.
A Funeral Gift to my lov'd Clark I owe;
This unavailing Gift, at least, I may bestow.

218

These Eyes have seen the Wonders of his Youth,
And I sing freely, what I sing with Truth.
Clark was my own; his Soul alike inspir'd;
Tho' learn'd, not vain; and humble, tho' admir'd;
Candid in judging, and, in Life, sincere;
To all Men pliant, to himself severe:
Bold were his Thoughts, yet Reason bore the Sway;
Cheerful his Looks, but innocently gay;
Of gentle Manners, and a virtuous Mind;
In whom all Sorts of useful Knowledge join'd;
To whom old Greece and Rome were fully known;
Who made all Countries, in his Course, his own.
By slow Degrees, some travel up to Fame,
And, on the Verge of Life, acquire a Name:
In him a happy Prodigy was seen,
Mature in Glory, when in Years but green.

219

O may the Thought his Friend's Ambition raise!
O may I imitate, as well as praise!

Had he but liv'd to ripen more, in Years—
But Worth, like his, discover'd, disappears.
He, like an Angel, a short Visit made,
And, as we gaz'd, evanish'd to a Shade.
Thus, in the Theatre, with vast Delight,
On Gods and Heroes, we regale our Sight.
The Change of Scenes fresh Wonders brings to view,
And each Machine presents some Glory new:
But, while we look, fleet, from our ravish'd Eyes
The dear Delusion, in a Moment, flies.

My Soul, prophetick, long foresaw his Fate:
“Dear Clark, said I, (as once we fondly sat)

220

“You're but short-liv'd, the Vision of a Day,
“Just to be shown on Earth, and snatch'd away;
“But cou'dst thou break thro' Fate's severe Decree,
“A new Buchanan wou'd arise in Thee.
He, conscious, smil'd, and charg'd my faithful Muse,
Whene'er I shou'd receive th' unwelcome News,
“To strew, with Heaps of Elegiac Verse,
“The sad Procession of his early Hearse.
On this Condition, sudden, I rejoyn'd,
“That, if my Breath shall sooner be resign'd,
“Your friendly Muse shall condescend to mourn
“And sanctify, with Tears, your Mitchell's Urn.
Agreed, he said—But, ah! 'twas his to die!
He, first, was fit to reascend the Sky.
Dear Youth, farewel—and, till the Judgment Day,
Blest be thy Soul, and sacred be thy Clay.

221

And, O, the Meanness of my Verse excuse;
'Tis all the Dictate of a sorrowing Muse.
Yet this one further Character I have,
To mark the Marble Covering of your Grave:
“Young Clark lies here, who was his Country's Boast,
“Admir'd, when living, and ador'd, when lost.

222

OF Seigniora CUZZONI's VOICE and FACE.

I

'Twas long a Paradox to me,
That Musick dwells in Discords most:
But, now Cuzzoni's Face I see,
And hear her Voice, my Wonder's lost.

II

To her such Qualities are given,
As serve, at once, to charm, and fright!
Let her but Sing, we rise to Heav'n!
But shew her Face, we're damn'd outright!

223

III

So have I known, with sweetest Sound,
An old, worn, Lute affect the Ears:
Its Looks might Harmony confound!
Its Notes work Envy, in the Spheres!

IV

The Face, which others covet first,
And call their Pride, is least of Hers!
The Tongue, that us'd to be the worst
Of Women-kind, she most prefers!

V

Her melting Notes, thro' list'ning Ears,
To Extasy transport the Soul:
But he, who looks, as well as hears,
Submits to Terror's harsh Controul.

224

VI

I thought indeed she was, at Sight,
Of Lucifer's Apostate Train;
But, tho' fall'n low from such an Height,
Did yet her Angel Voice retain.

VII

Here wou'd I dote, where I to chuse
A Wife by th' Ear, and not the Eye:
Who wou'd not such a Hag refuse?
Who wou'd not for such Musick die?

VIII

While she has Tongue, and I have Eyes,
I ne'er shall know my Peace of Mind:
Ye Powers, who know my Scorn, my Sighs,
Or make her dumb, or strike me blind.

225

TO Seigniora Cuzzoni.

Thou, at whose Birth, commenc'd a puzzling Case,
Between thy still-contending Voice and Face,
How shall I do thy warring Virtues Right?
What can I say, to set them fair in Light?
This, everlasting Ugliness maintains,
And Harmony, in That, triumphant reigns.

226

We look, and, lo! Deformity prevails:
We hear, and all is sweet as Zephyr's Gales:
But when, at once, we listen and we gaze,
Th' unnatural Discord strikes us with Amaze.
Now This, now That, appears with greatest Force,
Rapture and Torment take their Turn of Course.
Our Sense and Souls, divided, fly the Field,
Uncertain whether Face, or Voice, should yield.

What art thou? Devil! or Angel! can'st thou tell
Whether thou'rt Native born of Heav'n, or Hell?
Or didst thou to th' unnatural Embrace
Of het'rogeneous Parents owe thy Case?
Thou seem'st Hermophrodite of a new Kind,
Procreate betwixt a Body and a Mind.
Thy Face declares a Satyr was thy Sire,
Thy Voice claims Kindred to th' angelic Choir.

227

This might pervert Sir Peter King, the Just,
And That cure Ch--- of insatiate Lust.

Hence, Monster, hence!—O no, the Britons pray
Thou'lt take Two Thousand Pounds a Year, and stay,
To charm their Sense, and scare their Crows away!

228

[Ye Commons and Peers]

I

Ye Commons and Peers,
Pray lend me your Ears,
I sing how a Serjeant was bit.
Let Men of the Law
An Inference draw,
And learn from a Ballad some Wit.

II

To Westminster-Hall,
Where Wranglers caball,
And Godliness seldom is Gain;

229

One Day came a Peasant
With Eggs of a Pheasant,
In Manner most simple and plain.

III

A Sergeant at Law,
Renown'd for his Maw,
And exquisite Gusto in Feeding,
Soon eyeing the Eggs,
The Rate of 'em begs,
No Trick of a Countryman dreading.

IV

Without mincing Words,
The Price he affords,
And Home with the Cargo hies Then.
Half dress'd up outright,
He eat with Delight,
And half he set under a Hen.

230

V

But mark, in Conclusion,
The Serjeant's Confusion,
When, 'stead of the delicate Fowls,
Out broke from the Shell
(As true as I tell)
A Brood of most ominous Owls.

231

TO A LADY, playing with a Clouded Fan.

The fatal Sword, which Man from Eden barr'd,
Flam'd, as it turn'd, the Tree of Life to guard.
But from your Fan, thick Clouds of Smoak arise,
To hide the Flames of your destructive Eyes.
As That was, by a beauteous Cherub, held,
A beauteous Cherub spreads This clouded Shield.
Almost for the same Ends they both were giv'n,
The Sword to fence from Paradise, the Fan from Heav'n.

232

TO A Pyrating POET.

We grant, the Strains, that you rehearse,
Are all Original, and New—
The Ancients peep'd into your Verse,
And stole feloniously from you.

233

TO S---h F---k.

In ancient Times, when Israel was renown'd,
And Kings and Bards, with due Respect, were crown'd,
By Heaven's Direction, Solomon, the Wise,
A Temple rear'd, the Wonder of Mens Eyes!
Long fair it stood, and worthy of the God,
Whose solemn Presence sanctify'd th' Abode.
But Time and War, those Instruments of Fate,
At length, in Ruins, laid the Jewish State.

234

Expos'd to all the Insults of the Foe,
Sad Israel now laments inveterate Woe.
But mark the Turn of providential Care!
Bright Beams of Joy dispel the dark Despair.
Cyrus, the Great, the Generous, and the Good,
From Tyranny reliev'd the groaning Crowd,
And built a second Temple in the Place,
Where Israel's Glory shone, and suffer'd sore Disgrace.
Joyous the Jews beheld this noble Pile,
Which Pagan Powers presum'd not to defile.
But hoary Sages, who the first had seen,
Wept, as they gaz'd—Reflection cut them keen.
No happy Chance cou'd crush the Thought accurst,
“The second Temple was not like the first.

O S---, boast not thy recover'd Health,
Thy latter Spring, and poor Remains of Wealth—

235

Arbuthnot, Mead, and Sandilands, in vain,
Have try'd to make Thee what thou wert again.
We, who beheld Thee, in thy Pride of Charms,
Have lost Desire to revel in thy Arms.
Howe'er thou'rt flatter'd, patch'd, and drest, and nurs'd,
“Thy Second Temple is not like thy First.

236

SYLVIA's MOAN.

As Sylvia in a Forest lay,
To vent her Woe, alone,
Her Swain, Sylvander, came that Way,
And heard her dying Moan.

I

“Ah! Is my Love (she said) to you
“So worthless and so vain?
“Why is your wonted Fondness, now,
“Converted to Disdain?

237

II

“You vow'd, the Day shou'd Darkness turn,
“Ere you'd exchange your Love:
“In Shades, may, now, Creation mourn,
“Since you unfaithful prove.

III

“Was it for this, I Credit gave,
“To ev'ry Oath you swore?
“But, ah! I find they most deceive,
“Who most pretend to adore.

IV

“'Tis plain, your Drift was all Deceit,
“The Practice of Mankind!
“Alas! I see it—but too late!
“My Love had made me blind.

238

V

“What Cause, Sylvander, have I giv'n
“For Cruelty, so great?
“Yes—for your Sake, I slighted Heav'n,
“And hugg'd you into Hate.

VI

“For you, delighted, I cou'd die;
“But, oh! with Grief I'm fill'd:
“To think that credulous, constant I,
“Shou'd, by your Scorn, be kill'd.

VII

“But what avail my sad Complaints,
“While you my Case neglect!
“My wailing inward Sorrow vents,
“Without the wish'd Effect.

This said—all breathless, sick, and pale,
Her Head upon her Hand;

239

She found her vital Spirits fail,
And Senses at a stand.

Sylvander, then, began to melt—
But, ere the Word was given,
The heavy Hand of Death she felt,
And sigh'd her Soul to Heav'n.

240

CORYDON's Complaint.

I

As Love-Sick Corydon beside
A murmuring Riv'let lay,
Thus plain'd he his Cosmelia's Pride,
And, plaining, dy'd away.

II

“Fair Stream (he said) whene'er you pour
“Your Treasure, in the Sea,
“To Sea-Nymphs tell what I endure:
“Perhaps they'll pity me!

241

II

“And, sitting on the cliffy Rocks,
“In melting Songs, express
“(While as they comb their golden Locks)
“To Trav'llers my Distress.

III

“Say, Corydon, an honest Swain!
“The fair Cosmelia lov'd,
“While she, with undeserv'd Disdain,
“His constant Torture prov'd.

IV

“Ne'er Shepherd lov'd a Shepherdess
“More faithfully than He:
“Ne'er Shepherd yet regarded less
“Of Shepherdess cou'd be.

242

V

“How oft to Vallies, and to Hills,
“Did He, alas! complain!
“How oft re-echo'd they his Ills,
“And seem'd to share his Pain!

VI

“How oft, on Banks of stately Trees,
“And on the tufted Greens,
“Ingrav'd He Tales of his Disease,
“And what his Soul sustains!

VII

“Yet fruitless all his Sorrows prov'd,
“And fruitless all his Art!
“She scorn'd the more, the more he lov'd,
“And broke, at last, his Heart.

243

THE MONKEY.

A FABLE.

[_]

From the French.

A Monkey, a malignant Creature!
Whose Age improv'd his wicked Nature!
At length resign'd his canker'd Breath
And Being, to the Arms of Death.
But long he had not lodg'd in Hell,
(The Company he lik'd not well)

244

Till Pluto was address'd by Pray'r,
To send him back to native Air.
The gloomy God good-humour'd was,
And thought to make him Soul an Ass:
A Punishment esteem'd most fit,
For former Tricks of wicked Wit.
The Monkey shook his ghostly Head,
And said, He'd rather e'en be dead.
An Ass's Body was all one,
As if he shou'd inform a Stone.
Pluto, at last, well pleas'd to see
His Tricks, to win his Liberty,
Consented, smiling, that he shou'd
Take any other Shape he wou'd.
“I thank your Godship—You, with Ease,
“Can make me Parrot, if you please:

245

“For, in that Likeness, I've a Plan,
“How I may prate, and talk, like Man.
“I acted like him once, and then
“I'll try to rival him again.
'Twas done—And, now a Parrot made,
He mimick'd every Thing was said:
He chatter'd on, from Morn to Night,
And yielded wonderful Delight:
A certain Woman, old, and grey,
Came to the Market Place, one Day;
And was so taken with the Bird,
It spoke so like her, every Word,
That soon she bought it, Cage and all,
And hung it up in her large Hall.
Nobly it far'd—And, in requital
Of the old Dotard's dainty Victual,

246

It play'd a Thousand Gambols, more
Than Parrots us'd to play before;
Exempli Gratia, mov'd its Head,
In antick Manner—Clamour made
With its new Bill—and odd Grimace
With Wings and Claws: In short it was
A Monkey, in a Parrot's Case.
Transported with the Bird, the Woman
Wou'd be at Home whole Days for no Man.
But every Hour, with Admiration,
Beheld that Pride of the Creation.
Her Spectacles, upon her Nose,
Were far more needful, than her Cloaths:
And it was all her Care and Grief,
That Age had made her Ears so deaf;
For Poll deliver'd many a Speech,
That never cou'd her Hearing reach.

247

At length, by too much Fondness, lost,
Our Parrot now began to boast,
Grow noisy, troublesome, and mad!
And drank, alas! some Liquor bad,
By which it dy'd—So down went Poll
With new Petitions for his Soul.
Pluto, observing, said, I will
At length this noisy Spirit still,
By making it inform a Fish,—
This suited not our Parrot's Wish!
So, playing some new Tricks again,
The God resolv'd to ease its Pain,
And let it e'en become a Man.
Yet fearing he shou'd give Offence,
Resolv'd it shou'd a Fool commence.

248

So in the Body of a Beau,
A talking, tedious, empty Show!
To Lying, Laughing, Bragging, us'd,
Was now the wandering Soul infus'd.
Hermes, a God profoundly wise,
Discover'd him in this Disguise,
“And art thou there (he, smiling, said)
“Thou senseless, trifling, useless, Shade,
“Of Monkey, and of Parrot made?
“Wert thou of Words, and Gestures, stript,
“How nobly wou'dst thou stand equipt?
“Wou'dst thou not wholly be unmann'd,
“If what thou dost not understand
“Were taken from Thee? For by Rote
“Is all thy ignorant Knowledge got!

249

“Gods! What a Man a Monkey makes!
“If, from him, one his Anticks takes?
“And yet how many Men there be,
“In whom we nought, but Monkey, see?
“A fashionable Coat, and Air,
“And Words, and Gestures, all his Care;
“Among the Vulgar, make an Ass
“For a most pretty Fellow pass!

250

A SONG.

I

Leave Kindred and Friends, sweet Lady,
Leave Kindred, and Friends, for me,
Assur'd, thy Servant is steddy
To Love, to Honour, and Thee.
The Gifts of Nature, and Fortune,
May fly, by Chance, as they came!
They are Grounds the Destinies sport on,
But Virtue is ever the same.

II

Altho' my Fancy were roving,
Thy Charms so heav'nly appear,
That other Beauties disproving,
I'd worship thine only, my Dear.

251

And, shou'd Life's Sorrows embitter
The Pleasure we promise our Loves,
To share them, together, is fitter,
Than moan, asunder, like Doves.

III

Oh! were I but once so blessed,
To grasp my Love in my Arms!
By Thee, to be grasp'd! and kissed!
And live on thy Heaven of Charms!
I'd laugh at Fortune's Caprices,
Shou'd Fortune capricious prove:
Tho' Death shou'd tear me to Pieces,
I'd die a Martyr to Love.

252

AN ODE ON Mr. W---r's Birth-Day, July 14.

I

The Day is come—Ye happy Few,
When friendly W---r invites,
To Principles of Love be true,
Nor bound the Tide of your Delights.

253

II

Hence, gloomy Thought, and anxious Care!
Be hush, black Scandal, Strife, and Noise!
May the dear Youth's succeeding Year
Be usher'd in, with lucky Joys.

III

With Pomp unusual, God of Light,
Go on, to grace th' auspicious Hours;
Nor shroud thy Beams in sable Night,
'Till Wine has made Elyzium ours.

VI

Boy, fill the Bowl—The Bowl alone
Can give a Sanction to the Day:
We need no other sacred Stone
To mark the Time, and make us gay.

254

V

I, who peculiar Interest boast,
Devote, at once, my Muse and Heart:
My Soul in W---'s is lost,
And his is grown the better Part.

VI

O may his Mind and Fame improve,
'Till hoary Honours grace his Head!
May Merit, now, procure him Love;
And eternize his Memory, dead.

255

TO Sir RICHARD STEELE;

On the successful Representation of his excellent Comedy, call'd, The CONSCIOUS LOVERS.

In ancient Times, before a Pulpit-Throne,
Or Preaching, was, at Rome and Athens, known,
Virtue and Wit, on Theatres, were bred,
And People follow'd, as the Poets led.
These publish'd nothing, but what Heav'n inspir'd,
And all their Dictates were, by Those, admir'd.

256

Heroes, whose Bravery bought immortal Fame,
Were deem'd a Second, and less sacred Name.

But Vice crept in, as Priestcraft got the Sway,
Down fell the Stage, and Poets went astray.
For several Ages, and, in every Land,
The Muse has drudg'd, beneath a Tyrant's Hand;
Old Sterling Wit been chang'd for mungrel Rhime,
And all the Drama turn'd into a Crime.
The tuneful Tribe, condemn'd to mean Regard,
Just Rules and Morals barter for Reward.
And so debauch'd the general Taste appears,
That all is damn'd, that native Beauty wears.

To mend the Manners of the madding Age,
And model new the Conduct of the Stage,

257

For vulgar Genii, is a Task too high;
A Task, that claims approv'd Authority!
'Tis yours, O Steele, in conscious Virtue bold,
To show the Drama, as it was of old;
To please the Eye; and practise on the Heart;
With Force of Reason, and the Flowers of Art!
Be this the Praise of your last, lov'd, Essay,
Where Wit and Honour all their Charms display;
The Stage is conquer'd to its first Intent,
Labour is Gain, and Pleasure innocent.
What Briton, now, will reckon Virtue dull?
Shall Morals more to sleep the Hearer lull?
No longer, Fops, make Ridicule of Truth,
Nor blush to grow politely sage, in Youth,
By Bevil's Conduct regulate your Life,
And make good Sense the Fashionable Strife.

258

And, ye, sow'r Criticks, to our Poet bow,
And bind the Laurel, on his sacred Brow;
In all he writes, superior Worth confess;
Detraction cannot make his Glory less.
The worthy Sage, whose publick Spirit long
Has stood Director of our Taste and Song;
Whose generous Labours, yet unrival'd, frame
Our Style and Manners, for his Country's Fame,
He will, in Spite of Envy, ever rise,
Belov'd of All, but Those, whom All despise.

259

VERSES ON THE DEATH of Mr. S---.

Address'd to his Friends.

------ Omnium
Versatur Urna ------
Hor.

He was my Friend—I lov'd, and lost, him too—
And shall not I lament, as much as you?
With Sighs and Tears you sanctify his Hearse;
To Sighs and Tears I superadd my Verse.
And, sure, if Spirits from their Flesh set free,
Know what is done on Earth, his Soul will see
And mark the Sorrows, which distinguish me.

260

To pay Him all my Love, and pay it so
As honest Debtors shou'd whate'er they owe,
Were to write Elegy with nobler Strain,
Than I, or Bards more skilful, can maintain.
Much might be said, did Grief but wear a Face
Of Woe; or were my Muse but Common-Place:
But Worth, like his, wou'd be debas'd by Art,
And Eloquence display an untouch'd Heart!

Yet who, that knew his Character and Life,
Allows not that my S--- detested Strife,
Falshood and Folly? And adorn'd his Youth
With manly Honour, Honesty, and Truth?
Where was sedate, unruffled Temper shown,
On all Occasions, perfect as his own?

261

When shall we see a Man so young, so stay'd?
Or where the social Virtues more display'd?
To others candid, constant to his Friend,
In censuring slow, unwilling to offend;
Humble and modest, kind, obliging, just,
Belov'd of all, and faithful to his Trust?
Who, that observ'd his Air, his Words, and Ways,
Will say my Muse bestows a borrow'd Praise?

But tho' his Virtues many Friends have made,
Who lov'd him living, and lament him dead,
What boots it now? One lawless Stream of Blood,
With Force revulsive, barr'd the vital Flood;
Swell'd o'er the Heart; and, in the fatal Strife,
Bore him at once from all the World and Life.

262

How various are the Arms of subtle Death?
What certain Means to stop precarious Breath?
The restless Foe in Paths unheeded treads,
And slow Disease and fierce Affliction spreads.
Thro' Sea and Land, in Peace and War, we go,
And Rest and Action try t'elude the Blow.
In vain we hope to shun th' imperious Pow'r,
Or bribe Him to suspend the destin'd Hour.

Mortals, be wise, and, ere it proves too late,
Wake from your Pleasures, and prepare for Fate:
S--- is no more! the very Thought affrights,
Hangs o'er my Hopes, and clouds my dash'd Delights.
Strong as he was, and healthy as the best,
How soon he fell! to hungry Worms a Guest!

263

Yet He, from Vices and from Follies free,
Had more to plead, and less to fear than we.
We may a while enjoy the transient Light—
With him, alas! 'tis ever, ever Night!

264

THE RECANTATION.

To a LADY.

Forgive, Aurelia, my audacious Muse,
That durst, in Tragic Scenes, your Sex abuse:
'Twas Paricide, I own, on any Ground,
With impious Satire, Female Fame to wound.
Who dares deny your Sex the better Birth?
For you of Man were made, as Man of Earth.
When you were form'd, Creation first had rest!
A Sign, th' Almighty thought your Make the best
Of all his Labours! Beast shou'd Homage do
To Sov'reign Man; but Man should bend to You:
Worship is every Woman's rightful Due.

265

If we survey your outward Frame, how fair!
How soft! how glorious! what a Heav'n is There!
Nor are our Souls more excellent than yours?
Souls know no Sexes! boast their common Pow'rs!
Have we more Knowledge? No, it cannot be;
Ye first were knowing! first attack'd the Tree!
And, sure, the Wise, the Pious, and the Strong,
Must own the Conquests of your Eyes, and Tongue:
Let but a Lip, a Hand, dispute the Field—
What Stoick stands unmov'd? what Cynick does not yield?

No more, Aurelia, shall my Muse rebel;
No more deny your Sex does most excell.
What Hand profane a Hag for Venus paints?
And who, but Atheists, rail against the Saints?
What Fools are Men in Pedigree of Names,
To chuse the Father's, while the Mother's claims

266

The first Regard? Hers is more honour'd Blood,
Wou'd fix our Heraldry, and make out Generation good.

Happy the Swain, whose Passion you shall crown;
Who, join'd to you, may call the Sex his own;
For, sure, the whole Perfections of the Fair
Meet in your Mind, and shine unsullied There.

267

VERSES TO A Gentleman who was charm'd with OPHELIA's Person.

'Tis true, she's fair and lovely to the view—
What more cou'd rival Art and Nature do?
I wonder not, you're conquer'd by her Charms,
And covet my Elysium in her Arms—
But did you see her Beauties with my Eyes,
Were but your Love like mine, with what Surprize,
What warm Desires you'd gaze away your Pow'rs,
And think the World well lost to have her Yours.

268

Fancy, my Friend, in Love Affairs prevails:
Beauties are made by it, when Nature fails.
The Fair looks fairer, that our Fancy strikes,
And Charms o'er spread the Ugly, whom it likes.
Were my Ophelia hateful to the Sight,
Approv'd by Fancy, she'd be all Delight.

But I nor to the Eye, nor Fancy, yield—
Victorious Vertues bear me from the Field.
Judgment and Reason, Governors of Life,
Determin'd me to make Ophelia Wife.
They shew'd me first the Beauties of her Mind,
Beauties! whose least adds Grace to Womankind;
These, these, my Friend, are lasting as the Soul,
That Time and Trouble never can controul:

269

Tho' all her Roses, and her Lillies, fade,
Tho' Flesh decay, and Life were turn'd to Shade,
The noble, hidden, Riches wou'd endure,
Furnish fresh Charms, and fix my Love secure.

Had you, my Friend, a Perspective so clear,
And cou'd you thus behold my darling Fair,
How soon you'd quit the Prospect of her Face,
And, with new Wonder, on her Vertues gaze!
Vertues! that wou'd constrain you to confess,
That I had Cause to court this Happiness:
And teach you Skill among her Sex to find
An Object fair, made fairer by her Mind.

270

TO OPHELIA,

In Tears for the Decay of her Beauties.

Life of Loveliness! forbear;
Sighs and Plaints I cannot hear.
Tell me not thou'rt past thy Prime—
Tax not Nature, Fate, and Time—
Beauties, that did first subdue,
Hold my Heart for ever true.
In Thee, still I find the Charms
That allur'd me to thy Arms.

271

Raptur'd still I view thy Face,
Stock'd with ev'ry Virgin Grace.
Lively Sweetness! temper'd Fire!
Lasting Spring of chaste Desire!
In thine Eyes the very Flame!
Roses on thy Cheek the same?
On thy Chin th' unsullied Snow!
Gentle Majesty thy Brow!
Fresh the Teeth! and fine the Hair!
Lips, the lovely Twins they were!
Voice with heav'nly Musick fraught!
Shape and Air without a Fault!
Every Limb and every Feature
Perfect, as thy Sense and Nature!
Sprightly, generous, and free,
Just to All, and True to Me!

272

Modest, innocent, and kind!
Charming Person! noble Mind!
All my Wealth, and Paradise!
Cheer thy Heart, and dry thy Eyes.

273

THE REVENGE, TO MARIANA.

Et Longum Formosa vale ------
Virg.

What means my Mariana now?
What makes her so tyrannic grow?
Why, on a sudden, turn'd so wild,
So cruel, who was late so mild,
So tender, gentle, loving, kind?
Ah! tell me, hast thou chang'd thy Mind?

274

I fear, I fear, 'twas my own Fault,
That this Conversion in Thee wrought!
It was my Superstition made
Thee first a Goddess, of a Shade!
My Fancy gave Thee all the Charms,
Which now against me rise in Arms!
So have I known a King oppress
The Men, who sav'd him from Distress;
So have I seen a Snake at Strife
With him, who warm'd it into Life.

But was't for this Return, my Fair,
I form'd, of Cupid's Nets, thy Hair?
For this, did I, to paint Thee gay,
Bring Whiteness from the milky Way?
From Eastern Spices steal the Scent,
And rob the Flow'rs, for Ornament?

275

Plunder the Stars, t'inspire thy Eyes?
The Spheres, to tune thy Tongue and Voice?
The Snow, to make thy Forehead shine?
Love's Bows, to make thy Brows divine?
What Fool was I, that did create,
And give Thee Pow'r to speak my Fate!
How cruel Thou, and how ingrate?

Yet, since I find my Life at stake,
And I, that made thee, can unmake;
Since thus thou hast thy Arms employ'd,
And me, their Giver, nigh destroy'd;
Restore, restore them back again:
Thy Cruelty has broke my Chain.
I see thy natural Shape and Face,
And blush to have bestow'd such Grace.

276

My Fancy owns its Errors now,
And humbly does to Reason bow.
No more, a Goddess, shalt thou rule;
No more, a Slave, I'll play the Fool.
Hence, fond Love, Delusion hence,
For I've regain'd my Self and Sense.

Ha! Mariana! what's become
Of th' Arms, that threaten'd late my Doom?
Where's now thy Pride? Thy Rigour, where?
Methinks thy Looks are less severe.
No borrow'd Charms thy Face adorn;
Thy Person I begin to scorn,
And act the Tyrant, in my Turn.

277

Two Questions answer'd by Two Ladies at a Ball, Versified.

Say, charming Charlotte, (for there's not a Beau,
In this select Assembly, but you know)
Have you seen C--- of uncommon Fame?
“Not seen, but smelt, and that is much the same.

ENCORE.

Dear Lucy, say, if I should C--- see,
By what sure Token shall I know 'tis He?
“Consult your Smell (she answer'd) for the Nose
“Can best discern Him, in a Crowd of Beaus.

278

TO Mr. THOMSON, The Author of WINTER.

When, from the Schools of famous Painters brought,
A Picture, at prodigious Price, is bought,
And hung in some great Virtuoso's Hall,
The Talk, the Wonder, and the Praise of All!
Crowds flock to see it, and transported stand
In silent Rev'rence of the Master's Hand:

279

The Sight receives new Pleasure, as they gaze,
And ev'ry Image swells the Soul's Amaze;
Ravish'd Reflection naked Nature views,
And fixes all the Traces it pursues.

Nor is the Reader's Satisfaction less,
From just Descriptions, in Poetic Dress:
They dwell with Pleasure on the conscious Mind,
And animate the dullest of Mankind.

What Praise, my Friend, belongs not then to Thee?
How venerable ought thy Muse to be?
A Muse! that sets thy Objects full in View,
And leads our Thoughts to wise Reflections too.

Who reads this Work calls Winter back again,
And views its bleak, uncomfortable, Reign;

280

Its dreary Scenes, and Forces strong and fierce,
All realiz'd in thy descriptive Verse!
Sees how th' Almighty his Artillery forms!
And opes his cloudy Magazine of Storms!
How broad and thick descend the Sheets of Snow,
And whiten Hills, and Woods, and Vales below!
How Streams dissolve the Fleeces, as they fall,
The circling Seas alone absorbing all!
How Winds are still'd, and Skies are lull'd asleep!
How they embroil the Air, and hurricane the Deep!

Methinks, alone in my Musæum pent,
I, by thy Verse, the Season represent!
Here, Hail thick batt'ring! There, rais'd Rivers roll!
Now, civil Wars rage loud from Pole to Pole!
Again, 'tis calm! now, Earth, disguis'd, is seen
One snowy Waste! the Sea, an icy Green!

281

The Streams, unbound, and broke in Cakes, again
Tumble, tremendous to the troubled Main!
And, now, the Ships, late chain'd in solid Waves,
Defying Storms, each boistrous Billow braves:
By Hurricanes, they're dash'd against the Shore,
Or, whelm'd, by dreadful Surges, rise no more!
Sudden, a lovely Dress adorns the Year—
The Hills and Plains new-spangled Glories wear!
Gay Pearls and Rubies deck the prickly Thorn!
And Fens and Marshes shine with glassy Corn!
The Groves, glaz'd over, glitter in the Sun!
The timorous Hares from rattling Stubble run!
The frighted Birds the brittle Branches fly!
And crackling Shrubs the hungry Herds supply!
The Stag, in Ice, its crystal'd Front admires!
And Clowns crowd close around carouzing Fires!

282

Social, and just, and innocent they sit,
And Honesty atones for want of Wit;
While the lewd Letcher wallows, like the Swine,
And Drunkards drown their sober Sense in Wine.
But, now, the Winds thro' hazy Skies, in haste
Break horrible, and shake the dazzling Waste;
Sudden, impetuous, pours the treasur'd Rain,
Melts down the hoary Hills, and mires the delug'd Plain.
The Traveller, wet and weary on the Road,
Drags his stiff Limbs, and seeks a dry Abode.

Prodigious Pow'r of Poetry to warm
Or chill, the Blood! compose it, or alarm!
To set the World and Nature's Works in Light!
And moralize their various Scenes aright!

283

Thomson, if, with such Energy and Ease,
Thou sing'st, proceed—thou can'st not fail to please.
Nor stoop to Rhime—a Muse, so strong and bold,
By servile Fetters, scorns to be controul'd.
I greet thy Genius well, invite Thee forth,
And first present to publick View thy Worth.
I prophesy'd of Thee; nor blush to own
The Joy I feel, in making Thomson known.
Thy first Attempts, to me, a Promise made:
That Promise is, by this Performance, paid.
If such Perfection crowns thy Muse so soon,
What Virtues will not glorify her Noon?

284

A Sunday EPISTLE TO CREW OFFLY, Esq;

ON THE Lamented Death of his LADY.

Tu semper urges flebilibus modis
Sponsam ademptam: nec tibi vespero
Surgente decedunt Amores,
Nec rapidum fugiente Solem.
------ Desine mollium
Tandem Querelarum ------
Omnes eôdem cogimur ------
Hor.

Is Offly widow'd? Mourns the Muses' Friend?
And shall no sympathizing Poet send
The Tribute of Condolence? May not I,
With pious Sorrow, and a weeping Eye,

285

Amidst Prosaic Crowds of Mourners press,
To shew my Sense of Offly's great Distress?
In such a Cause, officious let me be:
Forbid me not to grieve—for 'tis with Thee.

Yet, not to increase thy Suff'ring, and thy Woe,
My artless Elegiac Numbers flow.
—That were to turn my Piety to Sin,
And, like Job's Friends, th' Afflicted's Censure win.
Nor wou'd I bid Thee give thy Sorrows o'er,
And cease to mind so lov'd a Consort more.
—Not to lament the Loss of one, so good,
So young, so fair, were barbarous and rude.
The Best of Friends, and Mothers too! the Thought
Makes Virtue stagger, and ev'n Reason nought.

286

Nature, in spite of Philosophic Rules,
Unmans the Brave, and proves the wisest Fools.
All, undistinguish'd, in Distress, complain:
Humanity wou'd seem untouch'd, in vain.
Who, that are wretched, can, unconscious, live?
And take the Counsel they, untroubled, give?
Sorrow, like Love, for Reason waxes strong,
And tyrannizes, where it reigns too long.

Offly, thy Loss demands a nat'ral Grief;
But bars Thee not from Comfort and Relief.
Immod'rate Sorrow may thy Life consume:
But not revoke inexorable Doom,
Nor bring thy destin'd Charmer from the Tomb.
And, sure, if Souls departed know what's done
By Kindred Mortals, Offly's ev'ry Groan

287

And Tear must break, unwelcome, on her Rest,
And rob her of the Heav'n she's now possest.
Let Those, whose Love and Faith were doubted, gain
Belief, by Shews of Sorrow, which they feign,
You, whose whole Life, in ev'ry Act, is crown'd,
Are not to superstitious Custom bound.
Rather, a Widower now, of Wisdom prove
The Pattern; as, a Husband late, of Love.
Indulgent Heav'n has bless'd your Marriage Bed,
Nor, with your Consort, is your Comfort fled.
Behold the Pledges of your mutual Joys!
Delighted, trace their Mother in her Boys:
With wise Submission, wait the Sov'reign Will,
Improve good Fortune, and endure your ill.

And, Thou, lamented, sacred, Dust, remain
Untroubled, till thy Beauties spring again:

288

Soft be thy Sleep, till the last Morn appears—
And, ye, her lov'd Relations, dry your Tears,
And make that Use of her mourn'd Funeral,
As of a Crystal, broken by a Fall,
Whose several Pieces, gather'd up, and set,
May lesser Mirrors for her Sex beget.
There let Them view Themselves, until they see
What End of all their Glories soon will be,
And wish they had such Qualities, as she.

Time flies apace, and Life is full of Woes,
A Torch puft out by ev'ry Wind that blows!
Matter for Sighs we find with our first Breath,
And but draw Air to render back to Death.
The Lucky may enjoy short-liv'd Delight:
But Grief is Man's Hereditary Right.

289

Hence the old Thracian Sages us'd to mourn
When Children were, with Cries and Torment, born;
But, at their Death, believ'd them truly blest,
Because the Fates had laid them then to rest.

Offly, ere long we, too, must Trophies fall
To that victorious Conqueror of All!
But shall we say the Victor's not our Friend,
That, with our Lives, put Sorrows to an End?
Trust me, the Spring that trickles from our Eyes
Is natural—but, as we die, it dries.
One friendly Stroke will wipe away our Tears,
And prove that all our Mis'ry flows from Fears.

Job complains of his Friends in these Words, “Ye are miserable Comforters unto me, and Physicians of no Value.”

290

TO Mr. A--- D---,

On seeing a Specimen of his POETRY.

As, when, thro' barren Wilds of trackless Sand,
Th' eternal Curse of hot Arabian Land!
The wandering, weary, breathless Traveller goes,
Nor where to meet with wish'd Refreshment knows;
Till, sudden, rising, in his dubious Way,
A cooling Stream, whose clear Meanders play
Thro' Sunburnt Banks, and brighten up the Day,

291

Sweetly surpriz'd, to find a Blessing plac'd,
In that forlorn, inhospitable, Waste,
Prostrate, he lays his Lifeless Limbs supine,
And, grateful to its Origin Divine,
Luxuriant feasts, and calls the Water Wine.
So I, dear D---, long distress'd to find
Our Native Scotia to the Muse unkind;
Pain'd to survey such Multitudes of Men,
Without the Compass of Apollo's Ken;
At each Discovery of a Bard I make,
The utmost Pleasure, Life can yield, partake.
With the old Hebrew Sage, I wish Mankind
Were Prophets all—to Poetry inclin'd;
For I'd not have them Priests, of a Prosaic Mind.

How great, how welcome, was my late Surprise,
When your Essays saluted first my Eyes?

292

How blest to meet, where Poets are so few,
A Kindred Mind! a second D--- too!
Be this thy Praise; for I can praise no more:
A D--- is, at least, worth half a Score.
O may you, like the first immortal Name,
Break thro' hard Fate, and raise an equal Fame;
While I, who, singly, long have serv'd the Muse,
In that Poetic Province most refuse;
Proud of your Friendship, studious of your Aid,
Record, with double Zeal, the Dictates of the Maid.

Oft, as I forward dart a curious Eye
Into the Depths of dark Futurity,
With fond Delight, I comprehend the Time
When Scotia's Sons shall rise in deathless Rhime;
When Phœbus, who affords it longest Days,
Shall crown us too with everlasting Bays.

293

I see, Prophetic, Crowds of Bards inspir'd,
Their Country's Glory! by the World admir'd!
No more a Poet rising now and then,
As in dull Realms where Nature grudges Men;
But new Buchanans every where abound,
And Caledonia rival holy Ground.
Again our Thule shall Distinction boast,
And Bards, like Stars, shine brighter by the Frost.

Assist, dear Youth, in this great Cause of Wit,
And high among your Country's Patriots sit.
Produce the Fires, that in your Bosom dwell:
You need but write, to shew you can excel.

294

TO THE Right Honourable ---

Who said, I was rude to Him.

Just as a Dog, with fond Caresses,
His eager Fawnings, frequent Kisses,
Bedirteth most the Man he loves;
It, every Day, in Friendship proves:
For I no more can pass a Day
Without your Company, than Tray
His Gambols can forbear to play.
Now, when, by such a Simile,
I state the Case 'twixt you and me,

295

You cannot call me sawcy Rogue,
Since you're the Man, and I the Dog.
Still act the Man, in your Behaviour;
And on me, lavish out your Favour!
Tho' I, poor Dog! perhaps uncivil!
Decorum spoil, and play the Devil.

296

VERSES ON A Friend's MARRIAGE.

The mortal Man (said Master Flaccus)
Was bold as Mars, or drunk as Bacchus,
Who, first, an Oar or Sculler ply'd,
And forc'd his Wealth, thro' Wind and Tide.

Britannia's Monarch, James yclypt,
Who Peace and Puns religious kept,
Pronounc'd him holder still, who durst
Venture to eat an Oyster first.

297

A certain Sage, and Friend of mine,
(For all his Gown, and Air, divine)
Declares the Man out-brav'd by no Man,
Who beds a lusty, rampant, Woman.
Nor is it his peculiar Creed—
St. Paul first put it in his Head.
Were I to mention my Opinion,
I'd prove my self the Doctor's Minion,
And frankly own my good Friend C---'s
Bolder than any Rake, that rambles;
Forasmuch-as a Clap, or Pox,
May put an End to Rover's Jokes:
But he, (which you will call a hard Case)
In Marriage ventur'd twice his Carcase—
First, while unripe and under Age,
A wanton Widow did engage;

298

And, having worn out half his Mettle,
And known what 'tis to Wive and settle,
Had Courage to defy his Doom,
In the Arms of one, of Virgin Bloom.
Herculean Labours both, you'll say, Sir!
Yet he's alive unto this Day, Sir!
Mayst thou, O Venus, Queen of Love!
Propitious to thy Champion prove;
And his Atchievements, long renown'd,
With Offspring fair, and brave, be crown'd;
An Offspring worthy of their Birth,
Worthy their Name, and native Earth!

299

TO A Right Honourable Grumbletonian.

Whilom, a Fox, a-cross a crystal Stream
Was swimming, and, when to the Bank he came,
Found it too steep and slippery to ascend.
He climb'd, he leap'd, but could not gain his End:
Nor this the whole Misfortune of his Life—
For, labouring thus with uneffectual Strife,
Behold a hideous Form of bloody Flies,
Settling, attack'd and stung his Ears and Eyes.

300

An Hedg-hog, standing near the fatal Place,
Observ'd and pity'd Reynard's doleful Case.
“Brother, if I not help you out with Ease,
“At least, these Insects that molest and teaze,
“Shall by some Ways and Means of mine retire—.
I thank you, Sir, 'tis more than I require.
Let my good Neighbours, quarter'd here, alone:
Their Bellies fill'd, they'll Volunteer be gone:
But, were they driven by Violence away,
Another Swarm, more terrible than they,
Wou'd take their Places, with an Onset rude,
And drain my Body of each Drop of Blood.

Thus, when the Samians held a close Debate,
And wou'd depose their Minister of State,
Sage Æsop spoke, (as Aristotle says)
And sav'd the mighty W---e of those Days.

301

“Ye Men of Samos, like the Fox, be wise,
“Who us'd no Violence to the bloody Flies.
“Your Demagogue for Avarice is try'd—
“That He's prodigious rich is not deny'd.
“Now, think, when he has got sufficient Store,
“He'll have no Need to plunder you for more.
“But, if ye shou'd condemn the Man to die,
“Some needy Person will of course supply
“His envied Place; and, in his Turn, create,
“By Ways and Means, another such Estate.

O P--- this important Fable weigh,
Apply the Moral, and impartial say,
You'd yet be W---'s Friend, so you might squeeze
Our Remainder of Property, with Ease.

302

But the instructed Britons, cautious grown,
Will trust no craving Candidates unknown.
Our present Flies will soon have suckt their Fill,
Then Gratis serve, and keep their Places still.

303

EPITAPH

For the Tomb of a MISER, who bilk'd his Relations for the Fame of building an Hospital.

Stop, Passenger—but shed no Tear—
A Miser's Corps is buried here,
Who bilk'd his Friends, and pinch'd himself,
To heap for Strangers Sums of Pelf.
He hop'd a Piety, so odd,
Wou'd recommend his Soul to God,
And make the Name, that stunk alive,
For ever savoury survive.
To say he's damn'd were not so fit:
But who thinks not the Biter bit?

304

CATHOLICK BRASS; OR, THE Power of Impudence:

A POEM.

Thy Pow'r, O brazen Impudence, I sing:
My Muse, audacious, stretch a steddy Wing,
To topmost Point of tow'ring Fame aspire,
As bold Prometheus rap'd the heav'nly Fire.

I feel, I feel the Catholick Virtue rise!
I dare, I soar above incumbent Skies!

305

With Forehead proud, I scale the blest Abodes,
And rush, undaunted, midst immortal Gods!
Lo! at Jove's Table, I presume to sit,
And claim, unblushing, the Reward of Wit!
Round with the Nectar, ye cogenial Powers,
We only live—for Happiness is ours.
Thus high exalted o'er the vulgar Throng,
I challenge great Apollo's self, in Song!
Thou Hermes, God of Eloquence and Lays,
Resign thy bold Pretensions to the Bays.
Superior Virtues claim the foremost Place,
And I bear strong Credentials in my Face.

Hence, ye prophane, ye modest, bashful, Fools,
Ye Soul-less Sinners, ty'd to civil Rules—
Glory and Fortune were not made for you!
Ill are they relish'd, by an abject Crew.

306

Grovel on Earth, from which your Beings came,
'Tis Catholick Brass, that makes its Way to Fame.

O Godlike Energy, that crowns Mankind!
In which, alone, we Inspiration find!
By whose sole Influence, Men appear divine!
What lordly Crowds, beneath thy Banners shine?
How shall I praise thy Usefulness, and Worth?
Invigorate me, to shew thy Virtues forth.

Rude was the World, till brave Ambition sprung,
And Impudence inspir'd the talking Tongue.
Men dully loll'd in Ignorance and Ease,
And sought Contentment in unactive Peace.
All were alike distinguish'd in the Crowd,
And inborn Merit mop'd beneath a Cloud.

307

But, when they learnt Assurance to aspire,
Their frozen Spirits felt enlivening Fire.
Sudden each daring Genius forward prest,
And strove to shine conspicuous o'er the Rest.
Then Arts and Sciences began their Shine!
Thou, Brass, wast their Original Divine.

Zealots of humble, sneaking, sheepish, Thought!
Awake, and view the Wonders it has wrought.
What Miracles in Human Life are shown,
That owe their Birth to Impudence alone!
The Court, the Camp, the Church, the Bar, survey,
And mark, in each, the Powerful and the Gay;
Think how they first to high Preferment rose,
What first made strutting Heroes, Bishops, Beaus?
What Places, Pensions, Titles, and Renown,
Beneath auspicious Impudence have grown?

308

How have its Heirs from humblest Stations sprung,
And to the Top of Fortune's Grandeur clung?
Brass, Catholick Brass, the fair Distinctions gave,
Polish'd the Clown, and spirited the Brave.

What glorious Actions are, by Brass, inspir'd?
Ye Sons of Mars, what else your Conduct fir'd?
What made the deathless Alexander great?
And what thy Conquests, Cæsar, so compleat?
Thou, Cromwell, thou its Excellency know'st,
Thy strange Success to Impudence thou ow'st!
And what, O Persian Rebel, now supports
Thy daring Soul, and awes the neighbouring Courts?

Turn we our Eyes amid the reasoning Herd,
For sage Orations thro' the World rever'd,

309

Say, To what Source shall we their Virtues trace?
Brass'd were alike their Genius, Pen, and Face!
To Brass the great Demosthenes we owe!
From Brass did Tully's pow'rful Rhetorick flow!

What moving Sermons from the Pulpit drop?
What Folio's fill the Bibliopola's Shop?
Alike inspir'd—'twas Brass, that sent 'em forth,
Possest, or not, with true intrinsick Worth.
Sage Austin, Origen, Aquinas, Scot,
Ambrose and Gregory, were, on Brass, begot.
To Brass, the modern Hammond, Eachard, Mead,
Burnet, and Bentley, owe their being read.
Thou, Atterbury, thou Sacheverell, know'st
How much to holy Impudence thou ow'st.
'Twas that, which gave your Schemes and Conduct Birth,
And stock'd with rev'rend Lumber, half the Earth.

310

But, if a perfect Character there be,
Consider Henley, and confess 'tis He!
In his egregious Conduct, Face, and Mind,
Antient and Modern Impudence are join'd!
Not thine, O Keyber, brazen-fronted Bard,
Can be with Henley's Virtues once compar'd!
Nor thine, O Curll, of infamous Renown,
The Bane and Scandal of the credulous Town!

From Personages solemn, let us pass,
And view what Service Love has had of Brass.
Coquets, and Prudes, by That, have oft been won,
And Ladies, lock'd up from the Sight of Sun.
When Sighs, and Prayers, and conquering Money, fail,
The Arts of pow'rful Impudence prevail.
O blest Hibernia! Source of dear Delights!
Whose Sons are doubly arm'd, for fierce venereal Fights.

311

Survey the Court—But, Muse, thy Labour spare—
A Modest Man is deem'd a Monster there!
—As in a Market, There 'tis bought and sold,
And Brass meets Brass, as Gods met Gods, of old.
The Statesman, Soldier, Lawyer, Priest, and Whore,
Alike thy Aid, O Impudence, implore.
All jostle in the Crowd, and forward press,
And factious Parties this one Aim confess.

Gods! how accomplish'd looks the Man, who dares
Push home, and shew the Talents, that he wears!
How a convenient Stock deludes the Wise,
And makes 'em look on Fools with friendly Eyes!
How Men, are reckon'd learn'd, who nothing know!
How want of Sense is veil'd by pompous Show!
A very Bankrupt, by the Aid of Brass,
Preserves his Credit, and is sure to pass.

312

Who wishes not, to have a moderate Share?
O had I sooner thought it worth my Care!

A Slave to dastard Modesty, too long,
I sacrific'd my Time, my Sense, and Song.
From Me, young Men, your proper Interest learn;
I write experienc'd, and the World forewarn.
Go boldly on, nor spend dull Time in Thought;
Thinking, and Breeding, now, avail but nought!
Wou'd you be Wise, Great, Rich, and reckon'd so?
Be Impudent, no better Means I know.
A Fool may hope to be a Peer by Brass;
And every Day the Cassock cloaths the Ass.

Man's great Concern in Living, is, to live,
(Ye Sons of Levi, if I err, forgive)

313

And, to live well, 'tis Prudence to acquire
Whate'er contributes, to promote us high'r.
All human Souls ambitious are to rise,
And Impudence bids fairest for the Prize.

314

ET CÆTERA.

A PANEGYRICK. Address'd to Dr. SWIFT.

Seria mixta Jocis.

Et Cætera, thou glorious Trifle! how
Shall I the Fame, thou well deserv'st, bestow?
In vain wou'd Art thy Excellency raise,
And Fancy's self is non-plus'd in thy Praise.
Yet will my Muse attempt a daring Flight,
To shew my Zeal, tho' not describe Thee right.

315

Aid me, O Swift; and to the latest Times,
To your bright Genius sacred be the Rhimes.

Et Cætera, when had thy Being Birth?
Or wert thou form'd before the finish'd Earth?
Hadst Thou a Maker? or, at God's first Word,
Didst thou not start up, on thy own accord?
Yes—for when Light, the first Day's Labour! sprung,
Thy Being slily to its Being clung.
The Heav'ns and Earth, that just began to be,
Were all Et Cætera, and contain'd in Thee.

Why then, ye Sages, is it boldly said,
That out of Nothing, every Thing was made?
Et Cætera a Non-ens do ye make?
I say, with Reverence, 'tis a dull Mistake;

316

For all Things, in Et Cætera's Bosom, lay,
From the great First, unto the Final, Day.
Now, cou'd a Nothing Crowds of Something hold?
Without a Mine, can there be Veins of Gold?
Or, to speak plainer to your common Sense,
(And then my Thesis will need no Defence)
Did not your selves originally come,
Each of you, from your proper Mother's Womb?
And was that Womb no more than empty Space?
—Ye see, learn'd Sirs, it is a puzzling Case!
And so I leave it as I found it first;
Determine ye whose Notion is the worst.
For Me, I'd rather to your Terms submit,
Than cross my Muse, for deep Disputes unfit!
Take ye the Judgment, and give me the Wit.
Hard Words, to which I've no Ideas got,
Like Hasty-Pudding, harbour in my Throat.

317

Alike, dull Food and Learning suit with Me!
My Stomach turns at all, that is not free.

But to return, before I run too far,
(For Episodes a clear Connection marr,
And I shou'd be asham'd, to have it said,
A roving Muse betrays a roving Head)
My Task is next, on that Foundation Stone,
(I mean my foresaid Problem) to go on,
And sing how, of all mortal Beings, We
Authors of Books oblig'd t'Et Cætera be.

And here, my Muse, a spacious Field survey!
In spite of Rules, and Dennis self, display
A Scene of Fancy, whimsical and gay:
Make Dedicators chiefly know the Debt
They owe Et Cætera, lest they shou'd forget.

318

How oft by It, important Word! with Ease,
Do begging Scriblers find the Way to please?
When to a Lord, or honourable Knight,
They mean (unknowing what is fit) to write—
If ignorant of his Honours, Titles, Places—
One right Et Cætera can preserve his Graces.
Shou'd they not Virtues, in their Patrons, find;
Or be they not, t'enumerate each, inclin'd,
From Common-Place, an Author's needful Bank!
Let them pick one—Et Cætera fills the Blank.

Then, by the Way, ye great Ones, learn to know
How much ye to Et Cætera's Bounty owe.
Entreat him kindly, when ye chance to read,
And, when he means well, trust him as your Creed:
Believe, he lyes not, when he makes you Great,
Or Good, or Learn'd, or of a large Estate:

319

Nor be unmindful to reward the Pen,
That put him there, to make you famous Men.

But Authors, keen on Mischief, and on Blood,
Oft make Et Cætera quit a Cause, that's good,
To war on Satire's and on Slander's Side—
Alas! too oft its Force is thus apply'd!
Reveals he Faults, or does he vent a Curse,
Et Cætera can make it ten times worse.
As for Example, “Sir, the other Day,
“You call'd me Villain, Rogue, Et Cætera:
I (to be ev'n) the Art of Slandering try'd,
And, in your Face, “You Knave, Et Cætera, cry'd.

Hence, O ye Mortals, learn a moral Use—
Never Et Cætera's Honesty abuse:

320

He means no Ill—but oft, alas! betray'd,
He stands, where Sampson's self might be afraid.
Another Moral does my Doctrine teach,
To keep from an enrag'd Et Cætera's Reach.
Is he, when Reason bids him reprehend,
Or to be blam'd, or reckon'd not a Friend?
Your Business, Sirs, is so to speak and do,
That black Et Cætera's may not strike at you.

Say next, my Muse, how useful is his Aid,
Where Words are wanting, either to persuade,
Or reprobate, enlarge, or reprehend,
Elude, confute, exaggerate, defend.
O how he serves, to grace a Title Page!
Commend the Sale! and Reader's Heart engage!
'Tis true, he's often forc'd, alas! to stand,
And skreen the Ignorance of a Point in Hand.

321

The very Pulpit Business for him finds:
He drudges most, to humour lazy Minds!
When Priests forget their Doctrine, or a Text,
Et Cætera passes for what should be next:
A Refuge ready to the most perplex'd!
In this, all Authors, but the Poets, sin;—
They, Men of Conscience! rarely fill a Line
With an Et Cætera—tho' we must confess,
When Reason's wanting, Rhime is little less.

Et Cætera! thou useful, busied, Thing!
Enough I cannot, in thy Praises, sing:
Yet must I stop, for want of Words, to say
How much I am thy Friend, Et Cætera.

322

THE PATRIOT.

When publick Debts make publick Taxes rise,
And threaten'd War demands enlarg'd Supplies,
Wilt Thou, O W--- for one Year, assign,
To sinking Funds those Perquisites of thine?
N---, T---, to be truly Great,
Say, Will ye serve, unhir'd, the British State?
Wilt thou, A---, as ancient Heroes fought,
Court glorious Wounds, and lead our Arms for Nought?
Or, wou'd ye, Ch--- and P---, boast
More generous Conduct, did ye rule the Roast?

323

Wou'd R---, C---, and L---, glow
With nobler Flame, and greater Virtue show?
O---, and M---, and St---, once were in---
Wou'd they not be what they've already been?
And who expects to find a Patriot true,
In faithless W---, and a perjur'd Crew?

Ah! where's our boasted national Regard?
Who looks on Virtue as its own Reward?
Where is the Briton, who, with generous Heart,
Will keep his Place—but with its Profits part?
To ease the Publick, where, O where's the Man,
Who lives on just as little as he can?
Will serve the King and Country with his Blood?
And lose his All to gain the common Good?

324

Of Greeks and Romans, but remains the Name!
And shall the World be robb'd of British Fame?
The present Age extinguish ancient Fire?
And publick Zeal and Liberty expire?
Ah! must the Tale in future Times be told?
And Sons, unborn, their Fathers Shame behold?
Shall Strangers see the British Annals fill'd
With Names, more odious than a B---t, or Wild?

At length, awake; and, with united Zeal,
Assert the Interests of the publick Weal:
Be brave in Arms—but at the least Expence;
Nor think it Hardship, in your Land's Defence.
And ye, who want not Means enough to live,
Salaries and Pensions to the Publick give:

325

What glorious Patriots will the Britons be,
Who, like their Sires, unsordid, brave, and free,
Superfluous Wealth and Luxury cashier,
To aid the sinking Fund, and set the Nation clear!

Vain Wish! vain Summons to a People, nurst
In factious Times, and with Corruption curst!
Who, but a God, can fix our reeling State,
Unite our Hearts, and make us truly great?
These Ends Herculean Virtues might attain—
But, ah! we look for Saviours, now, in vain!
All seek their own; and publick Welfare love,
But for Themselves, and as their Interests move!
Extravagance and Luxury prevail,
And, every Day, the Patriot Virtues fail!

326

Once, O Britannia, Heroes were thy Pride—
A Single Worthy spread his Influence wide:
One Godlike Genius, of the Patriot Race,
New-moulded Men, and chang'd a Nation's Face!
In darkest Times thy Caractatus shone,
And Rome admir'd the Glories of thy Son!
—But, in one Age, the Phoenix scarce appears!
Timoleons breathe not every Thousand Years!
How long ere matchless Guardian Wallace came?
No Hireling Patriot He! and next to none, in Fame!

Then, O ye Shades, with deathless Glories crown'd!
Ye British Ghosts, in Annals long renown'd!
If, in your blest Elysium, ye can find
One leisure Hour to think of Human Kind;

327

If, mindful of your once lov'd Race and Isle,
Ye can suspend your Happiness a while;
Inspire new Forms, or your old Flesh resume,
To crush Corruption, and strike Faction dumb,
Else selfish Souls our common Rights will rend,
And sacrifice Britannia in the End!

'Twas thus, at once, the ancient Roman Boast,
Their noble Spirit, and their Reign, were lost!
An easy Prey the wretched Sons became,
In whose Corruptions sunk the Fathers Fame!

Already, lo! the Goths and Vandals waste
Our manly Sense, and Liberty, and Taste!
See! how the great and generous Arts decay!
Behold! our boasted Genius falls a Prey!

328

Unnatural Postures, and effeminate Airs,
And queer Grimace, are National Affairs!
Alike, the Court, the Soldier, and the Cit,
Admires Buffoonry, and takes Tricks for Wit!
Loves foreign Follies, doats on foreign Fools,
Aliens to Sense, to Nature, and to Rules!
While our neglected Muses fly the Field,
The vanquish'd triumph, and the Victors yield!

Sleep, sleep, ye Ghosts, unconscious of our Taste,
By Show deluded, and by Sound debas'd!
Ah! look not on your Sons, degenerate grown,
Nor, in our Features, think to trace your own.
Nothing, with you, but what was Just, was good;
And nothing lik'd but what was understood;
Alike, to Arts and Artists ye were kind,
And most, rejoyc'd in Pleasures of the Mind;

329

Maintain'd no Follies at a vast Expence,
Nor pay'd to Sound the due Reward of Sense;
Pleas'd with your Native Wit, and Arts, and Arms,
Ye kept your Gold at Home, nor courted Foreign Charms.

But ye were Giants! Ah! what Pigmies we!
How different far from Britons, Britons be?
Ye bravely fought, and gave the Nation Fame,
And judg'd the Fate of Arts and Arms the same!
We lose our Spirit, baffle Reason's Rules,
And to be fashionable, will be Fools!
How are we fal'n! Is this th' Effect of Peace?
For this did Marlb'rough's conquering Legions cease?
Is this the Way our Glory to maintain?
Ah! can we thus the Youth for Battle Train?
Already, are the publick Debts discharg'd,
Since Luxury's wide Bounds are much enlarg'd?

330

Are South-Sea Breaches then repair'd at last?
Or why, on Trifles, all this Treasure's Waste?

But, Muse, be hush, and better learn the Right—:
Can Errors dwell with People so polite?
Wou'd Beaus and Belles, the Glory of the Age,
Consent to Folly, and in Vice engage?
Such Folks as we can no Instruction want:
Shakespeare and Otway are the Poets Cant.
Our Sires were dull, unpolish'd, unrefin'd—
Poor Souls, they hugg'd the Pleasures of the Mind!
They ne'er a charming Senesino had,
Nor knew the Blessing of a Masquerade!
Never to Them a Heidegger gave Law!
They ne'er a Fawks and Violante saw!
Alas! poor Men, they liv'd and dy'd unblest!
And reckon'd Farce and Pantomime a Jest!

331

More happy, and much wiser, we have found
Glories, that cou'd not breed on British Ground!
We Contradictions reconcile, at once,
By Recipe's from Italy and France!
Imported Pleasures, of the softer Kind,
New-mould our Genius, and reform the Mind!
Posterity will [OMITTED]

Desunt Cætera.

332

TO LUCINDA.

The Character how glorious, and how rare,
When modest Virtue blends the beauteous Fair!
The Soul informs, and brightens, ev'ry Grace,
And is it self made lovely by the Face.
Lucinda, those, who thy Perfections view,
Must own this Truth exemplify'd in you.
In you, all Beauty's boasted Charms are join'd,
And all those Charms illumin'd by your Mind.
But you, unconscious of your Pow'r, disclaim
Your Right to reign the first in Female Fame.

333

Cleora's Title humbly you prefer,
Content to wish you but cou'd copy her.
Ah! wou'dst thou still be Empress of my Heart,
Be still the same, the very same thou art.
Wert thou Cleora, lovely thou migh'st be,
But not belov'd, so Sov'reignly, by Me.

334

STANZA's (Publish'd in the Daily Journal.) On Reading the DUNCIAD.

[_]

By a Neutral Bard.

I

An Herd of Swine, to the deep Sea,
Was headlong hurl'd, in Holy Writ:
Another Here, as all agree,
Is sunk in an Abyss of Wit.

II

But, as the Devils, in that Case,
The silly, wretched, Cattle drown'd;
Who cou'd, but Devils, in this Place,
Plunge Poets, in the vast Profound?

335

III

No Wonder Those contrive that These
Shou'd share of their allotted Hell—
Devils have ever us'd such Ways
With Mortals, since from Heaven they fell.

IV

Now, cou'd ought give ill-fated Elves
Malignant Pleasure, 'twould be this,
“To think their Torturers are themselves
“Tormented in the black Abyss.

336

To the Author of STANZA's, On Reading the DUNCIAD.

[_]

Publish'd in the Daily Journal.

I

How dreadful were the World's Alarms,
When Bards, an irritable Race,
Discordant, fiercely flew to Arms,
And broke the Muses' publick Peace!

II

Mankind, confounded with the Dinn
Of Battle, waited for the Day,
When Neutral Pow'rs wou'd once begin
A Congress, to conclude the Fray.

337

III

But Hope was vain from mortal Hand—
No Means cou'd either Army quell,
'Till thou, at once, didst both disband,
And Helter Skelter drive to Hell.

IV

While wallowing in the vast Profound,
Alike for Swine and Devils fit!
They meet, condemn'd; may'st thou be crown'd
The Great Deliverer of Wit.

V

Henceforth, let Poesie, and Peace,
Adown Parnassus, pour their Stream;
Nor may one of the Muse's Race
Receive, till Merit gives him Fame.

338

VI

May Helicon no more a Mire
Be seen, like fatal, foul, Fleetditch,
Fitter to choak, than to inspire
Men, curst with the Poetick Itch!

339

ON CLARISSA.

I

The finest Shape, the fairest Face,
The noblest Mien, and Air, and Grace,
Command Attention, and inspire
Beholding Crowds with amorous Fire.
But ne'er can human Person shine
So beauteous and so near divine,
As where, with every Virtue blest,
The Soul Superior stands confest.

340

II

In bright Clarissa's heav'nly Frame
Meet all Perfections, worthy Fame.
To crown her, what could Nature more?
And who can see, and not adore?
But what a Triumph Vice must boast,
Were bright Clarissa's Lustre lost?
What Ground wou'd honest Virtue lose?
What Atheist I'd be at the News?

341

ON CLARISSA.

I

With Virtues, Loves, and Graces join'd,
Not Eve in Eden, ere she sinn'd,
Clarissa's Angel Form out-shin'd,
And rais'd more Admiration!
Her Stature, Shape, her Mien, and Air,
Her Bosom, Breasts, Her Neck and Hair,
Her Eyes so bright, and Face so fair,
Are fraughted with Temptation.

342

II

Ye Sages, say, by Flesh and Blood,
How can such Beauties be withstood?
What Hermit wou'd not, if he cou'd,
To Wantonness persuade her!
But, round her Stock of Innocence,
The flaming Swords of Wit and Sense
Turn every Way in her Defence,
Against the bold Invader!

343

Political POETRY.

[1728.]

Nil pictis timidus Navita puppibus Fidit.
Hor.

A golden Show'r (as Heathen Writers say,)
Melted Miss Danae's Maidenhead away.
Nor Brazen Gates, nor Bars of Steel, cou'd prove
Invincible, in Spite of Gold and Love.
No Wonder then a Turnkey's Daughter, led
By Love of Gold, with great Ripperda fled.
Shou'd it seem strange a common Soldier took
A Bribe, and fondly follow'd such a Duke?

344

All this, and more, is practis'd every Day—
But, that this Case is such, will Politicians say?
—What if the fam'd Escape shou'd prove a Blind?
By ploding Spaniards cunningly design'd?
Remember, Britons, how you've been deceiv'd,
By Gundamore's implicitly believ'd!
—But hence, Suspicion—George can ne'er be bit,
—What Court can prudent Caroline outwit?
While Patriot Walpole manages the Helm,
Shall Philip's crazy Consort overwhelm
The British State, by Policy profound?
Shall Alberoni rise again renown'd?
Danvers and Hoadly sooner shall agree,
And Dudge and Manly in one Interest be!

345

—Yet, wak'd to Caution by a simple Bard,
Ne'er may we find our Centry's off their Guard—
Still may Britannia's Watchmen walk their Round,
And let no Harm approach her hallow'd Ground!
The Publick Safety is the Patriot's Aim,
And Caution proves the Ground and Guard of Fame.

Authors of Weekly Papers on different Sides.

346

A PICTURE Of the RISE and FALL of a STATESMAN.

Inscrib'd to Mr. Thomas Gordon.

Dear Thomas, did you never see
('Tis but by Way of Simile)
The Watermen at Temple Stairs,
Officious in their own Affairs,
Attentive looking up the Lane,
In Hopes some Passenger to gain,

347

Who, being come, they croud to meet,
And, all at once, loud-bawling, greet
With Proffer of their Sculs and Oars,
And call their Brothers Sons of Whores;
Nor cease their noisy Zeal, till he
Says This or That's the Man for me?
But, back returning, not a Word,
Nor Hat does e'er a Man afford;
No Soul attempts to make a Bustle,
And out of the Way his Neighbour jostle;
All, silent, let him pass neglected,
As if he ne'er had been respected?

Just so, dear Thomas, does it fare
With one prefer'd to publick Care!
Around him, Courtiers croud to hail,
And to applaud him never fail,

348

Proffer their Service, and apply
For Pension, Place, or Charity:
But, when turn'd out, how soon he's left!
How soon of flatt'ring Praise bereft!
Scarce is he known by those he rais'd!
Scarce by the giddy Rabble gaz'd!
'Tis well, if no Man does no worse,
Than pass him with an idle Curse:
If, but bespatter'd with their Dirt,
He 'scapes amid the Croud, unhurt.

349

A DIALOGUE Between the Right Honourable A. and B.

[_]

In Imitation of Horace, Ode IX. Book III.

A.
While you and I were cordial Friends,
Alike our Interests and our Ends,
I thought my Character and Place
Secure, and dreaded no Disgrace.
No Statesman e'er was more carest,
And more, in his good Fortune, blest.

350

B.
Whilst I your other self was deem'd,
And worthy such Renown esteem'd;
Ere great N--- won your Heart,
And, in your Counsels, took such Part;
I was the happiest Man in Life,
And, but with Tories, had no Strife.

A.
N--- noble and polite,
Whom G--- approves, is my Delight.
His Loyal Merit is his Claim;
For him, I'd hazard Life and Fame.

B.
Me S. J--- now, whom every Muse
And every Grace adorn, subdues:
Attach'd to him, I've learnt to hate
Your Person, Politicks, and State.

351

A.
What, if our former Friendship shou'd
Return, and you have what you wou'd?
If, for your Sake, the noble Duke
Be quite discarded and forsook?

B.
Tho' S. J--- now my Fancy warms,
And all his Measures have such Charms;
Tho' he is fond, indifferent you,
Our ancient League I'd yet renew:
For you, I'd Speech it in the House;
For you, write C--- and carouse;
For you, with all my Heart, I'd vote;
For you make Friends, impeach, and plot;
For you, I'd die—what wou'd I not?

352

A Monumental ODE, To the Virtuous Memory of Dr. Walsh of Worcestershire

Address'd To his Heir and Executor, my honour'd Friend, Thomas Gordon, Esq;

------ Honos, nomenque manebunt.
Virg.

I.

Sacred to Walsh's deathless Fame,
(Who first reviv'd the Roman Flame,
And taught the Britons how to pay
Their Debt to Virtue) be my Lay.

353

Let every Heart accord with mine,
And every Voice in Chorus join.
Mankind are all concern'd to raise
A Monument to Walsh's Praise;

II.

From Prejudice's servile Yoak,
Betimes his Godlike Genius broke:
Betimes, from Tyranny he turn'd,
And senseless Superstition spurn'd:
Freedom and Truth his Reason charm'd:
Freedom and Truth his Spirit warm'd:
And every Man, in Soul a Slave,
Was judg'd, by him, a Fool or Knave.

III.

Building on Principles so good,
His Faith and Honour stedfast stood:

354

Nor Priest nor Politician's Art,
From Reason cou'd seduce his Heart.
Him no Authority deceiv'd:
For Custom's Sake, he nought believ'd:
No specious Shew, and vain Pretence,
Impos'd upon his noble Sense.

IV.

Govern'd by Custom, let Mankind
Unite to censure Walsh's Mind;
Let them with Freedom prate, and call
His noble Wisdom Folly all:
Reason, that prov'd his constant Guide,
Will stand and conquer on his Side.
What Claim, on Him, cou'd Nature make,
Who Virtue lov'd for Virtue's Sake?

355

V.

What we call Kindred, Ties of Blood,
As well as we, he understood:
But what were these to one, whose Mind
And Fortune both were unconfin'd?
The World his Country was esteem'd
And all Men were his Kindred deem'd.
'Twas Virtue's Work for Him to chuse,
In such a Crowd, and to refuse.

VI.

What, tho' his Nature was inclin'd
To benefit all Human Kind?
The best deserving always prov'd,
In spite of Nature, most belov'd.
Thus, searching among Men, with Care,
To find an honest, worthy Heir,

356

He saw a Stranger to his Mind,
And generously his All resign'd.

VII.

Tho, Gordon, you was blest before
In Reputation and in Store;
Dear to the Wise, the Great, and Good,
And fair for high Preferment stood;
Tho', joyn'd with Trenchard's honour'd Name,
You shone renown'd in deathless Fame;
Yet This was wanting to compleat
Your Happiness, and make you Great,
His Choice, excelling his Estate!

VIII.

Long may my generous Friend enjoy,
And, like the Godlike Walsh, employ
His Fortune, won by true Desert,
Approv'd by every honest Heart!

357

While, by the great Example taught,
The World is to Conversion wrought;
And, after Precedent so rare,
Makes real Excellence its Care.

IX.

With Hopes of like Distinction fir'd,
Ye Bards, exert your Gifts inspir'd.
Ye Orators of every Kind,
Ambitious such a Prize to find,
Each other study to excel,
In Speaking and in Writing well:
If you wou'd future Walsh's move,
Like Gordon, first deserve their Love.

X.

But tremble, O ye Priests of Baal—
Your Kingdom now is near its Fall:

358

The Independant Whig prevails,
And Heav'n to him its Bounty deals.
Henceforth be dumb, who heretofore
Were blind, and Providence adore;
Your Antichristian Pow'r resign'd,
Let Truth and Reason bless Mankind.

359

A SONG.

DAMON.

I

Sylvia , say,
When Damon leaves you,
How it grieves you?
Sylvia, say,
How do you pass the Day?
If your Share
Of Solitude and Care
Does with mine compare,
'Tis dreadful as Despair!

360

II

Damon, why
D'ye question
My Vexation?
Damon, why
D'ye think I can have Joy?
When you're gone,
Accompany'd by none,
I, like the Turtle, moan,
When her lov'd Mate is flown.

361

To the Right Honourable Sir ROBERT WALPOLE,

Knight of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, &c.

[_]

In Imitation of Horace's Ninth Epistle.

Septimius, Claudi, nimirum intelligit unus
Quanti me facias, &c.

Stuart , in France, had heard the grateful News,
That you, Sir, deign to patronize my Muse;
And, ever since he last arriv'd in Town,
Sollicited that I wou'd make him known—
Not, in the supple Crowd, to cringe and beg,
But only kiss your Hand, and make his Leg.

362

I've told him Fifty times, I can't pretend
To introduce to Walpole any Friend.
'Twere sawcy Rudeness, and too vain Conceit,
In one of my Condition and Estate,
To lead a Stranger to a Man, so Great—
He shou'd address some Senator or Lord;
Argyle himself wou'd serve him for a Word.
But, deaf to my Objections, still he sues,
Nor, erring, will accept of an Excuse;
As if my Interest, in your Grace, he knew
Better than I my self presume to do.

Now, shou'd I not present my Friend, he'll swear
I've selfish Views, and keep my Interest clear—
And, if I do, wou'd not your Levee sneer?

363

In this Dilemma, how shall I comport?
Affront my Friend, or turn a Jest at Court!

To cure his Jealousy, and keep his Love,
Let me, for once, with humble Boldness move,
And Master of the Ceremonies prove;
Tho' all Beholders shou'd condemn my Brass,
Or, laughing, mark me for an ill-bred Ass.
What for a Friend, is not to be allow'd?
And, if you're pleas'd, what care I for the Crowd?

Then may it please your Honour to forgive
Your Mitchell's Freedom, and his Friend receive;
His Friend, who (cou'd you trust a Poet's Word)
Is Just as Brave as ever drew a Sword,
An honest hearty Cock for common Weal,
Is one of Us, and has a World of Zeal.

364

THE Battle of Otterburn.

A Fragment.

By Hatred, Pride, and Love of Prey, inspir'd,
English and Scots the Victors Name desir'd.
Now These now Those in Arms triumphant stood,
Scorning to yield, and prodigal of Blood.
Oft did they Both, each other to oppose,
And hurt Themselves, make Truce with foreign Foes.
Reluctant, Each to any Terms would come,
And Neither kept an Union, long, at Home.

365

But ne'er did mutual Rage more equal prove,
Than, when the Douglass and the Piercy strove.
With Native and Hereditary Flame,
Both burn'd for Glory, and aspir'd to Fame.
How gallant Both! what Wonders each atchiev'd!
The Vanquish'd triumph'd, and the Victor griev'd!

Sing, heav'nly Muse, how Otterburn was fought,
How great the Victory, and how dearly bought!

When second Robert, aged and decay'd,
Govern'd the Scots, were English Arms display'd
In Merse and Tyviot: slow and unprepar'd,
He saw the Wrong, nor to revenge it dar'd.
Like Him, unfit his Country's Rights t'assert,
Was John of Rothsay: But a braver Heart

366

Inspir'd Fife's Earl; who, secretly arose
With valiant Douglass to pursue the Foes;
And, more t'infest their most contiguous Land,
Disjoin'd their Forces, and their chief Command.
Fife's Earl, most num'rous, Westward took his Way,
And made Carlisle, and all around, his Prey.
The Douglass, crossing Tine, to Durham pass'd,
And, ere 'twas known, had laid the Country waste.

After a Course of expeditious Toil,
Backward He turn'd, with an unusual Spoil;
And, in his March, to heighten his Renown,
Resolv'd to ravage proud Newcastle Town.
But there Northumberland's old Earl was come,
To intercept his boasted Progress Home.
From York to Berwick, Men obey'd his Call,
And there agreed inglorious not to fall.

367

Flush'd with Success, the Douglass scorn'd their Might,
Boldly attack'd, and urg'd the Foe to fight.

Two Days, in Skirmish, were succesless lost,
When Hotspur Piercy, from his Father's Host,
A Challenge sent, with more than Mortal's Pride,
To the Scot's Chief, the Diff'rence to decide,
In single Combat: 'Twas receiv'd with Joy,
As, when together for the Fate of Troy,
The Godlike Hector and Achilles met,
Upon whose Heads whole Kingdoms might be bett.

Mounted on Steeds, the wond'rous Leaders rode;
Each look'd an Army, or a Demi-God!
Like two huge clashing Currents, they engag'd,
And, some time doubtful, hot Encounter wag'd;

368

'Till, in the Struggle, with superior Force,
Douglass bore Piercey, headlong from his Horse.
Rescu'd by English Friends, abash'd, he fled;
But vow'd to see his hated Rival dead.
“Douglass (he said) to Day has given me Pain,
“Yet hopes to carry home my Spear in vain.

The Scotish Hero, joyous, left the Place;
But march'd with slow and meditated Pace:
Knowing the En'my's Numbers stronger grew,
To Otterburn he, cautiously, withdrew.
To Otterburn the future Scene of War,
Whose dreadful Fame shall flourish late, and far.

There, pitching Tents, the Soldiers, long opprest
With various Travels and Fatigue, found Rest.

369

There, joining Counsels, Officers agreed,
To seek their social Forces out with Speed:
But Douglas, recollecting what was said
Of Hotspur's Threatning, wou'd not seem afraid.
“He comes ('twas nois'd) the vengeful Piercy comes!
“Display'd his Banners, sounding loud his Drums!
To Arms (the Douglas call'd) tho' few my Men,
What Coward Scot will turn his Back on Ten?
Remember Bannockburn, when they come on,
Nor lose the Glory that our Fathers won.

The Captains, tho' unwilling, now consent,
Jealous of Success, but on Glory bent.
Strengthning the Camp upon its weakest Side,
The Soldiers, scarce refresh'd, appear with Pride:
All vow'd to conquer, or with Honour fall,
True and obsequious to their Leader's Call.

370

'Twas in the Ev'ning of an August Day,
(Bright shone the Moon, and sweetly smelt the Hay,)
When twice Five Thousand English took the Field,
Of Vict'ry sure, or vowing not to yield.
Scornful, behind, they left a hostile Priest,
Their Number twice the Scotish Host, at least:
Encourag'd by the Brother Piercies, all
Bravely engage, and none inglorious fall.

But while, at Entry of the Camp, the Fight
Prov'd hot and dubious, wheeling to the Right,
The Scotish Horsemen in appointed Rank,
Compass a Hill, and Charge the Foes in Flank.
Now Tumult reign'd, and many Lives were lost,

Desunt Cætera.

371

THE TINKER.

A TALE.

Whether the Gusts of Love, or no,
Most fierce on Female Spirits blow;
Let abler Pens dispute in Prose—
In Rhime, at present, I have chose,
By Instance of a common Tale,
To show, that Nature will prevail,
And make the Fair, who wou'd be civil,
As subtle, certes, as the Devil.

372

Upon a Time—for so my Nurse,
God wot, to me began Discourse—
A Widow, turn'd of Twenty Seven,
(In Rhime, as well as Reason, even!)
To a dark Room, by Custom chain'd,
At one Week's End her Cage disdain'd.
No wonder, Sirs; for Flesh and Blood,
Sometimes, are Victors o'er the Good.
Now, she, tho' modest and discreet,
Ne'er thought her self for Glory meet.
A Woman may have Store of Merit,
Yet want—as we may say—the Spirit:
The Spirit, said I? By the Sequel,
(Which, by the by, I wish may take well)
You'll find she had it—But, I warn all,
'Twas of the common Kind, nam'd carnal.

373

For, as we said, a Week scarce spent,
(And sure, the Time was like a Lent!)
In showy Mourning, and Grimace,
She wisely weigh'd her present Case.
And must I—to her self, she said—
Ne'er couple, cause my Spouse is dead?
Must I, ah me! for ever mourn,
And Leaves of godly Sermons turn?
At Church, must I be in Disguise,
With a black Veil before my Eyes?
To Balls and Plays, shall I no more
Repair, alas! as heretofore?
Ah! Days of Sorrow, ye are long!
Oh! Custom, Foe to Widows young!

374

Alone, thus sigh'd she for Relief;
In Publick, counterfeited Grief:
Or, if she griev'd indeed, 'tis clear,
It could be only for that Geer,
Which, Husband living, was wont most
To give her Comfort—at his Cost.

So (as the Story runs) a Beau,
(Just like another we all know)
Made up Acquaintance—but the Means,
Which Fate, as well as th' End, ordains,
Is not so clearly told—nor need we
Be over curious—so, proceed we.
A Tale—quoth Prior—short should be,
And who cou'd better tell, than He?

375

Our Widow, deeply skill'd in Letters,
Follow'd th' Example of her Betters.
“Since I—thought she—propose no more,
“Than Gods, themselves, have done before,
“Why mayn't I, to attain my End,
“In uncouth Habit, dress my Friend?
“For 'tis not meet he should appear,
“In his own Cloathing, often here.
“He must be chang'd”—'Twas quickly done;
For next Night, about setting Sun,
He, well instructed in his Part,
Pretended to the Tinker's Art.
Love has been us'd, you see, to plod,
And reach his End, by Methods odd:
For where there's Stomach and no Meat,
He'll steal, to make his Friends a Treat.

376

With Apron, Hammer, Nails, and Copper,
And other Utensils more proper,
He knock'd, and call'd, “Ho, who's within?”
Then rung the Tinker's formal Dinn.
The Porter view'd his Face so black,
And Leathern Budget on his Back.
Then told the Lady—she, good Woman!
Whose Grief wou'd let her look on no Man,
Said, fetch the Tinker in, with speed,
For of his Crast we have great need.
If he be Master of his Trade,
Our House may help to find him Bread.
This said, she sigh'd!—the Tinker came,
“God save—quoth he—my worthy Dame.”
Your'e welcome, Tinker, she reply'd—
If to your Look your Skill's ally'd;

377

You are a Tradesman—“That I be,
“As you may quickly find—” quoth He.
Bring him some Drink, the best we use:
Good Liquor Tradesmen ne'er refuse.
“I thank you, Madam”—Now you may
Our Pots and Pans, at will, survey.
The Cauldron broken is, I know;
'Twill cost at least an Hour, or two,
To mend it well—“But, by your Leave
“One Favour, Lady, I must crave:
“That, since there's Secret in my Art,
“Which I'd not willingly impart,
“No Company I can allow,
“To Witness how I work, but you.”
Then to the Brew-house, pleas'd, they went—
Let Virgins guess with what Intent:

378

My Muse is modest and discreet!
She never mentions what's not meet!
Of Baudry ever most afraid:
Fy, that ne'er enters in her Head!
However, as Tradition says,
Our Couple follow'd wicked Ways.
The Tinker by the Cauldron Side,
His masculine Talents occupy'd:
And all the Time he was about it,
(And here I blush—ye need not doubt it!)
She thump'd the Cauldron with the Hammer,
In Chorus joining with his Rammer.
A Politick, that none will blame,
Who practise Musick, like that same!

The Scene reacting, o'er and o'er,
The Porter chanc'd to pass the Door,

379

And heard the Noise the Hammer made—
The Trick ne'er enter'd in his Head!
But, now and then, in Heat of Play,
He overheard his Lady say;
Strike on, good Tinker, briskly strike,
Your Cunning and your Tools I like,
Nor is there ere a Smith, in Town,
Can boast an Anvil, like your own.

380

A SONG TO CELIA.

I

Mistake not, Celia, the Design,
When I your Worth proclaim,
Or dedicate a Verse of mine,
To your distinguish'd Name!

II

The Muses were ordain'd to shew
The Virtues of your Sex—

381

Then, why shou'd what is sung, of you,
Your modest Mind perplex?

III

At Thoughts of you, my Muse takes Wing,
My tender Bosom warms—
Indulge me then, with Leave to sing,
Or lay aside your Charms.

IV

No grateful Answer I desire,
No Favours I implore!
'Tis all I want, or can require,
Allow me to adore.

382

Poetick FAITH.

Let Criticks quarrel with my Lays,
Let Envy strive to blast my Bays;
Malice to rob my Stock of Fame,
And Fortune joyn to blot my Name;
Let Time, Oblivion, and Disgrace,
Conspire my Memory to raze;
Let all that is, and will be, join;
Let Earth and Hell their Pow'rs combine;
By Stair and Walpole's Favour crown'd,
My Classick Muse shall shine renown'd,
When Bards, pro Tempore so fam'd,
With all their Works, are dead and damn'd!

The End of the Second Volume.