Poems on several occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

I have, before the Time prescrib'd by you,
Expos'd my weak Production to your View;
Which may, I hope, have Pardon at your Hand,
Because produc'd to Light by your Command.
Perhaps you might expect some finish'd Ode,
Or sacred Song, to sound the Praise of God;

A glorious Thought, and laudable! But then
Think what illit'rate Poet guides the Pen:
Ill suit such Tasks with one who holds the Plough,
Such lofty Subjects with a Fate so low.

Sir, were your Eloquence and Learning mine,
And I, like you, a Fav'rite of the Nine;
I quickly would Parnassus' Summit climb,
And find a Hero worthy of my Rhyme:
Nor should my Muse the Grecian Monarchs trace,
Nor would I celebrate the Trojan Race;
Nor any of those martial Sons of Fame,
Pagans, unworthy of a Christian's Theme.
Far nobler Thoughts my grateful Voice should raise,
In lofty Strains, to great Messiah's Praise:
I'd joyfully resound his wond'rous Birth,
And paint his Godlike Virtues, whilst on Earth;

Then, with Reluctance, Horror, and Surprize,
I'd mournfully relate his Agonies;
I'd trace the heav'nly Hero to the Tree,
Sing what he suffer'd there for you and me;
Next, in heroic Numbers, would I tell,
How soon he baffled Death, and vanquish'd Hell,
Subdu'd the Grave, and shew'd the glorious Way,
From Realms of Darkness, to eternal Day.
Such noble Subjects should my Lays excite;
And you, my Patron, would in such delight;
Grateful to me, when you, well-pleas'd, should view
Th'accomplish'd sacred Song inscrib'd to you.

But now I must omit Messiah's Praise,
Lest I degrade him with unworthy Lays;
My Fate compels me silent to remain,
For want of Learning to improve my Strain:

By which no Thought, tho' well conceiv'd, can rise
To full Perfection, but in Embryo dies:
Yet my unpolish'd Genius will produce,
And bring forth something, tho' of little Use.

Thus, in the Country, often have I found,
Thro' slothful Man's Neglect, a Plat of Ground,
Waste and uncultivated, void of Seeds,
Producing nothing, but some trifling Weeds.

But why stand I my Fate accusing so?
The Field calls me to Labour; I must go:
The Kine low after Meat; the hungry Steed,
Neighing, complains he wants his usual Feed.
Then, Sir, adieu: Accept what you did crave,
And be propitious to your humble Slave.

On POVERTY.

No Ill on Earth we tim'rous Mortals fly
With so much Dread, as abject Poverty:
O despicable Name! We, thee to shun,
On ev'ry other Evil blindly run.
For fear of thee, distrustful Niggards go
In tatter'd Rags, and starve their Bodies too,
And still are poor, for fear of being so.
For fear of thee, the cheating Trader vows,
His Wares are good, altho' his Conscience knows,
He has employ'd his utmost Skill and Care,
To hide their Faults, and make their Beauties glare.
The Sailor, terrify'd with Thoughts of thee,
Boldly attempts the Dangers of the Sea;

From East to West, o'er Rocks and Quicksands steers;
'Tis Poverty, and that alone, he fears;
The Soldier too, whom nought but thee can scare,
In Hopes of Plunder, bravely meets the War;
To fly from Poverty, he runs on Death,
And shews he prizes Riches more than Breath.
Strange Terror of Mankind! By thee misled,
Not Conscience, Quicksands, Rocks, or Death they dread!
And yet thou art no formidable Foe,
Except to little Souls, who think thee so:
Who thro' the Glass of Prejudice survey
Thy Face, a thousand frightful Forms display.

Thus Men, at Night, in foolish Fears grown old,
Who mind the Fairy Tales their Nurses told,
Start at a Goblin, which their Fancy made,
And, for a Spectre, often take a Shade.

Contented Poverty's no dismal Thing,
Free from the Cares unwieldy Riches bring:
At Distance both alike deceive our View;
Nearer approach'd, they take another Hue.
The poor Man's Labour relishes his Meat;
His Morsel's pleasant, and his Rest is sweet:
Not so the Rich, who find their weary'd Taste
Pall'd with the Prospect of the cumb'rous Feast;
For what they have more than they can enjoy,
Instead of satisfying, does but cloy.

But let us state the Case another way:
Were Poverty so hideous as they say,
'Tis nobler chearfully to bear our Fate,
Than murmur and repine beneath its Weight.
That Man deserves the Praise of human Kind,
Who bears ill Fortune with a Christian Mind:

How does his great heroic Soul aspire
Above that sordid Wealth the rest admire!
His nobler Thoughts are fix'd on Things above;
His faithful Eyes survey the God of Love
Hold forth the heav'nly Prize, which makes him run
His mortal Race, to gain th'immortal Crown.
Not all the Snares a crafty Dev'l can lay,
Can intercept, or daunt him in his Way.
Not all the scornful Insults of the Proud,
Not all the Censures of the grov'ling Croud,
Not Poverty, in all her Terrors drest,
Can shake the solid Quiet of his Breast:
Unmov'd he stands against the worst of Foes,
And mocks the Darts, which adverse Fortune throws,
Calm and compos'd, amidst or Ease or Pain;
And finds Content, which others seek in vain.

So stands a steady Rock, sublimely steep,
Within the Confines of the briny Deep;
Lash'd by the foaming Surge on ev'ry Side,
Yet can't be shaken by the furious Tide.

Then why should Phantoms discompose the Mind;
Or Woes, so far from real, fright Mankind?
Since Wealth can never make the Vicious blest,
Nor Poverty subdue the virtuous Breast;
Since both from Heav'n's unerring Hand are sent,
Lord, give me either; give me but Content.

The THRESHER's Labour.

To the Revd. Mr. Stanley.

The grateful Tribute of these rural Lays,
Which to her Patron's Hand the Muse conveys,
Deign to accept: 'Tis just she Tribute bring
To him, whose Bounty gives her Life to sing;
To him, whose gen'rous Favours tune her Voice;
And bid her, 'midst her Poverty, rejoice.
Inspir'd by these, she dares herself prepare,
To sing the Toils of each revolving Year;
Those endless Toils, which always grow anew,
And the poor Thresher's destin'd to pursue:
Ev'n these, with Pleasure, can the Muse rehearse,
When you and Gratitude demand her Verse.

Soon as the golden Harvest quits the Plain,
And Ceres' Gifts reward the Farmer's Pain;
What Corn each Sheaf will yield, intent to hear,
And guess from thence the Profits of the Year,
He calls his Reapers forth: Around we stand,
With deep Attention, waiting his Command.
To each our Task he readily divides,
And pointing, to our diff'rent Stations guides.
As he directs, to distant Barns we go;
Here two for Wheat, and there for Barley two.
But first, to shew what he expects to find,
These Words, or Words like these, disclose his Mind:

“So dry the Corn was carry'd from the Field,
“So easily 'twill thresh, so well 'twill yield;
“Sure large Days-works I well may hope for now:
“Come, strip and try; let's see what you can do.”

Divested of our Cloathes, with Flail in Hand,
At proper Distance, Front to Front we stand:
And first the Threshal's gently swung, to prove
Whether with just Exactness it will move:
That once secure, we swiftly whirl them round;
From the strong Planks our Crab-tree Staves rebound,
And echoing Barns return the rattling Sound.
Now in the Air our knotty Weapons fly,
And now with equal Force descend from high;
Down one, one up, so well they keep the Time,
The Cyclops' Hammers could not truer chime;
Nor with more heavy Strokes could Ætna groan,
When Vulcan forg'd the Arms for Thetis' Son.
In briny Streams our Sweat descends apace,
Drops from our Locks, or trickles down our Face.
No Intermission in our Work we know;
The noisy Threshal must for ever go.

Their Master absent, others safely play;
The sleeping Threshal does itself betray.
Nor yet, the tedious Labour to beguile,
And make the passing Minutes sweetly smile,
Can we, like Shepherds, tell a merry Tale;
The Voice is lost, drown'd by the louder Flail.
But we may think—Alas! what pleasing thing,
Here, to the Mind, can the dull Fancy bring?
Our Eye beholds no pleasing Object here,
No chearful Sound diverts our list'ning Ear.
The Shepherd well may tune his Voice to sing,
Inspir'd with all the Beauties of the Spring.
No Fountains murmur here, no Lambkins play,
No Linnets warble, and no Fields look gay;
'Tis all a gloomy, melancholy Scene,
Fit only to provoke the Muse's Spleen.
When sooty Pease we thresh, you scarce can know
Our native Colour, as from Work we go:

The Sweat, the Dust, and suffocating Smoak,
Make us so much like Ethiopians look,
We scare our Wives, when Ev'ning brings us home;
And frighted Infants think the Bugbear come.
Week after Week, we this dull Task pursue,
Unless when winn'wing Days produce a new:
A new, indeed, but frequently a worse!
The Threshal yields but to the Master's Curse.
He counts the Bushels, counts how much a Day;
Then swears we've idled half our Time away:
“Why, look ye, Rogues, d'ye think that this will do?
“Your Neighbours thresh as much again as you.”
Now in our Hands we wish our noisy Tools,
To drown the hated Names of Rogues and Fools.
But wanting these, we just like School-boys look,
When angry Masters view the blotted Book:
They cry, “their Ink was faulty, and their Pen;”
We, “the Corn threshes bad, 'twas cut too green.”

But soon as Winter hides his hoary Head,
And Nature's Face is with new Beauty spread;
The lovely Spring appears, refreshing Show'rs
New cloath the Field with Grass, and blooming Flow'rs.
Next her, the rip'ning Summer presses on,
And Sol begins his longest Race to run.
Before the Door our welcome Master stands;
Tells us, the ripen'd Grass requires our Hands.
The grateful Tidings presently imparts
Life to our Looks, and Spirits to our Hearts.
We wish the happy Season may be fair;
And, joyful, long to breathe in op'ner Air.
This Change of Labour seems to give such Ease,
With Thoughts of Happiness ourselves we please.
But, ah! how rarely's Happiness complete!
There's always Bitter mingled with the Sweet.

When first the Lark sings Prologue to the Day,
We rise, admonish'd by his early Lay;
This new Employ with eager Haste to prove,
This new Employ, become so much our Love.
Alas! that human Joys should change so soon!
Our Morning Pleasure turns to Pain at Noon.
The Birds salute us, as to Work we go,
And with new Life our Bosoms seem to glow.
On our right Shoulder hangs the crooked Blade,
The Weapon destin'd to uncloath the Mead:
Our left supports the Whetstone, Scrip, and Beer;
This for our Scythes, and these ourselves to chear.
And now the Field, design'd to try our Might,
At length appears, and meets our longing Sight.
The Grass and Ground we view with careful Eyes,
To see which way the best Advantage lies;
And, Hero-like, each claims the foremost Place.
At first our Labour seems a sportive Race:

With rapid Force our sharpen'd Blades we drive,
Strain ev'ry Nerve, and Blow for Blow we give.
All strive to vanquish, tho' the Victor gains
No other Glory, but the greatest Pains.

But when the scorching Sun is mounted high,
And no kind Barns with friendly Shade are nigh;
Our weary Scythes entangle in the Grass,
While Streams of Sweat run trickling down apace.
Our sportive Labour we too late lament;
And wish that Strength again, we vainly spent.

Thus, in the Morn, a Courser have I seen
With headlong Fury scour the level Green;
Or mount the Hills, if Hills are in his Way,
As if no Labour could his Fire allay;
Till Phoebus, shining with meridian Heat,
Has bath'd his panting Sides in briny Sweat:

The lengthen'd Chace scarce able to sustain,
He measures back the Hills and Dales with Pain.

With Heat and Labour tir'd, our Scythes we quit,
Search out a shady Tree, and down we sit:
From Scrip and Bottle hope new Strength to gain;
But Scrip and Bottle too are try'd in vain.
Down our parch'd Throats we scarce the Bread can get;
And, quite o'erspent with Toil, but faintly eat.
Nor can the Bottle only answer all;
The Bottle and the Beer are both too small.
Time flows: Again we rise from off the Grass;
Again each Mower takes his proper Place;
Not eager now, as late, our Strength to prove;
But all contented regular to move.
We often whet, and often view the Sun;
As often wish, his tedious Race was run.

At length he veils his purple Face from Sight,
And bids the weary Labourer Good-night.
Homewards we move, but spent so much with Toil,
We slowly walk, and rest at ev'ry Stile.
Our good expecting Wives, who think we stay,
Got to the Door, soon eye us in the Way.
Then from the Pot the Dumplin's catch'd in haste,
And homely by its Side the Bacon plac'd.
Supper and Sleep by Morn new Strength supply;
And out we set again, our Work to try;
But not so early quite, nor quite so fast,
As, to our Cost, we did the Morning past.

Soon as the rising Sun has drank the Dew,
Another Scene is open to our View:
Our Master comes, and at his Heels a Throng
Of prattling Females, arm'd with Rake and Prong;

Prepar'd, whilst he is here, to make his Hay;
Or, if he turns his Back, prepar'd to play:
But here, or gone, sure of this Comfort still;
Here's Company, so they may chat their Fill.
Ah! were their Hands so active as their Tongues,
How nimbly then would move the Rakes and Prongs!

The Grass again is spread upon the Ground,
Till not a vacant Place is to be found;
And while the parching Sun-beams on it shine,
The Hay-makers have Time allow'd to dine.
That soon dispatch'd, they still sit on the Ground;
And the brisk Chat, renew'd, afresh goes round.
All talk at once; but seeming all to fear,
That what they speak, the rest will hardly hear
Till by degrees so high their Notes they strain,
A Stander by can nought distinguish plain.

So loud's their Speech, and so confus'd their Noise,
Scarce puzzled Echo can return the Voice.
Yet, spite of this, they bravely all go on;
Each scorns to be, or seem to be, outdone.
Meanwhile the changing Sky begins to lour,
And hollow Winds proclaim a sudden Show'r:
The tattling Crowd can scarce their Garments gain,
Before descends the thick impetuous Rain;
Their noisy Prattle all at once is done,
And to the Hedge they soon for Shelter run.

Thus have I seen, on a bright Summer's Day,
On some green Brake, a Flock of Sparrows play;
From Twig to Twig, from Bush to Bush they fly;
And with continu'd Chirping fill the Sky:
But, on a sudden, if a Storm appears,
Their chirping Noise no longer dins your Ears:

They fly for Shelter to the thickest Bush;
There silent sit, and All at once is hush.

But better Fate succeeds this rainy Day,
And little Labour serves to make the Hay.
Fast as 'tis cut, so kindly shines the Sun,
Turn'd once or twice, the pleasing Work is done.
Next Day the Cocks appear in equal Rows,
Which the glad Master in safe Ricks bestows.

The spacious Fields we now no longer range;
And yet, hard Fate! still Work for Work we change.
Back to the Barns we hastily are sent,
Where lately so much Time we pensive spent:
Not pensive now, we bless the friendly Shade;
And to avoid the parching Sun are glad.
Yet little Time we in the Shade remain,
Before our Master calls us forth again;

And says, “For Harvest now yourselves prepare;
“The ripen'd Harvest now demands your Care.
“Get all things ready, and be quickly drest;
“Early next Morn I shall disturb your Rest.”
Strict to his Word! for scarce the Dawn appears,
Before his hasty Summons fills our Ears.
His hasty Summons we obey; and rise,
While yet the Stars are glimm'ring in the Skies.
With him our Guide we to the Wheat-field go,
He to appoint, and we the Work to do.

Ye Reapers, cast your Eyes around the Field;
And view the various Scenes its Beauties yield:
Then look again, with a more tender Eye,
To think how soon it must in Ruin lie!
For, once set in, where-e'er our Blows we deal,
There's no resisting of the well-whet Steel:

But here or there, where-e'er our Course we bend,
Sure Desolation does our Steps attend.

Thus, when Arabia's Sons, in Hopes of Prey,
To some more fertile Country take their Way,
How beauteous all Things in the Morn appear!
There rural Cots, and pleasant Villa's here!
So many grateful Objects meet the Sight,
The ravish'd Eye could willing gaze till Night.
But long ere then, where-e'er their Troops have past,
These pleasing Prospects lie a gloomy Waste.

The Morning past, we sweat beneath the Sun;
And but uneasily our Work goes on.
Before us we perplexing Thistles find,
And Corn blown adverse with the ruffling Wind.
Behind our Master waits; and if he spies
One charitable Ear, he grudging cries,

“Ye scatter half your Wages o'er the Land.”
Then scrapes the Stubble with his greedy Hand.

Let those who feast at Ease on dainty Fare,
Pity the Reapers, who their Feasts prepare:
For Toils scarce ever ceasing press us now;
Rest never does, but on the Sabbath, show;
And barely that our Masters will allow.
Think what a painful Life we daily lead;
Each Morning early rise, go late to Bed:
Nor, when asleep, are we secure from Pain;
We then perform our Labours o'er again:
Our mimic Fancy ever restless seems;
And what we act awake, she acts in Dreams.
Hard Fate! Our Labours ev'n in Sleep don't cease;
Scarce Hercules e'er felt such Toils as these!

But soon we rise the bearded Crop again,
Soon Phoebus' Rays well dry the golden Grain.
Pleas'd with the Scene, our Master glows with Joy;
Bids us for Carrying all our Force employ;
When strait Confusion o'er the Field appears,
And stunning Clamours fill the Workmens Ears;
The Bells and clashing Whips alternate sound,
And rattling Waggons thunder o'er the Ground.
The Wheat, when carry'd, Pease, and other Grain,
We soon secure, and leave a fruitless Plain;
In noisy Triumph the last Load moves on,
And loud Huzza's proclaim the Harvest done.

Our Master, joyful at the pleasing Sight,
Invites us all to feast with him at Night.
A Table plentifully spread we find,
And Jugs of humming Ale, to chear the Mind;

Which he, too gen'rous, pushes round so fast,
We think no Toils to come, nor mind the past.
But the next Morning soon reveals the Cheat,
When the same Toils we must again repeat;
To the same Barns must back again return,
To labour there for Room for next Year's Corn.

Thus, as the Year's revolving Course goes round,
No Respite from our Labour can be found:
Like Sisyphus, our Work is never done;
Continually rolls back the restless Stone.
New-growing Labours still succeed the past;
And growing always new, must always last.

The SHUNAMMITE.

To Mrs. STANLEY.

Deign, heav'nly Muses, to assist my Song:
To heav'nly Muses heav'nly Themes belong.
But chiefly Thou, O God, my Soul inspire,
And touch my Lips with thy celestial Fire:
If Thou delight'st in flow'ry Carmel's Shade,
Or Jordan's Stream; from thence I crave thy Aid:
Instruct my Tongue, and my low Accents raise,
To sing thy Wonders, and display thy Praise:
Thy Praise let all the Sons of Judah hear,
And to my Song the distant Tribes repair.

So pray'd, the Shunammite; Heav'n heard the Dame;
The distant Tribes around her list'ning came,
To hear th'amazing Tale; while thus her Tongue,
Mov'd by some heav'nly Pow'r, began the Song.

Attend, ye Seed of Abram, and give Ear,
While I Jehovah's glorious Acts declare:
How Life from Death, and Joy from Sadness spring,
If He assist the Muse, the Muse shall sing.
My Lord and I, to whom all-bounteous Heav'n
His Blessings with no sparing Hand had giv'n,
Like faithful Stewards of our wealthy Store,
Still lodg'd the Stranger, and reliev'd the Poor.
And as Elisha, by divine Command,
Came preaching Virtue to a sinful Land;
He often deign'd to lodge within our Gate,
And oft receiv'd an hospitable Treat:

A decent Chamber for him we prepar'd;
And he, the gen'rous Labour to reward,
Honours in Camp, or Court, to us propos'd;
Which I refus'd, and thus my Mind disclos'd:

Heav'n's King has plac'd us in a fertile Land,
Where he show'rs down his Gifts with copious Hand:
Already we enjoy an affluent Store;
Why should we be solicitous for more?
Give Martial Camps, and Kingly Courts to them,
Who place their only Bliss in fleeting Fame:
There let them live in golden Chains of State;
And be unhappy, only to be great.
But let us in our native Soil remain,
Nor barter Happiness for sordid Gain.
Here may we feed the Indigent in Peace,
Or cloath the Bare with the superfluous Fleece,
And give the weary fainting Pilgrim Ease.

This we prefer to Pomp, and formal Show,
Which only serve to varnish o'er our Woe;
Refulgent Ornaments, which dress the Proud,
Objects of Wonder to the gazing Crowd;
Yet seldom give Content, or solid Rest,
To the vain Man, by whom they are possess'd.

All Blessings, but a Child, had Heav'n supply'd;
And only that th'Almighty had deny'd:
Which when the holy prescient Sage had heard,
He said, and I before him strait appear'd:
And, as my Feet approach'd his awful Room,
I saw his Face diviner Looks assume;
Not such a Wildness, and fanatic Mien,
With which, some say, the Delphic Priests are seen;
When they, for Mysteries of Fate, explain
The odd Chimera's of a frantic Brain;

But with a grave majestic Air he stood,
While more than human in his Aspect glow'd;
Celestial Grace sat on his radiant Look,
And Pow'r diffusive shone, before he spoke.
Then thus: “Hail, gen'rous Soul! Thy pious Cares
“Are not forgot, nor fruitless are thy Pray'rs:
“Propitious Heav'n, thy virtuous Deeds to crown,
“Shall make thy barren Womb conceive a Son.”
So spake the Seer; and, to complete my Joy,
As he had spoke, I bore the promis'd Boy.

Soon to my Friends the welcome News was known,
Who crowded in apace to see my Son,
Hailing, with kind Salutes, the recent Child;
And, with their pious Hymns, my Pain beguil'd.
When all had said, I mov'd my joyful Tongue;
And thus to Heav'n address'd my grateful Song:

“O God, what Eloquence can sing thy Praise?
“Or who can fathom thy stupendous Ways?
“All Things obey at thy divine Command;
“Thou mak'st a fruitful Field of barren Land:
“Obdurate Rocks a fertile Glebe shall be,
“And bring forth copious Crops, if bid by Thee;
“Arabian Deserts shall with Plenty smile,
“And curling Vines adorn the sterile Soil.

As thus she spake, her Audience raise their Voice;
And interrupt her Song, as they rejoice:
“O God, we gladly hear thy mighty Pow'r,
“With joyful Heart thy gracious Name adore:
“All Nature is subservient to thy Word;
“And shifts her wonted Course, to please her Lord.
“We, for thy Servant's Joy, our Thanks express;
“As grows the Child, so may her Bliss increase:

“And may the Guardian Angels, who preside
“Over the Bless'd, his future Actions guide;
“Make spotless Virtue crown his vital Date,
“And hoary Honour end his Life but late;
“Then safely bear”—The Dame here wav'd her Hand;
The People straight obey her mute Command:
All silent stand, and all attentive look,
Waiting her Words, while thus she, mournful, spoke:

All Pleasures are imperfect here below;
Our sweetest Joys are mix'd with bitter Woe:
The Draught of Bliss, when in our Goblet cast,
Is dash'd with Grief; or spilt, before we taste.
Ere twice four Years were measur'd by my Son,
(So soon, alas! the greatest Blessing's gone)
In Harvest-time he to the Reapers goes,
To view the bearded Sheaves, erect in Rows,

Like an embattled Army in the Field;
A new delightful Prospect to the Child!
But either there the scorching Sun display'd
His Heat intense, and on his Vitals prey'd;
Or else some sudden apoplectic Pain,
With racking Torture, seiz'd his tender Brain;
His Spirits fail'd, he straight began to faint,
And to his Father vainly made Complaint:
The glowing Rose was quickly seen to fade;
At once his Beauty, and his Life, decay'd.

Soon, at my House, the dismal News I heard;
Soon, at my House, the dying Child appear'd:
T'embrace him I, with fond Affection, run;
And, O! said I, what Pain afflicts my Son?
He try'd to speak; but, fault'ring, gave a Groan;
No perfect Word proceeded from his Tongue;
But on his Lips the broken Accents hung.

All Means I us'd, that might allay his Pain;
All Means I us'd, but us'd them all in vain.
Yet, while he liv'd, my Soul would not despair;
Nor, till he ceas'd to breathe, I ceas'd my Pray'r:
Deluding Hope now stopt the falling Tears;
Now his increasing Pains increas'd my Fears:
By Hope and Fear alternate was I toss'd,
Till Hope, in a sad Certainty, was lost:
Short, and more short, he drew his panting Breath,
(Too sure Presage of his approaching Death!)
Till soon the Blood, congealing, ceas'd to flow;
He dropt his Head with a declining Bow:
Thrice, from my Breast, to raise himself he try'd,
And thrice sunk down again; then, groaning, dy'd.

Thus, when with Care we've nurs'd a tender Vine,
And taught the docile Branches where to twine;

An Eastern Gale, or some pernicious Frost,
Nips the young Tree, and all our Labour's lost.

With Horror chill'd, a-while I speechless stood,
Viewing the Child, and trembling as I view'd:
My Eyes discharg'd their humid Store apace,
And Tears succeeded Tears adown my Face:
Scarcely my Heart the Load of Grief sustain'd;
At length, recov'ring Speech, I thus complain'd:

O fleeting Joys! inconstant as the Wind!
Which only for a Moment please the Mind;
Then fly, and leave a Weight of Woes behind!
But yet in vain I thus lament and mourn;
The Soul, once fled, shall never more return;
And the fair Body now must be convey'd
To Earth's dark Bosom, and eternal Shade—

Yet let me not prescribe a Bound to Heav'n;
'Twas by a Miracle the Child was giv'n;
Nor can I think the Wonder is more great,
Should the departed Soul resume her Seat.
What if I to Mount Carmel haste away,
To him who did his mystic Birth display?
His pow'rful Word the barren fruitful made;
His pow'rful Word, perhaps, may raise the Dead.
The famous Tishbite rais'd a Widow's Son;
Elisha has as wond'rous Actions done.
When he to Jordan's rapid Torrent came;
And, with the Mantle, smote th'impetuous Stream;
Obsequious to the Stroke, the Waves divide;
And raise a liquid Wall on either Side!
At Jericho long had the barren Soil
Deceiv'd the Husbandman, and mock'd his Toil;
Yet, at his Word, it grew a fertile Field,
And pois'nous Springs did wholsome Waters yield.

Nor can he only such great Blessings send;
But Curses, if invok'd, his Call attend:
Else how at Bethel brought he Vengeance down,
As a just Scourge, on that opprobrious Town?
Again, when Moab Peace with Israel broke,
And vainly strove to quit the servile Yoke;
Our pow'rful Kings led forth th'embattled Host
Thro' Edom's sultry Wilds, and Air adust;
Where the confed'rate Troops no Water found,
Dry were the Springs, and sterile was the Ground;
The Captains wonted Strength and Courage fail'd,
When Thirst and Foes at once their Host assail'd:
The Kings to him their joint Petitions made,
And fainting Soldiers crav'd his timely Aid;
Nor crav'd in vain: The pow'rful Word he spake,
And flowing Waters form'd a spacious Lake;
The shining Streams advanc'd their humid Train,
Till Edom's Wilds became a liquid Plain:

Not in more Plenty did the Waters run
Out of the Rock, when struck by Amram's Son.
And who can that amazing Deed forget,
Which he perform'd to pay the Widow's Debt?
Whose Quantity of Oil one Pot contain'd;
Yet num'rous Vessels fill'd, before 'twas drain'd.
Sure he, who such stupendous Acts has done,
If God propitious prove, can raise my Son.

So saying, up I caught the Child with Speed;
And laid him on the sacred Prophet's Bed;
Then call'd my Servant to prepare the Steed.
Pensive and sad, my mourning Husband said,
'Tis now in vain to crave Elisha's Aid:
No God To-day the Prophet does inspire;
Nor can he answer, what thou wouldst inquire.

Rather than sink, said I, attempt to raise
My Hopes, nor talk of Ceremonial Days;
His God is present still, and hears him when he prays.
Thus said, urging my Steed with eager Haste,
Swift as a Mountain Roe, the Plains I pass'd;
O'er Hills and Dales my Journey I pursu'd;
Nor slack'd my Pace, till Carmel's Mount I view'd;
On whose delightful Brow, in cool Retreat,
Among the curling Vines, the Prophet sat;
Whose twining Arms a verdant Arbour made;
The verdant Arbour form'd a grateful Shade;
The fanning Zephyrs gently play'd around,
And shook the trembling Leaves, and swept the Ground;
Down humbly at his Feet I prostrate fell,
Submiss; and, weeping, told the mournful Tale.

Strive to compose thy anxious Soul, said he;
Tears can't revoke Jehovah's fix'd Decree:
We live and die, and both, as He thinks fit,
Who may command; but Mortals must submit.
This Fate the King, as well as Peasant, finds;
Nor is it evil, but to evil Minds—
Yet if from Heav'n I can my Suit obtain,
Thy lifeless Son shall yet revive again.

Thus said, with Looks divine, his Staff he views,
As if some pow'rful Charm he would infuse:
Then calls his Servant hastily, and said,
On the Child's Face let this be quickly laid.

O thou, said I, on whom my Hopes depend,
Do not this Work to Servants Care commend:

If Thou thyself with me refuse to go,
Here, to the list'ning Vines, I'll vent my Woe;
Still prostrate lie, lamenting for my Son,
Till ev'ry Hill prove vocal to my Moan.
More had I said, but Grief the Words supprest;
Yet Sighs, and silent Tears, explain'd the rest.
At length he from his verdant Seat arose,
And hastily adown the Mountain goes:
To Shunem we, with Speed, our Way pursue;
The City soon appears within our View;
And the obedient Servant, at the Gate,
Returning sad, without Success, we met:
The beauteous Child by Death still vanquish'd lay;
Still Death insulted o'er the beauteous Prey;
Till to the House the sacred Seer was come,
And, with supernal Pow'r, approach'd the Room.

By the dead Child, a-while, he pensive stood;
Then from the Chamber put the mourning Crowd:
That done, to God he made his ardent Pray'r,
And breath'd upon the Child with vital Air:
And now the Soul resumes her pristine Seat;
And now the Heart again begins to beat;
Life's purple Current o'er the Body spreads,
While Death, repuls'd, ingloriously recedes.

Thus, when a prowling Wolf has stol'n a Lamb,
He sternly guards it from the bleating Dam;
But if the Keeper comes, he quits his Prey,
And low'ring, with Reluctance, makes away.

And now the Prophet, to my longing Arms,
Resign'd the Child, with more than wonted Charms:

The blushing Rose shone fresher in his Face,
And Beauty smil'd with a superior Grace.

So, when Heav'n's Lamp, that rules the genial Day,
Behind the sable Moon pursues his Way;
Affrighted Mortals, when th'Eclipse is o'er,
Believe him more illustrious than before.

Here ends the Dame; and the promiscuous Throng,
With Hallelujahs, thus conclude the Song:
“Holy and good art Thou, Lord God of Host,
“And all thy Works are wonderful and just:
“Both Life and Death are in thy pow'rful Hand;
“Both Life and Death obey thy great Command:
“By thy great Pow'r the Heav'ns and Earth are aw'd;
“Then let the Heav'ns and Earth adore their God.
“Thou glorious Sun, that measur'st all our Days,
“Rising and setting, still advance his Praise:

“Thou Moon, and ye less glitt'ring Orbs, that dance
“Round this terrestrial Globe, his Praise advance:
“Ye Seas, for ever waving to and fro,
“Praise, when ye ebb, and praise him, when ye flow:
“Ye wand'ring Rivers, and each purling Stream,
“As ye pursue your Course, his Praise proclaim:
“Ye Dews, and Mists, and humid Vapours, all,
“Praise, when ye rise; and praise him, when ye fall:
“But chiefly Israel, who dost daily view
“His pow'rful Works, his daily Praise renew.”

GRATITUDE.

A PASTORAL.

MENALCAS, COLIN.
Menalcas.
Friend Colin! well o'ertook. I have of late
Observ'd thy chearful Mien, and airy Gait:
Say, what auspicious Change, since t'other Day,
When by thy lonely Cot I took my Way?
Sorrow and Sadness then o'erspread thy Brows,
And ev'ry Look did gloomy Cares disclose:
Now Joys diffusive in thy Aspect rise,
And Mirth and Gladness sparkle in thy Eyes.

Colin.
Where hast thou liv'd, Menalcas, not to know,
Whose gen'rous Bounty has remov'd my Woe?
I thought, the gracious Carolina's Name,
Ere this, had fill'd the sounding Trump of Fame.

Menalcas.
That gracious Name the World is bound to bless;
All grateful Swains her gen'rous Deeds confess:
But, Colin, say, has she remov'd thy Care?
I'm happy, when thy Happiness I hear.

Colin.
O You, Menalcas, know my abject Birth,
Born in a Cot, and bred to till the Earth;
On rigid Worldlings always doom'd to wait,
Forc'd at their frugal Hands my Bread to get:

But when my Wants to Caroline were known,
She bless'd me with a Pasture of my own.
This makes new Pleasures in my Bosom glow;
These joyful Looks I to her Bounty owe.

Menalcas.
And may kind Heav'n reward that gracious Queen,
Who to thy Wants has so propitious been!
Yet, tho' her Bounty has thy Wants supply'd,
Let not her Bounty e'er exalt thy Pride;
But keep an humble Mind, a grateful Heart;
Her Favours far exceed thy own Desert:
Heav'n mov'd the Goodness of the Royal Dame;
And Heav'n and She thy Gratitude must claim.

Colin.
When me she first into her Favour took,
I cut this oaken Staff, ('tis now my Crook)

And grav'd her Royal Bounty in the Rind;
But grav'd it deeper in my grateful Mind:
The Letters in the Staff may wear away;
Those written in my Soul shall ne'er decay.

Menalcas.
So may thy little Flock increase their Tale;
So may thy Field of Pasture never fail;
May Heav'n and She, in just Proportion, still
Or smile, or frown, as thou art good, or ill.

Colin.
May hungry Foxes kill my tender Lambs,
May pois'nous Serpents suck their bleating Dams:
And may my Cows distended Udders fail,
Elude my Hopes, and never fill the Pail;
In short, (to make my Curse the more complete,
Tho' 'tis the only Thing I dread and hate)

May Heav'n and Heav'nly Caroline remove
Their Smiles, if Colin e'er ungrateful prove.

Menalcas.
Thy Thanks and Pray'rs her gen'rous Soul will please;
A Tribute justly due, and paid with Ease:
Sometimes a Song perhaps she may require;
And thou to sing but lately didst aspire;
When in an abject, low, laborious State,
Sunk deep in Cares, and press'd beneath their Weight;
Then (so, at least, 'tis said among our Swains)
In Sonnets Colin charm'd away his Pains:
Much sooner now thou may'st a Song rehearse,
Whene'er she condescends to hear thy Verse.

Colin.
O friend! too well you know, my simple Strains
Are far inferior to each rural Swain's:

Yet, since Great Carolina thinks no Scorn,
To patronize a Shepherd meanly born;
Henceforth I'll strive to raise my Voice sublime,
And with her Royal Name adorn my Rhyme;
I'll on each verdant Mountain sing her Praise,
And vocal Groves shall echo to my Lays;
To ev'ry Swain her Godlike Worth proclaim,
Nor ever drop the pleasing glorious Theme.

Menalcas.
Then, since we're met, where friendly Branches spread,
And trembling Leaves diffuse a cooling Shade;
Since, on the Sprays, the Thrush and Finch rejoice,
Invoke thy Muse, and tune thy rural Voice.

Colin.
Another Day my rural Voice I'll raise,
Another Day the Muse shall tune her Lays:

But now, alas! such crowding Joys I find,
No Words can speak the Transports of my Mind.
Would Phoebus warm me with poetic Fire,
Or would the Mantuan Muse my Tongue inspire;
As Great Eliza shone in Spencer's Line,
The Greater Carolina should in mine;
Then would I emulate the tuneful Throng,
And with her glorious Name immortalize my Song.

A PASTORAL ELEGY.

At first in Vales obscure the Lyre I strung;
Vales, where the Muse her annual Labours sung:
Now, leaving these, she ranges o'er the Plains,
And tunes her Voice to Flocks and Shepherd Swains;
Yet, fresh in Grief, but feebly moves her Wings,
Weeps, while she flies, and trembles, as she sings.

Two Country Swains, in Friendship firmly join'd,
Lov'd each alike, and were, like Brothers, kind:
Great Caroline her Royal Bounty show'd
To one, and rais'd him from the grov'ling Crowd;
When straight his smiling Looks, and chearful Mien,
Proclaim'd the Goodness of a gracious Queen;

But gloomy Sadness soon his Face possess'd,
And clouded all the Joys before express'd:
The other gay and pleasant still appear'd;
Nor griev'd for Evils past, nor future fear'd:
One Day they met; Menalcas first began;
And thus the mournful Tale, alternate, ran.

Menalcas.
Why, Colin, dost thou wear that pensive Look,
And sighing stand, supported by thy Crook?
Say, from what Cause this Melancholy springs;
Or dost thou verify what Damon sings?
“Vain Man can never satiate his Desires;
“The more he has, the more he still requires:
“To-day he's craving, and To-morrow cloy'd;
“New Pleasures grow insipid, when enjoy'd.”
So, when our Sheep on Hills refuse to feed,
We straight remove them to the verdant Mead;

Where all, intent, the luscious Herbage graze;
And, for that Day, their Pasture seems to please:
The next, they range around the flow'ry Space;
And bleating tell, they loath the tainted Grass.

Colin.
'Twas Yesterday a giddy Sheep I view'd,
Which rose in Cuddy's Fold, and stagg'ring stood;
While one, with burly Horns, secure from Pain,
Ran, enviously, and push'd him down again.
So you, vain jesting Youth! unmov'd with Care,
Insult the hapless Swain, that's in Despair.

Menalcas.
I nor insulted, nor intended Guile;
And, if I jested, 'twas to make thee smile:
But tell me, Swain, what wond'rous Turn of Fate
O'erclouds thy Face, that look'd serene of late?

What, is thy Harvest blasted on the Ground?
Or has the Royal Carolina frown'd?
Unveil thy Griefs, and make thy Sorrows known;
You know, my Friend's Misfortunes are my own.

Colin.
My Harvest is not blasted on the Ground,
Nor has the Royal Carolina frown'd:
But lately, when the Sun had gaily drest
The lofty Mountains in a purple Vest,
I early rose, to tend my fleecy Care;
Wet was the Grass, and piercing cold the Air.
My lovely Sylvia, stay behind, I said,
Till I have weav'd a Garland for thy Head;
Till I a Bow'r, with shady Branches, form,
To shun the scorching Ray, or rapid Storm;
And, when the Dew's exhal'd, which Night distill'd,
Bless Colin with thy Presence in the Field.

She answer'd not; but from her Bosom sent
A deep presaging Sigh, before I went.
The Sun had painted ev'ry Object gay,
When to the chearful Field I took my Way;
The Lark with Mattins welcom'd in the Morn;
The Thrush and Finch sat chirping on the Thorn;
The Swallows round, in airy Circles, flew;
And, ah! poor Colin then was joyful too:
But suddenly I saw the Mists arise,
And dark'ning Clouds o'erspread the dusky Skies,
Th'Horizon seem'd to cast a gloomy Frown,
While from his airy Height the Lark sunk down;
The tuneful Birds their joyous Songs deny'd;
And boding Owls, and sooty Ravens, cry'd.
My drooping Heart, which felt unusual Weight,
Shock'd with such Omens, ceas'd almost to beat:
Yet these, said I, portend no Evil, while
My Royal Mistress condescends to smile:

If She's propitious, what can Colin fear?
Inur'd the lesser Ills of Life to bear.
Thus said, I took my Way to yonder Grove;
And form'd, with spreading Boughs, an arch'd Alcove:
So close I twisted in each pliant Spray,
As might exclude the Wind, or sunny Ray.
With sweetest Flow'rs I deck'd the mossy Ground,
And strew'd the fragrant Woodbinds all around.
Here, when, said I, my Sylvia comes a-field,
This grateful Bow'r a safe Retreat shall yield:
If rainy, here she may the Storms evade;
If fair, the Branches will project a Shade:
Here Sylvia shall, with Colin, take her Rest;
And Colin here, with Sylvia, shall be blest.
As thus I spake, around I cast my Eye,
And saw celestial Celia drawing nigh:
I saw; but wonder'd why her heav'nly Mien
Was clouded o'er, that us'd to be serene.

Celia's the Mistress of the flow'ry Plain,
Whose Bounty's known to ev'ry worthy Swain
Not Godlike Pan presided with more Care,
Nor to Arcadian Shepherds was so dear.
When Celia to the rural Shade retires,
She ev'ry Breast with rising Hope inspires;
Expecting Swains, with joyous Looks, proclaim
The happy Time, and hail the gen'rous Dame:
As languid Plants, which half the Year lie dead,
When Spring approaches, raise their drooping Head.
She cross'd the Plains with a dejected Air;
Her pensive Aspect shew'd her pious Care;
And, loath th'unwelcome Tidings to reveal,
She sighing spoke, and left th'unfinish'd Tale:
“Ah poor unhappy Swain! return, return;
“The sable Clouds foretel a rainy Morn:
“Nor only is the Day o'ercast with Gloom;
“Thy pleasing Hopes are blasted all at home;

“Thy Sylvia, O!” She said, and dropt the rest;
But my presaging Heart too rightly guess'd:
I silent stood, and spoke my Grief with Tears;
You know, my Heart was firmly link'd to hers.

Menalcas.
I know, your Hearts are link'd in Friendship fast;
Long may that mutual Bond of Friendship last:
May Hymen to you both propitious prove,
And Death but late untie the Knot of Love.

Colin.
O! stop, Menalcas, and my Loss deplore;
The good, the faithful Sylvia is no more:
That gloomy Morn she, in my Absence, dy'd;
And rigid Death the last Farewel deny'd.
Another Loss I could content have born;
But must the Loss of Sylvia always mourn.

My lovely Sylvia was my softest Theme,
My Song by Day, by Night my pleasing Dream:
But now in Sighs I spend the ling'ring Day;
And, weeping, pass the tardy Night away:
Nor does thy Friend indulge a needless Care;
My Loss is great, and just is my Despair.

Menalcas.
Thy Loss and Sorrows equally are great;
But Death's the Law of Nature, fix'd by Fate:
Our Flocks, our Herds, our All precarious stands;
And fall we must, when Heav'n our Fall commands.

Colin.
Yet Flocks and Herds are with Reluctance spar'd;
And what are Flocks and Herds, with her compar'd?
A hungry Fox stole ten of Cuddy's Lambs,
A lurching Mongrel kill'd their bleating Dams:

Say, did not Cuddy for his Loss repine?
But, ah! what Loss was his, compar'd with mine?

Menalcas.
I have a Flute, which Damon lately made;
No Shepherd on a sweeter ever play'd:
I tun'd it Yesterday, and straight a Throng
Of Nymphs and Swains ran crowding to my Song;
My list'ning Ewes, a-while, forsook their Meat;
My tender Lambs, tho' hungry, ceas'd to bleat:
I'll tune again the soft harmonious Lay;
Music, perhaps, may chase thy Cares away.

Colin.

Menalcas, Music's for a lighter Ill;
Such Woes as mine would baffle all thy Skill.
Upon his Flute Alexis often plays,
And strives to charm my Sorrows with his Lays;

Upon his Flute Alexis plays in vain;
His Lays, tho' charming, cannot charm my Pain.
The tuneful Birds rejoice on ev'ry Spray,
My wanton Lambkins in their Pasture play;
In vain the tuneful Birds rejoice, in vain
My wanton Lambkins sport upon the Plain.

With chearful Green the spacious Fields are crown'd,
And beauteous Flow'rs adorn the painted Ground;
The snowy Blossoms on the Branches shine,
A pleasing Scene to ev'ry Eye, but mine!
For neither chearful Green, that crowns the Field,
Nor snowy Blossoms, which the Branches yield,
Nor Flow'rs, that spread the painted Meadows o'er,
Delight my Eyes, now Sylvia is no more.

Menalcas.
'Tis more than Time thy mournful Dirge to end;
For, see, the whistling Ploughmen homeward tend;
Our fleecy Flocks stand waiting round the Fold;
Damp feel the Dews, the ruffling Breezes cold;
The setting Sun forsakes the blushing Skies,
And hazy Fogs from marshy Grounds arise:
Then fold thy Sheep, thy anxious Cares remove;
Nor weep on Earth, for her who sings above.

On a Good Conscience.

The solid Joys of human Kind
Are those that flow from Peace of Mind;
For who the Sweets of Life can taste,
With Vice, and tim'rous Guilt, opprest?
'Tis Virtue softens all our Toils,
With Peace our Conscience crowns;
Gives Pleasure, when our Fortune smiles,
And Courage, when it frowns;
Calms ev'ry Trouble, makes the Soul serene,
Smooths the contracted Brow, and chears the Heart within.

While guilty Minds, involv'd with Woe,
Anticipate the future Blow;

Which is (to make Damnation more complete)
The lesser Hell, in Passage to the great;
Bold and intrepid honest Men appear;
For, as they know no Evil, none they fear:
A glorious Shield of Virtue guards their Breast;
Arm'd with themselves, they always walk at Rest.

Thus, under bursting Clouds, and stormy Skies,
When Thunder roars, and Lightning flies,
Th'Imperial Eagles boldly rove,
Nor dread the firy Bolt of Jove;
While meaner Birds in secret creep below;
And trembling fear, and often feel, the Blow.

On MUSIC.

I.

Music the coldest Heart can warm,
The hardest melt, the fiercest charm;
Disarm the Savage of his Rage,
Dispel our Cares, and Pains assuage;
With Joy it can our Souls inspire,
And tune our Tempers to the Lyre;
Our Passions, like the Notes, agree,
And stand subdu'd by Harmony.
This found the melancholy King,
When David tun'd the trembling String:
Sweet Music chas'd the sullen Spleen away,
And made his clouded Soul serenely gay.

II.

While Music breathes in Martial Airs,
The Coward durst forget his Fears;
Or, if the Notes to Pity sound,
Revenge and Envy cease to wound:
The Pow'r of Music has been known
To raise or tumble Cities down:
Thus Theban Turrets, Authors say,
Were rais'd by Music's magic Lay;
And ancient Jericho's Heav'n-hated Wall,
To sacred Music, ow'd its destin'd Fall.

III.

Nor Mortals only Music love;
It chears celestial Saints above:
Sweet Hallelujahs Angels sing
Around their great Ethereal King;

Ceasless they sound the Father's Praise,
The Father too approves their Lays;
For HE (as all Things) Music made,
And Seraphims before Him play'd:
When over Horeb's Mount He came,
Array'd in Majesty and Flame;
After the sounding Trump, sublime, He rode;
The sounding Trump proclaim'd th'approaching God.

IV.

Music had Being, long before
The solemn Organ learnt to roar:
When Michael, o'er the heav'nly Plain,
Advanc'd, to fight the rebel Train;
Loud Trumpets did his Wrath declare,
In Music, terrible to hear:
And when the Universe was made,
On golden Harps the Angels play'd:

And when it falls, (as fall it must)
Music shall penetrate the Dust;
The Trump shall sound with the Archangel's Breath;
And, sweetly dreadful! wake the Dead from Death.

On Richmond Park, and Royal Gardens.

Of blissful Groves I sing, and flow'ry Plains:
Ye Sylvan Nymphs, assist my rural Strains.
Shall Windsor Forest gain a deathless Fame,
And grow immortal, as the Poet's Name;
While not a Bard, of all the tuneful Throng,
With these delightful Fields adorns his Song?
Thy Gardens, Richmond, boast an equal Theme,
And only ask an equal Muse's Flame.
What, tho' no Virgin Nymphs, of Cynthia's Train,
With Belt and Quiver grace the verdant Plain?

What, tho' no fabled consecrated Floods
Flow o'er thy Fields, or murmur thro' thy Woods?
My Song thy real Beauties shall pursue,
And paint the lovely Scenes, and paint 'em true;
A pleasing Task! Nor slight shall be the Praise,
If Royal Caroline accept the Lays.

Delighted, often thro' the mazy Groves,
The Muse, in pensive Contemplation, roves;
Or climbs the slow ascending Hill, whose Brow
Hangs o'er the silver Stream, which rolls below;
Where all around me shining Prospects rise,
And various Scenes invite my gazing Eyes;
And, while I view one Object with Delight,
New pleasing Wonders charm the feasted Sight:
Now this allures, now that attracts it most;
And the first Beauty's in the second lost.

Thus, in a grateful Concert, may we hear
The Sounds at once surprize, and charm our Ear,
The trembling Notes, in hasty Fugues, arise;
And this advances, ere the former flies;
All seem to be confus'd, yet all agree,
To perfect the melodious Harmony.

Beneath the Mount, with what Majestic Pride
The Sire of Rivers rolls his silver Tide!
Let Poets sing of Hermus' golden Shore,
His amber Foam, and Sands of shining Ore:
Nor Tagus envy we, nor fruitful Nile,
Whose fatt'ning Floods enrich the thirsty Soil:
Happy Britannia boasts as fair a Stream,
As great in Bounties, and as great in Fame;
Since Denham's deathless Muse has sung his Tide,
And India's Riches o'er his Surface glide.

Obsequious River, when my Eyes survey
Thy Waves, or East, or West, pursue their Way;
Now swiftly roll, to meet the briny Main,
At stated Periods, now return again;
How vain the Schemes of Infidels appear!
How weak their Reas'nings, and the God how clear!
Say, Atheists, since you own, by Nature's Laws,
There's no Effect produc'd without a Cause;
Why should the restless Stream run to and fro,
And, with alternate Motion, ebb and flow;
Did not some Being, of superior Force,
Rule the wild Waves, and regulate their Course?

Hence lofty Windsor to the Sight appears;
And, high in Air, her pompous Turrets rears:
Wide, round her Domes, the spacious Forest shines.
Tho' brighter much in Pope's harmonious Lines:

O! would his tuneful Muse my Breast inspire,
With equal Warmth, with her sublimer Fire;
Then Richmond Hill renown'd in Verse should grow,
And Thames reecho to the Song below;
A second Eden in my Page should shine,
And Milton's Paradise submit to mine.

Oft, lost in Thought, forgetful of my Way,
I, o'er the Park, thro' Wilds of Beauty, stray;
Where sportive Nature wantons at her Will,
And lavishes her Bloom, uncheck'd by Skill.
Old venerable Trees, majestic, rise,
Sublime in Air, and brave the vaulted Skies;
Which, free from cruel Steel, or Lab'rer's Hand,
In peaceful Age, and hoary Honour, stand.
Here, when Aurora first begins to dawn,
The wakeful Larks spring mounting from the Lawn;

Pois'd by their Plumes, in lofty Flights they play;
With joyful Warblings hail th'approaching Day:
But, when the Sun displays a purple Scene,
And drinks the pearly Dew, that deck'd the Green;
A thousand tuneful Birds in Concert meet,
A thousand tuneful Notes the Groves repeat;
And, when their Music ceases with the Day,
Sweet Philomela chants her pensive Lay.

But, hark! I hear a louder Music sound;
From Woods and Vales the various Notes rebound:
'Tis Albion's King pursues the Royal Chace;
The nimble Stag skims o'er th'unbending Grass:
The Way which Fear directs, he trembling tries;
Nor knows, where Fear directs, or where he flies:
A hundred diff'rent Sounds assail his Ears;
A Death, in ev'ry diff'rent Sound, he fears:

And now he faintly moves a slower Pace,
And closer now the Hounds pursue the Chace;
Till, in Despair, back on his Foes he turns;
Makes feeble Efforts with his branchy Horns;
Short is the Combat, soon he yields his Breath,
And gasping falls, and trembling pants in Death.

Now to a softer Theme descends my Muse;
Thro' artful Walks her pleasing Path pursues;
Where lofty Elms, and conic Lindens rise,
Or where th'extensive Terras charms her Eyes;
Where Elegance and noble Grandeur meet,
As the Ideas of its Mistress, great,
Magnificently fair, majestically sweet.
See, on its Margin, Fields of waving Corn;
These bearded Crops, and Flow'rets this, adorn;
Ceres and Flora lovingly embrace,
And gay Varieties the Landscape grace.

Hence lead me, Muses, thro' yon arched Grove,
Adorn'd with Sand below, and Leaves above;
Or let me o'er the spacious Oval trace,
Where verdant Carpets spread the lovely Place;
Where Trees in regular Confusion stand,
And sylvan Beauties rise on ev'ry Hand:
Or bear me, Nymphs, to the sequester'd Cell,
Where Boyle and Newton, mighty Sages! dwell;
Whose Fame shall live, altho' the Grot decay,
Long as those sacred Truths their Works display.

How sweetly pleasing is this cool Retreat,
When Phoebus blazes with meridian Heat!
In vain the fervid Beams around it play;
The rocky Roof repels the scorching Ray;
Securely guarded with a sylvan Scene,
In Nature's Liv'ry drest, for ever green.

To visit this, the curious Stranger roves,
With grateful Travel, thro' a Wild of Groves;
And, tho' directed, oft mistakes his Way,
Unknowing where the winding Mazes stray;
Yet still his Feet the magic Paths pursue,
Charm'd, tho' bewilder'd, with the pleasing View.

Not so attractive lately shone the Plain,
A gloomy Waste, not worth the Muses Strain;
Where thorny Brakes the Traveller repell'd,
And Weeds and Thistles overspread the Field;
Till Royal George, and Heav'nly Caroline,
Bid Nature in harmonious Lustre shine;
The sacred Fiat thro' the Chaos rung,
And Symmetry from wild Disorder sprung.

So, once, confus'd, the barb'rous Nations stood;
Unpolish'd were their Minds, their Manners rude;

Till Rome her conqu'ring Eagles wide display'd,
And bid the World reform—The World obey'd.

How bless'd the Man in these delightful Fields!
New Pleasures each indulgent Moment yields.
Let gayer Minds in Town pursue their Joys,
Exchanging Quietness for Crowds and Noise;
Consume the Night at Masquerade or Play;
Or waste, in busy Idleness, the Day:
I envy not Augusta's pompous Piles,
Since rural Solitude more pleasing smiles.
O Solitude! the Sage's chief Delight!
What Numbers can thy lovely Charms recite!
Hail, peaceful Nymph! thou eldest Thing on Earth!
Nay, like Eternity, thou hadst no Birth:
The Heav'ns alone can thy Commencement tell,
Ere Michael fought, or peccant Angels fell;

Before the Skies with radiant Light were clad,
In awful Gloom, and venerable Shade,
The Father thee his sole Companion made.
When to Creation first his Thoughts inclin'd,
And future Worlds were rising in his Mind;
He sat with thee, and plann'd the mighty Scheme;
With thee adjusted the stupendous Frame;
Contriv'd how Globes, self-balanc'd in the Air,
With restless Rounds should rule the circling Year;
How Orbs o'er Orbs in mystic Dance should roll,
What Laws support, and regulate the Whole:
Nor art thou yet impair'd, celestial Dame;
Thy Charms are still attractive, still the same;
With thee the Mind, abstracted from the Crew,
May study Nature, and her Ends pursue;
With thee I hear the feather'd Warblers sing;
With thee survey the Beauties of the Spring,
When Blossoms, Leaves, and Fruits the Branches yield,
And Eden's Glory crowns the happy Field.

Here first the Muse (auspicious was the Place!)
Rejoic'd to see her Royal Guardian's Face:
How mild, yet how majestic, was her Look!
How sweetly condescending all she spoke!
On ev'ry pleasing Accent Wisdom hung,
And Truth and Virtue dwelt upon her Tongue.
O! were I equal to the glorious Theme,
Then should my Lays immortalize her Fame;
Or paint Great George in peaceful Laurels drest,
With Albion's Safety lab'ring in his Breast;
Who (while contending Nations round him jar,
And Subjects Wealth supports their Monarchs War)
Guards happy Britain, with his floating Tow'rs,
From purple Slaughter, and invading Pow'rs;
No plund'ring Armies rob our fruitful Plain;
But, bless'd with Peace and Plenty, smiles the Swain.

Not so he smiles upon the foreign Shores;
But starving walks thro' Nature's lavish Stores;
Poor Peasants with their rigid Burdens groan,
And Till the Glebe for Harvests not their own.
What, tho' their more propitious Phoebus shines
With warmer Rays, and chears the curling Vines?
What, tho' rich Olives grace the fertile Soil,
And the hot Climate teems with fatt'ning Oil?
The hungry Farmer views his Crops in vain,
In vain the Vineyard tempts the thirsty Swain;
While their stern Tyrant's arbitrary Pow'r
Rifles the Plains, and ravages their Store:
Thy Sons, Britannia, from such Evils free,
Enjoy the Sweets of Peace and Liberty;
A gracious Sov'reign smiles upon the Throne,
And Heav'n confirms the happy Realm his own.

This was writ in the Year 1731; since when, great Alterations and Improvements have been made in the Gardens, and several Poems publish'd on the same Subject.

Richmond Hill.

AVARO and AMANDA.

A POEM, in Four Canto's,

Taken from the Spectator, Vol. I. No. xi.

Canto I.

What Ills from Want of Education flow,
From Avarice what cruel Scenes of Woe;
I mean to sing, except the tuneful Maid
Neglect my Numbers, and refuse her Aid.
Say, Goddess, first, what made the Youth explore
A foreign Clime, and quit his native Shore?
Say too, how on the barb'rous Isle he came;
What mov'd the Kindness of the Negro Dame?

What could provoke a faithless Youth to sell
A Friend, whose only Crime was loving well?

Now had Avaro twenty Winters pass'd,
His blooming Features ev'ry Beauty grac'd;
In silver Rings, his loosely flowing Hair
Hung o'er his Shoulders, with a comely Air;
Robust his Limbs, and daring was his Soul,
And Vigour crown'd the well-proportion'd Whole:
His graceful Charms the Ladies oft survey'd,
And oft their Eyes an am'rous Signal made;
But never could the tender Passion move,
The stubborn Youth was still averse to Love;
Yet, tho' his Breast was Proof to Cupid's Dart,
A more ignoble God enslav'd his Heart.

No Mysteries of Faith disturb'd his Head;
For Mysteries of Faith he seldom read;

That moral Law, which Nature had imprest,
He blotted from the Volume of his Breast;
Yet in his Mind his Father's Precepts bears,
Who often rung this Lesson in his Ears:
“Would you, my Son, to Happiness aspire,
“Know, Gold alone can Happiness acquire;
“He that has Gold, is pow'rful as a King,
“Has Valour, Virtue, Wisdom, ev'ry thing!
“This to obtain, your utmost Skill bestow;
“And if you gain it, be not careful how:
“If in the Court, or Camp, you take Delight,
“Then dare to flatter there, or here to fight:
“Or, should the Merchant's Life your Fancy please,
“Be bold, and bravely venture on the Seas;
“Many by Merchandize have gain'd Renown,
“And made the Indies Wealth become their own.”
The Youth imbib'd the Precepts of his Tongue,
Neglecting ev'ry Law of Right and Wrong;

Taught by his Sire to court destructive Gain,
He burns to try his Fortune on the Main.

While other Youths, by Wit or Pleasure sway'd,
Frequent the Play, the Ball, or Masquerade;
Avaro studious in his Chamber stays,
Careless of Balls, of Masquerades, and Plays;
There adds, subtracts, and, with unweary'd Pain,
Learns all the Rules of Int'rest, Loss and Gain.

Next, from an old Astronomer, he tries
To learn the Planets Journey thro' the Skies;
With him, at Night, when Heav'n serene appears,
He points the Quadrant at the shining Spheres;
The Hyades, and frozen Pole surveys,
Which guide the Sailor o'er the distant Seas;
Then Maps and Models of our Globe prepares,
And carefully inspects both Hemispheres;

From East to West he views the spacious Round,
Pleas'd with the modern World Columbus found:
In Hope elate, the Youth impatient stands,
And seems to grasp both Indies in his Hands.
This sees the Sire, and hastily provides
A Vessel, proof against the Wind and Tides.
The Youth embarks, the soft propitious Gales
Arise, and soon expand the swelling Sails;
The Ship glides swiftly o'er the liquid Plain,
And Neptune smiles, and courts him on the Main.

But see, how Mortals are the Sport of Fate!
How oft unhappy, striving to be great!
Ere Cynthia twice her monthly Race had run,
An Omen of the fatal Storm begun:
The murm'ring Wind arises by degrees,
And rocks the Ship, and sweeps the curling Seas;

Now louder, with impetuous Force, it roars,
And shoves the swelling Surges to the Shores;
Till rapid Rain, and Flakes of bick'ring Flame,
With dreadful Thunder, vex th'ethereal Frame.
Struck with Surprize, the tim'rous Merchant stands,
Nor knows what he forbids, or what commands:
Nor safely back, nor can he forwards go;
But trembling waits, and fears the fatal Blow.

Long time the Sailers work against the Wind,
With fruitless Toil, to gain the Port assign'd;
Till Courage, Hope, and all Provisions fail'd,
And Fear, Despair, and Want their Souls assail'd.
Forc'd by the Storm into a winding Bay,
Their joyful Eyes an Indian Isle survey;
When straight they quit their Ship, and gain the Shore,
And for Recruits the Savage Land explore.

Adjoining to the dreary Beach, there stood
Wild Shrubs and Trees, that form'd a gloomy Wood;
Where, close obscur'd, the crafty Natives lay,
And watch'd the wand'ring Crew, remote from Sea:
Then forth they rush, and strait their Bows prepare;
Too late the Sailers see th'approaching War:
In vain the Brave engage, or Tim'rous fly;
The Tim'rous, and the Brave, promiscuous die;
The barb'rous Fields are stain'd with purple Gore
And dreadful Groanings echo to the Shore.
Our youthful Merchant 'scapes, and flies alone;
His Fear impels, and Safety prompts him on;
Thro' dusky Woods he takes his trembling Flight,
The dusky Woods conceal him from their Sight;
Till in the devious Wilds, remote from Foes,
Then, on the Ground, he weeping vents his Woes,

Oft curs'd his hapless Fate, and often thought
On what the hoary Star-monger had taught;
How, at our Birth, as diff'rent Planets rule,
They form a Wit, or constitute a Fool;
How, in the Maze of Life, we act as they
Attract, retard, or force us in the Way.
And, as he these uncertain Censures made,
Against the Stars he thus exclaiming said:

The Planets sure some noxious Pow'r display,
And rule my Life with arbitrary Sway;
Else had I ne'er forsook my native Home,
Nor in this baleful Desert met my Doom—
And yet, when I reflect, I cannot see,
How Globes insensible should influence me!
I chuse my Actions; when the Choice is made
I nor invoke, nor yet consult their Aid.

When Mortals act according to their Will,
Can Heav'n be call'd the Author of their Ill?
Too late I find, the Stars are not in Fault;
But 'tis that golden Wish my Sire has taught:
Enticing Gold, that damn'd deceiving Guide,
Induc'd me first to stem the foaming Tide;
Fallacious Charm, that led me from Repose,
Now leaves me in a Labyrinth of Woes.

So, when compacted Vapours, in the Night,
Skim o'er the Fields, with a delusive Light,
The injudicious Traveller surveys
Th'alluring Scene, and courts the glist'ring Blaze;
Till, tempted o'er a Rock's impending Brow,
He falls to some tremendous Gulph below.

Thus the unhappy Youth laments his Fate,
Conscious of all the Ills, that round him wait;

Till setting Phoebus leaves the blushing Sky,
And glimm'ring Stars a feeble Light supply:
The Shades of Night increase his anxious Care,
And add a greater Horror to Despair.

Canto II.

All Night in Tears the pensive Merchant lay,
And often wish'd, and fear'd the coming Day;
Till, on the Hills, the rising Sun display'd
His golden Beams, and chas'd away the Shade:
Harmonious Birds salute his chearful Rays,
And hail the rosy Morn with joyful Lays;
While, stretch'd upon the Ground, Avaro moans,
Answ'ring their tuneful Songs with piercing Groans.

Not distant far from where the Youth was laid,
A purling Stream, in pleasing Murmurs, play'd;
And, by the Margin of the crystal Flood,
Two Rows of Trees in beauteous Order stood;

Whose Branches form'd a pendent Arch above,
Diffusing gloomy Verdure o'er the Grove.
An Indian Princess hither daily came,
Pleas'd with the grateful Shade, and cooling Stream:
She now was walking to her lov'd Retreat,
And heard the mourning Youth lament his Fate:
Fix'd in Amaze, a-while she list'ning stood;
Then swift approach'd him, rushing thro' the Wood.
Th' affrighted Merchant rose with gazing Eyes,
And tim'rous Looks, that testify'd Surprize:
Backward he starts; the Dame, with equal Fears,
Recedes as fast, and wonders what appears:
Yet, bolder grown, she soon advanc'd again,
Smit with the Beauty of the godlike Man:
His Dress, and fair Complexion, charm'd her Sight;
Each glowing Feature gave her new Delight;
While Love and Pity both arose within,
And kindled in her Soul a Flame unseen.

With equal Joy Avaro now survey'd
The native Graces of the Negro Maid:
He view'd her Arms, with various Ribbands bound;
Her downy Head, with painted Feathers crown'd;
With Bredes, and lucid Shells, in Circles strung,
Which shone refulgent, as they round her hung.

As when, in splendid Robes, a courtly Maid
Begins the Dance at Ball or Masquerade;
The Pearls and Di'monds shine with mingled Light,
And glitt'ring Pendants blaze against the Sight.

So shone the beauteous Shells around her Waist,
And sparkling Gems, that deck'd her jetty Breast;
All which Avaro's gazing Eyes pursue,
Charm'd with her lovely Shape, disclos'd to View:
Each Limb appears in just Proportion made,
With Elegance thro' ev'ry Part display'd:

And now his Cares dissolve, new Passions move;
And Nature intimates, the Change is Love.

Not far remote, a cooling Grot was made,
In which the Virgin often sought a Shade:
Thick Shrubs, and fruitful Vines, around it grew;
And none, except herself, the Mansion knew.
To this obscure Recess the Royal Dame,
Rejoicing, with her lovely Captive came:
Then, from the Branches, with officious Haste,
She plucks the Fruits, which yield a sweet Repast:
That done, she, with her Bow, explores the Wood;
Pierc'd with her Shaft, the Fowl resigns his Blood.
Then back she hastens to her cool Retreat,
And for Avaro dress'd the grateful Meat:
To slake his Thirst, she next directs his Way,
Where crystal Streams in wild Meanders stray:

Nor lets him there, expos'd to Foes, remain;
But to the Cave conducts him safe again.

So doats Amanda on the Merchant, while
She scorns the Lovers of her native Isle:
For all the Heroes of her Country strove,
With Emulation, to attract her Love;
And, when they could the painted Fowls insnare,
Or pierce the savage Beast in sylvan War,
The Skins and Feathers, Trophies of their Fame,
They gave for Presents to the Royal Dame;
All which she to her lov'd Avaro brought,
And with them gaily deck'd his shining Grot:
The spotted Panther here she hung; and there,
With Paws extended, frown'd the shaggy Bear;
Here gaudy Plumes appear, in Lustre bright;
There Shells and Pearls diffuse a sparkling Light.

100

As when, to grace some Royal Prince's Hall,
The skilful Painter animates the Wall;
Here warlike Heroes frown in Martial Arms,
There a soft Nymph displays her blushing Charms
A pleasing Landscape next invites our Eye,
And the Room glows with sweet Variety.

Yet, still to give her Lover more Delight,
(Lest what he daily saw, should pall the Sight)
When Sol with Purple cloath'd the Western Sky,
And Shades extended shew'd the Ev'ning nigh,
She to some verdant Grove the Youth convey'd,
Where Nightingales harmonious Music made:
Soft Flow'rets were their Couch; and, all around,
Diffusive Sweets perfum'd the fragrant Ground.
There oft she would his snowy Bosom bare,
Oft round her Fingers wind his silver Hair;

101

Charm'd with the Contrast, which their Colours made,
More pleasing than the Tulip's Light and Shade.
Nor was the Youth insensible; but soon
Repaid her Love, by shewing of his own:
Oft would his Bosom heave with speaking Sighs;
Oft would he gaze, and languish with his Eyes:
Now on her panting Breast his Head repose,
To meet his Head her panting Breast arose;
While in her Soul ecstatic Raptures glow'd,
And her fond Arms believ'd they clasp'd a God.

So liv'd the happy Pair, observ'd by none,
Till both had learnt a Language of their own;
In which the Youth, one Ev'ning, in the Shade,
Beguiles the harmless unsuspicious Maid;
Leans on her Breast, and, with a Kiss, betrays;
Then vents his specious Fraud in Words like these:

102

Witness, ye Gods, and all ye Blest above,
(For Ye can witness best, how well I love)
If e'er, among our blooming Nymphs, I knew
Such Pleasures, as my Soul receives from you!
O dear Amanda! could I but, with thee,
Once more my happy native Country see,
You should not there in lonely Caves retreat,
Nor trace the burning Sands with naked Feet;
Your Limbs, which now the Sun and Wind invade,
Should neatly be in softest Silks array'd;
In gilded Houses gaily should you ride,
By Horses drawn, which prancing Side by Side,
Neigh, foam, and champ the Bit with graceful Pride;
Our Time, in Pomp and Peace, should slide away,
And blooming Pleasures crown the smiling Day;
And, when the setting Sun forsook the Skies,
Approaching Night should but increase our Joys:

103

We would not on the chilling Ground embrace,
Nor Foes, as now, should interrupt our Peace;
But both reposing on some easy Bed,
Soft, as the fleecy Down, that decks thy Head,
The sportive God of Love should round us play,
While we, in Raptures, pass'd the Night away:
Then let us carefully, my Dear, explore
The Haven, where I first approach'd the Shore.
Perhaps we shall some floating Ship survey,
Safe to conduct us o'er the watry Way:
Nor let the foaming Waves your Steps retard;
I'll guard you o'er, and be a faithful Guard.

How oft, alas! is Innocence betray'd,
When Love invites, and Flatterers persuade?
How could the Dame, a Stranger to Deceit,
Imagine such a heav'nly Form a Cheat?
She paus'd, she sigh'd; then, with a pensive Look,
Half loth, and half consenting, thus she spoke:

104

Once has Avaro scap'd the raging Main:
Why would you tempt the fickle Seas again?
To seek new Dangers, when in Safety here,
Would but provoke the Deities you fear—
Sometimes, I own, we've been surpriz'd by Foes,
Whose nightly Walks have wak'd you from Repose:
Yet still I guard your sacred Life secure,
And always will—What can Amanda more?

Thus said, she clasp'd him in her loving Arms,
Embrac'd his Neck, and doated on his Charms:
And now both shew their Passions in their Look,
And now Connubial Hymen both invoke;
In sportive Joys they clos'd the genial Day,
While Philomela sung the Nuptial Lay;
Till soon the Youth reclin'd upon her Breast,
And golden Slumbers seal'd their Eyes to Rest.

105

Canto III.

Soon as the Sun began to gild the Day,
And on the Hills emit a trembling Ray;
Amanda, from her flow'ry Bed, awoke;
Sad was her Heart, and discompos'd her Look;
The briny Torrent flows adown her Cheeks,
While thus she to her dear Avaro speaks:

O thou, on whom my Life and Love depend,
If e'er Amanda claim'd the Name of Friend;
If e'er I gave thy troubled Mind Repose,
Or hid thee, when pursu'd with furious Foes;
Explain this Dream, that terrifies my Breast;
The strangest, Fear, or Fancy, e'er imprest!

106

Methought a God descended from the Skies;
Celestial Beauty sparkled in his Eyes;
Like Rays of Phoebus shone his radiant Hair,
His Shape like thine, like thine his graceful Air;
A Robe was neatly girt about his Waist,
Fine as my lov'd Avaro's silken Vest;
His shining Lips upon my Breast he laid,
And softly press'd my Hand, and smiling said:

“Arise, my Dear, my lov'd Amanda, rise;
“An easier Lodging waits thee in the Skies:
“I am descended from the blest Abodes,
“To bear thee hence to Heav'n among the Gods:
“No Enemies shall there disturb thy Rest;
“There, with thy Lover, live for ever blest.”

107

Thus said, he rais'd me from the dewy Plain,
And bore, or seem'd to bear me, o'er the Main:
But soon he led me to a distant Isle,
Where Horrors reign, and Comforts never smile:
Thick Brakes and Brambles choak'd the dreary Coast,
The only Product, which the Land could boast;
Till a dejected, servile Race arose,
With gloomy Sadness brooding on their Brows:
This Crowd, promiscuous, with incessant Toil,
Or rooted up the Wood, or plough'd the Soil:
How each perform'd his Task, a Tyrant view'd;
And sternly shook his Whip, and menac'd, as he stood.
Sometimes, to shun the direful Lash, they fled;
Th'insulting Lord pursu'd with greater Speed:
Sure not so fearful fly the trembling Bears,
To shun our Hunters Darts, and missive Spears;

108

Sure not so swift our Hunters e'er pursu'd
The trembling Bears, when flying thro' the Wood;
As from the Tyrant's Wrath they swiftly run,
Or, as the Tyrant, swifter, urg'd 'em on.
Each to his wonted Task he drove again,
And made me mix among the servile Train;
Doom'd with the rest to groan beneath the Yoke,
Alike I felt the dire correcting Stroke.
But, O! what added most to my Despair,
My Godlike Guide was false, and left me there—

As thus she spake, confus'd her Looks appear'd;
For still her Soul the dreadful Vision fear'd:
Deciding Reason from her Seat withdrew,
And Fancy painted all the Scene anew.
The Youth to chear the drooping Dame essay'd,
When straight a Boar came rushing thro' the Shade;

109

The crashing Woods proclaim'd his rapid Force,
While two fleet Youths pursu'd the sylvan Course:
The Lovers started from their flow'ry Seats,
Surpriz'd, and each a diff'rent Way retreats.

As when some Musquet's Thunder has expell'd
Two loving Turtles from the verdant Field;
Both, diverse, thro' the wide ethereal Plain
Fly swift; and flying, fear their Mate is slain.

So parting, devious fled th'affrighted Pair;
Such was Avaro's, such Amanda's Fear.
The foaming Boar between 'em swiftly past,
The nimble Coursers urge the Chace as fast;
Till soon they pierce him with a mortal Wound;
He falls, and purple Gore distains the Ground:
Then, from the savage War, they take their Way;
And to their Cave, triumphant, bear the Prey.

110

Soon as the sportive Hunters left the Wood,
The loving Pair conceal'd no longer stood;
But trembling both forsook the dusky Shade,
Both trembling met upon the op'ning Glade:
Mute with Surprize a-while they stood; the Man
Broke Silence first, and thus his Tale began:

O dear Amanda! soon we have survey'd
This mystic Vision of the Night display'd:
These are the frowning Tyrants in thy Dream,
That chas'd the Slaves, and we their flying Game.

Some Part, said she, resembled this, I own;
And some remains a Riddle yet unknown:
What meant that God, which still, methinks, I view?
That radiant Deity! so much like You!

111

And what the Fields above, which he propos'd?
Say, if the Mystery can be disclos'd.

To whom the Youth: Our active Fancy seems
For ever roving, roving most in Dreams:
For then the Soul, disburden'd of her Load,
Soars high, and grows prophetic, like a God;
Minds Things when past, as present to our View;
And, by Allusion, knows the future too.
Thus, when to Sleep your musing Head reclin'd,
She kept our Ev'ning Converse in her Mind;
Reflected on the Joys my Country yields,
Joys, sweet as those in yonder azure Fields;
Till, soaring higher, striving to discern
Her hidden Fate, and future Fortune learn,
Heav'n shew'd her something like this Morning Chace,
By trembling Slaves, who fled their Tyrant's Face;

112

Perhaps, to warn us timely from our Bed;
For, O my dear Amanda! had we stay'd,
I had not liv'd to tell this mystic Tale,
Nor you, to hear the Secrets I reveal—
But let us to my happy Country steer,
Nor longer wait impending Ruin here.

So spake the Youth; and, with a gracious Look,
He seem'd to sanctify the Words he spoke.

Go, she reply'd; go where you are inclin'd;
Your faithful Lover will not stay behind.
If o'er the Seas you shall attempt your Way,
The Seas shall not compel me here to stay;
Nor will I fear the Surges of the Deep;
(For Surges oft, you say, assail the Ship)
Calm and compos'd, intrepid, will I stand,
Till you conduct me to your native Land.

113

Or, if you would some other Clime pursue,
Then shall some other Climate please me too.
And when the happy destin'd Land we meet,
Where Providence shall fix our wand'ring Feet;
With joyful Servitude, I'll still attend
On you, my nuptial Lord, and dearest Friend.
Soon as Aurora spreads her purple Ray,
When you awake, to chase the nimble Prey,
I'll also rise; and, with an equal Art,
Display the Net, or speed the pointed Dart;
Or search the Plains, and tasteful Herbs provide;
Or strip the Vines, and press their juicy Pride:
Each Ev'ning will I fondly deck your Bed
With sweetest Flow'rets, gather'd from the Mead
And when, dissolv'd in downy Sleep, you lie,
I'll wake, and watch if Foes approach too nigh:
To guard your Life, all Hazards will I run;
And, for your Safety, sacrifice my own.

114

To whom the Youth: No Hazards shall you run;
Nor, for my Safety, sacrifice your own;
Nor yet at Ev'ning fondly deck my Bed
With sweetest Flow'rets, gather'd from the Mead;
Nor shall Amanda tasteful Herbs explore;
Nor shall Avaro chase the savage Boar:
A softer Bed, than Flow'rs, shall give you Rest;
A choicer Meat, than Fruits, indulge your Taste.
Ten thousand Things my grateful Soul shall find,
To charm your Fancy, and delight your Mind;
I'll vary Love a hundred diff'rent Ways,
And institute new Arts to make it please:
So shall our future Race of Children see
A constant Proverb made of you and me:
When British Youths shall court the doubting Dame,
And want Expressions equal to their Flame;

115

Then, strongly to attest it, shall be said,
“True, as Avaro to the Indian Maid.”

To whom Amanda, (pausing at the Name)
What meant Avaro by the doubting Dame?
Has any of your British Damsels made
A Doubt of what such godlike Beings said?
Or is it customary to your Clime?
Has ever Youth committed such a Crime,
As base Ingratitude? Has any there
Deluded first, and then forsook, the Fair?
I cannot think, your Love will e'er decline,
Nor can my radiant Angel question mine.
By yon bright Beams, which paint the rising Day;
By thy bright Charms, as beautiful as they;
By all our pleasing Hours of Love, I vow
To share your Fate thro' ev'ry Scene of Woe;

116

Content, with you, to yield my vital Breath;
For Life, without you, would but lengthen Death.

With such sweet Talk their Moments they beguile;
Both seem impatient for the destin'd Isle:
He daily vows, and daily is believ'd;
She daily hears, and daily is deceiv'd.

117

Canto IV.

Farewel, bright Goddess of th'Idalian Grove!
Farewel, ye sportive Deities of Love!
No longer I your pleasing Joys rehearse;
A rougher Theme demands my pensive Verse;
A Scene of Woes remains to be display'd,
Indulgent Love with Slavery repaid:
Ingratitude, and broken Vows, and Lies,
The mighty Ills, that spring from Avarice,
Provoke my Lays: Your Aid, ye Muses, bring;
Assist my Tragic Numbers, while I sing.
Say, what ensu'd, when, on the briny Deep,
The watchful Dame beheld a floating Ship?

118

She call'd, and beckon'd to it from the Shore;
Then to the Youth the grateful Tidings bore;
And said, I something see, like winged Trees,
(Strange to behold!) fly swiftly o'er the Seas;
Their bulky Roots upon the Billows float:
Say, is not this the Ship, you long have sought?
Or I mistake, or, by the Gods Command,
This comes to bear us to your native Land:
Then hasten, see the Partner of your Heart,
With You, her Guide, is ready to depart;
My Father, Mother, Friends, I bid Adieu,
Friends, Father, Mother, not so dear as You.

To whom the Youth, with smiling Brow, reply'd:
O thou true Pattern of a faithful Bride!
Who dar'st thy Father, Mother, Friends resign;
And risque thy own dear Life, to rescue mine!—

119

If I forget the Debt I owe to Thee,
May all the Gods forget their Care of Me!
In more wild Deserts let me rove again;
Nor find a Friend, like Thee, to ease my Pain!
There let the Vulturs, Wolves, and Tigers tear
This Body, Thou hast kindly nourish'd here!

So saying, to the Beach he straight descends;
And, by the Flag, discerns the Crew his Friends:
And now his Heart exults within his Breast;
His loving Mate an equal Joy confest;
She, with him, gladly ventures on the Main,
Unthinking of her future Toil and Pain.

So, to the Plough, the Heifer, yet unbroke,
Walks chearful on, nor dreads th'impending Yoke;
Till, in the Fields, urg'd with the piercing Goad,
She groans, and writhes, reluctant with her Load.

120

The British Bark was to Barbados bound:
Th'expected Shore the Sailers quickly found;
Where, safe from Danger, now the perjur'd Youth,
False to his former Vows of sacred Truth,
Reflecting, counts the Int'rest he had lost,
While Fate detain'd him on the Indian Coast:
The frugal Thoughts suppress his am'rous Flame,
And prompt him to betray the faithful Dame.
Yet scarce he can the cursed Fact pursue;
But hesitates at what he fain would do:
For, tho' his Av'rice moves him to the Ill,
His Gratitude within him struggles still;
And, 'twixt two Passions, neither guides his Will.

As when two Scales, which equal Loads suspend,
Sway to and fro; alternate both descend,

121

Till undeclining each aloft abides,
Nor this, nor that, the doubtful Weight decides.

So stood the doubtful Youth a-while; nor wou'd
Forsake the Evil, nor pursue the Good;
Till, as the Sailers in the Haven stay,
To purchase Slaves, the Planters croud the Key:
One asks, for what the Negro may be sold;
Then bids a Price, and shews the tempting Gold:
Which when Avaro views with greedy Eyes,
He soon resolves to gain th'alluring Prize;
Nor Oaths, nor Gratitude, can longer bind;
Her Fate he thus determines in his Mind:

“Suppose I should conduct this Indian o'er;
“And thus, instead of Gold, import a Moor—
“Would not my Sire, with stern contracted Brows,
“Condemn my Choice, and curse my nuptial Vows?

122

“Was it for this I learn'd the Merchant's Art?
“Only to gain a doating Negro's Heart!
“Was it for this the raging Seas I crost?
“No; Gold induc'd me to the Indian Coast;
“And Gold is offer'd for this simple Dame;
“Shall I refuse it, or renounce my Flame?—
“Let am'rous Fools their tiresome Joys renew,
“And doat on Love, while Int'rest I pursue.”
He added not; for now, intent on Gold,
And dead to all Remorse, the Dame he sold.

AMANDA stood confounded with Surprize,
And silently reproach'd him with her Eyes:
She often try'd to speak; but when she try'd,
Her Heart swell'd full, her Voice its Aid deny'd;
And, when she made her fault'ring Tongue obey,
These Words, commix'd with Sighs, found out their Way.

123

“Who can the mystic Ways of Fate explain?
“Am I awake, or do I dream again?
“Is this the sad Reward of all my Care?
“Was it for this I chear'd thee in Despair?
“The Gods above (if any Gods there be)
“Witness what I have done to succour thee!
“Yet, if my Kindness can't thy Pity move,
“Pity the Fruits of our unhappy Love:
“O let the Infant, in my pregnant Womb,
“Excite thee to revoke my threaten'd Doom;
“Think how the future Slave, in Climes remote,
“Shall curse the treach'rous Sire, that him begot.”

So spake the mourning Dame, but spake in vain;
Th'obdurate Youth insults her with Disdain;
Not all her Kindness could his Pity move,
Nor yet the Fruits of their unhappy Love.

124

But, as the Flames, which soften Wax, display
The same warm Force to harden sordid Clay;
That Motive, which would melt another Heart,
More harden'd his, and made him act a double Villain's Part.
He, for the Child, demands a larger Sum;
And sells it, while an Embryo in the Womb.

And now he sternly takes her by the Hand,
Then drags her on, reluctant, to the Land;
While, as she walks, her dismal Fate she moans,
The Rocks around her echo to her Groans:
“O base, ungrateful Youth!” she loudly cries;
“O base, ungrateful Youth!” the Shore replies:
“And canst thou, cruel, perjur'd Villain! leave
“Thy tender Infant too, an abject Slave,
“To toil, and groan, and bleed beneath the Rod?
“Fool that I was, to think thou wert a God!

125

“Sure from some savage Tyger art thou sprung—
“No: Tygers feed, and fawn upon their Young:
“But thou despisest all paternal Cares,
“The Fate of Infants, and their Mother's Pray'rs.”

In vain she does her wretched State deplore;
Pleas'd with the Gold, he gladly quits the Shore;
The ruffling Winds dilate the Sails, the Ship
Divides the Waves, and skims along the Deep.
Three Days the bellying Canvas gently swells,
Clear shines the Sun, and friendly blow the Gales;
Then frowning Clouds invest the vaulted Sky,
And hollow Winds proclaim a Tempest nigh:
Fierce Boreas loudly o'er the Ocean roars,
Smoke the white Waves, and sound the adverse Shores;
While, to increase the Horrors of the Main,
Descends a Deluge of impetuous Rain.

126

The giddy Ship on circling Eddies rides,
Toss'd, and retoss'd, the Sport of Winds and Tides.
Redoubled Peals of roaring Thunder roll,
And Flames, conflicting, flash from Pole to Pole,
While guilty Thoughts distract Avaro's Soul.
Of Life despairing, tho' afraid to die,
One fatal Effort yet he means to try:
While all the busy Crew, with panting Breath,
Were lab'ring to repel the liquid Death;
Avaro from the Stern the Boat divides,
And yields up to the Fury of the Tides:
Toss'd on the boist'rous Wave, the Vessel flies,
Now sinking low, now mounting to the Skies;
Till soon the Storm decreas'd, and, by degrees,
Hush'd were the Winds, and calm the ruffled Seas;
The Sailers safely steer their Course again,
And leave Avaro floating on the Main;
Who landed quickly on a lonely Isle,
Where human Feet ne'er print the baleful Soil;

127

A dreary Wilderness was all appear'd,
And howling Wolves the only Sound he heard;
A thousand Deaths he views before his Eyes,
A thousand Guilt-created Fiends arise;
A conscious Hell within his Bosom burns,
And racks his tortur'd Soul, while thus he mourns:

“Curs'd be the Precepts of my selfish Sire,
“Who bad me after fatal Gold aspire!
“Curs'd be myself, and doubly curs'd, who sold
“A faithful Friend, to gain that fatal Gold!—
“O! could these gloomy Woods my Sin conceal,
“Or in my Bosom quench this firy Hell;
“Here would I pine my wretched Life away,
“Or to the hungry Savage fall a Prey—
“But can the gloomy Woods conceal my Sin,
“Or cooling Shadows quench the Hell within?

128

“No; like some Spirit banish'd Heav'n, I find
“Terrors in ev'ry Place, to rack my Mind;
“Tormenting conscious Plagues increase my Care,
“And guilty Thoughts indulge my just Despair—
“O! where shall I that piercing Eye evade,
“That scans the Depths of Hell's tremendous Shade?”

So saying, straight he gave a hideous Glare,
With rolling Eyes, that witness'd strong Despair:
Then drew his pointed Weapon from the Sheath,
Confus'dly wild, and all his Thoughts on Death;
To pierce his trembling Heart he thrice essay'd,
And thrice his coward Arm deny'd its Aid:
Meanwhile a howling Wolf, with Hunger prest,
Leap'd on the Wretch, and seiz'd him by the Breast;
Tore out his Heart, and lick'd the purple Flood;
For Earth refus'd to drink the Villain's Blood.

129

To a Young Lady, who had a Cupid given Her.

Fair Lady, take a special Care,
This pleasing Toy become no Snare;
The subtle God is full of Wiles,
And mischiefs most, when most he smiles:
Beware to clasp him in your Arms,
Nor gaze too much upon his Charms;
Lest in a borrow'd Shape he wound,
As once unhappy Dido found;
For, while she view'd his smiling Look,
Her Heart receiv'd a fatal Stroke.

130

On the Hon. Mrs. Horner's Travelling for the Recovery of her Health.

Clarissa long has sought, in vain,
Physicians Aid, to ease her Pain;
But now their Aid she seeks no more,
Nor longer will their Drugs endure;
Spite of their Art, her Spirits fail,
Her Cheeks are turn'd a languid Pale;
Yet, tho' her mortal Part's decay'd,
Her nobler Virtue does not fade;
Her Soul, inflexible to Ill,
In Piety advances still:

131

So Metals lie in chymic Fires;
And, while the grosser Part expires,
The Flames refine the golden Ore,
And make it brighter than before.

She now a warmer Clime explores,
To prove the Air of foreign Shores:
O! may the temp'rate Breezes bring
Salubrious Med'cines on their Wing:
Thou, Phoebus, too, propitious shine;
And (since the Pow'r of Physic's thine)
Send blooming Health on ev'ry Beam,
Dispel her Pains, and chear the Dame.
Else must my melancholy Strain,
In mournful Elegies, complain.
Ev'n now, too well, these Numbers show,
My drooping Fancy's damp'd with Woe:

132

Yet, tho' my Verse deserves no Praise,
Let no sour Critic damn my Lays;
Since Ovid's Self but faintly sung,
When only Grief inspir'd his Tongue.

133

The Absent Lover.

Alexis, walking in the Park,
Met Chloe, just before 'twas dark:
He ask'd a Kiss, nor she deny'd;
I don't know what they did beside:
But, as a Child, in Thought, chews o'er
The Sweetmeats, which he eat before;
So in his Mind Alexis keeps
The dear Impression of her Lips:
He felt it all the foll'wing Day,
At Night indulg'd it at the Play;
One ling'ring Act he musing stay'd,
But knew not what the Actors said;

134

He thought the Park in Drury-lane,
Believ'd the Nymph appear'd again;
He seems to view her snowy Neck,
Her ruby Lip, and rosy Cheek,
Her graceful Smiles, and sparkling Eyes,
Her panting Bosom fall and rise:
And now he clasp'd her in his Arms,
('Twas all imaginary Charms)
When, rising to the Height of Bliss,
His Lips essay'd to take a Kiss;
An Orange-wench trod on his Foot;
And screaming, “Will you have some Fruit?”
Surpriz'd, he dropt the pleasing Theme,
And found his Joys a waking Dream;
He swore, and wept, and kick'd the Wench,
Forgot his Hat, and left the Bench.

135

On a Screen, work'd in Flowers by Her Royal Highness ANNE, Princess of ORANGE.

Illustrious Nymph! whose Art could raise
This skilful Monument of Praise,
Forgive the Bard, who strikes the Lyre;
Accept the Verse, your Toils inspire:
For, when your Labours strike my Eyes,
The voluntary Numbers rise.
Who can be silent, when they view
This fair Creation, wrought by You?
Each Flow'r does with such Lustre shine,
Such Beauties crown the gay Design;

136

That Nature fix'd in Wonder stands,
To see she's rival'd by your Hands;
And, jealous of your Art, displays
A Blush, when she the Work surveys.
Yet this accomplish'd Piece, we find,
Shews a faint Image of your Mind;
The lovely Charms, and Graces here,
But copy those, that centre there.

137

To His Royal Highness The Duke of CUMBERLAND, On His Birth-Day.

Twelve times hath Sol his annual Race begun,
Since Jove descended from his radiant Throne:
Around the pendent Globe, the God pursu'd
His circling March, and human Actions view'd;
But griev'd that Virtue droop'd her languid Head,
While Vice, from Clime to Clime, contagious spread.
Back, to his native Seat, he sternly flies;
And sends an Edict thro' the spacious Skies,
To call th'Ethereal Pow'rs: Swift flew his Word;
Th'Ethereal Pow'rs, as swift, attend their Lord.

138

Upon Olympus' Top the Synod met,
Where, high inthron'd, the thund'ring Monarch sat;
And, with a Nod, that shook the Spheres, he swore,
The Minor Gods should visit Earth no more.
What, must your earthly Sons, Minerva cry'd,
Explore their doubtful Way without a Guide?
If Pallas must no more to Mortals go,
Let Pallas beg a Substitute below,
Worthy to rule the World, whose noble Mind
May copy out the Gods to human Kind.
She lowly bow'd; and Jove, consenting, smil'd;
Go, form, said he, this new-imagin'd Child:
Collect the best Materials, where you will;
And let us see, for once, Minerva's Skill.
He said; she hastens o'er the bright Abodes,
Selecting each Perfection of the Gods:
From Mars she warlike Strength and Courage took;
But soften'd them with Venus' graceful Look:

139

To these she added Hermes' Eloquence,
And crown'd it with her own superior Sense:
Some of Apollo's piercing Rays she stole;
And, while the Muses play'd, she form'd a Soul.
When thus compos'd the bright Ingredients lay,
She nobly drest them in Ethereal Clay;
Jove touch'd the Mass with his enliv'ning Hand,
And vital Warmth inspir'd a Cumberland.

This was writ, when the Duke enter'd into the Twelfth Year of his Age.

140

To DEATH.

An Irregular ODE.

I.

Hail, formidable King!
My Muse thy dreaded Fame shall sing.
Why should old Homer's pompous Lays
Immortalize Achilles' Praise?
Or why should Addison's harmonious Verse
Our Marlbro's nobler Deeds rehearse?
Alas! no more these Heroes shine;
Their Pow'r is all subdu'd by Thine.
Where are these mighty Leaders now,
Great Pompey, Cæsar, and Young Ammon too,

141

Who thought he drew immortal Breath?
These bold ambitious Sons of Mars,
Who dy'd the Globe with bloody Wars,
Are vanquish'd all by thee, victorious Death!

II.

Ev'n while they liv'd, their Martial Hate
But firmer fix'd thy Throne;
Nor, tho' it hasten'd others Fate,
Could it delay their own.
Nor didst thou want their Rage to kill;
Thy own can execute thy Will:
Whene'er thou dost exert thy Pow'r,
A thousand morbid Troops thy Call obey;
Sometimes thy wasting Plagues devour,
And sweep whole Realms away.
Now with contagious Biles the City mourns,
And now thy scorching Fever burns,

142

Or trembling Quartan chills;
Of Heat and Cold the dire Extremes
Now freeze, now fire the Blood with Flames,
Till various Torment kills.

III.

Consumptions, and Rheumatic Pain,
And Apoplectic Fits, that rack the Brain;
Soul-panting Asthmas, Dropsy, and Catarrh,
Gout, Palsy, Lunacy, and black Despair;
Pangs, that neglected Lovers feel;
Corroding Jealousy, their earthly Hell,
Which makes the injur'd Woman wild;
And pow'rful Spleen, that gets the Man with Child;
Physicians, Surgeons, Bawds, and Whores, and Wine,
Are all obsequious Ministers of Thine;
Nay, and Religion too,
When Hypocrites their Interest pursue,

143

Or frantic Zeal inspires,
It calls for Racks, and Wheels, and Fires:
Then all our mystic Articles of Faith,
Instead of saving Life, become the Cause of Death.

IV.

Great Monarch! how secure must be thy Crown,
When all these Things conspire to prop thy Throne?
Yet, in thy universal Reign,
Thou dost not use tyrannic Sway.
Whate'er the Weak and Tim'rous say,
Who tremble at thy Frown;
Thou art propitious to our Pain,
And break'st the groaning Pris'ner's Chain,
Which Tyranny put on.
In Thee the Lover quits his Care,
Nor longer courts the cruel Fair,
Her Coldness mourns no more:

144

In Thee Ambition ends its Race,
And finds, at length, the destin'd Place,
It ne'er could find before:
The Merchant too, who plows the Main,
In greedy Quest of Gain,
By Thee to happier Climes is brought,
Than those his wild, insatiate Av'rice sought.

V.

Propitious Succourer of the Distrest,
Who often, by the Dead, dost make the Living blest!
How could profusive Heirs attend
Their Mistress, Bottle, Ball, and Play,
If timely Thou wert not their Friend,
To snatch the scraping Sire away?
How would dull Poets weary Time
With their insipid Rhyme,

145

And teaze and tire the Readers Ears
With Party Feuds, and Paper Wars,
If Thou, great Critic! didst not use
Thy Pow'r, to point a Period for their Muse?
The Bard, at thy decisive Will,
Discards his mercenary Quill;
Then all his mighty Volumes lie
Hid in the peaceful Tomb of vast Obscurity.

VI.

I, like the rest, advance my Lays;
With uncouth Numbers, rumble forth a Song,
Sedately dull, to celebrate thy Praise;
And lash, and spur the heavy lab'ring Muse along:
But soon the fatal Time must come,
(Ordain'd by Heav'n's unerring Doom)
When Thou shalt cut the vital Thread,
And shove the verbal Embryos from my Head.

146

Then, since I'm sure to meet my Fate,
How vain would Hope appear?
Since Fear cannot protract the Date,
How foolish 'twere to fear?
I'll strive, at least, to stand prepar'd,
Thy Summons to obey;
Nor would I think thy Sentence hard,
Nor wish, nor fear the Day;
But live in conscious Peace, and die without Dismay.

VII.

Fallacious Reas'ners wrong Thee, when
They call thy Laws severe;
Severe! to whom? To wicked Men;
Then let the Wicked fear.
Thou judgest all with equal Laws,
No venal Witness backs thy Cause,

147

No Bribes to Thee are known;
If thy impartial Hand but strike,
The Prince and Peasant fall alike,
The Courtier, and the Clown.
What tho' a-while the Beggar groans,
While Kings enjoy their gilded Thrones?
What are Distinctions, Pomp, and Regal Train,
And Honours, got with Care, and kept with Pain?
One friendly Stroke of thine sets level all again.
All earthly Grandeur must decline;
Nay, ev'n Great George's Pow'r submit to thine:
But thy Dominion shall endure,
Till Phoebus measures Time no more:
Then all shall be in dark Oblivion cast,
And ev'ry mortal Kingdom fall; but thine shall fall the last.

148

On Mrs. L---s.

Such Sweetness and Goodness together combin'd;
So beauteous her Face, and so bright is her Mind;
So loving, yet chaste; and so humble, yet fair;
So comely her Shape, and so decent her Air;
So skilful, that Nature's improv'd by her Art;
So prudent her Head, and so bounteous her Heart;
So wise without Pride, and so modestly neat;
'Tis strange, this agreeable Creature's a Cheat!
For, tho' she to Man, for a Mortal, was giv'n,
These Virtues betray her Extraction from Heav'n.

149

TRUTH and FALSHOOD.

A FABLE.

Soon as the Iron Age on Earth began,
And Vice found easy Entrance into Man;
Forth from her Cave infernal Falshood came;
Falshood, the Hate of Gods, of Men the Shame:
A silken Robe she wore, of various Hue,
Its Colour changing with each diff'rent View:
Studious to cheat, and eager to beguile,
She mimic'd Truth, and ap'd her heav'nly Smile;
But mimic'd Truth in vain; the varying Vest,
To ev'ry searching Eye, the Fiend confest.

150

At length she saw celestial Truth appear:
Serene her Brow, and chearful was her Air;
Her silver Locks with shining Fillets bound,
With Laurel Wreaths her peaceful Temples crown'd:
A Lily Robe was girded round her Waist;
And, o'er her Arms, a radiant Mantle cast:
With decent Negligence, it hung behind;
And, loosely flowing, wanton'd in the Wind.
Thus Truth advanc'd, unknowing of Deceit;
And Falshood, bowing low, began the Cheat:

Hail, charming Maid, bright as the Morning Star,
Daughter of Jove, and Heav'n's peculiar Care!
'Tis thine to weigh the World in equal Scales,
And chide the conscious Soul, when Vice prevails,
Dispensing Justice with impartial Hand,
The mightiest Pow'rs submit to thy Command:

151

Ev'n Gods themselves, tho' in their Actions free,
Consult, resolve, and act, as you decree:
Great Sov'reign Jove, the first Ethereal Name,
Advis'd with thee to form the heav'nly Frame:
As Truth approv'd, he bad the Fabric rise,
And spread the azure Mantle of the Skies;
Plac'd ev'ry Planet in its proper Sphere,
Nor rolls this Orb too wide, nor that too near—
But why thus walk we, mindless of our Ease,
Expos'd beneath the Sun's meridian Blaze?
Better retire, and shun the scorching Ray,
Till fanning Zephyrs cool our Ev'ning Way.
Hear how yon limpid Streams run murm'ring by,
And tuneful Birds their sylvan Notes apply;
See fragrant Shrubs along the Borders grow,
And waving Shades beneath the Poplar Bough;
All these invite us to the River's Side,
To bathe our Limbs, and sport within the Tide:

152

So cool the Stream, the flow'ry Banks so sweet,
Diana's Self might covet the Retreat:
Nor can a short Diversion check your Haste;
Fresh Strength will soon succeed such welcome Rest:
As rapid Currents, held a-while at Bay,
With swifter Force pursue their liquid Way.

So spake the Phantom; and, with friendly Look
Supporting what she said, approach'd the Brook:
Truth follow'd, artless, unsuspicious Maid!
And, in an evil Hour, the Voice obey'd.
Both, at the crystal Stream arriv'd, unbound
Their diff'rent Robes; both cast them to the Ground:
The Fiend, upon the Margin, ling'ring stood;
The naked Goddess leapt into the Flood:
Sporting, she swims the liquid Surface o'er,
Unmindful of the matchless Robe she wore.

153

Not Falshood so—She hasty seiz'd the Vest,
And with the beauteous Spoils herself she drest:
Then, wing'd with Joy, outflew the swiftest Wind,
Her own infernal Robe far left behind.
Straight she aspires above her former State,
And gains Admittance to the Rich and Great:
Nay, such her daring Pride, that some report,
When thus equipp'd, she boldly went to Court:
There spake and look'd with such a graceful Air,
Mistaken Fame pronounc'd her Wise and Fair.
She fill'd the Wanton's Tongue with specious Names,
To deal in Wounds, and Deaths, in Darts, and Flames;
He prefac'd all his leud Attempts with Love;
And Fraud prevail'd, where Reason could not move.
At length she mingled with the learned Throng,
And tun'd the Muse's mercenary Song.
In all the Labyrinths of Logic skill'd,
She taught the subtle Reas'ner not to yield;

154

Instructed how to puzzle each Dispute,
And boldly baffle Men, tho' not confute.
Now, at the Bar, she play'd the Lawyer's Part;
And shap'd out Right and Wrong by Rules of Art:
Now, in the Senate, rais'd her pompous Tone;
Talk'd much of Public Good, but meant her Own.
Oft to th'Olympian Field she turn'd her Eyes,
And taught the Racers how to gain the Prize.
In Schools and Temples too she claim'd a Share,
While Falshood's Self admir'd her Influence there.

Deluded Truth observ'd the Fraud too late,
Nor knew she to repair a Loss so great:
In vain her heav'nly Robes she, sighing, seeks;
In vain the humid Pearls bedew her Cheeks;
In vain she tears the Laurel from her Hair,
While Nature seems to sympathize her Care:

155

The glowing Flow'rs, that crown th'enamel'd Meads,
Weep fragrant Dews, and hang their drooping Heads;
The sylvan Choirs, as conscious of her Pains,
Deplore her Loss in melancholy Strains.
Thus, pensive and uncloath'd, upon the Shore
She stands; and sees the Robe, which Falshood wore:
Detested Sight! Nor longer now she mourns;
But, Grief to Rage transform'd, with Anger burns:
Into the Stream, the hellish Robe she tost;
And scorn'd a Habit, so unlike the lost.

Hence Truth now naked roves, as in Disgrace;
None, but the Wise and Virtuous, see her Face:
From Cities far she modestly retreats,
From busy Scenes of Life, to peaceful Seats;
Is chiefly found in lonely Fields and Cells,
Where Silence reigns, and Contemplation dwells.

156

Hence Falshood cheats us in the fair Disguise,
And seems Truth's Self to all unwary Eyes;
Triumphs and thrives, in Pow'r, and Wealth, and Fame;
And builds her Glory on her Rival's Name;
With Safety dares to flatter, fawn, and sooth;
For who knows Falshood, when array'd like Truth?

157

Proper Ingredients to make a Sceptic.

Would you, my Friend, a finish'd Sceptic make,
To form his Nature, these Materials take:
A little Learning; twenty Grains of Sense,
Join'd with a double Share of Ignorance;
Infuse a little Wit into the Scull,
Which never fails to make a mighty Fool;
Two Drams of Faith; a Tun of Doubting next;
Let all be with the Dregs of Reason mixt:
When, in his Mind, these jarring Seeds are sown,
He'll censure all Things, but approve of none.

158

On Two Young Ladies leaving the Country.

Say, lovely Nymphs! who fly from rural Sweets,
To noisy Crowds, thick Air, and smoaky Streets,
Do Balls, or Plays, your graceful Steps invite?
Can Balls, or Plays, like Richmond Groves, delight?
No tuneful Philomel, in Town, complains,
To charm your list'ning Ear with vary'd Strains;
No fragrant Gales refresh the sick'ning Fields,
No chearful flow'ry Scenes the City yields:
But Mists, and lambent Fogs, where-e'er you pass,
Shall cloud the Graces, that adorn your Face;
While those bright Eyes, like sully'd Gems, appear,
Or Stars, just glimm'ring thro' the dusky Air.

159

Nor will you only Change of Beauty find;
Illusive Scenes will mock your pensive Mind:
In cloudless Mornings, when you've drank your Tea,
And read a Page in Sherlock, or in—Gay;
Perhaps your Thoughts, transported, here may rove,
And, to your Mind, present the blissful Grove:
You'll think to walk by silver Thames's Shore;
Or trace the verdant Mead, as heretofore:
When at the Door, the rural Vision flies;
Smoak, Coaches, Fops, and Carmen meet your Eyes:
Straight back you'll turn, vex'd with the fruitless Search;
Bid Robert call a Chair, and go to Church.

The Footman.

160

On MITES.

To a LADY.

'Tis but by way of Simile. Prior.

Dear Madam, did you never gaze,
Thro' Optic-glass, on rotten Cheese?
There, Madam, did you ne'er perceive
A Crowd of dwarfish Creatures live?
The little Things, elate with Pride,
Strut to and fro, from Side to Side:
In tiny Pomp, and pertly vain,
Lords of their pleasing Orb, they reign;
And, fill'd with harden'd Curds and Cream,
Think the whole Dairy made for them.

161

So Men, conceited Lords of all,
Walk proudly o'er this pendent Ball,
Fond of their little Spot below,
Nor greater Beings care to know;
But think, those Worlds, which deck the Skies,
Were only form'd to please their Eyes.

162

Chloe's CONQUEST.

'Twas by a purling Stream, beneath a Shade,
Young Chloe, Cupid, and Alexis play'd:
Love's Goddess, with her Doves, sat looking on;
And, smiling, nodded to her wanton Son:
Her wanton Son his keenest Arrow drew;
Swift, to the Swain, the pointed Weapon flew.
Inflexible to Love, the Shepherd stood,
Repell'd the Shaft, and mock'd the baffled God;
Till Chloe rais'd her Eyes with killing Art,
And shot him with a more pernicious Dart:
Yours is the Victory, Alexis cries;
Not Cupid's Shaft has kill'd, but Chloe's Eyes.

163

Occasion'd by a Dispute with a Lady.

I

Forgive me, Chloe; 'twas a Deed,
That from Ambition sprung;
I'll ne'er again presume to plead
With your victorious Tongue.

II

Such Wisdom in your Words appears,
Such Music makes them please;
Mine lose their Force, like Morning Stars
Before the Solar Rays.

164

III

Conquer'd by your superior Sense,
I drop the wordy War,
Convinc'd, your pow'rful Eloquence
Is strong, as you are fair.

IV

Yet, tho' subdu'd, my Fall is great,
Nor shamefully I yield;
'Tis Honour to contend, tho' beat,
When Angels take the Field.

165

To Mr. Worsdale: Occasion'd by seeing Celia's Picture unfinish'd.

Writ extempore at Kensington.

Yet, Worsdale, yet, thou must exert thy Art,
To paint the matchless Virtues of her Heart:
'Tis not enough, that Wit and Beauty join;
But, in her Face, let Sense and Judgment shine;
Let godlike Bounty crown her gen'rous Soul,
And solid Wisdom dignify the Whole:
So, in thy Piece, shall each Beholder see
A finish'd Celia Her, a Kneller Thee.

166

On the Queen's Grotto, in Richmond Gardens.

Now blush, Calypso; 'tis but just to yield,
That all your mossy Caves are here excell'd.
See how the Walls, in humble Form, advance,
With careless Pride, and simple Elegance:
See Art and Nature strive with equal Grace,
And Fancy charm'd with what she can't surpass.
Flow swiftly, Thames; and flowing, still proclaim
This Building's Beauty, and the Builder's Fame;
Tell Indian Seas, thy Naiads here have seen
The sweetest Grotto, and the wisest Queen;
Whose Royal Presence bless'd this humble Seat:
How small the Mansion, and the Guest how Great!

167

So Angels sat in Canaan's sweet Abodes,
So rural Shades were honour'd with the Gods.
Here may her Soul th'Almighty's Wonders trace,
Far as the Worthies, that adorn the Place;
Whose awful Busts around the Grot appear,
The brightest Stars in Learning's Hemisphere:
Their Fathers dimly view'd the dawning Ray;
These rose like Suns, and brought a Flood of Day.

But cease, my Muse, and cast thy wond'ring Eyes,
Where Phoebus' lofty Domes majestic rise;
Whose tuneful Train have sung this Grotto's Praise,
Contending each, till each deserves the Bays.
O pardon me, ye learned Sons of Fame!
Who faintly, after you, attempt the Theme;
Nor think, I rival your poetic Fires;
My Queen commands, and Gratitude inspires.

168

And You, Imperial Foundress! deign to smile,
Nor scorn the least, the latest Muse's Toil;
Who brings the tardy Off'ring of her Lays,
The first in Duty, tho' the last in Praise.

Eaton and Westminster Schools.

169

To the Author of a Poem on the Duke of Lorrain's Arrival at the British Court.

Is Denham's nervous Muse reviv'd again,
To hail the Regal Visit of Lorrain?
Or is it Pope's harmonious Voice we hear,
Or whose majestic Numbers charm our Ear?
What modest Youth fears to expose his Name,
When ev'ry Line so justly merits Fame?
Lorrain may learn to rule of Britain's King;
But British Bards may learn of Thee to sing.
Whoe'er thou art, these feeble Lays receive,
Tho' I this Tribute with Reluctance give;
For, when my Eye thy pompous Verse surveys,
I read with Wonder, but with Envy praise.

170

So, when Britannia's Senators contest,
And jarring Feuds enrage the Patriot's Breast;
If some judicious Speech great Walpole makes,
Opposing Parties praise him, while he speaks;
His Foes resign the long-disputed Cause;
And, spite of Malice, Envy gives Applause.

171

On Florella's Birth-Day.

The Queen of Love, and Pallas once, 'tis said,
Had both agreed to form a finish'd Maid:
Upon a noted Day they flew to Earth,
A Day still noted by Florella's Birth:
Both Deities employ'd their utmost Care,
To make their darling Lady wise and fair:
This gave her Beauty, that a sprightly Wit,
Which render'd Soul and Body justly fit:
But Mercury, that nimble-winged Thief,
Who loves his Joke, as dearly as his Life,
Down from Olympus to his Sisters flew,
When just to Life their little Embryo grew;

172

And pour'd a little Folly in her Breast;
A little Folly leaven'd all the rest:
Hence 'tis, she's sometimes sprightly, sometimes dull;
And sometimes witty, sometimes quite a Fool;
Scarce foolish now, nor witty, sprightly neither;
But sprightly, witty, foolish, all together.

173

To the Rev. Dr. Freind, on his quitting Westminster School.

If void of Art my languid Verse appears,
Forgive, O Freind, the Bard, who sings in Tears:
Rude are the Lays, which only Grief adorns;
And dull the Muses, when Apollo mourns;
When Science trembles o'er Minerva's Shrine,
To see her fav'rite Priest his Charge resign.
Yet why should Grief debase his glorious Name,
Or blast the Bays, his Merits justly claim?
No venal View his noble Temper sways;
He quits with Honour, what he kept with Praise.
As some wise Leader, in successful Wars,
Worn out with Age, and cover'd o'er with Scars,

174

Resigns the Post, he bravely long sustain'd,
Crown'd with the Palm, his former Valour gain'd:
So thou, paternal Sage! may'st now repose;
Nor seek new Laurels, to adorn thy Brows;
Review thy Toils, and see what polish'd Peers
Honour thy forming Hand, and studious Cares:
Let learned Cart'ret, elegant of Taste,
Confess the Mould, in which his Mind was cast:
Let Hervey's Muse her Tutor's Worth proclaim,
And Pelham's Royal Trust declare thy Fame;
Pelham, in whose capacious Soul we find
The Scholar, Statesman, and the Patriot join'd.
Nor shall the tender Plants, which round thee stand,
E'er prove ungrateful to the Planter's Hand;
Water'd by Thee, their well-fix'd Roots extend,
Their Branches flourish, and the Fruits ascend;
While pleasing Hope with Expectation smiles,
To reap the future Product of thy Toils,

175

Intent to see thy Pupils shining forth,
Whose Actions soon shall better speak thy Worth;
When in the Train of Senators they come,
Refin'd with all the Arts of Greece and Rome;
While, in each Act, their prudent Counsels shew
Their Master's Loyalty, and Learning too.
Thus have thy Precepts made thy Province shine,
And ev'n Minerva's Athens yield to thine.

176

On Celia's Picture, drawn by Sir Godfrey Kneller.

With such a sapient Eye, and heav'nly Mind,
Minerva taught her Arts to human Kind;
With such attractive Charms, and graceful Air,
Venus was judg'd the Queen of all the Fair:
Such Sense and Beauty to the Painter shone,
He drew Two Goddesses, to finish One.

177

On the Marriage of his Serene Highness the Prince of Orange.

Illustrious Prince! forgive the feeble Lay,
That now aspires to hail your Nuptial Day;
Nor scorn a Muse, the meanest of the Nine,
Who brings her humble Off'ring to your Shrine.
And you, Imperial Nymph! whose lovely Face
Invites the Hero to your chaste Embrace,
Vouchsafe a Spark of your celestial Fire;
Harmonious Words, and pleasing Thoughts inspire,
Soft, as your Love, and tuneful, as your Lyre:
So shall my Numbers charm the list'ning Ear,
And ev'n the glad Nassau delighted hear.

178

Nassau has long enrich'd the Book of Fame,
And Anna now adorns the noble Name.
Nations, who saw the Light of Orange rise,
With awful Splendor, in the Belgian Skies;
Shall soon behold it with new Lustre shine,
Join'd to a glorious Star, of Brunswic's Line.

So, where the flowing Sambre gently glides,
The Swain delights to view the beauteous Tides:
But, when his more extended Eye surveys
The shining Torrent join the spacious Maese;
Both Rivers, thus, with friendly Union flow,
And to the Sight superior Beauty show.

Whene'er the Gods a noble Race intend,
They suit the Causes to the destin'd End,
Nor yoke unequal Hearts in Nuptial Love:
Jove's valiant Bird disdains the fearful Dove;

179

Great Minds, by native Sympathy, combine,
As golden Particles the closest join.
Paternal Virtues in their Bosom roll,
Ally'd in Love by Nobleness of Soul:
Hence Thrones and Sceptres shine neglected Things,
Hence Royal Anne prefers Nassau to Kings;
While Britons with united Hearts rejoice,
And willing Senators applaud the Choice,
To see their King (to Honour ever true)
Discharge the Debt to sacred William due;
Immortal William! by whose prudent Cares
We yet enjoy the Fruits of all our Wars;
Our Laws, Religion, Liberty, and Peace,
And ev'n the Blessings of the Brunswic Race.

Nor Thou, Illustrious Orange! blush to own,
Thy Honour, thus ally'd to Albion's Crown;

180

Blest with a Princess, in whose Form we trace
Her Father's Majesty, and Mother's Grace;
Bright Orbs of Pow'r, that, with propitious Ray,
Dispel our Clouds, and beautify our Day:
Not as the Comet, raging thro' the Air,
Infects the World with Pestilence and War;
But, like the Sun, their Beams of Goodness glow,
Inspiring Life, and chearing all below.
Such are the glorious Sire, and gracious Dame,
From whence the beauteous Bride of Orange came.
And shall unerring Nature change her Kind?
What Lion e'er produc'd a tim'rous Hind?
The Royal Eagles Royal Eagles breed,
And Heroes from heroic Sires proceed:
Rome's Founder, thus, confess'd his Race Divine;
Thus Nassau copies the Nassovian Line;
Thus Anna's noble Stream of Virtue flows,
High, as the Regal Spring, from whence it rose.

181

Thrice happy Nymph, with ev'ry Grace supply'd!
Thrice happy Prince, with such a heav'nly Bride!
In whom superior Sense with Judgment joins,
Her Beauty much, but more her Merit shines.
How glorious! When such Worth adorns the Great,
We hear, we see, admire, and imitate:
Virtue, in Them, attracts remotest Eyes;
But, in the vulgar Soul, unheeded lies.
As radiant Phoebus darts superior Light,
While smaller Planets shun the watchful Sight.

Accomplish'd thus, let her Example fire
The drooping Muse, and wake the sounding Lyre:
To aid Religion, be her chiefest Care,
(Heav'n justly claims the Soul, it made so fair)
To stem the Torrent of licentious Rage,
And prop the Virtues of a sinking Age;

182

Exalting Science to her ancient Height,
To raise declining Arts, and make the Rude polite:
While great Nassau, whom native Glory warms,
Whene'er his Country calls him forth to Arms,
May fire the Belgians in the Field of Mars,
Consult their Peace, or animate their Wars;
Paint his Forefathers to their wond'ring Eye,
And teach 'em how to conquer, or to die;
Like him, who bravely dar'd to break their Chain,
Tho' held by all the Force and Fraud of Spain:
For injur'd Liberty the Sword he draws,
Resolv'd to gain, or perish in the Cause;
And having long the doubtful Combat try'd,
Like Cæsar vanquish'd, and like Cæsar dy'd;
Tho' diff'rent far the Motives of their Mind;
That fought to conquer, this to save Mankind;

183

Till prais'd, lamented, envy'd, and admir'd,
The Hero, Patriot, and the Prince expir'd.

O! where did then the Guardian Angels hide?
Nor watch'd to turn the guilty Ball aside;
When he, whom armed Hosts could not withstand,
Now falls a Victim to one Villain's Hand!

But rise, ye Muses, quit the pensive Lay:
Nor damp the Joys of this auspicious Day.
Since yet the glorious Name of Orange stands,
Since Royal Anna seals the Nuptial Bands;
Soon may Imperial Adolphs rise again,
Again new Fred'rics thunder on the Main,
Rouzing the Martial Youth to War's Alarms,
(If proud Iberians shine again in Arms)
To guard their Country from tyrannic Pow'r,
And be, what glorious William was before.

184

Nor shall the States invading Forces fear,
Ere pregnant Time the promis'd Heroes bear;
Nor want Allies their Freedom to defend,
Since Brunswic reigns, and Albion is their Friend.
As branching Oaks protect the rural Swain,
Secure from Summer Heat, and Winter Rain;
So shall our Monarch, with paternal Aid,
His Regal Shelter o'er Batavia spread:
Long as the Sceptre fills his Royal Hand,
A true Palladium shall insure the Land.

And if the prescient Muses guide my Lay,
Or future Secrets Phoebus can display;
The Day shall shine distinguish'd from the rest,
That Anna dignify'd, and Hymen blest;
In which Augustus fortifies his Throne,
And plans a Scheme of Union for his Son;

185

Bespeaks Allies for Princes yet to come,
New Friends to Britain, and new Foes to Rome.

Proceed, Great Monarch! new Allies to gain,
And with new Nuptial Leagues our Peace maintain:
So shall thy beauteous Nymphs secure with Charms
That Safety, other Kings defend with Arms;
They, Venus like, could Mars himself surprize,
And awe stern Tyrants with their conqu'ring Eyes.

King William's Great-Grandfather, the First great Assertor of the Belgian Liberties, assassinated at Delph.

186

VERSES to the Author, In Imitation of HORACE's Ode on PINDAR.

By a Divine.

Apply'd to the Marriage of his Highness the Prince of Orange with Anne, Princess Royal of Great Britain.

Who hopes to rival Milton's Flame,
With waxen Pinions fondly flies;
His Fall will give the Sea a Name,
While he attempts to reach the Skies.

187

Milton is like a Flood, whose Tide,
Swell'd with tempestuous Deluge, roars;
Which from some lofty Mountain's Side
Resistless foams, and knows no Shores.

With sacred Laurels justly crown'd,
Whether, in bold, unfetter'd Strains,
His tow'ring Muse the common Bound,
Superior to all Rhyme, disdains;

Whether the Realms of endless Day
He fill with Wars, and rude Alarms;
Or set, in terrible Array,
Seraphic Legions, clad in Arms.

Aloft, with all their Forests, thrown
See Hills, from their Foundations raz'd!
See Angels hurl'd with Vengeance down,
When the Messiah's Standard blaz'd!

188

Or leads he to connubial Bow'rs
The new-form'd Pair? The teeming Ground
Smiles with a Wilderness of Flow'rs,
Diffusing Gales of Fragrance round.

Lo! Adam, with majestic Mien,
For Empire and Command design'd!
Consummate Beauty crowns his Queen,
With Dignity and Sweetness join'd.

While he the charming Scene displays,
Where Innocence and Pleasure reign'd;
Delighted with his sacred Lays,
We hear it lost, and feel it gain'd.

His Lays, inimitably fine,
With Ecstasy each Passion move,
When loud they trumpet War divine,
Or softly warble human Love.

189

O Stephen! this Britannic Swan
Surmounts the Clouds with noble Flight,
While I, at Distance, only can
Admire him less'ning to the Sight.

As the poor Bee, with endless Toil,
To suck the Thyme, and blooming Rose,
Skims over Richmond's fragrant Soil,
Thus I with pleasing Pain compose.

You, with a happy Genius blest,
In bolder Strains shall Nassau sing,
When Anna, by the Graces drest,
He to the Nuptial Dome shall bring:

Anna, enrich'd with various Charms
By the indulgent Care of Heav'n;
Than whom, into his longing Arms,
No greater Treasure can be giv'n.

190

Not, tho' with Riches of the East,
At his Command, the Ganges flow;
Tho', with full Empire, he possess'd
Whate'er Ambition wish'd below.

Ye Nereids, with propitious Gales
The gilded Vessel kindly aid;
Let Cupids fan the swelling Sails,
And waft him to the Royal Maid.

When Thames, with floating Forests crown'd,
Leander safe arriv'd proclaims,
And of tumultuous Joy the Sound
Shall bid Augusta rise in Flames;

Loud Thunder, bursting from her Tow'rs,
Shall signalize the sacred Day;
And Transport to the Belgic Shores,
For Blessings which they lent, convey.

191

Around while Hymeneals ring,
My Voice to highest Pitch I'll raise;
Thrice happy, if I can but sing
An humble Ode to Nassau's Praise.

You, soaring in Heroic Verse,
By native Strength of Wing upborn,
His godlike Virtues shall rehearse,
And Beauties, which the Bride adorn.

He, in your Lays, shall finish'd rise,
For Council, or th'embattled Field;
Immortals the contested Prize
To her superior Charms shall yield.

Then, ravish'd with prophetic Views,
Succeeding Glories shall presage;
And, from the Genial Bed, the Muse
Raise Princes, to improve the Age:

192

Who, bravely prodigal of Blood,
Shall prove, that to set free Mankind,
And conquer for the Public Good,
The Race of Nassau was design'd.

Thus great Alcides (Poets feign)
By Labours gain'd the Seats above;
Countries preserv'd, and Monsters slain,
Assert the genuine Son of Jove.

This was written before the Prince came to England.

193

The ANSWER.

[When I, in feeble Verse, essay'd]

When I, in feeble Verse, essay'd
Nassau and Anna's Praise,
A Lyric Muse flew o'er my Head,
And dropp'd a Branch of Bays:

I would have fix'd it on my Brow;
But Phoebus said, Forbear;
'Tis Vanity to touch the Bough,
And Sacrilege, to wear.

Give it the Bard, who boldly dares
Attempt the Roman Lyre;
Who wisely checks, but not impairs
The tow'ring Pindar's Fire.

194

Thus, Sir, to you, in Phoebus' Name,
The Laurel Wreath I send;
And, since the God denies me Fame,
Am glad it crowns my Friend.

195

On Delia singing, and playing on Music.

I

When Delia tunes her vocal Song,
And strikes the trembling Strings;
The list'ning Audience round her throng,
Admiring, while she sings.

II

But, when we view the skilful Fair,
We're struck with more Surprize:
Before, she only pleas'd our Ear;
But now, inchants our Eyes.

196

III

Beauty and Harmony combin'd,
Like secret Charms betray;
Like Ghosts in magic Rings confin'd,
We cannot stir away.

IV

So Birds, imprudent, fall to Ground,
When pleasing Notes they hear,
Charm'd with the Piper's artful Sound,
Till taken in his Snare.

197

To the Right Honourable William Clayton, Esq; (now Lord Sundon) on his being Elected Representative in Parliament for Westminster without Opposition.

To You, great Steward of the public Trust,
True to your King, and to your Country just!
No venal Bard his joyful Tribute brings,
Nor Envy sure can censure what he sings;
Since each impartial Tongue your Praise declares,
The Muse but echoes, what the Poet hears.

Some, by their Birth, to Senates lay their Claim,
Whose Folly shames the Seat, which honours them:

198

But You, whose Merits mov'd the People's Voice,
Unanimous, to make so wise a Choice,
With solid Sense, and prudent Conduct shew,
You grace the Senate, not the Senate You.
Where, in the List of Patriots, could we find
A sounder Judgment, a sincerer Mind?
Or where a juster Hand, to poise the Scale
Of Kings Prerogative, and Public Weal?
Nor this you strive to sink, nor that extend;
Bigot to neither Side, to both a Friend.
So flow the Spirits thro' our vital Frame;
Nor yet this Member chill, nor that inflame.

True to your Principles, you never stray
From Public Good, tho' Int'rest lead the Way:
For Public Good you still employ your Tongue;
And, rather than commit, you suffer Wrong.

199

When South sea Waves o'erflow'd the British Plain,
And Members barter'd Honesty for Gain;
No Gain, no Place, nor Profit could controul
The stubborn Virtue of your steady Soul:
You firm to Honour, Truth, and Conscience stood,
Unfashionably just, and obstinately good.

But why should I in feeble Numbers tell
Those Virtues, which your Actions paint so well?
For all the Actions of your Life proclaim
A Subject's loyal Love, a Patriot's Fame.
Your Care to keep the People's Int'rest sure,
Your Zeal to guard the Prince's Crown secure,
Make Prince and People both espouse your Cause;
Witness their latest Choice, and loud Applause;
When crowded Streets with Acclamations rung,
And Clayton's Praises dwelt on ev'ry Tongue;

200

Parties themselves agreed your Worth to boast,
Or differ'd only, who should praise it most;
While tim'rous Candidates the Test declin'd,
And, to your nobler Brow, the Palm resign'd:
So fly the Stars before the rising Sun;
And, from his brighter Beams withdraw their own.

1720.

201

To Mr. Winder, (now Fellow) of Corpus-Christi, Oxford; in Answer to a Latin Epistle, which he sent me.

I

Soon as your partial Lays I saw,
I guess'd your crafty Views;
And thought you writ in Verse, to draw
A Bill upon my Muse.

II

But, since the Treasure you convey,
Comes from the Roman Mine;
Forgive me, if I can't repay
The Value of your Coin.

202

III

While on thy manly Lines I dwell,
Lines, that might Pope employ;
What strange Vicissitudes I feel
Of Sorrow, Love, and Joy!

IV

Now Pleasure charms my glowing Soul,
To hear thy pompous Song
In soft, majestic Numbers roll,
Like Flaccus, sweet and strong.

V

But quickly sympathizing Pain
Succeeds my short Delight,
To find thy moving, mournful Strain
Describe thy Loss of Sight.

203

VI

I grieve to think, Machaon's Art
Can give thee no Relief;
I weep, and wish my grateful Heart
Could cure, or share, thy Grief.

VII

No more to me Encomiums send,
In such a learned Strain;
But, if you'd compliment your Friend,
Present him half your Pain.

VIII

To Phoebus make thy Music soar,
To Him direct thy Lays;
Invoke his Aid, and healing Pow'r,
To purge the visual Rays.

204

IX

For, if your Lyre but strike his Ear,
(The Lyre you lately strung)
The God of Verse and Light must hear
A Suit so sweetly sung.

Mr. Winder was much afflicted with sore Eyes, when he sent the Epistle.

205

A Description of a Journey To Marlborough, Bath, Portsmouth, &c.

To the Right Honourable the Lord Viscount Palmerston.

While some, my Lord, the Roman Coast explore,
Survey the Fanes, and trace their Beauties o'er,
Studious of Arts, by which ingenious Boyle
Now draws the Plan, or now erects the Pile;
More bounded in my Fancy, and my Purse,
I, o'er domestic Plains, pursue my Course;
And ev'ry pleasing Object in the Way,
The Muse shall sing, if you accept her Lay.

206

When Cancer fiercely glow'd with Phoebus' Heat,
And Clouds of Dust flew ev'n in Brentford-street;
O'er Hounslow-heath my early Course I steer,
For Robbers fam'd; but I no Robbers fear:
Let Gold, like Guilt, increase the Miser's Grief;
A Poet's Purse, like Virtue, dares a Thief.
Colebrook I quickly pass, and soon my Eyes
Survey the Royal Tow'rs of Windsor rise:
Charm'd with the Theme of Pope's harmonious Song,
I check my Steed, and slowly move along;
As ling'ring Mariners contract their Sails,
To feast on Odours of Arabian Gales.
But lest, my Lord, your Patience should accuse
The dull Narration of a tedious Muse,
I will not sing each Trifle that occurr'd,
How much I eat, and drank, and whipp'd, and spurr'd:

207

How oft my Palfry stumbled in the Way,
Till Hatford ends the Travel of the Day;
Where kind Menalcas, Partner of my Soul,
Revives me with his friendly, flowing Bowl;
Yet forces no intemp'rate Bumpers round,
Except when Delia's Health the Glasses crown'd.
A thousand Labours past, we now run o'er,
What Scenes we acted, and what Toils we bore:
No Party Feuds, nor Politics we name;
The Joys of Friendship mostly were our Theme.
Warn'd by the Clock, we now retire to Rest,
Till rising Phoebus streak'd the purple East.
Breakfast soon o'er, we trace the verdant Field,
Where sharpen'd Scythes the lab'ring Mowers wield:
Straight Emulation glows in ev'ry Vein;
I long to try the curvous Blade again.

208

As when, at Hockley-hole, old Gamesters view
Young Combatants their Martial Sports renew,
A youthful Vigour fires their ancient Soul,
Nor former Wounds their Courage can controul;
Again they mount the Stage, again they play,
Again they bear the noble Prize away:
So with Ambition burns my daring Breast;
I snatch the Scythe, and with the Swains contest;
Behind 'em close, I rush the sweeping Steel;
The vanquish'd Mowers soon confess my Skill.

Not long at this laborious Sport I stay;
But, with my Friend, to Charlton take my Way:
'Twas there, my Lord, induc'd by potent Ale,
Swains leave their Ploughs, and Threshers quit their Flail:

209

Your Bounty soon provokes the Bells to ring;
Clowns dance, Boys hollow, and hoarse Coblers sing.
Not greater was the Joy in ancient Greece,
When Æson's Son produc'd the Golden Fleece,
Than now appear'd in ev'ry Thresher's Breast,
Soon as your Gold sung Prologue to the Feast.

Why should the Muse recite our Bill of Fare,
And with a long Description tire your Ear?
None can your gen'rous Treat with Want reproach;
All eat enough, and many drank too much:
Full twenty Threshers quaff around the Board;
All name their Toast, and ev'ry one, my Lord.
No Cares, no Toils, no Troubles now appear;
For Troubles, Toils, and Cares are drown'd in Beer;
Till soon the chol'ric Fumes of Liquor rise,
Flush in their Face, and sparkle in their Eyes:

210

They now the rustic Feats of Manhood boast,
Who best could reap, or mow, or thresh the most:
Contention doubtful! All with Anger burn,
While each appears a Hero in his Turn:
Hard Words succeed; so far can Beer prevail,
That Blows are menac'd, ev'n without the Flail;
Till thus our Landlord, rising from his Chair,
Like prudent Nestor, stops impending War:

“What Madness, Friends, what Madness can engage
“Your Minds to burn with this unseemly Rage?
“For Shame, stain not with Blood our grateful Chear;
“Desist from Blood—or else desist from Beer.
“Are these the only Thanks you give my Lord?
“And is it thus his Favours you reward?
“If no Respect you pay this chearful Feast,
“Yet pay the noble Founder some, at least—”

211

He said: Abash'd the conscious Heroes stood,
Shook Hands, and thirsted more for Beer—than Blood:
Another Glass to Temple's Health they pour;
And praise their Liquor much, his Bounty more.

Oft as this Day returns, shall Threshers claim
Some Hours of Rest sacred to Temple's Name;
Oft as this Day returns, shall Temple chear
The Threshers Hearts with Mutton, Beef, and Beer:
Hence, when their Childrens Children shall admire
This Holiday, and, whence deriv'd, inquire;
Some grateful Father, partial to my Fame,
Shall thus describe from whence, and how it came.

“Here, Child, a Thresher liv'd in ancient Days;
“Quaint Songs he sung, and pleasing Roundelays;

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“A gracious Queen his Sonnets did commend;
“And some great Lord, one Temple, was his Friend:
“That Lord was pleas'd this Holiday to make,
“And feast the Threshers, for that Thresher's sake.”

Thus shall Tradition keep my Fame alive;
The Bard may die, the Thresher still survive.

Next, over Pewsey's fertile Fields I haste,
Fields with the bearded Crops of Ceres grac'd!
While pleasing Hopes my grateful Bosom chear;
But soon they vanish'd— Stanley was not here.

From hence the Muse to silver Kennet flies,
On whose green Margin Hertford's Turrets rise.
Here often round the verdant Plain I stray,
Where Thomson sung his bold, unfetter'd Lay;

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Or climb the winding, mazy Mountain's Brow;
And, tho' I swiftly walk, ascend but slow.
The spiral Paths in gradual Circles lead,
Increase my Journey, and elude my Speed:
Yet, when at length I reach the lofty Height,
Towns, Vallies, Rivers, Meadows meet my Sight;
A thousand grateful Objects round me smile,
Whose various Beauties overpay my Toil.

So may you often see the studious Youth
Begin the long, laborious Search for Truth;
How slow his Progress, but how great his Pain!
How many mazy Problems vex his Brain!
Before he o'er the Hills of Science rise,
Where, far from vulgar Sight, the Goddess lies:
Yet, there arriv'd, he ends the happy Chace;
Reflects, with Pleasure, on his glorious Race;

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Sees the bright Nymph so many Charms display,
As crown the Labours of the lengthen'd Way.

Within the Basis of the verdant Hill,
A beauteous Grot confesses Hertford's Skill;
Who, with her lovely Nymphs, adorns the Place;
Gives ev'ry polish'd Stone its proper Grace;
Now varies rustic Moss about the Cell;
Now fits the shining Pearl, or purple Shell:
Calypso thus, attended with her Train,
With rural Palaces adorns the Plain;
Nor with more Elegance her Grots appear,
Nor with more Beauty shines th'Immortal Fair.

The Muse her Journey, next, to Bath pursues;
Bath, fix'd by Nature to delight the Muse!
Where flow'ry Shrubs, and curling Vines unite;
Hills, Vales, and waving Woods attract the Sight;

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A vary'd Scene! For Nature here displays
A thousand lovely Charms, a thousand Ways:
Allen attends, to dress her beauteous Face,
With Handmaid Art improving ev'ry Grace;
Now forms the verdant Walk, or sunny Glade,
Or pours the Waters o'er the steep Cascade;
Or now contracts 'em with judicious Skill,
And leads 'em, gently murm'ring, down the Hill.

A Son of Æsculapius here I meet;
Polite his Manners, and his Temper sweet:
His sage Discourse, with soft, persuasive Art,
Charm'd the pleas'd Ear, till it improv'd the Heart:
Bright Truth, and Virtue, were his lovely Theme;
Which seem'd more lovely, when describ'd by him.

Various Diversions here employ the Fair;
To Dancing some, and some to Play repair:

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Not Musidora so consumes her Days,
The Dame who bad me sing Jehovah's Praise:
Uncharm'd with all the flutt'ring Pomp of Pride,
Heav'n, and domestic Care her Time divide:
In her own Breast she seeks a calm Repose,
And shuns the crowded Rooms of Belles and Beaux;
Where Coquetilla oft her Eyes has roll'd,
Oft won a worthless Heart, and lost her Gold.

From Bath, I travel thro' the sultry Vale,
Till Sal'sb'ry Plains afford a cooling Gale:
Arcadian Plains, where Pan delights to dwell,
In verdant Beauties cannot these excel:
These too, like them, might gain immortal Fame,
Resound with Corydon and Thyrsis' Flame;
If, to his Mouth, the Shepherd would apply
His mellow Pipe, or vocal Music try:

217

But, to his Mouth, the Shepherd ne'er applies
His mellow Pipe, nor vocal Music tries:
Propt on his Staff, he indolently stands;
His Hands support his Head, his Staff his Hands;
Or, idly basking in the sunny Ray,
Supinely lazy, loiters Life away.
Here, as I pass'd the Plains, (a lovely Scene,
Array'd in Nature's Liv'ry, gaily green!)
On ev'ry Side the wanton Lambkins play'd,
Whose artless Bleatings rural Music made;
Too harsh perhaps to please politer Ears,
Yet much the sweetest Tune the Farmer hears.

Soon as the Plains are ravish'd from my Sight,
New diff'rent Prospects equally delight;
Where Pembroke's Turrets charm my gazing Eyes,
And awful Statues solemnly surprize:

218

Bards, Sages, Heroes, Patriots, Princes stand,
A mixt, majestic, venerable Band!
Here mighty Homer, Phoebus' eldest Son,
Or sings, or seems to sing, in breathing Stone.
See Martial Phocion silently persuade,
And smooth tongu'd Cicero, in Marble, plead:
Here shines great Pompey, greater Julius there,
With daring Brutus, honestly severe:
Friendship, and Freedom in his Soul contend;
Forgive him, Cæsar, if he wrong'd his Friend!
Tho' Brutus' Dagger pierc'd thy Bosom thro',
'Twas Liberty, not Malice, struck the Blow.
Unhappy Brutus, destin'd to withstand
Thy Friend's Ambition with a fatal Hand!
Unhappy Cæsar, whose Ambition mov'd
That fatal Hand, to murder whom it lov'd!
Hadst thou, like Britain's Monarch, strove to save
Expiring Nations, not the World enslave;

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Thy Laurels then had still unblasted stood,
Nor Brutus e'er been stain'd with Cæsar's Blood.

Not far from hence, old Sarum's Ruins stand,
High on a bleak and barren Tract of Land;
A Mount, which once sustain'd a City's Weight,
And lofty Tow'rs adorn'd its awful Height;
Till Want of Water forc'd the thirsty Crowd
To seek the Vale, where crystal Rivers flow'd.
There Poore the first auspicious Work began;
First, for a Temple, drew the glorious Plan;
Then quickly makes the sacred Columns rise,
And bids the lofty Spire invade the Skies.
The prudent People too, with equal Haste,
New Dwellings built, which far their old surpast:
Cautious of Thirst, they make the docile Tide,
In winding Currents, thro' the City glide:

220

In ev'ry Street the wanton Naiads play,
To ev'ry Door their liquid Urns convey;
In which the lately thirsty Peasant spies
At once the cooling Draught, and scaly Fries;
Scenes, which, before, the lofty Mount deny'd!
Hence let Ambition learn to check its Pride:
High Stations often bring a Weight of Cares;
True Happiness is found in humble Spheres:
This useful Truth let Sarum's Glory show,
Which faded when on high, but flourishes below.

I next to Bathurst's rural Seat ascend,
Bathurst, my infant Muse's gen'rous Friend!
And, as around his spacious Park I stray'd,
Charm'd with the Prospect, which the Fields display'd,
Musing on Verse, the willing Numbers came,
My Song began, and Clarendon my Theme.

221

What sweeter Subject could I wish to chuse?
What Scenes more lovely can delight a Muse?
See, Flora paints the Ground with vary'd Dyes,
And fragrant Shrubs with Odours fill the Skies!
Here curling Vines their luscious Sweets disclose,
There fair Pomona loads the blushing Boughs:
See, fruitful Ceres crowns the Vales with Corn,
And fleecy Flocks the verdant Hills adorn!
Here waving Trees project a cooling Shade,
Where Bathurst oft converses with the Dead;
Reads over what the ancient Sages wrote;
Nor only reads, but acts as Sages taught;
Improves the present Hour, that Fortune gives;
Nor trusts To-morrow, but To-day he lives.

As thus my careless Lay, unlabour'd, flows,
Before my Eyes a Pile of Ruins rose;

222

Whose rugged Walls, like native Rock-work, shone;
For Time had turn'd the Cement into Stone.
Our Second Henry here, if Fame be true,
Measur'd the Prince's Right, and People's Due;
Made Laws to bound the Priests and Barons Claim—
Nor ev'n those Laws did haughty Becket blame;
Becket! true Tyrant of the Roman State,
Curs'd with Religion just enough to hate;
Whose stern, ambitious Zeal his King defy'd,
And damn'd all those, who dar'd oppose his Pride.

O thou Supreme! whose Mercy ever shone
The best, the brightest Jewel in thy Crown!
Never let me such cruel Faith approve,
Which bids me hate, whom Heav'n commands to love!
Let Christian Charity incline my Mind
To wish the Happiness of all Mankind!

223

In social Friendship always let me live,
Slow to be angry, easy to forgive!

PAULTONS affords me next a kind Retreat,
Where crowding Joys my grateful Heart dilate;
To see the Friend, who first my Lays approv'd,
Who loves the Muse, and by her is belov'd;
Who taught her tender Pinions how to fly,
Told when she crept too low, or soar'd too high.
O Stanley! if, forgetful of thy Love,
I e'er to Gratitude rebellious prove;
Still may I want a Friend, but never find;
May Fortune, Phoebus, Stanley, prove unkind!

Here often thro' the gloomy Woods I rove,
Pleas'd with the silent Horror of the Grove.
And now the Lawn, and winding Walks delight;
And now the Memphian Turret charms my Sight:

224

Here conic Firs in graceful Order stand;
Tall Cedars there, the Growth of Syrian Land.
Lead me, ye sacred Dryads! leads me thro'
Your sylvan Scenes, where future Navies grow;
Where lofty Oaks their branching Arms extend,
And tow'ring Pines to kiss the Clouds ascend;
Where op'ning Glades admit the sunny Ray,
Or venerable Groves exclude the Day.
There let me Knaves, and Fools, and Fops despise,
And think of Actions worthy of the Wise.

My Friend and me, Southampton next receives;
Southampton, wash'd with Thetis' silver Waves:
Upon whose sandy Margin Bevis rears
His Head, on which a stately Dome appears;
Where British Scipio, crown'd with Martial Bays,
In Solitude enjoys his ancient Days:

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Yet, still inclin'd to conquer, wages here,
With stubborn Woods and Wilds, innoxious War;
Subdues the native Rudeness of the Soil,
And makes the barren Sand with Verdure smile;
Bends the young Plant obedient to his Will,
Or thro' the Vally leads the crystal Rill;
Sublimes the Mount, or bids the Mole subside,
To stretch the Prospect o'er the lucid Tide:
The Foils of Art illustrate his Design;
And make the Di'mond Nature brighter shine.

Charm'd with the Beauties of the silver Sea,
We board a Ship, and skim the watry Way:
Blown with propitious Gales, we quickly view
Britannia's Strength, her Guard, and Glory too;
Where GEORGE's dreadful Eagles waiting stood,
To bear his fatal Thunder o'er the Flood.

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The wondrous Scene delights my gazing Eyes,
At once imparting Pleasure and Surprize:
Intrepid Sailers, swarming in the Sky,
Intent on Bus'ness, diff'rent Labours try:
Some stride the Yard, or tow'ring Mast ascend;
Some on the Ropes, in airy Crowds, depend;
Thick as the Insects, round the Poplar, play,
When Phoebus gilds 'em with a Western Ray.

But unexpected Dangers oft deceive
The daring Man, who tempts the foamy Wave:
While on the Fleet we all delighted gaze,
The sudden Winds arise, and sweep the Seas;
With rapid Force they fly, and from the Ship
Disjoin the Boat, and drive it o'er the Deep:
Our cautious Pilot quickly shifts the Sails,
Reverts his Course against the furious Gales.

227

O Chloe! then what ruthless Pains distrest
Thy dizzy Head, and rack'd thy tender Breast!
How often did the Bard thy Fate bemoan!
How often did he wish thy Pains his own!
How did the Tritons, mov'd with Pity, gaze
On thy fair Face, distorted twenty Ways!
Yet, tho' distorted, still thy Features show
Bright in Distress, and innocent in Woe.
So Venus oft her silver Light displays,
Thro' Ev'ning Mists, that rise to cloud her Rays.

But Neptune now, who pity'd Chloe's Pain,
Returns the Boat; we steer our Course again,
At Six, we safely land at Portsmouth Key,
And soon forget the Dangers of the Sea.
Straight to some hospitable Inn we haste,
Revive our Spirits with a sweet Repast:

228

The smiling Glass, with rosy Liquor crown'd,
Sacred to friendly Healths, goes chearful round;
While Time, in mirthful Converse, sweetly flows,
Till gentle Sleep invites us to Repose.

The Morning come, we to the Wharfs repair,
Survey the mighty Magazines of War:
Tremendous Rows of Cannon meet our Eyes;
And Iron Deaths, in massy Mountains, rise:
Store-house of Mars! where, rang'd in Order, lay
Ten thousand Thunders for some fatal Day.

Departing hence, the Dock we travel round,
Where lab'ring Shipwrights rattling Axes sound:
Some bend the stubborn Planks, while others rear
The lofty Mast, or crooked Timber square;
Some ply their Engines, some direct the Toil,
And carefully inspect the mighty Pile;

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See ev'ry Chink securely stopt, before
The winged Castle ventures from the Shore.

So, when the youthful Crane intends to fly
Her first long Journey thro' the spacious Sky;
Before she rears herself sublime in Air,
She ranges ev'ry Plume with prudent Care;
Tries if her Pinions can her Flight sustain;
Then springs away, and soars above the Main.

But see! the smoking firy Forge appears;
Vulcanian Sounds surprize our list'ning Ears:
See! busy Smiths around their Anvils sweat;
Their brawny Arms the glowing Anchor beat;
Alternately the chiming Hammers fall,
And loud Notes echo thro' the sooty Hall.
Such, haply, on the sounding Anvil rung,
When first the Harp melodious Tubal strung:

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As Tubal-Cain the ductile Metal wrought,
And Vulcan's heav'nly Art to Mortals taught;
The Brother, pleas'd to hear his Hammers chime,
Soon harmoniz'd their Notes to proper Time:
Man's Bosom then sonorous Organs warm'd,
The softer Lyre his gloomy Sorrows charm'd;
While Tyrants Hearts unusual Pity found,
And savage Tempers soften'd with the Sound.

'Twas now the Time, when Phoebus' piercing Ray
Shot down direct, and measur'd half the Day:
A bold Commander luckily we meet,
Who courteously invites us to the Fleet:
A Table elegantly spread we found,
And loyal Healths the Captain pushes round;
Augustus first, and all the Royal Line,
Give sweeter Flavour to the sparkling Wine;

231

Wager, and Norris, next, who boldly reign,
In floating Castles, Monarchs of the Main.

But now again our winged Sails we spread,
Again we visit Paulton's sylvan Shade;
Where, parting from my Friend, I mount my Steed,
And, o'er the Wilds of Wellow, urge his Speed:
Wilds, which were lately sterile, as the Coast,
Where patient Cato march'd his fainting Host!
Nor could the Swain explore a cooling Shade,
When fervid Phoebus burnt his glowing Head;
Till Chandos bad the dreary Desert smile
With verdant Groves, and beautify'd the Soil:
He said; ten thousand Trees adorn'd the Plain,
Ten thousand Shades, delightful to the Swain.

Hence, o'er the Plains, and fruitful Fields I pass,
Full forty Miles, till Witney ends my Race.

232

I visit here an elegant Divine,
In whom the Scholar, Friend, and Critic join;
Who freely judges of an Author's Thoughts,
Improves his Beauties, and corrects his Faults;
Severely kind, and candidly severe;
Polite, as Courtiers; and, as Truth, sincere;
Who, in Minerva's Temple, taught our Youth
The Path to Wisdom, Virtue, Honour, Truth;
Till having, with a gen'rous Mind, bestow'd
The Flow'r of all his Years in doing Good;
Fatigu'd with Labours, and with Age decay'd,
Retires, with Honour, to the rural Shade.

So, when the Prince of Rivers, fruitful Nile,
Has flow'd, and fatten'd all the Memphian Soil,
Spent all the Richness, that his Waves contain,
Back to his Banks, he draws his humid Train.

233

I pay my Off'rings next at Phoebus' Shrine,
Oxford, the Seat of all the tuneful Nine.
Forgive me, God of Verse, who daring greet
Thy sacred Temples with unhallow'd Feet!
As pious Mussulmen to Mecca roam,
Zealous to worship at their Prophet's Tomb;
So comes the Poet to thy rev'rend Fanes,
Invoking thee to aid his humble Strains.
O! might a Spark of thy celestial Flame
But raise my Numbers equal to my Theme,
Alfred immortal in my Page should shine;
Alfred, the Monarch, Hero, and Divine!
Who, having bravely all his Foes o'erthrown,
Advanc'd thy Kingdom, and confirm'd his own;
Water'd his Realm with the Pierian Spring,
Recall'd the banish'd Arts, and bad the Muses sing.

234

Then should my Numbers sound with Wickham's Praise;
Nor less should Foxe's Fame adorn my Lays,
Whose pious Care the decent Fabric rear'd,
Which kindly shelter'd the unworthy Bard;
Nor the unworthy Bard should leave unpaid
The grateful Debt, contracted while he stay'd:
Thy Favours, chiefly, Winder, should be known,
In lasting Numbers, tuneful as thy own.
Thee, Bodley, would I sing; who can refuse
A Verse to Bodley, Patron of the Muse?
Whose letter'd Bounty to the World declares
The treasur'd Wisdom of three thousand Years.
Nor should the Muse forget the Prelate's Fame,
Who grac'd the River with a stately Frame,

235

Known by the flow'ry Meads, which round it lie,
And beauteous Walks, that charm the Student's Eye;
Where courtly Addison attun'd his Lays,
And rais'd his own, by singing Dryden's Praise.
Hail, happy Bard! whose Genius still could shine
In ev'ry Art; for ev'ry Art was thine:
Whether thou didst the Critic's Pen engage,
The Critic's Pen improv'd the Poet's Rage;
Whether thou didst the Hero's Deeds rehearse,
The Hero's Deeds shone brighter in thy Verse:
Or did thy tragic Muse sublimely tell,
How stubborn Cato for his Country fell;
Parties no more retain'd their factious Hate;
All pity'd Cæsar's, honour'd Cato's Fate:
Nor less thy soft diurnal Essays please,
That Glass, where ev'ry Fool his Folly sees;
Where Virtue shines with such attractive Grace,
She tempts the Vicious to her chaste Embrace.

236

O! may thy Labours be a Star to guide
My Thoughts and Actions o'er Life's devious Tide!
If Pride, or Passion check my doubtful Sail,
Let thy Instructions lend a friendly Gale,
To waft me to the peaceful, happy Shore,
Where thou, immortal Bard! art gone before:
Then those who grant me not a Poet's Name,
Shall own I left behind a better Fame.

A little Village, near Farringdon in Berks.

A Farmer, once the Author's Master, and still his Friend.

Where the Author liv'd a Thresher.

Money which his Lordship sent to treat the Threshers.

30th of June, on which his Lordship treats the Threshers every Year.

Rev. Mr. Stanley, Rector of Pewsey, who first encourag'd the Author.

Mr. Thomson compos'd one of his Seasons here.

Marlborough Mount.

Mrs. Stanley, who desir'd the Author to write the Shunammite.

Earl of Pembroke's Seat at Wilton.

Bishop Poore, who built the Cathedral.

Clarendon Park.

King-Manor, where the Constitutions of Clarendon were made. See Camden of Wiltshire.

Mount Bevis, Seat of the Right Honourable the Earl of Peterborough, who was then living.

Spithead.

Captain Reddish, Commander of the Amelia.

Reverend Dr. Freind.

Founder of New College.

Founder of Corpus-Christi College, where the Author was kindly entertain'd.

Wainflet, Bishop of Winchester, Founder of Magdalen College, where Mr. Addison writ a Panegyric on Mr. Dryden, the first English Verses he ever made public.

237

PENELOPE to ULYSSES.

Paraphras'd from Ovid.

These Lines I send, impatient of your Stay,
To you, my Lord, who kill me with Delay;
Yet crave not any Answer back, beside
Yourself, the best of Answers to your Bride.
Sure Troy, so hateful to the Grecian Dames,
Is ruin'd now, with dire, consuming Flames;
Tho' scarcely Troy, nor all her King could boast,
Was worth the Trouble, which her Ruin cost.
O! had lewd Paris sunk beneath the Tide,
When, o'er the Seas, he sought the Spartan Bride;
I had not then accus'd the ling'ring Day,
Nor weav'd, to charm the tedious Night away;

238

Nor in the Bed, deserted and forlorn,
Lain weeping, cold and comfortless, till Morn.

Whene'er of Dangers in your Camp I heard,
Those Dangers threaten'd you, I always fear'd:
For Love, like mine, no cold Indiff'rence bears;
It feeds on tim'rous Thoughts, and anxious Cares.
I fansy'd, furious Trojans round thee came;
And trembling, ever dreaded Hector's Name:
If any said, Antilochus was slain,
Antilochus was he who caus'd my Pain:
Or, if in borrow'd Arms Patroclus bled,
I wept, because his Craft no better sped:
When Rhodian Blood had bath'd the Lycian Spear,
The Rhodian Youth again renew'd my Care:
In fine, whatever Grecian Chief was kill'd,
My fearful Heart, like frigid Ice, was chill'd;

239

Lest flatt'ring Fame my doubtful Ears should cheat,
And, for my Lord's, proclaim another's Fate:
But Heav'n, propitious to my chaste Desire,
Preserv'd you safe, and Troy consum'd with Fire.

But now the other Grecian Chiefs return,
And on their smoking Altars Off'rings burn;
Their useless Arms they consecrate to Peace,
And Trojan Spoils the Grecian Temples grace:
Each youthful Bride some pleasing Gift affords,
To welcome home their safe-returning Lords;
Their safe-returning Lords, in Songs of Joy,
Resound the vanquish'd Fates of ruin'd Troy:
The wond'ring Sages crowd around to hear,
The trembling Girls admire the Tales of War:
The Wives stand list'ning, while their Husbands tell,
How Greece had conquer'd, and how Ilion fell:

240

One stains a Table with the purple Draught,
And shews the furious Battles, which you fought;
Paints, with the Wine, which from the Glass he pours,
Camps, Rivers, Hills, and all the Trojan Tow'rs:
And, This, says he, is the Sigean Plain;
And here the silver Simois rolls his Train;
There stood old Priam's stately Palace, here
Achilles pitch'd his Tent, Ulysses there:
Here mangled Hector, dreadful in his Fall,
Affrights the Steeds, that drag him round the Wall.
Your Son, who sent by me to Nestor's Court,
To seek his Father, brought me this Report
From Nestor's Mouth, and how the Thracian Lord,
In Sleep, became a Victim to your Sword;
How Dolon fell into your crafty Snare—
But, O! Ulysses, you too boldly dare;
Too fearless, thro' the Camp of Foes you rove,
Mindful of Wiles, forgetful of your Love;

241

Slaying so many in the gloomy Night,
One Friend alone, to aid you in the Fight.
It was not thus you rashly us'd to go
Among the midnight Terrors of the Foe;
Fondly of me you formerly have thought,
With Prudence acted, and with Caution fought.
Heav'n knows, with Fear my trembling Bosom beat,
To hear my Son your daring Deeds relate;
Till told how you victoriously return'd,
Safe, to your Camp, with Thracian Spoils adorn'd.

But what avails it me, your Arms have thrown
Troy's stately Walls, and lofty Turrets down?
As when they stood, if I am robb'd of thee,
Troy's fall'n to others, standing still to me;
To others, who, with captive Oxen, toil
To turn the Glebe, and till the Trojan Soil;

242

And while, with crooked Ploughs, they discompose
Th'ill-bury'd Ashes of their slaughter'd Foes;
While Phrygian Fields, grown fat with native Blood,
Bear fruitful Crops, where stately Ilion stood;
While verdant Harvests hide their ruin'd Wall,
I mourn my absent Lord, who wrought its Fall;
Nor can I know the Land, where you reside,
Nor who, nor what detains you from your Bride.

Whatever Sailers on our Coast appear,
(Hopeful to find some Tidings of my Dear)
I fly to them, and ask 'em o'er and o'er,
If e'er they saw you on some foreign Shore?
Then to their Hands a Letter I impart,
To give it you, the Partner of my Heart;
If Chance, or Destiny should ever prove
So kind to lead them to my absent Love.

243

We sought for you at ancient Nestor's Court;
But sought in vain, we heard no true Report:
We sent to ask the Spartans too; but they
Knew not the Climate, where you, ling'ring, stay.
O! had Apollo sav'd his sacred Town—
Ye Gods! why did I ever wish it down?
If that were standing, and Ulysses there,
I nothing, but the Chance of War, should fear:
I should not then be singly curst to cry;
Others would fear the War, no less than I.
But now a thousand Whimsies feed my Care,
Nor know I what to hope, or what to fear;
Yet fearing all, that Fancy can suggest,
Unnumber'd Troubles rack my anxious Breast:
Upon the Land whatever Dangers reign,
I fear those Dangers make you there remain;

244

Upon the Seas whatever Storms increase,
I fear those Storms detain you on the Seas.
While thus my foolish Thoughts uncertain rove,
Perhaps you revel with a foreign Love;
Perhaps you ridicule your Bride at home,
Tell how she spins, or drudges in the Loom:
Suspicious Thoughts! that vex my jealous Mind,
Begone, and vanish into empty Wind!
If cruel Fate did not obstruct the Way,
My Lord would never make so long Delay.
Your long Delay my Father often blames,
And often chides me for my constant Flames:
My constant Flames shall ever true remain;
Let Fathers chide, and Suiters court in vain.
At length my Sire, who finds he can't remove
My Faith from you, nor shake my settled Love,
Remits his Anger, soften'd with my Pray'rs;
Yet still a Crowd of Suiters teaze my Ears;

245

From various Realms they come to seek your Crown,
And feast, and reign securely in your Throne:
'Twould tire me ev'n to count their Number o'er,
Medon, Pisander, and a hundred more!
All bent on Love, and Robbers of the State,
And All, by your pernicious Absence, great!
To crown your Shame, the Beggar Irus preys
Upon your Sheep, and all the fattest slays:
And ev'n your Shepherd, faithless to his Lord,
Slaughters your Lambs, to grace the Suiter's Board:
Nor have we Strength, their Rapine to oppose;
For how can Three resist so many Foes?
Your feeble Wife, your Father worn with Age,
Your tender Son, too weak to check their Rage;
For whom they lately crafty Ambush laid,
And menac'd Death on his devoted Head;
When, mocking all their Stratagems, he crost
The Seas, to seek you on the Pylian Coast.

246

O! may the Gods extend his vital Date,
And guard his Life, till ours submit to Fate:
So may he close our Eyes with decent Care;
Such is your Servant's, such his Nurse's Pray'r.

Since then your aged Father, feeble grown,
Amidst your Foes, cannot defend your Crown;
Your Wife, too weak to chase the Foes away,
Your Son, too young to bear the Regal Sway;
Haste, haste, Ulysses, to your Royal Seat;
For you alone can cure our troubled State:
Think of your Son, who wants you to inspire
His Soul with all the Virtues of his Sire:
Think, on the Brink of Fate your Father lies:
Return, my Lord, return and close his Eyes:
Think of your faithful Wife, whose youthful Face,
At your Departure, blush'd with blooming Grace:

247

But now I blush with blooming Grace no more;
Tears, for your Absence, cloud my Beauty o'er,
O! may you soon return, before I prove
An ancient Dame, unworthy of your Love.

Tlepolemus.

248

An EPIGRAM.

[If Words are Wind, as some allow]

Words are but Wind. Tale of a Tub.

If Words are Wind, as some allow,
No Promises can bind;
Since breaking of the strictest Vow,
Is only breaking Wind.

249

A Poem on Her Majesty's Birth-Day.

O you, the Monarch's Bliss, the Muse's Friend!
Accept the Tribute Duty bids me send:
'Tis what the Bard should long before have paid;
But fearful to aspire, has long delay'd.
Phoebus alone can Phoebus' Chariot guide;
The Youth who dar'd to drive it, daring, dy'd.
My humble Muse can humble Subjects treat;
But trembles to attempt a Theme so great:
Yet, warm with Gratitude, would fain display
Her Zeal to You, on this auspicious Day.

To You! whose gracious Goodness plumes her Wings,
By whom she lives, by whom inspir'd, she sings:

250

Long may she celebrate your sacred Birth;
Long may You stay from Heav'n, to bless the Earth;
To chear the Royal Sov'reign of our Isle;
Increase his Joys, or soften all his Toil;
Who now, while Death in purple Triumph reigns,
And sanguine Floods pollute the distant Plains;
Watchful o'er Britain's Fate, employs his Care,
Or wisely to avert, or bravely meet the War.

O glorious Queen! by Nature form'd to bring
The sweetest Comfort to the justest King!
Let proud Oppressors, who abuse their Pow'r,
Hear groaning Subjects curse their natal Hour:
You, on that happy Hour, may justly feast
Your Soul with Thoughts of making Thousands blest;
Whose godlike Bounties, to the Wretched, show,
You're only pow'rful to relieve their Woe.

251

What tho' the Muse old Annals should explore,
Mark all our Queens, and trace their Virtues o'er?
Where could she find so much exalted Sense,
Nobly employ'd, like yours, in Truth's Defense?
You strive to make the Seeds of Virtue grow,
To spread the Light, which Heav'n reveal'd below:
Yet, free from superstitious Zeal, incline
To make the Rays of Moral Goodness shine;
Supporting those, who, firm to Truth, defend
That first fix'd Law, on which all Laws depend.

Beneath your Influence, Art and Science rear
Their sacred Heads, and flourish by your Care:
This Truth let Oxford's pompous Dome proclaim,
Which boasts the Honour of a Royal Name.

252

Lately your Bard survey'd the graceful Scene,
Rising with Bounties of a gen'rous Queen!
O! had the Muse there fledg'd her infant Wing,
And early tasted of that learned Spring;
She then had soar'd in more heroic Lays,
In more majestic Numbers sung your Praise;
But fearful now, must quit the glorious Theme,
Must leave the Architect to speak your Fame:
His Art shall there another Athens shew,
And there another Guardian Pallas You.

Queen's College.

253

FELIX and CONSTANCE.

A Poem, taken from BOCCACE.

To the Right Honourable the Countess of Pomfret.

Blown on the rolling Surface of the Deep,
The mourning Maid at length reclines to Sleep;
While conscious Visions labour in her Breast,
And airy Spectres discompose her Rest.
Sometimes she seems upon her native Shore,
Bless'd with the beauteous Youth, as heretofore;
Hears him converse, while from his tuneful Tongue
Melodious Sense, in melting Music, rung:

254

Sometimes she finds, or seems at least to find,
His shatter'd Vessel forc'd before the Wind,
With foaming Waves, and furious Tempests tost,
The Mast, and broken Sails, and Sailers lost:
Sometimes her Dream, in frightful Forms, display'd
A Crowd of Martyrs, cruel Love had made;
Lamenting Thisbe's Shade before her stands,
Shews her capacious Wound, and purple Hands;
Now Lyric Sappho in the Tide expires,
Now faithful Porcia eats the living Fires.
At length, awaking from her Dream, she hears
A Latian Voice, which thus salutes her Ears:

Unhappy Christian Maid! (for such, at least,
You, by your decent Habit, seem exprest)
Say whence you came, and hither how convey'd,
Expos'd to Sea, without the Seaman's Aid?

255

Soon as the Nymph her native Language hears,
Her frighted Soul was fill'd with Doubts and Fears:
She thought, the adverse Wind, or refluent Main,
Had forc'd her back to Liparis again;
Till, starting up, a spacious Land she spies;
Barbarian Caves and Cots her Sight surprize:
She sees a Matron on the neighb'ring Strand;
Nor knows the Matron, nor the neighb'ring Land.
O! whither, whither am I blown? she cries;
What Dens and Caves appear before my Eyes?
And who inhabit 'em? or Beasts of Prey,
Or Men, less kind, and crueller than they?

To whom the Matron: Fly, nor dare to trust
The faithless People of this hated Coast:
Here Sailers oft their hapless Fate deplore;
Who scape the Seas, are wreck'd upon the Shore:

256

For, when the forceful Wind, and foaming Deep,
To this inhuman Coast impel the Ship;
Around the Beach the rude Barbarians stray,
Destroy the Mariners, and seize their Prey;
By others Death, they keep themselves alive,
Subsist by Rapine, and by Ruin thrive.

Unhappy Fate! the mourning Nymph reply'd;
O! had I perish'd in the safer Tide!
For much I fear, the Land I now survey,
Dooms me to greater Evils, than the Sea:
And yet what greater Ills can Fate provide,
Than thus to seek for Death, and be deny'd?
Not so my Felix scap'd the raging Waves;
Him Neptune sunk, and me unkindly saves;
Saves, only to increase my former Woes;
To fall, perhaps, by more ungen'rous Foes;

257

Or to indulge some lustful Tyrant's Will:
But, O ye Heav'ns! avert the fatal Ill;
Protect my Honour in this foreign Coast,
The only Blessing which I have not lost!

The list'ning Matron wonders with Surprize;
Nor hears, unmov'd, the weeping Damsel's Cries:
But leads her to her neighb'ring Cottage, where
She chears her fainting Soul with homely Fare;
Condoles her Grief, and begs her to disclose
Her Country, Cares, and Cause of all her Woes.
Excited by her Words, the pensive Maid
Preludes with Sighs, and thus, reluctant, said:

O hospitable Dame! why would you move
A Wretch to tell a Tale of hapless Love?
Which, in relating, must renew my Grief;
Nor can I hope, nor you bestow, Relief:

258

Yet, since you seem a Partner of my Care,
'Tis just a Partner know the Weight I bear.

Not far from Ætna's flaming Mount I came,
From Liparis, and Constance is my Name:
Great Honours and Estates my Sire possess'd,
And, O! too much to make his Daughter bless'd.
I once with Fame and Fortune was supply'd,
Nor envy'd Empresses their Pomp and Pride;
Now, like a Meteor, fallen from its Height,
My Glory's vanish'd, and extinct my Light—
Full twenty Years in Happiness I pass'd,
And ev'ry Year was happier than the last.
Young Felix then his Love began to show;
(Young Felix was the Cause of all my Woe)
A beauteous Youth, endow'd with manly Grace;
But far his noble Soul excell'd his Face:

259

And, tho' his niggard Fate had Wealth deny'd,
The Want of Wealth by Virtue was supply'd.
Two Years to win my doubtful Heart he strove,
Two Years my doubtful Heart declin'd his Love:
Yet still he press'd me with his am'rous Tale,
Nor found at length, 'twas fruitless to assail:
For, by degrees, insensibly I came
To first approve, and then indulge, his Flame;
Nor could his Suit, nor would his Vows reprove;
I heard with Joy, nor thought it Sin to love;
Till in my Breast imperious Cupid reign'd:
Alas! how easy Love a Conquest gain'd!
And now my Reason check'd my Will no more;
But fed the Flame, it strove to quench before:
Yet durst not an immodest Thought approve;
Love rul'd my Heart, but Honour rul'd my Love:
I scorn'd to stain my Virtue with a King;
As much my Lover scorn'd so mean a thing.

260

What could we do? What cannot Love inspire?
The Youth reveals his Passion to my Sire;
And in such melting Accents made it known,
As might have mov'd all Fathers, but my own:
But proudly he my Lover's Suit repell'd;
And, frowning, thus our mutual Ruin seal'd:

No more, presumptuous Youth! thy Passion name;
Suppress the Sparks, before they rise to Flame.
How dar'st thou, vulgar Wretch, ignobly born,
My Daughter's Scandal, and her Father's Scorn!
Aspire to wed so far above thy Fate?
He sternly said, and forc'd him from his Gate.

O Avarice! what Evils dost thou cause,
Breaking the Bands of Love, and Nature's Laws?
Go, hungry God! and rule the Narrow-soul'd;
Collect, and guard their curst, bewitching Gold;

261

Fit Province for thy Reign! too mean to prove
The Charms of Nuptial Life, and Joys of Love!
Ah! what avails to gain a pompous Name,
With boasted Titles of paternal Fame,
Deriv'd from Ancestors of noble Blood?
Things common to the Vicious, and the Proud!
Refulgent Equipage, and gaudy Shows,
Fictitious Ornaments of real Woes!
If Love be absent, Pomp and worldly Gain
But gild our Cares, and varnish o'er our Pain.
O! had my cruel Father thought like me,
I ne'er had prov'd the Dangers of the Sea,
Nor ever wander'd here a banish'd Maid;
And, O dear Felix! thou hadst not been dead!—

So speaks the trembling Nymph; and, while she speaks,
The pearly Torrents stream adown her Cheeks;

262

Cold clammy Sweats, and throbbing Sighs arise,
Slow moves the Blood, and dizzy roll her Eyes;
So much affected with her Lover's Fate,
She struggled, groan'd, and fainted from her Seat.
Her Hostess straight a grateful Cordial sought,
And to her Lips applies the chearful Draught,
Washing her Temples with reviving Oil;
The vital Spirits answer to her Toil;
The purple Tide begins to roll again,
Again diffuses Life thro' ev'ry Vein:
And now she sighing, rais'd her drooping Head;
And, Is my Death, she cries, again delay'd?
Why did you check me on the Brink of Fate?
Better the Soul had fled her loathsome Seat.
Death is the only Good I wish to know,
End of my Pain, and Period of my Woe.

263

To whom replies the Dame: Unhappy Fair!
Rely on Heav'n, nor let your Soul despair:
Teach me to give your troubled Heart Relief;
Or teach me how, at least, to share your Grief:
Your mournful Story much affects my Mind;
Yet something seems remaining still behind.

O! much, Constantia says, remains to come,
The fatal Part, that finishes my Doom:
For, when my Felix, (Felix now no more!)
Was banish'd from my haughty Father's Door,
Not able to obtain me for his Bride,
Nor willing to resign me, tho' deny'd;
Hope, from Despair, his daring Soul conceives;
A Bark he builds, to plough the briny Waves:
Then call'd a few Domestics to his Aid,
Embrac'd me in his Arms, and sighing, said:

264

O thou, for ever dear, for ever blest,
At once the Joy, and Trouble of my Breast!
Since Poverty expels me from thy Arms,
Since Wealth alone is worthy of thy Charms;
I swear by all the mighty Pow'rs above,
(Sad Fate, that drives me from the Nymph I love!)
To try my Fortune on remoter Shores,
And seek the Gold, thy Sire so much adores.
Perhaps the Planets, unpropitious here,
In other Climes may kinder Aspects wear;
May lead me where the rocky Di'monds lie,
Or where the golden Mines may Wealth supply;
If not, the last sad Pleasure is to die.

Such was the fatal Vow he rashly made;
O fatal Vow, and fatally obey'd!

265

Struck dumb, my Tears the want of Words supply'd;
His, mixt with mine, increas'd the pearly Tide:
Yet, lest I should his Resolution shake,
He rush'd away, and mounted on the Deck:
His hasty Crew expand the swelling Sails,
Strong rolls the Sea before impulsive Gales;
The crooked Keel the frothy Flood divides,
Swift flies the Ship, and rushes thro' the Tides.

My Lover long my gazing Eyes pursue;
As long my Lover kept me in his View:
Reluctant so, departing Souls prepare
To wing their doubtful Flight, they know not where;
Reluctant so, expiring Bodies lie,
Nor willing these to stay, nor those to fly.

Twice twenty Days I spent in fruitless Tears,
Before the fatal Tidings reach'd my Ears;

266

How Felix, failing o'er the watry Way,
Was wreck'd on Rocks, and perish'd in the Sea.
O! then what Trouble, Grief, and anxious Care,
Confus'd my Soul, and bent it to Despair!
I curs'd the Cause, that forc'd him to expire;
O Heav'n! forgive me, if I curs'd my Sire:
I fled his House, and sought the lonely Grove,
(The gloomy Witness of my former Love!)
Where, once resolv'd to seek the Shades below,
I drew the Knife, to strike the mortal Blow;
Till Piety the cruel Thought supprest,
And check'd the Roman Courage of my Breast:
I trembling saw two doubtful Paths; nor knew,
Which Path was best to shun, or which pursue;
Opposing Passions in my Bosom strove,
And Conscience now prevail'd, and now my Love.

267

As when the Wind and Tide a Contest make,
The Sailer, trembling, sees his Vessel shake;
This way, and that, and both, by turns reclin'd,
As swells the Surge, or blows the furious Wind:
So was my Soul with diff'rent Notions sway'd,
Of this, of that, of both, and all, afraid.
Ah! why should Mortals of their Reason boast,
Which most deserts 'em, when they want it most?
For, when the troubled Mind's confus'd with Pain,
'Tis but an Ignis-fatuus of the Brain;
Which, if our wand'ring Souls from Virtue stray,
But leads us more and more from Virtue's Way:
So led it me to stem the devious Tide,
And seek for Death, where wretched Felix dy'd.

Not distant far, a fishing Vessel stood,
Nor wholly on the Land, nor in the Flood:

268

Arriv'd to this, I row'd it from the Shore;
And, bent on Death, the Tide I now explore;
Expecting, soon, the friendly-furious Wave
Would give my Troubles and myself a Grave.
But, when I saw the Billows round me flow,
The boundless Skies above, and Seas below;
Scar'd with the Terrors of the watry Space,
I wrapt my Mantle round my tim'rous Face:
Then lay me down, to all the Dangers blind;
Chance was my Compass, and my Pilot, Wind.
Blown here and there, I floated on the Deep,
Which rock'd my Eyes, but not my Fears, asleep:
For now my dreaming Soul, in Fancy's Maze,
A thousand tragic airy Ghosts surveys;
Which flutter'd round me, and reproaching, said;
Die, Coward! follow Felix to the Shade:
Why wouldst thou wish to live, now he is dead?

269

But when, at length, your friendly Voice I heard,
My Vision ceas'd, the Spectres disappear'd.
Thus have I told, but can't dispel my Care;
For who can conquer Love, or cure Despair?

Thus she; and thus Capresa spake again:
(So was she call'd, who wak'd her on the Main)
Unhappy Nymph! compose your troubled Mind,
Nor doubt the gracious Guide of human Kind:
That God, who sav'd you from the foamy Wave,
Will doubtless guard the Life, he deign'd to save.
Vouchsafe to take the Counsel I can lend:
At Susa Heav'n has blest me with a Friend,
Much fam'd for Wealth, for pious Actions more;
No Husband, and no Children, but the Poor:
Let me conduct you to her friendly Gate;
(Too small my Cottage for a Guest so great)

270

She will protect you from Barbarian Foes,
With prudent Counsel mitigate your Woes,
And charm your ruffled Soul to soft Repose.

Blest Partner of my Grief! the Damsel said,
Some Angel surely sent you to my Aid;
For now some dawning Rays of Hope appear,
That chase away the Clouds of dark Despair.
This Pause of Pain, and Interval of Grace,
Shall be employ'd in Search of future Peace.
Then guide, and guard me to your noble Friend;
So may you never want this Aid you lend!
And, as we travel, deign to let me know,
To whom so many Thanks I justly owe;
What hapless Fortune cast you on this Land,
What Occupation here employs your Hand.
Sweet Conversation may suspend my Care,
Dispel my Grief, or make it less severe:

271

So shall I easier reach the neighb'ring Town;
And, list'ning to your Fate, forget my own.

Thus she; and thus the pensive Dame replies:
(With briny Drops distilling from her Eyes)
Fain would I, lovely Nymph! suspend your Care,
Dispel your Grief, or make it less severe:
But, were I all my Fortune to explain,
'Twould not alleviate, but increase your Pain;
For in your Soul such Sparks of Nature glow,
As make you share your Neighbour's Joy or Woe.
The Christian Faith I secretly embrace,
Tho' doom'd to dwell among a Pagan Race:
Trepanum wasted all my Bloom of Life,
Where long I liv'd, a Farmer's happy Wife:
My careful, loving Husband till'd the Soil,
Nor was the Field ungrateful to his Toil:

272

For, ev'ry Summer, Ceres crown'd the Plain;
Each Autumn, fill'd the Barn with golden Grain:
So thick the verdant Harvest yearly stood,
The Meadows seem'd to groan beneath their Load.
Our fleecy Flocks were fruitful of their Young,
Hail were our Oxen, and our Horses strong;
Nor did our Kine of milky Produce fail,
But with distended Udders fill'd the Pail.
'Twas then, alas! how often have I cry'd,
I would not wish to be a Monarch's Bride!
When all around my little Infants came,
Hung on my Knees, and lisp'd their Mama's Name;
Or met their Father with the Ev'ning Ray,
Embrac'd his Neck, and kiss'd his Cares away.
Soon as their riper Age could Labour bear,
We sent 'em forth to feed the fleecy Care;
Where often have we spent the Summer's Day,
Charm'd to behold the wanton Cattle's Play.

273

What Pleasure 'twas to see the skipping Lambs?
What Music, when they bleated for their Dams?
We thought our Joys could never be increas'd;
Love, Peace, and Plenty join'd to make us bless'd.
But see how Fortune holds her fickle Reign!
She raises up, to tumble down again:
For now our Thread of Happiness was spun;
The Gains of twenty Years were lost in one.
'Twas in the Season, when the verdant Mead
Begins to ask the Mower's crooked Blade;
Before the Wheat receives the yellow Stain,
Or milky Juice is harden'd into Grain;
A Gale of Poison baleful Eurus cast;
The vernal Product sicken'd with the Blast;
Our Meadows straight a saffron Scene disclose,
Our infant Apples quit the blighted Boughs;
Pease, Wheat, and Barley, wither'd in the Fields,
And Nature one abortive Harvest yields:

274

Nor stopt it here; the flying Plague began
To spread the Bane in Beasts, and thence to Man:
First dy'd our Sheep upon the russet Plain,
Next swell'd our Oxen with a fatal Blain;
Here tumbles, o'er her Meat, the moping Cow;
There drops the panting Horse before the Plough:
At length the dire Contagion spread so wide,
My Virgin Children made the Tomb their Bride.
This Nature bore—But when our Landlord sent
His Officers, to seize my Lord for Rent;
And he, to shun the Prison, flies the Shore;
Lists on the Sea, to tug the lab'ring Oar;
I wept, I rav'd, I curs'd the baleful Air;
And fled my native Land, but not my Care.
Thus, banish'd here, a Widow, and a Wife,
Condemn'd to suffer, not enjoy a Life,
I toil for those, who catch the finny Prey;
The Toils are great, but very small the Pay!

275

Their scaly Fry to Market oft I bear,
Oft in the Ocean wash their thready Snare;
And then was washing, when, with great Surprize,
You, and your floating Vessel, met my Eyes.

Now Heav'n defend us both! the Nymph reply'd;
And can such Rage in Christian Minds reside?
What, could the curst, inhuman Tyrant wrest
Thy tender Husband from thy loving Breast,
When all thy Wealth was lost, thy Children dead?
O Virtue! Virtue! whither art thou fled?
Why must such Evils on the Guiltless flow?
Ye Heav'ns! is Innocence rewarded so?

So spake the Nymph; her Friend no more replies;
For now Priscilla's Dome attracts their Eyes:
Approaching to her friendly Gate, they found
The gen'rous Lady dealing Alms around

276

To needy Souls, a hapless, helpless Crowd,
Who daily bless'd her Hand for daily Food!
When thus Capresa: Hail, for ever bless'd!
'Tis Godlike thus to succour the Distress'd:
Yet none of these, who claim your Christian Aid,
Deserves it more than this unhappy Maid;
Who once was bless'd with Fame and Riches too,
Tho' fickle Fortune now is turn'd her Foe;
Unlike the Mendicants, who daily share
Your friendly Bounty, and maternal Care.

To whom the Lady, with a gracious Look,
That seem'd to breathe Compassion, while she spoke:
Sure Decency forbids, a Guest so great
Should, undistinguish'd, with the Vulgar eat.
No; deck my Table with the choicest Fare;
The Nymph, with me, a kind Repast shall share;

277

For, by her Looks if Truth may be divin'd,
That lovely Body cloaths a lovely Mind.

She said, and Constance low Obeisance made;
Then gladly follow'd, where Priscilla led.
Within the Gate a spacious Room she found,
Whose Walls were beautify'd with Tap'stry round;
Where pious Tales appear'd, so lively wrought,
The Work seem'd vital, and the Figures Thought:
Here, in the Shade, the Jewish Patriarch stood,
Feasting the Sons of Heav'n with earthly Food;
While, there, the good Samaritan confest
His Kindness, and reproach'd the cruel Priest;
With many more, a charitable Band,
The skilful Labour of Priscilla's Hand.

Hither the Dame convey'd a sweet Repast;
Rich Meats, and rosy Wines the Table grac'd:

278

They eat, they drank, in pleasing Converse join'd;
And chear'd at once the Body and the Mind.
The Call of Nature being soon supprest,
Thus spake the Lady to her youthful Guest:

Say, lovely Stranger! (for I long to know;
So may propitious Heav'n remove thy Woe!)
Whence thus reduc'd? By Famine, Sword, or Fire?
What Sire thy Beauty boasts, what Land thy Sire?
Perhaps some Princess, banish'd from her Home,
Thus condescends to grace my rustic Dome:
If so, I greatly fear, my homely Feast
Has been unworthy of my Royal Guest.

She said, the Nymph unfolds her Tale again;
The prudent Dame attempts to sooth her Pain,
And thus reply'd: Tho' weighty are your Woes,
The weightiest Ill, with Patience, lighter grows:

279

Then bear with Patience all that Heav'n design'd,
Whose Ways are just, tho' difficult to find,
Plann'd for the gen'ral Good of Human Kind.
God's Paths in winding Mazes often lie,
Too intricate for feeble Reason's Eye;
Most regular, when in Confusion lost;
Most constant, when they seem to vary most.
Perhaps his Mercy forc'd you thus to roam,
To shun a more unhappy Fate at home;
For with one Evil he removes a worse,
And blesses oft with what we think a Curse.
Then let your Soul at Fortune not repine;
But trust in Heav'n's Protection, next, in mine:
In me you still shall find a faithful Friend,
With whom, in time, your Troubles all may end:
But, since you now are harass'd out with Woes,
Refresh your weary Soul with sweet Repose;

280

And when you wake, at Morning, may you find
Heav'n's balmy Comfort heal your wounded Mind!

Thus chear'd, the Nymph obsequiously withdrew,
And bath'd her Cares in Sleep's refreshing Dew;
Till Phoebus, rising from the Shades of Night,
With rosy Keys unlock'd the Gates of Light:
Bright as his Beams, arose the beauteous Maid;
And, to her Patroness returning, said:

What Thanks, propitious Lady! shall I give
For all the Godlike Bounties I receive?
O! let my Silence thank you; for I know,
Words can't express the Gratitude I owe.

To whom replies the venerable Dame:
No other Thanks, but Gratitude, I claim:

281

The Terms of Charity are never hard,
Love and Compassion are their own Reward:
A Soul, that succours Virtue, when distrest,
Can with Reflection make a noble Feast;
Which nourishes the Mind, and overpays
A gen'rous Deed with self-approving Praise.

Such was their Converse, till domestic Care
Invites Priscilla from the youthful Fair;
Who sat in pensive Solitude, and strove
To soften, or suspend the Pains of Love.
At length the Linen on her Knee she spread,
And with her Needle work'd the docile Thread.
Young Thisbe's Fate she first began to frame;
But soon commits her Labour to the Flame:
Next drew she Hero sinking in the Main;
Then raz'd the finish'd Image out again:

282

Both these displeas'd her, tho' judicious Art,
And Rays of Nature shone in ev'ry Part.
At length her own unhappy Tale she chose,
And lively paints the Scene of all her Woes:
Her charming Felix first the Linen grac'd;
By whom her Father, frowning stern, she plac'd:
Her Lover's Parting next to these appears;
(But, weeping here, she soil'd her Work with Tears)
Next, on the Seas, she drew her floating Ship;
Next, her own Boat, slow-wand'ring o'er the Deep:
By these she fix'd Capresa on the Strand,
Who wak'd her first, and welcom'd her to Land:
The good Priscilla last employ'd her Art,
Whose Aspect spoke the Bounty of her Heart;
Her friendly Roof, a Refuge for the Poor,
The Horn of Plenty, pendent o'er the Door,
Diffusing Blessings still, and still increasing more.

283

All these confest such Beauty, Skill, and Care,
Not Helen better wove the Trojan War,
While Hector, Paris, and their Martial Train,
With Grecian Heroes battled on the Plain.

Here let us leave the lovely Nymph a-while,
To pass her tedious Hours in pleasing Toil:
Her absent Lover now my Song pursues,
Whose valiant Deeds require a nobler Muse.

Swift-pinion'd Fame, which often babbling flies,
To bear unwelcome Truths, and oft'ner Lyes,
Had spread the ductile Error far and wide,
How wand'ring Felix perish'd in the Tide.
But Felix safely reach'd the Thunic Port,
And soon arriv'd to Honours in the Court:
His Wisdom there the wisest Peers excell'd;
His Valour more surpass'd 'em in the Field.

284

When first he to the Royal Palace came,
An Accident occurr'd to raise his Fame:
A noble Lord there was, of great Renown,
Rebell'd against the King, and claim'd his Crown:
Great Preparations made he for the Fight;
Nor less the Monarch, to defend his Right;
But summon'd all, to meet the daring Foe,
Whose Strength could wield a Sword, or bend a Bow;
And promis'd to reward their Martial Care,
With Honours equal to their Deeds in War.

Now rings the Region with the Foe's Alarms,
Terrific shines the Field with burnish'd Arms;
The Martial Trumpet, sounding from afar,
With dreadful Notes, proclaims approaching War.
The Royal Army valiant Felix join'd;
Intrepid Courage animates his Mind:

285

Fix'd in the Front, the Foe he bravely dares,
Like Pallas prudent, and as bold as Mars.
Say, Muse, What Goddess, that tremendous Hour,
Aided the Youth with such unusual Pow'r?
Bright Venus, conscious of the Lover's Smart,
Sharpen'd his Sword, and pointed ev'ry Dart:
Fierce, as a Lion, thro' the Lines he sprung;
And forc'd his Foes, like trembling Stags, along.

As when resistless Winds rush o'er the Deep,
And from its Anchor force the driving Ship,
Or furiously against the Woodland roar;
The leafy Harvest, tumbling, flies before:
So rush'd the Hero on the adverse Band,
So fled the Legions from his pow'rful Hand;
Till soon the rebel Lord he Pris'ner made,
And to the King his captive Prize convey'd.

286

Now reaps the Youth the Glory of his Toil;
To him the Monarch gives the Martial Spoil,
Rewards his Valour with a noble Post,
And makes him First Commander of his Host.
Thus, quickly Felix gain'd a deathless Name;
Thus, was his Labour crown'd with Wealth and Fame:
But Wealth and Fame insipid Things appear;
To give them Taste, he wants the lovely Fair;
The lovely Fair, opprest with equal Grief,
To make her happy, wants the glorious Chief.

His Fame, which soon at Susa was reveal'd,
(Heroic Actions seldom lie conceal'd)
With pleasing Wonder struck Constantia's Ears,
And fill'd her doubtful Soul with Hopes and Fears:
For, tho' the wise Priscilla often strove
With prudent Counsel to suppress her Love;

287

Her Love was only lessen'd, not supprest;
But glows again, again distracts her Breast.

As when, in rural Cots, the Flames aspire,
And lab'ring Peasants quench the mounting Fire;
If chance a latent Spark remain behind,
In heapy Ashes, fann'd with ambient Wind;
The Fires again, with former Fury, rise,
Flame thro' the Roof, and flash into the Skies:
So in her Bosom glows the am'rous Fire,
And fills her tender Soul with soft Desire.
And is my Felix yet alive? she says;
And is he crown'd with Wealth, and deathless Praise?
No, no; I fear the flatt'ring Tale deceives;
Methinks I see him plunging in the Waves.
Ah! why, ye Heav'ns, are feeble Mortals curst,
In Things uncertain, to believe the worst?

288

No; rather let me seek the Thunic Court;
There, with my Eyes, confirm the blest Report:
Hope flies before, and points the pleasing Way;
Love urges on, and Love I must obey.

So saying, to Priscilla straight she came,
And with her Thoughts acquaints the pious Dame;
The pious Dame, with tender Pity sway'd,
Approves the Passion of the loving Maid;
And, with Capresa, guards her to the Place,
Resolv'd herself to view the Hero's Face.
The Hero meets 'em at the Regal Gate,
Array'd in Armour, formidably great;
For on that Morning, by the King's Command,
The Chief was to review the Martial Band:
His studded Chariot darted Splendor round,
His stately Coursers, neighing, paw'd the Ground;

289

The nodding Plumes around his Temples wave,
With awful Grace, and beautifully brave.
He knew th'approaching Nymph; but, in Surprize,
The joyous Stream descended from his Eyes:
The Nymph beheld the weeping Chief; nor knew,
For what he wept, nor whom she came to view:
His Martial Dress, bespangled o'er with Gold,
The dreadful Warrior, not the Lover, told:
But, when he cast the Helmet from his Head,
And thro' the Gates the blushing Damsel led;
She knew her Lover, clasp'd him to her Breast,
While silent Eloquence her Joy confest:
The conscious Pains an absent Lover bears,
Despair, fallacious Hope, and anxious Fears,
For want of Words, were painted with their Tears.
And when, at length, their crystal Sluices ceas'd,
The joyful Hero thus the Nymph address'd:

290

Ye Gods! and have I then my Charmer found?
And are my Labours thus completely crown'd!
Yes! let me clasp thee to my longing Arms,
Drink in thy Breath, and feed upon thy Charms.
As widow'd Turtles, roving round the Fields,
Thro' all the fruitful Stores, which Nature yields,
Curst in the midst of Plenty, cannot eat;
But starve, lamenting for their absent Mate:
Thus have I been with Fame and Riches grac'd;
Yet wanted thee, to give my Riches Taste.
But say, how came this Wealth I wanted most?
What brought my Love to this Barbarian Coast?

He said; and now the joyful Damsel spake
The Dangers which she suffer'd for his sake;
Shews him the Dame, who found her on the Tide;
Priscilla too, who all her Wants supply'd:

291

Then, prostrate, on her Knees before him bends,
And begs him to reward her faithful Friends.
The grateful Chief, by native Goodness sway'd,
Embrac'd 'em both, and soon the Nymph obey'd;
But first before his Royal Master came,
And begs he may resign his Post of Fame:
At which the Monarch frowns with awful Eyes,
Till Felix straight, who saw his Passion rise,
Falls on the Ground, and to his Master shows
The various Scene of all his am'rous Woes.
This heard, the King resumes his former Grace;
Love tun'd his Soul, and smooth'd his ruffled Face:
He rais'd the Hero, bids the Nymph appear;
The Nymph approach'd him with a modest Fear;
Before his awful Throne, submiss, she fell,
And to him straight unfolds th'amazing Tale.
Mute, on the Ground a-while he fix'd his Eyes;
Then, Is the Force of Love so great? he cries:

292

We falsely Man the World's Commander call;
Thou, mightier Monarch, Love! commandest All:
Young Ammon's Self could not thy Pow'r confine;
The World his Subject was, but He was thine.

Then, smiling, thus he chear'd the trembling Fair:
Henceforward, lovely Nymph, dismiss thy Care;
For, since thy Love has conquer'd Wind and Sea,
Curst be the King, that's crueller than they!
Let Hymen straight confirm the Marriage Ties;
Thou justly hast deserv'd the Nuptial Prize.

Thus said, he crown'd the Hero's Martial Care
With Riches far superior to the Fair:
Due Thanks return'd, they to Priscilla came,
Bestowing Gifts and Honours on the Dame:
Capresa next, with Age and Labour worn,
In comely Robes the grateful Pair adorn;

293

With ample Wealth her former Bliss restor'd,
And from the Seas redeem'd her Nuptial Lord;
Her Nuptial Lord again enjoys his Wife,
Again delightful Freedom crowns his Life;
Till Nature calls him to resign his Breath,
In honourable Age, and peaceful Death.

This done, the loving Couple quit the Shore,
And joyfully the destin'd Port explore;
While sportive Nereids round their Vessel play,
And wanton Cupids hail 'em on their Way;
Rough Thetis' Self assumes a pleasing Smile,
Glad to return 'em to their native Soil;
Where sacred Hymen join'd their mutual Hands,
And Heav'n, indulgent, bless'd their Nuptial Bands.

294

Ad JOANNEM MILTONUM.

Thus Imitated.

Let Mincio now in humble Waves subside;
The Mantuan Swan no more supports his Pride;
No more let Meles boast of Homer's Lays;
No more Sebetus murmur Tasso's Praise:
Since Thames can glory in our Milton's Name,
Thames shall be equal to them all in Fame.

295

An Imitation of the Tenth Ode of the Second Book of Horace.

To the Right Hon. the Lord Viscount Palmerston.

Rectius vives, Licini, neque altum
Semper urgendo, &c.

If we, my Lord, with easy Strife,
Would pass this fickle Tide of Life;
We must not always rashly sail
With ev'ry light, inconstant Gale;
Nor yet, at ev'ry Surge that roars,
Too tim'rous, seek the craggy Shores.
The Man who keeps the Golden Mean,
Where raging Storms are seldom seen,

296

Avoids the dang'rous Rocks and Pools,
That fright the Wise, and swallow Fools:
He's ne'er despis'd among the Crowd,
Nor envy'd in the Court;
But steers between the Base and Proud,
To gain the peaceful Port.
While lofty Spires and Cedars fall,
Storm-beaten, to the Plain,
The lowly Shrub, and humble Wall,
Are Proof to Wind and Rain;
And Lightnings guiltless o'er the Cottage fly;
But smite th'ambitious Hills, that, tow'ring, threat the Sky.

The steady Mind, that's truly great,
Surveys, unmov'd, the Turns of Fate:
If Wealth and Fame his Pride increase,
His Fears their Force controul;
If adverse Fortune would depress,
Hope elevates his Soul:

297

Because he knows, the Pow'r who brings
The Winter with its dreary Wings,
Can make the vernal Beauties grow,
And turn our Woe to Bliss, or Bliss to Woe.
If now on anxious Cares you feed,
A Feast of Joy may soon succeed,
To chear your pensive Mind.
With Times, our Tempers vary round,
Nothing immutable is found,
But all to Change inclin'd.
Tho' Pope with Illness oft complains,
Pope is not always rack'd with Pains;
But, warm'd with Phoebus' Fire,
Sometimes he wakes the sleeping String,
Or bids the silent Muses sing,
And charms us with his Lyre.

298

Our Life's, at best, a chequer'd Scene
Of Health and Sickness, Mirth and Spleen:
Yet, since we all must stem this Sea,
Where Calm and Tempest dwell;
Grieve not to steer the destin'd Way,
But strive to pass it well:
If adverse Storms begin to rave,
Serenely view the foamy Wave,
Collected in yourself, and resolutely brave.
Or, if you find indulgent Gales
Impel the Bark too fast,
Wisely contract the swelling Sails,
And check their rapid Haste;
Lest, in your swift Career, the Ship
Split on a Rock, and sink beneath the Deep.

299

An IMITATION Of the Sixteenth Ode Of the Second Book of HORACE.

Otium Divos rogat in patenti
Prensus Ægeo, &c.

I

The trembling Merchant begs for Ease,
When toss'd upon the foaming Seas;
When frowning Clouds obscure the Skies,
And dreadful Thunder roars, and Lightning flies.

300

II

For Ease the proud Iberians pray,
When Martial Engines round 'em play;
The mighty Turk, and Persians too,
Beg Heav'n for Ease, which Riches can't bestow.

III

Not silver Mines, nor shining Gold,
Nor all the Gems the Indies hold,
Nor purple Robes, nor pompous State,
Can cure the flutt'ring Cares, which vex the Great.

IV

Happy the Man, whose frugal Board
Supplies the Wishes of its Lord;
No Fears torment his quiet Breast,
No sordid Av'rice breaks his grateful Rest.

301

V

Why should we so much Wealth desire,
When Life so little will require?
Why should we rove from Zone to Zone,
And for another Climate change our own?

VI

Not those, who fly from Pole to Pole,
Can fly the Cares, which rack the Soul;
But, in remotest Regions, find,
They leave their Country, not themselves, behind.

VII

For, tho' we cross the briny Deep,
Corroding Care pursues the Ship;
It hunts the Horseman close behind,
More swift than Mountain Roes, or rapid Wind.

302

VIII

The Man, contented with his State,
Anticipates no evil Fate;
Tho' Fortune is inconstant still,
With what is good, he sweetens what is ill.

IX

The Draught of Life is mixt, at best;
There's none can be completely blest:
Some overlive their Pleasures here;
Some die, before they taste what Pleasures are.

X

Age, Wars, and Tumults, factious Hate,
Made Cottington desire his Fate;

303

While tender Sheffield meets his Doom
Just in the Flow'r of Life, and youthful Bloom.

XI

All make their Exit soon or late;
And, if the Gods contract thy Date,
The vital Hour, deny'd to thee,
Their more indulgent Hand may give to me.

XII

What tho' thy fruitful Pastures keep
A hundred Flocks of bleating Sheep?
What tho' thy proud, exulting Mares
Neigh, foam, and fly before thy gilded Cars?

XIII

Thy Board tho' twenty Dishes grace?
Thy Coat as many Yards of Lace?

304

I envy not the purple Dye,
Nor all thy gaudy Pomp of Luxury.

XIV

I share some Sparks of Phoebus' Fire,
To warm my Breast, if not inspire;
Too little Wealth to make me proud,
And Sense enough to scorn the envious Crowd.

See Clarendon's History, Lib. 13.

Late Duke of Buckingham,

305

An Imitation of the Sixteenth Ode of the Third Book of Horace.

To the Reverend Mr. STANLEY.

Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea,
Robustæque fores, &c.

Believe me, Sir, your Cost and Cares,
Your Dogs and Locks, your Bolts and Bars,
Your Palisades, and Walls of Brass,
Are all too weak, when Gold attacks the Place.
A brazen Tow'r Acrisius rear'd;
A brazen Tow'r, he thought, would guard

306

His Daughter from the leach'rous Arms
Of those who nightly sought her Charms;
While surly Mastiffs watch'd the Dame,
And thund'ring, told if Lovers came:
These kept the Nymph from Gods and Men,
Not Jove himself could enter in;
Till Venus (wondrous to behold!)
Transform'd his Godship into Gold.
O Stanley, Stanley! Gold has Pow'r
The sternest Heart to move,
To burst the Wall, or pierce the Tow'r,
Impervious ev'n to Jove.
Gold can the subtlest Head deceive,
Or Peace, or War can bring,
Buy Votes, raise Gallic Arms, and give
The Polanders a King.

307

APOLLO knew the Force of Gold,
When Philip's Martial Fate he thus foretold:
“The sharpest Lance of Steel may err,
“So may the surest Bow;
“But know, O King, the Golden Spear
“Will vanquish ev'ry Foe.”
The God's Advice the Prince pursu'd;
He fought with Gold, and Gold subdu'd:
Whence some Historians say, 'twas this,
And not young Ammon's Father, conquer'd Greece.
Gold has an absolute Command;
It rules at Sea, as well as Land:
For, when two adverse Fleets engage,
And firy Tubes displode their Rage;
A Bribe can make their Thunder cease,
And hush the wat'ry World to Peace.

308

Yet, notwithstanding all its Force,
It often brings the greatest Curse.
Vexatious Cares and Discontents
Increasing Gold attend;
Desires enlarge, as Wealth augments;
For Av'rice knows no End.
We labour up the golden Hill with Pain;
But ne'er surmount the tow'ring Alps of Gain.

O Stanley, Honour of my Muse!
I fear, and justly fear,
To steer the Course Ambition shews,
Or soar beyond my Sphere.
He's poor, who always after Wealth aspires;
He's rich, who always curbs his own Desires.
I more admire an humble Seat,
Than all the Pomps, which vex the Great;

309

And from their gilded Roofs retire,
On Isis' Banks to tune my Lyre.
In this Retreat I'm nobler bless'd,
Than Croesus e'er could be,
Than if (like Misers) I possess'd
A wealthy Poverty.
While favour'd by the Best of Queens,
Who all my Wants supplies;
While fragrant Groves, and flow'ry Scenes,
Delight my Muse's Eyes;
My Fate a far superior Blessing brings,
Than all the Pageantry of Eastern Kings.
What tho' no Flocks, on Richmond Plain,
With Fleeces deck my Pride?
What tho' I seldom drink Champagne,
Or quaff the purple Tide?
If these I wanted, were your Bard to ask,
I know, your gen'rous Soul would send a Cask.

310

I make my Wants and Wealth agree;
I pay my Debts no worse than he,
Who o'er the Seas extends his Reign,
And adds all Sicily to Spain.
Who covets most, is most in Need,
And always rides a restless Steed,
Which foams, and flies without Controul,
Still seeks, but ne'er obtains the Goal.
Then happy those, whom Heav'n has bless'd,
With what may Life sustain;
Nor are with pinching Want depress'd,
Nor curst with too much Gain:
For boundless Wealth ne'er fills a boundless Mind;
The Man who still pursues, is still behind.

311

Imitated from Claudian.

Felix, qui patriis ævum transegit in agris,
Ipsa domus puerum quem videt, ipsa senem, &c.

I

How bless'd the Swain of Bethnal-green,
Who ne'er a Court beheld,
Nor ever rov'd beyond the Scene
Of his paternal Field!

II

But, where he prov'd the Go-cart's Aid,
He prov'd the Crutch's too;
One only House his Mansion made,
Till Life (tho' late) withdrew.

312

III

False Fortune ne'er, with Smile or Frown,
Or rais'd him, or deprest;
Her Frowns and Smiles were both unknown
To his contented Breast.

IV

The Chance of Stocks he never try'd,
Nor knew to buy or sell;
So scap'd the dreadful golden Tide,
Where South-sea Merchants fell.

V

Skill'd in no Bus'ness but his own,
He shunn'd the noisy Bar;
Nor ever prov'd the smoky Town,
But breath'd a purer Air.

313

VI

Nor by Lord Mayor's Day he knew
The rolling Year to bound;
Nor kept an Almanack, to shew
How Seasons vary'd round.

VII

He Summer knew by Heat extreme,
The Winter by its Cold;
Pomona shew'd when Autumn came,
When Spring, gay Flora told.

VIII

He planted once an Acorn small,
And liv'd to see it rise
A mighty Oak, so wond'rous tall,
It seem'd to prop the Skies.

314

IX

And, by the Shade its Branches cast,
Could he much truer know,
What Hour, and how his Moments past,
Than by the Clock of Bow.

X

Tho' London stood so near his Cot,
He never mark'd the Dome;
But thought St. Paul's as far remote,
As Peter's Church at Rome.

XI

Of Isis he was only told,
But ne'er beheld her Streams;
Nor knew, but that the Ganges roll'd
Near as the neighb'ring Thames.

315

XII

Of Jellies, Creams, Ragoûs, and Tarts,
His Stomach never thought;
A perfect Stranger to the Arts,
Luxurious Cooks have taught!

XIII

Yet, with a simple Food supply'd,
His Health was so intire,
That when his ancient Children dy'd,
They left a youthful Sire.

XIV

Let others search for golden Bliss
On India's wealthy Shore;
Their Joys of Life are less than his,
Their Labours ten times more.

316

Of FRIENDSHIP.

To CELIA.

O Celia! You, whose Rays of friendly Fire,
Constant as those of Nature, ne'er expire;
If in your Breast no weighty Cares you find,
Nor better Thoughts employ your gen'rous Mind;
Vouchsafe an Ear: These Numbers are your Due;
I sing of Friendship, and I sing to You:
Friendship! a Theme, which all Mankind profess,
No Virtue more admire, none practise less;
For most have learn'd the Grecian Sage's Text,
“To love one Day, as if to hate the next.”

317

They change, forsake, as serves their selfish Ends,
Nor are their Dresses vary'd more than Friends.

You therefore, who are worthy Friendship's Name,
And cherish in your Breast the genuine Flame,
Attend to what a faithful Muse imparts,
A Muse unpractis'd in fallacious Arts:
Tho' young in Life, that Life has made her know,
A friendly Aspect oft conceals a Foe;
That, tho' so many seeming Friends abound,
For one that's true, a thousand false are found.

When first you strive a faithful Friend to find,
Explore the secret Motives of his Mind;
Nor, rashly credulous, his Friendship trust,
Before you know, what Passion rules him most:
But, as a Horseman checks the Courser's Speed,
Till he has try'd the Temper of his Steed;

318

So check the Reins of Friendship, till you prove,
What sways the Person, Interest, or Love.

Avoid the Fop impertinently vain,
And shun the Slave, who flatters you for Gain;
Beware of him, who sells you for a Jest;
But, most of all, beware the leaky Breast:
(Who hopes to keep his Wine the Season round,
Must first be sure his Cask is sweet and sound)
Nor should a formal Fool your Friendship claim,
Tho' Wealth and Honours dignify his Name.
Let Knaves and Fools in kindred Vices join;
Chuse you a Friend, where Sense and Virtue shine;
Whose Passions move by Reason's Rule alone,
Much better, if agreeing with your own.
The Hart and Lion at a Distance keep;
Wolves company with Wolves, and Sheep with Sheep:

319

So we, by Nature's sympathetic Pow'rs,
Most love those Tempers, that resemble ours.

Yet, if it be too difficult to find
A Friend so justly moulded to your Mind,
Among the virtuous Few select the best;
And such is he, whose Failings are the least:
Let him a modest Freedom always claim,
To praise your Virtues, or your Vices blame;
Nor be displeas'd his mild Reproof to hear;
For Friends may often kindly be severe;
The Best sometimes each other may controul,
Yet not destroy the Harmony of Soul.
Rough Notes in Music never should be found,
Except adapted to improve the Sound.

When mutual Faith the friendly Knot has ty'd,
And when that mutual Faith is truly try'd,

320

Prey not upon yourself; nor be opprest
With conscious Pains, that struggle in your Breast:
For, as the Flames, in Ætna closely pent,
Convulse the Mountain, lab'ring for a Vent;
Thus in the Soul uneasy Thoughts confin'd,
For want of Passage, rack the suff'ring Mind.
Unveil your Bosom to your other Part;
Your Friend shall share the Burden of your Heart,
Alleviate ev'ry Ill your Soul sustains,
Double your Pleasures, and divide your Pains.

Be zealous for your Friends, whene'er you know
Their Reputation censur'd by a Foe;
Nor with a faint Excuse degrade your Friends;
The Man, who coldly praises, discommends.
Or are they justly censur'd for a Crime?
Reprove them mildly at some proper Time:

321

In private chide all Failings which you find,
In public praise the Beauties of their Mind;
Place all their Virtues in the clearest Light,
Omit their Faults, or touch them very slight;
As Painters, when they draw a beauteous Face,
Contract a Blemish, heighten ev'ry Grace.

Neither let Passion, Pride, or private Ends,
Or changing Fortune, make you change your Friends.
Who varies oft, a faithless Temper shows,
Or, at the best, ill Judgment, when he chose.
Some Persons with themselves so disagree,
They're fix'd to nothing but Inconstancy;
With each new Day, new Resolutions come,
Expel the former, and usurp their Room:
Succeeding Billows thus the foremost throng,
Tides roll on Tides, and Waves urge Waves along.

322

Not but we may with a new Friend engage,
Before we see an old one quit the Stage;
Yet should not think the new our old exceeds,
As Jockeys value most their youngest Steeds.
One Maxim will in Wine and Friendship hold,
Alike the better both for being old.

But must we then be bound in deathless Bands,
And still obey whate'er a Friend commands?
Aid him to gain what he unjustly craves?
No—Leave the Man, who Truth and Virtue leaves.
Should furious Catiline some Plot devise,
To ruin Thousands, that himself might rise;
The Laws of Honour, Truth, and Conscience show,
'Tis Friendship to the World to be his Foe.
Or, should a Friend basely betray his Trust,
To pardon him were to yourself unjust:

323

For, as the Wool, with Crimson colour'd o'er,
Never acquires its native Whiteness more;
So he who breaks his Faith, will ne'er obtain
Your Credit, nor his Innocence again.
If otherwise he disoblige his Friends,
(For where's the perfect Man, who ne'er offends?)
Try if his Ear will kind Reproof endure;
And, if the Balm of Counsel work a Cure,
O'erlook the Failure: All offend, that live;
Let Foes resent a Trespass, Friends forgive.
Yet let the pardon'd Friend not, many times,
Proceed in Folly, and repeat his Crimes.
Tho' purest Gold a vast Extent will bear,
Yet purest Gold will break, if stretch'd too far:
And Friends may bear some Slips from Wisdom's Rule;
But who can pardon the persisting Fool?

324

Among the various Causes, that conspire
To cool our Love, and quench the friendly Fire,
Vile Avarice assumes the greatest Pow'r,
A God which base ignoble Souls adore:
To pleasure him, a Tide of broken Vows
(Needful Libations!) on his Altar flows:
Yet, never satisfy'd, he craves for more;
And keeps his Votaries, in Plenty, poor:
Who worships him, will break the friendly Bands,
Whene'er the sordid, selfish God commands.

Others there are, induc'd by Thirst of Praise,
(And ev'n the greatest Men this Passion sways)
Who quit their Friends for Honours of the State,
And turn their Love into the rankest Hate.

325

Nor is it wonder these desert their Friends,
Since all are Foes, who will not serve their Ends:
For wild Ambition like a Torrent roars,
Which, when obstructed, climbs th'opposing Shores;
Till to the Top the lab'ring Flood attains,
Swells o'er the Banks, and foams along the Plains.
Not but we may an honest Fame embrace;
Nay, Friends should aid us in the glorious Chace.
Man has some Principle of heav'nly Fire,
That warms his Breast, and prompts him to aspire;
Wakes him to Actions of superior Kind,
And keeps alive the Faculties of Mind;
For Sloth begets a Lethargy of Soul,
As want of Motion taints the clearest Pool:
Yet, if, too fond and covetous of Fame,
We blow that native Spark into a Flame,
It quickly rises to a firy Storm,
And burns the Fabric 'twas design'd to warm.

326

What Bands of Nature can restrain its Course?
What friendly Offices suppress its Force?
See how its Rage the young Numidian fires,
The worst of Children to the best of Sires!
Deep, thro' his Brothers Blood, he wades his Way,
And leaps o'er Gratitude to Regal Sway.
Young Cæsar's Tutor by his Pupil dies,
While Tully falls by him he help'd to rise;
Friends, Fathers, Brothers, Uncles, yield to Fate,
To make three Tyrants infamously great!

O! grant me, gracious Heav'n, where-e'er I go,
To be a faithful Friend, or gen'rous Foe;
Nor let me pant so much for empty Praise,
As to obtain it by dishonest Ways;
Nor wrong my Friend, tho' 'twere to gain a Throne;
Nor ruin others Fame, to raise my own.

327

He who is only learn'd in Books, will find
A harder Lesson, when he learns Mankind;
A Volume gilded o'er with smiling Art,
Where few can read the Meaning of the Heart.
We often take our Flatterers for Friends;
One would suspect the Man who still commends,
Who, like the Sharper in the Roman Play,
Or right or wrong, assents to all you say;
Bends here or there, which way his Lord's inclin'd,
As Reeds submit to ev'ry diff'rent Wind.
Nor is it strange such Parasites prevail,
When greedy Ears devour their flatt'ring Tale:
While Thraso loves to hear his Praises told,
Gnatho will give him Praise, and take his Gold.
But you, who walk by Wisdom's safer Rules,
(For 'twere but Labour lost to counsel Fools)

328

Detest the Wretch, who ne'er can Courage find
To speak the genuine Dictates of his Mind;
But, like the Syrens sweet, pernicious Song,
At once would charm and ruin with his Tongue.

Yet some there are, in social Bands ally'd,
Who, with blunt Truths, err on the other Side;
Void of Good-nature, and Good-breeding too,
They sourly censure ev'ry thing you do.
O! never flatter ev'n a Monarch's Pride,
Nor, with the Sternness of a Cynic, chide;
But, when you would an erring Friend reprove,
Let gentle Cautions shew, the Motive's Love:
Do not begin with Rashness to exclaim;
But rather hint the Fault, before you blame.
'Tis not enough your Admonition's just;
Prudence must guide it, or the Labour's lost:

329

Friends should allure, and charm us into Sense;
Harsh Counsels not reform, but give Offence.
Nature, impatient of severe Reproof,
Loves mild Instruction, but abhors the rough:
As Fruits and Flow'rs improve with gentle Rain;
But fade, if rapid Storms o'erflow the Plain.

Some Men are Friends, when Fortune fills the Sails,
And wafts you on with favourable Gales;
But quit the tott'ring Ship, and make to Shore,
When Storms descend, and adverse Surges roar.
Long as in Credit, Pow'r, or Place you stand,
Their fawning, formal Friendship you command:
With twenty Squeezes, and a hundred Bows,
As many Compliments, as many Vows,
They swear your Interest shall be their own,
And wish the Time to make it better known;

330

Like false hot Coursers, waiting-for the Chace,
Which foam, and neigh, and proudly spurn the Grass,
Intent to run; but droop their jaded Crest,
And fail you most, when most you want their Haste.

We make a Prostitute of Friendship's Name,
If only Complaisance supports our Claim.
And yet there are, of this polite Degree,
Who treat you still with forc'd Civility;
In each obliging Art so well refin'd,
Tho' ever false, they never seem unkind.
Not that my Muse would Decency offend;
For 'tis Good-breeding polishes a Friend:
Nor shines it less, with Truth and Virtue join'd,
Than comely Features with a noble Mind:
But those, whose Friendships most in Speeches dwell,
Neglect the Fruit, and trifle with the Shell.

331

True Friendship more intrinsic Worth affords,
Defin'd by Actions better than by Words;
A warm Affection, that can never cool,
Concord of Mind, and Music of the Soul;
Which tunes the jarring Strings of Life to Love,
Shews Men below, how Angels live above.
There are in Friendship such attractive Charms,
It draws Esteem from those it never warms.
See how Pacuvius' tragic Scenes could move
The People's Praises with fictitious Love!
When on the Stage two doubtful Princes strive,
Each seeking Death, to keep his Friend alive:
Now Pylades deceives the Monarch's Eye;
Faithful, yet fraudulent, resolves to die:
Orestes now displays the friendly Cheat,
Invites the threat'ning Sword, and courts his Fate.

332

Mov'd with their gen'rous Love, the Audience rose;
With social Flame each changing Bosom glows;
All feel the sacred Pow'r of Friendship's Laws,
And the Stage rocks, and thunders with Applause.

I know the Muse may give to some Offence,
(Tho' rather Men of Wit, than Men of Sense)
Whose Counsel is; “Be not engag'd too far;
“The greatest Friendship brings the greatest Care:
“Our own Concerns have Plagues enough in Store;
“Who joins in Friendship, only makes 'em more:
“The Cares and Troubles, which your Friend endures,
“Are all by Sympathy adopted yours.”

What base, ungen'rous, selfish Souls are these?
Mere Quacks, who turn ev'n Health into Disease;
And but the darkest Side of Friendship find,
To all its radiant Beams and Beauties blind.

333

Two faithful Friends, in any State, may gain
Comfort to heighten Joy, or lessen Pain:
If weighty Cares the pensive Mind invade,
They make the Burden light with mutual Aid;
If Profit, or if Pleasure chears the Soul,
The Blessing's common, each enjoys the whole:
If Bus'ness calls them to some distant Place,
Swift-pinion'd Love contracts the lengthen'd Space;
Each keeps the other's Image in his Breast,
As Wax preserves the Form a Seal imprest.

Hail, sacred Friendship! by whose chearing Ray
All Joys increase, without it fade away:
Ev'n Hymen's Torch, tho' burning e'er so bright,
Aided by Friendship, shines with double Light.
This you, O Celia! by Experience find,
Whose nuptial Friend lives always in your Mind:

334

No Length of Time, no Distance, ever ras'd
His lov'd Idea from your tender Breast:
Your friendly Flame admits of no Decays;
But glows, unclouded, with augmented Rays,
And makes your bridal Lamp much brighter blaze.
That faint, pale, languid Lamp, in Age, expires,
Except 'tis fed with Friendship's constant Fires:
These to the Winter of our Years extend;
And, when the Lover cools, they warm the Friend.
When all the transient Joys of Youth are o'er,
When all the Charms of Beauty charm no more;
Surviving Friendship gives us fresh Supplies
Of lasting Bliss, and more substantial Joys;
Which sweeten all the Troubles Age has brought,
And make the Dregs of Life a cordial Draught.

FINIS.

Bias in Cicero de Amic. § 16.

Ut equis vetulis teneros anteponere solemus—Veterrima quæque (ut ea vinas, quæ vetustatem ferunt) esse debent suavissima. Cic. de Amic. § 19.

------ Neque amissos colores
Lana refert medicata fuco;
Nec vera virtus, cum semel excidit,
Curat reponi deterioribus.

Hor. Ode 5. Lib. III.

Pestem enim majorem esse nullam in amicitiis, quam in plerisque pecuniæ cupiditatem, in optimis quibusque honoris certamen & gloriæ, ex quo inimicitias maximas sæpeinter amicissimos extitisse. Cic. de Amic. § 10.

Jugurtha.

Qui clamores tota cavea nuper in hospitis & amici mei M. Pacuvii nova fabula, cum, ignorante rege, uter eorum esset Orestes, Pylades Orestem se esse diceret, ut pro illo necaretur; Orestes autem, ita ut erat, Orestem se esse perseveraret? Stantes plaudebant in re ficta: quid arbitramur in vera fuisse facturos? Cic. de Amic. § 7.