The Works of Mr. Robert Gould :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Mr. Robert Gould

In Two Volumes. Consisting of those Poems [and] Satyrs Which were formerly Printed, and Corrected since by the Author; As also of the many more which He Design'd for the Press. Publish'd from his Own Original Copies [by Robert Gould]

Gould, Robert

VOLUME the FIRST. [POEMS].

[dedication]

On the ensuing POEMS OF Mr. ROBERT GOULD,

[Songs.]

Love Verses.

Miscellanies.

Occasional Verses To several Ladies, &c.

EPISTLES From the Country.

Divine Poems AND PARAPHRASES.

VOLUME the SECOND. [SATYRS].

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1. VOLUME the FIRST. [POEMS].

To the Right Honourable Mountague Venables EARL of ABINGDON, Baron Norreys of Ricot, &c. The Ensuing POEMS are, with all Submission, most humby Dedicated

By the Author's Relict Martha Gould.

On the ensuing POEMS OF Mr. ROBERT GOULD,

AND THE Death of the Ingenious Author.

And is so soon the Lov'd Alexis gone!
Who with such just regret erewhile did moan
That best Good Man, that Pillar of the State!
The great Bertudor and his early Fate.
What is it then we would Immortal have,
Since Heroes and their Poets find a Grave?
Avails it not Those to deserve a Verse,
Or These their Noble Actions to rehearse?
Yes, yes it does, They both by this survive
Themselves, and even to after Ages live.
Hail then thou Bard! Tho' we thy Fate now mourn,
Lawrels, that never fade, surround thy Urn.
Who ever yet has so Divinely sung
Unverst in any but their Mother Tongue?
Not Shakespear, tho' set off with thy just Praise,
Did e'er express himself such various Ways,
But to the Stage confin'd his tuneful Lays.

Thy Rival Sisters show how thy great Wit
And lofty Genius cou'd the Buskin fit.
In Pastorals thou speak'st in such a Strain,
As best becomes th'ignoble, lowly Swain.
Thy Sonnets, Hymns and Hymeneals suit
Their several Subjects; as each several Fruit
Its proper Tree: Congratulate, or Mourn,
Or Praise, thou giv'st to each its proper Turn.
But, when thou dost to pointed Satyr come,
Thy Lashes cut, and all thy Thrusts are home;
Witness, what justly might provoke thy Rage,
The flagrant Vices of our Modern Stage,
With which thou did'st so happily engage.
Ah! had but Fate allow'd thee one short Span
T'have perfected thy Satyr against Man!
We then had seen Vice bare and ugly drawn,
And in no other Features than her own:
But—
Heav'n, finding us so harden'd to Reproof,
Beckon'd thee hence, and said it is enough.

T. T.

[Songs.]

SONG I. Fatal Constancy.

I

Ciara , charming without Art,
The Wonder of the Plain,
Wounded by Love's resistless Dart,
Had over fondly giv'n her Heart
To a regardless Swain:
Who, tho' he well knew
Her Passion was true,
Her Truth and her Beauty disdain'd;
While thus the fair Maid
By her Folly betray'd,
To the rest of the Virgins complain'd.

II

Take heed of Man, and while you may,
Shun Love's alluring Snare;
The Joy it promises to Day
Does e'er the Morrow flit away,
And all the rest is Care.
But if you love first
Y'are certainly curst;
Despair will insult in your Breast:
The Nature of Men
Is to slight who love them,
And love those that slight 'em the best.

III

Yet let the Conqu'rour know my Mind,
Ingrateful Celadon,
That he will never, never find
One half so true, or half so kind,
When I am dead and gone!
But as she thus spoke
Her tender Heart broke:
Death spares not the Fair, nor the Young:
So Swans when they die
Make their own Elegy,
And breathe out their Lives in a Song.

SONG II. The Mistress.

I

'Tis not Beauty makes me love thee,
Tho' like Venus soft and Fair;
Nor for Wealth do I approve thee,
Yet who wou'd not be thy Heir?
Neither for thy Wit adore thee,
Where we so much Smartness find;
Or for Vertue fall before thee,
Tho' the best of Woman kind.

II

What (you'll say then) is th'Occasion
I such lasting Love pretend?
What can else beget a Passion
That must never know an End?
Fair, I'll tell thee—'tis thy Nature
That thus captivates my Mind;
Pitying the Imploring Creature,
You are proud of being kind.

III

Others tediously will tarry,
Loth to grant the Am'rous Boon,
Or expect a Man shou'd marry,
Tho h' had better turn Dragoon.

But while thus they deal precisely,
Making Love and endless Task,
You, my Angel, let us wisely
Have the Blessing when we ask.

SONG III. The March Chick.

Written to be Sung by a Girl.

I

How happy! how happy is she
That early her Passion begins?
And, willing with Love to agree,
Does not stay till she comes to her Teens:
Love then is all pure and chast,
Like Angels, its Smiles to be priz'd;
Pleasure is shown you barefac'd,
And Nature appears undisguis'd.

II

To be Twenty, or Thirty, and then
Set up for a Lover is Vain;
By that Time we study how Men
May be rack'd with Neglect and Disdain:
Love dwells where you meet with Desire,
Desire much sooner appears;
She's a Fool then that, feeling the Fire,
Considers the Tale of her Years.

SONG IV. A Pastoral Dialogue.

HE.
You tell me, Fair one, that you Love,
Now is the Time your Faith to prove:
Come, let us walk to yonder Grove.

SHE.
'Tis late, I'm not for walking now:
I love you Shepherd, that I vow;
O is not loving you enow?

HE.
Thou dost blaspheme the Heav'nly Boy
In being thus unjustly Coy;
You cannot Love and not Enjoy.

SHE.
Alas! I am not yet Fifteen,
Too young to tell what 'tis you mean:
What Tast is there in Fruit that's green?

HE.
And Fifteen, pretty Love, with Thee,
Is equal to a Score with me—
Or, if you doubt me—come and see.

SHE.
I know not where Enjoyment lies,
Unless it be in wishing Eyes,
Quick heaving Breasts, and balmy Sighs.

HE.
O there is more! much more behind!
Delight and Transport unconfin'd!
All Heav'n it self—If thou art kind!

SHE.
Why do you gaze and tremble so?
You squeeze my Hand, your Face does glow,
And now, methinks, I tremble too!

HE.
Then 'tis with Chillness; if the Fire
I feel had seiz'd you, you'd retire,
And meet my Warmth with like Desire.

SHE.
No! no! I've nothing in me cold:
A tingling Bliss is thro' me roll'd,
I feel it—but it can't be told!

HE.
O then, while Love and Joy require,
And Time's indulgent to Desire;
O stay not till the God retire!

SHE.
Nay do not hurry me away;
I dare not go—and wou'd not stay— [Aside.

If you but lov'd me you'd obey.

HE.
I will not injure you I vow,
Nor do no more than you allow—
Ah! can you, Dear, distrust me now?

SHE.
I'll try you:—But don't force me on.
If any Mischief shou'd be done,
I'll go with you no more alone.

[Exeunt.

SONG V. Wit and Beauty.

I

When from her Beauty long I've strove
To free my doating Heart,
Her Wit brings back my fliting Love,
And chains it down by Art.

II

Then, when her Wit I've often foil'd,
With one commanding View,
I'm by her Eyes again beguil'd,
And Captive took anew.

III

Her Wit alone were vain, alone
Her Beauty wou'd not do;
But what the Devil can be done
With Wit and Beauty too?

SONG VI. The Complaint.

I

To me y'ave made a thousand Vows,
A thousand tender Things have said;
I gave you all that Love allows,
The naked Pleasure of the Bed.

II

Yet now my Eyes have lost their Charms,
Or you abate in your Desire:
You dream y'ave Cælia in your Arms,
And burn with an unhallow'd Fire.

III

Aloud you Name her in your Sleep;
Or if toward me y'are pleas'd to stir,
(A Kindness that but makes me weep)
'Tis only when you think of her.

SONG VII. The Answer.

I

That charming Cælia I admire,
I must with Pleasure own it true;
But had I ten times more Desire,
How could my Passion injure You?

II

Love is the sacred Tree of Life,
And up to Heaven its Branches rears;
Yet Admiration's but the Leaf,
Enjoyment is the Fruit it bears.

III

Then while you raise this vain Dispute,
Your Fondness but it self deceives:
When you your self have all the Fruit,
What need you envy her the Leaves?

SONG VIII. Vertue the greater Charm.

I

While on my Breast the soft Deceiver lies,
Balm in her Breath and Transport in her Eyes!
I find the glowing wanton glad my Heart,
Yet know she's false, and all her Fondness Art.

II

For to the next she likes, she does apply
The self same soft'ning Look and kindling Eye;
But 'tis to gratify her own Desire,
She only warms us while we blow the Fire.

III

If she that's faithless has such pow'rful Charms,
What magick Circle might you make your Arms?
No more we'd doubt of Heaven but fix it there,
Were you (O Cælia) but as kind as fair.

SONG IX. The unwilling Inconstant.

I

Tho' she's so much for Beauty fam'd,
That Age is with her Smiles enflam'd;
Yet by some more resistless Art,
That does unseen its Force impart,
You raze her Image from my Heart,
Which nothing, nothing else but Death could part.

II

O tell me quickly, charming Maid,
By what new Witchcraft I'm betray'd?
Since she I've sworn to Love is true,
Nor only that but beauteous too,
I shou'd a strange Injustice do
To give the Heart, so justly hers, to you.

III

Try then, thou who without Controul
Hast shot thy Form into my Soul
(Whose Eyes still conquer with a View)
O try (tho 'twill be hard to do)
Yet try to make me hate thee too;
I care not if I'm wretched so I'm true.

SONG X. Falshood excus'd.

I

Why blames my Love her humble Swain
For gazing upon Cælia's Eyes?
Or in soft Notes t'express his Pain,
While at her Feet he dying lies?

II

Her Look, 'tis true, does Love inspire,
And long departed Warmth renew;
Again it gives me fresh Desire,
But then 'tis given all for you.

III

Enflam'd by her I come to thee
To ease the Burden of her Charms;
She does beget the Extasie,
But it is born within thy Arms.

SONG XI. The Wanderer fix'd

I

E'er I thy charming Visage saw,
Each lesser Beauty gave me Law;
This with her Sweetness, that her Pride,
And I for either cou'd have dy'd:
But when I first your Eyes did view,
Strait to my Heart their Light'ning flew,
Depos'd 'em all and set up you:
Before the Magick of your Air,
So fine your Shape! your Face so fair!
Their fainter Charms did disappear,
And were no longer what they were.

II

So of the Stars that gild the Sky,
They've Reverence paid from every Eye;
Not one but claims our lasting Praise,
Not one but shou'd our Wonder raise,
Not one but what's all Heavenly bright,
A constant shining Globe of Light,
Able alone to rule the Night.
Yet, tho' so bright and glorious, they
All in a Moment's time decay,
Grow dim and seem to die away,
When once Aurora opens Day.

SONG XII. No Life if no Love.

I

Cælia is chast, yet her bright Eyes
Are Motives to Desire;
Each Look, each Motion does surprize,
And lasting Love inspire.
Her Smiles wou'd make the Wretch rejoice
Expiring just before;
And O! to hear her charming Voice
Is Heav'n!—or something more!

II

And thus adorn'd, where e'er she turns
Fresh Conquests on her wait;
The tremb'ling restless Lover burns,
Nor can resist his Fate.
Ah Cælia! as y'are fair, be kind,
Nor this small Grace deny;
Tho' Love for Love I never find,
Yet let me love or die!

SONG XIII. Pity if you'd be pity'd.

I

Why (Cruel!) with that coy Behaviour
Do you meet Amyntor's Flame?
Why deny him ev'ry Favour
That so much adores your Name?
Adores it too, with such a Passion
(Fervent, lasting and divine)
As wou'd from all Hearts draw Compassion,
All but that hard Heart of thine.

II

Gods! why thus d'ye wast your Graces?
Why thus bountiful in vain?
Why have Devils Angel's Faces?
Why must Vertue meet Disdain?
Wherever was a beaut'ous Creature
That bore Light'ning in her Eye,
But to her Lover shew'd ill Nature
And cou'd smile to see him die?

III

'Tis true, at last Heav'ns Indignation,
Causeless Hatred to reprove,
Makes her doat with equal Passion
On some Youth averse to Love;

One that regardless, sees her languish,
Like a withering Lily Pine
O pity then Amyntor's Anguish,
Or that Fate may soon be thine.

SONG XIV. The reasonable Request.

I

For Pity, Cælia, ease my Care;
The Scorn your Eye does dart,
Swifter than Light'ning pierces Air,
Runs to my trembling Heart,
The Pangs of Death are less severe
When Souls and Bodies part:
But Death I've oft invok'd to end your Reign;
For what fond Wretch wou'd on the Rack remain,
And have no use of Life, but still to live in Pain?

II

I not presume to beg a Kiss,
'Twou'd but enflame Desire;
Or a kind Look, that Happiness
Wou'd raise my Wishes higher;
Nor yet your Love, for that's a Bliss
Where I must ne'er aspire!
No, this is all the Favour I implore,
Nor was a smaller Boon e'er begg'd before,
Do but believe I love you, and I'll ask no more.

SONG XV. The Hopeless Comfort.

I

Tho' she believes 'tis her I like,
And only her approve,
From her hard Heart it will not strike
One kindly spark of Love.

II

What if he doat (in Scorn she cries)
And take a squinting View?
Must I, in Pity to his Eyes,
O'er look my Freedom too?

III

Thus does she sharpen with her Wit
The Darts her Eyes have thrown;
And in commanding a Retreat
But goads her Lovers on.

IV

Some Comfort 'tis I'm not alone,
All are like me undone:
The Cruelty that favours none
Why shou'd I hope to shun?

SONG XVI. The Fruitless Caution.

AMYNTOR.
Take heed, fair Cælia, how you slight
The Youth that Courts you now;
For tho' fresh Charms, like dawning Light,
Still flourish on your Brow,
Yet fairest Days must know a Night,
And so, alas! must thou.
In vain, in vain
You'll then complain;
In vain your Scorn and Cruelty bemoan;
For none can prove
So dull, to Love
When Age approaches, or when Beauty's gone.

CÆLIA.
Cease, fond Amyntor, cease your Suit,
For 'tis but urg'd in vain:
Who sows where he can reap no Fruit
But Anguish and Disdain?
Your whining Passion I despise,
And hearken to't no more
Than the deaf Wind to Seamen's Cries
When all the Billows roar:
For if when Youth and Beauty's gone
I must be scorn'd of Men,
I'll now revenge, e'er Age come on,
My Persecution then.

SONG XVII. The Invocation.

I

Some pitying Power that rules above
To my Request encline:
Since I must ne'er have Cælia's Love,
For ever raze out mine.
Her Scorn I can no longer bear!
Tis Murder o'er and o'er!
Ah! neither let me Hope or Fear,
But ease my Passion by Despair,
And she can wound no more.

II

Take her for ever from my Sight,
A Fate like mine to prove;
That she may feel, in all its Spite,
The Curse of slighted Love:
That swooning, raving with her Care,
She may her Error find;
How vainly Heav'n has made them Fair,
That to their dying Lovers Prayer
Are cruel and unkind.

SONG XVIII. The Enfranchisement.

I

'Tis past!—the mighty Torture's o'er,
And Cælia's Reign is done:
Nor know I but my Bliss is more
Than if she had been won.
When scorn'd, and crouching to the Dust,
W'ave wasted half a Life.
'Tis certain such a Mistress must
Make a more cursed Wife.

II

He is a most egregious Fool,
And does his Peace betray,
That thinks she'll then resign the Rule,
So us'd to boundless Sway.
O Liberty! thou best of Things!
Thou sweet above compare!
Can't that for which we strive with Kings
Not make us slight the Fair?

III

In Love we, as in Wit, might reign,
Did we not idly stray;
Not fear'd, they never wou'd disdain,
And not pursu'd wou'd stay.

We dig our selves our timeless Graves;
The Case is truly thus;
Were we not vain and wilful Slaves,
They wou'd be Slaves to us.

SONG XIX. Help at Hand.

I

Take not a Woman's Anger ill;
But let this be your Comfort still,
That if one won't another will:
Tho' she that's Foolish does deny,
She that is wiser will comply;
And if 'tis but a Woman what care I?

II

Who'd, then, be damn'd to swear untrue,
And tremble, weep, and whine and woo,
As all our supple Coxcombs do?
All Women love it; and tho' this
Does sullenly refuse the Bliss,
Try but the next and you cann't miss.

SONG XX. The Dream.

I

As sleeping, late, in Bed I lay,
My restless Cares to sooth,
Methought I heard a Female say—
Why dost thou trifle Time away
In vain, succesless Love?
Grieve not at Cælia's proud Disdain,
I'll soon thy Peace restore;
I hither came to end her Reign,
And thou shalt mourn no more.

II

I look't, and there did by me stand
A Form all Heav'nly gay!
Ah! Fair, I cry'd, and seiz'd her Hand,
What you, and such as you command,
No Man can disobey.
Dear Youth, said she, such Love as thine
Deserves a kinder Fate;
You shou'd not, were your Heart but mine,
Be us'd at such a Rate.

III

With that I strain'd her to my Breast,
And she as closely clung:
Her Lips, her Flame within confest,
Her speaking Eyes declar'd the rest,
And bid me not be long.
But in the Mid'st of this Delight,
Wound up a Pitch too high,
Like Air she vanish'd from my Sight,
Just sinking to comply.

IV

I wak'd, but wak'd to Misery,
Perplext to an Extreme—
But the next Nymph my Eyes did see
Was Thee, my Silvia! very Thee!
The same I saw in Dream!
Ah! then delay me not with doubt,
Nor vainly cruel prove;
When 'twas thy very Soul stole out
To tell me that you love.

SONG XXI. The Enquiry.

I

How cou'd, O Silvia, Cælia's Scorn
Compassion cause in Thee?
How cou'd thy Love (all smiling born)
Spring from her Cruelty?
Th'Equivocal Philosopher
Finds here his Reas'ning true;
My Warmth begat a Chill in her,
Her Ice a Fire in you.

II

That Like produces Like ev'n till
This Hour I did dispute;
But where's the Man be who he will,
That Beauty can't confute?
And yet, my Fair, w'are lost unless
A Paradox it prove;
For we can know no Happiness,
If Love begets not Love.

SONG XXII. The Boon.

I

Cou'd I believe when I did part
From Cælia, that my tortur'd Heart
Cou'd e'er receive another Dart,
Not Raving with the bleeding Wound,
And dying with the Smart?

II

But Beauty, tho' in some severe,
In others to our Am'rous Care
Delighted lends a list'ning Ear;
All are not fooolish that are young,
Nor cruel that are fair.

III

O Silvia! you redeem the Race
From all their Rigour and Disgrace,
Compassion in their stead you place;
And the dear Moment of Delight
Sits smiling on thy Face.

IV

Ah be but true! and bless my Flame
With Ardour still to be the same,
And to the Clouds I'll raise your Name
Nor there shall stop; but, singing thine,
Convey my Own to Fame.

SONG XXII. Nothing wanting to Love.

I

Yes, Silvia, I was told but now,
While on your Breast I lay
My Head, and thus obsequious bow,
I fool my Fame away;
That Glory, while thus close I joyn
My Lips and glowing Cheeks to thine,
Stars wide and cries she'll ne'er be mine.

II

Let the false World true Passion blame,
And Heav'n's best Gift despise;
I'd rather be the Fool I am
Than, without Love, be wise:
Fame, Glory, and what e'er we find
That captivates th'Ambitious Mind,
I have 'em all if thou art kind!

SONG XXIV. The Enquiry resolv'd.

I

O thou! to whom my Soul does bend!
What is it that thy Charms intend?
From whence, or how canst thou impart
Such lasting Transport to the Heart?
Where does the wond'rous Magick lie,
Or in thy Voice, or in thy Eye,
That make thy Adorers think the giv'n
To grant us here a Tast of Heav'n?

II

Others we may as beauteous see,
Yet we can gaze on only thee!
One by her Truth her Lover charms,
Another with her Vertue warms;
This by her Wit asserts her Power,
And this attracts us with her Dow'r;
But to thy Share alone does fall
Th'num'rous Gifts that charm us all!

III

'Tis done; I've found the Myst'ry out
Of which so many Lovers doubt.
'Tis not thy Shape, thy Face, thy Mein,
Or any other Part that's seen

(Tho' they so much our Wonder claim)
That kindles such a deathless Flame;
It is the constant Joy we find
That one so beauteous is so kind!

SONG XXV. The Caution.

I

Ah Silvia! have a Care—that Glance
Alas! belong'd to me;
Ev'n tho' thy Eyes but rov'd by Chance
'Twou'd yet Injustice be.
I should not care indeed if thine
Did but like common Beauties move;
But Ah! those Lights can never shine
Without inspiring Love.

II

What conquer'd me, alas! my Dear,
Will others conquer too:
In vain you cry, I need not fear,
And promise to be true.
If you are pleas'd when e'er you make
Some other youthful Heart your Prize,
Your Love its flight will quickly take,
And wait upon your Eyes.

SONG XXVI. The Lover's Fortune.

I

Cælia was cruel: Silvia, Thou,
I must confess, art kind;
But in her Cruelty, I vow,
I more Repose could find:
For O! thy Fancy at all Game does fly,
Fond of Address and willing to comply.

II

Thus he that loves must be undone,
Each Way on Rocks we fall;
Either you will be kind to none,
Or worse, be kind to all.
Vain are our Hopes, and endless is our Care,
We must be jealous or we must despair.

SONG XXVII. The Tyranny of Love.

I

Not tho' I know she melting lies
Prest in my Rival's Arms,
Cou'd e'er disswade my longing Eyes
From gazing on her Charms.

II

Tell me ye Powers that rule our Fate,
Why are we made so vain?
Why am I doom'd to wish for that
Which 'twere a Curse to gain?

III

She's faithless yet I still adore;
Ev'n Reason I despise;
And find no Men in Sense so poor
As those that think they're wise.

IV

O shun, they cry, the fatal Flame!
Yet when the Nymph they see,
They neither care for Wit or Fame,
But perish pleas'd like me.

SONG XXVIII. To Mirtillo.

I

Silvia has a thousand Charms,
Her Look the hardest Heart disarms:
While I stand gazing on her Face,
Some new and some resistless Grace
Fills with fresh Magick all the Place!
Love his Darts around her throwing,
Her Breath Arabian Spices blowing,
And Venus was not half so knowing.

II

But while the Nymph we thus adore,
We shou'd our wretched Fate deplore;
For O Mirtillo! have a Care,
Her Sweetness is above compare,
But then she is more false than fair:
Her chief Delight is in undoing,
And tho' w'are certain of our Ruin,
There is no stopping when w'are going.

SONG XXIX. Silvia.

I

Fair and soft, and gay and young,
All Charm! she plaid, she danc'd she sung!
There was no Way to scape the Dart,
No Care cou'd guard the Lover's Heart.
Ah! why, cry'd I, and dropt a Tear
(Adoring, yet despairing e'er
To have her to my self alone)
Was so much Sweetness made for one?

II

But growing bolder, in her Ear
I in soft Numbers told my Care:
She heard, and rais'd me from her Feet,
And seem'd to glow with equal Heat.
Like Heav'n's, too mighty to express!
My Joys cou'd but be known by Guess!
Ah! Fool, said I, what have I done,
To wish her made for more than one?

III

But long I had not been in View,
Before her Eyes their Beams withdrew:
E'er I had reckon'd half her Charms,
She sunk into another's Arms.
But she that once cou'd Faithless be,
Will favour him no more than me:
He, too, will find he is undone,
And that she was not made for one.

SONG XXX. Women's Vows.

I

If Vows cou'd keep a Heart secure,
Or Oaths cou'd make those Vows endure,
My Happiness had still been sure;
Clasp'd in her Arms I now had lain,
And never known a Moments Pain.

II

But what are Vows that Women make?
Or Oaths they, to confirm 'em, take,
If they are only made to break?
If they were never yet believ'd,
But they that trusted were deceiv'd?

III

She Swore the num'rous Lamps above
Shou'd all their Glory lose and move
No more, if e'er she chang'd her Love:
Stand still ye Stars and cease to shine,
The perjur'd Maid's no longer mine!

SONG XXXI. The Farewel.

I

Farewel, O Silvia! and in Thee
Farewel to Love and Jealousie;
To Grief, Distraction, Hope and Fear,
And ev'ry other little Care
That will be where the Lovers are;
Farewel ye Legions of my Breast,
All gone, now Woman's dispossest.

II

How well I lov'd I need not tell,
I'll only say I lov'd too well.
Thro' ev'ry Artery ev'ry Vein,
The quickning Joy resistless ran,
And ne'er was a more happy Man.
Immortal Constancy I swore,
And meant it—what cou'd Mortal more?

III

And yet remember how you still
Wou'd steer my Reason by your Will:
Now in a Storm you'd shew your Pow'r,
Be sullen, sick, and sad and sour,
And all these Changes in an Hour;
Still ill at ease tho' ne'er so well,
And how to please you none cou'd tell.

IV

On your Discourse I watchful hung,
And thought all Musick from your Tongue;
Tho' I cou'd nothing ever hear
But whether Silks were cheap, or dear;
Or Fashions for another Year:
With Panegyricks on the Crew
Of Fops that dress'd and patch'd like you.

V

But now your Flame began to wast,
No Thought of any Promise past:
To one of Wealth away you ran,
But let him keep you if he can,
Too needy I for the Trapan.
O how my Poverty I prize!
Wealth wou'd have kept on the Disguise.

VI

As Weather Cocks declare the Wind,
In Thee I see all Womankind;
See to what fatal Point they tend
To whom they're haughty, whom they bend,
And whom they martyr in the End.
Fly (wretched Men!) th'alluring Race,
All's Hell beside the Heav'nly Face.

Love Verses.

The Captive.

Long I had laught at the vain Name of Love,
And thought it Fiction all; it ne'er cou'd move
My Eyes to wander, or enslave my Heart,
Freedom and that were one, and were too fond to part;
Freedom without whose Pastport Wealth were vain,
Pleasure a Clog, and Life it self a Pain.
But ah! too soon I found that Blessing gone,
Whose Loss, I fear, I must for ever moan.
I saw her, and no more; one pointed View
Softn'd my flinty Breast, and pierc'd it thro' and thro'.
O who can Love's resistless Darts controul,
That thro' our Eyes so soon can reach the Soul!
Yes Cælia, I'm your Captive from this Hour,
But do not govern with Tyrannick Pow'r;
Smile, and the Muse shall celebrate thy Name,
Make it her constant Theme, and give it lasting Fame.

To Cælia, desiring his Absence.

Now Cælia y'ave your Wish—but ah! be kind
To the poor Captive-Heart I leave behind;

For tho' I go yet that with Thee remains,
Proud that 'tis Thine, and triumphs in its Chains.
For all the Beauties that are now unblown,
When in their gaudiest Prime they shall be shown,
And kneeling to be lov'd, I'd not my Flame disown;
Tho' by that Time, perhaps, thy Charms might wast,
And the gay Bloom of smiling Youth be past.
Yet you Inflexible, Obdurate prove,
And cry—'Tis false, 'tis feign'd, not real Love.
While I, on t'other Side, with Grief confess
Those Youths more happy that affect thee less.
My Passion yet has born no Fruit but Care;
And they that do not love thee don't despair.

The Request.

Hear me, O Pow'rful Charmer! e'er my Breath
Is stopt by the ungentle Hand of Death;
E'er my quick Pulse has ever ceas'd to move,
And beats no more the Vital March to Love.
E'er my sad Tomb you visit (wan with Care)
And cry—The Youth had not lain silent here,
If I had been less rigid and severe:
'Twas my cold Usage wing'd his timeless Fate;
Too soon he lov'd, and I believe too late!
Hear me, I beg, (if Truth may beg for Grace)
Let not thy Heart bely thy Heav'nly Face:
Thy Face is with Compassion cloath'd around,
With Mildness and with smiling Mercy crown'd;
Comfort has all her Influence from your Eyes,
And you will smile when any Lover dies
Kill'd by Disdain: To such your Pity shown,
May make us hope you'll once regard your own:

Let others Arrogantly tempt their Doom,
And on their Birth, or Wealth, or Wit presume;
I, humbler, only beg you wou'd not hate
That Passion which your Beauty did create.
To give Life for the Pleasure to destroy,
Can be at best, methinks, but barbarous Joy.
What Nature makes she wou'd continue still,
She never quickens with Intent to Kill.
Since to my Love you did it's Being give,
Ah Smile! and let your own Creation live.

Love can't be hid.

Accurst and torn from the Records above,
Be the sad Hour in which I own'd my Love:
Curst be the Wretch that did the Message bear,
That made her tender Nature grow severe,
And plung'd me, hopeless, deeper in Despair,
And curst my self (if there a Curse remain,
If yet there be a Plague beyond Disdain)
Who did the inauspicious Lines indite
That banish'd me for ever from her Sight!
O Slave! O Wretch! despis'd, forlorn, undone!
I grasp'd at Joy and pull'd my Ruin on.
She sung, and I was call'd her Voice to hear,
What a delicious Feast for Hope was there!
Then when she danc'd so gracefully she'd move,
At first 'twas Wonder, but at last 'twas Love!
Her Look, like Light'ning, did all Bars controul,
And let her all entire into my Soul!
Her ev'ry Action did Delight create,
And I was blest more than I can relate.
All this with Silence, all had still been mine,
I spoke, and streight that Sun forbore to shine;

The smiling Heav'n was in a Moment fled,
And endless Woe presented in its stead.
O Slave! O Wretch!—Yet why shou'd I complain?
By Fate compell'd, I have reveal'd my Pain,
And so shou'd do were it to do again:
That Spirit Love what subtle Chain can bind?
What Strength, what Prudence keep it long confin'd?
Resistless, thro' all Lets 'twill force its Way,
And when once Master will no more obey.

Despair.

In vain I write, in vain I strive to move
Her, whose stern Nature is averse to Love:
Ah cruel Nymph! Ah most regardless Fair!
Or wert thou born to give me endless Care?

'Tis said this Glorious Frame, and all above,
Those num'rous shining Lights that round us move,
Were rais'd from Chaos at one Word of Love.
Thro' the wide Wast blest Order swiftly flew,
And wild Confusion chang'd her grisly Hue;
By her own Offspring Discord was forsook,
And the glad Spheres their constant Motions took;
Wide as their Influence spreads, to either Pole,
In mystick Dance harmoniously they roll,
And with like sacred Union tune the Soul:
The Soul, for Beatifick Vision giv'n,
Breath'd from the Godhead, and its Centre Heav'n:
Both this and that on the same Axle move,
For Heav'n is Union, and the Soul is Love.
Love that does reach where ever Light extends,
And thither too a warmer Influence sends;
Nor when the Night arrives his happy Reign he ends.

From his Eternal Sway there's nothing free,
All the Creation own his Power—But Thee,
Thee Cupid flies, and Thou dost Cupid shun,
Thy Eyes, more Cruel, do the Work alone.
He wounds the Heart, but gives in Time Relief;
You to the very Soul transfuse the Grief:
No Help design, no Pity e'er intend,
Unless in poor Amyntor's speedy End.
Thy Eyes, those Beams of Heav'n if Love were there,
Are but to me a sad portentous Star,
Where in broad Characters I read—Despair!
Despair then, Wretch, nor longer strive to move
Her whose stern Nature is averse to Love.

The vain Pursuit.

To a Lady that desir'd him to write to her in Verse.

Cloe , when you are pleas'd Commands to lay,
Tho' 'twere on Kings, they'd readily obey;
Much more may I, then—so much less than they.

But ah! I fear my humble Verse will move
You rather to despise it, than approve;
For I can write of nothing else but Love.

Of nothing else; 'tis my perpetual Theme,
That flows as 'twere an inexhausted Stream,
In all I say, or do, or think, or dream.

Sometimes I take my Book and go to Prayer;
But Love, fond Love ev'n interrupts me there,
And turns my vain Devotions into Air.

Long have I search'd but never yet cou'd find
The happy Balm that heals a wounded Mind:
There's not a Star in Heav'n but what's unkind.

For the hard She that I am doom'd t'obey,
From my Pursuit for ever flies away,
And Fate it self's too weak to bribe her Stay.

Shadows that flit before us o'er the Plain,
As fast pursue when we return again;
But She ne'er turns, and ne'er can be o'ertane.

This is the rigid Fate I'm forc'd to bear:
And tell me, Fair one, is it not severe
That so much Love shou'd meet so much Despair?

Despair, the bitter Bowl, as Authors tell,
That to the Brim does with such Poison swell,
As makes the Furies lash themselves in Hell.

Her Name I will conceal—My Reason why,
Because there's none shall blame me when I die,
That one so low shou'd have a Thought so high.

The Hopeless Lover.

In a Vision to Cælia.

'Twas now the Time when all Remains of Day
By the thick Shades of Night were chast away:

Silence and gentle Sleep fill'd ev'ry Breast,
And Nature's self seem'd to retire to rest.
Nothing but Fancy (for she ever wakes,
And, unconfin'd, her roving Journey takes
O'er Hills, o'er Dales, o'er Flow'ry Meads and Lakes:
Sometimes she mounts aloft where Angels dwell,
And in a Trice shoots down from thence to Hell,
There all the Tortures of the Damn'd does view,
And almost makes us think we feel 'em too.)
Nothing beside was free; and 'twas her Will
To shew the Pastimes of her Antick Skill.
Wrapt deep in Sleep I lay, the Scene she drew;
And this was that presented to my View.

I look'd, and Lo! I saw a Nymph as fair
As Guardian Angels in Idea are
Her Mien so graceful, and her Eyes so bright,
Their Lustre did supply the absent Light.
Musing, I on the dazling Object gaz'd,
At once delighted, and at once amaz'd.
But witness for me Heav'n, for you know best,
What a Confusion seiz'd my trembling Breast,
When drawing nearer for a stricter View
(Not thinking that beauteous Form I knew)
I found 'twas Cælia, causer of my Smart,
Cælia! the cruel Empress of my Heart.
Whose Eyes methought at my approach shot Flame,
Arm'd with that direful Weapon, sharp Disdain.
Backward I stept, grim Horror seiz'd my Heart,
And stab'd it round in every Vital Part;
Nor had I Strength to bear the painful Wound,
But fainted, and fell Speechless to the Ground,
Beyond the Reach of Human Pow'r to save,
Had not these Words recall'd me from the Grave.

Amyntor, Rise and hear your Cælia speak,
I bring the Cure, the only Cure you seek.
Despair no more (that Bane of all Delight)
Shall break your Peace by Day, or Rest by Night,
But chas'd by me, take everlasting Flight.
Rise, and to meet thy coming Joy prepare
This happy Hour for ever ends your Care.

Reviv'd with this dear Language up I sprung;
But Fear had barr'd all Utt'rance from my Tongue:
A thousand Doubts roll'd in my troubl'd Breast
While I stood trembling to expect the rest:
Kind tho' she seem'd, her Eyes commanded Death,
And my pale Fate hung hov'ring o'er her Breath.

Dear Youth (continued she) the Scorn I've shown
Was only to confirm you more my own:
For if your Passion were from Interest pure,
I knew 'twoud the severest Test endure.
'Twas this to be assured of made me feign
All the sharp Rigours of unjust Disdain.
And who alas! will blame me that reflects
How many of our frail believing Sex
Are lost (be they as vertuous as they can)
By the fair specious Arts of faithless Man?
How oft d'ye vow y'are our eternal Slaves?
Yet Tyrants grow and drive us to our Graves.
When once possest for what you feign'd to burn,
You treat us with Neglect, Disdain and Scorn,
And mighty Love to rude Contempt does turn.
Such Thoughts as these made me with Caution move,
And on a sure Foundation build my Love:
For who e'er gain'd it, I well knew wou'd find
'Twas not the Passion of a fickle Mind,
Changing as Tydes, and Wav'ring with the Wind;

But fix'd like Fate, from whence its Essence came,
Ever to last, and always be the same,
And so, Amyntor, so to you I give
A Heart which for you only wish'd to live.

Charm'd with the tuneful Sound her Accents bore,
I was all Joy! as all Despair before.
Not the least Mark of Sorrow did remain,
This one blest Moment cancell'd all my Pain.
So a just Martyr'd Saint thro' Heaven does range,
And so does wonder at his happy Change!
At last the Transport giving Way I spoke,
And in these Words the pleasing Silence broke.

Thou truest Image of the Pow'rs above,
For They like You will frown on him they love,
But when thro' much Adversity h'has past,
Like You, they bounteously reward at last:
For Perseverance wins their Love divine,
And Perseverance too has gain'd me Thine.
Y'ave sav'd me from Despair! and rais'd me to
A Pitch of Joy where yet my Wishes never flew!
Surprising turn!—Oft have I sent my Cries
(With Care kept waking) echoing to the Skies.
How oft (the constant Mourner of the Grove)
Have I sat weeping my improsp'rous Love?
How oft did I to senseless Trees complain?
Whose whistling Leaves breath'd back my Woes again.
Hard Stones of Adamant e'en seem'd to hear,
And in Compassion oft wou'd drop a Tear;
You, harder yet, ne'er lent a pitying Ear.
So moving was each tender Sigh and Groan,
E'en Philomel has ceas'd her Midnight Moan,
And thought my Griefs more piercing than her own.
Unkind, relentless Cælia (wou'd I cry)
Must I thus scorn'd and thus unpity'd die?

What is it that my humble Love requires?
Only a Sigh just as your Slave expires:
Without Reluctance then to Death I'd go,
Meet him half way, and bless the coming Blow;
Her Frowns can't reach me when I lie so low.
Such were the Words my wild Despair let fall
Such were my Griefs—but this o'er pays 'em all.

Thus I, me thought, my Passion's Progress mourn'd,
When Cælia, weeping, this Reply return'd,
Amyntor! How shall I your Peace restore?
Or how reward the Pangs for me you bore?
My Love, I fear is a Return too small,
Take with it then, my Life! my Soul! my All!
Here she sunk speechless down into my Arms,
Melting! and melting me too with her Charms!

What shou'd I do? All over Warmth I prest
Her close, and held her panting to my Breast
Ah! Fair, I cry'd, (while in that Union join'd)
Y'ave own'd I'm true, and now I own you're kind,
What then, at last, but the dear Joy remains?
That now we reap the Fruit of all our Pains?
You must not, can't, you shan't deny the Bliss—
O come!—I han't the Leisure for a Kiss.

See here the Fate that over Love does reign!
How short the Pleasure, and how long the Pain!
For O! no sooner had the accursed Sound
Of these last Words unwary Utt'rance found,
But the fair Vision took her unseen Flight,
And swiftly vanish'd thro' the Shades of Night.
Awak'd, I started up and gaz'd around,
But not one Glimpse of the lov'd Shadow found:
My Arms I clos'd and thought it yet was there,
But nothing now was to be clasp'd but Air:

'Twas gone! 'twas gone! and with it fled away
All the dear Hope I had of future Joy!

Eternally relentless Pow'rs above!
Must all my constant Service fruitless prove?
And never, never pierce the Heart I love?
Must I for ever in these Pangs remain,
Doom'd to love on, and doom'd to love in vain?
But 'tis your Will—and I shou'd not complain.
Yet O (if hapless Love may dare contend)
Had you but let the Vision know no End,
That, wrapt with the imaginary Charms,
I might have slept whole Ages in her Arms;
In vain of more substantial Blessings free,
That dear Illusion had been Heav'n to me!
But the same Minute we expect Relief,
To find a sure and still encreasing Grief,
Is of all human Curses, sure the chief:
For know, O Cælia, O disdainful Fair!
I must still love thee, tho' I still Despair.

The first Sight of Silvia.

Is it resolv'd that I must ever find
Cælia relentless, and no other Kind?
Too long, alas! and too much Love I've shewn
To one that is but harden'd by my Moan:
That Grief which Tigers Pity she will mock,
Deaf to entreaty, and her Heart a Rock.
Let me at last, O Love! some Female see,
Mild as the op'ning Morn, but fair as she:
I wou'd not die methinks, before I'd prov'd
(As 'tis to Love) what 'tis to be belov'd.

I spoke; the God, propitious now, did hear,
And said—D'ye see that Charming Figure there?
Behold this Bow, drawn up with Strength and Art,
See! the Shaft flies and lodges in her Heart.
Now laugh at those that tell you Love is blind:
Away, nor doubt a quick Relief to find,
Your Cruel you shall change for one as Kind.

I came, and to her Cheeks the Blushes flew,
The Lilies streight had lost their Native Hue,
And in their Room a Grove of Roses grew:
I found the Frailty climbing to her Eyes,
And in short Starts her Breasts wou'd fall and rise:
Yet with a Maiden Coyness still she strove,
And scarcely yet will own her Passion, Love.

O Silvia! (for of whom can all this be
Discours'd or meant, but only only Thee?
The God of Love himself your Love foretold;)
And what he gives 'twere Impious to with-hold.

Silvia Luke-warm.

Now while I languish on your gentle Breast,
That Pillow where my Cares are hush'd to rest;
While our plump Veins are full of Youthful Fire,
And Nature able to make good Desire;
Why at this Season, in Love's choicest Prime,
Shou'd you conceive that I indulge a Crime
To urge Enjoyment? Which you rather ought
Believe th'Effect of Passion than a Fau't.
Think, Lovely Charmer, how the Minutes fly,
And the preventing Spite of Destiny:

Our vig'rous Days alas! will soon be gone,
And Age and Impotence come swiftly on.
Let us not then thus wast the precious Time,
'Tis that, O Silvia, that's the greatest Crime;
For as that's trifled and consum'd away,
Who knows too, but our Passions may decay?
Enjoyment will preserve the Flame entire,
No other Fuel can maintain the Fire,
That's Love indeed! the rest is but Desire;
That is the Oil that makes the Colours last,
While Paints in Fresco fret away, and wast.
For Pity then change your half yielding Mind,
To be but kind in Part is much unkind
Luke-warm Indifferency I cannot bear;
Such tedious Hopes are worse than quick Despair.

Silvia kind.

Yes! this is to be blest! there is beyond
No human Joy so lasting to be found:
Or this is Heav'n, or something else so near,
That Saints for less wou'd stay for ever here.
Cou'd such delight be but below our Fate,
Who'd run the Risk of any future State?
Thy Eyes now shoot, indeed, a Lover's Fire,
And the same Joy the Look in mine inspire.
You say your self you soon will ease my Care,
And to your Words your Blushes Witness bear;
Blushes whose Colour richlier does adorn
Thy Cheeks, than those that paint the op'ning Morn.
Thy very Soul into the very Face does rise!
The Woman can no more thy Love disguise,
And Truth, in spite of Art, sits Victor in thy Eyes!

Behold, O Lovers! how at last you gain
An ample Recompence for all your Pain.
One Promise that the Fair will give Relief,
Suspends our Care, and eases ev'ry Grief:
Such perfect Joy our very Hope exceeds,
Only outdone by that which it preceeds!
O pleasing Agony! O happy Hour!
That puts the yielding Angel in my Pow'r!
When on her Sweets I feast with panting Breath,
Pursuing Pleasure to the Verge of Death!

But Lo! just in the Mid'st of my Career,
As thus I drove to Bliss, and thought it near,
Reason o'ertakes, and Bids me have a Care.
In such vain Thoughts (said he) y'are misemploy'd;
Y'are yet not happy, yet she's unenjoy'd.
When Pleasure smiles oft adverse Fortune low'rs;
What may be lost is yet not wholly ours.
Think not in Woman certain Joys to find,
'Till in her soft and circling Arms entwin'd,
She gives the last dear Proof of being kind.

Silvia in the Country.

As in that Region when the Glorious Sun
Does rise, that had for half a Year been gone,
All Nature smiles; and Joy in ev'ry Eye,
Welcoms his Re-ascension to the Sky!
But when he back to Southern Climes retires,
In vain their Furrs of Beasts and constant Fires;
The Beast himself for want of Warmth expires.
So, till you left us 'twas all Radiant Day,
But Night! perpetual Night now y'are away;

In vain we gaze, and fix our weary Eyes
Upon that Quarter where the Gleams shou'd rise,
No Sign of Light appears, no Glim'ring Dawn,
But all around the gloomy Curtain drawn.
But as the Sun, when from our Hemisphere
Declin'd, to distant Realms his Beams does bear;
So tho' remov'd from hence, you there are bright,
Lost to our Eyes, not lessen'd in your Light:
In ev'ry Breast you there like Ardor move,
Shine at full Blaze and give all Creatures Love!
Amaz'd and pleas'd with Joy your Voice they hear.
Thoughtless of us that mourn in Darkness here.
So smil'd the Chosen Seed when Egypt lay
In its long Night, and 'twas at Goshen Day.

Thus I her Absence mourn'd: When Love again
Appear'd, and wonder'd why I did complain.
Is she not there (he said) where best I know
To fix my Darts, and most my Pow'r can show?
In shady Groves, on Flow'ry Banks reclin'd,
With Garlands wreath'd, and fann'd with od'rous Wind,
The Lover oft a Blessing does receive,
Which Courts with all their Splendor ne'er cou'd give;
A Comfort that Remembrance can't destroy,
A Conscious Innocence, and Guiltless Joy!
Let it not grieve you that the Fair's retir'd,
'Tis only to be follow'd and admir'd:
Among the Rural Nymphs as there she lies,
She may be pleas'd, perhaps, to own her Prize,
To shew to them the Triumphs of her Eyes.
There she perhaps may Love's Reward dispence;
O Warmth of undissembl'd Innocence!
There Lips to Lips, with glowing Ardor join'd,
May introduce you to a Scene more kind;
When, Breathless, in your Arms the Fair expires,
And, Life returning, the same Death desires!

Wish her not then in this ill Town again,
The vast Exchange of all Things lewd and vain,
When she so much the happier Lot enjoys,
Free from those Ills which here my Power destroys,
Love's not conceiv'd, nor born, nor lives in Noise:
Eternal Jargon, Rattle, Storm and Fewd
Dwell here, and ev'ry Day the Din's renew'd.
There Innocence and Joy and Silence reign,
And spread their sacred Influence thro' the Plain:
There the Harmonious Quire in Copses sing
Their Airs Divine, and Prophesy of Spring:
Ev'n Nature smiles and yields 'em all that's rare,
At least she, sure must smile now Silvia's there.
Away then (Absence will not do the Thing)
Your Reason to the Swallow's Custom bring,
The Spring don't seek 'em but they seek the Spring.

He ceas'd; and strait the Heav'nly Form withdrew.
Ah Silvia! what must poor Amyntor do?
Impatiently he thy lov'd Sight affects,
And Counsel's sacred when a God directs.
Blame me not then if I presume on those
Retirements which your Solitude has chose;
I must be happy where you find Repose.
There I will trace your Steps thro' ev'ry Grove,
And sigh, and wish, and look perpetual Love!
There I perhaps the happy Hour may find:
No Female ever yet was all her Life unkind.

Misled by Hope, and flatter'd by my Theme,
How far I stray? How idly do I dream?
While I discourse of Joys imagin'd there,
She's absent still, and I unhappy here.

A Letter from Silvia.

However Fate may have dispos'd of mine,
This happy Moment I was blest with thine.
Ah cou'd but mine to thee like Pleasure give!—
But let that Perish, so thy Lines may live.
The Superscription shew'd from whence it came,
To dear Amyntor!—That disclos'd thy Name;
Without 'twas Warmth, but it within was Flame!
Swift from my Heart it did all Anguish drive,
Not richest Cordials cou'd so soon revive.
So soft the Stile, it more than Wonder moves!
As if the Quills dropt from the Paphian Doves,
To sign the Contract, and record our Loves.
Thy Vows in thy own Characters are wrote;
And thy fair Hand has vouch'd thy generous Thought:
Here's Witness now that will to Ages last,
Your Faith is plighted, and your Promise past.
With so much Sweetness is your Passion drest,
That Sweetness with such Innocence exprest,
I read, I see, and think I'm with the Blest!
Nor are thy Lines but active in my Eyes,
To ev'ry other Part the Influence flies;
To ev'ry Sense it equal Joy procures;
But the Conclusion most my Bliss assures,
To see you thus subscrib'd—For ever yours!
For ever! happy Accents! sacred sound!
For ever! let it reach the Starry Round!
For ever! let the Hills and Vales rebound!
Away all anxious Fears, all Reason hence,
And ev'ry Thought that doubts her Innocence;
No more I'll to your Cautions credit give;
Who least suspects does least in Trouble live.

The must be true!—as Flames to Heav'n ascend,
As heavy Bodies to their Centre tend;
So she to Vertue wings her steady Flight,
Rising, and yet encreasing to our Sight:
For Bodies as they mount are less'ning still,
But Vertue as it climbs the Airy Hill,
Enlarges, and like Light do's all th'Horizon fill.
But while her Worth thus entertains my Mind,
I have forgot her Vows of being kind.
Fly swift, ye Moments, bring her to my Eyes
That strain with longing for that Light to rise.
Bring her resolv'd and warm to my Embrace,
With Love's last Ardour flashing in her Face—
She's here! I see! I feel her!—to my Breast
I press her, twining round me!—but the rest,
Like Heav'n, is Pleasure not to be exprest!

Strange Force of Love! if barely with the Thought
I'm to so high a Pitch of Rapture wrought,
What must Enjoyment be? and what her Charms
When she (indeed) is melting in my Arms?

Silvia yet in the Country.

Tho' Misbelievers to our Faith are blind,
O Silvia! we may say our Souls are join'd,
For what's true Love but ming'ling Mind with Mind.
Not thro' past Ages can a Pair be found
Whose Truth deserves more nobly to be crown'd,
Or will in after Days be more renown'd.
Ev'n Friendship burns but dim, not worth a Name,
When 'tis compar'd with our more mutual Flame,
And not so well deserves Immortal Fame,

In thy dear Arms my Cares were always eas'd,
Nor cou'd I ever grieve when you were pleas'd:
Still so concern'd, so studious of your Good,
For ev'ry Tear you shed my Heart wept Blood.
Nor was your Passion charming Silvia less,
Too strong to warp, too copious to express;
A languishing, a lasting, Lambent Flame,
Bright as thy Eyes, untainted as thy Fame;
Fresh as the Dawn when first Aurora springs,
And soft as Down upon an Angel's Wings!
Such was our Love, so we entranc'd did live,
Contented, and what more had Heav'n to give?
What but Enjoyment? Whence all Hopes deriv'd,
That last dear Point where yet w'are not arriv'd!

Blest were these Hours, and ah! they swiftly flew!
But who e'er kept soft Pleasure long in View?
Like Birds she sits and prunes her in our Eyes,
And if we stir away the Wanton flies;
Brooks no Confinement, but thro' Rural Groves
And shining Courts with equal Freedom roves;
Fixt only there where Love with Vertue meets,
Yet then not always Liberal of her Sweets:
Ev'n present Lovers of her Grudgings find,
In vain the Absent then expect her kind.
What ever Am'rous Lectures she has read,
Departing, she unsays what she has said,
And leaves Despair to govern in her stead.
In the soft lonely Hours of silent Night,
When Nature does to general Rest invite,
Ev'n then the absent Lover's Eyes are wide,
When ev'ry Human Care is fast beside.
Or if he sleep (expos'd to all Extremes)
His Doubts preside, and hag him in his Dreams.
Waking, he in disorder'd Looks appears,
Pale with his Sorrows, and all drown'd in Tears:

At last not able to contain his Grief,
He thus complains, but hopeless of Relief.

Ah Wretch! what am I born to undergo?
Successive Days but bring successive Wo!
There never was a Beauteous Creature yet
But might be won with Riches, Worth, or Wit:
Curst Fate! that dooms me to continue here!
I've many Rivals so accomplish'd there.
As she is Lovely she must Lovers gain,
And Youth to Youth solicits not in vain;
The Kindler's kindled with like Am'rous Fires,
Desires incestuously beget Desires.
Ah! see! she melts and can no longer hear
The Voice of Vertue—Faithless! perjur'd Fair!
The Conq'rour sees her faint, and presses on—
Confusion! she is lost, and I'm undone!

Ah! think thou lovely Partner of my Heart,
(And lovlier as thou hast no Helps from Art;
Less bright are they that lie in Princes Arms,
For she that's Vertuous has ten thousand Charms)
Ah! think if Absence can so painful be
To others, that (tho' in a less Degree)
It will, it is, it must be felt by me.
But I'll not now afflict thee, nor dilate
On what I suffer from so hard a Fate,
Since the Time's nigh that will disperse our Harms,
And bring us blest to one anothers Arms.
This tho' believe; what e'er my Griefs may be,
There's none arises from my Doubts of thee.

Silvia Return'd.

She comes! and with her does all Sweetness bring:
Tho' Summer's o'er and Birds have left to sing
She in the very Fall revives the Spring!
At least Her Aspect so our Care beguiles,
We see no change of Seasons while She smile.
Both Love and Joy at once enflame her Eyes,
And in my own I feel like Rapture rise.
I see! I have her now! with all her Charms,
So long with-held from my Impatient Arms!
But O! such Perfect Bliss she does dispence,
The very Sweets opress my aking Sense!
If from your Presence such Delight can flow,
Ah Silvia! what was, late, my Absent Woe?
But all my Pains you in your own might know:
For faithful Love (as Thine was so to Me)
Must have in Absence like effects on Thee.
But thou'rt Return'd? and I no more will grieve!
This happy Moment I begin to Live.
The Æra of my Joys I'll date from hence,
Nor with it shall one guilty Thought commence;
For there's no Peace where there's no Innocence
And that, in Love, the God to none allows,
But those to death persisting in their Vows.
O Silvia! do not then the Bliss delay,
Be just to Love, and fix the happy Day.
Let me not, Moses-like, on Pisgah stand,
At Distance to survey the promis'd Land,
But since so much y'ave giv'n give the rest—
Ah! what is Heav'n if seen and not possest?

To Silvia, On deferring our Nuptials.

See how the Morning, Radiant in it's Beams,
Does suit th'Occasion; flush't with kindling Gleams,
Like Brides in their Preliminary Dreams.
Never before with a more Lovely Ray
Did glad Aurora paint the rising Day.
Look out, my Silvia, on this glorious Sight,
And add thy Lustre to this Scene of Light!
Thy Ruddier Blushes will ev'n Hers adorn,
And gild her Brightness, as that gilds the Morn.
She wakes! she rises! and all Hands employs
To make her dress an Emblem of her Joys:
And see! at last all sparkling she appears!
But why, my Silvia, why these wayward Tears?
Why with such boding Drops dost thou destroy
My Hopes, and hang a Clog upon my Joy?
O dry thy Eyes! the promis'd Hour's in sight,
And the Scene opens to immense Delight!
The Priest attends, the Guests impatient stay,
And Phœbus Labours to make short the Day.
O come! Our happy Hours on Earth are few,
And e'er the rising Sun w'ave much to do.

Ha! say'st thou!—must our Nuptials be delay'd?
Am I unkind? Or is thy Flame decay'd?
That thus I'm on the Brink of Pleasure staid,
Ev'n now when Cupid wou'd with Hymen meet,
To make our Comforts lasting as they're great?
Or is't thy Fear that causes this Delay?—
But that I'll soon remove—thy Hand, away:
See all the Virgins wonder at thy Stay!

You blush! alas! what e'er those Blushes mean,
Consider by and by they'll not be seen;
Veil'd from their Eyes, the Curtains then shall close,
And give us Sweets much softer than Repose.
Ha! why that rising Coldness on your Brow?
It chills me too that was so warm but now!
In vain, you say, I urge you to comply,
In vain the Transport of my Voice and Eye,
You will have longer time:—and let it be,
You never shall be disobey'd by me.
But think! ah think the Future Fate assures
To none! the present Moment's only ours;
It courts us now, and bids us Pleasure chuse,
For ever lost if unenjoy'd it goes!
Still you persist—yet faithful to your Vow;
I shall be blest, tho' disappointed now.
Alas! an Hour will be an Age to me—
But then, by Love, I'll be reveng'd on thee.
I'll revel then thro' all the Sweets thou hast,
Profuse of Joy, and lay whole Regions wast!
O'er all thy rich Sabæan Coasts I'll rove,
And stifle in the Fragrances of Love!
With mutual Ardor, Bliss and Warmth we'll strive,
Die, but to live! and faint but to revive!
E'en thou thy self (tho' now so nicely coy)
Shalt all thy Strength, thy Sense thy Soul employ!
And wish y'had sooner known the Racking Joy!

Silvia's Indifference.

Ah! 'tis too sure! the Change appears at last,
And all my Hopes are, like a Vision past!
Instead of Love, dislike in Frowns does rise,
And the kind Fervour's vanish'd from her Eyes.

As in a backward Autumn, when the bright
Hyperion gives a raw and sickly Light,
The unrip'ning Fruit upon the Branches dies,
The with'ring Leaf around in Ruin lies,
And only Winter Scenes salute our Eyes,
So does her Coldness all Love's Product blight,
To Hope infectious, fatal to Delight.
The soft'ning Influence of her Eyes she veils;
No more her Breath is spent in am'rous Gales:
Hymen himself at Distance feebly shines,
And wonders why so swiftly He declines.
She now surveys me with no more Concern
Than Vice that Vertue which it scorns to learn.
If she does write, such Frost is in her Stile,
I read—but am in Greenland all the while.
My Voice (once prais'd) no more affects her Ears
Than Sermons which an Atheist yawning hears.
Or if I dance with like regard she sees
As fearful Beauties wou'd a loath'd Disease.
When e'er I gaze upon her Eyes, their View
She turns to find out Objects vain and new.
The Oaths of perjur'd Men affect her more
Than all the sacred Oaths I ever swore.
Musick she finds when others Love relate,
From me it sounds like the last Call of Fate.
Nothing I say, or do, or look can move,
Tho' e'ery Word's breath'd from the Soul of Love.
I sigh! I weep! I bleed! I burn! I die
Nor this affects her Heart, nor that her Eye,
She hears, she sees, and walks regardless by.
E'en Hope, that last Reserve, to Scorn does yield,
And wild Despair rides Victor o'er the Field;
Upon her Cruelty he rears his Throne,
With barbarous Joy beholds the Day his own,
And smiles, like her, to hear the dying Groan.

Thus, Silvia, were (by your Neglect constrain'd)
My Thoughts last Night in Vision entertain'd:
Thus 'twas I talkt, these very Words I write
Did anxious Fancy to the Muse indite.
I never, waking, said you were untrue,
Nor can I close the intellectual View.
Let it at least, preserve me thy Esteem,
That all my Doubts of thee are but a Dream.
Whatever Sleep suggests, what e'er my Fears,
And all that in thy alter'd Look appears,
You are, you shall, you will, you must be just
And I abuse thee by a mean Distrust.
Thou dost but for a while eclipse the Light
Of Love, to make it dearer to our Sight:
The Mask took off, but more commends the Fair,
And Hope arises brightest from Despair.

Silvia Perjur'd.

She has (ye Gods) forgot the Vows she made,
And, conscious flies the Wretch she has betray'd.
But if she's yet not past the Pow'r of Love,
If Constancy has Charms, or Verse can move,
I'll bring thy Vertues back forgetful Fair,
And prove that plighted Oaths are something more than Air.
In such sad Strains I'll my Distress impart,
So lively will I paint my bleeding Heart,
E'en thou thy self shalt be amaz'd to see
So swift a Change from Joy to Misery!
I had no Respite between best and worst,
Fed but to starve, and happy to be curst;
Precipitated by a sudden Blow,
From the Extreme of Bliss to that of Woe!

Yet (Cruel Maid!) my Crime let Envy tell,
I was too humble, and I lov'd too well.
Did Angels know my Truth as well as you,
Ev'n they wou'd wonder Man shou'd be so true:
But wonder more to see thee faithless prove
When there is scarce a purer Flame above:
What can there There from Each to Each be paid
But endless Love, and Fervor undecay'd?
You know, and I shall ne'er forget the Time
(Lock'd in my Arms, nor Kisses then a Crime)
When on your Bosom I expiring lay
(How short is Pleasure! and how soon 'twas Day!)
While with our Breath our very Minds we mixt
(The Marriage promis'd, and the Day prefixt)
'Twas then by the Immortal Pow'rs you swore,
Nay by your Mut'ual Love, and that was more,
That 'twas to me your Life, your Soul you'd give,
And for me only that you wish'd to Live!
Did I not there affirm the same to you!
You heard, you saw (with Eyes erected too)
How Zealously I look'd on Heav'n above,
Wish'd it unkind to me if I prov'd false to Love.
Have we not since, too, often sworn the same?
With fresh Endearments fed th'Eternal Flame?
Eternal! no, 'twas Momentary, slight,
A short-liv'd Met'eor, a delusive Light,
A Glare, an Ignis Fatuus of the Night;
By which y'ave led me over Bush and Thorn,
Drill'd on by Hope, and driven back by Scorn.
Sure thou dost think thou at Loves Auction art,
And dost by Inch of Candle parcel out thy Heart:
Thy Flame so far from lasting, I ev'n doubt
Thou dost but light it up to put it out,
Or singe as purblind Moths that fly about.
Destructive Sex! for as thou usest Me,
So each Man's serv'd by some Perfidious She.

Cruel, or false y'are all; and he is blest,
He only, that excludes you from his Breast,
Nor lets your Terrier LOVE, dislodge his Rest.
Love! that where e'er it comes makes Concord cease,
The Dearth of Pleasure, and the Bane of Peace:
The Toil with which w'are hatter'd out by Day,
At Night, the Hag that rides our Sleep away.
Debate, Deceit, Distrust, have hence their Birth,
And all beside that makes a Hell on Earth.
If Courtship opens such a Scene to Strife,
What Curses must there follow with a Wife?

Miscellanies.

On the new Edition of Godfrey of Bulloigne in 1687.

Long this stupendious Work has lain obscur'd,
From gloomy Times a long Eclipse endur'd;
But now it rises like a cloudless Sun,
And brings as great a Tyde of Glory on.
Hail Heavenly Poem! while these Strains we hear,
The Soul does mount into the ravish'd Ear,
And knows no other Sense, but fixes there;
So wond'rous are the Actions here enroll'd,
And in such high harmonious Numbers told.

See here you dull Translators, look with shame
Upon this stately Monument of Fame;
And to amaze you more, reflect how long
It is since first 'twas taught the English Tongue,
In what a gloomy Age 'twas brought to Light;
Dark? no, our Age is Dark, and that was bright.
Of all those Versions that now brightest shine,
Most, Fairfax, are but Foils to set off thine.
Ev'n Horace can't of too much Justice boast,
His unaffected easie stile is lost;
And Ogilby's the Lumber of the Stall:
But thy succinct Translation does atone for all.

'Tis true, some few exploded Words we find,
To which we ought not to be too unkind:
For in Significance, we must allow,
They're better than some new admitted now.
Our Language is at best—but soon twill fail,
If foreign Words licentiously prevail.
Let Waller be our Standard; all beside
Is travell'd Ignorance, or trifling Pride.
The tow'ring British Heights who e'er wou'd reach,
Must not with French emasculate our Speech

For thee too Tasso, I a Wreath wou'd twine,
Of my low Strain cou'd reach the Praise of thine.
Homer came first, and much to him is due,
Virgil, the next, does claim our Wonder too,
And the third Place must be conferr'd on you:
Thy Work is thro' with the same Spirit fir'd,
Will last as long and be as much admir'd.

If lofty Verse undaunted Thoughts inspire,
And fill the Hero's Blood with Martial Fire;
May the Great Chief that does the Turk engage
(The Ornament and Safety of his Age)
May He a (Scourge to Infidels unblest)
Take Pattern by the Warriour here exprest;
And drive, like him, with an avenging Hand,
Those Unbelievers from the sacred Land;
Free the Great Sepulchre of CHRIST once more,
And be what mighty Godfrey was before!

Lorrain.

To Philip Ayres Esq; On his Poems and Translations, &c.

The sacred Wreath of Bays is worn by few,
Scarce in a hundred Years by One, or Two,
Yet from that Hope we must not banish You;
You who so well, and with so just a Wing,
Of Love and the bright Charms of Beauty sing.
Thy Version does th'Originals refine,
Oft rough in those, but always smooth in thine.
To thee the Languages so well are known,
We may with Justice call 'em all thy Own:
At Madrid, Paris, Portugal, or Rome,
Thou art as true a Native as at Home.
Had you at Babel been, and but allow
Y'ad understood the Tongues as well as now,
In that Confusion (sole Interpreter)
Y'ad stop't the monst'rous Din, and Chatt'ring War;
The Noble Work a new y'ad made 'em ply,
And rais'd th'Immortal Structure to the Sky!

Ah Friend! It grieves me that at such a Time,
When all that's learn'd and just is thought a Crime,
You shou'd be Doom'd to the hard Fate of Rhime:
So strangely Partial are our Authors grown,
That nothing scapes their Spite but what's their own.
This Work of thine that well deserves to live,
And have what Praise judicious Men can give,
Must not, tho' nicely Written, hope to be
From their invet'rate, lawless Censure free.
On thy own Modesty they'll cry y'are split;
Judging of thee by what themselves have writ,
And thinking Vertue ne'er produces Wit.

But rest secure, and scorn their feeble Rage;
Such Writers are but Mete'ors of their Age,
That fall, and soon Extinguish on the Stage:
Only remember'd while the Stench remains,
Their Fame of no more durance than their Gains.
In spite of Vice thou shalt be Vertue's boast,
When Shoals of such are in Oblivion lost.

PROLOGUE, Design'd for my Play of the Rival Sisters.

Of Poets living poorly oft you tell,
But you may wonder how they live so well:
How many of you does there daily sit,
Trick't like my Ladies Monkey in the Pit,
That wou'd be Poorer—if you liv'd by Wit?
Not that the Poets have so vast a Store,
But they might very well dispence with more—
And yet they please—the Barrenness of Sense
Is made out to 'em in their Impudence:
No Trophies to the Meek, or Just they raise,
But Fool and Knave they overwhelm with Praise:
They feed on Flatt'ry, and it keeps 'em Strong;
So Maggots get best Nutriment in Dung.
These are the things our wretched Poets do,
Yet most of you wou'd be thought Poets too.
There hardly was an Age e're known before
Vertue was less in Use and Verses more.
Nobles and Peasants, equally Possest,
Write, and 'tis hard to tell which writes the best;
For, when examin'd, we are sure to see
But little Reason and much Ribaldrie.

Nay ev'n the Women of this Rhiming Age
Are oft inspir'd with like Poetick Rage;
If any vain, lewd, loose-writ thing you see,
You may be sure the Author is a She.
The Lawyer too does verify amain,
But falls by Starts to his own Trade again;
For Knav'ry, their belov'd and fertile Clime,
Is far more difficult to leave than Rhime:
Once of that Tribe, you can be just no more;
They're thorow tainted, rotten to the Core.
The Flutt'ring Spark that has lov'd Cloris long,
As his last Hope, attacks her with a Song;
And with ten whining Verses charms her more
Than with ten thousand whining Words before:
Songs will prevail what ever Planet rules,
For that vain Sex is still most kind to Fools.
Thus all the choicest Coxcombs you can cull,
Do but pretend to Wit by being Dull.
Our Author, by this Rhiming Fiend possest,
Does put in for a Fool among the rest:
For Fools e'er now, he says, have written Plays,
Nay further—Fools have had the best Third Days:
He therefore begs (and he'll desire no more)
Shew him the Favour they had heretofore—
He'd fain be thought a Fool upon that Score.

EPITAPH, On Mrs. Jane Roderick.

To mould'ring Stone our Memories to trust
Is to be soon forgot;—'Tis Dust to Dust.
We well cou'd praise thee wou'd those Praises last,
But where's the Epitaphs of Ages past?

Tho' thy good Deeds in Adamant were wrote,
With all the Life of Wit and Strength of Thought,
'Twere yet in vain;—or Fire, or Time consumes,
And tumbles down our Temples on our Tombs.
If we wou'd have thy Vertues still in Sight,
We must on Paper, not on Marble, write;
Some happy Genious draw thy Image there:
My meaner Lines will serve to perish here.

EPITAPH, On Mrs. Mary Alexander, in Broad-Somerford Church.

She left us Young; yet her short Span of Life
Shew'd a good Daughter, Mother, Friend, and Wife.
Her Parents found her an obedient Child,
Her Children tender, and her Husband mild,
So Mild! his Will she never did reprove;
One half Submission, t'other half was Love,
To all obliging, pitious of the Poor;
Sparing of Speech, but liberal of her Store.
Thus true Religion her whole Life did sway:
Ah! why so vertuous and so short her Stay!
Others may run a longer Race of Days,
But who will leave us such a Theme for Praise!

Reflections on the Life and Death of a certain Miser.

He's gone!—but not a Tear was shed
To grieve him, Sick; or mourn him, Dead:

And that the Reader by our Rhimes
May view his Fate, and shun his Crimes.
In ruthless Verse we'll far and wide,
The Good to please and Bad to guide,
Tell how the Caytiff liv'd and dy'd.

There are a sort of Men, we know,
That will be Drunk, yet stingy too;
And tho' they guzzle more than any,
The Reck'ning call'd, won't pay a Penny:
(If Covetous in Drink, no doubt
They're cursed Covetous without)
His Sire was one of these, and in
That Humour got this Man of Sin;
Who, tho' by Nature born a Sot,
Was never known to pay his Shot;
But as he further Maudlin grew,
The sturdier wou'd with-hold his due:
Fast in his Fist he'd clinch his Coin,
Not Flesh and Bone cou'd closer join:
If to be broken on the Wheel,
You'd there be sure to find it still.
So we of Indian Dogs are told;
Who when they once had fix'd their Hold,
Tho' all their Limbs were lopp'd away,
They'd neither flinch, or quit their Prey;
But in the Pangs of Death were found
Fast set, and cleaving to the Wound.

Wielding of Birch was first his Trade,
And wild Tyrannick Work he made:
But Mony there did rise but faint,
And that he had resolv'd his Saint;
For whose dear Sake he vow'd to do
What ever Avarice prompt him to.

Puts on a Cassock next—but there
He mov'd not in his Proper Sphere;
As being confident in Nonsense,
And of Impenetrable Conscience:
Wou'd swallow Contradiction still,
Just as a Leacher does his Pill:
For which, and Works alike Devout,
The CHURCH did cast his Nusance out.
Last turns an Usurer, and then
From Teaching falls to cheating Men.
Here his own Talent came in Play,
Use, Mortgage, Principal, Pay-Day,
Was all we e're cou'd hear him say.
His very Prayers (if e'er he pray'd)
In the set Forms of Bonds were made;
And Noverint Universi rather
He wou'd begin with than Our Father.
Thro' Breach of Promise, close Deceits,
False dated Bonds, and open Cheats;
Thro' Orphans Groans, and Widows Tears,
The bitter Bans of Ruin'd Heirs;
(For following Gain he wou'd not stop
For all Salvation bids us Hope.)
Thro' these, and we to these may join
All Laws both Human and Divine,
He waded to a Mass of Coin;
Almost as much as Crassus had;
But Crassus got not his so bad.

Abroad a Glutton; ev'ry Feast
He'd curse where he was not a Guest:
To see him slash, and gnaw, and tear,
And brandish his keen Blade, you'd swear
Milo the hungry Churl were there;

And eating up that very Ox
He with his Fist fell'd at a Box;
So fast he ply'd it—with a Pox.
Then for the Liquor, let him swill
He scarce wou'd take Damnation ill:
The full Pint Glasses, as he got 'em,
He took sheer off and shew'd the Bottom:
His Lungs were breath'd like a Smith's Pair
Of Bellows, and wou'd hold more Air.
When quite top-full towards Home he'd rowl,
And use his Body like his Soul;
For he Compassion had for neither,
As by the Consequence you'll gather.

At home he was so strangely scraping,
This Topick there is no escaping,
His Servants (and he ne'er kept any
Whom he designed to pay a Penny;
Tho' sometimes he was forc'd to do't,
Because the Law did goad him to't)
Look't all like Pharaoh's meagre Kine,
That did the seven Years Dearth divine,
E'en Rats and Mice, free of the Nation,
Who by their Charter choose their Station,
Instinctively, by all Relation,
Had fled the hungry Habitation.
So very slender was his Fare,
If the old Cameleons had been there,
H'ad starv'd 'em tho' they liv'd on Air.

Thus He (who at another's Table
Wou'd Gormandize as long as able;
And, when 'twas at a Neighbour's Cost,
Spare neither bak'd or boil'd, or roast)
At home a Life much needier led,
Than the starv'd Wretch that begs his Bread:

In spite of all his Bags of Gold
His Paunch was lean, his Back was cold.
'Twas to this Usage that at Length,
He sacrific'd his Health and Strength.
Cramps, Aches, Dropsy, Gout and Stone,
He was by all attended on;
Man shunn'd his Company, but they
In fatal Complaisance did stay,
Assiduous to his dying Day.

Yet nor his Misery nor Years,
That daily did augment his Cares,
Cou'd make him settle his Affairs:
Of all his Hours (run out so ill)
He'd spare not one to make his Will;
But left entailed upon his Heirs
Chancery Suits for many Years:
Extortion always has the Lot
For Fools to spend what Knaves have got.

To what is said we'll add but this;
His Life and Death were of a Piece:
His Life foretold what Death he'd die,
His Death fulfill'd the Prophecy.
For no Remembrance of Offence,
No gracious Thought of Penitence
Did kindly interpose between
His fatal Sickness and his Sin.
Unmindful of pale Death, that now
Appear'd triumphant on his Brow,
He glar'd around, resign'd to Fate,
And past th'inevitable Gate.

Perhaps, by some, 'twill here be said
We're too invective on the Dead;

In the same Grave their Ills shou'd ly
Their Failings with their Bodies die.
But give the Scripture Place which still
In Death it self reviles the Ill;
And left 'em chronicl'd that all
May see their Fate and shun their Fall:
And that being what is here design'd,
A fair Construction ought to find:
To represent such odious Crimes
May be Instruction to the Times,
And point us to a better End;
Tho' e'en to Him Grace may extend;
For tho' his Fau'ts all Bounds outflew,
Mercy, we know, is boundless too.

Advice to a Friend in Distress.

When w'are by Craft or haughty Pow'r opprest,
Of all the Vertues Patience then is best:
Happy the Man when Crosses come whose Mind
Is calm, and to th'Eternal Will resign'd:
Hold up that Shield, in vain will Envy throw
Her Darts, while we are just we ward the Blow;
Swifter than Shot the Shaft does back rebound,
And meant to others gives herself the Wound.
Whenever caught in a litigious Snare,
To flounce and strive but keeps us longer there;
Malice may of our Rage Advantage get
But arm'd with Patience y'are above Defeat:
You baffle thus the Slave with small ado,
That has been drudging Years to injure you.

Tho' in his Rage a thousand Oaths did rise,
And every Oath back't with a thousand Lyes,
Which still he swallow'd, as his Pills he did,
And five went down at once they were so glib:
Can such a perjur'd Profligate as this
Have a worse Conscience? Can that speak him Peace?
Can that wrong'd Inmate be so thro'ly fear'd
That Heav'ns not lov'd, and Hell it self not fear'd?
No, no; there's none in Vice so flaming bold,
But, are, in Conscience, of those Vices told:
It gives 'em oft a Gripe of future Fear,
And tho' that's Dismal, yet it stops not there,
For long Impenitence may bring Despair.
That bold Solicitor will move your Cause,
And never wait the Leisure of the Laws;
(The Laws! from which w'are often forc'd to fly
For Refuge to the Court of Equity;
And there for Equity we wait so long,
That Law it self is yet a cheaper Wrong.)
She'll try it in his Breast, and there, in spite
Of his Design to wrong you, do you Right.
Murder too oft is but Man-slaughter found,
But 'tis not so the Murderer heals his Wound;
Conscience, unless well satisfy'd she be,
Will fright him worse than Tyburn's Gallow-Tree.
To this Tormentor let the Tool be left;
Who loves not Peace will be of Peace bereft:
While you enjoy that Halcyon-State of Mind,
Which he without Repentance ne'er must find:
Tho' there's a visible Injustice seen,
Yet what you lose without, you gain within.
Let then his Passions, Anger, Lust and Pride,
By turns his Whore-exhausted Body ride.
Nor think him mending when you hear him say,
I'm but Subordinate and must obey;

For Heav'n will his Excuse ill understand,
That says—I was a Rascal by Command.
While in that Path he lets his Interest go,
The Lord above is left for one below.
Yet while he thus Inveterately pursues
Your Ruin, only that y'ave Wealth to lose,
To our Good Saviour's Lesson have regard;
Love those that hate you—true, the Task is hard—
But what's too much when Heav'n is the Reward?

To Julian Secretary to the Muses.

A Consolatory Epistle in his Confinement.

When those, my Friend, we Love are in distress,
Kind Verse may Comfort, tho' it can't redress:
Nor can I think but you'll my Zeal commend,
Since Poetry has been so much thy Friend:
On that y'ave liv'd and flourish'd all your Time;
Nay more, maintain'd a Family with Rhime.
And that's a Mark which Dr---den ne'er cou'd hit,
So much his Pension's better than his Wit.
Ev'n Gentle George (with Flux in Tongue and Purse)
In shunning one Snare run into a worse.
Want once may be reliev'd in a Man's Life,
But who can be reliev'd that has a Wife?
Ot---y can scarce his Corps from Gaol preserve,
For tho' he's very fat he's like to starve.
And sing-song Dr---fy plac'd beneath Abuses,
Lives by his Impudence and not the Muses.
Poor Cr****n, too, has his Third Days mixt with Gall,
He lives so ill he hardly lives at all!

Shad---l and St---le, who pretend to Reason,
Tho' paid so well for scribb'ling Doggrel Treason,
Must now expect a very barren Season;
But chiefly He that made his Recantation;
For Villains thrive best in their own Vocation.
Nay Lee in Bedlam now sees better Days
Than in his madder Time of writing Plays:
He knows no Care, nor feels sharp Want no more,
A Blessing he cou'd never boast before.
Thus while our Bards e'en famish by their Wit,
Thou, who hast none at all, dost thrive by it.

Wer't possible that Wit cou'd turn a Penny,
Poets wou'd then grow rich as well as any.
First, 'tis not Wit to have a great Estate,
(The blind Effects of Fortune and of Fate;)
For oft we see a Coxcomb, vile and vain,
Brim full of Cash, yet empty in the Brain.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Lawyer prize
A bawling Life, but Knav'ry in Disguise,
To pluck down honest Men that he may rise.
Nor is it Wit that does our Quacks advance,
(Those of your English Spawn, or those from France)
But pois'ning by Design—for Curing comes by Chance.
Nor is it Wit that makes the Tradesman Great,
'Tis the Compendious Art to Lye and Cheat.
Nor is it Wit for Burgess, Lobb and Pen,
(Those worst of Teachers to the worst of Men)
To think by getting Rich, to grow Divine;
For where's the Saint if you with-hold the Coin?
Nor is it Wit to be in Scarlet drest;
To Wisdom, Grief; to Policy, a Jest.
Life in our King's, or Country's just Defence
We all shou'd stake; but does it rise from thence
That Colour's Courage, or that Oaths are Sense?

Or that th'Impartial Satyr shou'd not grin
To see such Herds behind the Lion's Skin?
Nor is it Wit that drills the Statesman on
To wast the Sweets of Life, so quickly gone,
In toiling for Estates; then like a Sot,
Leave Luxury to devour what Knavery got.
Nor is it Wit for Whigs to scribble Satyrs,
No more than for their Patriots to be Traytors;
For Wit does never bring a Man to hanging;
That goes no further than a Rose-street Banging:
How justly then dost thou our Praise deserve,
That got thy Bread where all Men else wou'd starve?
And, what's more strange, the Miracle was wrought
By him that han't the least Pretence to Thought:
And he that had no Meaning to do wrong,
Can't suffer, sure, for his No-meaning long:
And that's the Consolation now I bring;
Thou art too dull to think a treach'rous Thing,
And 'tis the thoughtful Traytor that offends his KING.

To a Friend in Wales, on his Neglect of writing to me.

Forgot by him so truly I regard,
Forgive me if I think my Fortune hard:
What have I done offensive, or unkind,
Thus to be raz'd for ever from your Mind?
A Mind in which I'd rather far reside,
Than in the Noblest Seat of Human Pride:
Let building Fops pretend a Deathless Name,
To gain but thy Applause is ampler Fame.

Kanvair, what ever it might seem to thee,
Thou there, was like th'Elizian Fields to me.
Tho' Storms did rise, and tho' loud Torrents roll'd,
And I cou'd only Steril Rocks behold,
Steep ragged Cliffs, that seem to touch the Skies,
From which Mankind with Horrour turn their Eyes;
Thy Converse chang'd this Scene of wild affright,
And turn'd that very Horrour to Delight.

How pleas'd was I thy Nuptial Choice to hear!
Joy on, I cry'd! Joy fix for ever there!
I wish'd, but thought not the Result wou'd be
A long, unkind Forgetfulness of me:
Much Favour to her Share I knew wou'd fall,
But thought not you'd so vainly part with all:
Such Lavishness ev'n I must discommend,
For you may love her well—yet love your Friend;
And from her Kisses, tho' they are Divine,
Spare time in three long Months to write a Line.

Write then, and quickly, least it shou'd be said,
That, as you among Ruthless Rocks were bred,
Thou, too, dost in their flinty Nature share;
And deaf, like them, to Friendship and to Prayer.
What ever Fate's reserv'd for me and mine,
'Twou'd Comfort be, if by a welcome Line;
I am assur'd 'tis well with Thee and Thine.

To my Lord Chamberlain at Bath.

This healing Stream, this Æsculapian spring,
That from all Parts does such a Confluence bring,

Of Lame and Blind, of Sound and Sick and Sore,
Of Knave and Fool, and worse, of Baud and Whore;
Tho' Wonders it is sometimes said to do,
Does yet confine those Wonders to a few:
Yet vainly all expect to have a Share,
The Rotten wou'd be sound, the Foul be fair;
The wrinkled Beldam wou'd new Pleasure prove,
And, like a Punk of Twenty, chatters Love.

The stale debilitated Lover here
Expects Relief, and gazing on the Fair,
Feels Heat return; but 'tis so false a Fire,
It never reaches further than Desire.
How madly does that Man his Hours employ
That still does wish and never can enjoy?
That past the Fact, is yet not past the Fau't,
And damns himself by being lewd in Thought?

Then for the Coxcombs (not to name their Cloaths,
Their Dancing, Raffling, Drinking, Noise and Oaths)
Their Treats and Entertainments make it plain,
They come alike to be reliev'd in vain.
It never was presum'd that bathing yet
Reform'd a Fool, and made him grow a Wit.
Tho' Thousands have been eas'd of Cramps and Pains,
Of Palsies, Itches, Botches, Scurfs and Blains,
If fails when the Distemper's in the Brains.

But tho' the Fops are thus deceiv'd we find
The fruitful Stream to youthful Ladies kind;
Who with their open Breasts and swimming Bowls,
(As others Angle Gudgeons) fish for Fools;
Here still at Hand, and careless of their Fate,
You'll find a Hundred biting at a Bait:

And oft indeed, the Bait is not so small,
But there's enough to satisfy 'em all.
This for the Glory of the WATER makes,
Which hence it's kind prolifick Nature takes.
Oft has the Lady (her good Man at Home,
Invoking Heav'n to unseal her steril Womb)
Here first conceiv'd; then to her Husband flown
With hast, to keep the Theft from being known,
While he thought all was well, and all his own.
A Fortnights time in reck'ning breaks no Squares,
Or, if it shou'd, 'twere a bad Day for Heirs.

But now some Lady, that's ador'd the most,
Is chosen out to be that Morning's Toast:
For her the Musick plays; the Health's go round
The Toast! the Toast!—and stun us with the sound:
She all the while, kind Nymph, the Gallery plies,
And with admiring meets admiring Eyes;
Proud of the Honour thus to rule the Roast
She swims along the Bath—the Toast, the Toast!
Pity they wou'd not one step higher go,
And drink the Liquor it was soakt in too.
Who wou'd comply with such a nauseous Fashion,
And rather not, with Lear, call out in Passion
For Civit to refresh the Imagination?

But while my Mind thus freely I express,
I have forgot to whom I make Address.
Pardon, my Lord, that thus I entertain
Your Ears with things ridiculous and vain,
And idly tread the Satyr's thorny Ways,
When Dorset was so just a Theme for Praise.

To Mr. Giles Frost.

How often have I wisht my self with You,
Walking the Fields and sporting with the Swains?
Or from high Grounds the happy Streams to view
That so enrich, and so adorn the Plains?

Where true Content, so very seldom found,
(If any where) Eternally does dwell;
And Nature does with Endless Wealth abound
To feast the Eye, the Ear, the Tast and smell.

But Ah! reserv'd for some more rigid Fate,
I'm doom'd to a perpetual Bondage here,
Just in the Bosom of a murmuring State,
Where Rage and Tumult deafen all the Air.

The Greatest Storms are soonest overpast,
They do but make a Visit and away;
But here the Rack Eternally does last,
Without the least abatement, Night or Day.

If we cou'd mount among the flashing Clouds
When Thunder does with greatest Fury rave,
Compar'd with London, they were Peaceful Shrouds,
Still as a Calm, and silent as the Grave.

Nor wonder at it; Murder, Schism, Debate,
Treach'ry, Revenge, with num'rous Mischiefs more,
Make a more loud Report than anger'd Fate
When Winds below, and Heav'n above does roar.

Yet, Friend, this Comfort in the Storm I find;
Tho' Oaks around me from the Root are Rent,

By being Low I'm cover'd from the Wind:
There's none so safe as He that's Innocent.

To the much Honoured Gilbert Gerrard-Cosen Esq; on the Report of his being Dead.

When to my Ears the Dismal Tydings flew,
And my own Fears had made me think 'em true,
A silent Sorrow on my Soul did seize,
And fill'd my Breast with such sad Thoughts as these.

Ah! why shou'd Mortal Man on Life depend,
Which once, and none can tell how soon, must end?
Ev'en He, but now so healthy, and so gay,
Chearful as April's Sun, and fresh as May,
Whom ev'ry Grace adorn'd and doated on,
In the full bloom of Life is dead and gone!
Cropt from the Stalk! the vernal Sweets decay'd!
So flourish't Jonah's Gourd and so did fade!
Nor cou'd that Loss th'Impatient Prophet bear,
He beat his Breast, and griev'd ev'n to Despair:
Ah! how can I then mourn enough for thee,
Who always wer't a Jonah's Gourd to me,
A shelter from the Storms of Poverty?
Yet Witness Heav'n it is not only Gain,
The Loss of so much Worth I most complain.
Honour he priz'd, and has this Honour gain'd,
'Twas ne'er by an Ignoble Action stain'd.
Nor was his Wit of a less Sterling Coin,
He ow'd it not to Blasphemy, or Wine.

Ah! why, ye Pow'rs! why was his Morn so bright,
If you design'd so soon to banish Light,
And bring on Gloomy Death and Endless Night!

But Lo! as thus I did indulge my Grief,
The happy News arriv'd that gave Relief.
A gust of Joy ran thro' each Vital Part,
Flam'd in my Eyes, and revel'd in my Heart!
He lives! I cry'd, die those that wish Him ill,
He lives! the Great Young Man is with us still:
He lives! that Word shall dwell upon my Tongue,
He lives! shall be the Burden of my Song!
He lives!—and 'tis my Prayer he may live long.

In Answer to a Copy of Verses of Major Coleman's; whom I fail'd to meet according to Promise.

All I can here in my Defence pretend
Will ill excuse neglecting of a Friend.
'Tis true, a great Man, that I ought t'Obey,
Laid his Commands, and did exact my Stay;
Had you been there y'ad been with-held like me,
And I, perhaps, had now been blaming Thee:
For Shadows, thus the Substance we neglect,
For Friendship shou'd take place before Respect.
In all his Grandeur I cou'd nothing see
That Recompenc'd my disappointing Thee:
And yet I'm pleas'd—for happy was th'Offence
That did discover thy new Mines of Sense:
More to be valu'd (by thy Judgment wrought
Wing'd with thy Fancy, polish't by thy Thought)
Than the rich Metal from the Indies brought.

Had I been fau'tless you had never Writ,
My want of Vertue gave the World thy Wit.
But O! thy Muse that chides me yet betrays;
Sparing of Blame, but liberal in her Praise:
Like a strong Wine the fume does upward drive,
And Overpow'rs the Spirits 'twou'd revive.
To thee 'tis rather due; whose happier Fate
Is soon to gain what we ev'n miss of late.
Early, and with a first Essay, thou hast
All we have done, or e'er shall do, surpast:
Caught, like Elijah, from our wond'ring Eyes;
If from low Themes thou thus can'st reach the Skies,
From loftier Subjects whither wou'dst thou rise?
Ne'er did the Generous Muses yet afford
Such Credit to the Man that broke his Word:
If by such Methods we can compass Fame,
How easy 'tis to get a deathless Name?
While with our Errors thou can'st Charm the Sight,
(For Praise, tho' undeserv'd, does give Delight)
We shall be fau'ty that thou still may'st write.

And yet 'tis certain Praise is often writ
(Whate'er the Writers say) to show the Writers Wit,
To Honour others tho' they seem to aim,
The chief Design's their own peculiar Fame:
When humble things sublimely they express,
And the Deform'd put in a Beauteous Dress,
It proves their Art;—thus if my Verses shine,
'Tis with the Radiance that is shed from thine:
So from the Sun, in it's own Essence bright,
The Moon's pale Orb has her Precarious Light!
You bask in open Day, and I am hid in Night!
Thy Brows with Lawrel bound; I Joy on Thine
To see that Wreath that wou'd but fade on Mine:
There let it rest, and with unwithe'ring Pride,
And an unless'ning Green, th'attacks of Time deride.

Mean while, my Friend, You must allow me this!
That Sorrow past augments the coming Bliss.
The rising Sun wou'd not appear so bright,
Were he not hid with intervening Night;
By Darkness made a more Illust'rious Light.
Thus, failing once (since both were then perplext)
Will make our Pleasure more Substantial next.
Fond Lovers so after long Partings meet,
And mix delay to make the Blessing sweet.
But there the Parallel will hardly hold,
For Love's a Warmth that still resigns to Cold:
But Wine and Wit will yield us Nobler Game,
And only Friendship is a Deathless Flame.

To Charles Duncomb Esq, On his Enlargement.

Nor shall the Bells alone the Tydings tell,
But on that Theme consenting Laureats dwell:
All Sounds beside have but a dying blast,
But Notes the Muses strike for ever last.

Nor do they only give the Hero Fame,
When in high Flights they reach th'Æthereal Frame,
But oft descend, and sport with humbler Game;
In our Domestick Grief and Pleasure share,
Revive our Hope, and silence ev'ry Care.

At once Resistless, yet at once so Mild,
We find our Anguish eas'd, our Rage beguil'd:
Thro' all the Passions they the Soul conduct,
Like Beauty charm, and like a God instruct.

Yet see their Fate, and with what causeless Rage
They're trampl'd on by a Licentious Age;
Contempt and Scorn is all their Followers get,
So vain 'tis to be good, so dang'rous to have Wit.

'Tis true, too oft aspiring Insolence
Does take the Chair, prescribing Laws to Sense:
Bold Sycophants that vend Adulte'rate Writ,
And, praising Vice, profane the Name of Wit.
That they may Honours to themselves procure,
Pull down the Barriers to Despotick Pow'r:
By base and servile wresting of the Text,
They're Flatt'rers first, and State Projectors next.
The Free-born Muse in nobler Toil delights,
Nor gives a Poets Name to Parasites.

Not so the Ancient Bards employ'd their Zeal,
To plot and ravage on the Common Weal;
With beardless Counsels pushing Slav'ery on,
Nor private laught at publick Mischiefs done;
Gave no Applause where Merit was not giv'n,
Nor screw'd up proud Prerogative to Heav'n.
Ah! Sidney, and thou greater Rawleigh rise,
Hold the just Mirror to Britannia's Eyes,
Or with the Muses FREEDOM finds her Doom,
Like Pompey with the LIBERTIES of Rome.

But how can Verse escape when Worth like yours
(While such preside) ev'n Law so ill secures?
Nor that, your Wit, Experience, or Estate,
Cou'd save you from their Legislative Hate.
Rather by these, so eminently high,
You stood the more conspicuous to their Eye,
For Envy hates to see Prosperitie.
In Sanguine Seasons such their Harvest make,
Like Ahab kill, and then Possession take:

Men that by Fortune's Caprice madly rise
Bold with Success, and but at Random wise,
Ground keen by Ava'rice, we but vainly lay
Right, Reason, Law, or Gospel in their Way.
They cut thro' all, to Grandeur heedless drive,
Yet to the Point that they propose arrive:
While cooler Heads, that sigh for Albion's Fate,
Wonder to see such Rashness steer the State.
Ev'n vast Assemblies take from them their Bent,
And those that chose 'em truely represent.
But 'tis impossible their Luck shou'd last;
Already we may see their Total Cast,
And present Time look frowning on the Past.

As Milo riving Oaks, was made at length
A Sacrifice to rash advent'rous Strength;
So he like Ruin on his Head will draw
That rends, Despotically Kings from Law:
They once will meet, the Peoples Suff'rings seen,
And crush the Audacious Ministers between.

Such were the Men who their dark Snares did pitch;
And you must be Obnoxious—as y'are Rich;
Tho' Twenty Years (enough to prove Thee just)
You well discharg'd an Honourable Trust.
In thy Pursuit we might their Rancour find,
For Blood how did the deep-mouth'd Beagles wind?
No other Business cou'd their Thoughts beguile,
So pleas'd to think they had you in the Toil.
The Gene'ral Hunt was up, the Sky in Storms,
And Falshood, Proteus-like, shew'd all her Forms:
Seiz'd, Cast, Confin'd; so thick the Torrent fell,
It was half Treason but to wish Thee well.
Thus to the grinning Mob they gave your Name.
Aspers'd with all th'Opprobrious Terms of Shame.
The utmost Odiums were upon Thee thrown,

Worse than your Foes cou'd wish, or Spite wou'd own.
What in this Lab'rinth but a Hand Divine
Cou'd guide you, and convey the Clue to thine!
Prest with a Weight that wou'd have Atlas bent,
You broke thro' all, approv'd and Innocent.
Ah! who but You (tho' Truth can much perform)
Cou'd e'er have thought to weather out the Storm!
Or who but the Castalian Sisters did
So far see forward, among Causes hid,
As to be confident in that Extreme,
Thy SAFETY once wou'd be their noble Theme?

They saw thy Innocence wou'd be too weak
The Snares of thy Confed'rate Foes to break:
What was her Strength such active Spite t'engage?
Or what her Mildness to so bold a Rage?
They Saw how Friendship here wou'd interpose.
They saw it too victorious in the Close:
With your Defence that did its Forces join,
Secure, when Peterborough's VOTE was thine:
Who wou'd but HE with dang'rous Pow'r contend,
And grapple with such odds, to save a Friend?
But for that Pilot on the Rock y'ad split,
Brought to the Port by his unweari'd Wit.
His Eloquence this Admiration draws,
That yet he never spoke but gain'd the Cause.
This noble Action shall preserve his Name,
And thine retrieving, give his own to Fame;
Where with illustrious Rays it long shall shine,
The Glory HIS, but the Advantage Thine:

But in this Place, O Duncomb! joyn with Me,
And aid the Muse as HE has aided thee:
Give her Directions how to tune her Voice,
And reach a Subject Truth hath made her Choice.

Tell in what Strains his Valour shou'd be writ,
And how I must expatiate on his Wit:
Thou thy rich Thoughts can'st vary several Ways,
Yet never want Materials for his Praise:
Shew how his secret Vertues I may find,
And dive to the Recesses of his Mind;
Where the bright Seeds of Worth a quick'ning lie,
That look so lovely and that soar so high;
That to the World I may unclose the Scene,
And suit my Verse to the Immortal Theme.

Next to our View his beaut'ous Consort bring,
To sing of her that can so sweetly sing;
Whose tuneful Voice all other Musick makes
An unharmonious Sound when e'er she speaks.
But here the Work no more thy Aid requires,
For who can't write when such a Form inspires!
What ever Good can of her Sex be shewn
In Theory or Practice all's her own:
Sweet as the Blasts that in Arabia bear
Their wond'rous Odours thro' the Spicy Air
Where e'er she goes the Fragrance fixes there.
Modest as Blushes that from Children flow
E'er they th'Intent of diff'rent Sexes know.
Her Wit can conquer every thing it meets,
Yet like the Bee, it only preys on Sweets;
Without ill Nature, easily 'tis born,
You see the Rose and need not fear the Thorn.
Her ev'ry Grace, her ev'ry Action charms,
Like Joy it pleases! and like Life it warms!
O only blest! O only happy HE
That does possess what w'are so rapt to see!

Forgive me, Sir, that I so long digress;
But who that honours Beauty cou'd do less?

'Tis hard to think on that Illustrious Pair,
And not to fix our Contemplation there:
If you your self on such a Theme wou'd stray,
You'll pardon me for losing of my Way.

To my Lord of Dorset on his Installment.

My Lord,

In this most honour'd List of Fame
We have expected long to find your Name:
This Star upon your Ancestors did shine,
And Buckhurst shall transmit it to his Line;
Nor bring your Titles to their View,
But make your Worth hereditary too.

Others may need a Prop to buoy their Praise
And feed the Fame a false Applause does raise;
In vain—the Courtier can't the Coward hide,
Their Courage proves false Metal when 'tis try'd,
Allegiance, Flatt'ry; and their Honour, Pride.
But YOU in such Illustrious Paths have trod
As differ scarce the Hero from the God:
Nothing (but meerly human) e'er has yet
At once been first in Worth, and first in Wit,
At least, till Dorset liv'd and Dorset writ.

Never till our third Edward's Days from Heav'n
Was such a Spur to Emulation giv'n:
What see we like it thro' all Ages past?
Or what so likely thro' all Times to last?
HONOUR, the Hero's shining Prize, does here
In such a sweet, yet noble Shape appear;

Were conquer'd Nations added to our Isle,
This bright Reward outbids the Blood and Toil.

The famous Patron of this Order who
(Tho' granting all the Legends of him true)
In after times will be less fam'd than You;
(For what's a Monster conquer'd in his Rage
To your restoring the Virgilian Age,
Honour to COURTS, and Vertue to the STAGE)
Ev'n He at Your Installment shou'd rejoice;
At once the People's Love and Prince's Choice.
What may we hope from HIM whom all agree
Worthy of Marks that honour Royalty?
The KING, 'tis true, the Favour does confer,
Nor is it less when Kingdoms do concur.

This Roll, full of the like in Worth and Name,
May cure the French King's Tympany of Fame,
When in those Fields the Hero's shall appear
Who this illustrious BADGE of England wear,
And WILLIAM, chief of the GREAT ORDER there;
Not Comets hung from Heav'n with fatal Hair,
Can bode more swift Destruction, Plague and War:
Then British Swords will in French Blood be dy'd,
And great Belshazzar tumble from his Pride.

To the Right Reverend Father in God Gilbert, Lord Bishop of Sarum.

Tho' I can add no Glory to your Name,
Yet praising YOU, I may arrive at Fame,
By your Applause a deathless Mem'ry get;
For Gratitude should last as long as Wit.

'Tis that, my Lord, Occasions this Address;
So few the Grateful none shou'd wish 'em less;
Or blame the Muse to Celebrate his Name,
And give him Praise that gives the Nation Fame.

To those Productions who can be severe,
In whose Composure Flatt'ry has no Share?
Where there is no Design but just to give
To Worth its due, and pray that Worth may live?

How many are there that much better know
To pay you Praise, with hold the Debt they owe?
In Learnings Empire, tho' they vastly get,
Return no Tribute to your soveraign Wit?
Take then my Mite, my Offe'ring, tho' but small;
Ev'n GOD accepts of Little—when 'tis All.

But O what Language can th'unletter'd find
T'adorn so vast, and just Extensive Mind!
What can I hope on this great Theme t'indite,
Where the most learn'd must with Despondence write!

See then your Goodness first; which vast must be,
Since it assures the Muse 'twill reach to me,
And not a well intended Homage slight,
Which, coming from the Heart; may hope 'tis Right.

Thus Heav'n who has whole My'riads Igno'rant made,
Seems yet to make that Ignorance their Aid;
To them he opens his Eternal Doors,
While the much better Learn'd he less assures:
Perplext with Doubts, thro' tedious Tomes they run,
Which but advance the Ills those Doubts begun!
The Crowd believes, and half their Work is done.

To those you condescend and Precepts fit;
For want of which Peculiar varying Wit;
So many stiff Instructers daily split.
Strange! they shou'd think t'advance the Christian Good,
By taking Pains not to be understood!
Let Writers use a rich, or tow'ring Strain,
The Teacher must be Earnest, clear and plain.

But then, tho' here you half your Lustre shroud,
It is but as the Sun behind a Cloud,
Who breaking forth does double Brightness bear;
So when in Publick Confe'rence you appear
You shine Entire—the Learn'd are Learners there.
How have I seen the List'ning Clergy stand,
While thro' their Ears you did their Souls command,
Their Ardour at each Period flaming higher?
For ev'ry Word you spoke you did Inspire!
As when we travel thro' some spacious Plain,
Adorn'd with Pastures, and replete with Grain;
There lowing Herds walk t'ward the Mur'muring Rills,
And here the Bee her wond'rous Balm distills:
So does your Lang'uage to the Vulgar show,
When you Expatiate on those Points they know;
Rich where Y'are plain, and Flow'ry where Y'are low.
But as from thence to lofty Hills we rise,
Where new and nobler Scenes salute our Eyes;
If there some Chosen-Guide direct us too,
Amaz'd and pleas'd, we distant Regions view:
So to this Audience you sublimely Soar,
Lost to their Sight to whom You spoke before:
Thro' Mysteries Myst'erious ways You get,
Up to the top-most Round of Human Wit;
A Height that Reason scarcely e're acquir'd,
Or Learning yet has compass'd, uninspir'd!

Nor yet alone to these the Path you shew,
But to contending Casuists hold the Clue.
The Schismatick himself may here have aid,
Lost in the very Laby'rinths they have made;
And Secta'rists stray because their Teachers stray'd:
But reading YOU we find the Danger o'er,
They can't deceive th'Unwary as before;
Conviction lies all Radiant in their Way:
There is no wand'ring in so bright a Day!

Where er'e we look new Wonders Strike our Eyes,
This Section gives us Wonder, this Surprize.
You no where scorch us with a fiery Zeal,
Yet there's a Warmth that ev'ry Soul must feel;
Something that Elevates our Thoughts, and finds,
Like Light'ning, Entrance to the Rockiest Minds.
Then Eloquence thro' all the Mass does run,
Like Nature animated by the Sun;
And, like the Sun's, it's Force does ne'er decay,
The same to Morrow as it was to Day;
This always flowing, as that always bright,
Your Sense no more Exhausted than his Light.

As when the Spring her Riches does unfold,
And a New Nature rises from the Old,
With Joy our Eyes behold her Beauteous Face,
And own her Offspring of Celestial Race:
So does your Stile the English Tongue refine,
Makes a New Glory round it's Visage shine,
And Stamps Conviction that the Work's Divine.

There lies that Purity of Phrase we prize,
And, like a Charm, it there to save us lies:
Seeking for Elegance we Wiser grow,
And with the Honey take the Pect'ral too:

So sweetn'd Potions we to Children give,
They drink deceiv'd, and so deceiv'd they live.

Thus every Way your Zeal our Good contrives;
Nor only fines our Language, but our Lives:
Like Paul unweary'd Diligence bestow,
Confirming, too, the Churches as You go;
Ah! that as then the Christian Seed wou'd grow!
But Precepts nor Examples now have Force
T'arrest our Sins in their destructive Course.
Each Cent'ry does in Vice transcend the Past;
Too sad an Instance this may be the last.
No Times succeeding can our Present match,
Or Plot on Plot with such dark Rancour hatch.
Nor Kings alone, we e'en our God defame,
Revile his Priests, and brand the sacred Name.
Pity 'tis now Your Turn such Crimes t'engage,
And yet but fit—what less can check their Rage?
Good Prelates are reserv'd for the most impious Age:
Impending Plagues their Prayer does oft remove,
And wrest it's Veng'ance from the Arm above.
Be then what still y'have been; exert your Worth,
Call all your Piety, your Vertues forth:
Let every other Mitre with you join;
And weeping Albion further your Design:
Let ev'n our Sov'raign too like Ardor feel;
Heav'ns Ear is open when good Princes kneel.
Who knows but, if such Incense reach the Skies,
These sinking Nations yet again shou'd rise,
And with our Sins o'ercome our Enemies:
We can't expect a less Stupendous thing
Shou'd from the Prayers and joint Petitions spring
Of such a CLERGY, and of such a KING.

Occasional Verses To several Ladies, &c.

Advice to a fine young Lady.

Y're now, O Cloris! on the Publick Stage,
Live in ill Times, and a Censorious Age;
Lovely as Young, and Vertuous as y're Fair;
As great your Merit, great must be your Care:
Be strict if you'd have Reputation stay,
The least Neglect throws the Rich Gem away.
Th'Hesperian Fruit, tho' by a Dragon kept,
Was by a bold Hand gather'd while he slept.
The more your Lustre, it the more gives Light
To the sharp Darts of Prejudice and Spite
To take their fatal Aim, and hit the White.
Beside, alas! tho' ev'ry Woman's frail,
The Loveliest are most liable to fail:
If Fruit we choose, we take the Fairest first,
The rest goes down, but not with such a Gust;
Think of Lucretia, then of Tarquin's Lust.
Or if like brutal Violence can't prevail
To work your Ruin, Flatt'ry will not fail;
But ah! beware the smooth enchanting Tale:
You know the Truth; the Snake's beneath the Flow'r;
Avoid the Tongue, and you avoid its Pow'r.

Let ev'n the Good with Caution be believ'd,
For he that much does trust is much deceiv'd;
And an ill Name's prevented easier than retriev'd.

But who, you'll say, can scape Detraction's Sting
That wounds up from the Vassal to the King?
Nothing is free from its unlicens'd Rage;
The Hope of Youth, nor Reverence of Age.
Shou'd Angels, as of old, from Heav'n come down
T'Instruct, as then to scourge a Lustful Town,
Ill Tongues wou'd find 'em in that fau'tless Shape,
Nor cou'd their Heav'n-born Purity escape.

O Cloris! granting this Objection true,
It more enforces what I'd have you do:
If Infamy delights the Good to blame,
For were all Ill, the Ill wou'd have no Shame,
You can't with too much Niceness guard your Fame;
That to secure shou'd all your Thoughts employ,
Hard to preserve, and easie to destroy.
Vertue, tho' ne'er so pure, may sully'd be,
She's made, or marr'd by Credibility;
Tost like a Ship, Opinion fills her Sails,
And they all slacken as Opinion fails;
That is the sterling Stamp that makes her go,
For you are Vertuous if we think you so.
Strive then t'improve our least obliging Thought;
Applause, uncultivated, comes to nought,
And Glory ne'er was found unless 'twas sought.

Not but I know when Clouds as thick as Night
Obscure the Sun, he, in himself, is bright,
Breaks thro' the Gloom at last, and yields unless'ning Light:

And Vertue, tho' opprest, at length may rise,
And with it's chearful Glories gild the Skies;
The Slander and the Slanderer flit away,
And drive like Mists before the Lord of Day.
But do not let this Caution be forgot!—
'Tis not the best that have the happiest Lot:
The Greatest Chastity can least have Right;
In vain it wou'd maintain the unequal Fight
Against Ill Nature, Envy, Wit and Spite.
Think not to be secur'd by Pow'r, or Place,
A Matchless Beauty, or Illustrious Race;
No Human Fortune is above Disgrace.
The World the Good it hears with Doubt receives,
The Ill it credits once for ever it believes.

Be sure you think not of your self too well!
Strive to be Good, but silently excell.
On her own Name she but an Odium draws,
Tho' ne'er so vertuous, that expects Applause.
If we a Voyage take (as Life is here
No other, but more difficult to steer)
Is it not far more pleasing to be free
From Rocks and Sands, and Heav'ns Inclemencie;
That no rough Waves shou'd roll, no Wind shou'd blow,
But all be still above, and smooth below,
Till we have made the Port in Harbour lie,
And there, at rest, their baffl'd Rage defie;
Than like th'Athenian Tyrant heretofore,
(His Sea-Diversion) leave the safer Shore
To toss in Storms, and hear the Billows roar?
To be more plain;—had we not better live,
And take th'Esteem a Grudging World will give,
Let Life glide gently on, an Even Stream,
Free from ill Tongues, and ev'ry wild Extreme,
Till to the Grave we go, and there enjoy
That long Repose Detraction can't destroy?

Were it not wiser thus, than by fond Ways
Proud of our Worth, pull down what we wou'd raise,
By an Immoderate Itch of Senseless Praise?
For Vertu'ous we may be, but when Respect,
We therefore claim, it dwindles to Neglect;
A Justifying Pride we all reject:
Let then a Lowly Mind be your Delight,
Nor by too pert a Censure 'waken Spite;
A Mad-Dog if not hooted may not bite.

But above all Religion be Your Care;
Your Words, Thoughts, Actions, all shou'd Centre there:
It must not be with a Light Air receiv'd,
For then as lightly it will be believ'd;
The Great Deceit is to be Self-deceiv'd.
What Arguments so e'er some Men may bring
To make it seem a sowr unlovely thing,
When once Embrac'd, You'll find it has more Charms
Than Love or Wealth, or Pow'r can usher to your Arms.
Yet have a Care;—for, to our lasting Shame,
All's not Religion that assumes the Name:
'Tis not a Theo'ry warm, and Practice cold;
Or Legends very false, and very old,
Such as the Essence of all Truth destroys,
And only fit for Chimney-talk for Boys:
Nor yet that Zeal that does our Sect'rists sway,
Who damn all those that disbelieve their Way,
When w'ave a thousand Proofs they go astray.
In some 'tis Int'rest, and in some 'tis Pride;
Hypocrisy, or Prejudice their Guide,
How soon are Truth and Reason laid aside!
And yet who more among the Rout does rule
Than a sly Knave, or an Enthusiast Fool?
This, whining to the Mob in Maudlin Cant,
And That, all Noise and Fustian, Foam and Rant.

100

Alas! Truth lies not in Fanatick Spite,
Socinian Smoothness, or the Quakers Fright.
That's true Religion that does make you strive
To love your Neighbour, and the Poor relieve;
To do no Wrong, nor at no Wrong connive,
And all the Wrong that's done, you to forgive.
The Moral Parts no more, the Mystick this;—
If thus you Act, you can't believe amiss.

Now, Fair One, let me this Request obtain;
That these Instructions you wou'd not disdain,
Because they're told you in a homely Strain:
A soft and melting Stile may please your Youth,
But happy! if y'are better pleas'd with Truth:
Not but I know your Conduct has been try'd,
And none e'er liv'd that needed less—a Guide.

To a Gentlewoman who had written many fine Things, and not seen Mrs. Phillips's Poems.

Orinda 's Sacred Works to You I send,
Not doubting but You'll prove her lasting Friend:
Accept, and lay her to Your Breast; You'll find
She's Entertainment for the Noblest Mind;
And to your Sex this Deathless Honour brings,
That you can soonest reach the loftiest Things.
Her Verses and her Vertuous Life declare,
'Tis not Your only Glory to be Fair.
How can you fail to Conquer, when the Darts
Are double pointed that You throw at Hearts?
Wing'd by your Eyes and guided by your Wit,
What Mark so distant they can fail to hit?

101

Darkness in vain wou'd interpose between,
With these Advantages you wound unseen.

But by what Magick has her Heav'nly Song
Lain from thy knowing View conceal'd so long?
When not the Sun, who is the God of Wit,
Makes more unweary'd Searches after it.
Great Shakespear, Fletcher, Denham, Waller, Ben,
Cowley, and all th'Immortal tuneful Men,
Y'ave made your own; and none can better tell
Where they are low, and where they most excell;
Can reach their Heights when e'er y'are pleas'd to write,
Soaring a Pitch that dazles Human Sight.
But O! when you have read this matchless Book,
And from its Excellence a Judgment took,
What the fair Sex was then, how will you mourn
To see how justly now they're branded with our Scorn?
Farces and Songs obscene, remote from Wit,
(Such as our Sappho to Lisander writ)
Employs their Time—so far th'Abuse prevails,
Their Verses are as vitious as their Tails:
Both are expos'd alike to publick View,
And both of 'em have their Admirers too:
Tho' which is least was ne'er distinguish'd yet,
The Writer's Vertue, or the Reader's Wit.

With just Disdain behold these heinous Crimes,
And with thy chast Example fix the Times:
Right the wrong'd Age, redeem thy Sex from Shame,
'Twas so Orinda got her Deathless Name:
Thou art as Fair, hast the like Skill in Song,
And all that thou dost write will last as long.

102

To Madam B. occasion'd by a Copy of Verses of my Lady Ann Baynton's.

As when the Blest up to their Heav'n are gone,
And put their fadeless Wreaths of Lawrel on:
How are they pleas'd to hear their Vertues there
Made Angels Songs, that met Reproaches here?
No less amaz'd, nor less with Rapture fraught,
Rais'd above Earth with the exalted Thought,
I stood, to hear my Praise, contemn'd by Men,
Employ the Beauteous Adorissa's Pen!

All that we merit we but think our Due,
So but bare Satisfaction can ensue;
And Blessings hop'd for half the Bliss destroy,
For, oft, the Expectation palls the Joy;
But when unthought of, undeserv'd they come,
They give us Transport, and they strike it home:
So she, like Heav'n, does her Rewards impart,
Which fly beyond the Bounds of all Desert.

I now may boast I have Eternity;
For, sure, what she does write can never die:
Her Beauty may, perhaps, to Time submit,
But Time must fall a Trophy to her Wit.

Beneath her Shelter a low Shrub I lie,
And, safe entrench'd, the Envious Men defy;
While, like the Mountain Cedar, she surveys
The Plain, and whom she please does crown with Bays:
They cannot reach to her, nor dare reject
(To her high Worth preserving their Respect)
What she has deign'd to like, and to protect.

103

But while her Wit is in our Praises shown,
Why is she so forgetful of her own?
Why Honour others, and neglect the Claim
To her undoubted Right, Immortal Fame?

'Tis therefore, Fair one, that these Lines you see,
That on this Subject you may join with me:
You can both write, and judge of what is writ,
A Priestess of the Mysteries of Wit:
Tho' her own Worth refuses to comply,
And clips the Wings with which her Praise shou'd fly,
We so far may reject her Modesty;
We shou'd, howe'er, attempt to do her Right;
The Subject will instruct us to indite.

Does not her Eyes, which we with Joy behold,
Transcend Fictitious Goddesses of old?
Her Form so Noble, and so sweet her Air,
That gazing once we fix for ever there!
Her Smile, like Transport, ev'ry Care controuls,
And finds a quicker Passage to our Souls.
She wounds, we bleed; and dying, bless our Fate;
So much she pities what she's forc'd to hate.
With Joy and with Despair at once we strive,
Her Honour kills us, and her Eyes revive.
But ah! so far above our Reach she flies,
We only upward look with longing Eyes,
And must not, cannot, dare no higher rise.
Just with such Looks was the rich Miser seen,
When he view'd Heav'n—and the broad Gulf between,
Her Vertue gives to Love no smallest Scope,
But blasts, and quite annihilates our Hope.

Yet Matchless tho' her Beauty be, her Smile
Is not more sweet and lively than her Stile.

104

Her Eyes themselves have not more melting Charms,
And ev'n her Love not more Divinely warms;
When drest in all the Sweets of blooming Youth,
Adorning mighty Love with Mightier Truth,
She does to Damon's eager wishes hast,
With equal Warmth embracing and embrac't.
Well did the Swain deserve so great a Good,
Who in the Bud the Flower understood,
And knew to what Advantage 'twou'd be shown
When Spring was come, and all it's Graces blown.

Here we shou'd all her other Gifts declare,
For of all else she has as large a Share:
But O! what Pen, or Pencil can we find
Able to paint the Brightness of her Mind!
Which, open'd to our View, diffuses round
A Flood of Lustre that does Sight confound;
Forces the Muse her airy Flight to stay,
VVhich here must stop, or else must lose it's VVay.

So when from Heav'n, and brighter than the Sun,
A sudden Glory round th'Apostle shon,
Too much Refulgence did oppress his Sight,
And he fell blind amid'st the Blaze of Light.

To a very Vertuous Gentlewoman, on her being traduc'd, &c.

Defend us from Reproach is, sure, a Prayer
We often ought to use, that Heav'n may hear:
When e'er the Devil wou'd exert his Skill,
And, as supreme in Hell, be so in Ill,
He glides into some black Detractor's Ear,
His first Essay and sheds his Poison there:

105

Possest of that he next secures the Heart;
And then the Tongue, that does th'Abuse impart,
He points and makes each Word a Scythian Dart.
Scandals too false and sinful to be nam'd,
Are whisper'd first for Truths, and then for Truths proclaim'd.
In Friends this does the Breach of Trust create,
And sowing deep the Seeds of dire Debate,
Pity to Spite, and Love resolves to Hate.
Strife, Bloodshed, and almost all Ills on Earth
From this accursed Fountain draw their Breath.
What Mischief did there ever reach our Ears
That a malicious Villain don't or dares?
What Libyan Armour, or Vulcanian Shield
(Tho' ne'er so much as dinted in the Field)
Can save us from th'invisible Attack
Of Slander? or, approaching, drive her back?
Where ever Breath can Entrance find she comes,
Nor so contented, tears up Marble Tombs;
What close Recess can hide us from her Power,
When the cold Grave can't its own Dead secure?
What Guard ye Powers! from such a Shaft as this,
That flies so swift and certain not to miss!
Not Love or Fate can scarce take surer Aim
Than a flagitious Tongue, that shoots at Fame:
To be gay, youthful, vertu'ous chast and fair,
But make their Owners more obnoxious there.
Against this conqu'ring Evil what Defence?
O what!—is Patience best, or Innocence?
Or are they both, arm'd each by each, the thing
That from this deadly Hornet plucks the Sting?
These, sure, (if any Heav'nly Gifts of Force
T'arrest this Bolt in its destructive Course)
Sure these are Proof (against all human Wrong,
And e'en the worst of all,—An Envious Tongue!

106

Quit then, fair Mourner, these Destructive Fears,
Afflict our Souls no longer with Your Tears:
Free from all Ills those Vertues can resist,
Tho' ever aim'd at You'd be ever mist:
Off from those Shields they turn, with fierce intent,
Like Shafts recoiling, when there's Treach'ry meant,
Back on the Sender with Destruction sent.
Your Fau'tless Life (tho' but at Noon arriv'd,
But thro' more Good than Thousands longer liv'd)
Will better plead, and more exalt your Praise,
Than Envy's worst Invectives can debase.

As Guilty Ghosts, when first the Cock does crow,
Fly at the Summons to their Den below;
So all Reports with which we'd brand your Fame
Vanish like them, repeating but your Name:
Envy in others does her Ends obtain
But her Attempt your Matchless Worth to stain,
Was the first Work she e'er advanc'd in vain.

Yet, while our Thoughts we on this Theme impart,
Who knows but that your Conduct is your Art?
The Glorious Sun, behind thick Clouds retir'd,
(For what's not seen does cease to be admir'd)
Seems lost to us while they possess the Air;
Not that He's less in Glory, not seen here,
But that, perhaps, he lists not to appear;
As knowing that his Warmth with-held, and Light,
Will more endear him than if always bright:
At his own Choice he can exert his Ray,
But without Darkness who wou'd prize the Day?
So, tho' your black Aspersor basely drew
A Gloomy Scene between our Eyes and you,
Your shining VVorth the Shade does circumvent;
Remaining veil'd but by your own Consent:

107

Discreetly, so, to make our VVonder more;
That, breaking forth, we might afresh adore,
Confirm'd in all the Good we thought before.

VVhat Reason then to grieve at his Offence
That sought to bring your Goodness in Suspence?
Let him, to his Confusion, now perceive
No Vitious Habit in your Breast can live,
And that the worst Affronts you can forgive.
Not stung with Spight, or raging for Abuse,
VVho knows what your Example may produce!
Thus his Conversion may be wrought by you,
And your be'ng vertu'ous make him vertu'ous too:
How can his clear Conviction be withstood,
That finds his Evil still producing Good?
He will not, dare not, cannot go astray,
That sees you thus persisting in the VVay.
VVho then wou'd rush with Passion on the Shelves
VVhen Patience Saves ev'n Others and our Selves?—
But daring to Instruct You I'm too bold;
Tho' few your Years, in Prudence you are old,
And know how to be Good without be'ng told.

To Madam L.

Fair is your Sex, but ah! so faithless, they
Indeed deserve what we in Satyr say:
But some among the rest, a very few,
Like Dia'monds in the Dust, attract our View:
Among which Number, sparkling like a Star,
Elate, you shine, and spread your Lustre far.
Ah noble Maid! but in thy Age's Noon,
And make Perfection all your Own so soon!
Shewing thy Sex (and ah! that more wou'd please
To trace thy Steps) they may be Good with ease;

108

That Vertue's not a Scare-Crow to affright,
But soft as kind'ling Love, and mild as op'ning Light.
'Tis true, our Teachers with their wayward Looks,
And doz'd with poring on too Rigid Books,
Say 'tis a Blessing none cou'd ever gain
Without an Age of Patience, Toil and Pain;
But why shou'd they make rough, what you have made so Plain?
While of such strong Impediments they tell,
They fright the striving Few from doing well;
And clog their Thoughts; which else wou'd light-some fly,
Led on by yours, and reach the ample Sky.
'Tis granted that Temptations will abound,
But whom seduce?—The Sickly, not the Sound:
Gold shines in vain, in vain Ambition sings,
To one that does contemplate nobler Things;
That sees the Goal, and with a sober Pace
(For some run fast and tire) keeps on and wins the Race.

Ill Fare the rigid Dame, and wrinkl'd Face,
(As far from Common Sense, as Sin from Grace)
That says none can be Wise, or Chast, but those
That whine and cant, and snuffle in the Nose,
And wear, by Choice, unfashionable Cloaths:
But decent Ornament, tho' such abase,
Instead of a Reproof commands our Praise.
Why shou'd that Lady be thought vain, or proud,
That loves to be distinguish'd from the Crowd?
The Crowd (not Sin shou'd be avoided more)
Those two-leg'd Bruits, more senseless than the Four.

Yet that a Mean shou'd be observ'd is true,
And 'tis as sure that Mean's observ'd by few.
The Woman shou'd not like her Lady dress,
(She may let her Impertinence be less;)

109

Nor Drabs of the Exchange, of base Report,
Be trick't like a fine Beauty of the Court.
In Quality there's many things allow'd
Which in a meaner State is being Proud;
Tho' oft in Quality it self we see
A strange Corruption of this Liberty.
Extravagance in Dress is the Abuse,
And that, in no Degree, admits excuse.
The senseless City Spouse does most affect
That costly Wear the better bred reject;
Such will have rich Attire; and when 'tis done,
They're aukwardly and flantingly put on.
Just as a Coward's known by Bullying Oaths,
So is the City Wife by tawdry Cloaths:
Or if in those her Folly is not seen,
'Tis open'd in her Breeding and her Mien.
This Mushroom Race will still the Ladies hate,
And yet while they revile they Imitate;
But ne'er can reach the soft and conqu'ring Air,
The easy flowing which attends the Fair
That have been nobly born, and train'd with Care:
In Youth th'Impression took, the Charms abide,
So there 'tis Nature, and in these 'tis Pride.
'Tis not a Town, or Court, tho' Daily seen,
That forms a just and an accomplish'd Mien;
The Bright'ning Seed must first within take Root,
Before it can produce the shining Fruit.
To hear these Cits on Quality declaim,
You'd think great Ladies had no Sense of Shame;
So filthily they daub a noble Name.
And yet, forsooth, (so senseless is their Pride)
With Madam they must all be dignify'd:
Rak'd from the Country, and the Stench of Stews,
When e'er they're spoke to we must Madam use:
Their pratt'ling Children must lay Mammy by,
And answer in the Stile of Quality.

110

This Publick Grievance is not strange, or new,
Nor is it only Practis'd by a few;
The Vice is gen'ral, and the Measure's full,
Ev'n from the Merchant's Spouse down to the Porter's Trull.

A Thousand like Examples we may find:
But thou art to the happy Mean inclin'd,
Ev'n in thy Outward Dress we see thy inmost Mind:
So full of Modesty it dazles Sight,
And renders thee our Wonder and Delight:
Fine, and yet flowing; as there had no Care
Been us'd in Dressing; then thy easie Air
(Neither too stiff, nor, which is worse, too free,
But just what true Deportment ought to be)
Mixt with thy pleasing Converse, is a Charm
That more than Joy allures, and more than Life does warm!

Happy for VVomankind, as happy too
For us, were all your Beauteous Sex like you;
VVou'd they Behaviour from thy Pattern learn,
Dress well, but make the Soul their chief Concern.
But ah! Mankind wou'd then too happy be;
And Heav'n has shew'd us, in creating thee,
Such VVorth's a thing we must but seldom see:
For, unlike thee, most of your Sex we find
Not made to Pleasure, but to Plague Mankind.
Vain are our Youth to let you then so long
Thus single live—but 'tis themselves they wrong:
Or rather you're unkind, and will not take
Th'Addresses which, without Dispute, they make:
For they have Hearts Impression to receive,
And you have Eyes to conquer and enslave.
Yes! yes! I see 'em at your Foot-stool kneel,
I hear 'em sigh, and with a Pang reveal
That Love they did with greater Pangs conceal!

111

O don't persist thus cruel!—but encline
To Pity; Love's a Passion all Divine:
Make some one Happy, and reward his Care;
And ease the rest by giving 'em Despair.

To the Happy Mother.

Whether we with thy Virgin State begin,
A State to that of Angel next of kin;
(Not that in Goodness thou art alter'd since,
For all thy Life's one State of Innocence;)
Ev'n there we such a modest Sweetness see,
As none can have that Copy not from thee:
Never were any of the Virgin Train,
So Fair as thee, so far from being vain.

Whether we take thee in that Scene of Life,
That made Hamilcar happy in a Wife:
Or whether next (for Joy but Grief precedes)
We see thee Mourning in thy Sable Weeds:
At once to your dear Husband's Mem'ry kind,
And to the fatal VVill of Heav'n resign'd:
No Plaints we heard, and no Repining saw;
Yet all your Servants treated with that awe,
VVe well perceiv'd that Noble Flame of thine,
Extinct with him was never more to shine:
That one, and only one, was e'er to prove
That more than Mortal Blessing of thy Love.

VVell may that Matron from the Gene'ral Voice
Meet gene'ral Praise that makes no second Choice;
It shews the Ardour of her first Desire
Survives her Loss, and upward does aspire

112

To meet her Consort in the Courts above,
VVhere the whole Scene is Everlasting Love!
Love suited to the long Embrace of Souls;
Not clogg'd, as here, with vain Fantastick Rules.

In all these Stations, thro' th'Entangling Maze,
You still have trod the Path that leads to Praise:
VVhether a Virgin, VVife, or VVidow found,
Fame with her clearest Blast your VVorth does sound:
Pleas'd with the Theme, we all encline an Ear,
And with an Eager Transport crowd to hear:
'Tis then, both profited and charm'd we find
VVhat VVonders may be said of VVomankind.

And yet our Admiration stops not here,
But to a Nobler Call invites the Ear:
Wife, Virgin, Widow, Honour'd o'er and o'er,
VVe yet must praise thee as a MOTHER more.

Not Lemuel was instructed with that Care
And Prudence thy three vertuous Daughters are;
Nor with that Zeal did, in so short a time,
To Praise, to Honour, and Perfection climb:
Their Fau'tless Lives, and their unspotted Fame,
Shew that from thee their Education came.

Thy Eldest has already Copy'd forth
The Noble Scheme of thy Immortal VVorth;
Her Soul the same; like thine still tow'ring higher,
Touch'd with a Coal of the Celestial Fire.
Happy those Virgins that are Vertu'ous Young!
For Vertue's least attain'd by living long:
Age makes our Frailties into Habits grow,
Evil, and when we'd cease from being so,
Like fam'd Alcide's Shirt, our Vice so fast
Does cleave, it tears away the Flesh at last;

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We sigh and grieve to leave our Favo'rite Sins,
And 'tis with Sorrow that our Joy begins.
VVhile they that in their Youth become Devout,
Tread but that Path in which they first set out:
Thy Pious Daughter thus her Race began,
And half Perfection has already ran.
Some Ladies nothing talk, yet take it all;
No VVord that e'er she speaks does idly fall.
Books her Delight, Religion all her Thought;
Heav'n must be found with so much Ardour sought.
VVhile other Nymphs of Husband talk, and VVife,
(Which is indeed of Nonsense and of Strife)
Her Heav'nly Study is a Holy Life:
Not that her Beauty wants those Flames and Darts
That charm the Lovers Eyes, and wound their Hearts.

But from this Mirrour, where all Maids may see,
By what She is, what they their selves shou'd be,
Thy Elder Hope, we next descend to Her
That Marriage did to single Life prefer:
Belov'd, and loving, she has took her Fate,
And is an Honour to the Sacred State:
She Honours that, and does her Husband bless
With all that wisest Men call Happiness.
A Face and Form that all Mankind admire,
But then so chast as blasts all vain Desire,
And quench as fast as Love renews the Fire.
Prest in her Snowy Arms, from him we know
That there's (indeed!) a Paradise below:
By a yet closer Tye than Marriage joyn'd;
Not only one in Flesh, but one in Mind.
High in their Orbs to faut'less Joys they go,
And scorn the distant Rack that rolls below;
Where Wedlock-Strifes a fearful Prospect form,
Confusion, Fury, Fright, all driving on the Storm:

114

From whose rude Breast those Flames and Bolts are hurl'd,
That scatter such Cumbustion thro' the World;
And, like the murde'ring Angel heretofore
Of Egypt's First-born, knock at ev'ry Door.
But they, in Love's bright Goshen, free from fear,
See all around 'em Halcion, still, and clear;
The swift and wide Destroyer comes not there:
For them, ye Pow'rs! your Blessings we implore
Let Plenty clip 'em round with all her Store,
Safety attend behind, and Truth lead on before;
Till, having ran thro' a long Train of Years,
They're rais'd to Heav'n unknown to Human Cares.

Two Daughters such as these may well assure
The World y'are happy, if you had no more:
But O thy Youngest does new Matter raise
Both for our Admiration, and our Praise!
Here Beauty does in all it's Pomp appear,
But comes and sees, and settles Conquest there!
Humbles the Proud, and makes the Wise adore,
And reaches to the Soul thro' ev'ry Pore!
As when before some earnest Saint at Prayer,
An Angel all in Glory does appear,
O'ercome with Rapture and the Blaze of Light,
He for a while does lose his Sense and Sight,
Sunk in the Boundless Ocean of Delight!
So when the bright Serapha's in our view,
We know not where we are! or what we do!
Her Beauties almost Beatifick too!
Such is her Form; but when her Voice we hear.
W' are lost anew, and find fresh Magick there!
Or when she does in Art full Measures move,
There's a new Scene for Wonder and for Love!
We bleed! we burn! and rush upon our Fate,
Resolv'd to die, if she resolves to Hate!

115

Pardon this Rapture!—but when we'd express
Serapha's Beauties how can it be less?
She that is all the Lover e'er admir'd,
And all that Poets Praise when they're inspir'd!

Hail HAPPY MOTHER!—and be blest the Womb
From which this fair Triumviri did come!
If Beauty, Truth, or Piety can give
Their Owners Fame, their Names shall ever Live,
And Thine with theirs! from that they took their Aim,
And by Example follow'd THEE to Fame:
For tho' they might have Vanity withstood,
And seem by Choice, and Inclination, Good,
They ne'er had been to such Perfection brought,
Had they not seen YOU Practice what you Taught.

To my Lady Long:

With my Poem on the Death of the Queen Enclos'd.

Madam,

Th' Enclos'd does humbly court your View,
Lines doubly happy, if approv'd by YOU.
Accept 'em for Her sake of whom they Treat,
And for Your Own, in whom like Wonders meet.
She's gone, alas! who long we hop'd wou'd Reign;
Nor cou'd w' enough condole, enough complain
Were it not some amends that You Remain.
In Youth the same your Shape, your Face and Mien,
And at Your Age she wou'd the same have been;
She only differ'd from You as a QUEEN.
Fate in Her Death by a bold Stroke does show,
Not sparing Princes, Subjects too must go:
At Peace, she now has reach'd her Native Home.
But late, Ah; late may your Removal come.

116

'Tis true, like her, 'twou'd be your Gain to go;
But what wou'd then become of those below?
Where after that wou'd Vertue have Regard?
The Poor, Relief? or Poetry, Reward?

To my Lady Ann Baynton on the 28th of April, her Birth-Day.

'Twas Night, and with a Weight of Grief opprest,
Tho' weary'd with much Toil, I took no Rest:
All wrapt in Melancholy thought I lay,
Wish'd 'twou'd be ever Dark, or soon be Day.
But Heav'n, that looks into the Inmost Grief,
A Lucky Thought inspir'd, and gave Relief;
A Thought that all around did Joy display,
And drove the Anxious Throng of Cares away.
So oft, in Vision, Fancy to us brings
A thousand frightful Images of Things,
Confus'd; but at the op'ning of the Eye
Their Shapes dissolve, the Airy Fantoms fly.

Gods! (strait I cry'd) why lie I longer here?
And, Pleasure smiling, thus Indulge my Care?
Up then, and to high Heav'n Devotion pay
For the Return of this Auspicious Day;
The Day that gave fair ADORISSA Birth,
And with another LUCRECE blest the Earth:
Chast ADORISSA, first in Truth's Esteem,
The Grace's Darling, and the MUSES Theme;
Which ev'ry Pen to write, and ev'ry Ear
With an uncommon Joy inclines to hear:
While in her Conduct we see fairly writ
Her Mother's Heav'nly Modesty, her Father's Pow'rful Wit.

117

As thus I spoke, Aurora's cheerful Ray
Brought the glad Tidings of Returning Day;
The Larks, in Air, their Morning Carols sung;
To Heav'ns wide Arch the aspiring Echo rung.
And now the Sun let loose the Reins of Light,
And ne'er before, methought, appear'd so bright:
No Cloudy Aspect interpos'd between
His Beams and us: nor rising Fog was seen:
The Winds were hush'd; only a balmy Breeze,
With am'rous Wings, fann'd Perfume thro' the Trees.

Lo! here, cry'd I again, (when all around,
Above, below, a General Joy I found)
NATURE her self, to show we well admire,
Puts on her Gorgeous Robes and Spring Attire,
That we may say her gentlest Looks she cast
To Grace this Day, and bless it as it past.
Never, O Goddess! did thy Favours shine
Yet on a Form that came so near Divine:
The Sex's scatter'd Beams in her unite;
There single Stars, and here a Gallaxy of Light.
Her Vertues, which the nicest Test will bear,
Her easy, melting, yet commanding Air;
A Temper which no Trifling will abide,
Sweet without Art, and stately without Pride.
A Voice so tuneful! such a Nameless Grace!
Such Lovely Motion! such a Lovely Face!—
We can no more! The Theme the Writer fires,
And he can least Describe that most admires.

These, Madam, were my Thoughts;—but while you stay
To read 'em, you throw precious Time away,
And mar the better Pleasures of the Day:
The Guests, Impatient, long you shou'd appear;
And I shou'd err to keep you longer here.

118

Now strike up Musick—let the Virgins Feet,
With equal Harmony your Measures meet;
In Dances let 'em give Delight the Rein,
And, tir'd, take breath; then on, and tire again:
But let not, Swains, your Shepherdesses fair
Make you fix Adoration only there;
O give not Cupid all! let Bacchus have his Share!
So! to the Top fill up the flowing Bowl;
Come! he that spills least has the greatest Soul:
Let no dull sniv'ling Coxcomb baulk his Glass,
But if he will not drink, dismiss the Ass;
Ill fare the Man that, at the needful Time,
Thinks Dancing, Kissing, Love, or Drink a Crime:
What if they call us Sots? So let 'em do;
Your sober Sot's the dullest of the two.
Fill round again, to the large Brim fill up,
'Tis Adorissa's Health—unlade the Cup:
But, prithee, tho' y'are Merry don't forget
The Poet;—Wine's his best Pretence to Wit.

But whither does the Muse intend her flight?
Or has she, else, forgot to whom I write?
Or am I drunk indeed? turn'd giddy with Delight?
How e'er it is, Madam, I'm confident
Here's nothing said, but dutifully meant:
Permit me then to hope you will forgive
These Lines, and condescend to let 'em live:
The Poet's Friend! when e'er y'are pleas'd to smile,
You wing our Fancy, and improve our Stile.
Wherefore this April's Sun shall cease to warm,
Your Spouse to Love, and your own Eyes to Charm;
E'er I desist, Indulgent to your Fame,
To sing your Praise, and celebrate your Name.
Long may you in your Consort's Arms be prest
With the same Ardor you at first Carest,
When the dear Man came panting to your Breast:

119

May you see many of these Days return,
And, e'er the next Arrives, an HEIR to Damon born.
'Tis granted Heav'n does to the Prayer incline;
Nor shall the Sun his Annual Progress shine,
Before you give that Blessing to the Line.

To my Lady Abingdon.

If to commend and raise true Vertue high,
To fix its Station in the Starry Sky,
To cloath it gay, and make it flourish long,
Be the best Subject for a Poet's Song;
Then, Madam, I may hope you will excuse
This Dutiful Presumption of the Muse:
For since so far in that bright Chase y've gone,
And with unweary'd Swiftness still keep on,
Something we ought to your vast Merit raise;
What all Mankind admire 'twere impious not to Praise.

Long the Fair Sex under Reproach have lain,
Too often just; disdain'd as they disdain:
But you Redeem their Fame, and soar a Pitch,
We first must be translated Saints to Reach.

Of some bright Dames w'ave been by Poets told
Whose Breasts were heaving Snow, and Hair of flowing Gold;
Whose Eyes were Lights able to rule the Day,
In which ten Thousand Cupid's basking lay,
And on their Lips did all the Graces play;
When e'er they smil'd the faded Flowers reviv'd,
Encreas'd their Odours, and grew longer liv'd;
Arabian Spices round their Temples flew,
But their own Breath a richer Fragrance blew;

120

The Winds to hear did all their Rage suspend,
And List'ning Streams the Wond'rous Notes attend;
This we thought. Fiction all;—but seeing YOU,
We own 'tis possible it might be true.

So finely temper'd, and so nobly form'd,
With so much Goodness, so much Grace adorn'd,
If ought like Angels we can see below,
It is to YOU that Happiness we owe!

None sees You that unwounded can retire;
He knows his Error—but he must admire:
Yet, tho' he Loves, he dares not hope Your Grace;
Your Chastity (confin'd to one Embrace)
Reprizes all the Conquests of Your Face.
Had You or Greece, or Rome, adorn'd of old,
What Stories had the Antique Poets told?
It had been doubly then an Age of Gold:
The Goddesses had (tho' in Beauty rare)
No more contended which had been the Fair;
But with a joynt Consent resign'd the Ball;
Assur'd your Lustre wou'd Eclipse 'em all.

For Mine, 'tis but the weakest Voice of Fame,
But Future Times (tenacious of your Name,)
With louder Notes your Vertues will proclaim:
These Artless Strains (nor aiming to be higher)
Serve but for Prime to give that Volley fire;
When one and all your sacred Worth recite,
Struck from this Darkness into Radiant Light.

Blest in Your Issue! 'tis at once Your Doom
To be this Ages Joy, and that to come;
This, by a Grace that all the Nation warms,
The next, by a Deduction of your Charms:

121

Those Beauties then shall shine now in their Spring
And the then Poets their Applauses sing;
Like you, in all Exteriour Gifts compleat;
Aud may (ye Gods!) their Vertues be as great.
A Race of Hero's, too, that Age shall know,
Who by their Deeds will their Extraction show;
Add lasting Honours to the Bertie's Fame,
And with fresh Lawrels crown that noble Name.

Happy the Children sprung from vertuous Wives!
Thrice happy they to whom that Fate arrives!
The bright Example, thro' Life's wand'ring Maze,
Gives 'em the faithful Clue that leads to Praise.
A Vertu'ous Wife!—but such, alas! there's few,
And in the Van your Merit places You.
A Vertu'ous Wife! which who can e'er attain,
Has got the chiefest Good, the richest Gain;
No greater Blessing can the Gods bestow
When they'd oblige a Favourite below.
A Vertu'ous Wife! which Heav'n and Earth regards,
And Heav'n and Earth, too bounteously rewards;
For in both Worlds the highest Fate she'll share,
Below Immortal Praise, Immortal Glory there!

To my Lady Peterborow on her saying she did not like Panegyrick.

The Royal Bard, and best that ever writ,
Whose Hymns are us'd in our Devotions yet,
Too coldly us'd—were Heav'n with Ardor sought,
We shou'd recite 'em with that Warmth he wrote:
The Thought so pure, th'Expression so Divine,
Th'Inspiration glows in ev'ry Line.

122

Ev'n He has shown when we wou'd highest raise
Our Thoughts, it must be on the Wings of Praise.
After God's Heart—that Glorious Title came.
Nor from his Crown, but this more sacred Flame.
While Praise is forming, and when Praise is giv'n,
Our Minds a Correspondence hold with Heav'n:
Such Contemplation purges off, the Allay
From Nature, doubly Animates our Clay,
And from our Souls does brush the Earth away.

Nor is our Praise to those above confin'd,
But does descend to the Terrestrial Kind.
Where an Unusual Excellence is giv'n,
In not applauding we dissent from Heav'n:
Vertue and Wit are his peculiar Care;
There to the Clouds the Muse her Tour shou'd rear;
Nor can we, silent, gaze upon the Fair.

In Waller's noble Panegyrick Strain
We see that Way of Writing's not in vain:
Not in her Orb Astrœa brighter shines,
Than Sacharissa in his deathless Lines:
When e'er he does in Praise of Beauty rise,
Delight our Hearts, and Wonder fills our Eyes;
Yet in his Verse we but the Shadow see;
What then, what must the daz'ling Substance be?
How can we such a Blaze of Glory bear,
When the Reflexion is so Radiant there?
Thus Beauty, but describ'd, the Soul o'erpow'rs;
And, reading there, we make his Passion Ours,
Take Hints from him, in Verse our Flame improve,
Equal his Strain, and find Success in Love.

Nor does he only blow our Am'rous Fires,
But Courage to the Hero's Breast inspires;

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Who meeting there with some Immortal Name,
Advent'rous, strives to make his own the same,
And with like Ardor presses on to Fame.

Your Consort hence his Emulation draws,
And Nations crown his Valour with Applause:
He who o'er half the Globe his Conquest stretch'd,
From a like Spring his Inspiration fetch'd,
Nor blame the Parallel—so Homer wrote,
And by his Lesson so that Hero fought.

But small Acquaintance he must hold with Fame,
That has not heard of Peterborow's Name;
He that the roughest Path to Honour chose,
And, fearless, did despotick Pow'r oppose,
When in the Land it scarce had twenty Foes;
Yet then he nobly did himself acquit;
His Courage no less Active than his Wit.

The Man that can in Courts so much excell,
In Field command, in Senate speak so well;
That high in Pow'r, can yet so low descend,
Wit to Reward, and the Distress'd Befriend;
Tho' Envy grin, and Discontent does blame,
In spite of Prejudice, is sure of Fame.

In vain wou'd Vice, with her Envenom'd Tongue,
Such Honour stain and Reputation wrong;
Triumphant, he shall in our Annals stand
The first of those that sav'd a sinking Land.

To Worth, like this, the utmost Praise is due,
On such a Theme Hyperbole's were true:
Here Angels wou'd not our Applause condemn,
Nor yet shou'd YOU, so near a Kin to them:

124

In YOU we see all we of THEM conceive,
Of You we know what we but there believe:
Of that bright Race we but Idea's frame,
You are the Thing, and they are but the Name.
So sweet your Aspect, and so bright your Eyes,
In ev'ry Look there lasting Magick lies!
We gaze with Pleasure, but we stop it there;
Your Beauty Love, but Vertue gives Despair.

All sublunary things to Ruin hast;
Wit may Remain, but how can Beauty last?
In Contradiction to the Natu'ral Course,
Your Charms retain their first Triumphant Force:
Your Years advance, your Beauty don't decline,
But last as you were not of Human Line;
Your Face the same; no least decay we find;
Time has gone on but left no Print behind.

In this Perfection was your Form design'd,
To suit with the Endowments of your Mind:
Equal'd in Excellence; the Vertues here
Are just proportion'd to the Graces there.
To hear you speak does charm the Heart of Man
Much more than all the Art of Musick can:
So sweet the Accent, and the Phrase so fit,
The Harmony is doubled by the Wit.

Thus your own Worth, were there no other Cause,
The willing Muse to this Employment draws,
And shews her noblest Work's to give Applause.
Dissenting from you were, I own amiss,
And, bold in any other Cause but this:
Your Modesty, indeed, it does proclaim
Not to affect a Celebrated Name;—
But then Remember, Modesty is Fame.

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EPISTLES From the Country.

To my Lord of Abingdon at his Country House.

Happy the Man that from the Town retires,
And with it quits all vain and loose Desires;
That, born for Peace, the Country's soft Repose
Does early love, and but with Life will lose!
This Man, my Lord, like You his Hours does spend,
Such You began, and such You'll surely end:
Peace You enjoy, and Peace around You give,
Such is Your Life, and such the Shepherds live.
Prudence your Mind, and Plenty fills your Board,
And ev'ry Day does equal Stores afford.
Thus Circulating Pleasures round You move,
All Sports of River, Mountain, Field and Grove;
O Pleasure but to be excell'd above!

How blest am I, unworthily your Care,
Call'd from the Town and plac'd in Safety here,
Free from the Ills that did surround me there:

126

The Flatte'rers Smiles, and the false Friends Embrace,
(Ah why are Minds not written on the Face!)
From Tradesmen's Cheats, and Blockhead's Doggrel Rhimes,
Which now are grown the Grievance of the Times:
To this we'll add what more our Peace does wrong,
The Harlots Tail—and worse, the Lawyer's Tongue.
The Lawyer, born to be a Friend to none,
False to our Interest, falser to their own;
For if a Future Doom their Errors wait,
Where is that One will pass the Narrow Gate?
The Text that says a Camel may as well
Go thro' a Needle, as the Rich scape Hell,
Was meant of Lawyers:—the ill-gotten Store
That makes one Rich, has made three Nations Poor.
Had I a thousand Sons, e'er one shou'd be
A Member of that vile Societie,
I'd in the Temple hang him up; nay boil
His Quarters, as a Traytors are, in Oil,
To fright all Future Villains from the Soil.

Freed from all this, and pleas'd she now is there
Where the fresh Seasons breath their vital Air,
The Muse (that has in Town been long confin'd,)
And doom'd to Business where she least inclin'd,)
Does now again her wonted Spright resume,
And with gay Feathers deck her airy Plume;
Ranging the Country round for Subject where
T'employ her utmost Skill, and kindliest Care,
Some noble Theme! that she may tow'ring rise,
And bear the Joyful Accents to the Skies.
So the glad Lark after a stormy Night,
(The Cloudless Morning smiling on her Flight)

127

Prun'd for the airy Journey, tries her Wings;
Then with unlessning Vigour upward springs,
To Heav'n her Note she sends, or thence her Note she brings!

But long she need not look, her Game's in view;
Her best, her noblest, dearest Theme is YOU!
Not Souldiers when they plunge into the Fight,
Wish more for Conquest, or the Blind for Sight;
Not Morning Brides long more for Night to prove
The mutual Sweets of undissembl'd Love;
Nor the Ambitious more Delight in Fame,
Than she in Rural Cells to sound your Name.
To bless your Choice that here set up your Rest
Where Innocence and Honesty's profest.
No Courtier's Promise here our Hope beguiles,
No Villain's Art, or Woman's subt'ler Wiles,
All Falshood, tho' she weep, or frown, or smiles.
Securely here the Natives pass their Days,
Securely here you meet unenvy'd Praise.
Let Statesmen on their Country's Ruin rise,
And Priests be only Atheists in Disguise;
Let costly Whores sit at the Helm of State,
Pull down our Patriots, and make Panders Great;
Let flutt'ring Coxcombs lewdly wast their Days
In nauseous Converse, or more nauseous Plays;
Let, like Contagion, Vice the City seize,
Run thro' all Sexes, Ages, and Degrees,
And the Physician side with the Disease.
In vain it yet your Vertue wou'd attack,
You do but frown and drive the Siren back:
The General Post, untainted y'ave withstood,
And think it truly Noble to be truly Good.

Proud of their Titles, Equipage and Cloaths,
Some Men ne'er mention God but in their Oaths:

128

Religion they believe beneath their Race,
And only Poor Plebeians fit for Grace:
Their Wickedness is all their Proof for Wit,
And that of Honesty to keep in Debt.
O Stain to Quality! O Age accurst!
When the best-born are in their Practice worst.
Yet such (tho' only Vertue shou'd be Great)
Are trusted at the Helm, and steer the State.
How strangely do these Legislators run
From their own Acts? Make Laws, but practise none,
Neither of those in Scripture, nor their Own.
Edicts to keep the Sabbath more severe
Are issu'd out, when nothing's less their Care;
So much forgetting, commonly, the Day,
They've miss'd the Church and driven to the Play:
There lies there Main Devotion:—And yet wise
They must be thought; but all their Learning Lies
In Votes, Gazettes, and reading Ladies Eyes:
Where if they meet with Vertue, (which is rare)
They but admire that they may next ensnare.
So Schismaticks on Scripture shew their Art,
And Texts not for 'em wickedly pervert.

But you, my Lord, more wisely place aright
In Nobler Authors your sublime Delight;
Authors that don't the less attract the Eye,
Because their Themes are Truth and Pietie.
The Writers in their Notions more abstruse,
You, in their Way, to like Advantage use:
These with sure Judgment and a reaching Eye
You search, and into hidden Causes pry,
Look Nature thro' make all their Roughness plain;
And find what Men well Learn'd have sought in vain.

Ah! wou'd the Atheist seriously incline,
Like YOU, to ponder things that are Divine;

129

Observe how GOD's high Wisdom does disperse
His quick'ning Influe'nce thro' the Universe;
How orderly Sun, Moon and Stars advance,
Create the Seasons in their Various Dance,
And shew their Essence not the Work of Chance;
But that th'Almighty made, and is the Soul
That actuates and maintains the Mighty Whole.
Wou'd he but faithfully on this reflect,
With just Confusion he'd his Crimes reject;
And, when unprejudic'd, by Reason see
In the least Spire of Grass the Deity.
But such you rather pity than deride,
Seduc'd by Luxu'ry, and confirm'd by Pride.
To call 'em Fools they think a gross Abuse;
And if they've Sense, they can have no Excuse
For putting such a Gift to such an Use.
Then Beasts why are we Nobler, but to know
And Contemplate the Pow'r that made us so?
Tho', Living, these let bold Expressions fly,
Droll on a Future State, and Heav'n defy,
They're sordid Cowards when they come to Die;
When for that Endless Station they embark,
Which Hobbs wou'd call a Leap into the Dark:
The Dark, indeed! his Portion must be Night,
That shuts his Eyes against so clear a Light,
And laughs at Scripture that wou'd guide him Right.

Happy the Man that to be Vertu'ous strives,
And is prepar'd when the black Hour arrives:
Ten thousand Fears he daily does eschew,
That in wild Shapes the guilty Wretch pursue:
His smooth pac'd Hours unmurm'ring glide away,
His Troubles vanish, and his Comforts stay.
Of all the Good with which Mankind is blest,
That of a Conscience free from Guile is best.

130

Thus all your Words, and all your Actions, show
The Fountains Purity from whence they flow.
For who the Top of Honour wou'd attain,
Must ne'er do nothing mean, or lewd, or vain:
How e'er that Term by Fops is understood,
'Twas Vertue first that did distinguish Blood.
What signifies it tho' one boast he brings
His Pedigree from Conquerours and Kings;
If by ill Actions he debase his Birth,
And grow the Publick Scorn, or Publick Mirth?
In vain his high Descent and Ancient Stem,
There is more Honour in a Dog than Him;
Who taught by Instinct, and to Instinct true,
The proper End he's made for does pursue:
While Coxcombs ridicule Shape, Face and Mind,
And will be that for which they're not design'd.
Cowards in Scarf and Scarlet will appear,
The Foul pursue the Favour of the Fair;
Fools, that shou'd most be silent, most will prate,
And your brib'd Member thinks he props the State:
If to another Age like this we live,
Our Property will all resolve into Prerogative.
'Tis he alone has an Intrepid Soul
Whom Malice can't corrupt, or Fear controul;
That makes the British Glory still his Care,
It's Ornament in Peace, and Thunderbolt in War;
That sternly to the Beard opposes Pride,
And in all Strifes assists the Rightful Side:
Flatte'ry he scorns, so never falsly smiles,
No Scripture ridicules, or Church reviles:
In Posts of Trust all By-Regards he hates,
Nor from the Publick Misery drains Estates:
Merit he does encourage all he can,
His Age continues what his Youth began;
This only is the Honourable Man.

131

In this old English Path you bravely show
How far a true Heroick Soul may go:
And then (a Blessing we but seldom find)
Your high Extractions mated to your Mind,
The brighter both when with each other join'd:
There's none so Great but he may Greater grow,
If with his Noble Birth he's Vertuous too:
Honour does then with double Glory shine,
Enobl'd, and Enobling of the Line:
Such Men are rais'd above the World's distrust,
They will not, dare not, cannot be unjust,
Nor basely side with Arbitrary Lust.
Thus, Justice we in all your Actions see,
Without which there were no Humanity:
The Christian Name preposterously he bears,
That uses his own Fellow Creatures worse that Brutes do theirs.

But who can here omit (what ought to be
Admir'd and Prais'd by all) your Charity?
On those that love the Poor what Joys attend!
But chiefly this—he makes his GOD his Friend.
Who with this Vertue ever was a Slave?
Or who e'er wanted the Relief he gave?
Let those (ye Pow'rs!) be poor themselves that take
No Care of those in Want, but rather Poorer make;
Let not one Soul be softn'd with their Cries,
That they may feel the Mise'ry they despise.
And, to be plain, what Mercy can they e'er
Expect from Heav'n that not one Debtor spare?
That leave not on their naked Limbs a Thread,
And from the Labou'rer force his daily Bread?
Has the Rich Man a Greater GOD than they?
Or can he boast he's made of finer Clay?
Or will he have more Favour on the Judgment Day?

132

'Twas Charity redeem'd us from the Sin
Which our first Parents Fall had plung'd us in;
And, with the dearest Love that e'er was shown,
To raise us thither, sent a SAVIOUR down;
Who all that they had Lost, Regain'd:—and can
We do no more at his Command that did so much for Man?

But such as these who can despise, like YOU,
And by the ill Example better grow;
That Greatness can't corrupt, or Courts entice,
Those Antick Schools of fashionable Vice;
That in his Heart prefers his Country Seat,
And relishes the Sweets of his Retreat;
Thinks it a Blessing London cannot give,
So lives, nay more, and so designs to live;
Whose piercing Eye the Flatterer can't escape,
Found and despis'd in his most soft'ning Shape;
That Counter-weighs against an Ages Crimes,
And is a good Man in the worst of Times;
'Tis there the mighty Nine their Voice shou'd raise,
And to the Vaults of Heav'n resound his Praise;
A long with Abingdon's the Name shou'd roll,
And, driving, Echo on from Pole to Pole.

Pardon, my Lord, that I have here so long
Done both your Vertue and your Patience wrong:
On this I have intrench'd, but blame my Fau't;
Nor have describ'd the other as I ought:
Yet since you condescend t'indulge the Muse,
What you encourage you'll, perhaps, excuse:
Kindly you still on her Endeavours smile,
And with a bounte'ous Hand reward her Toil.
O had I Strength to Balance my Desire,
Or wou'd the God Heroick Thoughts inspire,

133

To your high Worth a Lasting Fame I'd give—
Nor shall it Die if what I write does Live.

To Mr. Knight from the Country.

O Knight! 'tis certain this Auspicious Soil
Almost anticipates the Labou'rers Toil;
The Spring, retiring, keeps it still in Sight,
At distant Smiles, and never leaves it quite.
Here Peace and Joy with Mutual Heart agree,
And Plenty's reconcil'd to Piety.
The happy Natives in firm Health appear
'Till they have weather'd out twice forty Year,
Yet Live and Die without a Thought of Care.
While I remain in such a Clime as this,
And take full Draughts of healthy Country Bliss,
I cannot but with Indignation frown
At what is your Delight;—the vitious Town.
The Town! which next to Heav'n you magnify;
But I wou'd gladly know your Reasons why.
What more can you say in that Life's Defence
Than Shepherds of their State of Innocence?
Where free from Envy, Vanity and Strife,
They make the best of an uncertain Life.
Ambition's deadly Rock they wisely shun,
Where most aspiring Spirits are undone.
To hoard up heaps of Wealth they little mind;
'Tis Peace and Truth they seek, and those they find.
Let Fools to please their Taste confound their Store,
If Nature is suffic'd, they ask no more.
Their Mistresses are brown, of Sabine hue,
But then, to make Amends, they're always true.

134

Here when the Rural Nymph does chance to Wed,
She comes unsully'd to the Nuptial Bed:
But a new Comet sooner will appear,
Than Hymen find a spotless Virgin there.

Thro' your lewd Streets salt Drabs in Legions go;
The Strand has ev'ry Night its Ebb and Flow.
When upon Lady Tray and Ringwood wait,
She but nine Days promiscu'ously will Mate;
And when with Young they Venus still refuse;
These hotter Females ev'ry Season use,
And with big Bellies ply the Streets and Stews.

To the loose City a like Fate arrives,
But there the Trade lies most among the Wives.
The Husbands they get Money by their Wares,
The Wives are forc'd to give to put off Theirs.
Demure their Look, and in their Mien precise,
So under Cloak and Band the Atheist lies,
And the worst Punk is she in Saints Disguise:
All Possible Defences she destroys,
And, like White-Powder, kills without a Noise.
With thousand Oaths her Spouse his Riches gets,
He boldly wins and she as boldly Setts.
When e'er he wags she does her Circle run,
From Park to Plays, to Treats when Play is done,
The Gallant ready when the Husband's gone.
Thus ill got Cash a bitter Curse bestows,
With Perju'ry comes and in Adultery goes.

Well but, you'll say, most Men such Drabs detest
Nor are all Women wicked,—'tis confess'd.
But who is always Wise? there is a Time
When strictest Worth may stumble on a Crime.
A thousand Arts they have t'enflame Desire,
And fan the Blood to a contagious Fire.

135

'Tis best then to be absent from the Snare,
And we can only boast of Safety here:
With us that Sex from all Trepan is free;
O lasting Charm of Artless Constancie!

In getting Bastards half your Town's employ'd,
And 'tis as certain that they're next destroy'd:
No Privy's free; where they in Ordure lie,
Yet sweeter than their Mothers Infamy.
If such a Criminal's convicted here,
It is a Theme of Horror for a Year:
The sad Offender does receive her Due,
Or flying hence, acts treble Guilt with You.
As to her Centre Lust does thither tend,
That Sourse of Vice which but with Time will end.
As Ireland pois'nous Insects will not bear,
So all our Filth is drain'd and empty'd there.

Divide your Men, one part in Three are Slaves,
The next and greatest Cuckolds, Fools and Knaves,
The third a Rout of Mimicks, Rakes and Braves;
The last of which, tho' they roar huff and damn,
Search 'em, they're tame at Bottom as a Lamb.
As who swears most is least believ'd of all,
So big Words shew the Courage to be small.
Wou'd these three num'rous Herds but leave their Folds,
We may affirm You wou'd not meet three Souls,
Three honest ones, from Charing-Cross to Paul's.

It may be urg'd the Country is not free
From many spreading Vices, sad to see,
Particularly that of Knavery.
But where's the Hand void of all evil Deeds?
Or Spot of Land not liable to Weeds?
Now here to root 'em out we daily strive,
At London care is took to make 'em thrive;

136

They flourish there, grow Popular and Great,
That Soil is never without Knaves of State.
That this is so we boldly may Express,
Our late Divisions testify no less,
When Loyalty was thought a Senseless thing,
And he the Patriot that defam'd his King.

Your Lawyers are Incorp'orate with these;
A Race that, tho' they've Vice upon the Lees,
Yet drain it on, and damn their Souls for Fees:
Deliberately on Villany they fall,
Side on all Sides, and yet are false to all.
Instead of Forma Pauperis, all the Poor
They peel quite bare, and make 'em suffer more
Then twenty long keen Winters did before.
He that deprives us with a Stab of Breath,
Is kind to him that lingers us to Death.
A Dearth to Plenty waits on Lawyer's Bills,
Just like the Dearth of Health on Emperick's Pills.
Curse 'em ye Pow'rs!—yet only curse 'em thus;
Be but that Plague to them they are to us.

Tho' all this be deplorable and sad,
The Grievance is in other things as bad.
What Shoals of Fops at Plays at Park and Court!
Meer Butterflies, by Nature made in Sport;
Or else for hast unfinish'd left, to show
How much a Fashion warm from France can do:
Running in Debt to all he all beguiles,
And is but drest out of his Tradesmens Spoils:
Had ev'ry one his Feather back, you'd find
His Body then as naked as his Mind.
Yet these are they that such Delight impart,
They glide unfelt into a Female-Heart;
To get whose Love much Talk and little Wit
Are Charms that never fail'd a Coxcomb yet.

137

O Foolish Sex! and struck upon the Shelves!
That can like nothing but what's like themselves.

Nor is this all that makes the Town our Hate;
The very Drink it Self's Sophisticate:
For your French Wines (and yet the Trash does please)
Are grown as dang'rous as the French Disease;
Stumm'd, mixt, Adulte'rate, and for nothing good
But to corrupt the pure and wholsome Blood.
Not that (my Friend) I hate the noble Juice
If it be Right, and free from all Abuse:
A Cheerful Glass makes Fancy walk as high
(The Muse's Friend!) as 'twou'd without it fly.
But as the Age goes now good Wine's as scarce
As Truth in Friendship, or as Wit in Farce.

Free from all this, and what e'er else we find
That shocks the Peace and Quiet of the Mind,
Supine, the Happy Rural Natives lie.
In the soft Arms of kind Obscurity.
Nor Death nor Poverty are by 'em fear'd,
Against those worst of Ills they're still prepar'd,
For a Good Conscience is the boldest Guard;
And that they ever have; as wronging none,
And living on that Little of their Own:
And very Little is an Ample Store,
To him that wisely does desire no more.

More Instances might easily be shown
To prove the Country Life excell'd by none!
But I shall mention, at this Time, but One;
One fit to Crown the rest; and that shall be
Good house-keeping and Hospitalitie.
The Gentry there can Dine upon a Dish,
Two or three Eggs, or some small Scraps of Fish:

138

You think they're Frugal; but 'tis all a Cheat,
And this in short's the Truth of the Deceit:
They spend so much on Drabs, they are not able
To live up to their Birth and keep a Table.
Hence You may guess how they relieve the Poor;
Two or three Bones, and not a Morsel more,
Which Footmen and the Dogs had pick't before:
Footmen, I say, for in this Courtly Age,
Tho' they want Bread they'll have an Equipage.
But here 'tis seen, to their Immortal Fame,
That Charity is not an Empty Name:
There from your Doors you drive the famish'd Soul,
And here the Needy never miss their Dole:
No Man can Starve, if to the Bounty shown
He adds some little Labour of his own.
Consider but these Truths Impartially,
And I don't doubt but you will soon comply
To think as lightly of the Town as I.

To Mr. R. Trowe from the Country.

You that have always Greatness in your Eye,
May well forget so mean a Wretch as I.
I once, indeed, led a free Life like thine,
And, Care removing, thought that Life Divine:
But wiser now by my Misfortunes made,
I leave the Glare and run into a Shade:
And, like a Snail, within my Shell enclos'd,
Fear not those Storms to which the Town's expos'd.
Of Peace secure, the Swain at once is free
From Publick Fraud and Private Enmity.
With open Coffers, and my Doors unbarr'd
I'm safe, when ev'en the Wealthy are not spar'd;
'Tis Poverty that keeps the strongest Guard.

139

But tho' I thus obscurely pass my Days,
I see enough for Wonder and for Praise.
Th'Almighty in his Glorious Works is here
At all Times no less visible than there,
And as soon reach'd with Piety and Prayer.
Nor does Content (with you ne'er known to stay,
But make a Courtier's Visit and away)
Leave us at all, like a tame Bird she feeds
Out of our Hands, and with us builds and breeds:
Plenty mean while thro' all the Plain resounds
As Faction does in Palaces and Towns;
That Soil where not alone Rebellion Springs,
But is rewarded for defaming Kings.
Here free from cringing to the Man of Pow'r,
I Eat and Drink and Sleep just at my Hour:
When Nature calls I Breakfast and I Dine,
And not because the Clock strikes Twelve and Nine:
And am as pleas'd with my own Frugal Board,
As if I sat at Table with a Lord,
And saw his gilded Laqueys round me wait,
Who live like Dogs, but on the Scraps of Meat:
As pleas'd as if, with an attentive Ear,
I was compell'd his vain Discourse to hear,
And mannerly to all he Chatters, cry
True my good Lord—when ev'ry Word's a Lye.

But prithee, Friend, how does it come to pass
That thus Mankind shou'd deifie an Ass?
That they shou'd patient hold, and list'ning sit,
And put such Larded Dulness up for Wit:
Why shou'd the Fools of Title and Estate,
With Horns and Horse-shoes grav'd upon their Plate,
(To shew their great Progenitors were some
Took from the Forge, or rais'd by Cuckoldom)
Have all the Talk? While it must Breeding be
With Treason and Prophaneness to agree,

140

And praise their Politicks, tho' meant to bring
Confusion on their Country and their King.
Let Sycophants and Slaves their Elbows ply,
(The Earwigs that still hang on Qualitie)
Run at their Nod, and crouch beneath their Spurn,
And Drink and Fight and Pimp each in his turn;
But why shou'd Men of Birth and Wit, by Ways
So low and vile, their Dignity debase,
And poorly bend to Fops they shou'd reject?
For Merit 'tis we shou'd alone Respect.
You'll say, perhaps, they're Flatte'rers made by Need,
And let a Coxcomb prate so they can feed.
Specious, 'tis true, but mean; and is but just
Like Setting Dogs submitting for a Crust.
Who wou'd not rather Spencer be that starv'd
Than Jeff---s? (who has long that Fate deserv'd)
This Poor but Just, a Grace e'en out of Vogue;
And tother Rich, but ten times more than Rogue.
Is it not better boldly to declare
To the loose haughty and degen'rate Heir,
That all the Plumes that glitter round his Head
Are borrow'd from the Vertues of the Dead,
His Honours only (tho he looks so fierce)
But Streamers torn off from his Fathers Herse;
That, had he been by Diligence to get
His Mannors, and his Titles by his Wit,
He wou'd have wanted or have begg'd his Bread,
And been the Tail of Folly, not the Head.
In vain they of their high Extraction boast,
When we so clearly see the Strain is crost:
To Honour the Reproach and the Disgrace;
And slip't in by the Mothers being base,
They're not so much as Bastards of the Race.

But here I see you hit your Nose, and cry
Hush!—you forget you talk to Quality;

141

Rouze not a sleeping Lion; don't you hear
Their Scandalum Magnatum in your Ear?
I do, indeed;—and but that Privilege
Must take off something of the Satyr's Edge
I'd strip 'em bare, and open to your view
So vile, so loose, so profligate a Crew
Of Coward, Coxcomb, Fop, and Whore and Hag,
You'd run from Honour as you'd fly the Plague,
Or a new Rabble that as much affrights,
The num'rous Skipping Fry of Modern Knights;
Produc'd here by whole Cart-Loads in our Isle
As Heat does Monsters from the Slime of Nile.

'Tis not as when our Maiden Soveraign sway'd;
Yet who was better lov'd, and more obey'd?
Profusion in Promotion she restrain'd,
And Honour was not given then but Gain'd:
Pimping had then to Worship no Pretence;
Tho' it has been the surest Method since
Villains to Titles and Estates to rear,
To sit at Helm and have the Soveraign Ear.

Again I'm wand'ring:—least I wander more
I'll here, for thy Relief and mine, give o'er:
This only adding; that tho' I must be
Forgotten, yet my Memory's full of Thee,
Of Thee! whose Name shall live in Verse approv'd,
While Wit does last, and Honesty's belov'd.

142

To the Reverend Mr. Francis Henery Cary, from the Country.

Tho' all Afflictions that ill Fate can send
Against our Peace of Mind their Batt'ery bend,
We have a Refuge if we have a Freind:
Permit me then, if I may dare presume
To think your Breast retains for me a Room;
Who not deserve that Freindship I implore,
But will Endeavour to deserve it more:
Permit me yet to hope your Pitying Ear,
While by my Past I paint my Present Care.
Complaining oft brings the sad Soul Relief,
And is a kind of Sabbath to our Grief.

Young, and not knowing yet my Friendless State,
My Parents dy'd by a too early Fate.
A Mother from me torn as soon as born,
A Father e'er I knew his Loss to mourn.
Industrious, Pious, Frugal still they were;
But 'tis not Prudence, Vertue, Wit, or Care
That always gets a Portion for the Heir.
Mony is still an Antidote to Woe,
For that's a Friend who ever is a Foe.
Nay, which was yet a more unhappy Lot,
The Little I had Learnt was soon forgot:
Not carrying higher; the Foundation liad,
For want of Building, sap'd, and soon decay'd:
So oft in Spring the Hope of Autumn's lost
With early Blites, or nipt with lagging Frost.
But Nature doubly can her Loss repair
In the kind Product of the following Year;
But Learning blasted once no more will bear.

143

My Youthful Years, alas! will soon be gone,
And Winter (tho' 'tis distant) hastens on:
The Northern Blasts of Age will quickly blow,
My Head, alas! will soon be crown'd with Snow,
Ev'n now it is too late for such a Plant to grow;
Which ought to be well cultivated young,
For Knowledge rooted deep does flourish long;
But when it runs to Cavil and Dispute,
Short is its Date, and Leaves are all its Fruit.
Our SAVIOUR, in the Fig-Trees Doom, does shew
A Curse will fall on Barren Knowledge too.

Prevented thus, all that my Age might boast
From Youth, had it been better taught, is lost:
Else I, perhaps, the Holy Badge had born,
Which is by YOU with so much Honour worn
As does redeem it from the Atheist's Scorn.
At least some Gainful Study I had made
My Choice, nor been to various Ills betray'd.
Just as the Lark does from the Hobby flee,
So Man from Man in his Adversity.
When plung'd in Water, if they see we swim
Some Pitying Hand may pull us to the Brim;
But sunk, tho' all have Skill, not one will Dive,
The Hapless Wretch comes up no more alive:
So when once Low, so tedious are Supplies,
There's scarce a Possibility to rise.

Thus, failing here, to Servitude I ran,
And was a Slave long e'er I reach'd to Man:
A Slave to some whose Curse was being Free,
So lewdly they employ'd their Liberty.
In no one Age Dependance was till now
Us'd so unworthily, or sunk so low.

144

In vain the Servant takes the utmost Care
To please his Master, waiting, always bare,
Expos'd to Summer Suns and Winter's piercing Air.
He only Contumelious Language gives,
And most to him that patiently receives:
Reproaches, Curses, Scoffs are on him thrown,
And all th'Excuse is—That the Brute's his own;
Tho' wiser Baalam us'd not his so bad;
Wiser than such, tho' duller than his Pad.
Nor is this Usage only at White-Hall
The Servant's Fate—the Vice extends to all,
Up from the Bumkin Gentry to the Earl,
As if, like Dogs, they were but made to snarl.
The Ladies, too, who with their Consorts vye
In all Degrees of Immorality;
(In former Times but Practically so,
But now sheer Atheists in their Notions too;)
These, by their Birth misled, if e'er by Chance
They on a Servant throw a careless Glance,
'Tis with the utmost Pride, like Fiends, ascance
This score they down their Progeny instill,
So Natural 'tis to use Inferiors ill.
As if the Hireling were of Courser Clay,
Brown Earthen Ware, and of right China they:
China indeed, kept only for a Show;
T'others for Use—and GOD wou'd have us so.
But let this Thought upon their Conscience strike,
In the great POTTER's Hand w'are all alike:
In Birth and Wealth, and Power in vain their Trust,
Alike they Die, alike they rot in Dust.
Justice does here not poize the Balance ev'n;
Riches and Honour, tho' the Gifts of Heav'n,
Seem not with equal Distribution giv'n:
When Pow'r does frown, or Insolence prevail,
How light is Vertue in th'unequal Scale!

145

Another State will make the Myst'ry clear;
Tho' spited, spurn'd, and persecuted here,
The Slave may of the Tyrant have th'Advantage there.

On this rough Sea I thrice three Years was tost,
Much Wrong I suffer'd, and much Time was lost:
To other Peoples Wills I only liv'd;
O squander'd Time! and ne'er to be retriev'd!
Yet some cou'd their whole Lives thus wisely spend,
And think not on the Miserable End;
When stript of all, no longer fit to serve,
Old and Diseas'd, they are turn'd off to starve;
A Curse their past Intemperance does deserve:
'Tis then they see no Human State is worse
Than Lordly Vices with a Peasant's Purse.
But the main Coxcomb that my Nature loaths
Is he that struts in old, cast, tawd'ry Cloaths,
And makes up above half his Talk in Oaths.
Set out in all his borrow'd Plumes, alas!
He's but a thred-bare, sawcy, selfish Ass;
To Bitch and Beau a necessary Imp;
For who is a Valet and not a Pimp?
Or if a Country Lord he serves, you hear
Nothing but Rockwood ringing in your Ear;
While with a drawling Tone, and sottish Face,
The Story's always longer than the Chase.
Speak Truth and Sense he knows not what y'are at,
But Dog and Horse are his Eternal Chat.
Bred to the Discipline of Whip and Bell;
The Servile Rakehell French in this Excell,
And we, as Servile, Mimick 'em too well.

At last my better Fortune set me Free
To tast the nobler Fruit of Liberty:
But then (which was but just a kinder Fate)
That Liberty was all my whole Estate.

146

Tho' higher Converse, Nobler Mirth I met,
And ev'ry Cheerful Glass inspiring Wit,
MONEY, the Spring of all, was wanting yet.
Upon that Hinge all human Actions move,
'Tis Peace, 'tis War, 'tis Women, Wine and Love;
And were it only those it yet wou'd do;
But ah! that want is want of Learning too.
How many deathless Monuments of Wit
Are wanting, that wou'd certainly be writ
Were some poor Youths but train'd to their Deserts,
Their Learning equal to their Natu'ral Parts:
Had DORSET not struck up the Spark to Flame,
Prior had never been a deathless Name.

Among these Evils Poesie, not least,
Took full Possession of my careless Breast,
And did my Talk, my Thoughts and very Dreams infest;
And as it serv'd old Homer heretofore,
(My Fate like Homer's on no other Score)
Lent me its helping Hand to keep me Poor:
Not but thus far I may my Fortune prize;
I saw the World, and did the World despise,
Its Vices, Folies and its Vanities.

What a preposte'rous! what a vast Resort
Of either Sex to Park, to Plays, and Court!
Cou'd the Concern of Heav'n our Ladies bring
Thro' so much Dust to Church as to the Ring?
Tho' if their loose Behaviour their you mark,
Th'adjusting, bowing, ogling of the Spark,
Their Liberties can scarce be more at Park.
Then, when some Farce or Ope'ra comes abroad,
(For Plays that mean Instruction they explode)
The crowded Playhouse groans beneath the Load.
Our Poets now steer not by Ancient Rules,
Their Task's not writing just, but pleasing Fools:

147

In Spite of Horace, Rapin, Rhimer's Laws,
A strain'd unnatural Passion gets Applause:
The Actor, foaming, scarce his Sense retains,
His Froth the Emblem of the Poet's Brains.

The Court we need not mention, ne'er to mend,
When Vice there ceases Time it self must end,
All Promises of Friendship here are lost,
And only Pow'rful Inte'rest rules the Rost.
Flutter and Nice, tho' bubbl'd ev'ry where,
Have yet the Knack to bite the Biter here.
But if some Royal Mistress lead the Dance,
Of bad Extraction here, or worse from France,
Preferment's his that gives the highest Rate,
Tho' the Invete'rate Foe of Church and State.

But above all who can the Lawyer bear?
More fatal than a Pestilential Air:
For tho' that does without Distinction seize
Upon all Ages, Orders and Degrees;
Tho' Truth and kneeling Beauty 'twill not spare,
But Saints from Altars, Son from Sire does tear,
It leaves the Land yet to the Legal Heir.
These Greedier Harpies place their whole Delight
In totally confounding Wrong with Right:
The Ruin of whole Families contrive,
And down the Stream of Time th'Injustice drive,
While, by a Cruel and avoidless Fate,
The Unborn Heir is robb'd of his Estate.
How Peace and Truth wou'd on our Issue smile
But for this Curse entail'd upon the Isle!
So strangely is the Pest encreas'd of late,
Our England now may dread th'Egyptian Fate:
Shou'd a poor Country-Man in Term-time stand
One Hour to see 'em shove along the Strand,
He'd swear the Locust had o'er run the Land.

148

How blest a Fate wou'd groaning Albion find
Cou'd we but have a like Impartial Wind
To sweep 'em hence, e'er Honesty's bereft
Of Bread and Water—all the Fare they've left.

Thus with strict Eyes I ev'ry Vice survey'd,
And open to the Common Laughter laid:
Tho' plac'd my self but in an humble Sphere,
Yet cou'd I mark Abuses, see, and hear:
Nor did an Ass appear thro' all the Town,
Of Eminence to be in publick shown,
But strait th'impartial Satyr made him known.
The Hero that wou'd start to see a Sword,
The Ass that trusted to a Courtier's Word,
The Courtier that did Pimp to be a Lord;
The Playhouse Strumpet's Murders and Amours,
With all the Lesser Imitating Whores;
On all alike she fixt her stedfast Hate,
Nor spar'd an Atheist tho' he steer'd the State.

But ah! at last I found in vain I writ,
In vain I threw my Shafts, in vain they hit,
No Reformation follow'd; ev'ry Ill
The more decry'd, the more it flourish'd still.
But little Honour they to Vertue give
That say, like Palm, 'twill under Pressure thrive;
Vice does the same; the more we wou'd Repell
Its Poison, like a Toad, the more 'twill swell.
Nothing on Earth's so loathsome, or so Ill,
But Labours to preserve its Being still:
In vain the vile are lasht, and foolish hist,
All things that are their Contraries resist.
Striving to mend I thus provok'd the Age;
Which strait fell on me, furious to engage,
With utmost Scorn and with retorted Rage.

149

This made me from my Soul abhor the Place
So gone in Error, and so lost to Grace;
And oft petition'd Fate for a Remove
To Country Shades—the Life the Muses love.

O Heav'n! (I still wou'd cry) incline thine Ear
To a long harrast Wretch's humble Pray'r
Riches I do nor beg, not length of Days,
Which on the Vitals of the Judgment preys;
Let me not languish till my Sense decays:
But long e'er second Childhood does come on
End Life's prepost'rous Journey and begone.
This only grant that (Master of my self)
I first may tast the Country's Ease and Health,
Nor longer in this hated Town abide;
Where Faction, Bigottry, Prophaneness, Pride,
Adult'ry, Murder, Treason, Fraud are found,
And whirl a lewd fantastick endless Round.
In some far distant Village let me live,
A little Income let thy Bounty give,
A little yet enough and not to spare;
For as the Cash encreases, so the Care.
A Beechen Bowl, the Honour of my Hall,
Will serve to hold my Drink which shou'd not be too small;
Nor yet so strong as shou'd the Senses steep
In an unwholesome and a Death-like Sleep,
When waking, the loose Epicure (in pains)
Finds Tumults in his Head, and Fire shoot thro' his Veins.
There wou'd I Sport with what the Season yields;
The Woods, the Mountains, Rivers, Dales and Fields,
Cool Shades, and sunny Banks, and Murm'ring Streams,
These with my Maker's Praise, shou'd be my daily Themes.
There Men in their own native Shapes are dress'd,
Nor make, like Apes Humanity a Jest,

150

As Courtiers do (which Gen'ral Scorn incurrs,)
To day in Silks, to morrow wrapt in Furs.
To France for Fashions, and to France for Air
They go as if they both were Mortal here:
And thence return'd the Bully struts and huffs,
Up to the Shoulders sheath'd, Arms, Gloves and Cuffs,
In Hair Portmanteau Trunks instead of Muffs.
Cool Searge for Summer is the Shepherd's wear,
And Frieze, a Fence against the Winter's Air.
Their Hearts ne'er harbour an intended Ill;
So much their Vertue's stronger than their Will.
Stretch'd at their Ease on the green Turf they lie,
And see, secure, the bolted Vengeance fly
That stops th'Ambitious in their full Carreer,
And fills the anxious Hearts of Kings with Care;
While sated with the Glories of a Crown,
They're pain'd with Ease, and rack'd on Beds of Down.
An humble Carriage and an honest Soul
A friendly Gammon and a cheerful Bowl
Y'are sure to meet; their very Hearts they wear
Upon their Faces, as it's Seat were there.
If angry, (as there's none from Passion free)
They'll not dissemble that you may not see,
But soon will let you know it sooner will agree.
Thrice happy! who the Country's Peace does know!
O Innocence! O Sight of Heav'n below!
O Blissful State! And O ye immortal Pow'rs!
Here let me pass my few remaining Hours,
Redeem the Time I've lost, e'er the wide Grave devours.

Not without Tears thus wou'd I oft complain,
Thus wou'd I pray—nor did I pray in vain.
Kind Heav'n at last my Patron's Mind inspir'd
To raise me undeserv'd, and undesir'd:

151

Nor shall the Grateful Muse forget his Name,
Till Vertue cease to be the Theme of Fame.
You know his Worth, too copious to be penn'd,
The best of Masters, and the fastest Friend!
But Little he of Fame and Honour hears,
If Abingdon has yet not reach'd his Ears;
A Name that thro' the Land does loud rebound,
And shouting Crowds Attendant on the Sound.
His Bounty here has fixt my wand'ring thought,
And without asking gave the thing I sought;
Far from the City, far from Noise and Strife,
An Easy, Frugal, Temperate, Studious Life.

Now, Sir, You may conclude I thought to find
A Peaceful State adapted to my Mind:
The Country like Arcadia I believ'd!
Ah thus too long I thought! and was too soon deceiv'd!

In vain we toil and labour to be blest,
And with a Swarm of Thoughts our Minds molest,
We grasp but Air when e'er we reach at Rest:
The Slipp'ry Wanton sometimes comes in sight,
But in a Moment mounts and takes her Endless Flight:
And in ascending cries there is no Peace
In City, Country, Waining or Encrease,
Till weary Life does end, and all our Labours cease.

By sad Experience now I find the Swain
Is worse than Jew, and more a Slave to Gain:
His Dullness all but Politick Disguise,
To trick the Coxcombs that believe they're wise:
Tho' not so smooth and Florid as the Cit
He's ev'ry Inch of him a Rogue as Great.
Our Sodom may have Ten the Town to save;
But here 'tis nothing else but Fool and Knave.

152

Go where you please, with whom you please converse,
'Tis worse than Wit or Malice can reherse.
The Town, 'tis true, has most Examples shown
Of Vice, because the Seeds are thicker sown;
But let Regard to Quantity be had,
Drop Man for Man and they are here as bad.
Half void of Reason, and quite void of Shame;
Before they know the Person, or the Name,
They shall expose and Gibbet up his Fame.
Since a Good Name's so precious, of all Wrongs
The worst is suffe'ring from Malicious Tongues;
A Proof all Mischief ends not with our Breath,
For an Ill Tongue can wound us after Death.

Now what Relief? Yes, I Relief may get,
If I cou'd trace th'Examples YOU have set.
Cou'd I like YOU, be Master of my Will,
And wholly stifle ev'ry Thought of Ill;
Be ever studious of the Publick Good,
As ev'ry worthy Free-born Britton shou'd;
Stand fast when Lawless Pow'r and Lust prevail,
And, but for such as YOU, wou'd turn the Scale:
Cou'd I, were I as able in my Store,
With the same Libe'ral Hand relieve the Poor;
Suppress all vain Inordinate Desires,
And clip the Wings of Love's Fantastick Fires;
To Vice be in its softest Form Severe,
And make the vertu'ous Man as much my Care;
Thus cou'd I let my Hours but glide away,
I need not value what the Envious say;
Dauntless I'd stand their Rage and take the Field;
Such Worth were an Impenetrable Shield.
In Town or Country thus y'are still the same;
Nor Envy grins, nor Prejudice does blame,
While unmolested you drive on to Fame.

153

But Ah! while thus you Teach and thus you Live,
And Practise ev'ry Precept that you give,
I groan beneath my Vices and my Will,
And, blaming others, yet continue Ill.
You swiftly follow in the shining Chase
Of Truth, first at the Goal in ev'ry Race;
Lagging behind my Weakness I deplore,
And wonder how you keep so far before.

To Mr. Lowin, from the Country.

Horace does tell us, in this Human State
There's not a Man contented with his Fate:
Like Crassus Rich, he something else requires,
Like Cæsar Glorious, yet he still aspires,
And there's no fixing of his wild Desires.
But as to General Rules there still will be
Exceptions, so in this Great Truth we see
The bold Assertion does not reach to Thee:
Thy Station to thy Temper is so true,
You neither seek, or Hope, or Wish a New.

Attendance Cowley thinks a barbarous Fate,
And vilest we can wish the Man we hate:
Had he (O Friend!) been Intimate with Thee,
Tho' more than Life he valu'd Libertie,
He wou'd have own'd himself not half so Free.
He inly griev'd to see the loose and vain
The only Favorites of Fortune's Train.
'Tis said by some 'twas but his Muse repin'd,
But what's the Muse in Poets but the Mind?
'Tis true, he begs not an abundant Store,
But yet he cou'd not relish being Poor.

154

When a loose prosp'rous Knave or Fool I see
Grown proud by Wealth, I bless my Povertie;
For Riches might have made me worse than He.
Doubtless the Man does ill his Peace regard
That thinks his Merit meets not due Reward:
The World to him does but a Wild appear,
And he thinks only Brutes Inhabit there;
And all because a Coxcomb better lives,
Or with a vast Estate too Little gives.
Poorness of Spirit! 'tis the Noblest Mind
That will be least beholden to his Kind;
Or if he must, to Gratitude be true,
And own the Gift, not claim it as his Due.
'Tis true the Wealthy shou'd supply the Poor,
And only for that Reason they have more;
But what Man can command another's Store?
The Wretch then that does boast of Libertie
And yet Repines is more confin'd than Thee
For the Contented Man is only free.

What can the Freedom of this Life afford
Not thine in thy Dependance on thy Lord?
Whether 'tis Plenty, Converse, Wine and Ease,
And, which I name not, softer Joys than these.
Or if it must the Term of Slav'ery have,
What wou'd the Man that's free give to be such a Slave?
When DORSET's nam'd we all wou'd Servants be,
Few Masters then but wou'd Exchange with Thee.
DORSET! whom Envy does not dare to blame,
His Love Preferment; and his Praise is Fame.
O happy Station! at a Meal more Wit
You hear than is in Modern Laureats writ:
Lightsome as Mirth! and soft as young Desire!
It charms like Beauty! and it warms like Fire!
So bright!—in vain I wou'd describe the rest,
For 'twere not Wit if 'tis by me exprest.

155

DORSET! whose Name's as deep in Fame enroll'd
As Great Mæcenas by the Bards of Old,
But HIM we only as a Patron view;
THIS does reward us and instruct us too:
But for those Poets THAT had ne'er been known,
HE in their Works Immortal, THIS, Immortal in his OWN.
And as his Verse does all the Bards out do,
So does his Charity the Gownmen's too:
They give in Dribs; he, op'ning wide his Store,
With a full Hand astonishes the Poor.
Then, when w'are blest with his Society,
With how much Ease he lays his Greatness by!
The Peer is lost; he changes Face and Mien,
And only Friendship fills the Nobler Scene!

Happy art Thou that, to this Worthy near,
His Action's see'st and his Discourse dost hear;
From thence You must above the Level rise,
And by Necessity be Brave and Wise.
I, curst by Fate, to disappointments doom'd,
Proposte'rously have all my Life consum'd:
I've nothing got, and worse, I nothing know!
And all the Helps I have Receiv'd I owe.
My Friends have for me many Favours done,
I ne'er was able to return 'em One,
Unless 'twere in this vain Poetick Way;
'Twas less to lose the Debt than take the Pay.
Then Truth and Wit and Friendship here are scarce,
The Natives of a Make, and Mold so base,
They're one Remove worse than the Brutal Race.
Yet I repine not, but the Storm abide;
With Patience stem the rough unpitying Tyde,
And Live—where Nothing else cou'd live beside!
Yet tho' I grieve not, yet, believe me Friend,
I shou'd be very glad my Case wou'd mend:

156

I'm not so Wedded here, but I cou'd part
From Knaves and Fools without a breaking Heart:
Or if among 'em 'tis my Fate to stay,
My Life shall yet wear easily away;
At least I'll daily beg of Heav'n it may.

Happy the Man that, free from Want and Strife,
Does smoothly glide along the Stream of Life;
Whose Conscience, free, no Op'iate e'er requires,
And by his Fortune bounds his Wise Desires:
If in the Court thou canst this Garment wear,
Thou wilt not be the meanest Figure there.
Next happy He! that with a Soul resign'd
Can bear the Crosses laid on Humankind;
Who, tho' unfortunate, can honest be,
And Happier Men without Repining See;
If ought on Earth be happier than Contented Povertie.
O Friend! if in my Cell I this can do,
Tho' I may Lodge much worse, I'll Sleep as well as You.

Unto the Servant that is Wise shall he that is Free do Service.

Eccles. 10th. 25th.

The DREAM.

To Sir Charles Duncomb from the Country.

On my hard Fate, as late I pondering lay,
Spent and bow'd down beneath the Toils of Day,
By weary Nature to Repose constrain'd,
I slept at last—and thus in Sleep complain'd.

Ah Wretch! to this unhappy Clime confin'd;
Lost to my Friends, and cut from Human kind:

157

A Clime where only Misery does repair,
And Life has no Cessation from its Care.
The rigid Winters here come early on,
With August brought, and scarce with April gone.
In other Places Nature looks but bare,
Some Marks of Spring continue all the Year;
But ev'ry Winter strips her naked here.
The miry Glebe imprisons Man and Beast,
And there must come a Drowth to be releas'd.
No Converse here the tedious Hour's beguile,
But Love and Friendship fly the Barbarous Soil.
Ev'n Honesty its self is banish'd hence,
And Ignorance sets up for Innocence.
The Natives are so truly homely bred,
They're of a Piece with that on which they tread:
Strangers to Vertue and all Lib'ral Arts;
Their Oxen and their Swine have all their Hearts,
Creatures of equal Intellectual Parts.
Among each other endless Feuds they sow,
And Malice lays Manure to make 'em grow.
No Mutual Trust between 'em e'er presides;
And Knavery follows when 'tis Inte'rest guides.
Ava'rice is what they one and all pursue,
Nor is a GOD believ'd while Gain's in View:
For that they earliest rise, and latest toil,
Their Souls, as 'twere, transfus'd into their Soil.
Then when with Mirth they wou'd their Nerves unbend,
What Patience can the Barb'rous Din attend!
What Beast but better wou'd himself Acquit?
Their Truth, Abuse; and Bawdry all their Wit.

How vain are all the Tales the Ancients told,
Of a Self-teeming Glebe, and of an Age of Gold?
Of flow'ry Shades where Peace supinely reigns?
Of fau'tless Nymphs, and of the faithful Swains,
That liv'd so happy on th'Arcadian Plains?

158

'Tis all Idea—but by Fancy wrought,
The Idle Rovings of a wand'ring Thought.
Shepherds in ev'ry Age, and ev'ry Place;
Were ever just as now, a Clumsey, Brutal Race.
Ev'n Cowley, who a Rural Life had long
Ador'd, and made it Deathless in his Song;
When to the Fields he for the Blessing came,
Found all their boasted Innocence a Name:
And Chertsea stands (to contradict his Rhimes)
Blam'd in his Prose to all succeeding Times.

What Path can here derided Vertue take?
What Musick can the sighing Muses make?
Without Converse they lose their Force and Fire,
And Reason back does to its Spring retire.
The long Remove from Prudence, Wit and Arts,
Sets us beneath our very Natu'ral Parts.
If w'are not rising we go down the Hill,
For Knowledge knows no Mean of standing still.
The brightn'd Armour glitters to the Sun,
But only using keeps the Polish on.

Thus doom'd to Dulness, here I bury'd lie;
O low, obscure, inglorious Destiny!
Thus twice five Years I scarce can say I've liv'd;
Or yet improv'd what's ne'er to be Retriev'd!
My Youth has vainly, idly took its Flight,
Unknown to Profit, Learning, and Delight:
Depriv'd of London, then too little priz'd,
Before I knew the Blessing I despis'd.
For Towns, like Tallies, Man for Man does fit,
And Wit does keenliest whet it self on Wit.
Ah Noble City!—but too late I mourn
My Fortune—banish'd never to return!
Never (which yet I deeplier must deplore)
Never to see the Gene'rous DUNCOMB more!

159

DUNCOMB! whose Bounty thro' the Nation flows,
Like Nile, diffusing Plenty as it goes.
DUNCOMB! the Joy of ev'ry Orphan's Tongue!
A Theme for ev'ry Future Laureat's Song!
Once were these Shades with his dear Presence blest,
When Me, ev'n Me, he singl'd from the rest;
And kindly smiling on my Rural Lays,
Crown'd 'em at once both with Reward and Praise.
But Ah the happy Hours too swiftly run!
Just like a blissful Vision seen and gone!
But (O ye Pow'rs!) where e'er he goes be kind,
And match his Blessings to his Gen'rous Mind.
While Envious Fortune here my Hand employs
In barren Labour, and Eternal Noise;
Let all his Mornings rise, and Ev'nings set in Joys.
Nor let him think I by my VVish intend
A Covetous, or an Ambitious End:
Only a Human Fate my Hope invites,
And Innocence, in which my Soul delights.
None better cou'd than I contented live
VVith little, or from little more wou'd give:
But 'tis no Life here in a Brutal Den,
Banish'd from Books, from Manners, and from Men.

'Twas here, methought, a Glorious Form appear'd,
Yet awful as a Goddess long rever'd:
Her Monumental Tow'r the Skies out-brav'd,
And on her Front was fair AUGUSTA grav'd.
And why (said she) dost thou thus sighing ly?
Why all Despondence and Relief so nigh?
He that does set so many CAPTIVES free,
He will, he must, he shall Remember Thee.

Musing, I rose; and bowing thus reply'd.
Ah Madam! not alone on Captives try'd,

160

His Pow'er extends where ever Winds can steer,
Nor will he once thy Heav'nly Beauty spare.
He shall?—alas! You might have spar'd your Breath,
I know the Wretched all are eas'd in Death.

Now by my Pow'r (said the Illustrious Dame)
(And may my Pow'r for ever be the same)
Y'ave liv'd so long shut up in Rural Night,
Your other Senses leave you with your Sight.
Know'st thou not Me?—what Country is there found,
What Region where my Name is not renown'd?
Let Vulgar Names and Things submit to Fate,
I can already boast a more than Mortal Date:
This Privilege the British Glory gives,
I'm only then to die when Nothing lives,
Quite from the Rising to the Setting Sun,
As vast a Round as his, my Fame has run.
Let it be either Traffick, Peace, or War,
What City sends her Naval Tow'rs so far?
Who o'er the Ocean so triumphant rides?
What Shores are water'd with such Wealthy Tydes?
Beneath my Feet my Thames for ever flows,
And for my Profit never takes repose;
But shifting Tydes to Sea, and thence to Land,
Does our own Stores and all the World's command:
While on her Billows to my Hand she brings
The noblest, richest, and remotest Things.
Tho' round my Walls you scarce perceive a Vine,
Yet half the Vintage of the Year is mine,
And ev'ry Lombard Shop an Indian Mine.
What other Town does there so nobly stand
For Soil, for Health, for Pleasure and Command?
What City does beside so Lordly rise,
And sit so near a Neighbour to the Skies?
My Turrets to the Clouds the Prospect fill,
Like lofty Pines on some aspiring Hill.

161

Who less fears War? and when a War does cease,
Who Richlier does adorn the Arts of Peace?
What Shoals of People pour thro' ev'ry Street!
In passing on, what Myriads must you meet!
How gay! how richly clad where e'er you come!
What gallant Youths and Beauties in their Bloom!
Not brighter Shines by Night the Milky Way,
Than in my Streets the Charming Sex by Day.
Who sooner can than I such Summs produce
For self Magnificence, or Publick Use?
Who can her Hand for Wealth extend so far?
Or with such ready Loans defray a War?
Loans that to Lewis gave such loud Alarms,
He lik'd the sound worse than the Clank of Arms.
He saw, in War, the Nerves of War increase,
He saw, advis'd, and sought, and su'd for Peace.
Beside (which further does my State commend)
This Wealth no Mercenary Troops defend:
No Works, or Rampiers rise in my Defence,
By LIBERTY secur'd from insolence:
My Safety strongly on that Rock I lay,
And only Annual Choice confers, the Annual Sway.
No least despotick Thought among us rules,
The wish of Villains and the Yoke of Fools.
Thus by a Fate peculiar but to Me,
I make my Sons not only Rich, but FREE.

Thou know'st me now:—Now know I hither came,
Tho' late thou lov'st me, to encrease thy Flame,
And joyn with thee in blessing DUNCOMB's Name:
DUNCOMB! whose Praise I heard you now recite,
And scarce the loftest Notes can do him Right.
Nor shall his Worth be but proclaim'd by you,
At once the Muses and My Darling too.
'Tis He, I mean, that does our CAPTIVES free
From more than an Egyptian Slaverie:

162

'Tis he that everlasting Honour gains
By nobly striking off my Debtors Chains;
And in that Gene'rous Action has done more
Than all I e'er advanc'd to Wealth before.
Husbands he to their VVives again does give,
He heard their dying Cries, and bid 'em live.
So mighty Paul and Silas when they were
Imprison'd, pray'd, and found the Angel there;
Their Shackles broke, the Doors all open flew—
But DUNCOMB's Angel stops not at so few,
At ev'ry Prison, ev'ry Jayl does call,
And like an Act of Grace, he manumits 'em all.

She paus'd—and here had not the Goddess clos'd
Her Speech, I certainly had interpos'd:
That Noble Name of Honour and Desert
Enlarg'd my Faculties, and fir'd my Heart:
Scarce cou'd I to the Fair my Distance keep,
And Joy almost had burst the Bands of Sleep.
Ah! glorious Dame, I cried, (with a Surprize
That flush't my Cheeks, and light'nd in my Eyes)
That Name you Praise for ever tune your Tongue,
First of your Sons in Panegyrick Song.
But whence? or how is He become your Theme?
That Name so lately injur'd in Extreme.
An Envious Race, I know, his Ruin sought,
Say Goddess, how the Mighty Change was wrought:
Th'Effect must spring from some Stupendous Cause,
Where Fair AUGUSTA gives such vast Applause.

I spoke: When smiling with Superior Grace,
(Both Majesty and Mildness in her Face)
She thus Return'd—As a tempestuous Night
Sets greater Lustre on returning Light,
So Malice, raging without Rule or Form,
Instead of sinking, rais'd him by the Storm.

163

Easie and Rich, in Innocence secure,
He wou'd not joyn with others to procure
Success to Projects hatch'd against the State,
By basely siding with th'Exchequer Cheat;
But knowing well the Narrow Self Design
The Profit shun'd, and did his Post resign.
Unseasonable Vertue! out of Time
Was DUNCOMB's Fau't, and that his only Crime:
For this the bold Projectors cou'd not bear;
He must be guilty that their selves might share,
With double Joy, the Veng'eance and the Prize;
And scarce Two Thirds their Avarice cou'd suffice.
Whole Patrimonies thus the Courtier sweeps;
The Orphan starves, the wretched Widow weeps,
The Nation Groans, and yet the Senate sleeps.

Here Human Malice might it self display,
And many dark Designs expose to Day:
Here to the Life the close Rapacious Crew,
In Sanguin Colours, might be set to view:
But I forbear; nor shall their Rage inspire
A Heav'nly Breast with like pernicious Fire.
Let this suffice; expect the Joyful Day
When all the Birds of Night and those of Prey
Shall to the Deserts fly, to make the Vertu'ous Way
It is enough I dissappoint their Aim,
Secure the Guiltless in their Wealth and Fame,
And fix in Honour DUNCOMB's injur'd Name.
Good-Nature, Honour, Honesty and Sense
All took th'Alarm, and arm'd in his Defence:
Such is the Temper of an English Soul,
It yeilds to Softness, but abhors controul.
Tir'd with their Spite, and all their Hope's o'erpast
To ruin Him, they left the Chase at last;
But sullenly; just as the Wolf withdraws,
The Lamb redeem'd from his extended Paws.

164

By the known Laws he did himself acquit,
Rescu'd by Heav'n from Malice, Power and Wit,
From Bribes, and from the wide devouring Jaw
Of high Oppression, to take Place as Law.
'Twas here, (and I the Influ'ence did impart,)
Touch'd with his Wrongs, and knowing his Desert,
My Sons advanc'd him to the Shrieval Name;
Where now he honours That and gives the Nation Fame.

My Royal Master by this Time was come.
As late with Laurel crown'd with Olive home:
That God-like Prince that did so boldly dare
All the Extremities of Mortal War;
Nor wou'd the shining Chace of Glory cease,
Till he had crown'd his Martial Toils with PEACE.
In ev'ry Field he foremost wou'd appear,
Or succo'uring of that Part, or routing here,
As Mars himself had been in Action there.
Nor did his Heat drive cooler Thoughts away;
His Arm, descending, in the Mid'st wou'd stay,
And Quarter give tho' doubtful of the Day.
But as to such his Mercy did extend,
So he no Danger wav'd to save a Friend.
Thro' Horror Blood and Slaughter he wou'd drive,
Set raging out, and like a Storm arrive:
These dying fall and others Prostrate yield,
And wide Destruction covers all the Field.
His Courage thus!—nor was his Conduct less,
Both try'd—and never try'd without Success.

But now there does a Milder Scene appear,
To shew him great in Peace, as great in War.
I best can see (a thousand Ways display'd)
How he at once advances Truth and Trade.

165

The Country too does in the Blessing share;
And it does reach to Thee—to Thee ev'n here,
So far remov'd, and out of Nature's Care.
Plenty and Safety with their Brooding Wings
Extended wide, produce all useful Things;
In Peace the Plowman reaps, of Peace the Poet sings;
Never of all our Martial Kings, from Heav'n
To Britain has there yet a Prince been giv'n
That sooner did in Camps arrive at Fame,
Or past more Dangers to a Deathless Name.
In Him the Two most distant Glories meet,
All that on Earth is Good, with all that's Great.

Here did my DUNCOMB's Honours shine anew,
For me not only, but the World to view.
This Prince that from his Soul does Worth regard,
And never gives th'Immoral Man Reward;
That never once on Cowardice did smile,
But those he Raises Guardians of the Isle;
Ev'n He himself, the Envious to convince
Of their own Spite, and DUNCOMB's Innocence,
Gave him the Recompence with which we see
He Crowns persisting Faith, and Suffe'ring Loyaltie.
Whom the King Honours and the People chuse,
To such a One who can Applause refuse?
Fit for the Praises of the Chasest Muse.
Let then his Loud-Tongu'd Suffe'rings be repaid
With louder Praise;—for, since my Walls were laid,
No Subject e'er was such a Friend to Trade.
Who does the Nation's Inte'rest study more?
Or better Laws propose to feed the Poor?
Nor does he (splitting on the Common Shelf)
Propose to others what he shuns himself:
To give by Dribblets (which is chiefly done)
Is but to keep the Needy starving on:

166

He lays out his Reliefs at nobler Rates,
His Dole's a Market, and his Gifts Estates.
Who in his Office ever raised so high
AUGUSTA's Name for Hospitality?
What Table thro' the Nation does afford
So vast a Plenty as his Shrieval Board?
Who for the Loyal noblier does prepare?
And Wit and Vertue still are welcome there.
Mean while the sparkling Wines around him move,
Th'Inspiring Nectar that the Muses love.

Stay then no longer thus lamenting here,
But hope a milder Heav'n and kinder Air;
The Rising of thy Better Stars is near.
If my Perswasions have not lost their Charms,
My DUNCOMB shall restore Thee to my Arms.
Wealth, Wit, Employment, all by HIM are sway'd;
'Tis but a Word, a Nod, and He's obey'd.

I here had answer'd but the Dame withdrew;
And with Her Sleep retir'd, and left me too:
But left th'Impression deep upon my Mind
Of DUNCOMB honour'd, and AUGUSTA kind.
Ah Heav'n! I cry'd, let him but Prospe'rous be,
And 'tis no matter what becomes of me.

Forgive me, Sir, that thus (opprest with Spleen)
I treat you with this Visionary Scene;
That on a Night-piece I your Worth display,
So dear to Vertue, and so worthy Day.
Nor let the Muses lose me your Esteem,
Since they Petition only but in Dream:
In Dreams they live, and chiefly Dreams regard,
But most they Err when Dreaming of Reward.
But tho' my Sleep dissent, I waking ne'er
Upon that Subject shall offend your Ear.

167

These Melancholy Vapours, bred at Sight
Of Winter, with the Spring will take their Flight;
When Op'ning Sweets, and Universal Green,
Produce a Gay Inimitable Scene.
Tho' now with Rains, or Shudd'ring Frost, we strive,
That Glo'rious Season will again revive:
The Tuneful Choir, thro' ev'ry Field and Grove,
Will then renew their Musick and their Love:
With them th'exulting Muse her Voice shall raise,
And waking then I'll sing my PATRON's Praise.

168

HYMENEALS:

OR, Marriage Verses.

To my Lord Eland, on his Marriage and Return, &c.

Pardon, my Lord, if a poor Poet, one
That is not, and deserves not to be known,
Presume not only (hardn'd in his Crime)
To greet your safe Return with Doggrel Rhime,
But wish your Future Years may This atone,
And bless no other Country but your Own;
Which, as it griev'd to want your Presence here,
Envy'd it's Shining in another Sphere.

Many there are that travel Foreign Parts,
They say, to know the Manners, Men and Arts;
Yet (tho' they boast of leaving it behind)
Bring back a Dross too course to be refin'd
Affected Body, and Affected Mind:
For such Accomplishments we need not roam,
Fools may be made with least Expence at Home.

169

But you, my Lord, have nobler Conduct shown,
And brought from the French Court what will adorn our Own;
A Vertuous Wife!—a thing so rare to see,
Ev'n Holy-Writ mentions but two or three.
To her own Native Soil she bids adieu
For dear Religion, and her dearer You:
Nor has she lost, but in your Arms will find
Sublimer Blessings than she leaves behind.
For early y'ave the Chace of Fame begun,
Nor are, but by a Father's Name, out done:
He, when three Parts of four in Darkness lay,
Broke the thick Scales, and made us see the Day,
And drove our Fears and Jealousies away.
False Fears and Jealousies, those useful things
To rere Usurpers, and to ruin Kings.
His Noble Image we in YOU may find,
Lively in Person, livelier in your Mind;
For both have climb'd the Mountain's Top, there sit,
He, Judge of Wisdom, You the Judge of Wit.

To Sir Edward Nevil Baronet, On his Marriage.

Now, Sir, when your Good Angel does rejoice,
And look down pleas'd on your Auspicious Choice;
When Love and Beauty, drest in all their Charms,
Give up their dearest Fav'orite to your Arms,
It may be thought Impertinent, in me,
To grate your Ears with worthless Poesie:
When Hymen's sacred Musick Charms the Sense,
All other Sounds are harsh and give Offence:
And yet, alas! tho' conscious of my Crime,
I still, go on—a Slave condemn'd to Rhime.

170

'Tis grown almost a Miracle to see
Two Natures form'd by Nature to agree:
Wedlock is now all Interest and Design;
Th'Affections part just where they us'd to joyn.
Your better Fate this common Ill controuls,
By making first an Union in your Souls.
Your Lovely Bride, Chast, Courte'ous, Noble, Good,
And you, Sir, Eminent in Worth as Blood;
Just, Loyal, Brave—all that can claim esteem,
And make the Poets up a Deathless Theme.

Hereafter (when we better may presume)
We'll jointly give your Vertues ampler room;
Dilate whole Pages on your Wit and Truth,
Her Matchless Graces and her Fau'tless Youth:
But at this Time, while we the Muse employ,
Our Duty but detains you from your Joy.

Hail happy Pair! your Race of Love's begun,
And may you still be eager to love on.
May Pleasure flow, and (because all must tast
What Sorrow is) may Sorrow ebb as fast;
That ev'ry Day, progressively, may be
A further Step into Prosperitie.
May long Life bless you, and a Health as long,
And may you, too, be Fruitful while y'are young;
That from your Loins a Loyal Race may spring,
T'adorn their Country and to serve their King.

To an unknown Relation; Hearing he was happily Married.

'Tis, sure, the fairest Branch of Nature's Law
To love all Men, ev'n those we never saw:

171

By the same Rule, it follows, we shou'd still
Rejoice at their good Fate, and mourn their Ill.
Ev'n Gene'ral Charity thus much shou'd do;
But I've a nearer Tye to grieve, or joy for YOU:
Thy Sister, still Indulgent to my Ease,
And Good, as she were only made to please,
Suspends my Care, and Silences my Grief;
Which, but for her, had never hop'd Relief.
Ingrateful then, Ill-natur'd shou'd I be,
Did I not wish a like content to Thee,
Did I not wish the Consort you have chose
May think her chiefest Pleasure, thy Repose.
For Vertu'ous we will write her, tho' unknown;
Ev'n in thy Choice her Wit and Worth are shown:
What cou'd Inspire thee with a Lover's Care,
Must needs be something very Chast and Fair.
O may you long be happy in her Arms,
You never want for Love, nor she for Charms;
But smoothly glide along the Stream of Life,
A Tender Husband, and Obedient Wife.
And O may never Jealousy destroy
Your Peace of Mind, and clog your rising Joy.
May ev'n the World to thy own Wish agree,
The World, which has too often frown'd on Me.

Of Adorissa's Second Marriage with Mr. Grevil.

A sable Mantle Heav'n sometimes does place
Between our Eyes and the Sun's lovely Face;
But long that Gloominess does never stay,
Or if it shou'd, it cannot conquer Day.

172

Thus Sorrow, lately, did attempt to shroud
Fair Adorissa's Glories in a Cloud:
Her Mind, 'tis true, the Tyrant did invade,
But her all-bright'ning Eyes cou'd fear no Shade.
Affliction, while 'twou'd Enviously disarm
Her Looks of Darts, is made it self a Charm.
Beauty, distrest, does open to our View
A Lustre that before we never knew;
First our Concern, does then our Wonder move,
And the next Step's Inevitable Love!
In vain Eclips'd, her Eyes (us'd to subdue)
No sooner look abroad but wound anew.

Around her soon her hopeless Lovers lay,
At once an easie, and a num'rous Prey.
Ah! why ye wretched Rivals? why d'ye run
With such preposte'rous Hast to be undone?
Alas! the happy Man can be but One.
See all the while how easie she appears,
How unconcern'd she their Addresses hears;
Does not, severely, all Approach forbid,
Yet guards her Fame no less than if she did.
While other Ladies, with affected Arts,
Like Fishers, angle for their Lover's Hearts,
Rob their own selves both of Esteem and Ease,
By an Inordinate Desire to please.
She from the Top of Chastity looks down
On all alike, without a Smile or Frown:
Gives no one Hope, yet gives no one Despair,
As if all Passion were beneath her Care.

Mean while her Lovers thus expostulate
(Unable to conceal their Pain) with Fate.
Ah! why? why did you to her Eyes ensure
Such Pow'r to charm, when she disdains to Cure?

173

Once, Mighty Love, she to thy Yoke did bow,
Where are thy Darts, or her Obedience now?
By what strange Magick does she Passion move,
Yet be her self Insensible of Love?
Or because Heav'n snatch'd Damon from her Arms,
Must we all fall a Victim to her Charms?
Or was the Noble Youth depriv'd of Breath.
For us to bear him Company in Death?
Like as of old some dying General,
He has his Thousands to attend his Fall.
O cancel! cancel this severe Decree!
Or have you learnt to be as deaf as she?

This just Complaint at last did reach the Ears
Of Mighty Love, and not in vain he hears:
For now, amidst her Train a Youth she spy'd,
Who without timely Pity must have died:
More Prudent, Brave, and Lovely than the rest,
And sweet as dying Swans his Grief exprest;
Sigh'd out his Cares in such a melting Strain,
That none but he believ'd he lov'd in vain.
Mean while her Eyes, now sick'ning with Desire,
(For Excellence will Excellence admire)
Proclaim'd she cou'd not see the Youth expire:
Tun'd both alike, her Heart with his did move;
And that which was Compassion, now is Love.

Blest be the Look in which she did impart
The Pointed Charm that reach't his Noble Heart;
A Heart that ev'n thus early has its fill
Of all that Wit and Honour can instill.
And blest be she, of Cruelty affraid,
That does repair the Breach her Eyes had made.
Who wou'd not Venture the last Gasp of Breath
To be when just expiring, so redeem'd from Death!

174

Whether she sing, Discourse, or Look, or Move,
Or Smile, or Frown—her ev'ry Action's Love!
She can be nothing that we don't admire!
Yet ev'ry Minute lifts our Wonder highe'r;
Smiles as it comes, and opens to our View
Something that is Resistless, something New.
And as the Sun, in its own Essence bright,
Sends forth his Beams, the Progeny of Light,
Yet never does decrease of Lustre find,
Supply'd from the Eternal Sourse behind;
So flow the Graces from her fairer Face,
And, undiminish't, fresh ones fill the Place.
If we are rapt but gazing on her Charms,
What must he be that has her in his Arms.

Long may he live, the Blessing all his own,
And sickness, Care, and Jealousy unknown.
May his Love last, her Beauties never Fade,
But be at Sarah's Age new Conquests made;
Yet not to kindle an unhallow'd Flame,
But to attest her Charms are still the same.
And as she brought her former Joy and Heir,
Let not the Blessing long be wanting here;
Inspire some Poet that his Birth be sung,
And worthy of the Blood from whence he sprung.

Hail! Hail ye Lovely, Loving, Noble Pair!
And O! accept the Muses humble Prayer:
Tho' Kneeling Kings may oft meet no Regard,
The Poor and Pious certainly are heard.
'Tis done! for see, Tranquility appears,
Nor is it come for Moments, but for Years!

175

To Dr. Harding and his Lady; Some time after their Marriage.

To any other Marry'd Pair but You,
How vain, and how preposterous wou'd it shew,
In Hymen's Praise my Time and theirs to wast,
And talk of Love when the First Moon was past?

But tho' so many Myriads wretched are,
The General Rule will some Exceptions bear:
Once in an Age we may in Wedlock see
All that this Life can call Felicitie.

So when a Pestilential blast does fill
The Air, and blow an Epidemick Ill;
Some few the happy healing Breezes share,
As if the God of Physick cull'd the Air,
And wheresoe'er they mov'd wou'd breathe it there.

There's not a Joy the Marriage Life procures,
But signs and seals it self for ever Yours.
Where can we Expect with Happiness to meet,
If not with Peace and Plenty, Truth and Wit?
As in Election, so your Nuptials prove
There is as well a Chosen Race in Love.

How strangely true our Wishes oft will fly,
Ev'n when they take their Aim above the Sky?
I saw, my Friend, the Fair you now possess,
Blooming in Sweets, and breathing Tenderness:
A wond'rous Goodness in her Eyes were fixt,
Yet with each Glance there seem'd some Terrour mixt:

176

So Egypt's Cloudless Sun Approach Confounds,
So Light'ning when 'tis brightest deepest Wounds.
By her discerning Conduct we might find
He much must Merit that cou'd make her Kind.
Concern'd for whom, 'twas this Reflection brought
All her Desponding Lovers to my Thought.
You, taller than the rest, elate were shown,
Like Him whose Stature rais'd him to a Throne.
I saw—and wish't you might her Heart obtain,
And there with uncontroll'd Dominion Reign;
A Sceptre which 'tis nobler far to sway,
Than Kingdoms that but Grudgingly obey.

From the Fair Conqu'rour then I turn'd my view,
Contemplating her Happiness in You
Where can she find, cry'd I, a Worthier Youth,
So rich in Merit, and so fixt to Truth?
His Manly Aspect does command an Awe:
Like Eastern Kings that make their Nod a Law:
Yet with the strong so sweet a Mixture's joyn'd,
Like Mars, tho' daring; he's like Venus, kind.
Then in his Breast he all the Goodness shares
That Credits his Own Sex, and Conquers theirs.
What Numbers will be left to Death a Prize,
If he shou'd fall a Victim to her Eyes?
The Triumphs of his Art (our Future boast)
Not suffer'd to exist, will all be lost.
'Twill be a double Murder of the Dame
At once to rob Him both of Life and Fame.
Encline her, Heav'n, to hear her Lover's moan,
The Fair are fairer yet when Mercy's shown;
Ah! let her give him Peace, or lose her Own.
I spoke—When Lo! the Gracious Pow'rs approv'd;
And the next Glance the Loving was belov'd.

177

O Happy State! O Smooth Elezian Life!
O ever-sacred Names of Man and Wife!
When Mutually each others Care we prove,
And Wedlock walks in the smooth Paths of Love:
When nothing harsh, or hideous e'er appears,
To wound our Eyes and persecute our Ears:
When from our Looks a glowing Ardour darts,
With speaking Smiles, that Mind to Mind imparts;
The dear and silent Intercourse of Hearts!
When tun'd alike one touch both Wills does move;
O Transport scarce to be excell'd above.

How will this Choice thy Joyful Sire approve!
Ev'n He, no less Successful in his Love.
It will not be a mean or trivial Prayer,
That you may prove alike Auspicious Pair.
There Hymen long has laid a peaceful Head,
With the rich Banquets of Contentment fed,
And with a Gen'rous Issue blest their Bed.
Happy! that can so Good a Father boast!
And late some Lofty Genius mourn him lost.
How to my Converse will he Condescend?
With what Affection own himself my Friend?
How much he knows! how little he'll profess!
His Favours endless, and his Skill no less.
The Double Blessing be on him bestown
To give us Health, and long enjoy his own.

And Thou, O Thou (not less in thy Desert)
The Heir both of his Prudence and his Art;
The same Success as His attend thee still,
And Æsculapius dictate to thy Quill,
To save as fast as City-Emp'ricks kill.

178

How canst thou fail to ease us of our Harms,
Blest with such Sweets in thy desiring Arms,
And influenc'd with the Magick of her Charms!
Auspicious Health attends Her Side by Side,
And thus, Methinks, Instructs Thee to Prescribe.

When a Lethargick Patient dang'rous lies,
Flash on him full the Brightness of her Eyes:
The Genuine Light; the All-Reviving Ray,
Will drive like Mists the dozing Steams away,
Unchain the Optick Pow'rs, and bring 'em back to Day.
Where a Malignance has been Pow'rful long,
Apply the Artful Musick of her Tongue;
Let her but speak, the Evil will retire,
As SAUL's Distemper fled from DAVID's Lyre.
If 'tis a stubborn, tough, Hydropick Ill,
The Sweetness of her Temper next instill;
Quick thro' the Veins it will Triumphant ride,
Change the whole Mass and Sanguify the Tyde.
But if you fear these Methods yet may fail,
And wou'd have something certain to prevail,
A never-failing Cordial—from her Breath
Extract Immortal Balm—and laugh at Death!

In vain these pleasing Notions I pursue;
This rich Elixir's all reserv'd for You:
To us it does no other Prospect give,
But that w'are doom'd to Die, and you to Live.
While the soft Fair can such Reliefs impart,
You need not have the least recourse to Art:
But lost in Joys, and brightn'd with her Charms,
Continue always Youthful in her Arms.

It shall be so—I here the Muse engage
From both your Minds to raze the Thoughts of Age.

179

Love, Pleasure, Mirth, and all that's Sweet and Gay,
Shall crown the Night, and hurry on the Day.
A Series of Propitious Years, in Bliss
Shall come and go, all smooth and Calm like this;
Yet leave you still behind in all your Prime,
Fixt in your Bloom, and unimpair'd by Time.

Lo! with the Thought ev'n I my Cares forego,
When thou art blest I must be happy too.
I to thy Soul by secret Bands am ty'd,
Thy Smiles my Peace, and thy Esteem my Pride.
Friendship till now (the Life they lead above)
Has been believ'd a Nobler Flame than Love—
'Tis past—and justly you the Fair prefer;
I Yield—but I can yield to none but HER:
SHE is the only Instance that does prove
Friendship is not so dear a Name as Love.

On my Lord of Dorset's Marriage with the Lady Mary Compton.

If there's a Lot exempt from Human Strife,
It must be His that has a Vertu'ous Wife.
But if with Vertue Wit and Beauty joyn,
What State can we Imagine more Divine!
To Heav'n for Parallels we durst not go,
But we are Sure it is a Heav'n below.
Truth, and all else that Mortals hold so dear,
Wealth, Honour, Peace and Safety Center there.
With such a Spouse Affection ne'er decays;
Nor have her Nights more Rapture than her Days:
Her Love does these, her Duty those employ,
And she admits no Vacancy from Joy.

180

As at the early Dawn the Guilty Spright
Drives back, and plunges in retiring Night;
So flies Contention from her fairer Eyes;
The Fiend must vanish when those Lights arise:
If Riches come, she lessens not her Flame;
Or if Adversity, she's still the same:
Her happy Husband down in Safety lies,
Sleeps in Content, and to Content does rise.
O DORSET, she is Yours! and only You
Deserve a Joy so Great, a Faith so True.
What others Ages seek you early find,
In One th'abridg'd Endowments of the Kind.
The Vertues we describe sh' has practis'd long,
No Female e'er Perfection reach'd so young.
Her Youth's adorn'd with Nature's freshest Charms,
Her Youth she brings unblemish'd to your Arms.
Uncharm'd with the Regards of Birth and State,
She takes a surer Method to be Great:
To Vertue kind, to Vice a mortal Foe;
No Scorn of Pride did ever higher go,
Or Condescention ever stoop so low.
Meek as the Dove, whom Nature gave no Gall,
And free from Guile as Eve before the Fall:
Had she been there the Tempter cou'd not boast,
Nor had our State of Innocence been lost.

But equal Joy Fate does on both confer:
She gains in YOU no less than You by HER;
Her utmost Wish!—a Form that does impart
All that can please her Eye, or charm her Heart!
With like Content you on her Beauties look,
With equal Pleasure, equal Wonder strook;
And when Night's welcome Mantle veils her Charms,
With equal Fervor melt within her Arms.
O only, only for each other made!
O Mutual Couple! Transport undecay'd!

181

Your Vertue does not to her Worth submit,
Nor is her Face more wond'rous than your Wit:
So bright her Eyes! w'are lost in Rapture there,
And while you speak with equal Rapture hear!
To this a Judgment so Mature is joyn'd,
Your Praise, or Blame, determines all Mankind.
To judge of Poesie some make Pretence,
Damn what does please, and Praise what gives Offence;
But all your Approbation-Stamps, is Sense:
Currant it goes, with an unquestion'd Pride,
The Metal prov'd, the Image Dignify'd:
No Author e'er was so presuming yet,
As to appeal from your unerring Wit.

But tho' that Blessing we so much admire,
Your Charity does raise our Wonder higher.
Since He that taught that Duty hither came,
No Mortal Breast has known so bright a Flame.
Never to One did yet a Portion fall
That came so near the Great Original,
The vast Compassion that Reliev'd us all.
So close this Vertue to your Soul does cleave,
Not starving Debtors with more Joy receive,
Than you with an ungrudging Bounty give.
Nor did you, giving, ever yet deride
The poor Receiver, such a Dole's but Pride;
We see but Little to the Alms you hide:
With secret Aid whole Families you raise,
And scarcely fly Detraction more than Praise.
The Muses Sons with like Regard you Grace,
A Craving, Insolent, and Teazing Race:
Like common Beggars, they your Doors besiege,
Ingrateful, most; so dang'rous to oblige:
They hang on Bounty just like Ticks for Blood,
And scandalize the Hand that throws 'em Food.

182

This Pest of Men you shou'd to starve permit,
For Impudence is ill excus'd by Wit.

Unweary'd Goodness! Kindness unconfin'd!
O Youth to Manhood wonderfully joyn'd!
Who e'er than Buckhurst was so fam'd so young?
Or who but Dorset ever liv'd so long
Without one Slander from an Envious Tongue?
Ev'n different Parties in your Praises meet,
And so employ'd, their Mutual Feuds forget:
Ah! wou'd they joyn, our Liberties were sav'd,
But, blind with Spite, they see not those Enslav'd:
Pride, Bigottry, and Pow'r unbounded Rules,—
But such a Government is fit for Fools.

Your Courage, Friendship, Truth, we need not name,
Nor Loyalty, so amply known to Fame,
So oft in Dangers try'd, and still the same.
'Tis not for nothing Providence does bless
All that you undertake with such Success.
Ev'n that rough Sea where most Adventu'rers fail,
That Bay of Biscay, that tears ev'ry Sail,
Has favour'd You with an Auspicious Gale:
Safe in the Port you ride (the Peace design'd)
And looking back, Your careless Followers find
Driving on Rocks, and fighting with the Wind.
There, unconcern'd You sit, and daily see
The Wrecks of Marriage, from the Danger free:
Clasp'd in the Magick Circle of her Arms,
Melting in Joys, and guarded with her Charms,
Y'ave nothing now to fear of Human Harms.

Slow let the Time go on, ye Gracious Pow'rs,
Their happy Moments lengthen into Hours,
Their Hours to Days, their Days to Years convert;
Such Lovers seldom meet, and shou'd not quickly part.

183

Be such a Buckhurst the next Ages Bliss,
As HE that was the Ornament of this.
Like Comfort in him let his Parents have,
As Dorset to his happy Parents gave:
A Liberal Patron may he like Him be,
And by his Worth assert his Family.
Hark how the General Shout approves my Prayer!
The Omen's good; the Gracious Pow'r does hear,
And as the FATHER, such shall be his HEIR.

On my Lord of Abingdon's Marriage with the Lady Wenman.

'Tis done! Triumphant Accents rend the Air,
And Hymen never made a Happier Pair:
Delight does ev'ry Heart and Tongue Employ,
And the Consenting Nation gives 'em Joy!

Thus Heav'n afflicted Vertue makes it's Care,
And when our Suffer'ings seem beyond Repair,
Raises Relief ev'n from our Own Despair.
Born for each others Joy; no Way but this
Cou'd reinstate 'em in their Former Bliss.
His Love her Widow'd Hours has overpaid;
Ev'n by her Loss she is but happier made.
And He cou'd have for years in Sorrow led,
And all the Tears for dear Mirana shed,
No Recompence but Beauteous Wenman's Bed:
Equal in Worth, and equal in her Charms,
And he once more does clasp an Angel in his Arms!

184

As when the Sole Arabian Phœnix dies,
Another from the Spicy Urn does rise,
And with it's wond'rous Perfume fill the Skies:
So from their very Grief their Pleasure Springs;
Tow'ring aloft, with Riches on her Wings,
She higher Sores and more Divinely Sings.

Thus at the last Discriminating Day
(The Dross of Human Nature purg'd away)
The op'ning Graves our Bodies shall restore,
Their Beauty, Glory, and Perfection more
Than all their Prime of Youth cou'd boast before:
But yet more happy is this Mutual Pair;
Preceding what again will happen there,
Their Joys have found a Resurrection here.

When such bright Omens such a Work attend,
As 'tis commenc'd in Joy, so late 'twill end.
All just like this (so 'tis in Time decreed)
Shall be the happy Moments that succeed:
Soft as the Spheres on their smooth Axles move,
The Hours shall run Perpetual Rounds of Love!
Encreasing Mut'ual Comforts as they come,
As Figures added still augment the Sum.

Where Love alone cements the Marriage Tye
The Knot may soon dissolve, and Passion dye;
Who only Beauty weds, when Beauty goes
No Conjugal Endearment longer shows:
Hence Love at Twenty, is at Thirty Strife,
And Hony-moons but bode a Wretched Life.
But there where Beauty does with Honour meet,
And Vertue joyns to make the Work compleat,
There Peace does dwell, and ever new Delight,
And Joys that terminate beyond our Sight:

185

The rest is vain:—Only where Vertue's given,
Entitles Marriage for the Work of Heav'n.

Not as of Old; but, each by each betray'd,
Wedlock a Snare is to the Wedded made,
And grown a Cheat like ev'ry other Trade.
This only Match redeems the Credit lost;
One such Example is an Age's boast.

But now, Methinks, the City Consort's drown'd,
Tho' in less artful, yet a happier sound;
For with his Oaten Reed th'exulting Swain
(As if 'twou'd be the Golden Age again)
Spreads Peace and Love and Gladness thro' the Plain.
The happy news has reach'd their Rural Cells,
And Fame aloud her Gratefull Message tells.
Rejoyce, you Shepherds! and you Nymphs, rejoyce!
Vertue is pleas'd, and Beauty has her Choice.
Thoughtless of ill, and hating all Disguise,
Your Hearts are ever open'd in your Eyes,
Esteeming to be Honest more than Wise:
Into your humble Dwellings Care can find
No Entrance; Care, the Gangrene of the Mind.
Safe in your Circles Trouble you defy,
It glares aloof, or else stalks sullen by;
Ill can't approach and Innocence so Nigh.
Now speak your Joy! and welcome to your Groves
The Chastest Flame that ever sprung from Loves.
You with this happy Pair will most be blest,
Friends from their Childhood to your Shades profest;
O for their Plenty still return 'em Rest!
In Cities (gilded with expensive Pride)
Let Fool and Knave the Rural Life deride:
Let Ladies, too, thro' their false Opticks see,
And, name but Country, cry—Barbaritie!
When yet in Courts they shall no higher Climb
Than to turn lewd, and Rot before their Time.

186

These, better knowing, build the Halcyon's Nest
Where only, only Man from Strifes can rest.
In Peaceful Shades and in the Silent Bow'rs,
Ceres with Fruits, and Flora hid in Flow'rs,
What thankless Wretch cou'd misemploy his Hours?
There, Seeing how to Vertue still they tend,
We look, admire; we Imitate, and Mend;
And once Astræa does again descend!

If such are pleas'd who but at Distance see,
What must their near Relation's Transport be?
Those who their Blood from the same Fountains drew,
And clearly see what these but darkly view;
Who in like Acts their happy Time employ,
And whose Alliance gives 'em ampler Joy.

By Contemplation of what Theirs may be,
We yet climb higher 'toward Felicitie:
A Nobler Object now our Duty claims,
Norreys! tho' Young, an Elder Son of Fame's.
Nor can he hide the Transport; 'twill arise,
Dance on his Tongue, and Triumph in his Eyes.
His Parents Happiness is his Content,
And theirs Augmenting make his own Augment.
Scarce e'er before Heav'n to a Father gave
An Heir so Prudent, Dutyful and Brave.
Most elder Sons a diffe'rent Gale does drive,
Mourning but while their Parents are alive;
Only to Women, Wit and Wine devout,
Merc'ry within drives all their Rev'rence out:
He, chaster, only fills his Consort's Arms,
Nor has a wish on Earth beyond her Charms:
Or if he had, cou'd hardly higher rear
Imagin'd Graces than the Real there.

187

Lovely as Innocence in Truth's attire!
Her Vertue all that Precept can require,
And fixt, like Heav'n's, not to be mounted higher;
Her wond'rous Sweetness (to the meanest kind)
Her Ample Fortune and her Wealthier Mind;
Are Blessings that we strive withal to bear!
Oppressing Pleasure!—but the coming Heir
Will lighten half the happy Burden there.

Nor less his Gene'rous Brothers bless the Day;
Nor less the Muse cou'd of their Vertues say,
Had she but Leisure on the Theme to stay.
Great is the Hope their Country on 'em builds,
Nor less the Promise of their Courage yields.
O more than happy in a Parents Name!
And in his Matchless Sons their Sire the same!
Who can Six Brothers of that Substance find,
Equally strong in Body and in Mind,
And yet their Fathers Years no more declin'd?
Arriv'd but little past the Middle Stage,
Fix'd from of old to be the Bound of Age.
Healthy and Vig'rous, Chearful, Strong and Gay,
As if h' had Number'd no more Years than they.
In Copying Him they'll be secure of Fame,
And make their own, like his, a Deathless Name.
Their Birth ensures their Vertue; to be Good,
They need but trace the Dictates of their Blood.
Magnetick, it does Nature's Pow'r controul,
To ev'ry Vertuous Way encline the Soul,
As Needles touch'd are sure to find the Pole.
Brave and yet Pious, just their Father's make,
From whose Example they th'Infusion take.
From what vast Sourse can all this Goodness flow!
The Sun, that does perpetual Light bestow,
Remains the same, and does not brighter grow:

188

But while the Bounty of his Worth is shown,
He, still bestowing, still augments his own.

Three Sisters next their Beauteous Faces show,
And Love around 'em plants th'unerring Bow:
The Shafts already he begins to whet,
And wheresoe'er they look their Points are set.
Who can from their Meridian Glory run,
That at their Rising cast so warm a Sun!
Their charming Mother shines in ev'ry Part,
Flames in their Eyes, and fixes in the Heart:
That wond'rous Pattern, shou'd they Practise right,
Will make 'em Vertue's Boast, and Man's delight.
'Tis done! the Muse, that future Worth can tell,
Sees how they all the Charming Race excell.
Mean while their Father's happy Nuptial-Night
They Celebrate with Triumph and Delight;
Delight that only will be Greater known
That Happier Night they Celebrate their own.
I see, methinks, the Youths, whose Future Care
Will be to pay their Adoration there;
I see, at last, how they Successful prove,
Truth crown'd with Truth, and Love return'd with Love!

O Wenman! in this Noble Consort joyn,
And with like Accents own the Match Divine.
Your Gain's the same; and so the same shou'd be
Your thanks to Heav'n for their Felicitie.
The few whose Veins are fill'd with Noble Blood,
Have double Obligation to be Good:
They shou'd not less than their Fore-fathers shine,
But still be lending Lustre to the Line;
That Fame, Successively, may higher rise,
By just Gradations, till she reach the Skies.

189

Nor fail thy Blooming Sisters, tho' they're Young,
To give us Hope they'll once inspire our Song:
While a more moving Joy our Cares beguile,
They know no other Pleasure but to smile:
But what more happy Omen can commence
With Wedlock than the Smiles of Innocence?
O were they to the Muse but better known,
Their Praises (which wou'd soon advance her own)
She'd sing aloud to the Succeeding Age,
Invite their Wonder, and their Hearts engage;
And by the Bud of Beauty, blushing shown,
Prepare our Youth against 'twas fully blown.

What sacred Hand cou'd thus Divinely strike,
At once to Tune these diff'rent Strings alike?
Make various Int'rests with one Soul agree,
And without Discord cause such Harmonie?
A Harmony that lasting Joy imparts:
O Wond'rous Musick of agreeing Hearts!
No other Skill this Concord cou'd inspire,
But what presides in the Celestial Quire:
Nor less th'effect cou'd of the Union be
Of all her Charms with all his Pietie.

Cou'd we describe Him 'twere a Noble Toil,
A Work on which succeeding Times might smile:
'Tis true, a Happier Pen has led the Way,
Yet we'll endeavour at a faint Essay.

His wond'rous Youth did early Promise give
To what a Pitch his Worth wou'd once arrive:
His Riper Vertues are a Proof how near
Man may attain to a Perfection here.
So Good, as if alone for good design'd!
Nor is his Form less Charming than his Mind:

190

A Manly Loveliness his Look does wear;
The Sweet and Strong are justly mingl'd there.
Nor others, nor himself he e'er deceives;
And nothing's left unpractis'd he believes.
More than his Foes he for their Error mourns,
And Good for Evil constantly returns.
What e'er his Anger, or what e'er his Wrong,
He ne'er cou'd carry his Resentment long;
But Pardon ask, it bears from thence it's Date;
No Criminal cou'd ever come too late:
Quite from his Memory you raze th'Offence,
So like a God he smiles on Penitence.
While we can think on Wrongs w'are yet not ev'n,
And Copy ill the Precept taught by Heav'n;
For he that's not forgot is not forgiv'n.
Thus a strict Eye he o'er his Conscience keeps,
And he will be at Peace before he sleeps.
Nor has he but one Way arriv'd at Fame;
In Publick and in Private he's the same.
In Storms that did the Barque of State o'erwhelm,
And threw th'unhappy Pilot from the Helm;
When Pow'rful Faction did the Land divide;
When boundless Lust and Arbitrary Pride
O'erflow'd our Laws with an Impetuous Tyde;
When plucking down the State but half wou'd do,
And the next Step was to Unchurch us too,
Then did our Hero in the Breach abide,
Constant to Truth, and faithful to his Side,
When Loyalty was never Nicelier try'd;
When Conscience stood confounded at the Sight,
And trim'd, it self, between the Wrong and Right.

Devout as Hermits, and as oft at Prayer;
The Church's Champion, and her Sons his Care.
Bounteous as Heav'n, that to him largely gives,
And largely 'tis diffus'd as he receives.

191

His Favours, once conferring, know no end;
The noblest Master, and the fastest Friend!
His Word so Sacred, none cou'd e'er upbraid
He ever broke the smallest Vow he made.
Like Truth sincere, as sweet in his Address,
And ever means the Thing he does profess.
Unfit for Towns where Flatt'ry does preside,
Where Worth to Vice, and Prudence bends to Pride;
But O most fit! were Lewdness banish'd thence,
And Courts encourag'd Honesty and Sense.
O Live, Bertudor! Live in Blackmore's Lays!
I, who want Wing so high a Pitch to raise,
Stoop humbly for the Leavings of thy Praise:
He is not wrong'd, or of Applause bereft,
To let me take the Gleanings he has left:
His Noble Harvest ne'er the less appears,
Because I pick the loose and scatter'd Ears.

What Consort for such Matcheless Worth was fit
But She that does enjoy, and merit it?
She that his Comforts cou'd retrieve alone,
And, by Improving his, restore her own.
A Virgin, Mother, Wife, and Widows Name
So well discharg'd, is sure to meet with Fame.
No Reputation e'er was earlier rais'd,
More truly Honour'd, or more justly Prais'd.
Her Worth (the Theme of all the Learned Swains)
Sounds high as Heav'n in the Oxonian Plains.
Her Name is known wherever Goodness dwells;
Belov'd she lives, unenvy'd she excells.
Thus to his Arms she comes, like Autumn, round
With Plenty hung, and Num'rous Beauties crown'd:
O charm on charm! Rich in her Earthly Store,
But in her Graces and her Vertues more.

192

Where can we such another Instance see;
Of Mutual truth in Modern Qualitie?
Design and Flatt'ry, Nonsense, Chance and Noise,
Bring but the Marry'd to polluted Joys.
Here Vertue only does the Spousals bind,
And Angels are but in that Union joyn'd.

Hail happy Pair! and from the Humble Muse
Accept this Wreath, and her Delay excuse:
Tho' no Addition to your Joy she brings,
Do not despise her that in Duty sings:
She has not yet with Flatt'ry so deceiv'd,
As when she Praises not to be believ'd:
From the strong Holds of Truth none shall Entice
Her forth, tho' us'd the worse for scourging Vice:
Clos'd in her Cell, and Quiet all her Aim,
She neither covets, courts, or cares for Fame;
But in Contented Poverty does sit,
And laughs at those that think to thrive by Wit.

To his Grace the Duke of Beaufort on his Marriage with the Lady Mary Sackville.

My LORD,

Let one unknown his willing Homage pay,
To sing your CHOICE, and celebrate the Day
That will to Thousands more Auspic'ous prove,
With Beauty crown'd, and smiling all with Love!

I see, Methinks, the Nuptial Pomp appear,
But yet too distant to distinguish clear:
All Glitt'ring as with Stars the Milky-Way;
But those of Night, and these are Gemms of Day.

193

Yet soon, alas! they vanish from our Sight,
All Lost in Sackvill's Purer Globe of Light,
Just as Aurora, when the Sun does rise,
Melts into Paleness, and deserts the Skies.

Here let our Praises fix; and on the Bride
Propitious to her Fame, with Joy reside:
The Bride! the softest of her Beaute'ous Kind!
Her Form as much a Wonder as her Mind!
Whom Providence to Noble Beaufort gave,
To let him here of Bliss a foretast have!
O Goodness that we never can express!
For all Description makes Perfection less.
Never did yet the Marriage Tye Commence
With so much Sweetness, youth and Innocence.
Not Eve, just finish'd by th'Almighty Pow'r,
And led by Angels to the Nuptial Bow'r,
Had Chaster Thoughts; or, blest with Greater Charms,
Receiv'd a Nobler Consort to her Arms.

Oh on her Face behold the Mother rise!
Bloom in her Cheeks! and Brighten in her Eyes!
I see her there with all Her Graces on,
As then, when first She was to Dorset known;
When Crowds of Lovers did their Cares express,
But only, only His cou'd find Access.
Hard is the Heart, and deaf must be the Ear,
When so much Worth Approaches, not to hear.
But Ah! a Mist of Fate extinguish'd quite
That Beam of Heav'n, and snatch't Her from our Sight:
A better Fortune may the Daughter boast,
And doubly live the years that Angel lost.
Ah! how did then Northampton's Countess stand,
Raving with Grief, and deaf to Heav'n's Command!
Patience! that makes all other Sorrow less,
What cou'd it help in such a vast Distress!

194

When to the Soul the Piercing Anguish drove,
And there again had fresh Supplies from Love:
What cou'd her Wisdom, what her Vertues do!
How cou'd they close the Intellectual view,
And heal a Grief which Thought wou'd still renew?
For such a Blessing, and so early gone,
Only this Happy Union cou'd atone.

But hide, my Muse, that Prospect from our Sight,
Nor follow Fancy when she leaves Delight.
The Daughter lives, and Dorset lives to see
That Loss repair'd in Her Felicitie!
With Joyful Eyes He does the Rites Survey,
And gives to Heav'n the Praise of the Auspicious Day.
O Gene'rous Hand! that spreads like Nile his Store,
And wou'd, if Possible, have none be Poor.
Whole Families he does in secret raise;
Performs the Duty, but prevents the Praise.
Never before were Wealth and Honours giv'n
To one so Grateful in Returns to Heav'n.
For these and for a Thousand Deeds of Fame,
Aloud the Poets Celebrate his Name:
Nor less they owe to his deserv'd Applause,
That tries their Ore, and Constitutes their Laws.
Happy the Life and Labours of the Bard
Since Dorset writ, and Dorset did Reward.
By his Example He their Fury fires,
And with his Hand gives all their Need requires.
Ah long may Fate th'Æthereal Call delay!
For how will they Subsist and he away?
He is the Mirror, His the solid Name,
And they but live in a Reflected Fame.

And in that Mirror well the Muses see
What their lov'd Theme, their Buckhurst once will be:

195

Buckhurst! design'd for the next Ages Bliss,
As Heaven did his Propitious Sire for this.
Vast are the Hopes of his Meridian store,
For never yet a Morning Promis'd more!
All sweet his Temper! as 'twere fram'd to fit
The Mothers Vertues, and the Father's Wit.
With double Joy this Day to Him is shown,
As 'tis a Call to Introduce his Own,
When to his Arm some yielding Fair retires;
And He Enjoys what all the World admires.

One half we of the Noble Train have view'd;
On Beaufort's Side 'twill be again renew'd:
A Race fram'd for the Best and Noblest Things,
Of serving Nations, and obliging Kings:
Witness the Marquess who in Civil-War
Advanc'd his Worth and Loyalty so far:
To his Immortal Fame our Annals shew
He Nobly Fought, and did what Man cou'd do
(Tho' forc'd to Balance an Unequal Weight)
To save the Church, and prop a Sinking State.
Beaufort was next, who, to his Prince Sincere,
When a Deserting Nation left him bare,
Convey'd this best of Counsels to his Ear.
O Stop your Course! nor Pow'r by Arms affect;
Your People will Obey, if you'll Protect:
But if on Gallia's Friendship You rely,
And with your Consort,and Her Priests comply,
You'll live Exil'd; and, last, unpitied die.
In vain he spoke; the Wretched Prince aspir'd
To all their Pride and Bigottry requir'd;
When Beaufort to the Rural Shades retir'd:
Where soon He found the Country's sweet Repose
A Nobler Joy than Court, or King bestows.
Free from Tumultuous Strifes and loose Excess,
'Tis only there we relish Happiness.

196

There did he Plough, and Sow, and Plant and Build,
And Triumph in the Labours of the Field;
As if no End of Living he enjoy'd,
But to do Good, and keep the Poor employ'd.

Of these, some Ceres to the Garners bore;
Some for the Cattle Reek their Winter's Store:
Some turn the hardn'd Glebe, and lay it bare,
To render't Pregnant for the following Year.
There to the Clouds the Falcon wings her Way!
Here runs the Tim'rous Hare, and there the Stag's at Bay:
Nor yet does Reynard scape th'unequal Strife,
But with his Death compensates for his Life.
The Shepherd there his Flocks to washing brings,
The Shearer here his Rich Employment sings;
The Pride of Foreign Courts, and Wear of Kings!
The Fatting Ox, the Loving Kine and Deer,
For all their Wants have all Attendants near.
Some in the Cooling Grots, and Fragrant Bow'rs,
Like the First Pair, employ their happy Hours,
To prune the Trees Luxurious Growth, and prop the bending Flow'rs.
Some on the Verdant Lap of Flora lie,
To root the Suckers that obtrude too nigh.
Here Vistoe's, cut for many Miles out-right,
Open the distant Country to our Sight,
And fill the Eye with Wonder and Delight.
O happy Stage of sweet and various Scenes!
O Fountains, Wildernesses, Walks and Greens!
So just your Order, and dispos'd so ev'n,
To Eden scarce were greater Beauties giv'n,
Tho' Cast, and Planted by the Hand of Heav'n!

How cou'd such Numbers, by his Bounty sed,
Eat on without a Miracle of Bread!
But Prudence solely all his Actions sway'd,
And Hundreds more had readily been paid:

197

Nor ever was he better Temper'd found,
Than when his Workmen spread the Country round,
Walling his Trees, and managing his Ground.
Thus did he Glorious live; and last expir'd,
At once Belov'd, Lamented, and Admir'd.
Hapless in only this;—first to survey
His eldest Son relentless torn away,
Then Die himself before this happy Day:
That Son whose Vertues did the Age adorn,
And whom it yet has not forgot to Mourn.
I see, Methinks, th'Affrighted Steeds appear,
Whirling along the Trembling Charioteer:
With broken Reins the steepy Clift they take,
And, Rattling down, a wild Confusion make:
Entangl'd in their Harness, high they rear,
Their threat'ning Hoofs, and shoot their Foam into the Air.
The Marquess by this time Concern'd appear'd,
But, leaping out, Receiv'd the Ill he fear'd:
Pull'd by his Garments back, his Flesh and Bones
Are Crush'd and Ground between the Wheels and Stones.
His wretched Lady sees—She shrieks! she cries!
She prays!—and cast to Heav'n her beaute'ous Eyes!
In vain!—the Accents never reach'd the Skies!
Some cruel Pow'r had, sure, the Passage barr'd,
Or so much Worth and Sweetness had been heard!—
But whither has my heedless Duty stray'd!—
O drop the Pencil!—there's too much display'd!
Be quick! and cast the rest into a Shade!

And just in Time; for now in View I find
His Noble Mother, whose aspiring Mind
Does take the Skies, and soar above her Kind.

198

O Pattern, ev'ry Lady long shou'd read!
But nothing, nothing ever will exceed!
If 'tis such Glory to be Vertuous Young,
What must it be to live a Saint so long!
In all our Annals where's a Female Name
So truly Great, and well secur'd to Fame?
Where can we find, if it as num'rous be
As this, so well a govern'd Family?
True as a Watch she does the whole dispose,
And ev'ry little Wheel it's Office knows:
No Jangle, or Confusion e'er is found;
So smooth the Motion that does turn 'em round.
What Servant ever was Incourag'd there,
Intemp'rate, or neglecting Hours of Prayer?
Most of our Noble Houses are become
Odious abroad, and Schools for Vice at Home:
But here a different Method still did shew
We may be Nobly born, and Vertuous too;
That Pow'r it self may yet Oppression shun,
And Dignity and Honesty be ONE.
Who ever saw the needy Tradesmen wait,
Shaking their Heads, and crowding to the Gate,
But coming still too Early, or too Late?
Who ever saw the Poor and Needy Soul
Derided? or Dismiss'd without a Dole?
O Vertue that we ever must admire!
In view of Heav'n, and yet advancing higher!
Such Prudence has not till our Age been shown;
Nor will again to Future Times be known,
Unless the Beaute'ous Bride convey it down:
Yes, Madam, all we in this PATTERN see,
Her Management, her Wit, and Piety,
The Coming Age expects will all revive in Thee.

199

'Tis fit, my Lord, we stop our Courser here;
There is no Moving now the Bride's so near;
No Creature can be blam'd for Gazing there!
Abroad w'ave been, and took a spacious Ring,
And now Return Your Mutual Flame to sing:
O Sweetness!—but no more!—for Language fails
Where such unusual Excellence prevails,
And flashing round us more than Human Light,
Confounds the Utt'rance equal with the Sight.
I see You view her with a Lover's Eye,
Darting their Beams, and melting into Joy.
While others Beauties on the Stalk decay,
You see Your BRIDE's advancing ev'ry Day;
O may it Root, and never wear away!
There may the Heav'nly Colours long be born;
The very same that are by Angels worn,
Or those in which Aurora dips the Morn.
And may you yet this further Kindness prove,
As She in Beauty, to advance in Love,
Till we than HER can nothing fairer view,
And Guardian Angels prove less kind than YOU.

Where is the Mirth that to the Day belongs?
Where are the Flutes, the Dances and the Songs?
Summon ye Master Shepherds of the Plains,
Summon together all the Nymphs and Swains,
That ev'ry Soul, and loud that Heav'n may hear,
May bless the Happy, Loving, Lovely Pair!
'Tis done!—the Hearty, General Shout I hear,
It rends the Mountains, and it deafs the Air!
See! how in Crowds Obsequiously they move
To welcome Beauty, and to Honour Love.
Among the rest, O deign but to Receive
This Chaplet which the Rural Muse does weave;
If but with Smiles her Present You Regard,
She humbly here withdraws, and asks no more Reward.

Dutchess Dowager.

200

On the Marriage of Sir James Long Baronet, with the Honourable Madam Henrietta Greville.

Tho' this address we have too long delay'd,
'Tis better late, than Negligently Paid:
Th'Approaches to the Noble and the Fair
Claim this Regard,—to be Perform'd with Care;
And here in Chief: Of all the Myriads joyn'd,
Where ever yet was Hymen half so kind?
The further from the Nuptial Day they move,
The more 'tis Peace and Truth, and Joy and Love!
Of all the Worth which was before but guess'd,
He finds his Beaute'ous Bride in full possess'd;
Love in her Eyes, and Eden in her Breast!

Others, 'tis true, that Marriage Songs indite,
Take the young Pair just on the Nuptial Night,
When Love Triumphs, and ev'ry Thought's Delight!
No other Scenes are set before their view
But smiling Hours, and Joys for ever new!
All Human Blessings must their Hope attend,
And Guardian Angels at a Call descend.
Ev'n Age it self—but there alas! w'are wrong;
They're to be ever Gay, and ever young!
In short, just as the Present Hour they find,
They're made to fansie all the rest behind,
Auspicious, Charming, Easie, Soft and Kind!
Thus, while the Nuptial State so high they dress,
All Worldly Joys, by vast Degrees, are less,
And Heav'n it self but Equal Happiness!

Were we dispos'd such Raptures to allow,
We never had a Juster Theme than now:

201

The Youth so Faithful, and the Nymph so fair,
Might fix our utmost Admiration there;
There to the Clouds we might our Musick raise,
And to their widest Stretch extend the Wings of Praise!
A Thousand Tender Things we might rehearse,
And half Transfuse their Souls into our Verse.
Back to the secret Source we might retire,
E'er yet their Hearts were Conscious of Desire,
And there behold, in the Myste'rious Frame,
Their Infant Passions Quick'ning into Flame;
While all the Vertues and the Graces wait
To aid the Birth, and make their Joys compleat.
For now the youth his Utmost Pow'r applies!
And now the Fair darts her Victorious Eyes!
O Equal Conflict! O Auspicious Doom!
Where both are Vanquish'd, both must overcome!—
But from this Scene w'are call'd in hast away
To view the Triumphs of the Nuptial Day.
Compos'd the Bride, and Thoughtful does appear,
Strugg'ling at once with Love and Hope and Fear
But all in Rapture does her Lover stand,
Nor can his Soul th'unruly Joy Command!
With Anxious Looks he chides the long Delay,
And bids Hyperion hurry on the Day.
When will (He cries) the tedious Rites be past?
What need of Vows to Souls already fast?
When will the Night, the happy Night arrive?
That I may say—'tis now, indeed, I live!
When my Fair Bride, all Lavish of her Charms,
Trembles with Joy, and dies into my Arms!

All this and more we might in Num'rous Strains
Tell to the Nymphs, and Echo thro' the Plains;
But then we shou'd (just like the most that Write)
Neglect Instruction to promote Delight.

202

Ev'n I my self, that such a Conduct blame,
Come yet so nigh to warm me at the Flame.
From such a sweet and Mut'ual Couple joyn'd,
The Contemplations will be soft and kind:
A secret Pleasure from the Theme will rise,
Heave in the Heart, and Lighten in the Eyes.
But these, and all the soft and Am'rous Things
That Mut'ual Love Inspires, and Hymen sings,
We leave to him, and to his Dearer Part;
Nor will the Joy but equal such Desart.

Mean while the Muse a louder Note shall sound,
Her Brows no more with Rural Myrtle bound:
Ambitious, She her Usual Stile rejects,
To sing the Vertues which She more affects;
And from this Union what the World expects.

First, Sir, from you it justly does require
A Mind that does to Glorious Deeds aspire,
To Grace your Line and raise its Grandeur higher:
Not that it needs a fresh Recruit of Fame;
But that you shou'd assert from whence you came,
And joyn to it another Deathless Name.
We know the Age (tho' speaking from the Sky
An Angel taught) will take a different Ply:
Most of our Youth, deriding all that's Good,
Are grown the Scandal of Illustrious Blood:
Melting in loose Delights, their Time they wast,
For Epicurus first, and Hobs at last:
Their Lives to trace exceeds a Satyr's Spite,
So much they Sin above what Rage can Write.
Ah! shun the Rock on which these Monsters split,
Nor fly from Wisdom to be thought a Wit.

Justice Impartially to all Dispence,
Protect the Poor and humble Insolence:

203

And that you may the readiest Path pursue
That leads to Fame, and Work for Fame renew,
Preserve your Grand-sire's Image fresh in view.
A Thousand Ways we may his Worth express;
And hitherto your Conduct claims no less.
Who has deliver'd down to After Days
A Nobler Name, and Happier Theme for Praise?
His Converse Nothing Human cou'd Transcend;
The Dearest Husband, and the Fastest Friend.
With Tears I yet deplore th'Unhappy Day
When from his Country he was torn away,
And at a Time that most requir'd his Stay:
Nor was he by the Muse condol'd alone,
But waited to the Grave with Gene'ral Moan;
Peace his Delight, and Justice all his own.
Nor further need your Linage be express'd;
He in his Noble and Capacious Breast
Epitomiz'd the Worth of all the rest.

But for your Consort, Vertu'ous as She's Fair,
'Tis only Laureat Angels that may dare
To think, or Offer at Instruction there;
Resolv'd to Future Ages to Transmit
A Glorious Name, for Prudence, Truth and Wit.
Her Beaute'ous Mother we exactly find
Drawn in her Form, and Breath'd into her Mind.
Long has that Family the Glory worn
Of Nymphs for Love, and Sons to Honours born;
Both in their Seve'ral Classes truely Great;
The Conqu'ring Eyes of These disposing Fate,
And Those for many Ages Props of State.

Yet wou'd She please on Portia's Life to look,
She ne'er wou'd read, perhaps, a Nobler Book:

204

If by that Rule She does her Conduct Square,
Sweet as She is, she'll meet Improvement there,
And soon become the Pattern of the Fair.
Portia! a Name that does at once Infuse
Joy to the Heart, and Fervour to the Muse:
Portia! a Name that, wheresoe'er it comes,
Breaths Richer Fragrance than Arabian Fumes;
Portia! a Name that with Astræa vies,
That Pride of Earth, and Honour of the Skies.
Before her Eyes all Conscious Guilt retires,
And Spotted Envy with a Frown Expires;
So Pois'nous Creatures in th'Hibernian Isle
Die by a Blessing, and assert the Soil.

But, foolish Muse, can you no better see
Than, after such a View of Pietie,
To think this Happy Pair have ought to learn of Thee?
Her very Casual Converse more does Teach
Than thy most Study'd Flights cou'd ever Reach:
With begging Pardon then your Crime atone,
And by her Nobler Thoughts Improve your own:
Deriving Truth from so Sublime a Spring,
You'll higher soar, and more Divinely sing.
Mean while an Offe'ring to the Mutu'al Pair
You yet may make,—but it must be by Pray'r!
And fetch it from the Heart that Heav'n may hear.

Yes, Sir, so far you may the Bard permit,
To pay in Duty what he wants in Wit.
May all your Days to come serenely flow,
Like Rivers smooth above, and clear below.
In all the Blessings you but think you need,
May ev'ry Hope and ev'ry Wish succeed:
On to old Age Obsequi'ous Health attend,
With Peace of Mind,—the dearest Bosom-Friend;

205

Riches cou'd never still a stormy Breast;
It is that Opiate gives the Sweetest Rest.
And You, O You! the Glory of your Kind!
May you the same Auspicious Fortune find:
May all the Happy Issue be you bear,
Brave, like the Longs; and like the Grevills, Fair.
And since the Charms of Beauty will not stay,
But soon resign to Envious Time a Prey,
Let 'em decline like a bright Ev'ning Sun,
Clear to the last, and Glorious going down;
Just as the Blushing Rose it's Fate does meet,
Fair in Decay; and in their Ruins, Sweet.

Lady Long the Elder.

206

LUCINIALS:

OR, Birth-Verses.

To the much Honour'd James Hunte of Popham, Esq; on the Birth of his Son and Heir.

As when some fam'd Procession we survey,
Some Restauration, or C'ronation Day;
Tho' ev'ry present Object gives Delight,
'Tis still succeeded by some Nobler Sight;
Till the Crown'd Head does last, elate appear,
And fixes all our Joy and Wonder there.

Heav'n so to you its Blessings does dispence,
The last that comes still first in Excellence;
Till now you such a Pledge of Love receive,
You scarce have more to ask, or Heav'n to give.

Of Ancient Blood, to Great Possessions Heir;
Yet Your Auspicious Fortune stops not there,
But gives You, in your Person and your Mind,
All that obliges Man, and softens Womankind.

207

The fair Amynta next you did survey;
Bright as the Beams that round her Temples play,
Angels are scarce compos'd with less Allay:
To paint whose Beauties Language is too weak,
And all that Love believes, or Praise can speak:
But you soon found (to all Men else unknown)
The way to make that Excellence your own.

Who wou'd not think your Joy compleated here?
When Lo! another Blessing does appear;
A Daughter born! the perfect Image giv'n
Of fair Amynta, as she is of Heav'n.
Never before did Time produce, so Young,
So just a Subject for Poetick Song.
Sweetness and Innocence we find exprest
At full, and Angels are no better drest;
They in that Habit wing the Courts above,
Their sole Employment Harmony and Love.

Again she teems! another Daughter yet!
To make your Comforts certain, as they're Great;
Whom with like Extasie we all behold,
The Stamp the same, the same Æthereal Mould.

And now, can any Blessing wanting be
To fill your Measure of Felicity?
There can: And see! Your Prayers Success have found,
And ev'ry Wish and ev'ry Hope is crown'd:
Nor can You further be oblig'd by Heav'n,
But to preserve the Treasure he has giv'n.

How bounteously the Powr's their Creatures bless
Ev'n their Denials are our Happiness:
Shou'd they give all that we profusely crave,
They scarce cou'd grant so much as we wou'd have:

208

The Bounds of Thanks we then shou'd over-leap,
Nor value Happiness that came so cheap.
Yet those Delays that Heav'n so often makes,
Does seem to be entirely for our Sakes;
To make us with the greater Quickness taste
That Nectar, which wou'd Cloy devour'd in haste.
Thus tho' some Years y'ave waited for the Boy,
You now have all the Sweetness of the Joy.

The Homely Swain and his more Homely Wife
(To whom h' as sworn to be a Drudge for Life)
To Venus go, just as at Rutt the Deer,
And never fail to have their Faun a Year:
But in the Bounty are so little Skill'd,
They grieve and murmur that their Table's fill'd.
'Tis only he that does almost Despair
To have one, knows the Blessing of an Heir.

Auspicious BOY! that ere thou canst receive,
Or Pleasure know, dost lasting Pleasure give.
I see thy Father yet in his Surprize,
The happy Tydings pregnant in his Eyes,
When the half fluster'd Mid-wife to him run,
And cry'd—God give you Joy, Sir!—'tis a Son!

With him, methinks, I see thy Grand-sire too
(Tho' distant, seen by an Internal view)
I see him stand, his Eyes erect to Heav'n,
From whom he does acknowledge thou wast giv'n,
Returning Praises from a Grateful Heart,
And in the Pleasure shares as large a Part:
Live! live, he cries! grow both in Grace and Fame,
And down Posterity convey our Name;
That as our Noble Line does back extend
Thro' Ages past, it forward too may bend,
Nor be extinct till Time it Self shall end.

209

Nor less than this can thy Great Grand-sire say,
Who never thought to see this Happy Day.
Almost a Centu'ry of Years h'as ran,
Yet fresh as Thou that hast thy Race began.
Nor is this all the Happiness he'll view,
He shall behold his Grand-Son's Issue too,
And bear 'em in his Arms his Eyes to please,
As Joseph, Machir's Children on his Knees.

But while they're thus rejoycing, can a less
Transporting Bliss Amynta's Soul possess?
This Blessing cancels all she fear'd before,
The Mother's Pangs remember'd now no more.
Close in her Arms she twines the Pleasing Care,
And Joys to see her Husband's Image there;
Wishes he Master of like Worth may be,
In Truth and Friendship Eminent as he:
Nor need she doubt but when to Manhood grown,
He by like Deeds will make his Linage known;
What less? when in his Composition's joyn'd
His Mother's Graces, and his Father's Mind;
Than which a nobler Mixture cannot be
T'adorn and elevate Mortalitie.

Hail, happy Sire! the Muse does give you Joy,
And long may you be happy in the BOY:
The soft Amynta long may you embrace,
And she be still Augmenting of the Race:
Amynta! equal'd by no other Dame;
Poets give them, but she gives Poets Fame,
Made Deathless but repeating of her Name:
Her Beauty has Inevitable Charms,
And where is Heav'n if 'tis not in her Arms!

210

To Henry Bayntun Esq; on the Birth of his Son and Heir.

An ECLOGUE.

Strephon. Alexis.
STREPHON.
D'ye hear, Alexis, the Triumphant Sound?
The Bells with Shouts, and Shouts with Trumpets drown'd?
The Vocal Joy with Instrumental vies,
And see! the Fires already climb the Skies!
Ah! wherefore does thy Lyre thus lie unstrung,
When Adorissa's Call commands thy Song?
Heav'n has at last oblig'd the Kneeling Fair;
She has her Wish, and Damon has an Heir!

ALEXIS.
I know it, Friend, I know this General Joy
Is for the Birth and Blessing of the BOY:
But O! when Multitudes rejoyce aloud,
What single Sound's distinguish'd in the Crowd?
'Twas therefore (and I hope not uninspir'd)
To speak that Joy I to this Shade retir'd.
Yes, Strephon, yes, I find my glowing Breast
With something, sure, Prophetical possest;
It heaves for vent! and, O believe me, Youth,
It warms like Vertue, and it charms like Truth!

STREPHON.
Speak then, O speak! and feast my ravish'd Sense;
What Theme so just as Infant Innocence?

ALEXIS.
If Poets into Future Things may pry
(And no Man can with a more piercing Eye
Dive into the vast deep of Destiny)

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The BOY shall live whose Birth we Celebrate,
And, like his Parents hope of him, be Great—
But naming Them, our Admiration there
Must stop a while.—

STREPHON.
Speak then, that all may hear;
Your Task the Worthy, and be Mine the Fair.

ALEXIS.
Never was Man more Gene'rous, Just and Brave,
With Pleasure less seduc'd, or less his Passions Slave.
His open Mind abhors the Courtier's Art,
So far his Tongue's from differing with his Heart.
No Flatt'ry e'er cou'd his Resolves controul,
That servile Sin's an Alien to his Soul:
Ador'd in Courts and Cities let it be,
'Tis better to be fam'd for Honesty.
His Consort close in his dear Arms he twines;
While those whom Inte'rest, or Ambition joyns,
False to each other the same Day can prove:—
And then his Spirit's equal to his Love.

STREPHON.
Not greater is his Courage than her Charms,
Thus both of 'em the fiercest Rage disarms;
He with his Sword can chase the Foe away;
She with a Look subdues 'em if they stay.
So sweet her Voice, it does like Fate surprize!
But who scapes that must fall before her Eyes:
Their Conq'ring Pow'r, Alexis, I have known,
And fearing to be lost, have clos'd my own.—
But while on Them our Wonder we employ,
We have forgot out Theme—the Lovely BOY.

ALEXIS.
No, Strephon—while the happy Pair is shown,
We rather make his future Vertues known:
For mounted to his Noon, his Manly growth,
He shall be a Compendium of both:

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His Mother's ever-new Resistless Grace,
Shall like a Glory, dwell around his Face:
And Damon's Truth his Actions shall attend,
Wisdom to Guard, and Courage to defend.
Thus, full of them an Honour to the Name,
He shall be no less early known to Fame.

STREPHON.
Blest be thy Breath that does these Sounds dilate;
And that thy Words may be writ down in Fate,
Let us our Thanks to the Immortals give
And beg the BOY (as you Divine) may Live:
For tho' Prophetick Souls may Truth fore-know
W'are to Petition still it may be so;
Our Duty with the Blessing Hand in Hand shou'd go.

ALEXIS.
Then hear, ye Pow'rs! your kneeling Suppliants hear,
Accept our Praises; nor reject our Prayer.
That no Misfortune may the Child betide,
Be Truth his Path, and Providence his Guide.
Let not Intempe'rance Rage or Lust prevail
To drive Life Onwards with too swift a Sail,
Or Pride o'erset him with too strong a Gale.
To nothing Sensual let his Reason yield;
W'are sure of Conquest till that leaves the Field.
Here all his Life his easie Limbs be laid,
In his own noble, wide, paternal Shade:
The Mischiefs of much Converse to prevent,
Here let him wear away in soft Content,
At once belov'd, secure, and Innocent.
No matter how obscure that Life is past
That's Peaceful all, and gives us Peace at last.
Add to his Parents many, many Years,
And to his Life as many after Theirs.

STREPHON.
Confirm it, Heav'n!—but let us now be gon,
Leave serious Thoughts, and sprightly Forms put on.

213

At Damon's Table Plenty does abound;
With Mirth and Wit, and sparkling Liquors crown'd,
The shining Goblets take their flowing Round:
Thither we'll go—it can be no Offence
To drink a Health to Love and Innocence.
Our Sheep are in the Fold and cannot stray.—

ALEXIS.
Nay were I sure they cou'd, I wou'd not stay.
This Night to Pleasure let us freely give;
Without some Relaxation who wou'd live?
The heavy Burden who wou'd drudging bear,
If JOY were not alternate with our CARE?

To Mr. Mansell and his Lady, on the Birth of their Son and Heir.

An ECLOGUE. Written at the Request of a Friend.

Thirsis. Alexis.
THIRSIS.
From the great Town where Wealth and State does dwell,
I come, Alexis, to thy lonely Cell,
The happiest Tidings in the World to tell.
While here your Mind you with Invectives ease,
You care not who you lash, or who displease;
Why else, O Friend, in all the Songs you sing,
Dost thou so like an angry Scorpion sting?
While thus your Verse to Satyr you confine,
Thy Muse all nobler Subject does decline.

214

ALEXIS.
No nobler Subject can employ our Thoughts,
Than to make Fools and Knaves detest their Fau'ts.
At the Offending all my Shafts are aim'd,
And none shou'd be concern'd that such are sham'd.
But why this Visit? what's thy happy News?
And on what Theme wou'd you employ the Muse?

THIRSIS.
Daphnis, O Friend, that ever-gen'rous Swain,
The Hope, the Joy, and Wonder of the Plain;
Daphnis the Bold, the Witty, and the Gay,
The Glory of the Groves, and Pride of May;
E'en He, with the prevailing Voice of Prayer,
This happy Morning has obtain'd an Heir.
'Twas long before the gracious Pow'rs comply'd;
Thus Prayer may be delay'd, but not deny'd.
Three Tryals of the Fairer Sex were past
E'er a Son's born—a Son is born at last!
His Father's Hope, his Mother's utmost Joy
Have both their full Perfection in the BOY.
Cou'd you (for sure you must) these Tydings hear,
And not congratulate the lovely Pair?
O welcome Day! and O more welcome Heir!

ALEXIS.
News seldom comes to Country Swains sincere,
Doubtful Report does make a doubtful Ear;
But this, indeed, is what I did not hear:
Or had I heard, to write had been my Blame;
For what Pretence have I to use his Name
That I but barely know by common Fame?

THIRSIS.
Plutarch, who such illustrious Hero's drew,
Not one among 'em all in Person knew;
From Fame he took 'em, and to Fame did give
Their glorious Names, which now will ever live:

215

But for his Pen, tho' famous in their own,
They had not to our latter times been known.
If then by Fame you noble Daphnis know,
The noble Youth as she has drawn him show;
And while his Wit and Vertues you recite,
I'll tell you if the Dame has done him Right.

ALEXIS.
Then hear her say that an unblemish'd Truth
With all the Fruit of Age has crown'd his Youth.
So sweet his Form, e'en Women have less Charms;
All but the beauteous Dame that fills his Arms.
But then his Courage is so vastly great,
'Tis just Amazement such Extremes shou'd meet:
For Men that rival the fair Sex in Shew,
Have commonly the Souls of Women too,
But in the Brightness of this Shepherd's Mien
There's a strange Sort of lovely fierceness seen:
And then his Wit's so active, clear and true,
When e'er he speaks w'are sure of something new.
What beauteous, or disdainful Dame cou'd prove
So strangely cruel to deny him Love?
The sweet Alinda, Queen of his Desire,
That sure to wound, cou'd with a Look inspire
In other Shepherds Breasts th'Am'rous Fire;
That without Pity heard 'em all complain,
Relentless and regardless of their Pain;
Here found the Shafts her Eyes had thrown return'd,
And in the same Seraphick Fever burn'd:
For how cou'd two so like themselves alone,
Like Heat and Flame, be kept from being one?
Not the First Pair in Eden's blissful Bow'rs,
Before their Fall, enjoy'd diviner Hours.
Thus while these Lovers we with Wonder View,
'Tis easie to believe those Fictions true
Which the bold Greeks have so sublimely told;
The Real here out does the feign'd of Old.

216

In her so much Good Humour, Prudence, Sense
Is seen, and ev'ry brighter Excellence,
Amaz'd we stand, all Joyful of his Gain;
Tho' we shou'd envy any other Swain
The sole Possession of the Matchless Fair,
Who, loving him, gives all the World Despair.
For as his Youth did early Promise give
Of Wonders, if he did to Manhood live;
So by a Father's Worth to Vertue warm'd,
His Riper Years has seen 'em all perform'd.—
Thus far, O Friend, the Publick Voice does go.

THIRSIS.
And so may I be blest as all is true;
So his dear Friendship may I still retain,
And so may I not make this Prayer in vain.
But if their Joys so num'rous were before,
How must this vast Addition swell the Store?
Their large Estate, that down Succession came,
By this Conveyance of the charming Dame,
May go on Ages in the Noble Name;
That Name that backward does so far extend,
And now is likely ne'er to know an end.
How happily does the Prolifick Fair
Her Husband's only Brother's Loss repair?
Snatch'd hence by angry Death's preventing Spite,
But some few Days before his Nuptial Night;
His Nuptial Night, alas! that shou'd have been,
Had not the pale-fac'd Tyrant step'd between:
In the cold Grave he does his Spousals keep;
The waking Night, is now Eternal Sleep!
But blest is he that on high Heav'n depends!
How soon the Gracious Pow'r has made amends!
A little Borrows, but he largely Lends.
How must this News the Cambrian Knight revive?
His Son is in his Grand-son yet alive:

217

That Loss did lop off half a Father's Joy,
But 'tis return'd him wholly in the BOY.
Alike Alinda's Joyful Parents smil'd,
Never no Parents happier in a Child;
Happy in Her, and happy in her Heir,
A Joy of which they did almost despair;
But what's too hard for Piety and Prayer?

ALEXIS.
Tho' to their Praise I can no Trophy rear,
I can join with you in a fervent Prayer.
May he, that cou'd so soon such Comfort give,
Prove a much greater Comfort yet and Live;
Live till he does a Noble Harvest yield,
Till his rich Autumn crown with Fruit the Field,
Honour his Sword, and Innocence his Shield;
The Wathchful Guard that best divert their Aim,
When Envy and Ill Nature shoot at Fame.
O Thirsis! without Flatt'ry, or Design,
This is my Prayer.

THIRSIS.
And, Witness Heav'n! 'tis Mine.
But come, 'tis fit that Daphnis we attend,
I came to see thee chiefly for that end:
There thou shalt hear so many Tongues rejoice,
It wants but Thine to be the General Voice.

ALEXIS.
I go, but I must make a quick Return;
Tho' few, my Sheep must not be left forlorn.
And trust me, were it not to throw my Mite
Into this Boundless Treasury of Delight,
I wou'd not (tho' our Flock's so very small
It scarce brings Wooll enough to cloath us all)
Leave this cool Shade, this humble poor Retreat,
One Moment, to live Ages with the Great;
Whose sole Diversions and sublimest Joys
Are only Ceremony, Dress and Noise.

218

Funeral Elegies.

To the Memory of Mr. John Oldham.

But that 'tis dangerous for Man to be
Too busie with immutable Decree,
I cou'd, dear Friend, have blam'd thy cruel Fate
That let such Sweetness have so short a Date!
The Flow'rs, with which the Meads are drest so Gay,
And are to fade so quickly—live a Day;
Thou in the Noon of Life wer't snatch't away!
Cropt from the Stalk with all thy Verdure on!
Yet not before thy Verse had Wonders shown,
And made at once all future Times thy Own.

The Company of Beauty, Wealth and Wine,
Were not so Charming, not so Sweet as thine:
They quickly Perish; yours was still the same,
A Lambent, but an everlasting Flame,
Which something so resistless did impart,
It never pass'd the Ear but reach'd the Heart:
Unlike the Wretch that strives to get Esteem,
And thinks it fine and janty to Blaspheme,
Nor can be Witty but when God's the Theme:
Mistaken Men! (but such thou did'st despise)
That must be Wicked to be counted Wise.

219

Thy Converse from this reigning Vice was free,
And yet 'twas, truly, all that Wit cou'd be:
None had it but, ev'n with a Tear does own,
The Soul of dear Society is gone!

But while we thus thy Native Sweetness Sing,
We ought not to forget thy Native Sting.
Thy Satyr spar'd no Grievances, or Crimes,
Satyr, the best Reformer of the Times:
While different Sects eternally contest,
And each will have his own Perswasion best,
Then consequentially Damns all the rest,
Their Love to gain, not Godliness is shown;
Heav'ns Work is left undone to do their own.

How vain are those that wou'd obscure thy Fame
By giving out thy Verse was rough and lame?
They wou'd have Satyr their Compassion move,
And writ so pliant, nicely, soft and smooth,
As if the Muse were in a Flux of Love.
But who of Beaus, and Knaves and Fools wou'd Sing,
Must Force, and Fire, and Indignation bring;
For 'tis no Satyr if it has no Sting.
In short, who in that Field wou'd famous be,
Must think and write like Juvenal and Thee.

Let others boast of all the mighty Nine,
To make their Labours with more Lustre shine;
I had, my Oldham, not a Muse but Thee,
Ev'n Thou wer't all the mighty Nine to Me!
'Twas thy dear Friendship did my Breast inspire,
And warm'd it first with a Poetick Fire—
But 'tis a Warmth that does with Thee expire;
For when the Sun is set, that Guides the Day,
The Traveller must stop, or lose his Way.

220

To the Memory of Edmund Waller, Esq.

Tho' ne'er so low, or never so Sublime,
All Human Things must be the Spoil of Time:
Poet and Hero with the rest must go;
Their Fame may higher mount, their Dust must lie as low.
Thus Mighty Waller is at last expir'd,
Both equally Lamented and Admir'd.
Long we enjoy'd him;—on his Tuneful Tongue
All Ears and Hearts with the same Rapture hung,
As had an Angel Writ, or Angel Sung!

Here the two bold contending Fleets are found,
The Mighty Rivals of the wat'ry Round;
In Smoke and Flame involv'd, they cou'd not fight
With so much Force and Fire as he did write.
Here Galatea mourns;—in bleeding Strains
So Philomel her wretched Fate complains.
Here Fletcher and Immortal Johnson shine,
Preserv'd in his no less Immortal Line:
But where, O wond'rous Bard! where is that He
Surviving now to do the same for Thee?
He who performs that Task ('tis else debas'd)
Must be by the same Inspiration rais'd,
Write as he wrote, and Praise as Waller Prais'd.

Whether for Peaceful Charles, or Warlike James
His Lyre was strung; the Muses dearest Themes:
Whether of Love's Success, when in the Eyes
Of the fair Nymph the kindling Glances rise,
When, blushing, she breaths short, and with Constraint denies:

221

Whether he paint the Lover's restless Care,
Or Sacharissa, the Disdainful Fair:
(Relentless Sacharissa, deaf to Love,
The only Soul his Verse cou'd never move;
But sure she stop'd her Ears, and clos'd her Eyes,
He cou'd not else have miss'd the Heav'nly Prize:)
Or whether (where he yet does brighter shine)
He shifts this Theme to that of Love Divine;
Where we see all his Youthful Am'rous Rage
Lost in that Nobler Flame that guides his Age:
All this is done with so much Art and Care,
So lofty here and so surprizing there,
We read, w'are rap't! and have no Sense but Ear!

His Labours thus Peculiar Glory claim,
As writ with something more than Mortal Flame.
Wit, Judgment, Fancy, and a Heat Divine
Thro'out each Part, thro'out the whole does shine;
Th'Expression clear, the Thought sedately high;
No flutt'ring, but with even Wing he glides along the Sky.

Some we may see who in their Youth have writ
Good Sense, at Fifty take their Leave of Wit,
Chimæra's, and Incongr'ous Trifles feign,
Tedious, Insipid, Impudent and Vain,
Th'abortive Issues of a Crazy Brain:
But He, when he thro' Fourscore Years had past
Felt no Decay, the same from first to last;
Death only cou'd his Vig'rous Light o'er-cast.

Such was the Man whose Loss we now deplore,
Such was the Man, but we shou'd call him more:
Immortal in Himself, we need not strive
To keep his Sacred Memory alive:

222

Just, Loyal, Learn'd, Obliging, Gen'rous, Brave;
He to our Language first it's Justness gave,
And rais'd above Oblivion and the Grave;
Which, in Return, shall now preserve his Fame,
While Verse can Charm, and Waller is a Name.

On the Death of Mr. Dryden.

Farewel! thou Chiefest of the Sons of Fame!
Ev'n I, who formerly presum'd to blame,
Now change my Stile, and Celebrate thy Name:
Not that I wrote with Prejudice, or Spite,
But might too warmly vindicate the Right.—
But die thy Fau'ts and mine;—and with 'em die
All Tub-Disputes and Church-Hostility.
The Seamless Coat, by our Divisions torn,
Is by the Py-bald Sects in Patches worn;
Each has it's Rent (and they no more require)
Which we, agreeing, shou'd preserve intire.

The Way thus clear'd, Lo! Noble Ghost, I come,
The meanest of thy Train, to sing Thee home;
The Triumphs of the NUMBERS to proclaim,
Hoary with Praises, and oppress'd with Fame!

Yet, tho' to Honour thee we all agree,
What can we add to thy Repute, or Thee?
Short liv'd and vain is all th'Applause we give;
Our Lines must die, and only Yours will live.

When Homer (who is now thy nearest Mate)
Was call'd from Earth to his Immortal State,
That Life and Glory with the Gods to share,
Which has been since so celebrated Here;

223

The Youth of Greece, no doubt, as one did joyn,
All Grateful to his Fame, as we to Thine:
It ev'ry Breast did warm to an Extreme,
To be the first on such a Glorious Theme:
Yet not a Name, and not a Line (we see)
Of all they Writ has reach'd Posterity:
His vastly louder Fame has theirs engrost,
As Human Voices are in Thunder lost:
The Greater Blaze of Light the less o'er pow'rs,
And so thy Verse will once Extinguish Ours.

He 'twas that did the Grecian Lang'uage rear
To all the Strength and Loftiness 'twou'd bear.
The Latin Virgil seated in the Skies,
And beyond which it cou'd no higher rise.
And YOU, the Third, have brought the British Tongue
To run as Copious, and to last as long:
Made by thy Purity of Phrase and Sense
Not Capable of further Excellence.
So GOD his Bounds to the wide Ocean laid,
And told it—Hither come—and here be staid.

This Fate beside peculiarly you bear,
In which no Writer ever yet cou'd share:
You saw, your self, your Empire fixt in Peace,
And grown so large as not to admit increase:
Where e'er their Verse prevail'd, you liv'd to know
Your own Receiv'd alike Triumphant too!
Diffusing Wit, and giving Wings to Fame,
There where the Roman Eagles never came.

Scarce did thy Phœbus soar a Nobler Pitch
Than what thy own Aspiring Notes cou'd reach:
They did not Strain to rise, or faintly fly,
But with a Seraph's Pinion wing'd the Sky:

224

While list'ning Angels did thy Lays admire,
And wish thee there in the Celestial Quire,
Thy Human with their Heav'nly Songs to joyn,
To make the Concert perfectly Divine.

To grieve were vain! we cannot call thee lost;
While Britain stands Thou shalt be Britain's boast.
Tho' thy Immortal Mind's retir'd—we find
A no less Everlasting Part behind:
Your Works and you by a Stupendious Doom,
Like Janus, may to Deity presume;
Thou there see'st all that's past, and they'll see all to come.

'Twas then we sigh'd when Otway, from us torn,
Made all the Swains and all the Muses mourn;
Otway! who more than any of his Age
Did charm the Audience, and adorn the Stage.
'Twas then we Sigh'd when Fatal Frenzy Seiz'd
Thy Faithful Lee—who never Writ but Pleas'd:
Tho' cooler Pens his Youthful Ardour blame,
Without his Fire they'll never reach his Fame.
'Twas then we sigh'd when Oldham fell a Prey,
Cropt by a fatal Blight before his Day:
His Loss we all did with Impatience bear,
And thou thy self hast crown'd his Memo'ry with a Tear.
So we again shou'd sigh, shou'd Congreve be
An early Instance of Mortality;
And the expecting World (so seldom kind)
Lose all the Wonders that are yet behind,
In the unbounded Treasures of his Mind.
So shou'd we mourn if Southerne left the Stage,
So just to Comick Wit and Tragick Rage:
Southerne! who Singing Oroonoko's Flame,
Has made his own a like immortal Name.
But THEE 'twere almost impious to deplore,
We had thee all! and Fate cou'd give no more:

225

With Peace, Applause, with Years and Lawrels Crown'd,
And Life, nor Fame cou'd make Thee more Renown'd.

And be Renown'd!—let different Minds agree,
At least, Prodigious Bard! in Praising Thee!
So far thou all Beliefs dost reconcile;
In this there's no Dissenter in the Isle.
But O! what GOD can reconcile the Rest,
Our Prejudice, our Pride, and Interest!
Our SAVIOUR Preaches Peace, but none obey;
Too eager, most, to mark how others stray,
When a Good Life can never miss the Way.

To Mr. Trowe, on the Death of Madam Goddard.

She that, O Friend, cou'd be to Thee so dear,
Shall not go hence without a Funeral Tear.
Nor is this Verse writ for thy Sake alone,
But equally laments her for her own.
'Twas from above her chief Delight did flow,
But 'twas your Love that was her Heav'n below.
The Charming Eleonora past before,
By Angels welcom'd to the Elizian Shore;
Remember how that matchless Fair she lov'd,
And how she mourn'd her when from Earth remov'd:
Her Vertues too she imitated here,
And now ascends on high to Praise 'em there:
There she wou'd still her lov'd Attendance show;
But 'tis not in those Realms, as here below;
For among Saints, Distinction's took away,
All equal Sharers in eternal Day!

226

No doubt she wou'd have made a faithful Mate,
But who wou'd grudge her that Exalted State?
Dry then thy Eyes; nor more a Sorrow shew,
Which shou'd it reach to her relieves not you.
Mourning her Fate; you at her Good repine;
She cou'd not be so happy were she thine.
In Marriage, Care and Doubt our Joy controuls;
Love mingles Blood, but Vertue mingles Souls!
By the same Card to the same Haven steer;
Then, tho' your Nuptials were prevented here,
You'll joyn in a more lasting Union there.

To Mr. Lawrence, on the Death of his Excellent Wife.

If Beauty, Love, or Wit deserve our Praise,
Or Vertue reach th'Applause of after Days,
Succeeding Times shall know your Consorts Name,
And ev'ry Poet strive to give her Fame.

So sweet her Temper, and her Voice so mild,
Like David's Harp, it ev'ry Care beguil'd:
Sadness she with a Look cou'd chase away,
As Mists drive back before the Rising Day.

From what strange Cause cou'd such Enchantment rise!
What Spring of Beauty yield such vast Supplies!
As swift the Motion, and as bright the Flame,
Like Sun-beams from their Source, her Graces came.

With all this Sweetness so much Goodness join'd,
As shew'd she scarce was of terrestrial kind:

227

Beauty but to the Eye does Joy impart,
But Vertue sinks, and fixes in the Heart.

Ah! why shou'd Fau'tless Lives no longer last?
Why shou'd so bright a Noon be overcast?
We thought of nothing but of Love and Light,
Joy to the Ear, and Transport to the Sight;
When Lo! the rising Gloom threatn'd a dismal Night!

For now a pining Sickness seiz'd her Frame,
Yet sure to do the Work for which it came.
The Rich Ætherial Hue her Face forsakes,
And frightful Pale, the trembling Empire takes.
With falt'ring Lips she moans her last Adieu;
A sharper Pang than Death, her taking Leave of You.

Two Pledges of her Love were call'd before,
And safely landed on th'Elizian Shore:
Yet ev'n to her it some Regret must be
To go to them, since 'twas to part with Thee.

How have I seen thee press her in thy Arms!
Bask in her Shine, and revel in her Charms!—
All Rapture to the Heart!—You held her fast
And gaz'd as ev'ry Look had been the last!

Ah! blush not that thy Tears so freely flow;
Nature's too weak to ward so strong a Blow.
Others, indeed, their Loss of Wives may brook,
Where Bodies only are from Bodies took:
But O what Reason can that Grief controul,
Where Love is torn from Love, and Soul from Soul?

228

To the Memory of Mrs. Mary Peachley.

Come hither You who the Fair Sex reproach,
And basely rail at what you can't debauch,
That in loose Satyr tell us of their Crimes,
And say they're now the Griev'ance of the Times;
Come hither all; while in my faithful Verse
Peachley's Immortal Vertues I rehearse;
That you may see how very much you Err,
Repent, and learn how to be Good by HER.

Ev'n in her Youth her early Worth did show
To what a vast Proportion it wou'd grow,
When she by Practice reap'd what she in Faith did sow:
On whose strong Wings she oft to Heav'n wou'd flee,
And by it find what can, or cannot be,
Better than all their vain Philosophy.
Charming her Form, capacious was her Mind;
At least, 'twas something above Womankind.
Trace her thro' all the Series of her Life,
You'll find her free from Envy, Hate and Strife,
A Dut'eous Child, and then a Vertu'ous Wife;
A Careful Mother next;—and if we find
Any Concern for Dying touch'd her Mind,
It was to leave her Infant Brood behind
Defenceless, an unequal War to wage
With Early Vices, and a Barba'rous Age.
O lost, and to be ever pity'd, Young,
The World's a Laby'rinth where you must go wrong,
Without the Clue of her Instructive Tongue:
She wou'd have taught You when with Doubts perplex'd
And lost in this World, how to find the next.

229

How easily she wrested Texts wou'd clear!
And yet how pleas'd to make the Truth appear!
So sweet her Converse, so compos'd and ev'n,
That following Her, the Precepts by her giv'n,
We found no Roughness in the Paths to Heav'n.
So truly Humble, and so fast a Friend,
No Human Malice cou'd the Union end.
Offence she Pardon'd, no Offence wou'd give,
But, like the Dove, without a Gall did live.
Well read in History, in Devotion more,
And had a Heart that ne'er forgot the Poor.

Ah! mourn, ye Graces, mourn your Darling's Fall,
The most exalted Wonder of you all!
To whom, or where can you for Refuge run,
Now she that gave you Life, is dead and gone?
Her Charms behind a Ghastly Pale retir'd,
As much Affrighting now, as late admir'd:
She Cloath'd you Gay, and rais'd Your Honours high,
By Beauty much, and more by Chastity.
Who of the Fair was ever less withstood
Than those that strive to Charm by being Good?
Beauty, at best, does but the Eye controul,
But Vertue Sinks, and Settles at the Soul.

By that alone she did her Actions square,
And liv'd and dy'd the Glory of the Fair,
With fix'd Submission did her Fate obey
Perhaps the first that went resign'd away,
With such true Reasons for a longer Stay.

230

On the Death of Madam Pool's Son and Heir; Born Eight Months after his Fathers Decease.

If Angels for what happens here amiss
E'er grieve—it is at such a Time as this,
When what's most like to them is snatch't from hence,
And Vertue mourns the Loss of Innocence.

Her Consort from her Beaute'ous Bosom torn
Had left her Cause for a whole Age to mourn:
No wedded Pair e'er led a happier Life,
The kindest Husband, and the chastest Wife.
For such a Loss where cou'd she find Relief?
What Joy cou'd balance with so vast a Grief?

See here how Providence the Plan does lay
When to the Wretched 'twou'd Relief convey,
And take the Weight that loads our Souls away.
A Stranger to the Blessing Heav'n design'd;
His Form was Still so lively in her Mind,
She thought not of his Image left behind,
Nor knew she had conceiv'd;—when Lo! a Son
Is born, when Hope it self was dead and gone.

No Child was e'er more welcom than the Boy,
Not wond'rous Isaac more his Mother's Joy;
Sent as a Proof of Providence's Care,
To shew us Mortals ought not to Despair.
By ev'ry Tongue was Heav'n afresh ador'd,
For Worth rewarded, and the Race Restor'd,
If coming Blessings we by present scan,
No Infant ever earlier shew'd the Man,

231

Now all is well, as when the Blushing Ray
Of op'ning Light foretels a Smiling Day.
But Fate, we know, can quickly shift the Scene,
And Life and Death have but a Step between:
Alternately we tast of Grief and Joy,
Lest this shou'd pamper us, or that Destroy.

For now a Mortal Malady has seiz'd
The Child, and but by Death to be appeas'd:
An Ashy Semblance on his Visage dwells,
And trembling Lips th'approaching Stroke foretels:
His Cheeks no more their Rosie Hue retain,
Yet, Martyr-like, he never groan'd at Pain.
The Sons of Art in vain their Med'cines try'd,
The tough Disease did all Efforts deride,
And Death Stalk't on but with the Sterner Pride.
At last cold Numbness all his Limbs possest,
And lull'd the Infant to Eternal rest.
Nor was he then of all his Charms bereft,
A Smile, the Badge of Innocence, was left;
A Smile which from the view of Heav'n must spring
That Scene just op'ning as his Soul took Wing.

Adieu! Sweet Babe, thou who ev'n Fate did'st charm,
And of his Ghastly Aspect Death disarm.
What Colours cou'd the ablest Painter find
To Limn that Face where Contradictions joyn'd?
Imprinted Sweetness with departing Breath,
And a pleas'd look in the cold Arms of Death.

Thus far our Theme requir'd a Mourning Strain
But to persist in needless Grief were vain:
'Tis not in this Sence promis'd—Ask and have;
Heav'n's but provok'd when Lawless things we crave;
No Sorrow ever yet unclos'd the Grave.

232

Grieve then no more, Fair Dame, his early Fate,
He has soon gain'd what Myriads miss of late:
To many Years e'ven num'rous Sins belong;
The Favourites of Heav'n die always young:
Secur'd from Lust's assaults and Envy's rage,
They're call'd betimes from the Terrestrial Stage;
God Measures not our Happiness by Age.
By true Submission be to Fate resign'd,
Peace ne'er was wanting to a Patient Mind;
Such Vertue must have Blessings yet behind.
If you'll the wisest of Mankind believe,
There is a Time to Smile as well as grieve.
Born to attract, your Charms in all their Prime,
Not ruffl'd yet by the rude Hand of Time,
By Consequence Admirers must produce,
First give 'em Love, then give that Love excuse.
Their gazing on such Sweetness who can blame?
Who wou'd not warm him at so bright a Flame!
I hear 'em sigh, methinks, I see 'em kneel,
And beg that Pity which the Fair shou'd feel:
Smile then, Ah smile! some Dying Lover save,
And stop at last the Triumphs of the Grave.

To the Memory of that Worthy Gentleman Colonel Edward Cooke.

'Tis Vertue only that supports the whole,
For without that, the World's without a Soul:
But daily now it grows more faint and weak,
And when it fails th'Eternal Chain must break:
When great Cooke fell, the jarring Links did twang,
And Nature sigh'd as if she felt the Pang:

233

Nor is it strange; he had no other Guide,
And ne'er before so much in one Professor dy'd.

Nurs'd up in War, yet Truth his sole delight;
Courted in Peace, and as much shunn'd in Fight:
Death he had seen in various Shapes, but none
Cou'd move him to be fearful of his own:
Nor did old Age abate the Martial Flame,
In num'rous Conflicts try'd, and still the same.

But tho' in War and Martial Toil he liv'd,
None more than He the sad Occasion griev'd.
Our civil Wounds he with Distraction view'd,
And Peace amid'st the Din of Arms pursu'd;
Three times repell'd, he thrice th'Effort renew'd;
In vain—the wrathful Vial by Command,
(Who can arrest the high Avenger's Hand?)
Was empty'd all upon the impious Land:
The very bitter Dreggs were on us pour'd,
And what that spar'd both Plague and Fire devour'd.

At last bright Truth her smiling Beams display'd,
And once more brought to Albion Peace and Trade.
But long together England ne'er was blest
(O Island! more by Fiends than Men possest!)
Like Vipers, we our Mother's Bowels tear,
Restless alike in Plenty, Peace, or War.
Thro' all Extremes imperiously we range,
The Vanes of Notion, and the Slaves of Change.
The Church and King shall be to Day ador'd,
To morrow this betray'd, and that abhor'd.
Reason, Religion (which yet ne'er was less)
Law, Policy, and all that they profess,
Chop, wind and vary oftner than their Dress.
In such a Climate Peace can make no stay,
Just shews the Olive Branch, and flies away.

234

Plots, Factions, Strifes and Murders next succeed,
And Law perverted makes the Nation bleed:
Give, cry the Brave, restore the former War—
Sav'd in the Field to Perish at the Bar!
In vain their Mars is to their aid implor'd;
The Perjur'd Tongue's more fatal than the Sword.

Here was a Scene that better shew'd the Man,
Than all the Dangers he before had ran:
He that in Fields the last Extremes cou'd dare,
His Voice, his Look, Demeanour, all severe,
As Mars himself were giving Orders there;
His former Heat and Name in War reprov'd,
And now cou'd bear ev'n Wrong it self unmov'd.
Envy, he knew, his Courage must avow;
He was to prove himself a Christian now.
'Tis not to be a Conque'rour half so great
Our Foes, as when our Passions we defeat:
At Peace within; tho' Fortune frown or smile,
We know no Doubt, Anxiety, or Guile.
Let Towns be Storm'd, or else by Treach'ry bought,
By fighting Heroes be new Empires sought,
This better Fortitude our SAVIOUR taught,
That Injuries with Patience be receiv'd;
O happy Life! the Life a God has liv'd!
The Life that thither too where he is gone
Will lead us up, and make his Joy our own.
How will th'Oppressor look when sinking down
To Hell, he sees our Suffe'rings on a Throne?

Thus as to Execute he'd bravely do,
So wou'd he, wrong'd, as bravely Suffer too.
When he did Good (and who his Life surveys,
Will find he did delight in't all his Days)
'Twas for the sake of Vertue, not for Praise.

235

Never was One, that cou'd so far excel,
So little pleas'd to hear of doing well.
Restless Ambition ne'er employ'd his Thought;
But Peace and Truth he thro' all Hazards sought,
Nor did he stop, tho' much he underwent,
Till he arriv'd at what he aim'd—Content.
Reward he gave where e'er he Worth cou'd find;
He look't not on the Linage, but the Mind.
His Judgment was impartial, clear and strong,
And to old Age his Conversation young:
His Mirth was all his Life from Folly free,
Nor did his Wit destroy his Piety.
Struck with his Presence, Flatt'ry lost it's Guile,
Envy wou'd cease to grin, and Rage to boil:
The most Flagitious with his Worth were aw'd;
Nor durst the Atheist then deny his GOD.
So when the Tiger roams the Woods for Prey,
If he but meet a Lion in his Way,
He straight forgets his Rage, and learns t'obey;
The Lordly Beast does unmolested pass,
And when he roars stills all the Savage Race.

Such was his Life;—and now his Death we'll shew,
His Death, the greater wonder of the two!
Th'acutest Pangs without a Groan he bore;
Not in his Health his unconcern was more:
While with a Mind above the Sense of Pain,
He talk't of Truths Divine beyond a mortal Strain!
Then when the fatal Hour was drawing on,
And the last Sands were eager to be gone;
When all his Friends lay raving with their Grief,
Wishing, alas! but hopeless of Relief;
Ev'n he alone his Change undaunted bore,
Like all the Changes of his Life before:
No Sigh he gave, or labouring Breath he drew,
But smiling went, as Heav'n were full in view.

236

O Strength of Faith! in vain by Doubt withstood;
O truly Great! and yet more truly Good!
All of a Piece!—as 'twere his latest Strife,
To make his Death instructive as his Life.

To the Honourable Colonel Henry Chiver, on the Death of Lionel Duckett, Esq

Where Slaughter, Horror, Fire and Fate have join'd
To wreak their utmost Fury on Mankind,
You oft have been, with all their Rage unmov'd,
As if Life had been scorn'd, or Death belov'd.
As if in fatal Broils and fierce Alarms
Y'ad known more Pleasure, and enjoy'd more Charms
Than in the Fair, the Chast Almeria's Arms:
But ah! if Glory only was your Aim,
You might have found it in the matchless Dame;
Her Smile is Love, and her Embrace is Fame.

Yet tho' all Flame, and daring to a Crime,
When Gene'rous Duckett fell in all his Prime,
That Iron Heart which ne'er before did bend
Broke into Tears, and melted for a Friend.

From hence the Temper of your Soul we see;
For Courage takes not from Humanity:
Compassion always shou'd with Valour live,
For they can never love that never grieve.

Nor is it you alone that mourn his Fall,
To all a Friend, his Loss affects us all:

237

Living, no Man before more Praise cou'd have,
Or e'er went more Lamented to the Grave.

No Means of doing Good he e'er declin'd;
His Libe'ral Hand and his Instructive Mind
Were two Exchequers, that did well declare
The Learn'd and Needy equally his Care:
This with new Knowledge adding to our Store,
That always open to relieve the Poor.

By Nature form'd for Friendship, Wit and Love,
He soon in all did most Successful prove:
How cou'd he fail to enjoy their Greatest Charms,
YOU in his Heart, and Chloris in his Arms?

Chloris the soft, the Youthful and the Fair,
That with the Fruit of Love did crown his Care;
And, sure to Conquer, makes it Doubtful yet
Which most excels, her Beauty, or her Wit.

How frail is Life, and Gloomy now the Scene
That then was all so Radiant and serene?
Misled by Hope, when Pleasure first appears
We fondly think of many happy Years:
Teeming with Sweets, and Youth begetting more,
Life seems to have a thousand Joys in Store:
When strait pale Death the Envious Shaft does throw,
And lays our Airy Expectations low!

Yet ev'n 'tis better so, than to be sold
To Cares, Afflictions, and a Life too old:
When the stale Drudge to Impotence resigns,
And his Shril Spouse her Loss of Pleasure pines;
When hungry Avarice their Rest impairs,
And hoards an Ill got Portion for their Heirs;

238

When Mutual Hatred and Domestick Strife
Change 'em from Lovers into Man and Wife:
These drink the Dregs, expos'd to all the Crimes
Of Age, which they escape that die betimes.

Unlike this Life was his now gone from hence,
A Life compos'd of Mirth and Innocence.
We dare not argue he no Errors knew;
But ev'n his Errors had their Beauties too:
His very Failings, by a Matchless Art
Peculiar to themselves, allur'd the Heart.
His Wit cou'd make all Turns of Humour please,
For still 'twas new; and manag'd with that Ease,
The very Stoick, tho' he meant to blame,
Approv'd the Mirth, and warm'd him at the Flame.

You best can tell how much his Converse charm'd:
Rage he cou'd tame, and Envy he disarm'd:
Wisdom stood Mute, and Emulation hung
With more than pleas'd Attention on his Tongue;
Despairing e'er to reach so high a Flight,
All her Ambition was to keep in Sight.
Our Souls were mov'd! and cou'd not but admire,
How still from all he touch'd, he struck the Fire!

But when he pleas'd we shou'd no longer smile,
And to sublimer Subject turn'd his Stile,
He steer'd our Wonder just as he thought fit,
And ne'er was less the wiser for his Wit.

Ill fare the Men that misdirect our Sight,
That never look but squint upon the Right,
And gravely damn all Innocent Delight:
He shew'd, and You, Sir, still go on to shew
There's such a Truth as—Wise, and Merry too;

239

That all we ought to learn and understand,
Is not confin'd to those that wear the Band:
He with a Thousand Gifts and Arts was fraught
Of which they never read, or never sought.

Nor was his Worth to our small Island pent,
But travel'd with him o'er the Continent:
The State and Pow'r of Europe's Courts he saw,
Their Manners, Language, Policy and Law;
And brought, to shew he did not idly roam,
A faithful Abstract of their Vertues home:
But left their Vices, Dresses and Disease,
To Fops and Coxcombs they were made to please;
They who but Travel to debase their Kind;
For what's more senseless than an Ass refin'd?

There the Harmonious Art he long had lov'd,
He to the utmost height 'twou'd bear improv'd.
I see him yet in Solitude retir'd,
At once with Musick and the Muse Inspir'd.
What Raptures wou'd he breath! what soft'ning Airs!
How tune our Souls! and how disperse our Cares!
In the two Sister-Arts so amply Skill'd,
He's only in the Heav'nly Quire excell'd;
The Quire where with ineffable Delight,
He sings the Hymns he did himself indite.

In vain, alas! (too covetous of Fame)
We Poets strive to get a Deathless Name,
And with the short Applause of vulgar Breath,
Wou'd keep alive our Memories after Death:
His leisure Hours found out a sweeter Vein
Of Verse, than all our Labour of the Brain:
Secure of Fame in his own mighty Line,
He there in State will live, and there will shine,
Long after dark Oblivion folds up mine.

240

We'll then no more deplore his dying Young,
For, tho' so few his Years, his Fame is long.
That happy Soul does not untimely go,
Adorn'd in Youth with all that Age cou'd know.
Beside, 'twere vain his Loss shou'd be repin'd
While the more noble Chivers stays behind;
Chivers! in whom in fairer Strokes are writ
His dauntless Spirit, and his deathless Wit!

On the Death of the Famous Musick-Master Mr. Henry Purcell.

Make Room, ye happy Natives of the Sky,
Room for a Soul all Love and Harmony;
A Soul that 'rose to such Perfection here,
It scarce will be advanc'd by being there!

Whether (to us by Transmigration giv'n)
He once was an Inhabitant of Heav'n;
And form'd for Musick, with diviner Fire
Endu'd, compos'd for the Celestial Quire;
Not for the Vulgar Race of Light to hear,
But on high Days to glad th'Immortal Ear;
So in some leisure Hour was sent away
(Their Hour is here a Life, a thousand Years their Day)
Sent what th'Ætherial Musick was to show,
And teach the Wonders of that Art below:
Whether this might not be the Muse appeals
To his Composures, where such Magick dwells,
As Rivals Heav'nly Skill, and Human Pow'r excels!

Vile as a Sign-post Dauber's Painting shows,
Compar'd with Titian's Work or Angelo's;

241

Languid and low as modern Rhime appears,
When Milton's matchless Strain has tun'd our Ears,
So seem to him the Masters of our Isle;
His Inspiration, theirs but mortal Toil:
They to the Ear, He to the Soul does dive,
Like Beauty soften, and like Life revive:
Not the smooth Spheres in their eternal Rounds,
The Work of Angels, warble softer Sounds!

Only, in chanting Crofts! 'tis only Thee,
Whose Soul has Seeds of equal Harmony:
On Thee (if Poets Wishes may befriend)
A double Portion of his Skill descend:
You follow fastest the bright Path he trod;
Keep, Lovely Youth, in the Harmonious Road:
But when the utmost of his Art you find
(As you will surely do, if Time be kind)
Think there is yet a Nobler Task behind;
And Copy (if you'd fear no future Ill)
His Fau'tless Life as well as Matchless Skill.

What is that Heav'n of which so much we hear?
(The happy Region gain'd with Praise and Prayer)
What but one unmolested Transport? which
No Notion, or Idea e'er cou'd reach:
As it appears in Vision 'tis but this,
To be oppress'd with Joy! and Strive with Bliss!
Confounded with the Blaze of Ceaseless Day,
We know not what we think, or do, or say!
Endless Profusion! Joy without decay!
So when his Harmony arrests the Ear,
We lose all thought of what, or how, or where!
Like Love it warms, like Beauty does controul,
Like sudden Magick seizes on the whole,
And while we hear the Body turns to Soul!

242

From what strange Spring did he derive the Art
To sooth our Care, and thus command the Heart?
Time list'ning stands to hear his Artful Strain,
And Death does at the dying throw his shafts in vain;
Fast to the Mortal part th'Immortal cleaves,
Nor till he leave to charm, the Body leaves.
Less Harmony than his did raise of old
The Theban Wall, and made an Age of Gold.
How in that Mystick Order cou'd he joyn
So different Notes? make Contraries combine?
And out of Discord call such sounds Divine?
How did the Seeds ly Quick'ning in his Brain?
How were they born without a Parents Pain?
He did but think, and Musick wou'd arise,
Dilating Joy, as Light o'er spreads the Skies,
From an Immortal Sourse, like that, it came;
But Light we know—this Wonder wants a Name!

What art Thou? from what Causes do'st thou spring
O Musick! thou divine Mysterious thing!
Let me but know, and, knowing, give me Voice to sing
Art thou the warmth in Spring that Zephire breaths,
Painting the Meads, and whist'ling thro' the leaves?
The happy Season that all Grief exiles,
When GOD is pleas'd, and the Creation smiles?
Or art thou Love (that Soul to Soul imparts?)
The Endless Concord of agreeing Hearts!
Or art thou Friendship? yet a Nobler Flame,
That can a dearer way make two the same!
Or art thou rather (which does all transcend)
The Centre where at last the blest ascend?
The Seat where Hallelujah's never end!
Corporeal Eyes won't let us clearly see,
But either thou art Heau'n, or Heav'n is Thee.

243

And thou, my Muse, how e'er the Criticks blame,
Pleas'd with his Worth, and faithful to his Fame,
Art Musick while y'are hallowing Purcell's Name:
On other Subjects you Applause might miss,
But Envy will it self be charm'd with this.
How oft has Envy at his Airs been found
T'admire? Enchanted with the Blissful Sound!
Ah! cou'd you quite forget his early Doom,
I wou'd not from the Rapture call You home;
But gently from your steepy height descend;
Y'ave prais'd the Artist, and now mourn the Friend.

Ah most unworthy! shou'd we leave unsung
Such wond'rous Goodness in a Life so Young:
The Kindness so diffusive he profess'd,
That I, ev'n I was number'd with the rest,
Prest in his Arms, and kneaded to his Breast.
How oft has he delighted in my Lays,
And thought th'Unlearn'd Production worth his Praise?
Unjustly to that Favour 'twas prefer'd;
And it was never else his Judgment err'd.

In Spite of Practice he this Truth has shown,
That Harmony and Vertue shou'd be ONE.
No Words he Set but what the chastest Ear
(And none were chaster than his own) might hear.
So true to Nature, and so just to Wit,
His Musick was the very Sense you writ.
Nor were his Beauties to his Art confin'd;
So justly were his Soul and Body join'd,
You'd think his Form the Product of his Mind.
A Conq'ring Sweetness in his Visage dwelt,
His Eyes wou'd warm, his Wit like Light'ning melt;
But those no more must now be seen! nor this no more be felt!

244

Pride was the sole Aversion of his Eye,
Himself as humble, as his Art was high.
Ah let him, Heav'n in Life so much ador'd,
Be now as Universally deplor'd!
The Muses sigh'd at his approaching Doom,
Amaz'd, and Raving as their own were come!
Art try'd the last Efforts, but cou'd not save—
But sleep! O sleep in an unenvy'd Grave!
In Life and Death the Noblest Fate you share;
Poets and Princes thy Companions are,
And both of 'em were thy Admires here:
There rest thy Ashes!—but thy Nobler Name
Shall soar aloft, and last as long as Fame.

Nor shall thy Worth be to our Isle confin'd,
But fly, and leave the lagging Day behind.
Rome, that did once extend her Arms so far,
Y'ave conquer'd in a Nobler Art than War:
To her Proud Sons but only Earth was giv'n,
But Thou hast triumph'd both in Earth and Heav'n.

And now Farewel!—nor Fame, nor Youth, nor Art,
Nor Tears avail!—we must for ever part!
For ever! dismal Accent!—what alone
But that can tell our Loss, or reach our Moan?
What Term of Sorrow Prefer'ence dare contend?
What but the tenderest, dearest Name of Friend!

Hail him, ye Angels, to the Elizian Shore,
The richest Freight that ever Charon bore,
Tho' Orpheus and Amphion pass'd before.
His Skill as far exceeds, as, had his Name
Been known as long, he wou'd have done in Fame.
Tho' the wide Globe for tuneful Souls you cull,
Hope no more such;—the happy Quire is full:
The sacred Art can here arrive no higher,
And Heav'n it self no further will inspire.

245

To my Lady Long, on the Death of Sir Giles Long Baronet, her Grandson.

When rip'ning Vertue soon in Youth appears,
And Wit exerts it self above it's Years,
'Tis a sure Omen they've not long to stay;
Just shown to raise our Wonder and away!
Those Blessings soonest go that most delight,
And forward Plants but rarely scape the Blight.

But tho' the Innocent thus early leave
Their Friends below, we shou'd not vainly grieve:
Reason immoderate Sorrow does reprove,
Shews we that Way but misapply our Love,
For Innocence has better Friends above.

If then the Vertu'ous once will have Reward,
Why shou'd we think their early Summons hard?
The Just are never taken unprepar'd.
If sure of Glory at the setting Sun,
Tho' he went down prodigiously at Noon,
Who, at that Rate, wou'd grieve the Day was done?
'Tis kinder to rejoyce at their Repose,
Than wish 'em here to mingle with our Woes.

From all the Ills we fear, or feel, or see,
Those in the unmolested Grave are free:
There Silence reigns, and a perpetual Calm,
And there Oblivion drops it's wond'rous Balm,
While Lethe flows and lulls us with it's Stream—
O perfect Rest! O Sleep without a Dream!

Why shou'd the last we the long Slumber call,
When Sleeps are, to the sleeping, equal all?

246

While we in her soft Arms repose our Cares,
A Moment is the same with num'rous Years:
No matter whether Hours, or Ages clasp'd,
We wake, and know not how much Time is laps'd.
Sleep is but as a Wink when once 'tis o'er;
And the last kindly sleep of Death's no more.
How e'er the Thought is by the Anxious born,
It is but to lye down and rise at Morn:
But with this odds—here, with alternate Sway,
The Night Succeeds when Light is chas'd away;
But there we wake to an Eternal Day!

Then mourn not, Madam, the dear Youths Decease;
Think of his Worth—then think he's now at Peace.
A Life so led as yours of Bliss is sure;
But do not murmur he's past on before:
The Favourites of Heav'n this Blessing share,
Tho' late set out, yet, to be early there.

Age does, alas! disclose (tho' ne'er so wise)
A thousand Troubles hid from Youthful Eyes.
This Sorrow does attend the living long,
To stay behind the Beaute'ous, Brave and Young.
Scarce one is gone but that another goes;
And the new Day still some new Object shows
T'encrease our Cares, and to renew our Woes.
He mounted at his Noon the happy Sphere,
Took from the World before it grew severe;
And but in Notion knew that Tyrant Care.
But tho' below to Youth Delights are giv'n,
Tho' Hope succeeds and ev'ry Wish runs ev'n,
Yet what is there on Earth to vye with Heav'n?

But tho' your Face no Badge of Grief shou'd wear,
Yet we to Friendship may commend a Tear;

247

To Friendship only; for no other Tye
Has half that Dearness, half that Constancy.
Where two there Comforts on this Basis six,
No less Regards can their Ingredients mix.
Nearer than Twins! so truly tun'd alike,
Both Strings are heard when we on either strike.
To Rich with Poor, too distant to embrace
In mutual Truth; to Noble with the Base,
This sacred Union does afford no Place.
The Balance must be fix'd; for Friendships die
Without a truly poiz'd Equality.
Constant Defenders of each others Fame,
In Vertue one, and in their Will the same,
No other Fuel feeds this Deathless Fame.
Nor only Joy, but there our Sorrows hang,
For Friendship most acutely feels the parting Pang.
O Ayliffe! we allow Thee then to grieve,
I see thy Tears that flow without thy leave!
From two dear Sisters your Alliance came,
Of ancient Linage and unspotted Fame;
Of whom our Wonder undecided stood;
That was divinely Fair! and this divinely Good!
But tho' such Kindred Blood must firmly bind,
You yet were in a nearer Union join'd;
For Friendship only mixes Mind with Mind.
Love is but Casual, and Desire a Cheat,
This lives in Beauty, and that springs from Heat;
But Friendship in the Soul erects her nobler Seat:
That Band does hold tho' Bodies are disjoin'd—
Thus, tho' He's gone, you are not left behind:
By Contemplation you may take your Flight
To the same Realms of never-less'ning Light;
By that may see how there the Happy live,
And, thence descended, Rules to others give,

248

The sacred Rules that Portia taught him here;
Portia! that Youth for Heav'n can best prepare—
But late! O later yet be her Arrival there!

What Sighs are these that my calm Thoughts arrest,
And hinder their Communion with the Blest?
It must be one with more than usual Grief opprest.
See! there she stands deploring of his Fate,
With trembling Joints that scarce support her weight:
All wrap't in Sables! yet behind 'em bright;
So Dia'monds shine thro' interposing Night
And in dark Shades assert their Native Light.
But now mild Zephyr does her Veil displace,
And now I see! and now I know her Face!
O cou'd I think on Friendships mournful Cries,
And not look on his Beaute'ous Sisters Eyes?
Cou'd I imagin there were dearer Ties?
O I recant! for what can firmlier bind
Than Nature faithful, or than Beauty kind?
To save his Life she wou'd her own have lost,
Tho' ill preserv'd with such unvaluable Cost:
Nay ev'n her Beauty was not then her Care,
Tho' more than Scepters valu'd by the Fair.
Not the Distemper's horrid Aspect shook
Her fix'd Attendance; tho' the Red forsook
Her matchless Cheeks, her Heart its Care retain'd;
The Roses faded, but the Lilies reign'd!
Her Tears, her Tenderness, and piercing Moans,
Did deeper wound us than his dying Groans:
She our Concern did to her self transfer;
Our Sighs for Him were drown'd in Tears for Her.
Her Sorrow cou'd not make her Charms retire;
Weeping, we did her Form the more admire,
That very Rain it self increas'd the Fire!

249

But now the Pale-fac'd Tyrant claims his Due;
He's gone! and she, alas! is going too!
O fly! the swiftest Expedition make!
From Heav'n some Angel the Ingredients take,
And with th'Immortal Cordial call her Spirits back!
'Tis done! and now again the Matchless Fair
Resumes her former Lovely Mein and Air.
But O (like Summer's Sun retir'd from Sight)
She breaks out on us with Redoubl'd Light!
Her Beams confound us with too strong a Charm,
And wound us, when, alas! they shou'd but warm!
We sigh, we burn and bleed, despair and die—
And yet who wou'd Despair when Heav'ns so nigh!

Forgive me, Madam, that her weightier Theme
The Muse has lost in Beauty's pleasing Dream.
But Youth for Youth will mourn—nor shou'd we here
With Rigid Precepts wound the List'ning Ear.
YOU, more Resign'd, such Dispensations take
Th'Instructive Way; and Loss, Advantage make.
By long Experience, learn'd in Human Care,
You know there's none Entirely happy here.
The Soul, like Flame, still bends the upward Way,
Immers'd in Night, yet striving towards the Day,
Some happy Clime that does her Nature suit;
Elizian Groves! and all Immortal Fruit!

If Comfort from the Contemplation flows,
Releas'd of Toil, to find the long Repose
Preposte'rously we Grieve when Vertue goes.
'Tis only for the Vitious we shou'd moan,
Who, longer Living, might have better grown.
He by his Tempe'rance, Prudence, Wit and Truth,
(Vertues that rarely correspond in Youth)
A Condescention that all Hearts ador'd,
A Libe'ral Hand, that none in vain Implor'd,

250

With Piety, ev'n wond'rous for his Years,
Expels our Sorrows, and prevents our Tears.

On this Occasion, might we Sorrow use,
What is there has more Reason than the Muse?
Ev'n She, that Others wou'd from Grief dissuade,
Wants most the like Consolatory Aid.
He just was grown a Subject for her Lays,
She just had tun'd her Notes to sing his Praise;
Saw how each Day new Matter he'd afford
For Wit, and griev'd she was so little stor'd.
She thought a Gene'rous Patron to have found,
And in his Name to make her own renown'd:
Dream'd of Rewards, as Men in Feavers do
Of Wine, and thought the pleasing Image true.
Thus from our Hope our Disappointment springs,
That we may put no Trust in Human Things.

To Sir James Long, Baronet.

With the Preceeding Elegy on his Brother.

His Death, whose Name you bear, in humble Strains,
This Muse lamented to th'attentive Swains,
Dilating Grief thro' all the Neighb'ring Plains:
His Vertues were to all the Good approv'd,
In Senate honour'd, and by Kings belov'd.
Your Elder Brother next her Mourning claim'd,
Who, had he liv'd, had been as justly fam'd:
He promis'd much; but a too hasty Doom
Remov'd him from our Hopes, and call'd him Home.
Another Brother's Hearse she now attends—
But here her Melancholy Labour Ends.

251

What ever Grace or Excellence we view'd,
Or hop'd from them, be all in You renew'd:
May You their Worth and Honour Emulate,
Be yours their Vertues, not their Early Fate.
My Praye'rs are heard!—It was your Grandsire's Theme,
Deriv'd to Him from your Prophetick Dream,
When you in Vision the Three Plants survey'd,
The Younger bloom and the two Elder fade.
When Heav'n with Age and Fame has fill'd your Days,
Some happy Pencil draw your Deathless Praise:
That Theme shall kindle with Poetick Fires
Some other Muse long after this expires.

To the Memory of Mr. James Margetts who died of the Small Pox in his Voyage to Pensilvania.

Long the kind Winds the Fatal Point forbore,
As loth to waft him from his Native Shore,
To which, alas! he must return no more:
But vainly they delay their destin'd Aid,
His Doom is set, and Fate must be obey'd.
For now the Youth is from his Parents gone;
O Fatal Parting!—but the Choice his Own.
I saw how to their Breasts they strain'd him fast,
And wept, as sure th'Embrace had been the last.
Nor Counsel, Caution, Blessing did they spare;
Their Hands, their Souls they for his Safety rear—
But in an Hour when Heav'n was deaf to Prayer!

With a smooth Gale he leaves the Albion Shore,
And smiling Hope kept full in View before;

252

Nor did he any Danger fear, or find,
Either from Rocks, the Billows, or the Wind,
Which seem'd for him, against their Natures kind.

In vain we wou'd into the Future see,
Or open what is clos'd by Destiny.
Who wou'd have thought, in this delightful Scene,
Secur'd without, they'd find a Foe within,
Worse than the wildest Tempest cou'd have been?

For now his Bow the Lep'rous Fury drew,
And from the String at once whole Quivers flew,
Which bursting in their Flight around 'em spread
The Ghastly Bane, and not a Shaft but sped:
Disdaining any Dart shou'd partial fall,
He aim'd the Pestilential Blast at all.
In vain alas! the Aid that Drugs wou'd lend!
Nor Art, nor Nature cou'd their Charge defend;
And it was fatal now to be a Friend:
Th'Assistants soon like the assisted grew,
And then as fast infected others too.
All Hands aloft had now been heard in vain;
The barbar'ous Ill had so decreas'd the Train,
The Ship as if Unman'd, lay floating on the Main.

Ah! wou'd it here but stop it all were well!—
They're yet but Lives that we can cheaply Sell,
A vulgar Heard, whom Spite and Nonsense rules,
The Grin of Wit, and Proselytes of Fools;
And if they'll serve a Thousand more we'll spare;
Only, O Heav'n! the Youth be now thy Care,
Let not the fierce Destroyer enter there,
But thy Protection in his Worth survey:
As Israel's Safety on the Lintel lay,
We strive not to divert him from th'Ignobler Prey.

253

It will not be!—and vain is the defence,
When Death arrives, of Youth, or Innocence!
The fierce Disease no Magick cou'd rebate,
Unbyass'd by Remorse, and steel'd by Fate:
With Angry Joy the Luscious Bait he seiz'd,
Just as the Lion's Hunger is appeas'd,
That sullenly devours, and grumbles while he's pleas'd.

The only comfort that did yet remain,
Was, that the youth had lost all Sense of Pain:
For, (as it were it self too mild a Fate,)
A Fever still does on this Fury wait,
Which with the Blood a Raging Venom blends,
And then in wayward Fumes up to the Brain ascends,
From whence a Thousand Fantoms take their Birth;
But, Tyrant like, they're fatal in their Mirth:
Thus lay the Youth, and in these last Extremes
Was forming to himself delightful Schemes
Of various things, but all without offence;
Reason was gone, but not his Innocence.
Ah! better, better far, than 'tis to be
At our last Gasp of Perfect Memory,
With all our Friends (as they were dying too)
Pale with Affright, and shrieking at the view;
Nor only that, but ev'ery slight of Grace
Staring a Guilty Conscience in the Face;
Which only serve, with our Departing Breath,
To give severer Pangs, and a more Anxious Death.

But now h' had reach'd the Ninth and fatal Day;
When in a Death-like Silence long he lay,
Till with a lengthn'd heave for Breath he sigh'd his Soul away.
Thus in a fatal Calm he Life resign'd,
But left a Tempest of Despair behind!
Not for themselves they half the Grief had shown,
So much his Name was dearer than their Own.

254

But most, O Blake! thou did'st his Fate deplore,
Nor Life, nor Fame it self you valu'd more.
So justly You his Gen'erous Temper hit,
No Tallies e'er did more exactly fit;
In sweetness one, in Innocence and Wit,
One in our Hope, (as in our Hope the Chief)
And now as undivided in our Grief!
In vain the fierce Disease thy Life did spare,
In vain you reach'd the Pensilvanian Air,
A lean Consumption there its Rage supply'd,
And you but liv'd to mourn his Loss, and dy'd!

Cruel Disease! enough at Land you reign,
Nor need erect your Trophies on the Main:
That Causeless Tyranny you well might spare,
And leave the Shelves, the Sands, and boiste'rous Air,
Thy dreadful Substitutes of Ruin there.
Or if thou wilt persist, and take Delight
On the rude Waves to exercise thy spite,
Against some Rock for ever may'st thou be
Transfixt by the Avenging Deity,
Just where the Billows with a hideous roar
Are broke, by Tempests thrown upon the Shore!
That there thou thro' all future Times may'st see,
Amid'st the Wrecks and Terrors of the Sea,
There is no need, accurst Disease! of THEE.

See there thy Work where it extended lies!
Rack to our Thought! and Horrour to our Eyes,
View what a Ghastly Visage now he wears,
All crusted o'er! and marr'd beyond our Fears;
Of ev'ry Sweet dispoil'd, and ev'ry Grace,
That wore but now such Magick on his Face!
Is this the Portion of the Young and Fair!
Is this the end of all our Hope and Care!
His Sisters Wishes, and his Brothers Prayer!

255

Is this the Goodness we so much ador'd!
To which ev'n Fate will not a Grave afford,
Nor see the sad Remains back to his Native Soil restor'd.

'Tis all too true!—and we lament in vain,
They must commit his Body to the Main;
Ev'n yet, deform'd as 'tis, too sweet a Prey
For the remorseless Monsters of the Sea.
O Sight! well from his Parents Eyes with-held!
A Sight where Death was by himself excell'd!
How had they rav'd his floating Corse to see
(Th'extremest Proof of Human Misery!)
On the bleak Waves with Ghastly Terrour ride,
Th'unpity'd Sport of the Insulting Tyde!
Mean while, perhaps, all Igno'rant of his Doom,
They pleas'd themselves he wou'd be soon at home,
And to their List'ning Ears, not heard before,
Tell all the Wonders of a Distant Shore:
Quite otherwise, alas! his Fate they find,
Sent back almost, by the next changing Wind.
Ill Tydings, tho' from distant Worlds they come,
Were never known to miss their Passage home.

The News his Mother with Distraction hears,
A Rage of Sorrow! and a burst of Tears!
The Sweets her Visage cou'd so lately boast,
With Anguish rifl'd, and in weeping lost!
A Deathlike Pale reign'd there without controul,
And made her Face the Mirror to her Soul!
So much her Sorrow did th'Ascendant gain,
Her Travel for him was a smaller Pain:
Tho' never was there yet among the Fair,
One that deserv'd Exemption more from Care;—
But Vertue's not to be rewarded here.
His Beaute'ous Sister on her Mother hung,
And mournful Accents trembl'd from her Tongue:

256

Nor shall she yet forget to sigh his Name,
Till her fair Eyes have found out nobler Game,
Dispencing Darts that will not miss their Aim.
His loving Brothers, bending with the Blow,
Were not the meanest in this Scene of Woe:
But chiefly He, for Worth and Learning known,
Whom Truth adorns, and Friendship makes my Own.
His Pious Father, with erected Eyes,
All Dumb with Grief, and stiff'ning with Surprize,
Made yet this Flight of Sorrow higher rise!
Tho' Balm he pours into another's Moan,
He wou'd not, or he cou'd not cease his own.
A Thousand Ways in our Distress he finds,
To mitigate our Grief; and calm our Minds,
But all his Wisdom not himself relieves;
Like Heav'n he Counsels, but like Man he grieves!

Nor Thee, O Kidder! cou'd thy Mitre save
From Briny Tears; the Emblem of his Grave:
Not all thy Learning from the Rabbins drain'd,
The Scripture clear'd, and Truth so well maintain'd;
Nor yet thy Goodness, that so far extends,
It all the Bad Instructs, and Poor befriends,
And, running still that Circle, never ends,
When thy Chast Spouse her Nephew's Fate did hear,
Cou'd free thee from partaking of her Care;
Thou wast thy self emasculated there!
Like Her, rejecting Comfort and Relief,
You mourn'd him more than with Collate'ral Grief.

But thou! O Father of the Youth I moan!
(With Sorrow scarce Inferiour to your Own)
If you so much Presumption will excuse,
Vouchsafe for once, to listen to the Muse:
If a fam'd Statesman, late, was in the Right,
The meanest Wits on best Expedients light:

257

Turn then the Tables, O Castalian Guide!
And shew the Prospect from the milder Side.

What is the Cause of all our Human Care
But now to Hope, and now again to Fear?
From these two Passions y'are for Life releas'd,
As far as they relate to the deceas'd.
A Thousand Sweets he had that Blossom'd here,
Which now, remov'd into Æthereal Air,
Will ripen on, and reach Perfection there.
Ah happy Lot!—born in flagitious Times,
And yet remov'd before he knew our Crimes,
Or took the Bent for Pleasure to entice,
When Youth's advancing to the Verge of Vice;
E'er Beauty with her Smiles allur'd his Eyes,
And Wit had made him cease from being Wise;
E'er wild Ambition had his Mind possest,
Or Meagre Envy rob'd him of his Rest;
E'er he to hungry Ava'rice had been ply'd,
Softn'd by Lux'ury, or ensnar'd by Pride;
E'er he Distress without Compassion saw,
Or ever fee'd one Cormorant of Law;
E'er Atheists cou'd to Doubt a God perswade,
So visible in all the Works he made;
That Impious Race! who yet pretending Sense,
At Scripture laugh, and rail at Providence.
He left the Stage without the least Debate,
Or least Despondence of a Future State:
Beside, he dy'd e'er You his Sickness knew,
The killing Object distant from your View;
By which you from a Thousand Pangs were freed,
That must, in Nature, such a Loss precede.
For Proof of this, think of your other Son,
Thro' what a Train of Agonies you run,
When in the same Distemper, late, he lay,
Delirious, and just gasping Life away:

258

Not Death cou'd half so terrible appear,
For Death is, strictly, but the end of Fear:
True, he escap'd; and so your Elder Son—
At worst, of Three Y'are but depriv'd of One;
Nor He yet lost—but shunning longer Stay,
Gone to the Regions of Eternal Day!
The PLACE to which so well YOU teach the Way.

On the untimely Death of Mr. John Cary, Kill'd in a Duel.

That Mourning Verse in which the Dead are griev'd
Is sometimes read, but scarcely e'er believ'd:
Applause is partial:—Where's the Funeral Line
Not touch'd with Flatt'ry, Int'erest, or Design?

Lo Noble Youth! (if from your Heav'nly Sphere
You are allow'd to see our Doings here)
Behold a Friend to sing thy Worth prepar'd,
Meerly in love to Truth, and thoughtless of Reward.

Some may object, we have too long forborn
This Noble Theme, and come too late to mourn:
They have but slightly griev'd whose Griefs are past,
He truly Mourns that lets his Sorrows last:
Then our Delay will this Advantage have,
That we have not forgot Thee in the Grave.
Time lays the near Relations Sables by,
And makes the Mother's Eyes ev'n for her Darling dry,
But Friendship to a Nobler Date extends;
All Grief's but little to the Grief of Friends.

259

Be vulgar Souls deplor'd the vulgar Way;
Of him we have no common Things to say.
Heav'n on his out-side took peculiar Care;
Ne'er had so fair a Form a Mind so fair:
The sweet Composure all Beholders Charm'd,
At once the Men were Chill'd, and Women Warm'd;
Despairing these, to see themselves out-done,
And 'tother blushing they must Love so soon.

Early we found him; Nature soon put forth
The ample Signs of all his following Worth.
Never did youthful Years so truly tell
How strangely those of Manhood wou'd excel!

But now Mature, and ev'ry Vertue blown,
Our very Hopes and Wishes were out-done.
As when in April the Prolifick Rain
Descends in quick'ning Show'rs upon the Plain,
The grateful Glebe a gene'rous Product yields,
And universal Green cloaths all the Fields;
Quick from the Ground the various Riches rise;
We see the Change, and scarce believe our Eyes!
The same Effect had Manhood on his Mind,
New-ran the Ore, and ev'ry Seed refin'd;
A thousand Graces strait came forth to view,
And with th'Advantage all of something New.
From the same Stalk his Wit and Prudence sprung,
And Loyalty sat Charm'd upon his Tongue.
His Friendships (which by Worth were always joyn'd)
Nor, Envy, Force, or Fortune cou'd unbind.
His Voice did a strange Harmony impart,
And from the Ear convey'd him to the Heart.
Brave as the Hero's were; indeed too brave!
O fatal Vertue! what can Cowards save,
When Courage can't protect us from the Grave?

260

From such Beginnings, with such Vertues prop'd,
What Comfort might his Parents not have hop'd?
Who more on Providence have fix'd their Trust,
And Heav'n has promis'd Blessings to the Just?
A Family on such Foundations laid
One wou'd have thought shou'd stand till Time it self decay'd.
But Ah! how dimly Fate appears from far!
How vain our Human Expectations are!
We be our selves but Creatures of a Day!
And can we hope our Joys will longer stay!

For now th'Affront is took, the Time is set,
And now the fierce Antagonists are met.
Their Swords unsheath'd, both readily prepare,
And, measuring Blades, begin the mortal War.
What Skill, what Courage, and what Rage can do,
Both Combatants with equal Brav'ry shew.
Long did the Conflict last; a Noble Field
Was long maintain'd, and both disdain'd to yield.
Thrice did our Youthful Hero in the Arm
Wound his bold Foe, but meant no further Harm;
Honour by him the Nobler way was woo'd,
He fought for injur'd Fame, and not for Blood.
Mean while th'Aggressor all Advantage watch'd,
And, closing, from his Gripe th'Weapon snatch'd;
Then short'ning his, with one Accursed Blow,
By Treach'ry did what Courage cou'd not do.
Down fell the Youth; nor did the other stay,
To lend Relief, but left him on the Clay,
Hopeless of Help, and bleeding Life away.

Upon how slight a Hinge our Comforts turn!
How short our Pleasures! and how long we mourn!
Patient our Youth, and kind to an Excess,
The whole Composure Truth and Tenderness;

261

Yet when in his Good Name he suffer'd Wrong,
Basely traduc'd by an opprobrious Tongue,
He cou'd not bear it, tho' he much cou'd bear;
Patience it self cou'd not restrain him there.

Swift to our Ears does the sad Sound arrive,
And now the Living seem the least alive.
A Death-like Pale o'er ev'ry Visage stood!
Despair and Horror seize our stiff'ning Blood,
And for a while arrest the Circ'ling Flood!
Not one but to the last Excess does show,
Unfeign'd their Kindness, as unfeign'd a Woe;
Vying in Grief, they mournfully contend
Who shall in deepest Sighs lament his Murder'd Friend.

Nor does his Loss affect his Friends alone,
Th'affrighted Town shakes with a Gene'ral Groan:
Fame thro' the Num'rous Streets the Murder bears,
And ev'ry Face the Badge of Sadness wears.
Next, to the Country flies the Dismal Blast,
And Sorrow fixt its Standard as it past;
There is no need to bid such Tidings hast.
Among the rest, imagin, with the Muse,
His Pious Father just has read the News.
He, far remov'd, perhaps the fatal Hour
He fell was kneeling to th'Immortal Pow'r,
Imploring for his Son yet many Days,
And for the few h' had liv'd returning Praise:
Now see him, struck with Horror, trembling stand,
Pale as the Paper dropping from his Hand!
From him you must expect no Tears shou'd flow,
Stiff with his Grief, and Petrefy'd with Woe!
None in their Conduct can more Wisdom shew,
Early it to him came, and with him grew;
But what in such a Case can Wisdom do?

262

Nature prevails, and there's no Aid from Art;
What wise Man e'er felt not a bleeding Heart?
Ev'n he, by Heav'n so eminently own'd,
After God's Heart, and always faithful found,
At such a Time as this cou'd not refrain
From Sighs and Tears, but gave his Grief the Rein:
Thro' the wide Court his Cries before him run,
A Raving Sound!—O Absalom my Son!

Nor is he less by his fair Sister griev'd,
She, in whose Presence all our Woe's reliev'd!
Where e'er she comes Discomfort disappears,
We look, and in our Wonder lose our Cares!
Repeating but her Name, I now transgress
The Rules that are prescrib'd for Funeral Verse:
My wand'ring Thoughts to pleasing Notions tend,
Admiring Beauty that shou'd mourn a Friend.
Deep in her Heart this Blow has ent'rance found,
And her bright Eyes in their own Tears are drown'd!
But what can hide such Heav'nly Lights from view!
Clouded, they dart their daz'ling Lustre thro',
Like Dia'monds cover'd with the Morning Dew.
Retire bright Nymph!—our Stream of Grief you turn
Quite back—what Man can gaze on you and Mourn!

'Tis done, the Scene is clos'd; that Radiant Beam
Shut from our Sight we may resume our Theme;
Afresh the Sluces of our Sorrow flow,
And fresh Invention comes t'adorn our Woe.
Mourn all ye Youths your dear Companion gone!
His Fate be theirs that won't his Loss bemone!
Mourn him crop'd off in all his Flow'ry Bloom,
His little Warning, and relentless Doom!
Mourn him that was both Art and Learning's Boast;
Ne'er were more Riches in one Bottom lost!

263

Mourn that such Worth so short a Date shou'd find!
With Eyes all Languishing and Heads reclin'd,
Declare that Hope is false, and Heav'n it self unkind!

Ah wretched Youth! Ah inauspi'cious End!
Destroy'd by him that calls himself his Friend.
Nor does his Life alone, or single go,
'Tis a whole Linage murder'd at a Blow.
He was his Parents only Joy, the Prop
They lean'd upon to keep their Grandeur up!
Last of the Line from whom we now can Issue hope!
A Line that down a long Descent had run,
And but for him might long have travel'd on.
Ah barba'rous Wretch! that wou'd no Pity have,
Nor for the Present Age, or Future save:
Who wou'd to that Extremity have run,
And not reflect he was an only Son?
Whose sudden Fate more sad Effects wou'd have,
And bring the Hoary Hairs with Sorrow to the Grave.

This Thought does set his Grandsire in our Sight,
Now robb'd of all his Comfort and Delight:
Not more was Joseph by the Patriarch lov'd,
Nor more bemoan'd when from his Eyes remov'd:
Ah that the Parallel wou'd further hold!
Our Youth had then liv'd to be Great and Old:
This Aged Mourner, too, had found Repose,
Which now, in losing him, he'll ever lose.
Thoughtful he sits, and no Companion nigh,
Nor can the Springs of Grief his Woe supply;
His Heart dissolves, and yet his Eyes are dry!
His ev'ry Sense the piercing Ang'uish wounds,
While to himself he sighs these mournful Sounds.
For Thee I liv'd contented with my Cares,
The Crown and Glory of my Silver Hairs!

264

Thou wert the Angel sent me to asswage
The Woes and Pains that cleave to trembling Age.
What have I more to hope, now thou art gone,
But that my latest Sands wou'd soon be run?
And yet methinks, wou'd Heaven permit I'd live
To see thy Murderer his Reward receive—
And I shall see it—still the Pow'rs are good;
And the first written Law is, Blood for Blood.

Here you that cherish an o'erboyling Heat,
And, when y'ave murder'd, say y'ave Souls too great,
Laying on Providence (that must be just)
Th'Effects of your Intemperance, Rage and Lust;
See but to what your boasted Honour tends;
In Pride it is begun, in Blood it ends.
Honour, th'Excuse you for Presumption find,
And Lordly Domineering o'er Mankind;
Honour! the fatal Tumor of the Mind;
From which our Modern Gentry take their Bent,
And think they're Noble, if they're Insolent.
True Honour (if that Vertue still remain)
Does not consist in Actions lewd and vain,
In lacquer'd Coaches, or a glitt'ring Train;
'Tis not a haughty Port, or peevish Will;
'Tis firmly hating all that's mean and ill:
To publick Good and mutual Aid it leads,
And Peace of Mind the glorious Toil succeeds.
Where was his Honour then that basely spilt
Such noble Blood, and triumph'd in the Guilt?
He thought perhaps to raise himself a Name,
But who wou'd have his Conscience for his Fame?
Tho' fled from Justice to evade his Sin,
Can he suppress the living Judge within?
Dissolv'd in Lust, in Wine his Mem'ry drown'd,
With his returning Sense Guilt will the more abound.

265

Thro' Unbelief it self e'en Sin will break,
And to the Soul it's frightful Message speak;
Set Future Fear directly in his View,
Terror, Despair, and all the grizly Crew:
Those direful Vultures on his Soul shall gnaw,
And make him wish for his Relief from Law.

Mean while, brave Youth, the Praise of ev'ry Tongue,
Thy Loss shall be bewail'd, and Vertues sung;
Thy Loss! which not alone the Vulgar hear,
The mournful Sound has reach'd the Royal Ear:
His Gracious Ear did not th'Account refuse,
And 'twas with some Concern he heard the News.

See but how finely Fate does twist her Chain,
And what a Round she takes to right the Slain!
Our God-like Prince with his reviving Smile
(Return'd victorious from his Warlike Toil)
Was taking then his Progress thro' the Isle;
Then, when our Sorrows for thy Death were green,
And in all Eyes the Marks of Sadness seen.
Gracious and good to all; among the rest,
He was one Night thy aged Grandsire's Guest;
Lodg'd in that Pile that might have once been thine,
And down from Thee transmitted to thy Line.
Joyful the venerable Man appears,
Like Nestor wise, and little less his Years.
Pleas'd with this Opportunity, as sent
From Providence, he takes it as 'twas meant;
And to the attentive Monarch does relate
Thy Wrong, thy Bravery, and untimely Fate;
Who then, and since has past his Royal Word,
He will no Pardon for thy Blood afford:
Aloud it cries, and from a Throne e'en draws
A King solicitous to right thy Cause.

266

How Providence does of the Just take Care!
Our Monarch, who thy Murderer will not spare,
From Murderers is preserv'd; HE now does see
His Equity return'd with Equity.
Justice the Attribute of Heav'n prevails,
And no Prince ever better pois'd the Scales.
In vain all foreign Force, and factious Hate,
Their Plots are crush'd by his Superiour Fate,
And France with all her Strength does sink beneath the Weight.

But rest, dear Youth, in Peace and Glory rest,
Of all that Vertue there can have, possest.
But O! tho' rais'd to Paradise yet we
Must mourn that Paradise w'ave lost in thee!
At least that Loss I more than others find—
For thou to me wert more than others, kind.
Thou from thy Birth and Business woud'st descend,
Smile on my Verse, and call thy self my Friend.
For me a thousand Kindnesses y'ave done,
A thousand greater yet were following on—
But all my Hopes with thee are dead and gone!
With thee the very Soul of Friendship's fled!
Ev'n Bounty too, does faint and lie for dead;
She languishes, she Gasps, and cou'd not live
Did not thy Father force her to revive:
For tho' thy Wounds to him are ever new,
(Firmly resolv'd thy Murderer to pursue
With strictest Justice) yet, amidst his Grief,
He ne'er omits to give the Poor Relief:
The Naked he does cloath, the Hungry feed,
The Dole still ready as th'Afflicted need.
But let him ne'er so kind and gen'rous be,
He shan't outdo me in my Love to Thee:
With his my Grief for Preference shall contend;
He does but mourn a Son—I mourn a Friend!

267

Job's Children from him torn, was blest with more,
The Comforts doubl'd he enjoy'd before;
But mine's a Loss that Nature can't restore!

On the Death of the much Honour'd Jame Hunte of Popham, Esq,

In an Epistle to his Lady.

MADAM,

Long had your Joys no Interruption known,
Peace at your Call, and Plenty all your Own.
Ev'n from your blooming Years (if thence we date)
We find you promis'd an auspicious Fate.
From your fair Mother's Hands your Vertues first
Receiv'd their Ply, nor cou'd be noblier nurst:
With Heav'nly Lessons she inform'd your Thought;
An Angel learn'd, and 'twas an Angel taught.
But ah! too soon the much Lamented Dame
(For us too soon!) ascended whence she came,
Honour'd in Life, and fau'tless in her Fame.
Your happy Sire survives, with Joy to see
That Loss made Good in your Prosperity
By his own Life (an ample Scheme of Truth)
He form'd your Judgment, and imbu'd your Youth.
Maturer grown, with Wisdom's weightier Lore
He fin'd the Mass; and on the shining Ore
Imprest so vast a Worth, that now we find
Your Form not more a Wonder than your Mind;
The best, as well as fairest of the Kind.

268

A thousand Lovers here your Love pursue;
But 'twas Martillo met your kindliest View,
Martillo! Wealthy, Gene'rous, Brave and True.
With him came Hymen Hand in Hand along,
To Heav'nly Musick tuning ev'ry Tongue;
And I, among the rest, your happy Spousals sung.
Swift fly the Genial Hours with Love beguil'd,
For twice three Times has now Lucina smil'd:
Three of the Fair, and of the Manlier make
Three more, their Birth from her Indulgence take,
So flow'd your Joys with an unmurm'ring Stream,
Scarce Beatifick Bliss a softer Theme!
Love in Profusion, Pleasure in Extreme!
O happy Life! O more than Mutual Pair!
He faithful, as his Soul had centr'd there!
And She, the Charming She, not less than Angels fair!

On this soft Scene we cou'd for ever gaze,
Alternate in our Wonder and our Praise:
So far we yet on Earth cou'd never see,
A smoother Series of Felicity.—
But a malignant Planet now does shed
It's baleful Influence, and the Youngest Babe
Is doom'd to Death—or rather Life Divine;
Nor seem'd, indeed, before of Human Line:
So strange a Sweetness on his Visage shone,
Nature herself (with Wonder looking on)
Believ'd the Work too curious for her own!
His noble Father's Image just, as when
He charm'd you first, and seem'd the Man of Men.
But now a Dying Paleness veils him o'er,
Ah! Beaut'eous Child!—but Beauty now no more!
So on the verdant Leaf we oft may view,
Gilt with the Sun, a Drop of Orient Dew;
With glitt'ring Pomp a while it wantons there,
And, vary'ing Lustre, twinkles like a Star:

269

But the next fatal Breath that fans it o'er,
It falls, it sinks in Earth, and can be seen no more.

Enough, enough of Cruelty is shown!
And yet one Mischief seldom comes alone,
But just like Job's to drag a Greater on.
A Gloo'mier Scene Ill Fate will next display;
The Infant but prepares his Father's Way.
Ah Heav'n! because the Son was bid retire,
Must a fresh Shaft be level'd at the Sire?
Cannot his Beaut'eous Consorts Tears avert
His hasty Fate? And must they ever part?
They who so long and fervently have lov'd,
And Wedlock to a Heav'n on Earth improv'd?
Must they, so truly one, be now disjoin'd?
Enough of Torture and Despair we find
When Bodies only are from Bodies torn;
But Soul from Soul's a Pang that can't be born!
O worse than Death! O Agonizing Woe!
Sheath, Tyrant, sheath thy Dart, or falsify the Blow!
A thousand meaner Breasts stand bare to Aim,
There strike, where there is only but a Name,
And neither Wit or Worth to give 'em down to Fame:
There strike, where thou canst stop but common Breath,
And Life's as much Oblivion as their Death.

In vain I wish!—see there the Worthy lies,
With trembling Lips, short Breath, and closing Eyes!
Half shining out, they labour for a Sight
Of the fair Spouse, there look their last Delight;
Then veil their weary Orbs in endless Night!
So much his Passion for the Fair did reign,
He for her Sake in Death conceal'd his Pain;
Nor breath'd a parting Sigh, for fear to grieve
The dear and tende'rer part he was to leave:

270

Nor did she think him going till 'twas past,
But deem'd it usual sleep when 'twas the last.
There rest! thou Gene'rous, Honest, Worthy Man,
There rest! till the last Sands of Time are ran;
There rest in Deaths still Mansions, far from Strife,
Far from thy Mourning Friends, and swooning Wife,
Till thou art yielded up with them to everlasting Life!

Mean while thy Praises shall our Song remain,
And all the Muses on their side retain:
In thy Applause their loftiest Notes they'll joyn,
All sure of Immortality—but Mine:
My feeble Lays can ne'er enough commend
The Father, Husband, Brother, and the Friend!
Those several Sacred Ties thy Loss must moan;
No further Ties, alas; now thou art gone,
Who with so strong a Union kept 'em one.
Ah! You, his Beaute'ous Sisters, shew your Grief,
Nor let it look as if you hop'd Relief;
All pale, and in your Eyes Distraction shown,
Deplore his Death, as careless of your Own!
Y'ave lost a Brother nothing can repair,
Your Vertue only equal to his Care.
And you his Children (Children now of Woe!)
Weep on!—and Weeping's all the Grief you know;
Your Eyes at present only feel the smart,
But soon 'twill sink, and settle at the Heart.
He's gone, alas! that best your way cou'd shew,
That best on Earth did practice what he knew;
Y'are in a Lab'rinth, and Y'ave lost the Clue!
Hopeless and most forlorn, there now appears
His Friends, all speechless, and disdaining Tears:
A deeper Sorrow on their Souls does sit,
Anguish at Root, and Hearts in sunder split,
Not to be sooth'd by Hope, or charm'd by Wit:

271

All other Blessings Fate again may lend,
But nothing, nothing can supply the Friend!
With him, alas! in the sad Grave does ly
The Band, the Soul that knit Society!
Scarce Truth it self a more Inviolable Tye!
Ah! sigh ye Chosen Few that knew him well,
How kept you Living when you heard his Knell!
Y'ave lost!—but 'twere no Loss if we cou'd tell!
And thou! Ah Thou! the Consort of the dear
Departed Man, how shall we paint thy Care!
The outward Grief may be display'd by Art!
But how can we describe a Bleeding Heart!
A Fau'tless Love to Desperation brought!
A Soul Convulsive! and a Rack for Thought!
This only way we can thy Loss declare!
There's nothing but thy spotless Fame so dear,
That to preserve a thousand Lives you'd set;
And this sad parting was a Pang as great.
How Comfort can we to such Anguish give,
Perhaps resolv'd no Comfort to receive?
A Remedy for Sorrow so extreme
Is hard to find, and alien to our Theme;
And yet we'll try:—who knows but if our Lays
Their Flight to his Transcendent Merit raise,
It may divert your Griefs in list'ning to his Praise?
You cannot Mourn while we his Vertues show,
If you reflect but where the Vertu'ous go:
A Goodness so resolv'd (our Wonder here)
Must rise to Heav'n and make him Glorious there.

In Youth the shining Seeds of Worth were shown
That made so far his Future Manhood known;
Truth his Pursuit, and Friendship all his own.
As Harmony does oft our Cares controul
And tune our Ears, so kindness tun'd his Soul;
Not parcell'd out but still dispos'd of whole.

272

By Transmigration shou'd an Angel be
Degraded down into Mortality,
The sweetness of his Temper so he'd prove;
So wou'd the Æthereal Goodness Live and Love.
Such open Freedom in his Face he wore,
His Heart dissected cou'd not shew him more.
Courtiers and Courts he still believ'd a Cheat,
So liv'd retir'd in his Paternal Seat;
Preferr'd to Silence, and in Private Great.
Titles of Honour (worn so oft with shame)
He shun'd, nor wou'd so meanly raise a Name;
But took th'unbeaten honest Path to Fame:
In vain they made their Court; he fled their Charms,
Blest with a dearer Beauty in his Arms.
Thus, pleas'd, his unambitious Hours he past;
Only the eager Minutes flew too fast.
True, when his Country's service claim'd his Care,
As then, when he the Sword of Justice bare,
None Noblier ever fill'd the Shrieval Chair:
But that o'erpast, to Peace he did retire,
And his own Walls did bound his whole Desire.
Not that he thoughtless, or inglorious lay,
Dissolv'd in Ease, and dozing Life away:
With springing Day he wou'd abroad repair.
To chase the Stag, or course the Timo'rous Hare;
Filling the Echoing Country with the Cries
Of Dogs pursuing, and the Game that flies.
This Part was sport; but all the rest of Life
Was Prayer to Heav'n, Endearment to his Wife,
Acts of Compassion, and composing Strife.
If forc'd by Business London e'er to see,
So long 'twas perfect loss of Liberty:
To what e'er Faith the Obsequious Cits are giv'n,
He thought such Crowding not the Way to Heav'n.
His Converse, like his Life, (our Copious Theme)
Ran even on, and never knew Extreme.

273

For Patience still he did his Heart prepare;
Nor was it ever wanted—but 'twas there.
A Steady Prudence did his Actions guide,
A Prudence that had Courage by her Side,
A Courage still Victorious when 'twas try'd.
In scorn of Pride he to the height wou'd go,
But then his love to Meekness stoop'd as low.
A Noble Income Libe'rally he spent
In ev'ry Vertu'ous Use for which 'twas lent;
O Contradiction! Rich, and yet Content!
His Hospitable Doors were still unbarr'd;
And if the Poor but whisper'd they were heard.
No biting Censures e'er employ'd his Tongue;
As much he kept his Heart from thinking wrong;
But wittingly an Injury to do,
Was such a Guilt his Conscience never knew.
With this Ill Fate the Rural Hinds are curst,
Their Greatest Neighbours always are their worst;
But carefuller the Shepherd cou'd not be
Of his Own Flock, than of the Shepherd, HE:
To strip the Tenant bare tho' others strive,
It was his only Pride to see 'em thrive.—
Ah short! too short a time!—and yet if thro'
His Piety that Little Time we view,
'Twas many, many Years he liv'd in few!
O wond'rous Man! O Greatness soon Atchiev'd!
But sooner gone! and ne'er to be Retriev'd!
O Loss! whose sound thro' all our Albion runs,
The Goodliest, and the Worthiest of her Sons!
O Loss! that I the Loudliest must deplore!
And be till Death repeating o'er and o'er—
No more! the Patron and the Friend no more!

But whither am I going?—whither stray
My wayward Lines, and weep me from my Way?

274

Forgive me, Madam, (if too deep a sense
Of so much Goodness lost be an offence;)
The way to your Repose I wou'd have shown,
But seeking that, alas! have lost my own.
Painting his Vertues but conveys his view
Back to our Hearts, and makes 'em bleed anew!
'Tis not the Muse that can your Griefs abate,
Reduc'd to a much more unhappy State;
The Poet deepliest rues the Patron's Fate.
Be then your Peace some more Instructive Care;—
And Lo! the Gracious Pow'rs already hear:
Your Father comes your Sorrows to allay,
And thus, methinks, the Oracle does say;
He that at once has all the reach of Sense,
With all the force of Roman Eloquence.

O Daughter! while that mourning Dew distills,
You but Repine at what the God-head wills.
What ever Fate's to be our Portion here,
It grows severer if 'tis thought severe.
W'are born with the Condition not to stay;
Th'unhappier most the later call'd away.
True, were we call'd to Misery we might moan,
But 'tis from Mise'ry that the Good are gone.
Shou'd after Death the Soul no more remain,
'Twere better so to sleep, than wake to Pain:
But it remains, and will to Glory go,
And this believ'd, prepost'erous is your Woe.
If our Departed Friends survey our Tears,
Then your unrest must certainly be theirs;
And if not such an Intercourse there be,
Why do you shew a Love they cannot see?
Were Heav'n it self dispos'd to give Relief,
'Twou'd yet deny it to Immoderate Grief.
Compare your Fate with Mine, and soon you'll see
I've deeper drank of Infelicity.

275

Your Consort (and so far his Death was late)
Had been some Years the Prophet of his Fate;
And you were half prepar'd to bear his Doom,
As you were well assur'd 'twou'd quickly come.
I lost your Mother, snatch'd from Mortal Sight,
In all her Lustre of Meridian Light,
Balm on her Lips, and Peace upon her Tongue,
And Human Hope at full, to keep the Blessing long!
Then for your Son, he was a Flow'r new blown;
I lost your Brother just to Manhood grown,
When (making Lighter my declining Years)
I thought to reap the Fruit of all my Cares:
Nor to the Grave did he by Sickness come,
Cut off, Relentless, by an Angry Doom.
Remember my Submission at his Fate,
And if th'Example's Worthy, Imitate,
A thousand Comforts yet remain your Own,
To dry your Eyes, and mitigate your Moan.
Your Children, Father, and your Grand-sire live,
Your Husband's Beaute'ous Sisters yet survive;
A Plente'ous Fortune does thy Guardian stand;
With Vertue, and the World at thy Command.—
Thy Thanks for these remaining Blessings pay;
And if Sollicitous to have 'em stay,
Abide Resign'd, for those Remov'd away.

On the Death of that Worthy Gentleman Mr. John Cary, of Woodstock.

Adieu thou Great and Venerable Man!
Never (tho' Nature oft extends her Span)
Were known a Sett of Years so Nobly ran:
A Hundred Seasons he must backward see,
That gives th'Account of all thy History.

276

The Early Promise of thy Smiling Youth,
(It's Prospect, Honour; and it's Basis, Truth;
The vast Produce of thy Maturer Days,
(Always deserving, yet refusing Praise;)
Thy Aged Hours he, last, shou'd clearly view;
And none that liv'd so many lost so few:
Thro' all these seve'ral Scenes of Life there past
A Vein of Piety, from first to last;
So bright the Flame! In Heav'n the Happy there
Were ne'er before so truly Imitated here.

Early abroad he did in Armour shine,
With Hero's Chiefs, and Worthies of his Line.
Flanders was then the Noble Stage of War;
And well he flesh'd his Maiden Valour there:
A Martial Terror in his Looks he bore;
And tho' he smil'd to hear the Canon roar,
Yet Truth and Halcyon-Days he valu'd more.

Return'd, again to bless his Native Soil,
He found a Civil-War laid waste the Isle.
Ah foolish Nation! Envy'd by the Rest
For Site, for Trade, and Dang'rous to molest;
But for a Factious Route all Europe's Jest.
Were but the Swede, the French and Dane as free,
They'd not be cutting Throats for Liberty.
All Rights and Properties that Men can have
We all enjoy, the meanest not a Slave;
But, by a Senseless and Preposter'ous Care,
We plunge in Blood, and wou'd confirm 'em there.
By Providence secur'd from Foreign Shelves,
We raise the Storms in which we Wreck our selves.
Such were the Times when from abroad he came,
To find at Home a Rougher Path to Fame.

277

Nor was his Conduct fram'd for War alone,
As Mars, so was Minerva all his Own.
In Weighty Counsels, and in close Debate,
None oftner Sat to serve the Bleeding State;
Or more Expedients did propose to bring
Britannia Peace, and safety to her King.
Be Oxford Witness to the sway he bore,
Ev'n Just when Justice was almost no more;
Gasping She lay—but seeing him neglect
All things for Her, and fearless of th'Effect,
Sprung from Her Abject State, and boldly stood erect.
Thus for a Time he vast Affairs did wield,
Not second to the Struggles of the Field.
So wond'rous was his Worth, so thro'ly try'd,
He was the Court of each Contending Side.
Well for some Noble Families it prov'd
He was so Universally Belov'd.
Essex, and others were His Pow'rful Friends,
Whom still He work't and molded to his Ends:
Nor ever fail'd, as often as he try'd,
(Whether by Vertue, or by Blood Ally'd,)
To save their Lands that serv'd the Royal Side;
Or, where their Houses, Corn, or Cattle lay,
To turn the Plunder'ers off another way:
For Nothing else the Worthy Herded there,
But just to make his Suff'ring Friends his Care.
O Wisdom!—that, in all he e'er design'd,
In spite of Parties, such Success cou'd find
To make ev'n Rapine tame, and Envy blind.

But Hurricanes too fiercly blow to last;
The Rage of War he saw with safety past,
And Peace to her Appointed Station hast:
A series of Auspicious Years began
Their Mighty Round, led by the Wond'rous Man

278

Who a long Exile Patiently had mourn'd,
And now thro' shouting Crowds as Gloriously Return'd.
With Blessings all around him, on he came;
The smiling Infants learn't to Lisp his Name,
The Hope of Nations, and the Theme of Fame!

Here 'twas our Saint afresh the Pow'rs ador'd,
When he beheld the Martyr's Race Restor'd.
The Father's Gracious Smiles H'ad early won,
Nor less was favour'd by his God-like Son:
No servile Flatt'ry ever sleek't his Tongue;
'Twas then he spoke when Vertue suffer'd wrong:
Nor was it hard to make th'Oppress'd his Care,
Who by his Office had the Royal Ear,
Which were the Counsels just, wou'd ne'er refuse to Hear.
Ah! had but the succeeding Prince maintain'd
The same Advice, H'ad long in Glory reign'd;
But Heav'n was pleas'd a gloomy Veil to draw
Around his Head, as he on Right and Law.
Of William, last, he did the Honour gain
To be believ'd the first upon the Plain
Worthy so great a Guest to Entertain:
Nobly was then his Woodstock Mansion fill'd,
And did a Plenty fit for Princes yield.
With fixt Delight the list'ning Hero stood
To hear his Host—so Old, so Wise, so Good!
What e'er Objection restless Envy brings,
From an establish'd Worth it only springs
To be distinguish'd and approv'd by Kings.

But naming Woodstock, next we'll thither go
To sigh his Worth, and draw that Scene of Woe.
There where his Death they ev'ry Soul deplore,
The Young, the Old, the Wealthy and the Poor;
The last a Set of Men unheard of there before:

279

For, by and early and a gen'rous Grant,
His Alms anticipated ev'ry Want.
The Widows Tears were always in his Sight,
And for the Orphans he retriv'd their Right.
With vast Compassion ev'ry Need he view'd,
And their Relief as eagerly pursu'd.
A thousand Families his Bounty knew,
But still repining he could serve so few.
O liberal Hand! that in his Eyes decay
(When for Relief he heard the Wretched Pray)
Wou'd reach before, and feel to find the Way,
In secret so his Charity to give,
And cover what the Needy did receive.

But as the Poor he rais'd in their Distress,
The Wealthy were themselves oblig'd no less.
Who ever ran thro' such a various Trust
So strangely Prudent, and so strictly Just?
Happy, thrice happy for the noble Heir
Whose Lands by Trust, descended to his Care:
Howe'er encumber'd, soon he set 'em free.
By saving for the Heir the Lawyers Fee
And using only Christian Equity.
What e'er he undertook, Success from thence
It always had, and own'd by Providence.
So dext'rously he manag'd ev'ry Trust,
He strictly kept without the least Disgust,
The Tenants Grateful and the Stewards just;
A Miracle his Conduct only bore;
Shou'd Heav'n Methusalem to Youth restore,
That longest Life wou'd see it so no more.
Ne'er was He known that Duty to delay
But till to Morrow, he cou'd do to Day;
With such unwearied Ardour he pursu'd,
In every vertuous Way, the Means of doing good.

280

In publick Choices he his Eye wou'd have
Only on Patriots steady, wise and brave
And to the Senate thrice their Speaker gave;
So did at once the double Good Commence,
To serve his Country and oblige his Prince.
No Passion o'er him cou'd th'Ascendant have,
And least of all to Appetite a Slave.
Some Intervals, 'tis true then wou'd arise
For Wine and Mirth's not banish'd from the Wise:
Who ever yet attain'd to many Years,
Must with some smiling Hours unbend his Cares:
'Twas by this Method, cheerful and discreet,
He made his happy Century compleat.
His Friendships always were by Vertue knit;
Nor did his endless Business cloud his Wit.
With pleas'd Attention ev'ry Creature hung
On the perswasive Accents of his Tongue,
And he was never thought to talk too long.
Nor did his Age his Strength of Mind abate,
But rather this did more increase than that;
As rising Flames the higher they ascend,
The swifter to their Heav'nly Centre tend.
His vig'rous Soul, that long had took its Ply,
Stood ready bent to mount her Kindred Sky.
Not Death it self that nothing sacred spares,
Cou'd ever have surpriz'd him unawares.
No unbecoming Grief at last was shewn,
No heaving Sigh, nor yet a labou'ring Groan;
Resign'd he went as Heav'n had open been,
And he the beatifick Vision seen,
With Angels on the Beach to wait him in.
On, Glorious Saint, among the Thrones ascend,
Where Truth abounds, and Joy shall never end!

281

Hail Him, ye Seraphs, to your Realms above,
Where not as here, we short Endearments prove,
But an Eternal Purity is Love!
Let those Appointed crown his Reverend Head
With Wreaths of Glory, that must never fade;
While we, dejected, back to Earth return
His Name to Honour, and his Loss to Mourn!

No more shall Woodstock (then the Seat of Pow'r)
Be fam'd for Rosamond's delicious Bow'r;
Nor yet shall Elinor's Inveterate Flame;
Or Chaucer's Dwelling long secure it's Name:
From Him we Mourn, we'll to it's Memory raise
A Real Monument of Deathless Praise:
Hereafter, as a Mark of Juster Pride,
When e'er 'tis Mention'd, they shall add beside,
There, where the Venerable CARY dy'd.

And there, among the rest, the Muse has found
His Pious Sons and Daughters weeping round.
I see, methinks, with what Concern they come
To wait their Hoary Parent to the Tomb.
A deep Dejection sits on ev'ry Face,
And his Pale Hue has tinctur'd all his Race.
So when the Patriarch was from Goshen sent,
His Num'rous Sons did for their Sire Lament;
So wept his Offspring, loud that Heav'n might hear:—
Nor less the Mourners, nor the Sorrows here.

But who? Ah! who is she that Sighing stands?
And with a Conq'ring Air our Look demands?
'Tis she! 'tis she! whose Eyes have Wonders done!
The Beaute'ous Daughter of his Elder Son.
In vain, alas! Her Graces she'd disarm;
Her Sables wound, and ev'ry Tear's a Charm!

282

Loveden the next, and of his Issue last,
More deeply seems the Cup of Grief to taste.
A Thoughtful Visage she does always wear,
But now it looks just like the Throne of Care,
Without a Grain of other Mixture there.
A Dute'ous Child she first herself approv'd,
And next a Wife, both Loving and Belov'd,
A Happy Mother, last; her Table Crown'd
With Plenty, and with Children compass'd round.
Well may Her Consort send to Heav'n his Pray'r
For one so Fruitful, Tender, Chast and Fair.

But for a Nobler Labour now prepare
My willing Muse, and tune your Notes with Care
To sing my Gen'rous Patron, and the Worthy Heir.
Let others backward Secret Counsels read,
Only such Vertue shou'd such Worth succeed.
Long for the Rights of Birth he Patient staid,
Yet wishes it had longer been delay'd.
Ne'er was a Son so much a Father's Care;
And ne'er was Parent to a Son so dear.
Hardly his Charming Wife, his dearer Part,
Fair as the Light, and matchless in Desert,
Hardly her Death went deeper to his Heart.
Ah! since the Dead are safe, thy Sorrows spare,
And let th'Unhappier Living be thy Care.
Long have Your Smiles descended to the Poor,
As long has Heav'n been adding to your Store.
A Gen'rous Temper never doubts Supplies,
And Blessings fall as Charity does rise.
The Naked from thy Hand their Cloathing find,
The Sick, their Health; the Sad, their Peace of Mind:
An Inward Balm thy Healing Tongue bestows,
And lulls the Troubl'd Conscience to Repose.
Who e'er in vain, did on Your Word depend?
Or, that deserv'd it, ever miss'd the Friend?

283

Among the rest, the Muse your Smiles can boast,
And only there the rich Manure is lost:
The sullen Glebe no sort of Culture mends,
And no Reward Her steril Toil attends:
Eager to tread the Satyr's Rugged Ways,
She meets Oppression where she hopes for Praise.
How often has Your Gene'rous Hand inclin'd
Her Cares to soften? And her Wants to find?
How, often with Instructive Counsels, shown
The Paths to Prudence, Profit and Renown?
How often have you (Honour'd in her Fau'ts)
Refin'd her Phrases, and Improv'd her Thoughts?
Capacious Mind! O Sight from which there lies
No Goodness hid attain'd beneath the Skies.
Never before did Fame to Merit raise
A Trophy of such Universal Praise.
The Sectaries, Grudging, run into the Cause,
And Envy Sighs, and faulters thy Applause:
Howe'er our Faiths, or Interest disagree,
We, one and all, Unite in Praising Thee.

O truly Worthy of the Noblest Flight!
But Ah! while others his Applauses write,
I lag behind, and cannot keep in Sight.
They in the Past his future Vertues find,
And talk of Thousands that are yet behind;
His whole Delight the Good of Human Kind.
But since my Strains, I can no higher raise,
I'll with my Prayers supply the want of Praise.
With a long Series may the Heav'nly Powr's
Smile on his Ways, and lengthen on his Hours:
After this Loss may He no other see,
But all to come be full Tranquility,
Free from Insulting Pain, and Anxious Care,
And all Afflicted Mortals feel, or fear;

284

Till, like his Father, he at last appears
Laden with Credit, Wisdom, Wealth and Years;
Then pleas'd like him, depart the Mourning Stage.
A Miracle of Goodness, and of Age!

A Poem most humbly offer'd to the Memory of her late Sacred Majesty, Queen Mary.

Both kind and fortunate the Year begun
Her happy Course, and long went smiling on;
Fresh Blessings daily op'ning to our View,
With Promises of greater to ensue.
The Senate did their Soveraign's Wants supply;
And ready Grants are half a Victory:
That done, he early opens the Campaign,
Armies at Land, and Navies on the Main.
Where never British Sails before were spread
In Hostile Guise, our Conqu'ring Fleets are led.
Lords of the Ocean long our selves we nam'd,
And now as far as that does reach are fam'd.
Spain, whose Armado made the World affraid,
Fell by our Strength, and rises by our Aid.
Tho' from the vaster Continent disjoin'd,
The Balance falls as Britain is inclin'd:
If Peace she gives, she does compose the Jar;
And does as surely Conquer, if 'tis War.
To their own Ports confin'd, the Frenchmen see
We ride without a Rival on the Sea.
And as their Admiral, their Gene'ral too
At Land believes it safest out of View;
Entrench'd he lies and fights us by Delay;
But let him think of Cannæ's fatal Day:

285

A Day like that, and quickly too, may come,
And Paris took, be humbl'd in her Doom,
Tho' that less famous Warrior fail'd of Rome.

Thus our Affairs abroad:—at home no less
The bounteous Year did all our Labours bless.
The fertile Soil, like Egypt heretofore,
By Handfuls a Prodigious Product bore:
Ne'er had the Reaper's Gripe so large a Pull;
And still our Garners, and our Stores are full.
Mean while our Neigb'ring Foes, by want of Rain
To Dearth reduc'd, had scarce their Seed again:
Starving and harass'd by their Tyrants Lust,
They tremble to his Spurn, and lick the Dust.

This Harvest o'er, another yet succeeds,
WILLIAM return'd! and Crown'd with glorious Deeds!
That Just Restorer of our RIGHTS and LAWS!
And hark! the Universal loud Applause
Welcomes at once their great Delive'rer home,
Our CÆSAR too, from Gaul in Triumph come.
Bells, Guns and Shouts in one loud Concert join;
The Voice of Nations is the Voice Divine.
Scarce sacred Charles, whose Absence long we mourn'd,
Joy of our Hearts, more lov'd and blest return'd.
Saviour of Nations, Hail! nor have w' implor'd
The Pow'rs in vain—you are in Peace restor'd!

Thus far w'are happy—hitherto the Year
Was not th'occasion of a publick Tear:
Almost expir'd, who wou'd expect to find
Her blackest Day, and gloomiest Scene behind?
It now has Cancell'd all it gave before:
Ne'er but with Grief to be remember'd more!

286

Our Sun of Beauty's set! our Joy is done!
And with her Life the British Glory gone!

Where was the Guardian Angel of these Isles,
(On which 'tis said Delighted Nature smiles)
Or where was Hers? To what strange Region gone,
And left his Charge to perish here alone!
Return! return! and, paler than her Ghost,
See what the World by your Neglect has lost!
Death of thy Absence has th'Advantage took,
And dreadfully he grinn'd, and deep he strook!
Banish'd from Paradise be now thy Doom,
Ne'er to thy Native Seat again to come:
Had you been kind our Light had longer shone—
But with our Hopes let now our Lives be done,
And that way mourn the QUEEN of Britain gone!

But tho' thy Ministers their Charge forsake,
O Heav'n! thy Eyes for ever are awake:
You might at least (but you are pleas'd 'tis so)
Have stood between HER and the Fatal Blow;
Nor from us by grim Death have let be torn
That GEMM, by Britain with such Glory worn.
Why do we Mortals Adoration pay?
For blessings praise you? and for Blessings pray?
If those we dearest love, and highest Prize,
Are snatch'd the soonest from our wond'ring Eyes!
Hard your Decrees! your Laws unequal made!
Why must the fairest Flow'ers the soonest fade?
Why must that sacred Life so quickly end,
On which the Peace of Nations does depend?
In all her Sweetness, Glory, Youth, and Prime,
Abhorring Vice, and still redeeming Time.
Ah Cruel Heav'n! so little in your Eye,
And yet less great in Pow'r than Piety.

287

When the bright Sun hastes to his Ev'ning Fall,
Like Age deceas'd, he scarce is miss'd at all.
But if in his Noon-Station in the Skies,
A black Eclipse does shrou'd him from our Eyes,
W'are pale with Fear, and his lost Glory mourn,
Tho' sure both Heat and Light will soon return,
How shall we then our present Fate deplore?
Our Light's extinct, and is to shine no more!

'Tis true, the Stars their baleful Influence shed,
And Death's fierce Agents thro' the Town were spread;
Diseases rag'd and whet their Arrows keen,
And flew in Pestilential Air unseen:
But Princes shou'd from Common Ills be spar'd,
Not perish meanly with the Vulgar Herd:
In Pow'r so like th'Immortals, they shou'd be,
Methinks, least Subject to Mortality:
Or granting Human Nature to be frail,
Prayer is prescrib'd, why did not Prayer prevail?
Why deaf, ye Pow'rs, to all our Vows and Cries?
Sent up aloud, yet banish'd from the Skies.
Ah! may we not too sadly now complain
W'ave pray'd with Faith, and yet have pray'd in vain!
Cou'd Prayer be efficacious, she had been
Ev'n yet a Living, and a Glorious QUEEN!

But 'tis your Will, and we submit to Fate;
Our Parts to hope, and not Expostulate;
Since in all Turns and Changes here below,
You still have Ends above our Reach to know:
Forgive me, then, that thus I dare to blame
Divine Decrees, and tax the sacred Name.—
But we may Mourn—that wretched Liberty
You cannot to our Out-cast Race deny.
Grief seems to be our chief Prerogative,
Faithful to Life, and all that Life does give:

288

Your Love and Bounty, as you please, are shown
In other things; but Mis'ry is our Own.
Hear then, ye Britons, and attend me well,
While the sad Muse does all these Wonders tell
In which the bright MARIA did excel:
Then pale and dying with your Grief, bemoan
Th'amazing Loss of so much Goodness gone!

Tho' she did move in such a Glorious Sphere,
She often stoop'd, and made the Poor her Care,
And seem'd to place her sole Diversion there.
Her Favour and Compassion did extend,
Where'er there was Occasion to befriend.
Wide as her Sway, and boundless as her Mind,
Was her diffusive Love to Humankind.
You, Ladies, that still had HER in your View,
And saw to what a Pitch her Vertues flew;
O blame me not, that in the Van I place
Her CHARITY, that Noblest Fruit of Grace!
Above the Clouds it does it's Vot'aries raise,
And leaves on Earth their Everlasting Praise:
But O! our Praise must now be mix'd with Moan!
The QUEEN of Bounty, and of Britain's gone!

But tho' this Vertue bore so strong a Sway,
Yet did she not more often Give, than Pray:
The Charming Suppliant for our Fau'ts wou'd kneel,
And we th'Effects of HER Devotions feel.
How often has her sacred Knees been bent
Mercies to crave, and Judgments to prevent!
Still first at Heav'n wou'd her Petitions be
On ev'ry Prospect of Calamity.
Ah grant (she cry'd) e'er yet thy Vengeance fall
Upon these stubborn Lands and ruin all,
By Penitence they may thy Rage divert,
And make thy Laws their only Joy of Heart.

289

Long they have err'd, and trod in Impious Ways,
Prophan'd thy Sabbaths, and renounc'd thy Praise!
O set 'em Right! and let Religion be
Not thus in talking of, but following THEE.
Such earnest Raptures wou'd She, Living, Breathe,
And, dying, did in Legacies bequeathe.
Who now will for a murm'uring People sue,
That grudge both Cæsar, and his GOD their Due?
Our Sins have lost HER—we can hope for none!
Our Mightiest Earthly Intercessor's gone!

So firmly she all sacred Truth believ'd,
(O more than Saint!) she ev'ry Month Receiv'd:
Fix'd to that Orb, she kept her Soul in tune,
And thought she never cou'd excel too soon.
So easie all Offences to forgive,
Ev'n Hermits die less pure than SHE did live.
No Parallel can reach Her, Lamb, or Dove,
Nor this in Innocence, nor that in Love.
Angels alone are with like Meekness grac'd,
And dying Vestals only were as Chast.

If those that most abase themselves must be
Exalted, and attain the Top Degree,
SHE was a QUEEN by Her Humility.
Zealous not of her Own, but People's Ease;
For Pride and Sloth were her Antipodes.
Tho' on her Head she wore the sacred Gold,
Her Fingers wou'd the feeble Distaff hold;
Nor from the Needle wou'd she turn her Hand,
But that and t'other artfully command;
The Golden Thread in Rich Embroid'ry Twine,
Till it was wrought into some Form Divine,
At his Return her Monarch to adorn,
And only fit to be by Monarchs worn.

290

How ill will this fam'd Pattern now agree
With the loose Race of Lazy Quality?
If, Ladies, You wou'd have a Glorious Name,
Like HERS in Life, and after Death in Fame,
Fly Idleness, and ill-perswading Ease,
Nor be too Proud, or over fond to please;
Think of the Plainness of your Soveraign's Dress,
It neither made her Worth, or Beauties less:
If Vertue don't from Death her Votaries free,
How can you be preserv'd by Vanity?
Think of her Fate, and soon expect your Own;
Can Glow-worms hope for Light when Stars have none!

If Mercy shou'd some Human Likeness take,
She cou'd not a more Glorious Figure make;
Cou'd not our Souls more pleasingly allure,
Or scarce more Blessings to those Souls procure.
No Sweetness, nor no Charm that Heav'n cou'd prize,
But sat triumphant in her Conqu'ring Eyes!
To gaze but on HER, struck so bright a Flame
Up in our Hearts, it yet does want a Name!
Not such with which weak Beauties blind our Sight,
At once 'twas Love, Amazement, and Delight!
In her soft Aspect, and her easie Mien,
Were all the Beauties, Loves and Graces seen,
And SHE o'er all presiding as their QUEEN:
Others they might to our Esteem prefer,
But they themselves had their Esteem from HER:
They flow'd not to her, but did from her run,
As Light from Flame, or Brightness from the Sun.
Then, when she spoke, the Air was charm'd around,
Musick no more was an Harmonious Sound!
To Savage Natures it did Mildness bring,
Rage was disarm'd, and Envy dropt her Sting.
If fam'd Amphion with his Lyre cou'd call
Th'Enliven'd Stones into the Theban Wall,

291

What was her Tongue that cou'd our Jars compose?
More rugged, and to Polish, worse than those.
Weakness with Strength, the Backward with the Bold
She closely join'd, and in a Gordian Fold.
But O the Line is cut! the Union's done!
The QUEEN of Concord, and of Britain's gone!

You, who were with her Royal Converse blest,
Must feel this Blow more deeply than the rest;
Your Joys are null! the tuneful Voice is ceas'd!
Run thro' the Court with torn dishevell'd Hair,
Swoon with your Grief, and rave with your Despair!
With Sighs and mournful Cries fill ev'ry Room,
Then, pale as Death, into the Presence come!
Where late you waited on the Beauteous QUEEN,
Only the Canopy of State is seen,
And that too with dark Sables cover'd o'er,
And humbly seems HER Absence to deplore.
Let not the Vulgar Sorrow Yours exceed,
You shou'd not only weep HER Loss, but bleed!
They cou'd but see her outward Pomp and State,
Kneel at her Feet, and on her Chariot wait:
Yet when the Gracious Sove'raign pass'd but by,
With Hands upheld, and Joy in ev'ry Eye,
God save HER! was the Universal Cry:
Then to their Toil return'd, a-new reviv'd,
As if HER Sight had made 'em longer liv'd.
Nor did they judge amiss; the Nation took
Reviving Hope and Comfort from her Look.
But O! no more she'll be in Publick seen!
No more be greeted with—God save the QUEEN!
God save the QUEEN will now be heard no more,
With the united Voice and Cannons roar
Echo'd from Land to Sea, and from the Fleets to Shore!
Despair and Horror now assume the Place,
Anguish and Care, and all the Ghastly Race!

292

That Voice of Melody is chang'd to Moan,
And with HER Life the British Glory gone!

Cruel Disease! of all Death's Agents worst,
By Nature fear'd, and ev'ry Tongue accurst!
Ev'n where you spare y'are fatal, leaving still
Behind Thee Marks of a most Envious Will,
Ev'n those deforming whom thou can'st not kill.
Thy Rage, like Winter, on our Verdure feeds,
And no reviving Spring thy Blast succeeds.
Beauty once gone, alas! returns no more,
No Pencil can the Glorious Rays restore
That charm'd so soon, and shone so bright before.
Thou dost at once what Age is doing long,
And harder treat the Beaute'ous and the Young.
By other Ills tho' w'are of Life bereft,
There's yet at least some Human Likeness left:
But when we do thy Barbar'ous Work behold,
We know not if the Dead were Young, or Old!
From the detestable and loathsome Sight
We turn our Eyes, and stiffen with Affright!
The Mother knows her only Darling's gone,
And tears her Hair for Grief, but looking down
She shrieks! and scarce believes it is her Own!
By Thee disguis'd, so lies our Sacred QUEEN!
No more with Joy and Wonder to be seen!
A Lazar! Scarce to Her Attendants known!
Her Vernal Hue, and Balmy Sweetness gone!

Ye Sons of Æsculapius, boast no more
That you the Weak to Health and Strength restore:
Vain is your Learning, and your Art a Cheat,
At least, 'tis ever fatal to the GREAT:
All you can do is but a happy Guess,
And a whole College has the least Success.
Like a sharp Sword, with either Edge you slay,
Oft by your Haste, and oft by your Delay.

293

Those few your Drugs Recover, wou'd, no doubt,
Sooner recover to their Health without.
You are your selves an Epidemick Ill,
And for the few you save, you Thousands kill:
To Plagues and Pestilential Blasts akin,
Their Poisons reign without, and Yours within.
From You 'tis Weakness to expect Relief,
Both Atheists in your Practice and Belief.
From GOD can Favour on your Work be shown
When You so boldly argue there is None?
Yet, O (to this Reproof tho' justly mov'd)
Had You this Life preserv'd, Y'ad stood approv'd,
By Poets prais'd, and Princes been belov'd.
Those that wou'd live must your Prescriptions shun;
Tho' who, alas! wou'd value now his Own?
The Great, the Good, the Just MARIA gone!

Adieu! thou best of Humankind, adieu!
And O! not only Best, but Fairest too!
A long Farewel thy wretched Subjects give,
And for thy Death resolve in Grief to live!
What tho' our Conq'ring Monarch may restore
A Publick Peace? YOU must return no more!
YOU wou'd to us a greater Blessing be,
Ev'n PEACE was not so much ador'd as THEE!
While that was with us it less brightly shone,
Nor has been so lamented since 'twas gone!

But tho' for HER (ye Powr's) in vain we pray'd,
Ah let HIS Fate the longer be delay'd.
Those Years which for HER Reign so short did seem,
And all SHE shou'd have liv'd, transfer to HIM:
Yet so to pray is scarce to be his Friend,
Since but with Life his Sorrows will have end!
Ah Gracious Prince! when you hereafter come
From Gallia, cover'd with your Lawrels, home;

294

When You have done what Y'are prescrib'd by Fate,
Enlarg'd our Bounds, and rais'd a Sinking State;
Compos'd our Foreign and Domestick Jars,
And put a Glorious Period to the WARS;
Tho' all the Nation shall in Joy appear,
The Court for Your Reception Balls prepare,
Will you not grieve to miss MARIA there!
Cou'd Peace or Conquest please You with their Charms,
More than that Angel melting in your Arms!
SHE was the Soul! the Nation's but the Ghost,
That but the Shadow, SHE the Substance lost!
But then remember—SHE's but Lost to Gain
A Brighter Crown, and a more Lasting Reign!

An Historical Poem, most humbly offer'd to the Memory of his late Sacred Majesty, King William.

The Bards, who at this Time refuse to mourn,
For ever after meet the Publick Scorn,
With Want oppress'd, and Infamy pursu'd;
Tho' all too short to reach Ingratitude.

Who shou'd the Muses more lament than HIM
That was their Loudest, and most Copious Theme?
Who daily did employ their Force and Flame,
And yield 'em Actions to Transmit to Fame?
Never before had they a clearer View,
By giving an Immortal Name it's Due,
To make, alike, their Own Immortal too.

Remember, Albion, Your Distress of late;
At once a Helpless, and a Tott'ring State.

295

And thou Augusta, most Divinely Fair,
(The Nation's Boast, and Heav'ns Peculiar Care,)
Think how you then were overwhelm'd with Grief,
And 'twas found Treason but to Name Relief.
The Chast Eusebia too did deeply Groan,
And in thy Ruin clearly saw her Own:
What less than sole Subversion cou'd she fear?
A false and barba'rous Faith exulted here,
And Gallia's Tyrant loudly Menac'd there:
And that our Doom they thro'ly might compleat,
They aim'd at an Hereditary Cheat;
At once for Vassalage and Pope'ry meant,
And palming on the Land a Wrong Descent.
Mean while the Romish Wolves the Fold did range,
And ev'ry Home-bred Bigot tugg'd for Change:
Statesmen the Jesuits to their Kidney had,
Whose Task it was to make the Secta'ries mad,
Then on the National Perswasion fly,
And set up each his seve'ral Anarchy.
Their Prince they thus to Fury did inflame,
And ply'd with Stories of Descending Fame,
Immortal Crowns, and a Red-Letter'd Name:
Buoy'd up by whom he did a Pow'r exert
That Stab'd our Magna Charta to the Heart.
Thus Ruin all around us threat'ning stood,
And our best View was Rapine, Spoil and Blood;
Which now advancing, soon the Gathe'ring Storm
Impendant hung, and worse than Fear cou'd form.
The Bolt was Grasp'd with an uplifted Hand,
Impatient to Receive the last Command,
Aim'd on the Hated Subjects to be thrown,
And make, like Lewis, Will and Pow'r but one.

But long! O long be Providence ador'd!
A Set of Men that Time did yet afford,
Who, when all lay for lost, by Wonder all Restor'd.

296

To the black Bottom of their Plots they div'd,
Saw how intended, and by whom contriv'd;
Their Secrets in the first Formation view'd,
All meant Destructive to their Country's Good:
Th'accurs'd Design they saw just taking Place,
To root us up, Religion, Name and Race;
And in our Room transplanted Irish set,
The Scum of Converse, and the Grin of Wit.
What Face of Horror must this Change have wrought!
What Blood and Rape! exceeding Human Thought!
O Reach of Wisdom! Eyes by Angels lent!
To see all this! and, seeing, to Prevent!

Who here wou'd Pardon the forgetful Muse,
Shou'd she this Opportunity Refuse
To sing the Men who then undaunted stood,
Before ev'n Life it self, preferring Publick Good!

Tal---t, the first, she does with Pleasure Name;
But all Applause is wanting to his Fame.
A Torrent of Renown the Sire began,
And his Descendant keeps it rolling on:
Alike, He ev'ry Eye with Sweetness Charms,
Alike, He ev'ry Heart with Vigor warms;
In Counsel This, as great as That in Arms.

The next in the same Deathless Page enroll'd
Is Dev---r, the Gene'rous, Wise and Bold.
Beside Him none more Matchleless in Desert;
Beside him none does with a steddier Heart
The British RIGHTS and LIBERTIES assert.
The Peoples Darling Favourite become
For daring Lawless Pow'r, and more detesting Rome.

Or---d with Martial Pomp the Nation Charms,
And like the fam'd Æneas shines in Arms.

297

O just Assertor of Great Ossery's Blood!
As truly Brave! and as Divinely Good!

Car---en, next, (but Pondering deep in Thought
The Safety which for thankless Times he wrought)
Does feebly Walk; yet as he passes on,
Is justly Conscious that the Age has shown
No Counsels more Successful than His own.
O may the Muses long his Worth Regard;—
Tho' they're below such Wisdom to Reward.

But Sp---er now our Grateful Tribute claims,
Ne'er mention'd but among Immortal Names.
For reach of Thought and sure Advice Renown'd;
His Langu'age flowing, and His Judgment sound.
All Popular Applause He does despise;
In Private Honour'd, and in Private Wise.
A Prophet's Mind His Fore-sight Represents;
So clear a View He gives us of Events.

With Him the Noble Mor---t we shou'd Name,
His Country's Future Glory all His Aim:
Brave in the Field, and ready in Debate;
None more uneasy with Despotick Weight,
Or deeper vers'd in all Affairs of State.

Nor must w' omit the Pious Ab---dn,
Succeeded by a no less Vertu'ous Son;
Who higher yet their Ancient Glory rears,
And reaps the Harvest of his Father's Cares.
Their long Neglected Loyal Service past,
He finds rewarded to his Wish at last.

But Dr---t! Dr---t who can justly sing!
The Poor's Supporter! and the Poets King!

298

The Man by ev'ry Man of Sense approv'd!
The only Universally Belov'd!
O Libe'ral Hand! and O Capacious Heart!
That can so freely both their Stores impart,
That to the Sons of Want, and This the Sons of Art.

From these, and such as these, we took th'Alarm;
And soon the Danger made the Nation Warm.
With Eyes unseal'd we backward Time survey'd,
And found w' had been by too much Faith betray'd:
A Gene'rous Error! tho' descry'd too late,
And Qualify'd to meet a Nobler Fate.
Mean while our Hero, by a Wise Fore-thought,
Had rais'd Relief, and staid but to be sought.
He saw their Pow'r haste to the last Excess
And knew 'twas only He cou'd make it less,
Our Rights ascertain, and our Wrongs redress.
On HIM our Patriots cast their Eyes; and thence
Invite his Kindred Arms to their Defence.
The sad Memorial with a Sigh He took,
And thus, as Graciously, in Answer spoke.

The Aid they ask I had before design'd;
And what I'm now, they shall for ever find,
Like Justice, Steady; and like Mercy, kind.
Nor will I Succour by mean Agents send,
But go in Person, and assert the Friend;
From Cruel Pow'r redeem their Gasping Laws,
Nor fear Success in such a Glorious Cause.
From thence I had my dearest Earthly Good,
From thence my Veins deriv'd their Royal Blood;
And Gratitude shall be Return'd with Gratitude.
Let others vainly strive a Name to rear
By Breach of Treaties, and unrighteous War;
By Brib'd Historians, let proud Lewis strive
His Infamies and Perju'ries to Survive;

299

Let the false Annals Stile Him Just and Good,
Tho' Causeless, He has Shed more Christian Blood
Than all the former Persecutions cou'd.
Let Others their own Governments Subvert,
And throw the Dice by Foreign Rules of Art,
Till they have plaid off ev'ry Subject's Heart;
I, waving these, will find out Nobler Game,
And tread th'unbeaten, Christian-Path to Fame.
An Injur'd Peoples Sufferings I'll redress,
And after Govern by the Arts of Peace.
Justice with Mercy equally I'll mix,
And to that Beam the Scales of Empire fix.
Or if to War they're call'd (in War they're Skill'd,
On Conquest bent, unknowing how to yield,)
I'll lead the Way, and head 'em in the Field:
No Danger for their Glory I'll decline;
And for their Senate's Honour, that shall long be Mine!

He spoke, Embarqu'd; th'Obsequious Waves and Wind
Were on his Side, and ev'ry Omen kind.
Landed, He to our Aid like Light'ning flew,
While less and less our Fears and Dangers grew,
Just saw his Face, and vanish'd at the View:
Prodigious Change! ne'er was a threat'ning Scene
So quickly turn'd from Stormy to Serene.
Ev'n He Himself (tho' he deserv'd no less)
Look'd back amaz'd to see his Strange Success!
If ever 'twas a Hero's Fate alone
To save a Nation, 'tis a Praise His Own.
To Heav'n the Peoples Acclamations ring,
And with one Mutual Suffrage own Him King:
Their Senate, too, the Land's Contracted Voice,
Rescu'd alike, did all alike Rejoice:
While Shouts, and Bells, and Guns the Tydings bear
To distant Gallia thro' the Trembling Air,
And with 'em brought as great a Trembling there.

300

Ev'n Thou, Britannia, wast with Bon-fires warm,
And fair Augusta melted with the Charm:
Millions of Lights adorn'd her Streets like Day,
And She was then the brighter Milky-Way.
But while the Land lay thus by Joy possest,
Who knew the Strugglings of the Hero's Breast?
Who knew but (if it equally were weigh'd)
He might, perhaps, have rather longer staid,
If He cou'd safely have deferr'd his Aid?
More pleas'd perhaps, our Freedom might have grown
From James's Love to Britain, than his OWN.
O Strict Necessity! Paternal Blame!
HE sought not that Occasion for his Fame.

No sooner rais'd and seated on the Throne,
(There seated for Our Safety, not his Own,)
But half a World conspir'd to pull him down.
New Factions, haughty, turbulent and bold,
The Lees, the Spawn and Refuse of the Old,
Their Black'ning Tongues against his Vertue bent,
Revile his Name, and brand his Government;
But all in vain:—the Work was carrying on,
And by Himself, that it might well be done:
Unlike the Prince that but in Words does dare,
And at Versailles lay Skulking from the War.
Here we might all His Glorious Deeds rehearse,
And with the Ample Subject swell our Verse,
From the first Hour He did in Armour shine,
To the Decisive Day he pass'd the Boyne:
Namure Retook, it self a Theme alone
To last for Ages, and secure Renown:
Nor the Pursuit of Glory wou'd He cease
Till he had gain'd His End, and giv'n Europe PEACE.

Short liv'd, 'tis true; but on a Basis laid,
(As far as distant Things cou'd be survey'd)

301

That long had stood, and to the Nation brought
A Wealth and Plenty that transcends our Thought;
Rich Wines and Persian Silks it wou'd have born,
And all beside that cou'd the Fair adorn;
Exhausted quite the fam'd Arabian Store,
And Landed half the Indies on our Shore:
But the most Christian Tyrant cou'd not bear
Of a Divided Crown the Nobler Share,
But basely, when his Inte'rest had the Call,
Fell like a Torrent in, and seiz'd it all.
O Wretch! O Plague that Europe long has born!
His Treaties made but just to serve a Turn;—
But Spain that pleas'd him, soon shall make him mourn:
What in that Monarch's Death was gain'd, he views
Unlucky Anjou may as quickly lose;
While he himself's to just Derision sold,
For Proudly grasping more than he can hold:
Not so Nassau; who kept his Glories fast,
His first Designs not lessen'd by his last.
And tho' a Bloody Scene begins to dawn,
He's from it Providentially withdrawn;
And rais'd on High, to some Superiour Sphere,
Enjoys the Rest his Fate deny'd Him here.

And now let those who Princes Actions School,
Propose th'Advantage He Receiv'd by Rule.
His Reign but short, (tho' of all Reigns the best,)
With War Embroil'd, and diffe'rent Sides oppress'd.
Scarce in a Week his weary Eyes cou'd close;
Th'Intestine worse than all his Foreign Foes.
A thousand Plots and Treach'ries Malice found
T'increase his Troubles, and enclose him round.
Abroad, at Home, one Moment was not free
From fresh Attempts of Infidelity.
For all his Toils this seem'd the sole Reward,
For Treasure wasted, and his Health impair'd,

302

For all his Scenes of Danger, Horror, Strife,
And Lab'ring for us to the Verge of Life.
Amid'st these Ills, by a Relentless Fate,
He lost the charming Partner of his State;
Her Peoples Wonder! and her Monarch's Boast!
Ne'er were more Riches in One Bottom lost!
In spite of all he dar'd their utmost Hate,
Intrepid, Fierce, Undaunted and Elate,
Resolv'd to Dye, or raise the sinking State:
The State He rais'd, new strung our Nerves to War;
And now we Awe the Nations from afar:
With Equal Pow'r we Gallia's Pow'r can face,
Nor are our Fathers lessen'd in their Race.—
But while His Subjects did th'Advantage share,
(The distant War securing Plenty here,)
He had but just his Labour for his Care.

Immortal Henry got with Ease Renown;
We then were up, and France was tumbling down:
This took the Reins, (form'd for the High Command,)
When we were feeblest, and but just cou'd stand,
With scarce Ten Patriots left to save the Land.
To Conquer Gallia scarce was then so Great,
As but to Face their Num'rous Bands of late,
Inur'd to War, and Fortune always kind:—
But, like a Tempest singing in the Wind,
Our Hero met 'em in their full Career,
And once more taught our Vassals whom to fear:
From all their Tow'ring Hopes he laid 'em low,
And where's their Universal Monarch now?
As Antony's where ever Cæsar came
His Genius shrunk beneath our Heroes Name:
A Prince that but for Right unsheath'd his Sword,
Like Truth sincere, and sacred to his Word:

303

A Vertue which Crown'd Heads shou'd always mind,
If they'd good Usage either give, or find,
Or hope to leave a Deathless Name behind:
Their Word's the Chain on which their Pow'r depends
And what-so-e'er the Passive Fop pretends,
We see 'tis never broke, but all Obedience ends.

No base, ingrateful, arbitrary Thought
Into his Breast the smallest Entrance got:
By Love to soften, and by Law to sway
His Pray'r by Night, and set Resolve by Day.
His Clemency the most Invectives stood,
Only relentless in the Case of Blood.
For ever Curst be the Flagitious Tongue
That wou'd such Justice stain and Honour wrong,
And in the Grave no Peace wou'd have him find,
Whose Aim was giving Peace to Humankind.
To him the present State of things we owe,
And greater Blessings than ev'n yet we know;
Of which when future Times a sight shall gain,
They'll blush to think we murmur'd at his Reign.

As far as Majesty may condescend,
A firm, resolv'd, inviolable Friend:
His Choice so Prudent, and the Tye so fast,
We find his earliest Favorites were his last.
Their Foes Aversion, wary he'd Engage,
Not yield 'em up to Pack't and Partial Rage.
'Tis true, the most their Countries Good intend;
But some make Inte'rest and Revenge their End:
By such the Men in Place Ascance are seen,
And ev'ry Favourite gives 'em all the Spleen.
True British Souls! to Worth without severe,
As if all Merit were included there;
When he that traces to the secret Springs
Will find they've done a thousand partial Things.

304

How often may you Legislators view
At once Condemning Bribes, and Guilty too?
No matter whether Vertue rise or fall;
To serve their Party has of late been all.

In vain th'accus'd on Innocence depends;
Justice is there—Majority of Friends.
A Falshood put, a Falshood's oft believ'd,
And he that hurts you Triumphs unperceiv'd:
How many have there late been Censur'd known,
And cast unheard, for Errors not their own?
Thus by our Suff'rage dash'd upon the Shelves,
We give 'em Scourges but to lash our selves.
Nor her own Usage shall the Muse forget
While there's a Charm in Truth, or Sting in Wit.
In vain we Good to Humankind intend,
Expose the Bad, and Innocence defend;
There's no such thing in Nature as a Poets Friend.
But tho' Adino yet holds Pill'ory-free,
And fattens with the Bread of Bribery,
He shall at last have Justice done by me:
Better he quick had sunk into the Grave,
Unknown a Coward, and forgot a Knave,
Than stand the Lash the injur'd Muse designs;
Drawn Rogue at length in my invete'rate Lines.

Nor are we here from the main Subject ran,
The Prince we mourn did hate th'Immoral Man.
Abhorr'd the Wretch that misemploy'd his Store
To raise the Villain, and depress the Poor:
For all alike he did their Rights maintain,
That all might share the Blessings of his Reign.
What Government e'er let us see before
Less of the Idle, Vagabond and Poor?
And of the Thriving and Religious more?
To all Perswasions his Regard was shown,
As thinking any better yet than none:

305

If e'er he let disdainful Language fall,
'Twas on the Wretches that disclaim'd 'em all.
Oppression in his Time, discourag'd quite,
Cast sickly Beams, nor durst invade the Light:
In other Reigns it shot Erect and bold,
The vig'rous Plant agreeing with the Mold,
The Papist Pension'd, and the People sold.
But He, inclining to their Cries his Ear,
With just Concern wou'd every Suppliant hear;
Who e'er the Person, or what e'er the Want,
But only Heav'n it self cou'd readier grant.

O Father of thy Country! take our Tears!
Nor will the Belgian State refuse Thee theirs;
Too much our Loss, as well as Grief she shares;
Let youth and Age, in the sad Duty joyn'd,
For once shew all the Nation's of a Mind.
Nor let the Fair defer the Debt they owe,
But in dishevell'd Tresses rave their Woe!
Let every Loyal Heart thy Death deplore,
The Cry rebound to the Surrounding Shore,
O Father of thy Country!—now no more!
Weep thou, Augusta, once his Darling Care,
In Peace his Safety, and Support in War:
And thou, Britannia, mourn the Godlike Man,
Who for thy sake thro' Num'rous Conflicts ran,
And crowded much into his little Span.
Nor Toils at Land, nor Tempests on the Main
His endless Cares cou'd for thy Good restrain.
Ev'n to the last he no Fatigue wou'd spare,
Which Nature, tir'd, cou'd now no longer bear,
And 'twas a Pain to draw in Vital Air:
With this a Casual Shake conspir'd, to hast
The Sands along that ran before too fast!
Encompass'd by his Friends he Labouring lay,
To more victorious Death an easie Prey.

306

In this sad Scene He yet himself surpass'd;
And thus methinks, I hear him speak his last.

Thus far I have advanc'd the British State,
And what she fear'd, she now does Emulate:
Once more she in a Course of Fame shall live,
And Peace or War, at Will to Europe give:
The Balance long she shall Triumphant hold,
Her Ministers unbrib'd with Foreign Gold.
On equal Ground you now the War may wage,
Wrought up by Me to Edward's Martial Rage.
I wou'd the common Foe have wholly quell'd,
But Fate for secret Purposes with-held;
Pleas'd, I desist, (call'd by the High Command,)
And leave the Work to some succeeding Hand.
Perhaps it may be Heav'n's Design, (to show
How things at Pleasure are dispos'd below,)
A Woman may the Glorious Toil sustain,
To shame the Trophies of that Tyrant's Reign:
For Venge'ance he is ripe, th'Occasion's fair;
And to have Safety, you must first have War.—
I can no more!—the Pow'r that Right does bless
Make her his Care, and give your Arms Success.

Hear, Sacred Princess! hear, Majestick Queen,
With what Pathetick Words he shuts the Scene!
For ever high in Glory let him Live,
And latest Ages his Applause revive.
To sing his Fame their Voice ev'n Angels raise,
Nor thine be less the Subject of their Praise.
O may his Genius in your Soul inspire
The same Resolves, the same avenging Fire:
Your Statues then shall stand with Lawrel Crown'd,
Your Name for ever thro' the Land rebound,
With shouting Crowds attendant on the Sound:
The same immortal Honours then you'll gain;
Then you'll restore the blest Eliza's Reign,
And France shall feel from YOU the Scourge SHE laid on Spain.

307

A Funeral Poem.

Humbly offer'd to the Memory of the Right Reverend Father in God, Richard, Late Lord Bishop of Bath and Wells, and his Lady, who were both kill'd in their Palace, by the fall of a Stack of Chimnies, in the dreadful Storm, Novem. 1703.

Address'd to Madam Susanna Kidder, their Daughter.

I chuse not Madam, this immortal Theme
To make Additions to your Parents Fame;
Already fixt, the Rage of Storms it dares,
Of Famine, Fire, and all succeeding Years:
Rather (if Heav'n wou'd favour the Design)
I in their Mem'ories wou'd perpet'uate mine;
They can from me no Benefit receive,
But honour'd by their Names, my Verse shall ever live.

308

But first, before we further go, there lies
A heavy Gloom of Fate before our Eyes,
Which if we can remove, we then may see
More clear into this seeming hard Decree.
Nor think that from our Subject we depart
While Truth we teach, and Providence assert,
But little we'll digress, and soon return;
There will be after, time enough to mourn.

'Tis strange that any Christians e'er shou'd guess,
Like Turks, of Truth and Vertue by Success:
A Prosper'ous Person, or a Prosper'ous Cause
They think for GOD, and deafen with Applause;
Up to the Starry Arch their Names rebound,
With Court and Camp attendant on the Sound.
But time, that ev'ry Dispensation tries
If good, or bad, has better taught the Wise.
Diogenes is yet, with knowing Men,
More famous than the mighty Conqu'erour then.
Stilpo that, losing all, did nothing want,
Enjoy'd a Wealth Demetrius cou'd not grant.
Pyrrhus himself must to Fabricius yield,
And Cato now from Cæsar wins the Field.
Success is but a Glare, which on the Mind
Does flash it's pleasing Bane, and leaves the Judgment blind.
Her Friends she does in slipp'ery Places set,
And laughs to see the Bubbles swell so Great.
A thousand Snares she on their Tables lays,
And still succeeds where Appetite obeys.
One with the Prince's Favour she allures,
A sweet that oft a bitter Fate procures:
Another, thinking Pow'r the only Good,
She dips in Treach'ry, and anneals with Blood.
What Understanding Man wou'd Lovis be
To have his Crimes with his Prosperity?

309

While in the Heart there Lodges Guilt or Fear,
Whether in Slaves, or those that Sceptres bear,
No smallest Glimpse of Peace can enter there.
Thus not a Life in Wealth and Glory led,
Or at old Nestor's Age to die in Bed,
Does make us happy;—'tis an Humble Will,
Contented equally with Good or Ill;
Centr'd on Truth, for nothing Great it calls,
But takes with Joy what ever Fortune falls;
With Mortify'd Resolves it Stores the Breast,
And owns what ever God designs is best.
In Life, in Death, in Poverty or Wealth,
This Man is still Dependant on himself;
And always watching, always on his Guard,
No Fatal Chance can take him unprepar'd:
Nay, tho' his Doom in Thunder shou'd arrive,
His Sacred Mem'ory wou'd for ever live:
Live then, O Kidder! honour'd in thy Fame,
An Envy'd, late, but now a Glorious Name!

But some, perhaps may this Objection raise
How are the Good rewarded in their Praise:
Thro' a long Life pursu'd with causeless Blame
What Comfort have they after Death from Fame?
'Tis true, Receiv'd into Celestial Bow'rs,
They who have Praise from Angels need not Ours;
Triumphant, there they take their Seats in Bliss,
And in that World transcend th'Applause of This.
But who can thence presume to make it clear
Their Happiness forbids our Duty here?
Shall their Reward for having Nobly done
Stop us from going whither They are gone?
For he that Praise to Right'eous Men denies,
To Right'eous Deeds but heavily will rise.
Think on the Mighty dead, and soon you'll know,
The Fame of Vertu'ous Men makes others so.

310

Who hears how Socrates undaunted stood,
And gloriously for Truth resign'd his Blood,
But feels within Resolves of being Good?
What faintness, what despondence and debate,
Wou'd yet remain about a future State,
But for the Saints? and their assurance there
Of Glory, for a Life of Vertue here?
How cou'd Whips, Racks and Flames be born of Yore,
And now again on Gallia's horrid shore,
But for th'Illustrious Patterns gone before?
The Martyrs, who with Smiles resign'd their Breath,
Proud to confirm their Doctrin with their Death.
No matter by what dismal Chance we fall,
The thing is being ready for the Call;
What ever way, we then our Fate receive,
Yet, so to Die, eternally we live:
Live then, O Kidder! honour'd in thy Fame,
An humble, late; and now a glorious Name!

But next there comes a set of Men in view,
Who Dictate as the Mind of GOD they knew;
Either his Thoughts they'll level with their own,
Or else, more impiously allow him none.
Our holy Prelate, oft, by strictest Rules,
Had prov'd these daring Wretches worse than Fools:
Hence on his Death they have their Censures given
As an immediate Judgment sent from Heav'n.
But how, alas! can finite Opticks see
Into th'intentions of the Deitie?
If we cou'd think for GOD, we then were more than HE
We can but Judge of Him (and not beyond)
As in his gracious Will reveal'd he's found;
In which w'are told to dash our amplest Pow'rs.
Our Ways are not his Ways, nor yet his Thoughts are Ours.

311

Can it be possible a human Breast
Shou'd be with such a devilish Spite possest
(What e'er the fancy'd Provocation were)
To carry on a damn'd Revenge so far!
O Stain to Manhood! everlasting Shame!
A Crime! for which no Language knows a Name!
'Twas well Elijah left the Earthly Stage,
And went to Glory in a gene'rous Age;
For he that like our sacred Prelate wou'd
Suppress the Ill, and but advance the Good,
Had he been by our Atheists seen retire,
Snatch'd from the Earth in circling Flames of Fire,
What ever names the Coach and Steeds might bear,
They wou'd have thought some Fiend his Charioteer.

But where is first, the Bowels to apply?
Such Accidents so far from Charity?
Where is the Man that has the better sped,
Or been esteem'd the more Politely Bred,
For his insulting basely on the Dead?
Or where must we retire Repose to have,
If it must be deny'd us in the Grave?

Next where's the Truth, when Men are torn away
By Storms at Land, or Hurricanes at Sea,
To argue 'twas their Sins that did provoke
The Wrath of Heav'n to an immediate Stroke?
Why shou'd the Winds and Tempests, when they Jarr,
Be less impartial than the Rage of War?
If Slaughter did distinguish where to Prey,
Why was the good Josiah torn away
When Peace and Truth so much requir'd his Stay?
Urge not that Necho warn'd him to forbear,
Why shou'd he think the Tyrant was a Seer?

312

When the late civil Fury rag'd so wide,
How can we think that Right th'Event did Guide,
That saw the juster was the Conquer'd Side?
When Pestilential Blasts infect the Skie,
Where can the Just from the Contagion fly
When Life's destroy'd by Life, and Breathing is to Die?
When all in Ashes our Emporium lay,
Did the fierce Flames distinguish in their Way?
Did not the Brothel, Temple, and the Tomb,
Sink down, Promiscuous in the general Doom?
Hills have been known, e'er now, on Towns to fall,
Where Poor and Rich, the Mighty and the Small,
In one Tremendous Grave have perish'd all!
With equal Terrour oft the Sea o'erflows,
And does Un-people Regions as it goes,
Shepherd and Sheep, the Unjust, the Good and Great,
Without Regard, are Level'd in their Fate.
And so by Earthquakes, if you but enquire,
You'll find whole Cities have been lost entire,
Sunk in the Earth at one prodigious Gape,
And not a Lot been suffer'd to Escape.
It is not then, the Swift that win the Race,
Nor yet the Strong will always Victo'ry Grace;
'Tis not the Wise can ward a wanting Fate,
And Riches on the Prudent scorn to wait;
Nor yet will Favour on the Skillful fall,
But Time and Chance promiscuous happens to 'em all.
And so of Course, no Christian can pretend
To Pick and Cull the Method of his End.
Live then, O Kidder! honour'd in thy Fame,
An Envy'd late; but now a glorious Name.

Another Class will say, all this we know,
But where's the Reason why it shou'd be so?
For if both on the Good and Bad there wait,
As you have argu'd, one promiscuous Fate,

313

Where is the Justice of the Pow'rs above,
And Promis'd Blessings to the Men they Love?
What can we say to Dispensations that
We see are hard, yet Justify'd by Fate?
Why shou'd just Regulus deserted be,
And Clodius purely rise by Infamy?
Why shou'd Great Tully to the Tomb be hurl'd,
And Antony that kill'd him, rule the World?
Why shou'd old Ce---cil grow unjustly Great,
And Rawleigh perish by a Partial Fate?
Why shou'd our Royal Martyr lose his Head
And a Rump Senate Govern in his Stead?
Why by a Storm must Kidder's Being cease,
And O---ts enjoy Protection, Health and Peace?
Strange! that no differ'ence in this Case was had
Between so Good, and Infamously bad!
Dark are the Ways of Providence, and we
But blind our Eyes in Searching Means to see.

Perverse Mistake! for first 'tis understood,
That if such Chances happen to the Good,
The Bad, (tho' willing to extend their Date,)
Must see they are not Privileg'd from Fate,
So make, of Course, Provision for a Future State.
For some there are that Scarce wou'd ever mend,
Did not such Terrors warn 'em of their End.
His Entrance into Joy he well begins,
Well does he lose his Breath, and doubly wins,
Whose Dying frights the Living from their Sins;
Around him, then, he for Repentance calls,
And, Sampson-like, he Conquers as he falls.
Then for the Vertuous, it does plainly prove
'Tis wisely done to place their Hopes above;
Since, if prepar'd to mount the Realms of Light
A sudden Call, but Swifter Wings their Flight;

314

As thine O Kidder! and thy Vertuous Dames;
From Mortal pass'd into Immortal Names!

If Heav'n shou'd open all it's Secrets here,
What cou'd we further know by being there?
Enough is always shown us to convince
The boldest of the Care of Providence.
Where is the Christian that so little swerves
But he enjoys much more than he deserves;
But if our Arguing seem in this too wide
(Since Partial Men will by themselves be try'd)
We'll follow in the rest a Closer Guide.
Did you Create your self? or did your Sire?
Or yet did his? So upward still enquire,
Till, at the last you can ascend no higher;
There when you come, 'tis Manifestly shown
Our first Producer must be God alone:
Of his Free Pleasure 'twas that Man arose,
Our Frames he fashion'd and our Minds he knows;
And may, at Pleasure, as his Own, dispose
Either to Life, or Death; to Rise or Fall;
To Good, or Ill;—or rather, what we Evil call:
For by his Mercies in our Saviour shown,
He has deny'd the Means of Grace to None;
Whether we bend with Age, or strive with Care,
We all have Strength to fix our Anchor there,
Or may have strength by Piety and Pray'r:
W'are not Compell'd or Good, or Bad to be;
Left to himself, Man is an Agent free,
His Vertue else were but Necessity.
What Reason then to Murmur at our Doom?
When let the best, or worst Condition come,
We have within our Reach an Everlasting Home.
A Thousand various Ways is Fortune bound,
A Thousand Ways she's lost, a Thousand found,
And ev'ery Way her ever Restless Wheel goes round:

315

There is no fixing on a Certain State
In such a flowing, and Reflux of Fate.
Some by a Happy Doom She marks for Poor,
And some, like Crassus, wallow in their Store:
Some to Distress she bows with Anguish down,
And lifts from Dunghills others to a Throne:
Some with hard Labour she enures to toil,
On others with Perpetual Ease does smile:
On some She Crosses, Loss, and Danger sends
And some surrounds with Honour, Pow'r and Friends:
Some from long War are brought with safety home,
And the first Charge leads others to the Tomb:
On some Grey Hairs to Nestor's Age attend,
And some in all their Bloom are hurry'd to their End.
Yet, Notwithstanding, vain is He, and Blind,
Who to the Heav'nly Pleasure not Resign'd,
Thinks Justice Deaf, and Providence unkind.
It is but equal ev'ry One shou'd here
His Portion of the Common Burden bear
Which either Choice, or Chance, allots to be his share.
To strive from Cares to be exempt is vain,
And he but Raves that Struggles with his Chain.
Who ever takes his Fortune with Content,
Will find that Fortune Graciously is meant;
And that in any Human State beside
His Hopes had either gone too far, or Wide.
The Spirits of the Poor it must compose
To find the Great as Liable to Woes;
That their high States we can uncertain call,
(Which oft must dash their Noblest Sweets with Gall,
While they who ly so low are plac'd above a Fall.
Or Granting, as by some it is confess'd
That Vice does Mount while Vertue is depress'd,
What Argument for Doubt can thence arise
To Shock the Good, or discompose the Wise?

316

If all things fell in just Proportion here,
There needs no future State to make it clear
An equal Distribution can be only there.
If Fortune held her Scales exactly ev'n,
She soon wou'd stifle all Appeals to Heav'n;
And by a Fate yet darker and severe,
Take from the Good their Hope, and Bad their Fear.
What Man on Earth can say his Fortune's hard
If his Belief is always thus prepar'd?
There's One above that knows, and will Reward.
But after all, what e'er our Stations are,
Whether we fall by Peace, or rise by War,
Who, of the Wisest, can presume to tell
If for himself he cou'd have chose so well?
The thoughtless Fry, that Wealthy wish to be,
See not the Snares that wait Prosperity:
Nothing on Earth can more perversely join
Than Store of Ignorance with Store of Coin.
The Honest Humble Man, of obscure Fate,
Might be a Knave if rais'd to Steer the State,
And peel the Land an Ill-got Wealth to hast;
For Solon's now, and Numa's Days are past.
The Youth that dies a Christian Sound and Strong,
Might be an Atheist, had his Life been long;
And he that's Vertu'ous Old, might have dy'd wicked Young.
The Wretch in Chains that Liberty wou'd have,
May to that Liberty be worse a Slave,
If he will led in sinful Shackles be,
And cross the Blessing of his being Free.
The Client, when his Council's Fees are paid,
Repines he is not of that gainful Trade;
Forgetting he'll at Heav'n be soonest far,
That stays not by the Way, to wrangle at the Bar.
Suppose a Man (his Ev'ning Service o'er)
Shou'd lay him down to Sleep and Wake no more;

317

Were it not better than to Sigh and Groan
His Soul away with Aches, Gout and Stone?
Distended ev'ry Arte'ry, Nerve and Vein,
And only kept alive to feel the force of Pain?
Beside, we need not listen from afar
To hear the present Sound is Universal War!
A little time will let the Nations see
All Marks of Ruin, Blood and Cruelty:
Why shou'd we think it then an angry Doom
That frees the Righteous from the Ills to come?
Gone to the Place where all their Troubles cease,
And resting on eternal Beds of Peace!
Hail then, O Kidder! honour'd in thy Fame,
And Hail as loud to Thee, O Vertu'ous Dame!
No less than his an Everlasting Name!

The Way thus clear'd, and all Objection Dumb,
Lo! Noble Pair; the weeping Muse does come
To pay her latest Duty on your Tomb;
To sigh your Worth, and in sad Numbers tell
Our Loss;—and by how strange a Fate you fell!

'Twas Night, and in secure Repose we lay,
Or so we thought, and hop'd a smiling Day;
When Lo! so many Mercies vainly past,
Th'Almighty, when He saw we Sinn'd so fast,
To Justice gave the lengthen'd Reins at last:
Loth we shou'd split on any Human Shelf,
He kindly took our Chast'ning on Himself,
As he did Israel once at David's Prayer;—
Nor less his Wonders and his Blessing here!

But now the Winds have took his fierce Commands,
And swiftly burst their Subterranean Bands;
Madly enrag'd, they scow'r the Fields of Air,
And with hoarse Murmurs hurry to the War:

318

Their Signal past, thro' the vast Space they fly,
And loud as Thunder drive along the Sky:
Then stooping in their Flight, at first they seize
The Stately Fabricks and the Lofty Trees,
To shew they're sent by an impartial Fate,
Unbyass'd with regards of Pow'r or State.
Thence lower falling, on the Cots they prey
The Garners, and the Reeks of Corn and Hay,
Mov'd from their Basis some, some blown entire away.
Nor did it's Fury only Revel there,
But Strip't the Roofs, and laid whole Cities bare:
The Women Shriek't, agast their Husbands stood,
Above a Hurricane; below a Flood.
No Neighbour to his next Relief cou'd give,
And for the Time, 'twas worse than Death to live.
Tiles, Chimnies, Windows, Clatter'ing to the Ground
Th'Unmortic'd Timber Crashing all around,
Did all together make a more than dreadful Sound!
Nor Great, nor Sacred wou'd their Fury spare,
Nor Royal Houses,—nor the House of Pray'er;
Well might his Wrath be on our Dwellings shown,
Who then, wou'd not with-hold it from his Own.
Thus five long Hours the Winds resistless rag'd,
And War with all opposing Bodies wag'd.
The Mountains nodded with th'amazing Force,
The Sea recoil'd, and Rivers turn'd their Course.
Nature her self did tremble at the Blast,
And fancy'd ev'ry Breath wou'd be her last;
She wou'd have fled, (but where cou'd she retire?)
And had forgot she was to end in Fire.
In the mean time the Bishop's Ancient Pile,
Depending on her Strength, at all their Rage did smile:
A thousand Blasts she had already born,
A thousand more design'd to make her Scorn;
Nor vainly did She on her self rely,
Deep her Foundation, as her Walls were high.

319

Thus, Careless and unmov'd she kept her Form,
Just in the Whirl and Channel of the Storm.
At last, as Heroes, that some Foe espy
Repress their Trembling Troops, with furious Eye
And Blood inflam'd, they loud for Combat call,
Resolv'd at one Effort, to Conquer, or to Fall:
Alike incens'd, the Winds their Rage pursu'd;
And (Griev'd that yet the Sacred Fabrick stood)
They all their Strength into one Blast Collect,
And straight the tott'ring Palace found the dire effect:
Down from their Lofty height the Tuns they threw,
Which falling on the Roof, and forcing thro'
With thundring Noise, soon made their horrid Way
Where the Good Prelate, and his Confort, lay;
So that, with not a Breathing Space betwixt;
This Instant it was Life; and Death the next;
Beat thro' the Floor, into their Hall they fell,
Cover'd with Ruins of a Cittadel!

Happy, O North of Britain! 'twas for Thee
To 'scape from this Prodigious Tempest free:
Tho' it with us was just like Egypt here,
You had almost a sort of Goshen there:
Ah! take the Mercy as by Heav'n 'twas meant,
Confess your Sins, and seriously Repent;
Who knows but, else, some more revenging Doom
May shortly from your faithless Neighbours come,
And bring You Fire, and Devastation home:
Too much, alas! we their Revolt may doubt,
More to be fear'd within, than France without.

But by this time the bright Æthereal Form
That had in Charge the Manage of the Storm,
Perceiving what was done, with Horror shook,
As thinking this an uncommission'd Stroke;

320

So Sounded to the Winds a swift Retreat,
For this Offence commanded back by Fate:
A Fate that many Myriads might Reprieve,
Which, but for their Remove had ceas'd to live;
Reversing, thus, the Doom that Sampson brav'd
There Thousands Perish'd, here were Thousands sav'd.

The Morning came; but never rose the Sun
On such a Spacious Scene of Mischief done:
The Raging Sea with Wrecks all cover'd o'er
And floating Bodies driving to the Shore:
Helms, Rudders, Masts, among 'em mingl'd rowl,
Now sunk as low as Hell, now lifted to the Pole:
For yet the Waves retain'd their horrid Form
And, tho' the Winds were laid, were in themselves a Storm.
Some when the Storm was loudest met their Doom,
Unheard, Unseen, and blest their Watry Tomb,
Nor nothing fear'd so horrid in the State to come.
Others, that weather'd out the dreadful Night,
Were left to the worse Fate of Rising Light;
Which, when Return'd, but only let 'em see
Their Leaky Ships, and certain Destiny:
The Land they had in ken; but all in vain
They ply'd their Pumps, the Holds the more contain;
And emptying of the Ship was emptying of the Main:
Till, at the last, all hope of Safety gone,
They Pray, Repine, Repent, Blaspheme, and Moan;
Then, Sinking down, with Yells they rend the Sky,
And Echo to the Shore the dreadful Cry.

Nor on the Land was yet the Prospect less
Of Loss, Amazement, Ruin and Distress!
Here Groves of Trees, there Mighty Buildings cast;
The Growth and Toil of Ages level'd at a Blast.

321

Nor this the worst, but almost ev'ry where
The Maim'd and Dying shock the trembling Ear;
Like Job's Misfortunes the sad Tydings rowl'd,
Another Ent'ring e'er the last was told.

But of all Objects, his whose Loss we mourn
Was the most sad and grievous to be born!
The bare Relation all our Strength controuls,
And sends a shudder'ing Horror to our Souls!
His Flesh, his Blood, his Marrow, Brains and Bones,
Dispers'd, and mixt with Timber, Lime and Stones!
No likeness of what late he bore was found,
But all thro'-out one undistinguish'd Wound!
'Tis true the Rigour something to excuse,
His Ladies Corps her Fate did gentlier use,
And left almost entire without a Bruise:
Beneath a Heap of Rubbish bury'd deep,
She in her Bed did just that Posture keep,
As left, when she address'd her self to sleep.
And yet alas! what Comfort thence arrives?
What Kindness? since she now no longer lives!
Nor Pray'ers, nor Tears her Being can restore!
She's gone! for ever gone! and he can be no more!

But if so sad to hear, what must it be
To those that did their mangle'd Bodies see!
What strange Amazement must their Kindred show!
How can we guess their Grief, or speak their Wo,
At such a Dismal and Relentless Blow!
What Pencil can find Colours to express
The fierce Extremes of filial Tenderness?
Convulsions, Swooning, Raving to the last Excess!
I feel methinks, the Anguish which they bore!
I see 'em melt! and bleed at ev'ry Pore!

322

Their Nerves Relax! the Stiff'ning Hair does rise!
And a Strange Something, greater than Surprize,
Shoots in their Hearts! and dizzies in their Eyes!
How, gene'rous Margetts, cou'd you look upon
Your Sister's Fate, and not invoke your own!
How cou'd you think on the lamented Dame!
How see her Dead; and not become the same!
So chearful, aud so well but yesterday!
So like to bless us with a longer stay!
And now a Gastly! cold! extended Lump of Clay;
You thought You came a Visit but to give,
And 'twas to take Your Everlasting leave!
'Twas only Providence that cou'd impart
Such Courage, to prevent thy Breaking Heart,
That to the World You might their Worth Proclaim,
Assert the Ways of GOD, and Vindicate their Fame.

I see thee yet, methinks, the Pulpit grace
Where He so well but lately fill'd a Place;
Peace, in thy Mind; Composure, in thy Face:
While all around the Audie'nce list'ning sat,
To hear thee enter on this Theme of Fate.
In what Soft Words did, first, thy Sorrows flow!
Melting thy self, and melting others, too,
Till all thy Sighs were lost in theirs below;
How did thy Learning Soar! thy Langu'age charm!
The Reason fix! and Elocution warm!
Clearing to all the Will of Providence,
As far as cou'd be reach'd by Human Sense:
While all the time, (Intent on what you said)
So Strange a Hush thro' the Cathedral Spread,
The Living seem'd as silent as the Dead:
Nor can the Sceptick hope the least Excuse,
If what he heard he fails to put in Use.

323

Last, with what Mildness did you tax his Foes!
And Christian-like Unchristian Men expose!
And all thro'-out so full! so Strong! so clear!
Those that with Prejudice design'd to hear,
Return'd convinc'd, that yet came Atheists there.

Well from your Audience might you find esteem
From such a Sacred, such a Noble Theme:
For never was the Crosier known before
In any British Hand, to merit more.
What e'er he read (so ample was his Breast)
His Memo'ry bore, and Judgment did digest.
Nor cou'd you to that Oracle repair
With any darkest Sense the Text does bear,
But you might find a just Solution there.
His Learning Copious, and his Reas'ning strong,
And Truth it self sat charm'd upon his Tongue.
Unweary'd in his Searches and his Toyl,
He drain'd the Rabbins to enrich our Isle;
And from the Treasures of his Sacred Store
Advanc'd a thousand Lights that never shone before.
By Demonstration He a SAVIOUR shews,
Confirms the Christians, and Confounds the Jews;
Whose Lives we soon shou'd to our Doctrin Frame,
Were we the same in Fact we are in Name.
His Teaching was Instructive Strong and Plain;
Not roving here and there with Notions vain,
Like some, who, following ev'ry Random thought,
Preach wild and Rambling, just as Pindar wrote;
Imposing on their Flocks a Gallick Treat,
Whole Loads of Garnish, and but Scraps of Meat.
All florid Langu'age, and a run of Words,
No Musick to a knowing Ear affords;
Expanded so, the Theme is beat to Death,
And ev'ry Period cracks the Readers Breath.

324

He, better knowing always did express
His Notions in an easy, natural Dress:
Truth is a Naked Beauty, but so clean
Her Heav'nly Shape, and Lovely in her Mein
She's Injur'd if she's not entirely seen.
In Pearl and Gold she'd be but meanly shown,
Adorn'd with brighter Glories of her own.
His Precepts, thus our Reverence did command,
With which his Practice travell'd Hand in Hand.
His Life, thro'-out, one constant Bent pursu'd,
All like his Masters spent in doing Good.
With bleeding Bowels he beheld the Poor,
And to 'em yearly gave one Third of all his Store;
One Third in Hospitable Uses went,
And lastly, One he sav'd—to pay his Children Rent.
Happy the Poor! and happier were the Great!
If ev'ry one wou'd, by an equal Rate,
Give, spend, and spare;—his Rule of using an Estate:
But contrary the Givers are but few
And they that don't revile the Good that do.
Shou'd GOD an Angel down from Glory send,
That nothing but our Glory shou'd intend,
He cou'd not make the Envious Man his Friend,
And chiefly those that wou'd be understood,
Tho' doing Evil, but pursuing Good.
Thus some this Gene'rous Man a Niggard call,
Because, like K---, he wou'd not part with all;
Or, with old M--- the Bumpkin Gentry Dine,
And run on Tick some Hundreds deep for Wine.
Not that I blame the Man who much does give,
For 'tis our Duty where we much receive:
But nothing but a Person Moap'd or Mad,
Wou'd throw to thankless Rascals all he had:
To other Families such Bounty shown,
Is just the ready Way to starve our own.

325

These two Extremes were well by Kidder seen,
Good Natur'd Errors!—but He steer'd between;
And neither Liv'd too Little, or too Great,
But kept a Board proportion'd to his State;
Disposing Things by such a just Address,
'Twas always Plenty;—but without Excess.
Others Reproach him more that he Receiv'd
The Sacred Robe while the Ejected liv'd:
From whatsoever Mouths that Blast is sent,
They're, first, no Friends at all to Government.
That British Prince lives only in a Dream,
And is but mock'd with Titles of Supream,
Who lets the Man that won't Allegiance swear,
In Church and State so high an Office bear.
Who ever does the Regal Power offend,
That Regal Pow'r may Legally Suspend:
To make the Law speak any other Sense,
Is, at the Bottom, to accuse the Prince.
If Lawful then for Monarchs 'tis to give,
'Tis e'en as just for Subjects to receive.
But who? Ah! who beside was ever known
That willingly wou'd lay a Mitre down?
If K--- at William's Death had chang'd his Mind,
The Saint deceas'd had thankfully Resign'd,
If then this offer'd, and if that Refus'd,
To Men and Angels Kidder stands excus'd.
But while his Foes did thus their Venom spit,
His Sacred Office well he did acquit,
And never one Ordain'd but what was truely sit.
Strictly he to the Canon did adhere;
Not to be mov'd by Friendship, Pow'r, or Prayer:
'Twas hence bad Men his Conduct did despise,
Hating that Worth which wou'd not let 'em rise,
But all in vain their Clamour, Noise and Art;
The Consciousness of having done his Part
He Treasur'd up for Comfort to his Heart.

326

Sharply the Idle Shepherds he'd reprove;
But do Your Duty and You had his Love.
His Converse gentle, and his Temper free;
But all was season'd with Humility.
So easie of Access, he wou'd not send
To know the Name, but Instantly attend.
So much his Duties were his Constant Care,
You'd think he liv'd on Piety and Prayer.
In Self-Denials ev'ry Day he pass'd
And even on that which did precede his last,
He strictly kept his Private, Weekly Fast.
So near his Death as but the Night before,
His chiefest Talk was Cloathing Fourscore Poor,
Nor did one Word in Contradiction fall;
Only to do it Privately was all.
Thus to the last a Holy Mind he bore;
Untir'd with all his Charities before,
He dy'd in the Resolve of doing more.

This was the Pattern;—and his Lady hence
Imbib'd her Meekness, Truth and Innocence.
Daily she for the Needy, Garments made,
And ply'd, as 'twere, the Busi'ness of a Trade:
And taking from a more Abundant Store,
She pass'd the famous Instance heretofore;
And was the British Dorcas of the Poor.
So much did Charity, her Thoughts Sublime,
Giving and Lending took up half her Time:
But tho' so ready ev'ry Want to aid
She never lent with Thoughts of being Paid;
Or if some Honest Minds return'd the Loan,
She made it then, a Second time, their Own.
But most she Joy'd in what our SAVIOUR bid,
To do a Benefit and keep it hid:
This was a Point she dearly lov'd to gain;
For 'tis not Christian Bounty when 'tis vain.

327

Nor die she to her Lord for Money go;
(For his she knew was always using so)
Out of her set Allowance this was done,
That she might call the Charity her own.
In Prayer, Contrition, and a Private Fast,
Two Days in ev'ry Week she always pass'd,
To mortify, and fit her for her Last:
But this so secretly, 'twas often done
Ev'n to her very Lord himself unknown;
The Notice only to her Children came,
That they might do, in after Times, the same.
In all Relations she so far excell'd,
No future Age will see her Parallell'd!
A Loving, Faithful, and Obedient Side,
In Wedlock near, in Vertue nearer ty'd;
Her Husband's smiles her Joy, and his Content her Pride.
A Sister so affectionately dear,
You'd think she plac'd her whole Indulgence there,
And had for other Uses none to spare.
Yet was the Aunt so Tender always shown,
As ev'ry Nephew were an only Son.
So fast a Friend! that to be first approv'd,
(For Vertue only Her Affection mov'd,)
Was, next, to be Eternally belov'd.
So good a Neighbour! none remain'd in Grief
Where either Cost, or Care, cou'd bring Relief.
Then for a Mistress, (tho' the most admire
The Servants skill'd in Fashion and Attire,)
She to her Favour ne'er did one prefer,
But only such as “dress'd themselves in Her:
Chast as the Thoughts that from Devotion rise,
Wafted on Wings of Angels thro' the Skies:
And cou'd we what her Notions are presume,
She there exults she met her Husband's Doom,
Sent with so good a Christian to the Tomb!

328

Whose Life thro' half a Century of years
At once she Copy'd, and Reliev'd of Cares!
Till fit at last with him to Wing the Air,
They went to Heav'n as in Elijah's Car,
Rap't in a Storm to be the Sooner there:
Where round their Brows Eternal Lawrels grow,
And at there Feet Eternal Pleasures flow;
The just Reward of Living well below!

And now ye Impious Sons of Belial come,
And censure, if You dare, their sudden Doom:
Cou'd Souls like theirs, thro' a long Age approv'd
To God and Man, in Vengeance be remov'd?
Cou'd all their Vertues no more Pity have
But to be sent in Anger to the Grave?
A sudden Fate may be indeed severe
To Wicked Souls, but 'twas a Blessing here:
What e'er Uncharitable Men presume,
That Death which calls the Vertuous Liver Home
Is best when it does Unexpected come;
And does the Mind from all those Terrors free
Which, oft, we in the best of Christians see,
At Lanching off into Eternity.
Ah! happy Accident! this Moment here!
The next in Heav'n, and crown'd Triumphant there!
By Ling'ering Sickness most are worn away,
Or trembling Age, and die a Grain a Day:
Their happy Souls are up to Glory gone
Without a Sigh, or least departing Groan:
One both in Life and Death, they went entire;
And by their very Fall ascending high'er,
Were Lodg'd at one Rebound in the Æthereal Quire:
Where, far advanc'd above the Starry Sphere,
He now enjoys the Endless Honour there
Of his Asserting the Messiah here.

329

Hail then! for ever Hail! ye holy Pair!
And if in the immortal Regions there
You know your Enemies Conjectures here,
Pity their Frailties, and their Spite excuse,
Who bred to Slander, natu'rally abuse:
A little Time, perhaps, may force their Tears,
And let 'em see your Loss prevented theirs;
While by a Mind enlightn'd to Fore-see
Which way t'atone our angry Destiny,
(Like Curtius dying for the publick Peace)
You fell your Selves to make Destruction cease.
Less Love of Old was by the Patriarch shown,
Whose Stay perhaps, had sav'd the cursed Town:
Just contrary was here the Fate they shar'd,
For Lot was torn away!—and Sodom spar'd.

But whither strays the Muse? who void of Care,
Bewails the Dead, but has forgot the Fair?
Forgive me Madam, to your Charms untrue,
Thus long to keep your Image out of view:
The Thoughts of Horror, Death, and Fate unkind,
Remov'd that Lovely Object from my Mind.
I meant to Mourn, and with Excess of Grief,
To join with yours, all hopeless of Relief!
With Raving, Anguish, and a burst of Tears,
I thought to rive all Hearts, and wound the dullest Ears!
But by their happy Exit, shown before,
All just Occasion for our Sighs is o'er;
And, gazing upon YOU, we now can Mourn no more!
Whose Charms inevitable Love displays!
Whose Wit is shown a thousand various Ways!
Whose Worth does merit Everlasting Praise!

330

Whose Eyes, like Cæsar, all Opposers Doom,
And with a Glance but Look, and Overcome!
I wou'd go on!—but O the blaze of Light,
Flashing around with Rays so fiercely Bright,
Suppresses and Confounds my feeble Sight!
Nor can the Muse avoid the like Extreme,
But sinks beneath th'abundance of her Theme.

331

Funeral Eclogues.

Urania, a Funeral Eclogue.

To the Memory of Mrs. Wharton.

Damon. Alexis.
DAMON.
Alexis , why that Cloud upon your Brow?
Has Beaute'ous Chloris lately broke her Vow,
And the sad Tydings reach'd your Ears but now?
It must be so—that must be, sure, the Cause
Which from Your Eyes this Bleeding Deluge draws.

ALEXIS.
Were it no more than a frail Nymph unkind,
It rather shou'd divert, than wound my Mind;
For he that grieves when such their Love estrange,
As well may grieve because the Wind will change.
No, Damon, no; my Sorrows fetch their Spring
From a more sad, a more Important Thing.

332

Were all my Life to be one Mourning Day,
Or cou'd my Heart dissolve in Tears away,
'Twere yet a Tribute for our Loss too small;
Our Loss I call it, for it wounds us all.

DAMON.
Still to your Tears you call a fresh Supply,
And still conceal the sad Occasion why.

ALEXIS.
Can it be possible you shou'd not know
The Fatal Cause that has unmann'd me so,
When Sorrow does such dismal Sounds diffuse,
And ev'ry Nymph and Swain's expiring with the News?
These beat their Breasts, and t'other rend their Hair,
Like Lovers that are wedded to Despair,
Shrieking as if the last tremendous Doom,
The Dreadful Change of Time and Place were come.

DAMON.
No longer in Suspence then let me stay;
No Grief can wound me more than this Delay.

ALEXIS.
Take then, O Damon! take the worst in Brief,
The worst! for not the Gods can give Relief.
Urania! sweet Urania! justly fam'd,
And never but with Admiration Nam'd;
Adorn'd with ev'ry Vertue, ev'ry Grace,
These in her Mind, and t'other in her Face:
Urania! in whose Temper we might find
All we believe of the Celestial Kind:
God in his Works she early did Rehearse
With Heav'nly Ardour, and harmonious Verse;
Her Verse! that makes it Disputable yet
Which most cou'd Charm, her Beauty or her Wit.
Ev'n She!—O Damon! You may guess the rest.—

DAMON.
Is Dead?

333

ALEXIS.
And with her all our Joys deceas'd
Nor Dies she single:—back the Blood retires,
The Eye can nothing see it more admires,
Hope's at an End, and Love it self expires!

DAMON.
O killing Sentence! which I die to know!
Or dost thou try me, and but feign thy Woe?
Ah! undeceive me quickly, if 'tis so.—
But see! thy Eyes run o'er! in them I view
The fatal News y'ave told me is too true!

ALEXIS.
Too true indeed!—when I my Thoughts advance,
Reflecting on the Turns of Fate and Chance;
What various Accidents disturb our Rest,
All level'd at the Beaut'eous and the Best,
Subject to ev'ry Wrong, and worn with Care,
(Of which, Urania! thou hast had thy Share;)
How swift by an unpitying partial Doom
They're snatch'd from hence, and hurry'd to the Tomb;
Leaving the Wicked and the Vain to wast,
And glut on Blessings they cou'd never taste;
I hardly can the impious Thought forbear,
That Heav'n sits unconcern'd at all that passes here.
What Favour does the Fair and Chast attend
But black'ning Tongues, or an untimely end,
A fatal Consort or a treach'rous Friend?
Thus in the Bloom of Youth her Verdure fades
O Brightness cast into perpetual Shades!
Mean while th'Adulterer's Frolick pleas'd and Gay,
And circulating Comforts Crown the Day,
Successively they each their Part dispence;
And this unequal Dealing's Providence!

DAMON.
Alexis, do not blame Divine Decree,
And the strict Laws of strong Necessity;

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For since Eternal Justice cannot err,
What that Inflicts we shou'd with Patience bear.
'Tis not for Souls unglorify'd to pry
Into Incomprehensibility:
Ev'n Reason fails us; 'tis to Faith alone
The Secret Paths of Providence are shown:
The seeming Inconsistencies it joyns,
Brings to one Centre all the different Lines,
And shews us all is Good that Heav'n designs.
But were this Argument not half so strong,
You know, Alexis, all must die e'er long.

ALEXIS.
True, Damon, but not all must Die so young.
As for the Aged let 'em pass away,
And drop into their Tenements of Clay,
The Doom is just; they've had what Life can give
And wou'd be Burthen'd longer to receive.
But she, you know, like a Meridian Sun,
Had all her Sweetness, all her Lustre on;
A Glorious Light, tho' not arriv'd at Noon!
Ah Vertue! why allow'd no longer Date?
Ah! Treach'rous Hope! and Ah! Relentless Fate!

DAMON.
What Reason is there to Indulge your Grief
When 'tis but just to try, and have Relief?
Think her (as sure she is) among the blest,
And has begun the Sabbath of her Rest;
Think her releas'd from all that World of Woe
Under whose Weight she Labour'd here below;
And you will find to more Account 'twill turn
To bless her Change, than thus Immoderately to Mourn.
Repine not then, Alexis; 'tis not well;—
Yet, since y'are on the Subject, prithee tell
By what sad Fate the Sweet Urania fell.

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ALEXIS.
A Mortal, but a Lingering Disease
Upon the Spirits of her Life did seize;
Her Strength decreas'd, and ev'ry Fatal Day
Still took a part, till all was born away.
Pale, Wan and Meagre did her Cheeks appear,
Tho' once a Spring of Roses flourish't there.
Thus long she lay, with Strong Convulsions torn,
Which yet were with a Saint-like Patience born;
Till Nature ceasing, rather forc't to cease,
Gave her a Painful, yet a kind Release.
Go, sacred Nymph, ascend the Spangl'd Sphere,
For it has wanted long thy Lustre there.
Faithful and Loving to the last she prov'd;
And better did deserve to be belov'd.
Here Colon I cou'd—

DAMON.
Mention not his Name,
But let your Subject be the Matchless Dame.

ALEXIS.
So many are her Vertues, and so vast,
And crowd upon my Memory so fast,
'Tis hard to fix on which I shall begin;
As 'twill be hard to leave, when once I'm in.
Her Language was from all that Dross refin'd
That floats in the Converse of Womankind:
So distant all her Conduct from Offence,
'Twou'd still begin, and end in Innocence.
Her Ardour for Celestial Things did show
She learn't to be an Angel here below.
Our SAVIOUR's Precept is to pray for those
That are our Mortal and Inveterate Foes;
Hard Lesson! hard to us, so prone to Err;
But 'twas a very easie One to HER.
So fixt to Truth, and fervent in her Prayer,
As if she only breath'd Ætherial Air.

336

The Poor no other Merit need pretend;
Affliction made her still the faster Friend.
Nor was her Charity to Sides confin'd,
But flew where e'er she Worth, or Wit cou'd find,
As much disdaining Limits as her Mind.
If e'er her Words to an Invective ran,
'Twas to th'Ungiving, Thankless, Prosper'ous Man,
Who much Receiving, yet from none wou'd part,
But view'd the Poor without a Yerning Heart.
So close with Chastity her Mind was wrought,
That all her Life knew not a Blemish'd Thought:
And as she there did her own Sex excell,
So she as much did Ours in Writing well:
Her tuneful Numbers pleas'd the Nicest Ear,
And the most Haughty Swains were Proud to hear.
Whether her Song with Friendship's Pow'r is fraught,
Or to her Private Inju'ries turn her Thought;
Whether with Love she our Affection wins,
Or Paint a SAVIOUR Suffering for our Sins,
She's all a Wonder!—like her Soul, serene!
Like Venus, Lovely! and like Dian', clean!
Ah Sweet Urania! of all Womankind
Where hast thou left one like thy self behind—
Unless the Chast Mirana? who but She?
Thy Vertuous Sister! for in HER we see,
Thou dear departed Saint, how much w'ave lost in THEE!

DAMON.
Thou hast, Alexis, so Divinely shown
The Vertues of the Nymph for whom you moan,
In such sad Numbers told what Grief supplies
This deep Dejection, and these flowing Eyes;
That I, ev'n I (tho' what I wou'd not do)
Have caught thy Frailty, and am melting too.

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ALEXIS.
That pious Grief Heav'n cannot but forgive
Which makes the Vertu'ous in our Memories live.—
But see! if now thy Tears so freely fall,
There goes a Sight that will engross 'em all!
The Sweet Urania (Ah too rigid Doom!)
By Virgins born to her Eternal Home!
See with what mournful Pomp the Scene appears,
The Swains all Speechless, and the Nymphs all Tears.
Instead of Flow'ry Wreaths, with Chaplets crown'd
Their Temples are with Funeral-Cypress bound,
In vain their Silence; for their Looks impart,
A lasting Anguish, and a Bleeding Heart!
Ha! Damon! see! on the sad Bier display'd,
Where all the Riches of the Earth is laid!
You sigh! But Ah! you know you sigh in vain;
You'll never more behold her tread the Plain!
No more you'll hear that soft harmonious Voice,
Which none yet ever heard but did rejoyce!
For ever ceas'd are all her Matchless Lays!
Heav'n has clos'd up the Volume of her Days!
O Grief! that thus I yet repeat her Name,
Can say, She's dead! and not become the same!

DAMON.
Cease, dear Alexis, lest it shou'd be said
We fail'd in our last Office to the Dead:
It cannot add to our Affliction more
To see her laid in Dust—the worst alas is o'er!
Nor shall our scatter'd Flocks be yet our Care,
This more Important Duty calls us there,
With Dazies, Pinks and Daffodils and all
That Flora yields to Celebrate her Fall,
And Crown the Herse of the Departed Fair,
That, Living, was the Crown of Vertue here:
Profuse of Sweets, we not a Flower will save,
But empty all the Spring upon her Grave.

338

Alcander, a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of Sir Gilbert Gerrard, Bar. whose Death was occasion'd by the overturning a Coach.

INTRODUCTION.

The Sun was set; and the Retiring Light
With feeble Beams repell'd approaching Night:
When poor Amyntor, with his Head reclin'd,
A pensive Visage and a troubl'd Mind,
(His Flock not Folded) to the Grove retir'd;
Alone, nor any Company desir'd.
True Mourners still the Dark Recesses crave,
Most pleas'd with those that are most like the Grave
Doran, who all the Day had mark'd his Grief,
And fill'd with Hope to give him some Relief,
Follow'd the weeping Swain; who thus bespoke
Him Ent'ring, sighing as his Heart were broke.

Doran. Amintor.
AMYNTOR.
Doran , methinks this lonely gloomy Shade
Seems only for Despair and Sorrow made:
The Cheerful Sun darts here no rosie Beam,
But all is sad and silent in extreme;
The Melancholy Place deserves a Melancholy Theme.

DORAN.
Look thro' Blue Glass and the whole Prospect's blue;
Thro' Sorrow's Optick this Retreat you view,
And that does give it the same Tincture too.

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You first saw Cælia in this very Place;
Cælia! the Chastest of the Charming Race,
All Truth writ in her Mind, all Beauty in her Face!
Not one of all the Shepherds on the Plain
That sigh'd for the fair Maid, but sigh'd in vain;
She still frown'd on, regardless of their Pain:
You only gain'd her Favour, and 'twas here
The sweet disdainful Nymph vouchsaf'd an Ear:
She heard you, so much Wit and Truth were shown,
You melted her to Love, and made her all your own:
And still as Lovingly these Myrtles twine,
As if her snowy Hands lay prest in Thine,
And all the Quire of Birds stood mute to hear her Voice Divine.
'Tis you then that are chang'd; and O! if what
My boding Fears suggest I may relate,
In your Desponding Looks I read Alcander's Fate.

AMYNTOR.
You have it right, it is too truly so!
He's gone, where (soon, or late) we all must go!
He's gone, whom we for ever shall deplore!
Alcander! dear Alcander is no more!
No more! O bitter and afflictive Sound!
What two-edg'd Sword can give a deeper Wound?
What Ponyard, Poison, or envenom'd Dart
Can find a quicker Passage to the Heart?
They wound but once, and this thro' ev'ry Pore:
No more! O bitter, hateful Word, no more!

DORAN.
Thy Grief, O Friend! with the like Grief I view;
For to the Vertu'ous still a Tear is due,
As well from those unknown, as those they knew.
How many down to low Oblivion roll,
Life Name and Memo'ry, and there Perish whole?
Others there are (and yet of those but few)
At most Remember'd but by One or Two,

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A Wife, a Husband, or a Gaping Heir
That inward Smiles, and Strains to force a Tear.
None but a Soul for Publick Good design'd,
Diffusive, Brave, Impartial, Wise and Kind,
Cou'd leave so many mourning Friends behind.

AMYNTOR.
If we his Vertues in our Sorrows shew,
There shall be nothing wanting Grief can do
To make 'em lasting, and to draw 'em true:
Of all the Myriads back to Dust return'd,
Not one e'er more was miss'd, or more was mourn'd!
In me, O Doran! read (and You may see
His Loss in no small Measure touches me)
How all the Swains (as if their Souls were one)
Disdain to think of Respit to their Moan;
With Eyes o'er flowing, and a Bust of Grief,
They Sigh! they Swoon! they Rave! and fly Relief!

DORAN.
'Tis hard, Amyntor, and has made of late
Some Wretched Men Expostulate with Fate;
'Tis hard, and it must pierce the Hardest Heart
To think that Honour, Beauty and Desert,
Are most obnoxious to the Fatal Dart.

AMYNTOR.
Too many sad Examples we may view,
That what Y'ave said, O Doran, is too true!
For O! to my Confusion now I find
Death makes Distinction, takes the Just and Kind,
And nought but Knave and Coxcomb leaves behind;
And they live on the Time that Nature gave,
Till, tir'd with Life, no longer Time they crave,
And upon Crutches creep into the Grave.
But such as dear Alcander at a Day,
And oft unwarn'd, in Health are snatch'd away!
Why had not I his Fatal Hour supply'd!
For Him to Live, how willing had I dy'd!

341

No Loss by me cou'd on the Publick fall,
His Loss does for the Publick Sorrow call,
And will, as soon as heard, be mourn'd by all.
His Country's Glory he did still attend,
That with his Life and Fortune to defend;
No Man was ever more his Country's Friend.
But he is gone! he's gone! and let us mourn!
Gone to the Grave! and never must return!
To the dark Grave! to the wide gloomy Shade!
Where, undistinguish'd, Good and Bad are laid!
O Eyes! run o'er, and take of Grief your fill,
Let ev'ry Tear be sharp enough to kill!
Let ev'ry Groan come from my Heart, and show
'Tis torn with the Convulsive Pangs of Woe!
O Cheeks! henceforth no Sanguin Colour come
To open View, but Pale usurp the Room;
Such a true Pale as may distinctly show
The fatal Cause from whence the sad Effect does flow!
Let from my Lips the livid Tincture fly,
Like Ev'ning Rays before a gloomy Sky;
And a dark Ashy Hue thro'out be spread,
Dusk'd over like the Visage of the Dead!—
In vain alas! I'd thus my Sorrows shew!
'Tis all, that Nature and that Art can do,
Short of our Loss, and wanting to my Woe!

DORAN.
When I just now Your Sorrow did Commend,
I did not mean a Sorrow without end:
The Dead claim Nothing but our Present Grief,
While Nature does exert her Pow'r in Chief;
For they that dye well give us this Relief:
They're free from ev'ry Vice, and ev'ry Care,
Envy, Disgrace, Resentment, and Despair,
With all the Num'rous Catalogue of Ills
That plague us here, and crowd the Weekly Bills.

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In spite of all that's urg'd in Life's defence,
And all the Pleasures that depend on Sense,
There's no true Pleasure till we go from hence.
Beside it from the depth of Folly springs,
Our striving to prevent inevitable things.
Not all our Sighs and Tears, tho' ne'er so great,
Tho' spent at never so profuse a Rate,
Can change th'unalterable Doom of Fate:
We must resign when Heav'n does give the Call;
Cedars, where that does lay the Ax, must fall.

AMYNTOR.
That all must Die is true beyond Debate;
But some may Die too soon and some too late.
When good Men leave us (what e'er turn you use)
Tho' Heav'n may gain, we wretched Mortals lose:
There brightest Spirits but small Lustre add,
Here they shine out, and wou'd direct the Bad:
Like Israel's GUIDE in a Corporeal Shrowd,
By Night our Pillar, and by Day our Cloud.
How many cou'd we at this Instant name
That strive to put the Nation in a Flame,
Blood their Delight, and civil Strife their Aim?
For needy Men with Rage their want supplies,
And in a common Ruin soonest rise:
In any Change that's for subverting all,
'Tis they will be advanc'd that cannot fall.
He wisely saw which way the Stream wou'd force,
And ras'd the Banks that did divert it's Course.
O never let the Swains his Praise forget!
But make his Vertues lasting, as they're Great.
Nor shou'd we doubt the fixing his Esteem,
Cou'd but our Strains be equal to the Theme.

DORAN.
He was your Friend, I oft have heard you tell
Scarce new-made Mothers love their Babes so well.

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Your richest Incense to his Memory bring,
You best that knew his Worth and best his Worth can sing.

AMYNTOR.
My Oaten Reed no lofty Notes can raise,
And lofty Notes alone can reach his Praise:
Yet tho' I'm short in Pow'r accept the Will,
And let my Love atone my want of Skill.

DORAN.
Be still ye Winds; let not the gentlest Breeze
With winding Laby'rinth murmur thro' the Trees:
Ev'n Philomel thy Charming Grief forbear;
Y'ave long pleas'd us, now lend your self an Ear;
Let all below, above, and all around us hear,
While in loud Strains Amyntor gives to Fame
A Life of Glory, and a Deathless Name.

AMYNTOR.
Y'ave heard, O Doran! of our fatal Broils,
Our harrast Country and intestine Toils:
How the Proud Subject, in a cursed Hour,
Assum'd the sacred Reins of Soveraign Pow'r.
By unjust Force a num'rous Host was rais'd,
The Patriots of Rebellion lov'd and Prais'd:
Enthusiasm, Interest, Spite and Rage,
And all the Agents of a barba'rous Age,
Broke loose at once, and level'd at the Crown,
To raise themselves by pulling Justice down.
'Twas for our Sins (and a prodigious Birth)
Th'Almighty pour'd his Vials on the Earth.
May we no more to such Destruction live,
Or, if we must, not from our selves receive.
Here brave Alcander, on this bloody Stage,
Found Work t'employ his Vertue and his Rage.
And that his Loyalty might first be try'd,
He took the Royal, and the suffering Side.
In all Encounters prodigal of Blood,
Nor valu'd Life lost in a Cause so Good:

344

Where Danger and Confusion thickest lay,
Thro', like a Storm, forc'd his impetuous Way.
Let Edge-hill's fatal Field his Worth declare,
Success in Conduct, and his Name in War:
Nor only He, but, with the like Applause,
His Father, Uncles, Brothers, all were in the Cause.
O Loyal Family! O Ancient Name!
The Sound repeated fills the blast of Fame!
The Royal Martyr saw, and had regard,
Saw his vast Worth, and gave him due Reward.
But ah in vain!—Art, Courage, Conduct, Force,
Were all too weak to stop the Torrents Course;
Down fell the Banks, the Deluge enter'd fast,
'Till all was lost, all overwhelm'd at last!
For 'twas permitted gracious Charles shou'd Bleed,
To brand his Rebels with a blacker Deed
Than Hell that did Inspire 'em cou'd Exceed!
Thus Blood and Usurpation rais'd their Head;
When with the rest the brave Alcander fled,
And long in Exile mourn'd his murder'd Lord;
Nor saw one happy Moment, till he saw his Race restor'd.
Here was a short amends for all his Pain,
A Fortune Ruin'd, and his Kindred Slain.
Th'Auspicious Prince return'd, benign, August,
Look't on his Wrongs, advanc't him into Trust;
And never was a Subject trulier just.
But who, alas! can long a Favourite be?
Or ride safe in the Court's inconstant Sea?
A Sea, indeed, where Winds but gently blow,
But full of Shelves and treach'rous Sands below;
Where when they'd to the Port of Safety Steer,
It mocks the Statesman's Art, and Pilot's Care,
And leaves th'adventu'rous Wit forlorn and bare:
A tott'ring Station can no Peace afford,
And Envy wounds much deeper than the Sword.

345

DORAN.
The Wisest and the Bravest ne'er cou'd be
From the vile Tongues of black Detractors free;
And rising Vertues, as they mount the Sky,
They daily watch and murder as they fly.
As the returning Light expels the Dark,
And points the Archer to the distant Mark;
So Good Men, made by their own Polish bright,
Stand but a fairer Butt for Rage and Spite.
A Prince's Favour dange'rous Glories bring;
In ev'ry Male-content it puts a Sting:
By such the Fav'ourite is despis'd, debas'd,
The Good he does the Publick goes unprais'd,
The more their Hatred, as He's higher rais'd.
When thus the Legislative Crew prevail,
And drive on furious, both with Tyde and Sail,
The Worthy, Honest, Loyal Man must fail;
Expos'd to black Aspersions, Publick hate,
And oft Resigns to an Inglorious Fate.
Of this hard Truth let wretched Strafford tell,
He, who when all cry'd Justice! Justice! without Justice fell.

AMYNTOR.
Darkn'd a while, but not quite overcast,
'Twas but a faint Eclipse, and soon was past.
Alcander's Vertue was too bright to lye
Long shrouded under Odious Calumny;
But, like the Sun, for a short time retir'd
Behind a Cloud, broke out and was admir'd.
And let me here to their Confusion tell,
Their lasting shame that shou'd have us'd him well,
(An Honour ne'er conferr'd but on the Brave)
He bore his Prince's Favour to his Grave;
Firm in his Grace he stood, and high Esteem:
And here again renews the Mournful Theme!
When Glory seem'd to court him with her Smiles,
And give him Peace after an Age of Toils;

346

When all around him 'twas Serene and Bright,
And Promis'd a long run of Life and Light,
Then! then his Eyes to close in Death's Eternal Night!
And, which does yet for further Sorrow call,
By a mean Accident Ignobly fall:
Not in the Field where Fame and Honour's Sought,
And where, with Blood, he had that Honour bought;
Not in his Kings, or injur'd Country's Cause,
Destroying those that wou'd Subvert the Laws:
But by a Chance that does too truely show
How little to that Trifle, Life we owe!
Not worth one half we to preserve it pay,
That is in spite of all our Care, so quickly snatch't away:
Add to all this his firm unshaken Mind,
To the fixt Pole of Glory still inclin'd:
A Carriage Graceful, and a Wit Sublime,
A Friendship not to be impair'd by Time:
A Soul sedate, with no Misfortune mov'd,
And no man was with more Misfortune prov'd.
Death he ne'er fear'd in it's most Ghastly Form,
In Slaughter, Blood, and Cities took by Storm:
Now he Caress'd him with a Cheerful Brow,
Welcome at all Times, but most welcome now!
O had you heard, e'er he did Life resign,
With how much Zeal he talk'd of Things Divine,
You wou'd have thought, so sweet his dying Tongue,
While he discours'd descending Angels sung;
Waiting his Better Part with them to bear;
Which now, let loose, thro' the vast Tract of Air
Pierc't like a Sun-beam, to it's Native Sphere.

DORAN.
There let him Rest!—and let the Thought, my Friend,
That he is Happy thy Complaints suspend,—
But come, 'tis time we now shou'd Home-ward steer,
And, to be plain, 'tis but cold Comfort here.
The Mold is damp, the Wind perversely blows,
And Night, far spent, invites us to Repose.

347

Come, let me raise Thee by the Friendly Arm—
What? still in Tears? and has my Voice no Charm?

AMYNTOR.
Yes, I will go, but think not of Repose;
My Heart's too full to let my Eye-lids close.
No cheerful Thought shall in my Breast find Room,
But Death and Man's Inevitable Doom:
Nor Rest will I invoke, unless it be,
That Rest that shakes off dull Mortality.
When, following Him that is past on before,
I lay me down to sleep and wake no more.

Mirana, a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of that Excellent Lady Eleonora, late Countess of Abingdon.

Damon. Alexis.
ALEXIS.
Damon , the Spring is now in all her Bloom,
And, like the Phœnix, mounts in her Perfume:
If ought on Earth like Paradise can show,
'Tis at this Time a Paradise below.
But ah! shou'd some malignant fatal Blast
At once lay all her blooming Beauties wast;
Now quite Disrob'd that was but now so Gay,
As if December had succeeded May!
Shou'd you so strange an Alteration see,
Wou'd it not make as strange a Change in thee!

DAMON.
I know not well, unless that Change shou'd come;
Which Heav'n avert!—'twould be a dreadful Doom.

348

ALEXIS.
'Tis come! 'tis come—If any Earthly thing,
Mirana was the Mirrour of the Spring;
Chast as the Morn, soft as her smooth pac'd Hours,
Clear as her Fountains, Beauteous as her Flow'rs,
And Fruitful as her warm Prolifick Show'rs,
Her Glories all were blown, and fresh as May,
When one black Moment tore 'em all away!
No Sickness did her Charming Fabrick seize,
No Sign, no Fear, no Thought of a Disease;
All calm, all hush'd in Midnight Rest we lay,
Dreaming, alas! of a more Joyful Day:
When, like a Storm, or sudden Trumpet's Blast,
And dreadful too, as it had been the last,
As swift, as loud the dismal Tydings spread,
And did as much confound—she's dead! she's dead!
With Horror struck, and stupid with Surprize,
We scarce at first believ'd our Ears, or Eyes;
Then wish'd Those cou'd not hear, nor These cou'd see;
While all that saw her turn'd as Pale as SHE!
O Darkn'd Light! O Day shut up too soon!
'Tis just as if the Sun shou'd set at Noon;
Now Glorious, drest in all the Blaze of Light,
And now, but wink, and all Eternal Night?
Ah! why shou'd so much Sweetness Heav'n display,
Just only to be seen, and snatch'd away!
Why have the Vertuous still the shortest Stay?
Yes, Cruel Pow'rs! a Sentence so severe,
The Loss of one so Young, so Good, so Fair,
So like your selves, her Nature so Divine!
Wou'd justify us if we shou'd Repine.

DAMON.
Beware that Thought—and if you can allow
Reason may lessen Grief, hear Reason now.
'Tis true, we own her Doom too soon was past,
Her Fate was sudden, and her Loss is vast.

349

But think (for sure you may remember well)
Think how her Sister, dear Urania, fell,
When ev'ry Arte'ry, Fibre, Nerve and Vein
Were by Convulsions torn, and fill'd with Pain.
We griev'd that there such Cruelty was shown;
And shall we murmur because here was none?
So quick and willing she resign'd her Breath,
As if 'twere her Translation, not her Death!
Not He who did the Firy Coach 'employ
Went thro' an easier Passage to his Joy.
A kindly Sleep did the keen Arrow hide
In Ambuscade—and she but wak'd and dy'd
The Pale-fac'd Tyrant did but half his Part,
Not pierce, but gently touch'd her with his Dart;
Enough, indeed, to take her from our Eyes,
But then enough to mount her to the Skies.
Nor yet did he intend an Envious Blow,
But took her when at full prepar'd to go;
Nor cou'd he take her otherwise than so:
Her Life (so much she Labour'd to excell)
Was one continu'd Course of doing well.
Never before so much Uprightness shin'd
From the strait Compass of a Female Mind.
Ve'rtue's Columbus! she new Worlds explor'd,
And, which was greater yet, the Old Restor'd.
A Life so led must place her with the Blest;
To grieve, then, is to Envy Her her Rest.

ALEXIS.
O you mistake!—but be mistaken still,
All Men will mourn where Worth can Grief instill;
And because she was Good must we be Ill?
Who now feels not true Sorrow pierce his Mind
Has not the smallest Touch of Human Kind.
Talk not of putting Passion out to School,
To weep by Reason, and to mourn by Rule.

350

For such a Loss 'tis Cruel to be Wise,
Not to have breaking Hearts, and flowing Eyes,
Not to be drest in all the Pomp of Grief,
And all without a Thought, too, of Relief.
I'll draw the Scene, and, as You are a Man,
Refrain your Self from Weeping—if you can.
'Tis done.—Now see Her that was late so Fair,
Joy to the Eye, and Musick to the Ear!
An Angels Voice with Magick tun'd her Tongue,
And when she mov'd, she carry'd Paradise along!
There! see her stretch'd amidst a weeping Crowd,
Still as the Grave, and paler than her Shroud!
Observe what a dark ashy Semblance lies
Upon her, lately, Life-reviving Eyes!
Think on those Lights for ever clos'd and set,
Where so much Mildness, so much Brightness met!
See there! where Beauty did in Pomp remain,
With all the Shining Graces in her Train,
Eternal Silence, Fate and Horror reign!

DAMON.
Is this, Alexis, this the Heav'nly Fair?
Alas! how diffe'rent Life and Death appear!
I shrink, methinks, and inwardly can see
What a much more affrighting Figure I shall quickly be!

ALEXIS.

View next her sad Attendants all around,
With Ruful Looks, and fastn'd to the Ground.
Ah? never, never with her Image part!
But fix the dear Remembrance at the Heart!
For search the Globe, and You no more must find
So sweet a Temper, and so free a Mind;
Of the Deserving, Proud; and to th'Offending kind.

See there her Hero's Brother; tho' so stout,
This killing Object works his Weakness out:
But well the Name of Weakness 'twill not bear;
He's now no Man that does refuse a Tear.

351

See here her Uncle of her Ancient Race,
His Mind's Confusion writ upon his Face!
He came by Chance a Visit but to pay,
He found her Healthy, and she prest his Stay,
Thoughtless the next wou'd prove her fatal Day.
Not the least Grief did then affect his Heart,
Tho' now, alas! he bears so large a Part.

See there Carnarvon's Beaute'ous Countess stand,
She who can all Things, but her Tears, command:
Observe how Nature does in her Contend
Which most to mourn, the Sister, or the Friend.
Pale are those Cheeks that cou'd such Sweetness boast,
And her Bright Eyes have half their Lustre lost.

DAMON.
I saw, my Friend, I saw before You spoke
Her Tears o'erflowing as her Heart were broke;
While to the Partial Powr's she seem'd to say,
Good a Life might claim a longer Stay.

ALEXIS.
View next Three Daughters and Six Noble Sons
In whom the Blood of dear Mirana runs;
Look how the Mother has fill'd ev'ry Eye,
Tho' some so Young, they weep and know not why.
And here, Methinks, we may too plainly see
The hard, and rash Resolve of Destiny.
Their Minds, just molded, the Impression took,
Truth from her Soul, and Sweetness from her Look,
When in one Moment she was from 'em torn,
That Living Precept! whom we all must mourn.
Where can they now the like Example find?
At least, the like among the Beaute'ous Kind?
Who can, like Her, a Constant System be
Of Prudence, Meekness, Love and Purity?
Who now can raise their Souls to fit the Frame
That was design'd 'em by the Noble Dame?

352

Or cloath 'em round with Vertue for their Guard,
And make that easie which we make so hard?
Weep all you Tuneful Nine with one Consent,
And just as when Urania dy'd Lament.
And you her Children as your Tale's the same,
With equal Sorrows give her down to Fame.
What juster Cause can for our Tears be known
Than Honour, Grace, Renown and Sweetness gone?
Think what the Pale-fac'd Tyrant has engrost,
And what your selves, and what the World has lost?
Mirtillo, you are old enough to know;
Inform the Younger as they riper grow,
That with their Knowledge still their Tears may flow!

DAMON.
The fair Melissa, Friend, you do not mind,
(Mirtillo's Consort) sighing from behind:
There! wrapt in Sables, see the Mourner lies,
With all her Soul transfus'd into her Eyes!

ALEXIS.
Sorrow indeed, does play the Tyrant there.—
But see! ah see a sadder Object here!
How like the Dead the Living does appear!
See how her Lord in silent Anguish stands,
With Eyes erected and uplifted Hands!
He knows not what to say, or think, or do,
Confounded with the unexpected Blow!
Hardn'd in Woe, and loathing all Relief,
He seems himself the Statue of his Grief.
Ah! why with so much Violence inclin'd
For present Sorrow?—he'll hereafter find
Too much, when her Endearments all appear
Fresh to his Mind, and fix her Image there:
For tho' remov'd from our Corpo'real Sight,
He'll see her by an intellectual Light,
Not barr'd by Distance, and not veil'd by Night.

353

Each Day will to his sad Remembrance bring
The dear Reflection of some dute'ous thing.
The Noblest, yet the Humblest of her Kind!
The finest Form! and the most finish'd Mind!
A Cabinet fill'd with the Richest Charms
That ever Husband lock'd within his Arms?
So Tender, so Obedient all her Life,
As if his Guardian Angel, not his Wife.
So Chearful, Chast, and Studious of his Ease,
So truly kind, and so resolv'd to Please,
She gave him (as his Fate were in her Pow'r)
In nineteen Years not one afflictive Hour.
Design and Strife were Strangers to her Heart,
But Peace and Truth and That were ne'er apart.
Anger might knock, but he no entrance found:
He durst not tread that Path, 'twas Holy Ground.
Her Temper was to Piety so true,
Not her whole Life one rapid Motion knew,
Like a smooth Stream it did unmurm'uring roll,
Clear as her Eyes, and even as her Soul!
But see! her Hero can refrain no more,
His Heart is bursting, and his Eyes run o'er!
In vain he does let fall that plente'ous Show'r,
No Rain cou'd e'er revive a faded Flow'r!
Can you behold all this and Weep not too?—

DAMON.
No more Reproof—alas! my Friend, I do!
Nature is Pow'rful; to her Law I bow,
Tho' Contradicting what I said but now.

ALEXIS.
'Tis as it shou'd be—they who truly grieve,
Ne'er stand to ask their second Thoughts the leave:
True Grief, without Controul, will reign alone,
And seizing on the Fort, makes all her own.
But we'll retire, and next observe the Poor
And Naked, that in Numbers crowd the Door.

354

These long she Cloath'd, and those as long has fed;
She griev'd to see a Man that wanted Bread.
Ill was his Chance, tho' distant, that cou'd be
Remov'd from her diffusive Charity.
Where e'er she came, like Nile, she'd Plenty bring,
The Stream Conspicuous, but unknown the Spring.
Look how they grieve each other to behold,
And, tho' 'tis Summer, shake to think of Winter's cold.
See on that Hand the Sick despairing lie;
Now she is gone, they must the sooner Die,
Their speediest, surest, cheapest Remedy.
What help the Art of Physick cou'd afford
They had unask'd, and many she restor'd.
No wretched Creature who his Health had lost
Need, to regain it, spare the smallest Cost:
Nay when she fear'd her Judgment wou'd not do
(And much she strove to know, and much she knew)
Then she wou'd pay for the Physician's too.
Observe how they Expostulate with Fate,
That did not grant her Life a longer Date.
In sparing HER, ye Cruel Pow'rs! (they cry)
Y'ad kept us fearless of Mortality:
Now we must Languish, Pine, and drop away,
For who so Rich will care the Poor shou'd stay?
The JEWISH DORCAS was recall'd by Prayer,
Why is that Method ineffectual here?
She was as Good, and we as much her Care:
But ah! we do not tread th'Apostles Path;
She had the Vertue, but we want the Faith.
O Wond'rous! O Exemplar Soul! if e'er
True Innocence did in thy Sex appear;
If ever we cou'd yet Perfection see,
We have the nearest View of it in THEE!—
But least malicious Men shou'd Disbelieve,
And think we Flatter, or but vainly grieve,

355

Hear Friend, my sacred Imprecation hear,
And let both of us kneel, and both be bare.
Doom me (ye Pow'rs) to Misery, Strifes and Shame,
Let mine be the most ignominious Name;
Let me each Day be with new Griefs perplext,
Curst in this Life, nor happy in the next,
If I believe she has her LIKE survives;
Or if I think her not the best of Mothers and of Wives.

DAMON.
Thy wish shall have the Suffrage of us all.—
But hark!—'tis so, our Bleating Charge does call:
Close, close the mournful Scene, and let the Curtain fall.

Damon, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the much Lamented Hen. Bayntun, Esq;

Strephon, Menalcas.
STREPHON.
We have not for Mirana dry'd our Eyes,
When Damon's Fate does give us fresh surprize;
E'er we cou'd rise from that amazing Blow
W'are struck anew, and laid again as low!

MENALCAS.
I thought w'ad not one Tear yet left to fall,
I thought that Angel had Exhausted all:
When see! again they stream from ev'ry Eye!
Nor less than such a Sea of Grief cou'd such a Loss supply!

STREPHON.
He was, Menalcas, all he here cou'd be,
Th'abstracted Goodness of Humanity:

356

Of vast Processions, and an Ancient Line,
His Mind Capacious, and his Form Divine.
But what does Beauty, Birth, or Pow'r avail
When Fate does the weak Fort of Life assail?
Snatch'd from our Hopes ere half his Race was run!
Ah Early Good! and ah too Early gone!
Why are the Hero's Matchless in Desert
The first that must from all their Comforts part?
Or are we truely what old Plautus calls
Us miserable Mortals? Tennis Balls,
Which Fate in sport, without regarding Who,
Does strike away, and still, profusely, call for new:
Cruel! for thus the Wise, the Good, the Brave,
Are not distinguish't from the vilest Slave,
One Common Chance attends 'em all, and one Promiscu'ous Grave.
Of Kindness Nature molded half his Heart,
Of Wit, and Brav'ry form'd the other part.
Favour from most we can but Partial call;
He with extended Arms embrac'd us all.
Scarce Heav'n it self more Liberal of it's Store;
To know him was to be no longer Poor.
Had but the Muse a Voice to reach his Fame,
Such Worth shou'd never want a Deathless Name.

MENALCAS.
Who cou'd believe, when favour'd with a Son,
Who thought when the Boys Race of Life begun,
His Noble Sire's was so nigh being run?
A Prospect then of op'ning Joys were seen,
All Great and Bright, with not a Cloud between;
But while we gaz'd and did their Glory prize,
Heav'n shut the Scene for ever from our Eyes!
O dark Eclipse! O Worth for ever fled!
The Living Beggar'd to enrich the Dead!

357

STREPHON.
Curst be the Tongue that, with a pois'nous blast,
His bright unclouded Fame wou'd overcast:
Now w'are in Mourning; but the Muse e'er long
Shall change her Stile, and think upon his Wrong;
Revenge her Noble Patron's injur'd Fame,
And fix (who e'er 'tis) on the hated Name
As true an Ignominious lasting Brand,
As red-hot Iron on a Villains, Hand:
And all too small for th'opprobious Slave,
That lets his Malice reach beyond the Grave.

MENALCAS.
Let 'em alone, let 'em their Fictions frame,
They reach not Damon's ever-honour'd Name:
The Publick Voice does know 'tis Private spite,
And Envy, Friend, was never in the Right.
—But tell me, how does Adorissa fare?
How does that Beauty her Affliction bear
Now she is lanch't into this Sea of Care?
Her Grief, methinks, no Reason shou'd controul;
He was her Joy, her Life,—he was her very Soul!

STREPHON.
When on his Bed the dying Swain did lye,
As full of Love, so full of Piety,
She wringing of her Hands and weeping by.
The World (he cry'd) the World I can despise,
With all its trifling Joys and Gawdy Vanities,
But Ah! from Thee Thus to be torn away!—
Grief stopt him here, he cou'd no further say,
For only, only SHE was worth his Stay;
The doubly bitter thought from HER to part
Deeper than Death did pierce his Labou'ring Heart.
All Wit, all Beauty, and all Truth her own;
To be to her in that Relation known,
It hardly is more Heav'n where he is gone.

358

But Lo! the Hour is come, his Breath's requir'd,
He gaz'd on her and, with a Sigh, expir'd.
What here cou'd the Divine Afflicted do?
What Pow'r oppose against the Cruel Blow?
Swooning, she fell into her Womens Arms,
And in a Moment lost a Thousand Charms.
Her Warmth, her Colour, Senses, all were fled,
And, of the Two, she seem'd the Real Dead:
And dead we thought her, not a Sign was shown,
Nothing to tell but that her Soul was flown.
But who that's Sick, can at a Wish, have Ease?
Or can the Wretched die what Hour they please.
Reviv'd, her bright, her All-Commanding Eyes
She cast up, half in Anger, to the Skies;
Accus'd the Pow'rs that gave her Double Woe,
To take him hence, and not his Consort too.
Ah Charming Adorissa! spare that Breath,
Thou more than Angel talk not yet of Death!
Think on the Double Pledge he left behind,
The more Despair presides, the more to them unkind:
Like You, the Daughter; and like Him, the Son;
Ah! who will teach 'em after you are gone,
So well the Follies of the Age to shun?
Who can so truly point the Boy the Race
His Noble Father did to Glory trace,
And press him swifter onwards in the shining Chase?
And then your own Example is so bright,
Your other Comfort will have all the Light
Vertue can give, to guide her Goings right.
O Live! fam'd like thy Father's Mother's be,
In Worth, in Honours Eminent as She,
In Age, Maternal Care, and Piety—
But mourn!—Ah! mourn his Loss yet many Years,
Spare but the Life, be lavish of thy Tears!

359

MENALCAS.
Amid'st our Grief we may this Comfort find,
H' has left, in Minature, another self behind:
And, to speak justly, we have ne'r before
Seen one so very Young that promis'd more.

STREPHON.
Admire the Boy, (the Boy, too, I admire)
But not forget the Vertues of the Sire.
No, Damon, if I banish THEE my Mind,
Be Life Improspe'rous, and be Heav'n unkind—
—But hark! the Winds are loud, without Controul
They Rave, as if they meant to shake the Pole:
The Skies all with one dismal Noise resound,
In Sables hid, and hung with Horror round.
By this Tempestuous Night is well exprest
The Tumult and Confusion of my Breast;
The Passions all in Arms to rob me of my Rest.
And then, perhaps, the coming Dawn may see
The feather'd Quire assume their Harmony,
The Heav'n's disburthen'd, and a Glorious Morn
All Vernal Gay, as Nature just were born.
But ah! the Rising Light will bring us on
No Objects, but of Damon dead and gone!
With Grief that in no Bounds we shall contain,
A Ruin'd House, and an Impoverish'd Plain!
How much in Him did late his Country boast?
How much in Him has his dear Country lost?
Lost an Impartial Lover of her Laws,
The Church and King a Champion in their Cause.
Honour, her Guide; and Honesty the Prop
That strongliest kept her fainting Credit up:
And O! the Muse that does his Worth commend,
Has lost, at once, her Judge, her Theme, her Patron and her Friend!

360

MENALCAS.
'Tis late—Rest to the Wretched gives Relief;
To her Embraces Sacrifice your Grief:
In her soft Arms the Soul no Anguish meets,
For the tir'd Mind drinks deepest of her Sweets.

STREPHON.
Think not, Menalcas, sleep will ease our Care,
But rather make our Loss the heavier bear.
While in her Charge the Clay does fast remain,
Th'Immortal Part, not shackl'd in her Chain,
Will bring him to our Visionary View,
And make us, Nightly, mourn him o'er anew?—
But let us go; least taking Time too large,
We be not up against Alexis knocks:
That Swain, you know, is Early with his Charge:
We may, at once, both weep and tend our Flocks.

Nicander and Thirsis; a Funeral Eclogue:

To the Memory of Sir James Long Bart. and Sir Robert Long Bart. his Grandson, who dy'd about three Days after.

Palamon. Lycon. Amyntas.
LYCON.
Change, change these Strains into the Voice of Moan!
Or know you not Nicander's Dead and gone?
All Eyes are Flowing, ev'ry Heart does Bleed,
And thou art tuning of an Oaten Reed.

361

PALAMON.
Age must make way when Destiny does call;
If Fruit is Ripe, who grieves to see it fall?
How can Nicander's Fate require our Tears,
Who dy'd, as full of Honours, full of Years?
If to his Name you wou'd a Trophy raise,
Let it not be with Sorrow, but with Praise.
Those that untimely drop our Pity crave;
But he was old, and mellow'd for the Grave.

LYCON.
Had Palamon but known his Worth like me,
His Sighs had come as thick, his Tears as free.
Yet (if our Grief can be so long supprest)
We'll not deny so Gene'rous a Request:
And when you see in his long Race of Fame,
How still the Prize of Vertue was his Aim,
You'll Praise that Grief which now you seem to blame.

PALAMON.
I blame it not, but wou'd excuse my own;
Yet spare thine now, and make the Hero known.

LYCON.
Sprung from an Ancient Stock, and noble too,
More Glory there he leaves, than thence he drew:
The Name whole Harvests has of Honours bore,
And he has added largely to the Store.
Who e'er degene'rates from a Noble Race,
With his own Hand asserts his own Disgrace:
He scorn'd to come behind their bravest Deeds;
No Spur an In-born Emulation needs.
None did in Danger further Dare than He;
The Blossom shew'd the Fruit, the Fruit the Tree.
The Liberal Sciences he early gain'd,
With Ardour sought, and with Delight retain'd.
His Form so Lovely, we but one cou'd find
That did exceed it of the beauteous Kind,

362

The Charming Portia! after to him given,
To let him have below Taft of Heav'n.
Thus, with Applause, he past his younger Age;
Then came the Civil War to whet his Rage.
Born for his Country's Good, his Loyal Soul
(Which Fate cou'd not depress, or Force controul)
Espous'd the Side that had the least Success,
And but for him it might have, oft, been less.
His Courage was in num'rous Conflicts try'd,
His Sword as oft in Rebel's Blood was dy'd.
At last Confusion overspread the Land,
In vain did these Obey, or those Command:
Religion, Royalty, and Law o'erthrown,
Successful Villany made all its own:
Nor left a Prospect Comfort to afford,
But Peace Exil'd, no more to be Restor'd,
A Bleeding Country, and a Murder'd Lord!
'Twas here the Greatness of his Soul was seen
By all that plac'd not Prejudice between;
Above his Pow'r he buoy'd the sinking State;
But ah! what Atlas cou'd support the Weight?
And here 'twas, too, his beaute'ous Consort's Care
(When Sequestrators meant to strip him bare)
VVas his Estates Preserving and Repair.
Her Love, her Wisdom, Wit, we learn from hence,
She sav'd it then, and has encreas'd it since;
O ample Proof of Female Innocence!
From Vertue such as this we might Presage
More Guiltless Times, and a more Happy Age:
And Lo it came?—Auspicious Charles Return'd,
From whom the Royalists, despis'd and scorn'd,
So much had suffer'd, and so long had mourn'd.
And as none than Nicander griev'd before
So much, so no Man then cou'd Triumph more;
Or their Allegiance and Expence Employ
In Nobler Scenes of Grandeur, Love and Joy.

363

His Active Age thus past among the Great;
His last and feebler Years were all Retreat:
Unless his Country (which his Worth admir'd)
In Senate his Advice, or Aid requir'd.
The Rural Life and Innocence he lov'd,
And a whole Age had their Contentment prov'd.
Plenty and Joy he spread thro' all the Plains,
Pleas'd were the Nymphs, and happy were the Swains!

PALAMON.
And happy HE that, nurs'd in War and Strife,
So well cou'd taste the Peaceful, Unambitious Life.

LYCON.
The Name of Peace, O Friend, his Office bore,
And none e'er Labour'd to preserve it more.
Beneath his Dignity He'd stoop to be
Th'Occasion those at Variance might agree:
Nay further yet, wou'd with his Money part
To pull the Core out from th'Infected Heart.
Thus Foes he'd with Superiour Kindness awe,
And in the Yoak of Friendship make 'em draw,
To keep 'em from the Harpies of the Law:
Those Harpies, Lycon (fatal to our Rest)
That all our Country Villages infest;
That worse than Wolves, of late, have round us prowl'd;
Those for a Sheep, but These are for the Fold.
By them of our old Haunts w'are oft depriv'd,
Tho' the long Claim is from the Gods deriv'd.
Neighbour with Neighbour setting at Offence,
With more than with a Devil's Diligence.

PALAMON.
Blinded with Spite, how vain a thing is Man?
Like Flies, how busie in his own Trepan?
They see a Blaze, and plunge into the Flame;
And Law's to the Litigious Slave the same.

364

LYCON.
Nor this the worst; in Corporations too
They've Footing took,—but all their Footing Rue:
So Pole-cats in a Warren beat about,
And, once got in, Root all the Natives out.
Not an ELECTION in the Burrough's made,
(Whatever other Bills may be delay'd)
Without th'Attorney's being trebly paid:
Jobbing their Votes, he for few Guineas buys;
But who he sells to, must to Hundreds rise.
No matter what his Groaning Country bears,
So he can fill his Purse, and keep his Ears.
'Tis carrying on his own, and Brethrens Cause
To choose a Race that may confound the Laws:
For soon such Legislators plainly show,
'Tis to be brib'd above, they bribe below.
Thus Villains now become the Common Name;
Th'Electors and th'Elected all the same.
Forgive me, Friend, the Sting's Improper here;
But when a Sett of Rascals lie so bare,
Who that may have a Hearty Lash wou'd spare?

PALAMON.
Cou'd thy Resentments but Nicander hear,
He wou'd attend 'em with a List'ning Ear:
A fix'd Abhorrence to 'em all he bore,
Nor cou'd th'acutest Satyr Lance 'em more.

LYCON.
Whene'er, with Others, he in Sessions sate
In Service of his Country, or the State,
He scorn'd the Scale shou'd any way decline
Either for Fear, for Favour, or Design:
Thus careful to avoid the least Extreme,
You'd think Astræa's Hand had pois'd the Beam.
In Earth, O Goddess! You cou'd ne'er Delight,
To Heav'n with Him Y'ave took your second Flight:

365

Wretched of Old You left the Sons of Men,
And w'are almost as wretched left as then:
Nicander did thy perfect Image bear;
He did thy Loss, but who must his Repair!—
Here, Friend, the Rancour of our Nature scan,
For Envy spares not this Prodigious Man;
But thro' false Opticks Spots pretends to find
In the Seraphick Brightness of his Mind:
(To gaze on so much Lustre made 'em blind.)
Happy! thrice happy for themselves 'twou'd be,
If those that blame him were from Blame as free.
Who ever liv'd that 'scap'd an envious Tongue?
There's no such thing as Privilege from Wrong.
Shou'd Angels stoop to bear us Company,
Angels themselves wou'd not be Censure-free.
Yet still his base Traducer he forgave,
Which ever happn'd to be Fool or Knave.

PALAMON.
A Villain's Praises, or a Sot's Applause,
Is an Effect that does degrade the Cause;
To have from Men so vile an evil Name
Proclaims w'are injur'd, and asserts our Fame.

LYCON.
So famous for his Justice, tho' he be,
He has no less Renown for Charity.
With what he gave, he did so freely part,
Swift was his Hand, but lagg'd behind his Heart.
Nor did he drive the Ostentatious way,
Like those that give for Praise,—that is, for Pay;
The Gift not known, they think the Alms is lost;
But HE that taught to give forbid to boast.
No, to the Secret Path he had Regard,
And Heav'n did give him openly Reward:
The Liberal Hand of that he daily felt,
And th'Overplus as Liberaly he dealt;
Mindful of Want, as if in Want h' had dwelt.

366

Large his Possessions, larger was his Mind,
Just like his Bounty, which was unconfin'd.
His Gate still open, and his Table free;
His noble Spirit cou'd not brook to be
Out done in Love, or Hospitality.
When the warm Season did our Nobles bring
To taste, or Bath in Bladud's wond'rous Spring;
Who of our Rural Leaders cou'd we see
So Obsequious, Courtly, or Elate as He?
Or when the Royal Families resort,
For the same Reason, made that Place their Court;
Who at their Coming and Return again,
So constantly did wait 'em thro' the Plain,
With a more Loyal Heart, and such a num'rous Train?

PALAMON.
O Lycon! such a publick Soul as this
In it's Retirements must be of a Piece!
His private Hours how did the Hero pass?
Men are best seen in that more faithful Glass.
The Heart in Publick Views we darkly find,
'Tis Converse gives the Image of the Mind.

LYCON.
'Tis true my Friend;—but when we wou'd relate
The Charms that happy Converse did create,
W'are lost in multiplicity of Ways,
A Spring of Vertues, and a Maze of Praise!
If of Religion he Discours'd, we thought,
(So pleasing 'twas to hear) an Angel taught:
More might be learn't from him in one short Day
Than in whole Years from some that Cant for Pay.
If he but spoke of History, you wou'd find
All the past Ages present in his Mind:
His faithful Memory gave his Tongue the Cue,
To Season that his Wit was always New.
When e'er in Counsel he employ'd his Thoughts,
He was Achitophel without the Fau'ts.

367

If on the Sciences his Speech did fall,
You'd think he Understood, and Practis'd all.
Philosophy's Experimental part
He Study'd with much Labour, Cost and Art:
In Animals and Vegetables too,
He found the Deity at ev'ry View.
To a sharp Eye that can with Judgment look
Thro' the nice Foldings of wise Nature's Book,
GOD's no less seen in things minutely small
Than in his spacious Work, the mighty All.
Full was his Sense, and his Expression clear,
Food to the Mind, and Rapture to the Ear!
Bright his Ideas, and sublime his Thought;
So Moral, he spoke just as Plutarch wrote.
His Language had of Youth the Force and Flower,
Nor had his great Age made his Temper sour.
But ceas'd, ah! ceas'd is that harmonious Tongue
On which Mankind with such Attention hung!
Long we enjoy'd it e'er 'twas snatch'd away,
But ah! his Night is longer than his Day!
The Grave when once the Lamp of Life's withdrawn,
Admits no Morrow, no returning Dawn!
A heavy Gloominess that Light invades,
Dark! dark Oblivion! and eternal Shades!
And this not all; the Wicked and the Just,
Hero and Slave, are level'd in the Dust.
Tho' we repine not, yet we may presume
Such Worth deserv'd not that promiscuous Doom.

PALAMON.
A Great and Noble Life y'ave Travell'd o'er,
And justly you such Excellence deplore:
May his Example in young Thirsis raise
Like Ardor to be such a Theme for Praise.—
—But look Amyntas swiftly hither hies,
And nearer see, your Grief has touch't his Eyes.
What News my Friend:

368

AMYNTAS.
Confusion! Death! Despair!
Horror on Horror, more than Man can bear!
O Dismal Chance! and O Relentless Fate!
Why must such Goodness have so short a Date!

PALAMON.
So short a Date? Who is it drains these Tears?
Does he die Young that has seen Fourscore Years?
Why dost thou grieve at so profuse a Rate?
And think that Early, which, indeed, is Late?

AMYNTAS.
O you mistake! Nicander's Loss I know,
And with a Bleeding Heart have mourn'd it too.
'Tis Thirsis, Friends, 'tis Thirsis I deplore;—
But think the rest, for Grief will let me say no more!

LYCON.
Y'ave said too much, not to go further on,
And vainly You wou'd hide what must be known:
Speak then, tho' it prove Mortal to my Sense;
'Tis worse than Death to live in this Suspence.

AMYNTAS.
Then die!—for Thirsis you no more must see,
A sudden Blast has shook him from the Tree!
The fierce Disease that whets Death's keenest Knife,
The Mortal Foe of Beauty and of Life,
That of the Fairest Fruit will ever taste,
At once, has laid his Blooming Glories waste!
Ah Brittle! Ah too finely twisted Thread!
Too bright a Jewel to be set in Lead!
Too sweet a Form to mingle with the Dead!
Nicander gone, in all our Height of Grief
The Thoughts of Thirsis gave us some Relief.
Where must we now for Consolation go?
Or when have Cessation for our Woe?
No Glimpse of Comfort must we hope to see
Till we are in the Grave, and cold as He!

369

PALAMON.
In vain we watch, and Vertue make our Guard,
The Stroke of Death what Hero e'er cou'd ward?
Unseen, or sudden, he attacks the Fort,
And where he aims is never wide or short.
Ah Lovely Youth! and art thou too expir'd!
Whose Company both Gods and Men desir'd!
Thy Soul so soon else had not been requir'd!
Ha! Lycon! have these Tydings struck thee Dumb?

LYCON.
No, were I Marble now my Tears wou'd come!
Witness ye Pow'rs! we to your selves appeal;
Is this the Justice You to Mortals deal?
Is this the Way the wounded Heart You heal?
Say that Nicander dy'd by a Decree
Impartially Impos'd by Destiny,
The Fate of Thirsis yet was Cruelty!
He that in Honours might have flourish'd long,
Snatch'd from our Hopes, all Beautiful and Young,
When none that ever liv'd did promise more,
Or sooner such a Crop of Vertues bore!—
Ah! think Amyntas, if of Grief our Share
Does weigh so much, how Portia her's does bear!
Can all her Patience such a Shock sustain!
Will not her Eyes gush down a Show'r of Rain
Enough to drown this Fabrick once again!
What can she do, what can she think, or say,
Now Root and Branch are torn at once away!

AMYNTAS.
Like those for whom no hopes of Life remain,
That dying Lie, yet say they feel no Pain;
Sorrow has seiz'd so fully on her Heart,
And pierc'd so deep, she's Ignor'ant of the Smart:
Her Spirits with her Loss are sunk so low,
That she's benumb'd and stupify'd with Woe.

370

Full fifty Years of her foregoing Life
Nicander show'd the World the happiest Wife:
And then that Husband's Fate but just to know,
When Thirsis dead! was added to the Blow!
Thirsis! the lovely, witty, bold and gay,
Thirsis! her Age's Comfort, Hope and Stay!
Hard Hearts! that can for them their Tears defer,
And harder yet that cannot pity Her!

PALAMON.
Yet such there are—but while they theirs deny,
Our Duty 'tis that Comfort to apply.
My Grief once o'er I will my Counsel give;
And O I wish that Counsel she'd receive.
She then shou'd daily less'ning be her Cares,
And fix her Hopes on the remaining Heirs:
She shou'd consider Heav'n is absolute,
Whose Will, perhaps, 'tis impious to dispute:
Why shou'd we grieve for those remov'd away,
When none can be so happy by their Stay?
Who knows but Fate, by this, may let her see
More clear the Frailty of Mortality?
And make her Ardour, which was great before,
To climb the starry Region still be more?
Where they're but enter'd first to make her room,
And fix her Seat against she's wing'd to come.
—But see! the distant Sun yet lower gets,
And they will be interr'd before he sets.
Dry then your Eyes; there we shall weep again;
Let us reserve a fresh Supply till then.

LYCON.
The Sheep are yet to fold.

AMYNTAS.
And let 'em stay,
Guardless at Night as Keeperless to Day:

371

Nay 'twill be well, now Fate has robb'd the Plain
Of all the Worth and Wit that did remain,
If ever we return to 'em again;
That growing wild, they may for ever stray,
And we, with Grief, turn yet more wild than they!

The Mourning Swain, a Funeral Eclogue.

Humbly offer'd to the Memory of the Right Honourable James Earl of Abingdon; And Dedicated to his Grace the Duke of Leeds.

The Sun almost an annual Race has ran
Since the Decease of this Prodigious Man
So long ago (and such the Nation gave)
These faithful Tears were wept upon his Grave.
They who can see when Nature sways in Chief,
Will find 'em shed in an extreme of Grief:
Without her Aid, in vain we strive by Art
To limn a weeping Eye, and bleeding Heart.
In private writ; in private to the Plains
I thought to have confin'd these Rural Strains,
An Ev'ning Concert for the mourning Swains;
When on their Oaten Reeds his Name they'd raise,
All tun'd to their departed Patron's Praise.
But call'd from thence in publick to appear,
(My Self by being Worthless fenc'd from Fear)
I fly to YOU with this Illustrious Name,
To stand between Detraction and his Fame.
With Merit Envy ever did commence,
And Vice is still suppressing Excellence;

372

Like feeble Eyes that shun the Glaring Light,
'Twou'd cover what it cannot bear in Night.

Your nearness to the HERO in his Blood,
And the yet nearer Tye of being Good;
Your joynt Endeavours, and your joynt Success
In lab'ring for your Countries Happiness;
Your mutual Friendship, with such Concord knit,
That Love ne'er made so dear an Union yet;
All these Regards make this Address your Due:
It can, my Lord, belong to none but YOU,
The Honour of this celebrated Name;
Return'd, in some Degree, from whence it came,
Guide of his Life, and Guardian of his Fame.

Justly these Lines may Safety seek, where late
'Twas found by an affrighted tott'ring State:
When to the Verge of Anarchy it drew,
Hurried along, and all her Fears in View,
She, Sighing cast her Eyes for Aid on YOU;
You who so oft (when wander'd from the Way,
And lost in Night) have led us to the Day.
Loud was the Storm; and now advancing nigh,
There seem'd no Hope of Help from Policy.
Here Bigottry, like Scylla threat'ning stood,
Horrid with Wrecks, and painted o'er with Blood.
There like Charybdis, Tyranny appear'd,
Fearful to Sight, and hideous to be heard!
And yet between 'em lay the happy Coast
Which either we must make, or all be lost.
Here 'twas (and greatlier ne'er employ'd before)
Your Counsels did our Peace and Pow'r restore,
When they had took their Leave to come no more.

Where does the wond'rous Penetration lie?
Or is all Nature open to your Eye?

373

That thus YOU forward look among the Fates,
And seem a second Providence to States?
For ever on the Publick Good Intent,
YOU Foreign Ills divert, and Home prevent.
No more an empty Title to the Main
Our Squadrons boast; by your Advice they reign.
Europe and Africa Triumphant saw
Our Navy ride, and give the Ocean Law;
While those who thought t'invade us now retire,
And leave their Shores to Spoil and Hostile Fire.

If the Physician oft divert our Fate,
By feeling how the Blood does Circulate,
What may HE do that knows the Pulse of State?
Be Fever, Faintness, Frenzy the Disease,
Or if a Lethargy the Vitals seize;
Be it Luxurious Peace, or Lawless Might,
Or Legislative Rage for Ravish'd Right;
Be it a less'ning Fame, or less'ning Trade,
The Neighb'ring Strength increas'd, or Ours decay'd,
The Remedy is certain YOU advise;
And we are ne'er so Low but then we Rise.

And yet in Spite of this unweary'd Care,
Among us there a sort of Monsters are,
Whose Tongues, like Jews, wou'd not their Saviour Spare:
But y'are secure, and all their Malice vain;
Such Vertue is too Rich a Dye to Stain.

As when a Nymph breaths on a Crystal Glass,
The Damps a while obscure her Beaute'ous Face;
A Dimness on the fair Reflection lies,
And sits between her Image and her Eyes:
But soon the Self-assisted Mirror's clear,
The Envious Shades dissolve into the Air,
And all her former lovely Lineaments appear.

374

So what e'er Spite with black'ning Breath can say,
The Lustre of your Worth does purge away,
Breaks thro' the sullen Gloom, and settles Day.

But while (alas!) the too advent'rous Muse
Ambitiously her noble Flight pursues,
She finds the Weight above her Pow'r to raise,
And sinks beneath the Pressure of your Praise.
A Life like yours a History does claim,
An ample Fabrick that may hold your Fame;
Where on immortal Pillars shou'd be grav'd
The Princes y'ave oblig'd, and Kingdoms sav'd.

And Lo! (for what can veil the Muses Eyes?)
I see, methinks, a fam'd Historian rise,
Impartial, Great, Elab'rate, Learn'd and Wise!
One on whose Works the Graces all shall Smile;
So just a Subject claims the justest Stile.
No other but the best of Pens shou'd show
The future Ages what the Present owe
To LEEDS, and (O too early from us torn;)
That other Godlike Man whose loss we mourn:
Your Glory will not less Illustrious shine,
To have his Name immortal made with Thine.
He shall to the succeeding Times display
How you both stood, when hopeless of the Day,
Rescuing the Rights Deserters did betray;
The Slaves that for precarious Pow'r and Place,
To French Designs wou'd stoop the British Race,
Born to be FREE; and not to be o'ercome,
Unless by Pension'd Sn---ts sold at Home.

375

The Mourning Swain, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the much Lamented Death of the Right Honourable James Earl of Abingdon.

Menalcas, Damon, Alexis.
MENALCAS.
He sinks! he dies away!—Alexis! Friend!
'Tis thy Menalcas calls!—some God descend,
And save the Swain from an untimely End.
Ha! he grows Paler still!—O Damon! you
Are come, as you Prophetically knew
The Aid I wish'd, and what his Griefs wou'd do!

DAMON.
I heard the broken Sobs, and fault'ring Breath,
And Groans like those the Wretched give in Death.
What sad Occasion—

MENALCAS.
Ask not yet our Grief,
But lend the swooning Shepherd quick Relief:
Chafe, chafe his Temples; forward gently bow
The Body—this, or nothing else will do:
Tho' when his Spirits to their Seat return,
He lives to Grief, and but revives to mourn!

DAMON.
What unforeseen and sudden Stroke of Fate
Is this, that Nature sinks beneath the Weight?
That Life, retiring, shuns th'unequal Fight,
And if it conquers must o'ercome by Flight.

376

MENALCAS.
The worst that cou'd the wretched Youth attend:
Bertudor's Dead! his Master, Patron, Friend!
Bertudor! than which yet a worthier Name
Was ne'er took up, or sounded off by Fame.
I brought him Word the Noble Soul was flown,
And fear the Fatal News has wing'd his own.
Is this to be your Image? Cruel Pow'rs!
How are we Yours, when withering Grass and Flow'rs,
Vapours and Bubbles, are so truly Ours?—
—But see! the Blood does to his Cheeks ascend,
And Labouring Life returns—How fares my Mourning Friend?

ALEXIS.
Again! do I yet draw this hated Breath?
And, flying Life, can be but mock'd with Death?
Will not the Partial Pow'rs that rule above
Permit this last, best, dearest Act of Love,
To die! and by that Test our Sorrows prove?
Must we be doom'd in Being to remain,
Renew'd to Grief, and but preserv'd for Pain?
Ah! dear Menalcas! what an Ease 'twou'd be
Cou'd we at Will shake off Mortality!
Cou'd with our Tears our Lives dissolving fall,
And Grief had long Oblivion at her Call?
But 'twill not be!—in worst Extremes, as now,
The Soul wou'd rest in Death, and swoons to go,
When strugling Nature gives us back to Woe!

MENALCAS.
The Fatal Loss, Alexis, all will rue,
Heavy to us, but heavier yet to you:
You were acquainted with the Hero young,
He knew you early, and he lov'd you long.

ALEXIS.
He found me helpless, and of Friends bereft,
Of Parents, and the Little they had left.

377

The World look'd frowning on my Early Years,
And I seem'd destin'd by my Stars to Cares.
He took me, rais'd me, fix'd me in his Sight,
By Precept and Example kept me Right;—
But ah! the Lamp is gone, and I am hid in Night!
He taught me Good, then gave that Good regard;
But still, it still was short of the Reward.
With the new Day new Favours he'd impart,
Then make the World believe 'twas my Desert.
And shall? O shall this BENEFACTOR go,
And we not sing his Worth, and sigh our Woe?
The last sad Task that Gratitude can do!
Shall Time or Rage be suffer'd to efface
The Mem'ory of this best of British Race?
Shall Fame amid'st such Merit silent lie?
Shall e'er the Springs that water Grief be dry?
No! no! while Vertue does on Earth remain,
And Flocks and Herds feed on th'Oxonian Plain;
While Learning there and Piety increase,
And Truth can rest in the soft Arms of Peace;
While there is Wealth employ'd to Gene'rous Ends,
While there are Sweets in Love, and Faith in Friends,
So long the Muses shall his Loss deplore,
That rain'd a Golden Show'r on them, and Manna to the Poor.

DAMON.
How various are the Ways of Providence!
How crooked oft they seem to Human Sense!
He's gone! for whom there's not a Soul but Grieves,
And yet his Foe, the Treach'rous Jockney lives:
He Lives! (nor does degenerate from his Breed)
That never did one honourable Deed:
Yet lives in Prosp'rous Fortune, high in Trust,
But barba'rous to Desert, and plung'd in Lust:
He lives! that yet ne'er did a Loan restore,
E'er pay a Debt, or e'er relieve the Poor:

378

He lives! that wou'd subvert the Church and State,
And ride 'em, loaded with Despotick Weight:
He lives! that nothing Impious e'er did shun;
He lives! a longer Race of Vice to run;
He lives! and yet the good Bertudor's gone!

MENALCAS.
If Vertue meet with a so early Fate,
Can Vice presume to hope a longer Date?
If Tempe'rance thus at Noon is snatch'd away,
Can wild Excess expect to End the Day?

ALEXIS.
It does! it does! and ev'ry Wish succeeds,
On Down it lies, and on Ambrosia feeds;
No inward Pang it feels, or future Reck'ning dreads.
The best, alas! are summon'd first to go,
Have least Success, and least Regard below.
The Haughty mount, and on the Humble tread,
Depress 'em Living, and Revile 'em Dead:
Their Honours, won with Blood, are from 'em torn,
And by their Mortal Foes insulting worn.
No Disappointments e'er th'Unjust attend,
The Just have hardly GOD or Man their Friend.
Hence Providence is oft misunderstood,
Scoff'd by bad Men, and doubted by the Good;
While undistinguish'd Right and Wrong are hurl'd,
And Knave and Fool between 'em share the World.

MENALCAS.
'Tis not for Man, with a too daring Eye,
To look into the Secrets of the Sky;
Or if he shou'd, in vain he strives to see
Thro' the Dark-woven Folds of Destiny.
As the Meridian Sun, all flaming bright,
Gaz'd on, confounds, and quenches human Sight;
So Reason fails, and sinks beneath the Weight
Of Will, Omniscience, Providence and Fate:

379

From the high Beach 'twou'd look the Ocean o'er,
But there's no Reaching to the distant Shore:
Abstruse, Immense, and barring all Access,
The further we go on, the more 'tis Wilderness!
But thou, Great Soul, disburthen'd of thy Freight,
Art Landed on that other Side of Fate;
To Thee those Distributions now are clear,
That so perplex, and so confound us here.
'Tis true, thus much by Reason's understood;
Affliction is the Test that tries the Good:
Where'er it visits 'tis by Heav'n's Command;
Not Shuffl'd out, as Vice wou'd understand,
With blinking Eyes, and a Promiscu'ous Hand.
If Prosp'rous Fortunes are to most a Snare,
Why not th'Afflicted God's peculiar Care?
Expos'd to black'ning Tongues, and faithless Friends,
Only to ply their Souls for Nobler Ends;
For Regions where w'are known, and know aright,
Where Day is never to resign to Night,
And flying Time no more can bound Delight.
Shou'd Pleasure here run smooth with equal Feet,
And a long Life no Disappointments meet;
Shou'd the first Honours be by Worth possest,
Humility advanc'd, and Pride deprest;
Shou'd Hope succeed and Root out ever'y Care,
Our Friends all Faithful, and all Chast the Fair;
What e'er Hereafter more were to be giv'n,
We here shou'd fix, and seek no other Heav'n.
But since this never was, nor will be so,
Not Revelation scarce can plainer show
That Vertue's not to wear her Crown below.
This Contemplation shou'd Your Griefs remove;
Our very Suffe'rings a Reward does prove,
It must not be on Earth—and it must be Above.

380

ALEXIS.
Of this, Menalcas, I am conscious too,
But what avails it to divert our Woe?
Bertudor, tho' to endless Glory gone,
Has left us Cause for a whole Age's Moan.
When Great Elijah did on high ascend,
And Heav'n's bright Chariot his Ascent attend,
What Joy was it to his Remaining Friend?
He, in His Loss, deplor'd his Country's Fate,
Their Civil Strifes, and Cruel Hazael's Hate;
Nor yet is Ours a fix'd unmurmu'ring State.
When will Delive'rance from Oppression come,
If such as HE are call'd so Early Home?
When will our Publick Fears and Private Hate
Be at an end, and lose such Props of State?
Who, when the Royal Cause is sunk so low,
Will set so vast a Fortune at a Throw,
And with such Skill divert th'Impending Blow?
Who in the Gap, when Force wou'd RIGHT devour,
Will stand so firm against Unbounded Pow'r?
Stemming the Tide of Violated Laws,
Till he has made the Just the Prospe'rous Cause?
O Britain! Thou, whose Happiness he sought,
Whose Happiness he wou'd with Life have bought,
Thy Peace his constant Aim, and still intending Thought;
Let thy sad Genius now put Sables on,
And thro' the Land diffuse her Faithful Moan,
That ev'ry Eye may Weep, and ev'ry Breast may Groan!
And Thou, O Learned Town! whose sacred Name
Has been so long th'unenvy'd Theme of Fame;
Thou, too, shoud'st in the Mourning Concert share,
Scarcely so much thy Guardian Angels Care.
Who e'er before made Thee appear so Great,
Or in thy Civil, Learn'd, or Martial State?

381

Or who hereafter (thro' more Tryals prov'd)
Will leave Thee—so bemoan'd, and so belov'd?
How did he Factious Fears and Doubts controul!
How still Contention! and how tune the Soul!
How baffle Envy! and how Silence Pride!
In all Elections certain to Preside.
Others to Feuds and Violence wou'd run,
But where He came he made all Voices one.
With a bare Breath they mov'd as he inclin'd,
Like standing Corn all bending with the Wind.
At once to RIGHT and ROYALTY a Friend;
Nor did he to thy Burroughs recommend
A needy Race, for Policy to bait,
Like Gudgeons, catch'd with Pensions by the S---te.
But while, blest City, I'd thy HERO show,
I rove, and make Disgressions from my Woe.
Ah! never! never cease to sigh his Name!
So true to Honour, and so dear to Fame!
Let all thy Sons bewail th'Exalted Man,
And Thou, Immortal YALDING! lead the Van,
Thou who new Force dost to our Langu'age give;
He who so well can Praise, as well may Grieve.
Ransack the silent Seat where Mem'ory lies,
To bring our Woes Proportional Supplies:
Let not the Hoary Dews of Lethe steep
So many Vertues in Eternal Sleep:
But as they pass our Intellectual View,
Let Sorrow grave 'em deep, and keep 'em new:
Then, when we have survey'd th'Amazing Store,
Let us reflect their OWNER is no more!
How all that's Prudent, Noble, Just and Brave,
Is cover'd with Bertudor in the Grave!
O Thought! that on the Rack does ev'ry Nerve constrain!
Distraction were less Grief! and Dying gentler Pain.

382

MENALCAS.
My dear Alexis, if that Rain must fall,
But speak the Hero's Worth—and weep it all.

ALEXIS.
It was my full Design:—but first my Friend,
(And Prostrate I'll the sad Account attend)
Tell by what Malady he hence was torn,
With how confus'd a Grief the Loss was born,
All Raving!—'twas too little, sure, to Mourn!
He had to Human Sight no least Decay,
Warm as a Summer Sun's reviving Ray,
Nor Promis'd less than a long Summer's Day;
Fresh as the Morning, when the Pearly Dew
Foretells the bright Meridian to ensue:
But there he stopt! there did the Gloom arise!
Veil'd with surrounding Clouds from Human Eyes!
Eclips'd! when most conspicuous in the Skies!
Unwillingly the Rural Shades he left;
(Unhappy Shades! of all your Joys bereft!)
Never in Senate he deny'd his Aid;
This only, only Time he wou'd have staid;
But 'twas his Country call'd—whose Call he still obey'd.
—But I prevent Thee; dear Menalcas, on;
And—if I can—I'll stifle in my Moan

MENALCAS.
To tell you true (who e'er it may displease)
He dy'd of the Physician;—a Disease
That long has reign'd, and, eager of Renown,
More than a Plague Depopulates the Town.
Inflam'd with Wine, and blasting at a Breath,
All it's Prescriptions are Receipts for Death.
Millions of Mischiefs by it's Rage is wrought,
Safe where 'tis fled, but Barba'rous where 'tis sought.
A black, Ingrateful Ill! that, call'd to Aid,
Is still most Fatal where it best is paid.

383

So slight at first his Ail, it cou'd have done
No further harm, but must of Course been gone,
Had not this worse Malignance forc'd it on;
And cruelly (till then all Pure and Good)
With it's own Venom dash'd the circl'ing Flood.—
By this time we the Hero's Danger found;
He near Expiring, and we Weeping round.
The Sighs of Widows, and the Orphans Cries,
Importunate for Aid, besieg'd the Skies.—
—And now the Fever seem'd in part t'Asswage;
Death grinn'd a horrid Smile, and half forgot his Rage.
As he grew better so the Town reviv'd,
As Joy it self were from his Health deriv'd.
But whether 'twere to shew, tho' ne'er so late,
How fervent Prayer can turn the Course of Fate;
Or whether 'twere a last expiring Glare,
The fatal Hope that ushers in Despair;
Or whether yet the Line of the Disease
Cou'd be no further lengthn'd out for Fees,
He soon relaps'd; relapsing weaker grew,
And the pale Tyrant came again in view.
Here Grief was at it's utmost stretch disclos'd,
We all Confounded! he alone Compos'd.
What Blessings did he to his Friends bequeath!
What Joys describe! what dying Raptures breath!
With what Assurance did he meet his Fate!
How fearless pass th'inevitable Gate!
His Soul had by Anticipation here,
A Taste of Heav'n before it yet was there.
O Truth! O Innocence! O peaceful Close!
Hail him (ye Angels) to his long Repose.—
But now an universal burst of Woe,
Thro' all the Town did like a Torrent flow.
The very Senate mourn'd his early Fate,
Mourn'd this ADJUSTER of the Church and State;

384

As quite despairing any more to see
RELIGION reconcil'd to POLICY.
The Clergy next their PATRIOT's loss deplore,
No more to hear his Voice! to have his Smiles no more!
In dangerous Times they freshly call'd to Mind,
How diffe'rent Parties in their Aid he joyn'd;
Then, with a Grief too big to speak in Tears,
In Silence sunk beneath their former Fears:
For ne'er before, in the most impious Age,
Were they pursu'd with such invet'rate Rage,
So slighted by the Great, and slander'd from the Stage.
His Friends you next might see Distracted stand,
Too weak the Streams of Anguish to Command:
Nor Compass, Card, or Pilot left to Guide,
They hopeless plunge into the raging Tide.
But theirs, and ev'ry Grief the Poor's out-did,
Tearing the very Earth up to be hid,
And Raving Self-destruction was forbid!
A frightful Prospect they before 'em see
Of Wants, and unreliev'd Adversity,
Ev'n those that knew him but by common Fame,
With Tears repeat their common Patriot's Name.
Nor less of our regard it ought to have,
To think what Numbers mourn'd him to the Grave:
With mutual Praise their mutual Sighs did vie,
And from so many Mouths opprest the Sky—
There rest his Ashes:—but his nobler Name,
Expanding as it mounts the Starry Frame,
Shall fill the expiring Breath, and latest gasp of Fame.

DAMON.
'Tis done, the Task you bid Menalcas do;
His Praise, a Nobler Task, we now expect from you.

ALEXIS.
That Praise, alas! shou'd be by Angels Sung,
At least the first of the Castalian Throng:

385

Not in my Numbers, broken, rough and lame,
But Verse of the Duration of his Fame;
Such as where-ever read shou'd sway in Chief;
Mine's but the Duty of a Servant's Grief:
Tho' yet (so much my Soul his Name reveres)
What in my Stile unelegant appears,
I'll sanctify with Truth, and polish with my Tears.
Witness ye everlasting Lamps above,
Ye sacred Lights that round us nightly move,
Witness how oft, when the long Day was done,
And all Devotion silent but his own,
W'ave seen him on his Knees before th'immortal Throne.
As if at neither Morning, Noon and Ev'n,
There Hours enow to Piety were giv'n,
Part of the Night in Prayer he always spent,
The Time by most to Wine and Lewdness lent.
No Hypocrite e'er with more Ardour cou'd
Unseen be Ill, than he'd unseen be Good.
What ever doing, or where e'er he were,
His Privacies did no Detection fear;
We ne'er cou'd find him when unfit to see,
Nor hear him, but the Theme was Piety.
No Faith by Works was ever readier shown,
If when no Act of Charity is done,
That Day be lost—He never squander'd one.
As soon the Sun might cross from Pole to Pole,
As soon the wand'ring Planets cease to roll,
As he dismiss the Poor without their Dole.
No Fears, by which our Scepticks are distrest,
E'er found the least Admittance to his Breast:
Where-e'er he turn'd his View, Sea, Earth and Skies,
GOD, in his Works, was present to his Eyes.
Unhappy they, that see this wond'rous Frame,
And after make a Doubt from whence it came!

386

His Converse, tho' 'twas cheerful, ne'er was vain;
His Soul wou'd start to hear a Word profane:
That fatal Rock where half our Nobles split,
Lost for the poor Repute of having Wit:
With such the Vertuous are the only Elves,
But Devils are thought Angels by themselves.
Where once he lov'd he never cou'd distrust;
Kind to a Fault, and to a Scruple just:—
But most, he most did fly the Snares of Lust.
Not all the Darts thrown by the beauteous kind,
That, Light'ning like, so quick a Passage find;
Not all their Wit, and never ending Art,
His once engag'd Affection cou'd divert,
Or melt the Chastity that wall'd his Heart.
Our Saviour's Precept he to Practice brought,
And never, never lusted, not in Thought.
And to reward his Truth, he twice was joyn'd
In Wedlock to the best of Womankind.
The first, the brightest purest Soul that e'er
Was sent from Heaven, to shew us Mortals here
What Angels and translated Saints are there!
To see her once was ev'ry Charm to know
Of Peace above, or Purity below;
Imagination cou'd no further go!
So Sweet her Form, th'Idea warms us yet!—
But Ah! that Light in all her Glory set,
In all her Youth (and we all drown'd in Tears)
E'er she had numbred three and thirty Years:
Yet thirteen times had call'd Lucina's Aid,
And was as oft a happy Mother made.
His Next did a like Scene of Joy presage;
That sent to charm his Youth, and this to bless his Age.
Her Mind so justly to her Form contriv'd,
The living Wife but seem'd the Dead reviv'd.

387

No Jot Impar'd, or less amazing bright,
For her succeeding such a Glorious Light:
A strange Eclipse had certainly been thrown
On any Face, or Vertue but her OWN.
Here were a Subject now our Voice to raise,
To sing at once her Sorrows and her Praise!
A Year! but one short Year in Wedlock run,
E'er robb'd of all her Conq'ring Eyes had won!
Her Eyes! a Charm that cou'd for Ages bind,
Were Comfort certain, or had Fate been kind.
Ah beaute'ous Widow! cou'd I think, when late
The Muse did on your happy Nuptials wait,
That such a Scene of Pleasure, Love and Light,
So soon wou'd close in Everlasting Night!
That one short Year wou'd so destructive prove
To strictest Vertue, and the noblest Love!
Ah! what avails our Hope, if Truth must here
Be least, or latest Providence's Care?
What Comfort have we to'wards the Goal to strive,
If thus the Stream of Fate at Random drive?
If all the Blessings of the Good and Fair
Must, like a Bubble break, and end in Air!

DAMON.
You know there's none exempt from human Cares—
But, Friend, you lose his Vertues in your Tears.

ALEXIS.
Forgive me, Damon, I've too long digrest;
But who cou'd hold to see such Charms distrest?
Vast are the Praises to his Vertues due,
But some Regard must wait on Beauty too:
Ev'n he himself wou'd Pardon such a Start,
That give our Duty where he gave his Heart—
—But to our View his Tempe'rance next appears,
His fast Companion from his Early Years.
In all th'Afflue'nce of a Wealth so vast,
He ne'er the Common Bounds of Nature past.

388

Tho' on his Board (where all the Seasons smil'd)
What Earth cou'd furnish plenteously was pil'd;
Tho' there the Sea a constant Tribute paid,
And Richest Wines (declining Nature's Aid)
Flow'd round, as from a Spring that ne'er decay'd;
'Twas but prepar'd, proportion'd to his Store,
To feast his Neighbours, and to feed the Poor.
Who born so high, wou'd yet so low descend?
Then only Proud, when he cou'd serve a Friend.
Upon his Word you, as on Fate, might rest;
The rather, if it crost his Interest.
To Truth ev'n his most trivial Thoughts did tend;
As heavy Bodies sink, and Flames ascend.
Ev'n Contraries his Meekness reconcil'd;
As soon as Anger touch'd his Breast, 'twas Mild:
Sternly he to the Beard wou'd Vice reprove,
Tho' his Aversion still was meaning Love:
From most, Resentment does in Hate con clude
But his Concern was always for your Good.
For ev'ry turn of Human Chance prepar'd,
As none he Injur'd, so he nothing fear'd;
For Vertue ne'er was missing from his Guard.
Thus, by a wond'rous Mixture, you might find
In him the Hero and the Christian join'd,
The Loftiest Courage and the Lowliest Mind!—
What shall we say?—unless by Angels penn'd,
His Praises, like our Grief, can have no End.
Nature her self does of this WORTHY boast,
Aloud she cries—Here was no Labour lost:
While to their Various Molds I'd others fit,
Ten Thousand fail me for one Lucky Hit.
Hereafter, when the Nobler Souls I Frame,
Such as shall early get a Deathless Name,
And late pursue the shining Chase of Fame,
They by this PATTERN shall be all design'd;
And, Copying him, Exalt the long Degraded Kind.

389

MENALCAS.
Were not your Sight subservient to your Moan,
You wou'd perceive it is already done.
What Copy can you hope to see so fair
As that he drew in his Illustrious HEIR?
Who is more likely Fame's now sinking Blast
To lift again as high, and make it last?
A Noble Character I grant y'ave drawn;
But since 'tis Darkness there, look on the Rising Dawn:
What Promises Bertudor's Worth can give,
Like a new Eden, all in him revive.
Then in our Hope his CONSORT with him shares;
Born for his Ease, and soft'ning all his Cares,
She does the Noblest Modern Instance prove
Of Peace in Wedlock, and of Truth in Love.
This happy Pair thy Sorrows shou'd divert;
And never was a nobler Work for Art.

DAMON.
Begin, Alexis, let thy tuneful Song
Paint him all Lovely, Affable and Young:
Then let him shew the vast Advance his Youth
Has made in Honour, Eloquence and Truth;
How none to Pleasure e'er was less a Slave,
More thro'ly Noble, nor more early Brave.
With him, his Gene'rous Brother's Worth proclaim,
Who all they owe their Birth will pay in Fame:
In Peace, they shall the Arts of Peace adorn;
Or War, if they for Bloody War are born.
His Sisters then shou'd be Triumphant shown,
Their Sables off, and all their Brightness on;
Warming where e'er their happy Influ'ence flies,
Love in their Mien, and Conquest in their Eyes!

MENALCAS.
As justly shou'd the fair Carnarvan's Name
Be handed, with her Niece's, down to Fame:

390

She who by Vertue does assert her Blood,
And values less her Birth than being good:
That Sister who so much his Loss deplor'd,
And seem'd, at last, as hard to be restor'd:
That Sister who to save him wou'd have dy'd,
Who all his Sickness on her Knees wou'd 'bide—
Ah! cou'd so bright a Suppliant be deny'd!
Let not her num'rous Alms be hid in Night,
Tho' private done, and flying human Sight:
Nor shou'd her Chastity thy Pen decline,
The hereditary Vertue of the Line;—
Begin, and be thy Song as famous as thy Theme's Divine.

ALEXIS.
Ah Friends!—I grant my Duty owing there—
But first (ye Pow'rs!) I'll first perform it here;
First with a bleeding Heart, and weeping Verse,
Pay my last Homage to Bertudor's Herse.
That Office o'er, we to their Names will turn,
There truly Praise, as here we truly mourn.—
—But no such Theme shall now the Muse employ,
No thought of Comfort, nor no dream of Joy!
Faithful to Grief and wedded to my Moan,
All my Relief shall be—to hope for None!—
—Ha! Damon! where? whence come these dismal Cries?
Shriekt out, as they were Nature's Obsequies!
As if the general Doom just now were bid,
And cleaving Earth were yielding up its Dead!

MENALCAS.
To the same Cause of Grief the Country yields;
I spread the News thro' the Wiltonian Fields:
No longer now bemoan'd by Swain to Swain,
It gathers Head, and sweeps along the Plain:
Like an impetuous Flood it all o'erbears—
The Sadder Deluge, as 'tis made of Tears.

391

ALEXIS.
Lead on Menalcas.—This will be a Scene
Fit to Indulge the Sorrows I am in!
Hark! louder! how the sad affrighting Sound
Does from the Hills back on the Plain rebound,
And tells us—Death can now no deeper Wound!
The Flocks and Herds run bleating o'er the Plains,
And Sympathize with the Despairing Swains.
Some dismal Tydings Heav'n's uncommon Rage,
In Groans of Thunder, did last Night Presage.
The Faithful Dogs in horrid Concert howl'd,
And the fierce Wolves unguarded found the Fold,
While croaking Ravens Death and Woe foretold!
With Light'ning sindg'd, the blasted Heath is bare,
And Horror is the sole Possessor there.—
But let us haste and join 'em, now their Grief
Is at the full, and hopeless of Relief.
Bertudor is their Theme—Bertudor we
Will cry, and Echo back their Misery.
Bertudor! O Bertudor!—O no more!
For ever now no more!—
Away! and let me join the weeping Throng,
To hear him Mourn'd, to hear his Praises sung,
And die with the dear NAME upon my Tongue!

Thealma, a Funeral Eclogue:

On the Death of Mrs. Jane Roderick.

Daphnis, Alexis, Almeria.
DAPHNIS.
Welcome, Alexis, from the Cambrian Air;
Not more they griev'd the sweet Thealma there,
Than thy long Absence was lamented here.

392

—Ha!—from what Cause do these new Sighs arise?
Why dost thou beat thy Breast and heave thy Eyes?
Almeria's well; and she all other Loss supplies.

ALEXIS.
She is, indeed, of all my Joys the Chief,
And 'tis that Thought which now revives my Grief:
To see her will afresh my Woes renew,
And set the dead Thealma full in View.
O Friend! 'tis an Affliction so severe,
As without strong Support I cou'd not bear!
My Eyes scarce for the best of Master's dry'd,
Before that dearest, best of Sisters dy'd!
To what e'er Fate the rest of Men are born,
I seem, my Daphnis, only made to Mourn.

DAPHNIS.
Too true, Alexis, we have oft been seen
With Briny Tears to wet this Verdant Green:
The Beaute'ous Flow'ers, in all their Balmy Pride,
Have with the Fatal Moisture pin'd and dy'd:
The Sheep, abandon'd, our Despair have told,
And kindly, to divert our Sorrows, bleated for the Fold:
But ne'er till this Inauspicious Hour
Did I e'er see thee Rain so free a Show'r.

ALEXIS.
Ah Daphnis! (tho' it scarce may gain Belief)
You see but now the Leavings of my Grief:
Cou'd I my Loss, and all her Worth relate,
You'd think I mourn her at too mean a Rate,
Forget her Dead, and poorly side with Fate.

DAPHNIS.
I well remember (tho' but short her stay)
When she from far a Visit came to pay;
Her Converse not ev'n more by you desir'd
Than here by all our Rural Youth admir'd,
A Conq'ring Pow'r she in her Aspect bore,
Made by an unaffected Sweetness more.

393

No look was grating, and no Motion strain'd
Yet Caution still preserv'd, and Decency maintain'd.
The Study'd Arts, and ev'ry Am'rous Toil
Which others use their Lovers to beguile,
She render'd vain with one victorious Smile.
Th'inviting Nymph does ev'ry Shepherd pall;
She minded none, and yet subdu'd 'em all.
When e'er we Danc'd, in graceful Movements, She
Alone made Measure vie with Harmony:
Others might look with a more lofty Air,
But all in vain; she had the Eye, the Ear,
Our Thoughts, our Looks, our very Souls were there!

ALEXIS.
And yet, my Friend, you in this Truth must join,
Her Beauties then were just in their Decline:
But if she warm'd ev'n in her Western Sun,
Who cou'd withstand th'intenser Rays at Noon!
A noble View in her Decay was shown,
But, youthful all the Graces were her own.
Those soft Remains so much admir'd by you,
I saw, my Daphnis, in their vernal Hue,
When Rose nor Lilly cou'd such Colour prove,
Nor scarce th'Immortal Amaranth above!
Then lay our Youth all Dying at her Feet;
O truly Lovely! and Profusely Sweet!—
This for her Form;—but in her Mind there lay
A thousand secret Beauties, worthy Day;
Nor shall they with her to the Grave retire,
If Verse can Charm, or Love and Grief Inspire.
'Tis true, she mov'd in no Illustrious Sphere,
But she the more cou'd influence being near;
Tho' not of the first Magnitude in Light,
Yet, in Proportion, equally as bright.
Her Modesty was by some Angels drawn,
The Colours mingl'd with the blushing Dawn;

394

Nor in her Mind a meaner Station took,
Tun'd by her Tongue, and sweetn'd with her Look!
So chast her Converse, like a vestal Flame
She breath'd a Purity where e'er she came.
Whether it were her Goodness, Pow'r or Skill,
When she reprov'd there was no doing ill;
So much she calm'd the Blood, and sway'd the Will.
No base Discourse (for not the nicest Ear
Will the flagitious Sons of Lewdness spare)
Cou'd to her Mind find out the smallest Track;
Still met with Blushes, or sent blushing back.
Her Vertues, like her Air, their Credit gain'd,
As easie this as those were unconstrain'd.
Thorny and rugged some believe the Way
That leads to bliss,—or Thorns they there wou'd lay
T'excuse themselves and others when they stray.
Brought to a Habit; none e'er smoothlier cou'd
Go on to Evil than she went to Good.
In her all-kindly Eyes we might behold
A wond'rous Goodness, never to be told!
Thro' which was strangely and distinctly seen
How all the happy Movements workt within:
Like Hives of Glass that thro' the Fabrick shew
How Bees dispose their rich Ambrosial Dew.
Deceit and Pride, the Vices of the Fair,
We might perceive had no Existence there:
No Room in those bright Regions cou'd they find,
So far her Sex was distant from her Mind
Her Piety, at once sublime and strong,
Was all around with holy Trophies hung;
The Noble Fruit of Vertue rooted young.
The time she cou'd from Rest and Business spare
Was all Contrition, Penitence and Prayer.
Nor was her Vertue of the rigid kind,
Exposing ev'ry Errour it cou'd find;

395

Nor stretcht its Censure to the inmost Thought,
Denouncing Hell for ev'ry casual Fau't;
Such Vertue is at best, so over-nice,
A Virulence that but declaims at Vice.
Hers always was a kind and Gene'rous Frame,
That, being good, thought all the World the same.
Her Openness 'tis true, with Wrong might meet;
But better to be cheated than to cheat.
Just the like Praise my own Almeria wins;
By Nature Sisters and in Vertue Twins.—
But does she still the same Impatience wear?
I have not seen her yet, but sent she'd meet me here.

DAPHNIS.
Just as you left her;—still her Tears supply
The Streams of Grief, as they wou'd ne'er be dry.—
But wrapt in Sables, see! she hither hies,
And her whole Soul as issuing from her Eyes!

ALEXIS.
Aid me, ye Pow'rs to Man it out!—and Thou
O Friend! if ever, give Assistance now:
The softest Thoughts that Comfort can excite
Call to thy Mind,—and set her Notions right.

ALMERIA.
My dear Alexis! tho' too long your stay—
Welcome! most welcome!—all I yet can say.
I thank th'Immortals for thy safe Return:—
But my poor dear Thealma's Fate I must for ever mourn!

ALEXIS.
O Let me in my Arms thy Body close!
And here for ever hide thee from my Woes!
The Debt I've paid that was Thealma's Due;
Ah! do not—do not thou unman me too!
Thy Sorrows with the last Distress I see;
Nor longer can my Tears with thine agree,
For now I grieve to take a Part from thee.

396

ALMERIA.
In vain, Alexis, You this Care impart,
The Weight is sunk, and settl'd at my Heart;
There like a heavy Mass of Lead it lies,
Bleeds in my Breast and gushes from my Eyes.

DAPHNIS.
Mark, but how vainly Passion makes you move;
Unjust to the two dearest things you Love!
For her you mourn that is to Glory gone,
And, careless, let Alexis languish on:
Regard, Almeria, such a Consorts Peace;
As 'tis your Grief he mourns, your Grief of Course shou'd cease.

ALMERIA.
'Tis kind and I will struggle to forbear;—
But I've a thousand Things to ask, and hear.
Let there I beg, be nothing from me hid,
Not the minutest thing she said or did:
All the whole Progress, first and last relate,
Her Sickness, Patience, Penitence and Fate:
So strong a Ply to Goodness she receiv'd,
She cou'd not die less vertuous than she liv'd.

ALEXIS.
Take then the History from the Day of Care
I left thee wedded to Affliction here.
All gloomy like our Sorrows, was the Morn.
I parted hence, and Light did grudgingly return.
Three weeping Days I travell'd thro' the Plain,
Thro' rising Waters, and thro' falling Rain,
Ambitious to ascend the Clouds again.
Three more o'er craggy Cliffs thro' pathless Woods,
By deep devouring Boggs and rapid Floods,
I yet went on;—Impending Horrors there,
And yet more frightful Precipices here.
Thrice did we pass th'Averno's Raging Stream,
All wild and dreadful as a Stygian Dream.

397

Here to the Clouds th'aspiring Rocks did rise,
And seem'd, like Atlas, to support the Skies:
Down from their Ragged Sides the Cataracts roar'd,
And in their Passage dismal Hollows boar'd.
A hundred Spouts at once, with Echoing Sound,
Their hide'ous Din did thro' the Air rebound.
Mean while the Light'ning thro' the Gloom appear'd,
But in this Scene of Terrors scarce was fear'd;
Nor, tho' so nigh, was yet the Thunder heard.
But now descended to the Neighbou'ring Vale,
Patience and Courage too began to fail:
A furious Torrent just before us lay,
And not a Bridge, or Guide to point the way:
Ten times we cross'd it—which with fresh Supplies,
Pouring at once both from the Hills and Skies,
Still as we further went did higher rise.
But who can all our Dangers to You tell?
Again we mounted, and again we fell.
At last the Ocean to our View appear'd,
Which more than all we yet had seen we fear'd:
An Arm of which, a dange'rous Pass, there lay
That we must cross;—there was no other way:
The Ebb we watch'd; and was no sooner o'er,
But we beheld it cover'd from the Shore,
And all a Sea, where all was Sand before.
The Winds by this time all their Fury try'd,
And rais'd a Tempest to assist the Tyde,
Which of it self all Human Pow'r defy'd.
I that had never seen the Sea before,
Shrunk to see Mountains tumble to the Shore;
The Curling Waves each other Should'ring on,
Like Routed Armies when the Field is won:
Dashing the Rocks, they there their Pow'r contend;
But there (the Fate of Pride) they all in Ruin end.

398

ALMERIA.
No more, Alexis; tho' I see you here,
And Danger past, I yet that Danger fear;
The bare Relation shocks my trembling Ear—
It was unkind in me to let you go.

ALEXIS.
But 'twas Almeria, what you did not know—
At last, there open'd to our View a Scene
Of ample Breadth and ever verdant Green;
Like that to which the Trojan Chief was led,
After he past the Regions of the Dead:
The Soil almost like ours, the Air as sweet,
A Little Albion 'tis behind the Great,
Where stands the Noble Griffithina's Seat.
The happy Plains she there has govern'd long,
Grace in her Mein, and Musick on her Tongue:
Never was yet her Hospitable Door
Shut to the Good, or slung against the Poor.
Prudence and Vertue all her Actions Grace;
Of vast Possessions, and an Ancient Race.
Nothing she says, and nothing does design
Unfit for a Descendent of her Line.
This Noble Dame, to whom she long was known,
Still lov'd our dear Thealma as her own,
(The truest Breeding lowest Condescends)
And Enter'd in her happy Roll of Friends.
But vain, alas! her Pow'r, her Love and Skill,
For here Thealma took her Fatal Ill;
And (as she nothing yet but Health had known)
At the first Seisure gave her Life for gone:
Nor did the Thought her Fear or Doubt create,
But strengthn'd her Submission to her Fate.
As soon as Ill disposing her Affairs,
All her Remaining Time was Prayer and Tears:
Tho' ne'er was Life more distant from Offence,
Or Death that less had Need of Penitence.

399

But now the Malady much stronger grew,
And to her Brain, the Seat of Reason, flew;
At once did all her Train of Thoughts displace:
And introduc'd, instead, a Raving Race:
For Prudence (where there late so much was shown)
We might enquire; but all, alas! was gone,
All but Chimæra's, Dreams, and Notions not her own.

ALMERIA.
Unhappy Fate! to be so far Remov'd
From all that lov'd her, and that best she lov'd:
From all that Comfort to Affliction lends,
Her near Relations and her dearest Friends!
The very Thought she had not Pow'r to bear,
Nor I, Alexis, scarce the Pow'r to hear!
She had perhaps some Secret to unfold,
Which she wou'd only to my self have told:
This foster'd in her Heart a gnawing Pain,
And sent up thence a Ferment to the Brain—
Tell, I adjure you, if aright I aim;
Did she not Sigh, and Rave Almeria's Name?—
(Ah! cruel Heav'n! regardless of her Cries!)
And wish me there to close her Dying Eyes!

DAPHNIS.
You that can thus find out new Ways to Grief,
As well shou'd think on others for Relief.
Can there a better Fate the Globe contain,
Than to the last Repentant to remain,
And then dissolve without the Sense of Pain?
Wou'd you, Almeria, think your Doom severe,
(And nothing does resemble hers so near)
To dream of Heav'n, and, waking, find y'are there?

ALEXIS.
But now the Fever did its Rage abate,—
In vain;—the Lagging Mercy came too late:
So tho' a Vessel from a Storm's releas'd,
Disable'd, it may sink when that is ceas'd.

400

Howe'er, a Gracious Interval it sends,
To take a last Adieu of all her Friends.
There she to you her dying Love did give,
And wish'd we long in Mutu'al Peace might live;
That we'd prepare against our Hour came on,
And least of all lament the SISTER gone.
Here Sweetness she with Death did reconcile,
And met the Grisly Terrour with a Smile!—
O calm of Mind! O Visage free from Fears!—
But ev'ry Face beside was hid in Tears!
First Griffithina did her Loss deplore,
And in her Looks a kind Dejection wore;
Scarce for her HEIR she had lamented more.
From thence the Fatal News o'er all the Plains
Spread like Distraction to the Nymphs and Swains.
But now the Day she was Interr'd is come
And ne'er was Nymph attended nobler home!
The loud Laments, so Gene'ral ne'er before,
Half reach'd the Opposite Hibernian Shore.
Those that had yet not griev'd her, here were mov'd;
That all might mourn what was by all belov'd.
O Edern! safe her Sacred Relicks keep,
Till she Triumphant 'wakes no more to Sleep:
And on her Tomb permit the Lines I grav'd;—
Tho' for themselves they beg not to be sav'd.

ALMERIA.
Repeat to us, Alexis, what they were
And—if my Tears will give me Leave—I'll hear.

ALEXIS.
To Molde'ring Stone our Memories to trust,
Is to be soon forgot;—'tis Dust to Dust.
Tho' her Good Deeds on Adamant were wrote
With all the Life of Wit, and Strength of Thought,
'Twere yet in vain;—Or Fire, or Time consumes,
And tumbles down our Temples on our Tombs.

401

If we wou'd have her Vertues still in Sight,
We must on Paper, not on Marble write:
Some happy Genius draw her Image there:—
These meaner Lines will serve to perish here.

ALMERIA.
No; be it thy Attempt to let her live;—
Who knows what Date a faithful Praise may give?
Not one of all the Patrons you bemoan
Remember'd thee in Death as SHE has done:
A Legacy she leaves that may excite
The Coldest Muse to do her Vertues Right.

ALEXIS.
O there a Thousand other Causes are
To pay that Duty,—and the least will bear.
In all Distresses a most ready Friend;
Such she began, and so at last did end.
Beside, I doubly shou'd ungrateful be
If I refus'd her Praise when 'tis desir'd by THEE;
Nor shall the Subject longer be delay'd;—
Inspir'd by thy Request, I'll seek no other Aid.
A Noble Pile to Chastity I'll frame,
With all beside that may advance her Fame,
And set it out in dear Thealma's Name:
Thealma! ev'ry Nymph and Swain shall sing,
Thealma! all the Woods and Vallies ring,
As Ceres just were ripe, or Flora op'ning spring.
Ev'n distant Climes her Praises shall recite,
And you at last confess I've done her Vertues right—
All that Remains, is now to cease our Moan,
And in our Mutu'al Love make up the Blessing gone.

402

Divine Poems AND PARAPHRASES.

A Contemplation touching Atheism.

What e'er a Race of impious Men have writ,
Or argu'd in their Wine to shew their Wit,
There never yet was one so hardy found
But in his secret Thought the GOD-HEAD own'd;
Nor cou'd, with all his Labour and Debate,
Suppress the Notions of a FUTURE STATE:
CONSCIENCE wou'd thro' all Prejudice appear,
And what he wou'd not Credit, make him Fear.

'Tis true, we grant it might much better be
For such were there indeed no Deitie:
Who wholly following a perverted Will,
(As if Created only to be Ill)
Wou'd fain perswade us no Reward succeeds
A Vertuous Life, or Hell for impious Deeds;
But as before our Births we nothing knew,
So after Death we shall be nothing too
Vain Men! that, for the poor Repute of Wit,
Will stand eternal Fools in sacred Writ!
'Tis such that in their Hearts themselves deceive,
And say what Reason never can believe;
There is no GOD they softly whisper there,
But softly whisper, least a GOD shou'd hear:

403

So go on frontless, cleaving to the Sin,
In Spite of Self-Conviction from within.

Nor is this Method (I presume) a vain
Ungenuine way that Scripture to explain.
For how can any Creature that has ran
Thro' Childhood, Youth, and now is reach't to Man;
Whom Providence with it's own Hand has led,
From Danger sav'd, and with Abundance fed,
Perhaps while better Christians wanted Bread,
How can this Wretch (tho' much a Sceptick dares)
Doubt of that Goodness he so largely shares?
Did he these Hints but seriously apply,
And use his clearer Reason with his Eye,
He wou'd not then so faithless look on high;
Where the bright Sun has thro' all Times been found
To take his Regular and Glorious Round,
Create the Seasons as he comes and goes,
Want it Himself, and give the World Repose.
Where the pale Moon the Earth's low Globe befriends,
And freely all her borrow'd Lustre lends;
While her bright Train of Stars around appear,
And shew 'tis only GOD cou'd place 'em there.
Where Thunder rolls, and, breaking from the Cloud,
Tells out Heav'n's angry Messages aloud;
While pale the Atheist at the Sound appears,
And owns at least th'Almighty in his Fears.
Nor less the Work, when Thetis, to supply
Th'exhausted watry Magazins on high,
Does seem to lade the Sea into the Sky;
Where with Prolifick Pow'r indu'd, in Rain
The Genial Moisture spreads, and Covers all the Plain:
While, Phœnix like, we Life from Death behold,
And a New Nature rising from the Old!
But most the Heav'ns his Majesty declare;
The Fabrick shews who 'tis Inhabits there.

404

Nor as on High (did we those Wonders prize)
We neither shou'd in vain cast down our Eyes;
Where such a strange Variety is shown,
So vast a Bank of Treasure all our Own;
What Man can wish, as Eden yet were new,
With like Profusion op'ning to our view!
Here smiling Flora does the Meads adorn,
There bounte'ous Ceres loads the Earth with Corn:
Next Autumn with her Riches courts the Eye,
Aurora so does paint the Morning Sky!
Ruddy her Fruits, and mellow'd for the Tast,
As Brides with Blushes call to be embrac'd.
But as all this were yet too small to give,
And we amid'st such Wealth cou'd wanting live,
No Distant Region but it's Product pours
Upon our Soil, and makes it's Plenty Ours;
Nor yet is Providence but bounteous here;
But rains on all alike so vast a Share,
That the most barren Country has to spare.
From each to each, sent on the Watry Fields,
No Nation wants what any Nation yields.
Nor is the Winter of her Blessings short:
But recompences naked Fields with Sport:
The Horn and Hound revive us with their sound,
And Wat's loud Knell is rung the Country round.
Nor yet does Reynard scape the unequal Strife,
But with his Death compensates for his Life.
Return'd, in Bowls the Wine does spark'ling rise,
And cheerful Fire the distant Sun Supplies;
Nor stop we there, but with Discourse pursue
The noble Theme, and run the Chase a new:
A Subject that does Converse better fit
Than fulsom Lewdness, or abusive Wit.
Here Woods their Shady Fronts Expose to view,
Which give us Fewel and our safety too;
From these our Strength, our sailing Forts, we draw,
Right injur'd States, and give Ambition Law.

405

There humble Vales, and here aspiring Hills
Are plac'd, and at their Feet harmonious Rills,
Which from the Mountains are with Pleasure seen,
Like the blue Veins thro' a transparent Skin;
Alike their Office; for, (as Blood does do)
Thro' Earth they take their Circulation too:
While on their Banks the Shepherds chant their Lays,
And the whole Theme is their Creator's Praise.
Thus Order is by ev'ry thing obey'd,
Order! the Word by which the World was made.
The Rav'nous Beasts to their own Haunts repair,
The Birds possess the Regions of the Air,
The Fish thro' the Transparent Currents glide,
And watch the Ebbs and Flowings of the Tyde;
And when by Rain the Streams are rais'd, they post
With them to Sea, and there with them are lost.
There sportive Whales, those Living Islands, play,
And scarce have room, tho' half the Globe is Sea.
Thus, as above, below a GOD we see,
And all his Works full of the Deity.

Ev'n our own Weakness (strong in such a Cause)
Shou'd humble us, and make us own His Laws;
Not foolishly (and yet pretending Sense)
With Impious Notions charge his Providence.
We do not know why Grass that Colour wears,
Or why our Blood the Sanguin Tincture bears;
What makes the Painting in Heav'n's radiant Bow,
Or gives that matchless Whiteness to the Snow:
How dare we then the Sacred Name decry,
And tax Incomprehensibility?
A strange Perverseness, sure, to Man is giv'n,
That knows so little, yet prescribes to Heav'n;
That Gracious Pow'r who pardons, tho' blasphem'd;
For Man Created how to be esteem'd!
And how (O boundless Love!) for Man Redeem'd.

406

But shou'd not this Great World incline our Sense
To have a due Belief of Providence,
The Lesser, MAN, at least shou'd Man convince.
Who will against the Deity declare,
That asks himself how He himself came here?
Who 'twas that form'd him in the Womb, and who
The Lumpish Mass with Reason did endue?
What 'tis that makes him Argue, Think, and Move,
Invent, Design, Distinguish, and Approve;
And ev'n of old, so strongly in Debate
Assert a GOD, and hope a Future State?
When thro' a thicker Veil that Hope was shown,
And Revelation totally unknown?
What is all this but a most clear and bright
Reflection, streaming from Eternal Light,
And stampt into our Nature, to declare
Whose Work we are, and Image 'tis we bear?
Leaving it uncontestable, that none
Cou'd our Producer be but GOD alone;
Our Souls (that will a like Duration see)
Th'Infusion of his Immortality:
And tho' the Body must dissolve, it yet
But suffers Death a better Life to get;
As Gold and Silver, and sever'd from the Dross,
Are made but the more glorious by the Loss.

Tremble, ye Wretches, that wou'd Truth disguise,
And tell us as the Body falls it lies;
The Dead, you'll find, will certainly arise.
I hear, methinks, the last loud Trumpet sound!
I see the Quick'ning Bodies cleave the Ground!
Lo! at the Gen'eral and Impartial Bar,
All that were ever born at once appear,
To take th'unalterable Sentence there!
There! on the Left, behold the Impious Crew,
Scarce thinking yet a Resurrection true!

407

But glorious and exulting, on the Right,
Rang'd by their SAVIOUR, stand the Sons of Light!
There Justice does a dismal Scene display!
Here Mercy opens an Eternal Day!
Rejoice my Soul!—for tho' the Human Frame
Must be dissolv'd, it yet will rise the same.
Were Revelation wholly silent, yet
Reason it self cou'd speak—and Reason's Wit.
Cannot that GOD (so manifested there)
Who did from Nothing make us what we are,
Who to the Lifeless Dust did Being give,
Raise up that Dust again, and bid it Live?
Advanc'd to Heav'n, and crown'd with Glory there,
If truly fitted by Obedience here.
Less wond'rous 'tis the Dead new Life shou'd see,
Than, e'er we did exist, it was to Be;
As easier 'tis with Timber, Brick and Stone,
To raise a stately Fabrick, than with none.
The first the harder Work to Human Sense,
Tho' both are equal to Omnipotence.

This Life, that so Immoderately we Love,
Is but the Shadow of that Life above.
To Souls resign'd what Transport must it be
To think, Hereafter ev'ry Faculty
(So bounded here, and with such Frailties charg'd)
Shall like the Minds of Angels be enlarg'd!
I've said Y'are GODS—the Scripture does declare,
No Figure then, we shall be like 'em there;
All Truth shall know, all Knowledge shall comprize,
And be without Deliberation wise.
Those hidden Myste'ries that confound us Here,
No more Abstruse, shall all lie open there:
How Seeds of Things were first in Discord hurl'd,
And how but—LET IT BE—did form a World;

408

That Word which from old Chaos chas'd the Night,
And out of Darkness struck Eternal Light.
How the high Spheres were into Musick strung,
And lasting Order from Confusion sprung.
How Justice cou'd in Adam doom us all,
Unborn, and unconsenting to the Fall.
How in the Flesh th'Eternal Word abode,
And how a Mother-MAID conceiv'd a GOD.
How Mercy, to effect what it began,
Cou'd suffer Death it self to Rescue Man.
How ev'ry Language cou'd unlearn'd be known,
How Unity and Trinity are ONE.
There what has been from all Eternity,
And what to all Eternity shall be,
One endless Instant, we at once shall see!
Mean while in Hymns the sacred Quires will move,
They sing his Praise, and HE their Songs approve;
For Heav'n is Heav'n by Harmony and Love.

On then my Soul! the happy Path pursue
This Noble Contemplation sets in view,
Quit not thy Hope for all the Globe can give;
'Tis here to Dream, and only there to Live!

The True FAST:

A Paraphrase on the 58th of Isaiah.

Cry! let thy Voice like the loud Trumpet sound,
Thro' the wide Air diffuse it all around,
To tell my People how their Crimes abound:
Not but they outwardly pretend Delight
To know my Ways, and practise what is Right:

409

As if they ne'er did Trespass, or Rebel,
They Justifie their Conduct, and think all is well.

Wherefore (say they) do we make tedious Fasts?
Thou see'st not, still thy Indignation lasts:
To mortify our Lusts why do we roam,
And wander such a wicked Way from home?
Why such lean Penance do we undergo?
Thou tak'st no Knowledge, tho' thou all dost know.

Here me (O Rebels!) that can thus Report,
Do you not Fast for Wantonness and Sport?
Is it th'Effect of a well weigh'd Remorse?
An Humbleness of Soul, or Form of Course?
A Form, alas! a Form of neither Power or Force;
A meer perverted Rite, an outward shew
That neither me Delights, or Profits you.
Under this specious Veil much Sin you hide,
Contention, Hate, Hypocrisie, and Pride;
Done chiefly that you may have room to blame
The Wiser few that will not do the same,
Participating in your Guilt and Shame;
Such as the Nonsense of your Fasts detect,
And clearly prove they are of no effect.
But Fasts you call 'em, and you Fasts Proclaim,
When Lux'ury oft were more the nat'ral Name:
The Deep is ransack't, all her Treasures shown,
For Flesh one Day deny'd, the Sea is all your own.
In vain with this loose Custom you comply,
In vain for this you lift your Voices high,
They come lame Intercessors to the Sky.

Observe (O stubborn Brood! your Maker's Voice,
Is this the Fast which I have made my Choice?
Is this t'afflict the Mind?—to Sigh and Moan,
And drawl my Name out with a ruful Tone;

410

To be in Publick seen with Heads reclin'd,
Like Bull-Rushes that bend without a Wind;
To dress in Sack-Cloath, and the Lash to feel,
With all th'External Pomp of Hair-brain'd Zeal;
What Merit on such Trifling can you lay?
Or can this be to ME a Fast, or acceptable Day?
Whose Eyes thro' the most dark Recesses see;
Thy Thoughts, ev'n yet unborn, lie open all to Me.

No, no; the Fast with which I'm pleas'd is this;
Not to Connive at the least thing amiss:
To fly from willful Sin, and ev'ry way
In which th'unwary Soul is led astray;
To break the Yoke where e'er the oppress'd you see,
Redeem the Slave, and set the Debtor free:
Ne'er to forbid the Dole to those in Want,
But ready still at ev'ry Boon to Grant;
For he that has but Little yet may be,
By giving Little, sav'd for Charity:
To think not thy own House too fine, or great,
For the poor Out-cast to Sojourn and Eat;
Unjustly, oft, from their Possessions hurl'd
By Cruel Powe'r, and hunted thro' the World:
To let the Mourning Widow be thy Care;
To fence the Orphan (Shudde'ring, Wan and Bare)
From the Inclemency of Winters Air:
To be to no Indecent Rage beguil'd,
But lead a Life all Merciful and Mild;
Hiding from none the Will of doing Good,
But least to those of thy own Flesh and Blood:
Not to Detraction to let loose the Rein,
With Gybes and Scoffs, (the Sport of the Profane)
But free thy Lips from all Obscene and Vain.

Reach but this Goal and Happiness you win,
This is a Fast indeed!—a Fast from Sin.

411

Then thou shalt be exempt from ev'ry Pain,
Thy Health shall quickly come and long remain:
All thy Good Deeds shall in the Front appear,
And Glory shall attend 'em in the Rear:
Thy frustrate Prayers their Fate no more shall mourn,
But meet a Gracious and a swift Return:
From dark Obscurity thy Light shall rise,
And take it's Lofty Station in the Skies;
The Sun himself shall hardly shine so bright,
Hardly diffuse around a more Refulgent Light.
Nay more, (for Nothing from thy View I'll hide,)
'Tis I my Self, ev'n I will be thy Guide,
I'll set Thee in the Path, and mark the Way;
O happy Man that cannot go astray!
In Famine Thou shalt daily have Supply,
In tedious Droughts Thou never shalt be dry,
But, like a water'd Garden, still be Gay,
Or Fountain rising in a shiny Day,
Whose Springs ne'er fail, but ever mount and Play:
The long rais'd Structures, now with Rubbish fill'd,
Thy Sons again shall gloriously rebuild;
But thine shall be the Credit, thine the Praise
Both of the Present, and all after Days;
Yes this was HE, the General Voice shall cry,
That fill'd the Breach, and rais'd our Ruins high;
That did our Temples to our God restore,
In all the Pomp they were adorn'd before;
That the waste Places nobly did renew,
And gave those Temples Congregations too.

And if to this thou add these Vertues more,
I'll yet add greater Blessings to thy Store.
If from all loose Desires thou turn'st away,
Not following Pleasure on my Holy Day,
Unless the Pleasure that is most Sublime,
Not that of Wasting, but Redeeming Time!

412

If still the Sabbath Thou with Joy dost see,
(For He that Honours That does Honour ME;)
Wish with Impatience for it's coming on,
And when 'tis with thee that 'twou'd ne'er be gone;
Not walking in the least the Worldly Way,
Nor after dull Enthusiasts run astray,
Distrusting still thy self, and cleave to what I say:
In the True Fast that I have nam'd remain,
(For t'other's Superstitious, Fond and Vain;)
Then Thou shalt be my Darling, my Delight,
Dear to my Soul, and pleasing to my Sight!
High I'll advance, and far diffuse thy Name,
The Globe shall be too Narrow for thy Fame:
With me to Heav'n I'll carry it along,
An Endless Theme for the Celestial Song.
All Nature's Products too thou shalt command,
And feed upon the Fatness of the Land;
'Tis I have spoke it—and My WORD shall stand.

The HARLOT:

A Paraphrase on the 7th of Proverbs.

Young Man, let what I speak Attention draw,
Observe it as you wou'd Heav'n's strictest Law;
Hear my Commands, and rivet to thy Heart
My Precepts fast, that they may never part:
Do this, You'll quickly find the good Effect,
But swift Destruction follows the Neglect.

To Wisdom say—Thou my fair Sister art,
My Hope, my Guide, and Goddess of my Heart,
Dearer than Life! with Life I'd sooner part!

413

And Chastity thy near Relation call;
Get these (O happy Youth!) and thou hast all:
No better Gift can Bounte'ous Heav'n bestow,
No safer Guard from Human Ills below.
Envy may Hiss, but she can do no harm;
She flies, or dies before the Pow'rful Charm.
Particularly, it will keep thee free
From the loose Strumpet's speci'ous Flattery
Whose Words, like Oil on Rivers, glide along,
Her Words, more tuneful than the Sirens Song;
The Charming Accent fixes all around,
Ev'n Vertue, tho' it quit th'Enchanted Ground,
Seems yet to move reluctant from the Sound.
Fly, as 'twere Death, the Inhospitable Coast,
But once incline to hear her, and y'are lost;
All Human Aid will then arrive too late;
Lost to Remorse, and hurry'd to your Fate:
While on her Wanton Breast your Head you lay,
For one Thought that advises—Rise; Away!
You'll have ten Thousand pressing you to stay—
But let the Wretch's Fate which here is shown
Incline you to be careful of your own.

Just in the Close and shutting up of Day
When the last Gleams were hurrying swift away,
The Harlot's Hour her subtle Trains to lay;
As in my Window I stood leaning out,
Thoughtless of Ill, and gazing round about,
Among the Youthful Train a Wretch I spy'd,
That neither wou'd his Guilt or Folly hide;
What shou'd have been his Shame he made his Pride.
For to his Drabs Apartment he was bent;
His glowing Cheeks discover'd his Intent:
Pleas'd with the Thought he scarcely touch'd the Ground,
But like a Mountain Roe, did leap and bound.

414

But Lo! she met him, coming forth to see
For some kind Friend of her Fraternity;
For any Fop had serv'd as well as he.
Th'Experienc'd Harlot that wou'd gain by Sin,
Must trapes as well without, as Trade within,
In ev'ry Street, and ev'ry Corner ply,
To angle Coxcombs as the Shoal goes by:
As soon as e'er the Bait appears in sight,
There's scarce a Gudgeon passes but does bite.
Have you e'er seen (what Time the Seasons yield
Such kind of Sports) a Spaniel range the Field,
And mark'd what Pains he takes to set his Game?
Th'Industrious City Drab is just the same.
Thus strait the Youth she spies, and round him cast
Her Snowy Arms, she press'd, she held him fast;
And with an eager and a close Embrace
Laid Cheek to Cheek, and squeez'd him to her Face.
Bare were her Breasts, and Careless her Attire,
Learn'd in the Art how to inflame Desire,
And kindle what was found too apt to take the Fire;
Harlot thro'out; she not a Gesture made
But writ her Punk, and perfect in her Trade—
But after some fond Looks and Dalliance past,
Thus the fair Faithless tun'd her Tongue at last.

'Tis Peace (said she) 'tis Peace and Love I bring,
This Day I've paid my Vows, and made my Offering,
And therefore came I forth; with thee to meet,
Thus late, and thus alone, I rove the Street.
The Dangers of the Night affright not me,
At least they vanish at the Sight of thee.
Without thee what a tedious Night I'd past!
And who knows, too, but it had prov'd my last?
Depriv'd of thee must have strange Tortures wrought,
And plung'd me deep in Melancholy Thought.

415

But I have found thee; long I've wisht it so;
And it shall longer be before I let thee go.
I've deck't (my Love) I've deck't my Bed with Flow'rs,
Not sweeter were the Gods delicious Bow'rs:
With costly Tap'stry I have hung my Room,
Not richer ever stretch't the Tyrian Loom:
There Venus is in all her Postures wrought,
And how Love's Pleasure she with hazard sought,
Surprizing to the Eye! transporting to the Thought!
Perfum'd with richest Scents, such as Inspire
Gay Loves! and melting Joy! and soft Desire!
Come then, away, and take of Love our fill;
In Passion such as ours there is no Ill.
Let Aged Matrons rail, and Gown-men Preach,
They are too wise to practise what they Teach.
Away, and let me plung into thy Arms,
Find you the Love and I'll create the Charms.
Come till the Morning let us Sport and Play,
Nor rise the sooner for it's being Day.
Nor let the Thought of Husband pall your Joy,
He's now far distant on a grand Employ;
Cash he has took long Charges to defray,
And will not come till his appointed Day;
And (O ye Gods!) I wish he never may!
My Right in Him I'd willingly resign;
Millions of his Embraces are but One of thine.
But ah! the Hours have Wings—away! away!
Let not the precious Time be lost when Love and Pleasure stay.

With her fair Speech She forc'd him soon to yield,
But Force is needless when we quit the Field:
Too credulous, her Flatt'ery he believ'd,
Nor was he the first Fool she had deceiv'd.
She turns, he follows; nor his Joy conceals;
Or sees Destruction dog him at the Heels.

416

As Oxen to the Slaughter (wretched State!)
So on he Walks, unmindful of his Fate;
Or as a Vagrant to Correction goes,
To lasting Scorn he does his Fame expose:
So the wing'd Racers, to their safety blind,
Haste to the Snare and meet the Death design'd.
In vain, at last, he sees the Ills h'has done,
His Life is going, and his Wealth is gone.
Disease o'ertakes him, makes his Health a Prey,
Meagre and Wan he looks that once was Gay;
His Winter, his December comes in May,
Too late his Lustful Hours are Understood,
He feels her hot Embraces in his tainted Blood.
With Aches crampt and strong Convulsions torn,
Pox, Stone and Gout, too Grievous to be born.
He lies and roars, (not Hell a Torment worse,)
Till his last Breath evaporates in a Curse.

Hear me (O Youth!) and to my Words attend,
Dispise 'em not because I am a Friend,
But persevere, and Glory Crowns the End.
Let not thy Footsteps to her Paths decline,
She's all a Devil, tho' she seems Divine:
Strip her but of her Perfume, Patch and Paint,
And see how fit she's then to be a Saint;
Then mark her shrivel'd Face, and sallow Skin,
Rank all without, and Rotten all within.—
And yet such soft Delusions she'll display,
The Rich, the Noble, Witty, Wise and Gay,
The Great, the Strong have been by turns her Prey.
Warriours themselves have by her Arts been slain,
Have lain down by her, but ne'er rose again.
Her House is the wide-gaping Gulph of Sin,
From whence there's no Return whence once y'are in:
Down to the Courts of deepest Hell it goes;
O don't thy safety to this Rock expose,
'Tis but a Kiss you gain, and 'tis a Soul you lose.

417

The ATHEIST:

A Paraphrase on the second Chapter of the Wisdom of Solomon.

Our Days th'Ungodly cry, the Impious throng,
(Thus Reas'ning with themselves, but Reas'ning wrong)
Our Days, they cry, uncertain are and few,
Yet, tho' so short, they oft seem tedious too.
As against Death no Remedy we have,
So none that die can e'er unclose the Grave.
At meer Adventure born;—no Planet's Rule
Does dub this Man a Knave, or that a Fool:
By Chance produced, and by like Chance destroy'd,
Like Beasts we Perish in the Boundless Void.
Hereafter shall, when once we are no more,
Be the same thing to us as Heretofore:
To the same State we shall again retire,
And, dying once, Eternally Expire.
The Breath no more the silent Lungs shall heave,
No more than Smoak, when it the Wood does leave,
Shall Ages hence to the same Body go,
To be breath'd out again in Smoak, as now.
Life is, at best, but only at the Heart
A Hovering Flame, just trembling to depart;
A while it moves, a while its quick'ning Heat
Diffuses Warmth, and gives the Pulse their Beat;
But once extinguish'd, Darkness does invade
The Mind, and wrapt it in perpetual Shade:
Away the various Notions madly fly,
Born down the Endless Tide of Destiny.

418

No Mention of us when w'are gone shall stay,
But with our Names our Mem'ories flit away:
A Black Lethean Veil our Works shall hide,
And on th'Eternal Basis fixt abide,
Quite over-whelming all Laborious Pride:
The Body, too, to crumbling Dust shall fall,
And a Profound Oblivion swallow all.
As where the Clouds have been no Paths appear,
So not a Track of What, or How, or Where,
Life leaves behind; dispers'd like Dew it flies,
Exhal'd into the vast extended Skies.
So light! so vain! when once we disappear,
W'are not so much as our own Shadows were.
Ah Foolish Man! when of the Grave possess'd,
To think there's ought will thy Repose molest;
'Tis that's the Region of Eternal Rest:
No Resurrection, or feign'd Trumpet's Blast
Can reach us there;—the Sleep of Death will last,
And long Annihilation seal the silent Mansions fast.

What then remains but quitting Future Fear
And Future Hope, we take our Portion here?
No Man th'Enjoyments past can back recall,
And for the Future, 'tis uncertain all:
The Present's Ours, which we'll to Pleasure give;
No Man e'er yet began too soon to live.
All Nature's Rarities before us stand,
Pour'd out with a most free and copious Hand:
What she profusely gives, profusely we
Will wast, and Ape her Prodigality:
Make Life but one Debauch—Youth shall engage
For Manhood, Manhood give the Reins to Age:
At least while Youth does last we'll Joy prolong;
He that knows only Pleasure dies not Young.

419

With costly Wines be all the Goblets crown'd,
And moving swiftly take their flowing round:
See how it sparkles! how the Flavour sends
An Invitation to its Youthful Friends,
And, rising to the Brim, its Quick'ning Pow'r commends!
Nor let to Wine the Woman wanting be,
The Crown of Love! and Soul of Extasie!
Who twisting round us ev'ry Fibre drains,
She emptying still as 'tother fills the Veins.
Rich Ointments let us on our Temples pour
With Libe'ral Hand, as 'twere an April Show'r,
All her Rich Progeny let Flora bring,
Her Groves of Balm, and Fragrance of the Spring:
Chiefly the Rose unwither'd let her bear,
The Queen of Sweets, add Glory of the Year!
Voluptuously let each enjoy his Part,
Of all that can be reach'd by Pow'r, or Art:
Where e'er we come all Sadness we'll destroy,
And set up Feasting, Laughter, Love and Joy.
This is the Portion that to Man is giv'n,
And if not this there is no other Heav'n.

The Meagre Wretches who our Ways oppose,
(To all our sensual Pleasures Mortal Foes)
Let us with black opprobrious Scand alload,
And pelt with Jests when e'er they peep abroad:
To their own Cloysters let the Moaps be pent,
Serenely dull, and gravely Impudent:
There let 'em wast their Time in fruitless Prayer,
Address'd to Pow'rs that neither see, nor hear.
No Reve'rence to the Aged let us show,
For Nothing's due to those that Nothing know:
Like us Voluptuously their Youth they spent,
And now they can't be wicked wou'd be Innocent.

420

Nothing that's just or sacred let us prize,
Compassion banish from our Hearts and Eyes,
Nor spare the Widow for her dying Cries;
The senseless Dame that shuns to be embrac'd,
When 'tis Ill Nature only makes her Chast.
Extortion, Fraud, and Rapine let us ply,
There's no Injustice in Necessity.
By Force, the Life of Government, we'll awe;
For nothing that's Precarious can be Law:
All Ancient Times no Right but Force allow,
And as 'twas then by Consequence 'tis now.
Behind that Guard undaunted let us stand,
And the meek; senseless, Right'eous Tool command,
With growing Rancour and unless'ning Hate
Pursue him, Credit, Person and Estate.
His own Designs we'll on him grinning turn,
And give him Sorrow that wou'd make us mourn.
By musty Rules he wou'd our Actions awe,
And brands us for offending Israel's Law:
In us our great Progenitors he blames,
And in our Breeding their Neglect proclaims;
Says Impious Notions Impious Deeds beget,
Our Learning Insolence, and Blasphemy our Wit.
Nor does he stop ev'n there; but to our Eyes
Wou'd make that glaring Spectre Conscience rise,
To take the Chair, and fright us from our Joys.
He seems, as 'twere, maliciously design'd
To thwart, reprove, and search the Inmost Mind,
The Secrets of that hidden World t'explore,
And probe th'uneasie In-mate to the Core:
There he wou'd ev'ry Thought and Act survey,
And bring expos'd to the clear view of Day.
His Counsels wound us more than Him our Scorn,
Nor is his Sight to be with Patience born.
He shuns our Lux'ury, ridicules our Wear;
His Works and Ways have quite a different Air.

421

In Death he Cries, what e'er we here may boast,
We shall be founder'd on the Stygian Coast,
And find a Soul—ev'n when we find it, lost.
Our Doings he with Detestation flies,
Death to our Ears, and Poison to our Eyes!
From certain Truths wrong Infere'nces he draws,
And calls us Beasts for follo'wing Nature's Laws,
Tho' we as sharply might retort again,
They, by that Reason, might as well be Men.
The End of the Just Man he happy calls,
Tho' scorn'd he lives, and unlamented falls.
Thus he believes all Knowledge to him giv'n,
And proudly calls himself a Son of Heav'n.

But let us look his vain Opinions thro',
Not take 'em crudely at a distant view.
While Fools about Futurity contend,
We'll mark what does befall him in the End.
For if the Man that Holiness does boast
Be Son of God, he will not see him lost;
He will not suffer Vice to strut before,
And Vertue follow, base, despis'd and poor:
In worst Extremities, tho' ne'er so low,
He'd raise him up, and save him from the Foe.
Let us then prove the Force of his Pretence
With Hate, Abuse, Disgrace and Insolence;
We by such Usage to the Quick shall go,
And find his boasted Patience all a Show.
If there we fail, the last Extreme we'll try,
And doom him Ignominiously to Dye:
If then Deliverance come (for God, if there
Be such a thing as God, will then appear)
If then by Miracle he aid Receive,
We will Respect his Word!—but not till then believe.

422

Such things they did against the Just devise,
For their own Wickedness had clos'd their Eyes;
Deliver'd over by their Lust and Pride,
(As if they'd sworn to have no other Guide,)
To a most Reprobate and Devilish Sense
Of Justice, Mercy, and Omnipotence.
By vain Imaginations, self deceiv'd,
No Good they Practis'd, and no God believ'd.
As for the Peace, Protection, Truth and Love,
Stream'd from the high Creator Thron'd above,
They feel 'em not, nor think from whence they came
Lost to Remorse, and hardn'd in their Shame:
So thick a film of Sin their Sight controuls,
They see not a Reward for Blameless Souls;
Nor that our God created Man to be
An Image of his Own Eternitie.
Thus, Devil-like, they wilfully are blind;
And, Devil-like, are for that Hell design'd
Which Here they'l not believe—and there must find.

The HAPPY MAN.

A Paraphrase on the 15th Psalm.

Who, Gracious Lord, shall be on Earth possest
Of all that's Good? nor only here be blest,
But, when this Life is done, obtain Eternal Rest?

Ev'n he that takes delight in Prayer and Praise
And in that Path walks Steady all his Days.
Whose firm Integrity no Strength can force,
No Sin corrupt, or Sanguin Law divorce.

423

Whose full Intention and whose sole Delight
Is to speak Truth, and do the thing that's right.
In whom Deceit and Flatt'ry have no part,
But lets his Tongue be guided by his Heart.
That to his Neighbor has no Evil done,
But rather warn'd him how that Ill to shun.
That lets no Rancour mingle with his Phrase,
Ill Men t'Encourage, or the Good debase;
A Foe to Slander, and a Friend to Praise.
That looks on his own self with humble Eyes;
Nor thinks he is too Vertu'ous, or too Wise
By Loss to gain, and Lowliness to rise.
That takes to find out Peace a certain Guide
In keeping down the Timpany of Pride.
And as he walks in a Religious Fear,
So all that love Religio'n makes his Care;
Excites their Diligence, their Ardor warms,
Their Faith enlarges, and their Patience Arms.
That faithfully performs the thing he vows;
And ne'er commits the Sin he disallows;
But if he ought have to his Neighbour sworn,
Fulfil it, tho' he meet with Loss, or Scorn,
And let th'Affliction cheerfully be born.
That has not Pity of the Poor forsook,
Or for his Money lent Extortion took;
Or sided with Successful Pow'r and Laws,
To murder and destroy without a Cause.

Pow'r, Pleasure, Glory and Ambition must
Stoop low, and lay their Airy Heads in Dust,
The Heav'ns sink down and crush this nether Ball—
But he that so will stand shall never fall.

424

Hymn for Christmas-Day.

I

What Words? what Voices can we bring?
Which way our Accents raise
To welcom the Mysteri'ous King?
And sing a SAVIOUR's Praise!
What Earthly Harmony can reach
Up to the Theme so high?
When Angels ne'er cou'd soar that Pitch,
Who dwell above the Sky.

II

Lo! Heav'n this Day descends to Earth,
Th'Immortal Mortal grows!
Made Man by this stupendious Birth,
To quell our Deadly Foes:
In swadling Bands the Godhead lies,
To Human Flesh debas'd,
That we, his dearly Ransom'd Prize,
Might be to Glory rais'd.

III

Sing! let the Universal Frame
The Great REDEEMER Sing!
And Men and Angels at the Name
Bow to the Mystick King!
Redemption be the General Sound,
This Day no Grief appear!
From Earth to Heav'n the Notes rebound,
And Mercy smile to hear!

425

IV

O 'tis too little, all we can,
For this unbounded Love!
All that was ever writ by Man,
Or sung in Hymns above!
But tho' we can't fit Language find,
We Praise! Believe! Adore!
With Joyful Hearts, and Souls resign'd;
And wish we cou'd do more!

Hymn for Easter-Day.

I

If Angels sung a SAVIOUR's Birth
On that Auspicious Morn,
We well may Imitate their Mirth
Now He again is born.
He, frail Mortality shook off,
Puts Incorruption on;
And He that late was crown'd in Scoff,
Now fills th'Eternal Throne.

II

Grieve not vain Man, who Mortal art,
That thou to Earth must fall;
It was his Portio'n 'twas the Part
Of Him that sav'd us all:
Himself He humbl'd to the Grave,
Made Flesh, like us, to shew

426

That we as certainly shall have
A Resurrection, too.

III

Let Heav'n and Earth, in Concert joyn'd,
His boundless Mercies sing;
Ev'n Hell does now a Conq'rour find,
And Death has lost his Sting.
If, when in Eden Adam fell,
The whole Creation groan'd;
The whole Creation, sure, shou'd smile,
Now Justice is aton'd.

IV

Hence all ye Faithless, far away,
That this great Myst'ery flight;
They that deny an endless Day
Will find an endless Night:
Beyond Time's short and scanty Bounds
The Soul shall surely live;
But when the last loud Trumpet sounds,
You'll then too late believe.

Hymn for Whit-sunday.

I

He's come! let ev'ry Knee be bent,
All Hearts new Joy resume;
Let Nations sing with one Consent,
The COMFORTER is come!

427

No Anxio'us Thought molest our Peace,
This Day all Grief retire;
Let ev'ry Fear for ever cease,
And ev'ry Doubt expire.

II

There is no end of the Content
And Joy the Spirit brings!
Happy the Man to whom 'tis lent!
That Man sees wond'rous Things!
What greater Gift, what greater Love
Can God on Man bestow?
'Tis half the Angels Heav'n above,
And all our Heav'n below.

III

Hail Blessed Spirit! not a Soul
But does the Influe'nce feel;
Thou dost our Darling Sins controul,
And fix our Waveri'ng Zeal:
Thou to the Consciene dost convey
The Checks that all must know;
Thy Motions first does point the Way,
Then give us Strength to go.

IV

As Pilots by the Compass steer
Till they their Harbour find,
So do thy sacred Breathings here
Guide ev'ry wand'ring Mind:
The Flesh may strive our Course t'impeach,
The World's rough Billows roar;
But following Thee w'are sure to reach
The safe, Eternal Shore!

428

On Good Friday.

I

No Songs of Triumph now be sung,
Cease all your sprightful Airs;
Let Sorrow silence ev'ry Tongue,
And Joy dissolve to Tears:
See! where opprobriously for us
Our bleeding SAVIOUR's nail'd!
Ah see! while Death he suffers thus,
How much our Sins prevail'd!

II

We were devoted to the Stroke,
At us the Bolt was thrown;
He stept between, the Torture took,
And made our Guilt his own.
Ah! think what Agonies he felt!
How vast the Weight he bore!
And let your Souls in weeping melt,
And bleed at ev'ry Pore!

III

Desponding—let all Heads decline,
All Arms be hung across;
Let Angels in our Sorrows join,
And Nature groan his Loss!
The op'ning Graves, the Temple torn
Our Stony Hearts shou'd rend;
Shou'd make us melt shou'd make us mourn,
Nor only mourn but mend.

429

IV

If at this Sight we don't Repent,
What other Sight can move!
Ingrateful! shou'd we not relent,
And pay such Love, with Love:
If still Contrition is forgot,
And we our Sins retain;
As far as it concerns our Lot,
He yet but died in vain.

FINIS.