University of Virginia Library

SONNET.

[ONCE more, my Hawkins, I attempt to raise]

ON DESIGN AND BEAUTY.

AN EPISTLE.

A LETTER FROM A CAPTAIN IN COUNTRY QUARTERS TO HIS CORINNA IN TOWN.

AN EPITAPH. IN IMITATION OF DRYDEN.

Under this marble stone intomb'd are laid
The precious relicts of a pious Maid,
A Form too lovely to be snatch'd away,
A Mind too good to make a longer stay;
So many Virtues to that Form were giv'n,
Nature mistook, and made her first for heav'n;
Or else 'twas Chance, and from the mould'ring frame
Leapt out a Goddess, what was meant a Dame;
Th'impression of a lucky hit she bore,
Nature ne'er made a Masterpiece before;
And then, Oh! ever jealous of our joy,
Blest us to curse, and made her to destroy.
Had she not liv'd, the world had never known,
What various talents might unite in one;
And, Oh! sad trial, had she never died,
Her sex had wanted Virtues to divide.

A PIPE OF TOBACCO:

IN IMITATION OF SIX SEVERAL AUTHORS.

IMITATION I. A NEW-YEAR's ODE.

IMITATION II.

Little tube of mighty pow'r,
Charmer of an idle hour,
Object of my warm desire,
Lip of wax, and eye of fire:
And thy snowy taper waist,
With my finger gently brac'd;
And thy pretty swelling crest,
With my little stopper prest,
And the sweetest bliss of blisses,
Breathing from thy balmy kisses.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men;
Who when agen the night returns,
When agen the taper burns;
When agen the cricket's gay,
(Little cricket, full of play)
Can afford his tube to feed
With the fragrant Indian weed:
Pleasure for a nose divine,
Incense of the god of wine.
Happy thrice, and thrice agen,
Happiest he of happy men.

IMITATION III.

O thou, matur'd by glad Hesperian suns,
Tobacco, fountain pure of limpid truth,
That looks the very soul; whence pouring thought
Swarms all the mind; absorpt is yellow care,
And at each puff imagination burns.
Flash on thy bard, and with exalting fires
Touch the mysterious lip, that chaunts thy praise
In strains to mortal sons of earth unknown.
Behold an engine, wrought from tawny mines
Of ductile clay, with plastic virtue form'd,
And glaz'd magnifick o'er, I grasp, I fill.
From Pætotheke with pungent pow'rs perfum'd,
Itself one tortoise all, where shines imbib'd
Each parent ray; then rudely ram'd illume,
With the red touch of zeal-enkindling sheet,
Mark'd with Gibsonian lore; forth issue clouds,
Thought-thrilling, thirst-inciting clouds around,
And many-mining fires: I all the while,
Lolling at ease, inhale the breezy balm.
But chief, when Bacchus wont with thee to join
In genial strife and orthodoxal ale,
Stream life and joy into the Muses bowl.
Oh be thou still my great inspirer, thou
My Muse; oh fan me with thy zephyrs boon,
While I, in clouded tabernacle shrin'd,
Burst forth all oracle and mystick song.

IMITATION IV.

Criticks avaunt; Tobacco is my theme;
Tremble like hornets at the blasting steam,
And you, court-insects, flutter not too near
Its light, nor buzz within the scorching sphere,
Pollio, with flame like thine, my verse inspire,
So shall the Muse from smoke elicit fire.
Coxcombs prefer the tickling sting of snuff;
Yet all their claim to wisdom is—a puff:
Lord Foplin smokes not—for his teeth afraid:
Sir Tawdry smokes not—for he wears brocade.
Ladies, when pipes are brought, affect to swoon;
They love no smoke, except the smoke of town;
But courtiers hate the puffing tribe,—no matter,
Strange if they love the breath that cannot flatter!
Its foes but shew their ignorance; can he
Who scorns the leaf of knowledge, love the tree?
The tainted templar (more prodigious yet)
Rails at Tobacco, tho' it makes him—spit.
Citronia vows it has an odious stink;
She will not smoke (ye gods!) but she will drink:
And chaste Prudella (blame her if you can)
Says, pipes are us'd by that vile creature Man:
Yet crouds remain, who still its worth proclaim,
While some for pleasure smoke, and some for fame:
Fame, of our actions universal spring,
For which we drink, eat, sleep, smoke,—ev'ry thing.

IMITATION V.

Blest leaf! whose aromatick gales dispense
To templars modesty, to parsons sense:
So raptur'd priests, at fam'd Dodona's shrine
Drank inspiration from the steam divine.
Poison that cures, a vapour that affords
Content, more solid than the smile of lords:
Rest to the weary, to the hungry food,
The last kind refuge of the Wise and Good.
Inspir'd by thee, dull cits adjust the scale
Of Europe's peace, when other statesmen fail.
By thee protected, and thy sister, beer,
Poets rejoice, nor think the bailiff near.
Nor less the critick owns thy genial aid,
While supperless he plies the piddling trade.
What tho' to love and softs delights a foe,
By ladies hated, hated by the beau,
Yet social freedom, long to courts unknown,
Fair health, fair truth, and virtue are thy own,
Come to thy poet, come with healing wings,
And let me taste thee unexcis'd by kings.

IMITATION VI.

THE FIRE SIDE:

A PASTORAL SOLILOQUY.

HORACE, ODE XIV. BOOK I.

IMITATED IN MDCCXLVI.

O ship! shall new waves again bear thee to sea?
Where, alas! art thou driving? keep steady to shore;
Thy sides are left without an oar,
And thy shaken mast groans, to rude tempests a prey.
Thy tackle all torn, can no longer endure
The assaults of the surge that now triumphs and reigns,
None of thy sails entire remains,
Nor a God to protect in another sad hour.
Tho' thy outside bespeaks thee of noble descent,
The forest's chief pride, yet thy race and thy fame,
What are they but an empty name?
Wise mariners trust not to gilding and paint.
Beware then lest Thou float, uncertain again,
The sport of wild winds, late my sorrowful care,
And now my fondest wish, beware
Of the changeable shoals where the Rhine meets the Main.

ON PHŒBE.

Though Phœbe's lovely charms excel
All that is charming in a Belle;
Yet she, regardless of her face,
Scarce owns her image in the glass,
She knows, that she alone can find
Her likeness in a lovely mind,
Sees more exalted Beauty there,
Beauty, that lasts for ever fair;
Discretion, innocence, and truth,
Still flourish in unfading youth,
Bloom through the winter of our days,
And thrive, when outward form decays.
Phœbe thus arm'd, the pow'r she gains
Secures, and, where she conquers, reigns.
Beaux may be caught with outward show,
And Belles will flutter at a Beau,
The wise are only charm'd to find
Good nature, wit, and judgment join'd
With each perfection of a beauteous mind.

ON THE SAME [ON PHŒBE].

O early plant of tender years,
Beauty that blooms at once, and bears!
Discretion mixt with sprightly wit,
And innocence with taste polite,
A chearful, yet discerning mind,
And dignity with softness join'd;
While these assembled charms are seen
All in the compass of fifteen,
Maturer age abash'd declares,
Wisdom is not the growth of years:
No, 'tis a ray that darts from heav'n,
Perfection is not taught, but giv'n.
Let others by degrees advance,
'Till folly ripen into sense;
Phœbe consummate from her birth
In artless charms, and native worth,
Has all the virtues years enjoy,
With all the graces they destroy.

TO SOME LADIES, WHO SAID THE AUTHOR LOVED CHICKEN.

Prudes, forbear your scandal-picking,
Own that Phœbe is no Chicken;
If maturity be measur'd
By the virtues, that are treasur'd,
She at fifteen can reckon more
Than you can boast of at threescore;
And while your passion, taste, and skill,
Is dress, and scandal, and quadrille,
'Tis Her's, with books and arts refin'd,
To dress and cultivate the mind,
In easy converse to delight,
A foe to calumny and spight;
In cards and follies you grow old,
Life passing like a tale that's told,
She, like the sun's auspicious ray,
Shines more and more to perfect day,
Her very pastimes shew good sense;
Her Beauty her least excellence.

ON THE AUTHOR's BIRTH-DAY.

ON A FIT OF THE GOUT.

AN ODE.

AN ODE, ADDRESSED TO THE HONOURABLE CHARLES YORKE.

AN EPODE.

Written about the End of the Year 1756.

[Now domes and obelisks o'erspread the plain]

Now domes and obelisks o'erspread the plain,
Where laughing Ceres us'd to reign;
Lands, that of old repaid their owner's care,
Are now trim walks, and gay parterre.
Hills sink to vallies, vallies swell to hills,
Rocks gush with artificial rills.
Vain petulance of wealth! this gaudy scene,
What boots it, if unquiet spleen
Breeds new desires; and squeamish appetite
Loaths what was yesterday's delight?
Better the hardy Swiss, who tills the soil,
Lives on his little, earn'd by toil;
There fair equality, proportion'd wealth,
Preserve the commonweal in health;
The farmer there beholds in lands his own
Flocks feeding, and plantations grown.
Laws and example there controul intrigue,
No stain pollutes the marriage league,
No portion'd wives presume to domineer,
Virtue is all their portion there.
Is there, who seeks a patriot's honest fame,
Bold faction let him dare to tame,
And madd'ning licence; acts, like these, shall raise
A monument to latest days.
But vain the task to blame degen'rate times,
If timid justice wink on crimes;
Enormities unpunish'd gather force
Grown by example things of course.
Morals, that give authority to law,
No longer hold the land in awe.
But great and small alike pay rites divine,
At Belial's or at Mammon's shrine.
There offer all the charities of life,
The niece, the sister, and the wife.
Inhuman sacrifice! Go then, and bawl
For Freedom; she disdains thy call.
Freedom he loves not, who enslav'd within
Thinks poverty the greatest sin.
On virtue only freedom is bestow'd,
None win or woe her, but the good.
Simplicity of manners, frugal taste,
To what new climate are ye chas'd?
Instead of these—but oh! my Muse, forbear,
And let our foes the rest declare.
Tell it, with triumph, France, who best can tell,
What arts you tried, what magic spell,
Thus to transform, and into apes debase
A gallant once, and manly race;
Those, who your arms for ages have withstood,
Are by your fopperies subdued.
Oh, too severe revenge for all the slain,
Whose blood once fatten'd Cressy's plain;
Go, now secure, go, scatter wide and far,
O'er nations more than hostile war;
Till one by one a prey to force or fraud,
Grow patient of the Gallic rod.
Yet though the black'ning storm in full career
Rolls nearer on, and still more near,
Britain unactive sees the spreading waste,
Content to be devour'd the last;
In utmost need, not daring to defend
Her best, her last remaining friend:
Who asks, but to restore her ancient might,
And teach her veterans, how to fight.
Rouse, Britons, rouse, where Europe's loud alarms,
Where Glory calls, to arms, to arms.
Inspir'd by Him, whose wond'rous deeds contain
An Iliad within one campaign.
Her menac'd isle can Britain hope to save
By troops in war untried, though brave?
In foreign realms first purchase fair renown,
So shall you best protect your own.
Hard lesson! say, ye Knights of Arthur's, say,
Who would exchange ease, pleasure, play,
For toil, for hunger; and in perils share
With Him, whose very sport is war?
Not so of old—in fam'd Eliza's days
Each candidate for martial praise
Return'd instructed from the Belgic school,
How to obey, and how to rule;
No toil, no danger, could their efforts quell;
Witness the field where Sidney fell,
Alike in counsel, and in arms supreme,
Sidney the Muses darling theme,
Himself a Muse;—oh! had propitious fate
Giv'n to thy years a riper date,
Frederick's exploits, which now with lustre shine
Superior, had but equall'd thine.
Whom shall we find to rival Sidney's fame,
And reassert our ancient claim?
Ah! hope not drooping vigour to restore
By laws, the cordial of an hour;
Let Education, Britain, be thy care,
The long neglected soil prepare
For future harvests, now a thorny wood
Untill'd, uncultur'd, unsubdued:
The stinging nettle, the dull nightshade's pow'r,
Each weed that counterfeits a flow'r,
The teasing burr, the creeper sure to wound
The tree that raised it from the ground,
Pluck up betimes; eradicate the growth
Of faction, foppery, and sloth,
And treacherous ambition; these replace
With virtues of a generous race:
Calm courage, industry, and modest truth,
Plant in the breast of easy youth;
So shall maturer age the laws revere,
And morals do the work of fear.

A TRANSLATION OF A FRAGMENT OF SOLON, PRESERVED IN THE ORATION OF DEMOSTHENES DE FALSA LEGATIONE.

Athens, to tutelary Pallas dear,
Hath nothing from the Gods to fear;
No, to her sons alone she owes her doom,
The dire distemper lurks at home;
Commons contending to be bought and sold,
Rulers who riot uncontroul'd,
Insatiate, though abounding, void of sense
To relish decent competence;
No ties or human or divine restrain,
So lawless is the lust of gain;
Each preys on each, yet with consenting zeal
All join to rob the commonweal,
And claim it, as the birth-right of the strong,
To leap the bounds of right and wrong;
Yet Justice, who the present sees and past,
Though silent, will avenge at last.
These are the maladies, which soon or late
Bring desolation on a State;
Hence civil discord springs, hence hostile rage
Awaken'd, spares nor sex nor age;
And cities, where none govern or obey,
Must fall to foreign arms a prey.
Such is the general fate, amongst the poor
Some exiled on a distant shore,
Enslav'd, imprison'd, lockt in cruel chains,
[OMITTED]
Thus publick evil spreads like a disease
From house to house through all degrees;
The rich against it bar their gates in vain,
No bars, no fences fate restrain:
Still she pursues, and haunts, where'er ye dwell,
Or in a palace, or a cell.
Learn hence, Athenians, timely learn to know,
What ills from lawless licence flow;
Good laws diffuse good order through the whole,
Th'unjust by fit restraints controul,
Polish rough manners, curb unbridled will,
Daunt pride, and crop the buds of ill,
Restore warpt justice, bid oppression cease,
Sooth party-rancour into peace,
Quell stubborn faction, heal litigious strife,
And give and guard the sweets of life.