University of Virginia Library

POEMS ON Several Occasions.

The Complaint.

Tir'd of the Town, and the Wild tumults there,
Pensive I Walk'd, to Breath the Vernal Air.
Along the Banks of Silver Thames I stray'd;
Alike both wander'd, thro' the grateful Mead.
Only, more Calm the River gilded by,
Shook by no Storm, it murmur'd not, as I.
Beneath a shade, form'd of a Shrubby Wood,
I lay, and look'd on the adjacent Flood.
The Beamy Sky All-lustrous from above,
With wav'ring Light seem'd on the Streams to move.
Heav'n, there display'd before me, I could boast,
Yet Plunging in, I had been ever lost.
Thus to those Wretches whom their Crimes pursue,
Ev'n Heav'n shows false, and Damns them in the view.
Strait, was the Sun o'ercast with sullen Clouds,
And gloomy Mists sat heavy on the Floods.
The Tempest gather'd, and from Pole to Pole,
The light'nings Flash, and the loud Thunders roll.
Whole Heav'n was darken'd—Calm I lay a while,
And with a Pleasing sadness, seem'd to smile.
But now, the Sun forc'd out his Glorious way,
Dispell'd the gloom, and made the Skies look gay,
Clad thick in brightest Beams, and Flashing on the Day.
On Airy Wings the gloomy Mists were fled,
And gladsome Sun-shine glided every Shade,
But that, where Sylvius, where the Wretch was lay'd.
A thick, dark Fog spread horrid, all around,
And dull'd the Springing Beauties of the ground.
On both sides, near, I saw delightful Groves,
And happy Lovers, Whisp'ring tender Loves.
The Odorous Bow'rs, their Scenes of bliss, so nigh
I heard the Swains protest, the Virgins sigh.
Damp't with my fate, no wishing glance I cast,
Gay looks of Pleasure die, when Joys are past.
The Wretch his Courtship needs must purchase hate,
For Beauty yields, but to the rich, and great.
I saw—unenvying saw their rais'd delight,
Blest both their day, and my own gloomy Night,
That grateful Fog, which fenc'd me from their sight.
Hear me, I Cry'd, ye Heavens! Auspicious hear,
Kind Eccho too, part in my Sorrows bear.
In that low Vale try there thy utmost Skill;
Now, if thou can'st, redouble all my ill.
In vain, in vain—alas! What speaks the wrong,
In vain, in vain thou cry'st—'tis all thy Song.
Be dumb—I'll now a new Narcissus be,
Fond of my grief, as of his Beauty he.
More blest than him I shall appear in woe;
In this respect none will my Rival grow.
In all the Crowd of that imperious Town,
Find me that gen'rous Soul, find one alone,
Willing to Join in any other's moan.
Of all the shining Beauties, where's the Maid,
That sells her Love, where only Love is paid.

To Mr ---

Written before the Representation of his First Comedy.

Enough—I know thy strength, nor need delay,
The dawning Muse fore-shows the Springing Day,
Nor will the rise of her own Phæbus stay.
Let others wait the Glory of the Skies,
I know, I know, the Sun and you must rise.
Strong in thy solid Beams, maintain thy Sphere;
Thy vig'rous Fires will Foggy Vapours rear.
I know thy Orb of Sence to fulness grown,
And by thy kind Reflection, Judge my own.
Thence, all my borrow'd, fainter glimm'rings shine,
I can't be wholly dark, while thou art mine.
In vain, once dampt, to weaker helps I run,
Yet Vesta's Fire was kindl'd by the Sun.
Hard fate of Debt! if I return thee Praise,
I send but smoak, for thy enliv'ning rays.
Languid my heat, void of the Flame of Wit.
Censur'd for what I have, and have not Writ.
Against what's mine, let Criticks Blunder on,
They may excuse me, what I have not done.
Tho' to no haughty Genius will I bend,
My Muse must still her utmost Plumes extend,
And clap her Wings, and soar, to reach my Friend.
She, safe like Danae, from mortal Pow'rs,
Yields but to Jove, in his Celestial show'rs.
Tho' I, the weak born Castor, must decline,
In thee, my stronger, Brother-star, I'll shine.
Go on, Lov'd Youth! And lofty structures raise,
Already founded strong, in solid praise.
Congreve, Vanbrook, and Wicherly must sit,
The great Triumvirate of Comick Wit.
Where can I place my Friend; and sense approve?
Do thou excel thy self, then rise above.
Ascend not proudly, tho' thou can'st not fall,
Be what thou art, thou art already all.
Maintain thy own, nor scorn to Conquer slow,
And Young Octavius shall Augustus grow.
But Oh! Forgive thy undesigning Friend,
I cannot all, tho' all be thine, commend,
For thou, I own, ev'n thou thy self, may'st mend.
Let nought, offending Chastest ears, be told;
Make thy Muse modest, she may still be bold.
Safe shall you rise, from every Censure free,
And still be Courted, as you pass, by me.
Shun the Just rage of Collier's sacred Pen,
The truly great, must be the best of Men.
From Heav'n immediate, Flows such Sence as thine
Warm, like the Poet's God, as well as shine.
Let the strong Muse, Divine in Numbers rise,
'Tis then, 'tis only then, she strikes the Skies.

To Mr ---

On his Second Comedy.

All Court the Rising Sun; some, from the morn,
Conclude what Lustre shall the Day adorn.
Your earliest dawn, my Friend, was chearful day,
You shone out first with a Meridian ray.
Tho' dusky Clouds some Beams did hov'ring hide,
The Work was Day, 'twas perfect Day descry'd.
This all infer from the succeeding Skies,
After one Day, another Day must Rise.
O may thy Phæbus never set in Night,
For, all the God shines in each Scene you write.
Why should my Voice pronounce the labour good?
'Tis praise enough to say 'tis understood.
Loud are the Clamours which applauses Fire;
You force much more, we silently admire;
When seen, you ravish, but when read, inspire.
All Judge you hence, in the first piece you writ,
Loose, but thro' Fashion, not thro' want of wit.
For now, more new, (tho' Genuine Garbs) you choose,
And deck, with modest Charms, the Comick Muse.
At once such profit, such delight you raise,
Collier himself (if Collier can) should praise.
But hold—
While here to stay the Reader's Eyes I strive,
You of your best Applause, by praising, I deprive.

The Petition.

To her Royal, and Illustrious Highness, the Princess.

Written in the Name of Mr. ---, being deny'd to Tread the Stage.

To a Lady, my Friend's ingrateful Mistress.

To Dr Gibbons.

Let Gibbons Live, long let Great Gibbons Live,
Possest of Health, which he so well can give.
Such strength to sinking Patients you restore,
Scarce Nature's Hand in bounteous Birth gave more.
In Sickness plung'd, like Divers in the Main,
We bring up Health, when we appear again;
Health is the Gemm, which by your Art we find,
Firm in the Body set, and glitt'ring in the Mind.
O Gibbons! Whilst thy Name inspires my Muse,
Thou dost fresh Vigour in her flights infuse.
With Joy she soars to Sing her Patron's praise,
And stretch those Wings, which only you could raise.
Thou gav'st her Life, and whilst she sings thy Name,
Thou giv'st to her, as she to others, Fame.
Fame she returns, given by the Justest Law,
For thou draw'st Fame from every Breath I draw.
What can I give, my gratitude to show?
My Thanks? my Thanks are Poor, my self I owe.
Gen'rous like Heav'n, our Vital heat you give,
And in return, would'st only that we live.
Such is your care for all your Patients shown,
As if from others Health you drew your own.
O would our God, the Radiant Phæbus shine,
And bless my skill, as he has Cherish'd thine.
Then should thy Art be in my Song Renown'd,
And Verse and Physick should at once be Crown'd.
Then might I Sing the vigour you impart,
But artless Verse can never reach thy Art.
From thee the darkest Black distempers run,
As Shades and Phantoms from the mounting Sun.
Thy Power whole Legions of Diseases fly,
You Cure the Sick, and make the Sickness die.
Nature to thee does all her secrets show,
And all her secrets are improv'd by you.
New Life, new force to Nature you impart,
And Nature's self we find reviv'd by Art.
Wisely to you her choicest seeds she gives,
Nature, who grants all Life, thro' Gibbons Lives.
In vain the Poet boasts Immortal Pow'rs,
Life is Heaven's gift, 'tis only Heaven's, and Yours.

To a Lady, asking me why I did not apply to Dr. Gibbons to be Cur'd of my Love too.

Phæbus himself, who did the pain endure,
In all his Art of Physick found no Cure.
All means I try'd, all means have Fruitless prov'd;
Art only Cures, where Art the Passion mov'd.
Love is like Poyson; by some secret spell,
Poyson does Poyson, Love does Love expel.
But this, ev'n this, should I attempt, were vain;
'Tis Poyson; nay, 'tis Death, and Damning pain,
To think she Lives, and I should Love again.
Love is like Death to me; I will not try,
For I can Love but once, but once can die.
Gibbons has Art, Gibbons has Matchless skill,
Gibbons can save more Lives, than others Kill.
Love's a Disease free from ill-temper'd Air,
And ev'n Great Gibbons self is Artless there.
Life he restor'd, by Neighb'ring Death Annoy'd.
But Life is easier rais'd, than Love Destroy'd.
The cause dies not, till the effect remove,
We know that Life is but the Act of Love.
This too we know from all Conclusions try'd,
Love shall leave me, when you abandon Pride.

The Charmer.

Each Love-sick Youth, by partial Passion torn,
Thinks that faint Star the brightest Fires adorn,
Beneath whose smiling Reign the Youth was born.
That Planet Clouded, and depriv'd of Light,
He thinks some other, and some other bright.
Amasia thus, shed pointed glories far,
In the first dawn, the Poet's Morning Star.
Yet still new Beams her Charming aspect wears,
Daily ador'd twice six long rolling Years.
First in Hibernia was the Nymph admir'd,
There first her Charms the ravisht Sylvius Fir'd.
Blest Gallia now is with her influence Crown'd,
Not shining still on his sad, Native ground,
What he thought fixt, a wand'ring Star is found.
Tho' long remov'd from my deluded Eyes,
She seems the brightest Planet of the skies,
In France she sets, nor must in Brittain rise.
Whilst Lov'd Amasia's Charms the Poet Sings,
He speaks, admiring Subsolary things.
Sol's stronger rise we see Aurora shun;
Here, none compares, Grafton is Beauty's Sun.
If to her Face our Sick'ning Eyes we move,
Blind grows all Admiration, Blind as Love.
Sight, not Immortal, should not rashly dare
To tempt that Lustrous view it cannot bear.
Conscious of Fires, which by Reflection warm,
I stand at distance, and perceive the Charm.
View Grafton's Face reflected by her Fame,
As Men view Phæbus in the Silver Stream.
This bliss, in pity to our weakness giv'n,
We view the Sun, but gaze not at the Heaven.
Next her, immediate, Shall Amasia shine
In every dazzled sight, as well as mine.
While Grafton's self, first shall the Throne maintain,
Let her, the fairest Fair Vicegerent Reign.
The Poet's Venus, whom his Muse has Sung,
Not from the Sea, but from a Deluge Sprung.
Greatly deriv'd, the Beauteous Charmer Flow'd
From a long line of Royal, old Hibernian Blood.
Her Country delug'd in a fatal War,
Her House's Ark tost on rude Billows far.
Succeeding Wars, to me more fatal bred;
From the curs'd Land this fair Astræa fled.
To her, their Regent Queen, does Gallia Bow,
The Fruitful Gallia is her Empire now.
Her Eyes their Souls at once inspire and awe,
Imperial grown, spight of their Salick Law.
O'er Spacious France her shining Scepter's hurl'd,
She Reigns o'er France and me, but Grafton o'er the World.

The Vision of the MUSE.