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

AN ODE TO THE SUN,

FOR THE NEW-YEAR, 1707.

Augur, & fulgente decorus arcu
Phœbus acceptusque novem Camænis,
Qui salutari levat arte fessos
Corporis artus; ------
Alterum in Lustrum meliusque semper
Proroget ævum.
Horat.

I

Begin, Celestial Source of Light,
To gild the new-revolving Sphear;
And from the pregnant Womb of Night,
Urge on to birth the infant Year.
Rich with auspicious Lustre rise,
Thou fairest Regent of the Skies,
Conspicuous with thy Silver Bow!
To thee, a God, 'twas given by Jove
To rule the radiant Orbs above,
To Gloriana this below.

II

With Joy renew thy destin'd Race,
And let the mighty Months begin:
Let no ill Omen cloud thy Face,
Thro' all thy Circle smile serene.
While the stern Ministers of Fate
Watchful o'er pale Lutetia wait,
To grieve the Gaul's perfidious Head;
The Hours, thy Off-spring heav'nly Fair,
Their whitest Wings should ever wear,
And gentle Joys on Albion shed.

III

When Ilia bore the future Fates of Rome,
And the long Honours of her Race began,
Thus, to prepare the graceful Age to come,
They from thy Stores in happy Order ran.
Heroes elected to the List of Fame,
Fix'd the sure Columns of her rising State:

'Till the loud Triumphs of the Julian Name
Render'd the Glories of her Reign compleat,
Each Year advanc'd a Rival to the rest,
In comely Spoils of War, and great Atchievements drest.

I

Say, Phoebus, for thy searching Eye
Saw Rome the darling Child of Fate,
When nothing equal here could vie
In Strength with her imperious State;
Say if high Virtues there did reign
Exalted in a nobler Strain,
Than in fair Albion thou hast seen:
Or can her Demi-Gods compare
Their Trophies for successful War,
To those that rise for Albion's Queen?

II

When Albion first majestick shew'd
High o'er the circling Seas her Head,

Her the great Father smiling view'd,
And thus to bright Victoria said:
Mindful of Phlegra's happy Plain,
On which, fair Nymph, you fix'd my Reign,
This Isle to you shall sacred be;
Her Hand shall hold the rightful Scale,
And Crowns be vanquish'd, or prevail,
As Gloriana shall decree.

III

Victoria triumph in thy great Increase!
With Joy the Julian Stem the Tyber claims,
Young Ammon's Might the Granic Waves confess;
The Heber had a Mars, a Churchill Thames:
Roll, Sov'reign of the Streams! thy rapid Tide,
And bid thy Brother-Floods revere the Queen,
Whose Voice the Hero's happy Hand employ'd
To save the Danube, and subdue the Sein;
And boldly just to Gloriana's Fame,
Exalt thy Silver Urn, and duteous Homage claim.

I

Advanc'd to thy Meridian Height,
On Earth, great God of Day, look down:
Let Windsor entertain thy Sight,
Clad in fair Emblems of Renown:
And whilst in radiant Pomp appear
The Names to bright Victoria dear,
Intent the long Procession view:
Confess none worthier ever wore
Her Favours, or was deck'd with more,
Than she confers on Churchill's Brow.

II

But oh! withdraw thy piercing Rays,
The Nymph anew begins to moan,
Viewing the much lamented Space,
Where late her warlike William shone:
There fix'd by her officious Hand,
His Sword and Sceptre of Command

To deathless Fame adopted rest:
Nor wants there to compleat her Woe,
Plac'd with respectful Love below,
The Star that beam'd on Glo'ster's Breast.

III

O Phoebus! all thy saving Pow'r employ,
Long let our Vows avert the destin'd Woe,
E'er Gloriana re-ascends the Sky,
And leaves a Land of Orphans here below!
But when (so Heav'n ordains!) her smiling Ray
Distinguish'd o'er the Balance shall preside,
Whilst future Kings her ancient Sceptre sway,
May her mild Influence all their Councils guide:
To Albion ever constant in her Love,
Of Sov'reigns here the best, the brightest Star above.

I

For lawless Pow'r reclaim'd to Right,
And Virtue rais'd by pious Arms,

Let Albion be thy fair Delight,
And shield her safe from threaten'd Harms:
With Flow'rs and Fruit her Bosom fill,
Let Laurel rise on ev'ry Hill
Fresh as the first on Daphne's Brow:
Instruct her tuneful Sons to sing,
And make each Vale with Pæans ring,
To Blenheim and Ramillia due.

II

Secure of bright Eternal Fame,
With happy Wing the Theban Swan
Tow'ring from Pisa's sacred Stream,
Inspir'd by thee the Song began:
Thro' Desarts of unclouded Light,
When he harmonious took his Flight,
The Gods constrain'd the sounding Sphears:
Still Envy darts her Rage in vain,
The Lustre of his Worth to stain,
He growing whiter with his Years.

III

But, Phoebus, God of Numbers, high to raise
The Honours of thy Art, and heav'nly Lyre,
What Muse is destin'd to our Sov'reign's Praise,
Worthy her Acts, and thy informing Fire?
To him, for whom this springing Laurel grows,
Eternal on the topmost heights of Fame,
Be kind, and all thy Helicon disclose;
And all intent on Gloriana's Name,
Let Silence brood o'er Ocean, Earth, and Air,
As when to Victor Jove thou sung'st the Giants War.

I

In sure Records each shining Deed,
When faithful Clio sets to view,
Posterity will doubting read,
And scarce believe her Annals true:
The Muses toil with Art to raise
Fictitious Monuments of Praise,

When other Actions they rehearse;
But half of Gloriana's Reign,
That so the rest may Credit gain,
Should pass unregister'd in Verse.

II

High on its own establish'd Base
Prevailing Virtue's pleas'd to rise;
Divinely deck'd with native Grace,
Rich in itself with solid Joys:
E'er Gloriana on the Throne,
Quitting for Albion's Rest her own,
In Types of Regal Pow'r was seen;
With fair Preheminence confest
It triumph'd in a private Breast,
And made the Princess more than Queen.

III

O Phoebus! would thy Godhead not refuse
This humble Incense, on thy Altar laid;

Would thy propitious Ear attend the Muse,
That suppliant now invokes thy certain Aid;
With Mantuan Force I'd mount a stronger Gale,
And sing the Parent of her Land, who strove
T'exceed the Transports of her People's Zeal,
With Acts of Mercy, and majestick Love;
By Fate, to fix Britannia's Empire, giv'n
The guardian Pow'r of Earth, and publick Care of Heav'n.

I

Then, Churchill, should the Muse record
The Conquests by thy Sword atchiev'd;
Quiet to Belgian States restor'd,
And Austrian Crowns by thee retriev'd.
Imperious Leopold confess'd
His hoary Majesty distress'd,
To Arms, to Arms, Bavaria calls;
Nor with less Terror shook his Throne,
Than when the rising Crescent shone
Malignant o'er his shatter'd Walls.

II

The Warrior led the Britons forth
On foreign Fields to dare their Fate;
Distinguish'd Souls of shining Worth,
In War unknowing to retreat:
Thou, Phoebus, saw'st the Hero's Face,
When Mars had breath'd a Purple Grace,
And mighty Fury fill'd his Breast;
How like thy self, when to destroy
The Greeks thou did'st thy Darts employ,
Fierce with thy golden Quiver drest!

III

Sudden, whil'st banish'd from his native Land,
Red with dishonest Wounds Bavaria mourn'd,
The Chief, at Gloriana's high Command,
Like a rowz'd Lion to the Maes return'd:
With vengeful Speed the British Sword he drew,
Unus'd to grieve his Host with long Delay;

Whilst wing'd with Fear the Force of Gallia flew;
As when the Morning-Star restores the Day,
The wand'ring Ghosts of twenty thousand slain
Fleet sullen to the Shades, from Blenheim's mournful Plain.

I

Britannia, wipe thy dusty Brow,
And put the Bourbon Laurels on;
To thee deliver'd Nations bow,
And bless the Spoils thy Wars have won.
For thee Bellona points her Spear,
And whilst lamenting Mothers fear,
On high her signal Torch displays:
But when thy Sword is sheath'd, again
Obsequious she receives thy Chain,
And smooths her Violence of Face.

II

Parent of Arms! for ever stand
With large Increase of Fame rever'd,

Whilst Arches to thy saving Hand
On Danube's grateful Banks are rear'd.
Eugene, inspir'd to War by thee,
Ausonia's weeping States to free,
Swift on th' Imperial Eagle flies:
Whilst bleeding, from his azure Bed
Th' asserted Iber lifts his Head,
And safe his Austrian Lord enjoys.

III

Iö Britannia! fix'd on foreign Wars,
Guiltless of Civil Rage extend thy Name:
The Waves of utmost Ocean, and the Stars,
Are Bounds but equal to thy Sov'reigns Fame.
With deeper Wrath thy Victor Lion roars,
Wide o'er the subject World diffusing Fear;
Whilst Gallia weeps her Guilt, and Peace implores:
So Earth, transfix'd by fierce Minerva's Spear,
A gentler Birth obedient did disclose,
And sudden from the Wound eternal Olives rose.

I

When with establish'd Freedom bless'd,
The Globe to great Alcides bow'd,
Whose happy Pow'r reliev'd th' oppress'd
From lawless Chains, and check'd the proud;
Mature in Fame, the grateful Gods
Receiv'd him to their bright Abodes,
Where Hebe crown'd his blooming Joys;
Garlands the willing Muses wove,
And each with Emulation strove
T'adorn the Churchill of the Skies.

II

For Albion's Chief, ye sacred Nine!
Your Harps with gen'rous Ardor string,
With Fame's immortal Trumpet join,
And safe beneath his Laurel sing:
When clad in Vines the Sein shall glide,
And duteous in a smoother Tide

To British Seas her Tribute yield;
Wakeful at Honour's Shrine attend,
And long with living Beams defend
From Night, the Warrior's votive Shield.

III

And, Woodstock, let his Dome exalt the Fame,
Great o'er the Norman Ruins be restor'd;
Thou that with Pride dost Edward's Cradle claim,
Receive an equal Hero for thy Lord.
Whilst ev'ry Column to record their Toils
Eternal Monuments of Conquest wears,
And all thy Walls are dress'd with mingled Spoils,
Gather'd on fam'd Ramillia, and Poictiers,
High on thy Tow'r the grateful Flag display,
Due to thy Queen's Reward, and Blenheim's glorious Day.

The Black Prince.

FLORELIO.

A PASTORAL. Lamenting the Death of the late Marquis of Blandford.

Ask not the Cause why all the tuneful Swains,
Who us'd to fill the Vales with tender Strains,
In deep Despair neglect the warb'ling Reed,
And all their bleating Flocks refuse to feed.
Ask not why Greens and Flow'rs so late appear
To cloath the Glebe, and deck the springing Year;

Why sounds the Lawn with loud Laments and Cries,
And swoln with Tears to Floods the Riv'lets rise:
The fair Florelio now has left the Plain,
And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

For thee, lov'd Youth! on ev'ry Vale and Lawn,
The Nymphs, and all thy Fellow-Shepherds moan.
The little Birds now cease to sing and love,
Silent they sit, and droop on ev'ry Grove:
No mounting Lark now warbles on the Wing,
Nor Linnets chirp to chear the sullen Spring:
Only the melancholly Turtles coo,
And Philomel by Night repeats her Woe.
O, Charmer of the Shades! the Tale prolong,
Nor let the Morning interrupt thy Song:
Or softly tune thy tender Notes to mine,
Forgetting Tereus, make my Sorrows thine.
Now the dear Youth has left the lonely Plain,
And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

Say, all ye Shades, where late he us'd to rest,
If e'er your Beds with lovelier Swain were prest;
Say, all ye silver Streams, if e'er ye bore
The Image of so fair a Face before.
But now, ye Streams, assist me whilst I mourn,
For never must the lovely Swain return;
And, as these flowing Tears increase your Tide,
O, murmur for the Shepherd as ye glide!
Be sure, ye Rocks, while I my Grief disclose,
Let your sad Echo's lengthen out my Woes:
Ye Breezes, bear the plaintive Accents on,
And whisp'ring tell the Woods Florelio's gone.
For ever gone, and left the lonely Plain,
And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

Ripe Straw-berries for thee, and Peaches grew,
Sweet to the Taste, and tempting red to view.

For thee the Rose put sweeter Purple on,
Preventing, by her haste, the Summer-Sun.
But now the Flow'rs all pale and blighted lie,
And in cold Sweats of sickly Mildew die.
Nor can the Bees suck from the shrivel'd Blooms
Ætherial Sweets, to store their golden Combs.
Oft' on thy Lips they would their Labours leave,
And sweeter Odours from thy Mouth receive:
Sweet as the Breath of Flora, when she lies
In Jesmin Shades, and for young Zephyr sighs.
But now those Lips are cold, relentless Death
Hath chill'd their Charms, and stop'd thy balmy Breath.
Those Eyes, where Cupid tipp'd his Darts with Fire,
And kindled in the coldest Nymphs desire,
Robb'd of their Beams, in everlasting Night
Are clos'd, and give us Woe as once Delight:
And thou, dear Youth, hast left the lonely Plain,
And art the Grief, who wert the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

As in his Bow'r the dying Shepherd lay,
The Shepherd yet so young, and once so gay!
The Nymphs that swim the Stream, and range the Wood,
And haunt the flowry Meads, around him stood.
There Tears down each fair Cheek unbounded fell,
And as he gasp'd, they gave a sad Farewel.
Softly (they cry'd) as sleeping Flow'rs are clos'd
By Night, be thy dear Eyes by Death compos'd:
A gentle Fall may thy young Beauties have,
And golden Slumbers wait thee in the Grave:
Yearly thy Hearse with Garlands we'll adorn,
And teach young Nightingales for thee to mourn;
Bees love the Blooms, the Flocks the bladed Grain,
Nor less wert thou belov'd by ev'ry Swain.
Come, Shepherds, come, perform the fun'ral Due,
For he was ever good and kind to you:
On ev'ry smoothest Beech, in ev'ry Grove,
In weeping Characters record your Love.

And as in Mem'ry of Adonis slain,
When for the Youth the Syrian Maids complain,
His River, to record the guilty Day,
With freshly bleeding Purple stains the Sea:
So thou, dear Cam, contribute to our Woe,
And bid thy Stream in plaintive Murmurs flow:
Thy Head with thy own Willow Boughs adorn,
And with thy Tears supply the frugal Urn.
The Swains their Sheep, the Nymphs shall leave the Lawn;
And yearly on their Banks renew their Moan:
His Mother, while they there lament, shall be
The Queen of Love, the lov'd Adonis he:
On her, like Venus, all the Graces wait,
And he too like Adonis in his Fate!
For fresh in fragrant Youth he left the Plain,
And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

No more the Nymphs, that o'er the Brooks preside,
Dress their gay Beauties by the Crystal Tide;
Nor fly the wintry Winds, nor scorching Sun,
Now he, for whom they strove to charm, is gone.
Oft' they beneath their reedy Coverts sigh'd,
And look'd, and long'd, and for Florelio dy'd.
Of him they sang, and with soft Ditties strove
To sooth the pleasing Agonies of Love.
But now they roam, distracted with Despair,
And Cypress, twin'd with mournful Willows, wear.
Thus, Hand in Hand, around his Grave they go,
And Saffron Buds, and fading Lillies strow,
With Sprigs of Myrtle mix'd, and scatt'ring cry,
So sweet and soft the Shepherd was! so soon decreed to die!
There fresh, in dear Remembrance of their Woes,
His Name the young Anemonies disclose:
Nor strange they should a double Grief avow,
Then Venus wept, and Pastorella now.

Breath soft, ye Winds! long let them paint the Plain,
Unhurt, untouch'd by ev'ry passing Swain.
And when, ye Nymphs, to make the Garlands gay,
With which ye crown the Mistress of the May,
Ye shall these Flow'rs to bind her Temples take,
O pluck them gently for Florelio's sake!
And when thro' Woodstock's green Retreats ye stray,
Or Altrop's flowry Vales invite to play;
O'er which young Pastorella's Beauties bring
Elyzium early, and improve the Spring:
When Ev'ning Gales attentive Silence keep,
And Heav'n its balmy Dew begins to weep.
By the soft Fall of ev'ry warbling Stream.
Sigh your sad Airs, and bless the Shepherd's Name:
There to the tender Lute attune your Woe,
While Hyacinths, and Myrtles round ye grow.
So may Sylvanus ever 'tend your Bow'rs,
And Zephyr brush the Mildew from the Flow'rs!
Bid all the Swans from Cam and Isis haste,
In the melodious Quire to breath their last.

O Colin, Colin, cou'd I there complain
Like thee, when young Philisides was slain!
Thou sweet Frequenter of the Muse's Stream!
Why have I not thy Voice, or thou my Theme?
Tho' weak my Voice, tho' lowly be my Lays,
They shall be sacred to the Shepherd's Praise:
To him my Voice, to him my Lays belong,
And bright Myrtilla now must live unsung:
Ev'n she whose artless Beauty bless'd me more,
Than ever Swain was bless'd by Nymph before;
While ev'ry tender Sigh to seal our Bliss,
Brought a kind Vow, and ev'ry Vow a Kiss:
Fair, chaste, and kind, yet now no more can move,
So much my Grief is stronger than my Love:
Now the dear Youth has left the lonely Plain,
And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

As when some cruel Hind has born away
The Turtle's Nest, and made the young his Prey,

Sad in her native Grove she sits alone,
There hangs her Wings, and murmurs out her moan.
So the bright Shepherdess who bore the Boy,
Beneath a baleful Yew does weeping lie;
Nor can the Fair the weighty Woe sustain,
But bends, like Roses crush'd with falling Rain:
Nor from the silent Earth her Eyes removes,
That weeping, languish like a dying Dove's.
Not such her Look (severe Reverse of Fate!)
When little Loves in ev'ry Dimple sate;
And all the Smiles delighted to resort
On the calm Heav'n of her soft Cheeks to sport:
Soft as the Clouds mild April-Ev'nings wear,
Which drop fresh Flourets on the youthful Year.
The Fountain's Fall can't lull her wakeful Woes,
Nor Poppy-Garlands give the Nymph Repose:
Thro' prickly Brakes, and unfrequented Groves,
O'er Hills and Dales, and craggy Cliffs she roves.
And when she spies, beneath some silent Shade,
The Daisies press'd, where late his Limbs were laid,

To the cold Print there close she joins her Face,
And all with gushing Tears bedews the Grass.
There with loud Plaints she wounds the pitying Skies,
And oh! return, my lovely Youth, she cries;
Return, Florelio, with thy wonted Charms
Fill the soft Circles of my longing Arms.—
Cease, fair Affliction, cease! the lovely Boy
In Death's cold Arms must pale and breathless lie.
The Fates can never change their first Decree,
Or sure they would have chang'd this one for thee.
Pan for his Syrinx makes eternal Moan,
Ceres her Daughter lost, and thou thy Son.
Thy Son for ever now has left the Plain,
And is the Grief, who was the Grace, of ev'ry British Swain.

Adieu, ye mossy Caves, and shady Groves,
Once happy Scenes of our successful Loves:
Ye hungry Herds, and bleating Flocks adieu,
Flints be your Beds, and browze the bitter Yew.

Two Lambs alone shall be my Charge to feed,
For yearly on his Grave two Lambs shall bleed.
This Pledge of lasting Love, dear Shade, receive,
'Tis all, alas, a Shepherd's Love can give!
But Grief from its own Pow'r will set me free,
Will send me soon a willing Ghost to thee:
Cropt in the flow'ry Spring of Youth, I'll go
With hasty Joy to wait thy Shade below:
In ever-fragrant Meads, and Jesmin-Bow'rs
We'll dwell, and all Elyzium shall be ours.
Where Citron Groves Ætherial Odours breath,
And Streams of flowing Crystal purl beneath:
Where all are ever-young, and heav'nly Fair,
As here above thy Sister-Graces are.

AN ODE.

I.

What art thou, Life, whose Stay we court?
What is thy Rival Death we fear?
Since we're but fickle Fortune's Sport,
Why shou'd we wish t'inhabit here;
And think the Race we find so rough too short?

II.

While in the Womb we forming lie,
While yet the Lamp of Life displays
A doubtful Dawn with feeble Rays,
New issuing from Non-Entity.
The Shell of Flesh pollutes with Sin
Its Gem, the Soul, just enter'd in;
And, by transmitted Vice defil'd,
The Fiend commences with the Child.

III.

In this dark Region future Fates are bred,
And Mines of secret Ruin laid:
Hot Fevers here, long kindling lie,
Prepar'd with flaming Whips to rage;
And lash on ling'ring Destiny;
Whene'er Excess has fir'd our riper Age.
Here brood in Infancy the Gout and Stone,
Fruits of our Fathers Follies, not our own.

Ev'n with our Nourishment we Death receive,
For here our guiltless Mothers give
Poison for Food, when first we live.
Hence noisom Humours sweat thro' ev'ry Pore,
And blot us with an undistinguish'd Sore:
Nor mov'd with Beauty, will the dire Disease
Forbear on faultless Forms to seize;
But vindicates the good, the gay,
The wise, the young, its common Prey
Had all conjoyn'd in one, had Pow'r to save,
The Muses had not wept o'er Blandford's Grave.

IV.

The Spark of pure Ætherial Light,
That actuates this fleeting Frame,
Darts thro' the Cloud of Flesh a sickly Flame,
And seems a Glow-Worm in a Winter-Night.
But Man would yet look wondrous wise.
And equal Chains of Thought devise;

Intends his Mind on mighty Schemes,
Refutes, defines, confirms, declaims;
And Diagrams he draws t' explain
The learn'd Chimera's of his Brain;
And with imaginary Wisdom proud,
Thinks on the Goddess while he clips the Cloud.

V.

Thro' Error's mazy Grove, with fruitless Toil,
Perplex'd with puzz'ling Doubts we roam;
False Images our Sight beguile,
But still we stumble thro' the Gloom,
And Science seek, which still deludes the Mind.
Yet more inamour'd with the Race,
With disproportion'd Speed we urge the Chace:
In vain! the various Prey no Bounds restrain;
Fleeting it only leaves t' increase our Pain,
A cold unsatisfying Scent behind.

VI.

Yet, gracious God! presumptuous Man
With random Guesses makes Pretence
To sound thy searchless Providence
From which he first began.
Like hooded Hawks we blindly tow'r,
And circumscribe, with fancy'd Laws, thy Pow'r.
Thy Will the rolling Orbs obey,
The Moon presiding o'er the Sea,
Governs the Waves with equal Sway.
But Man perverse, and lawless still,
Boldly runs counter to thy Will;
Thy patient Thunder he defies:
Lays down false Principles; and moves,
By what his vicious Choice approves;
And when he's vainly wicked, thinks he's wise.

VII.

Return, return, too long misled!

With filial Fear adore thy God:
E'er the vast Deep of Heav'n was spread,
Or Body first in Space abode,
Glories ineffable adorn'd his Head.
Unnumber'd Seraphs round the burning Throne,
Sung to th' incomprehensible Three-One:
Yet then his Clemency did please
With lower Forms t' augment his Train;
And made thee, wretched Creature, Man,
Probationer of Happiness.

VIII.

On the vast Ocean of his Wonders here,
We momentary Bubbles ride;
'Till crush'd by the tempestuous Tide,
Sunk in the Parent Flood, we disappear:
We, who so gawdy on the Waters shone,
Proud, like the show'ry Bow, with Beauties not our own.

IX.

But at the Signal giv'n, this Earth and Sea
Shall set their sleeping Vassals free;
And the belov'd of God,
The Faithful, and the Just,
Like Aaron's chosen Rod,
Tho' dry, shall blossom in the Dust:
Then gladly bounding from their dark Restraints,
The Skeletons shall brighten into Saints;
And, from Mortality refin'd, shall rise
To meet their Saviour coming in the Skies:
Instructed then by Intuition, we
Shall the vain Efforts of our Wisdom see;
Shall then impartially confess
Our Demonstration was but guess;
That Knowledge, which from human Reason flows,
Unless Religion guide its Course,
And Faith her steady Mounds oppose,
Is Ignorance at best, and often worse.

The Small Pox.

Part of the Fourteenth Chapter of Isaiah

PARAPHRAS'D.

Now has th' Almighty Father, seated high
In ambient Glories from th'Eternal Throne
Vouchsaf'd Compassion; and th' afflictive Pow'r
Has broke, whose Iron Sceptre long had bruis'd
The groaning Nations. Now returning Peace,
Dove-ey'd, and rob'd in white, the blissful Land

Deigns to revisit; whilst beneath her Steps
The Soil, with civil Slaughter oft' manur'd,
Pours forth abundant Olives. Their high Tops
The Cedars wave, exulting o'er thy Fall,
Whose Steel from the tall Monarch of the Grove
Sever'd the Regal Honours; and up tore
The Scions blooming in the Parent Shade.

When vehicl'd in Flame, thou slow didst pass
Prone thro' the Gates of Night, the dreary Realms
With loud Acclaim receiv'd thee. Tyrants old
(Gigantic Forms, with human Blood besmear'd,)
Rose from their Thrones; for Thrones they still possess,
Their Penance and their Guilt: Art thou, they cry,
O emulous of our Crimes, here doom'd to reign
Associate of our Woe? Nor com'st thou girt
With Livery'd Slaves, or Bands of Warrior-Knights,
Which erst before thee stood, a flatt'ring Crowd,
Observant of thy Brow. Nor hireling Quires
Attemp'ring to the Harp their warbled Airs,

Thy Panegyric Chaunt; but hush'd in Death,
Like us thou ly'st unwept; a Corse obscene
With Dust, and preying Worms, bare and despoil'd
Of ill-got Pomp. We hail thee our Compeer?

How art thou with diminish'd Glory fall'n
From thy proud Zenith, swift as Meteors glide
Aslope a Summer-Eve! Of all the Stars
Titled the first and fairest, thou didst hope
To share Divinity, or haply more,
Elated as supream when o'er the North
Thy bloody Banner stream'd, to rightful Kings
Portending ruinous Downfal; wond'rous low,
Opprobrious and detested art thou thrown,
Disrob'd of all thy Splendors. Round thee stand
The swarming Populace, and with fix'd Regard
Eyeing thee pale and breathless, spend their Rage
In taunting Speech, and jovial ask their Friends,
Is this The Mighty, whose imperious Yoke
We bore reluctant; who to desart Wilds

And Haunts of Savages transform'd the Marts,
And capital Cities raz'd, pronouncing Thrall
Or Exile on the Peerage? How becalm'd
The Tyrant lies, whose Nostrils us'd to breath
Tempests of Wrath, and shook establish'd Thrones.

In solemn State the Bones of pious Kings,
Gather'd to their great Sires, are safe repos'd
Beneath the weeping Vault. But thou, a Branch
Blasted and curs'd by Heav'n, to Dogs and Fowls
Art doom'd a Banquet; mingling some Remains
With Criminals unabsolv'd; on all thy Race
Transmitting Guilt and Vengeance. From thy Domes
Thy Children sculk erroneous and forlorn,
Fearing Perdition, and for Mercy sue
With Eyes uplift, and tearful. From thy Seed
The Sceptre Heav'n resumes, by thee usurp'd
By Guile and Force, and sway'd with lawless Rage.

VERSES ON THE UNION.

The Gaul, intent on universal Sway,
Sees his own Subjects with Constraint obey:
And they who most his rising Beams ador'd,
Weep in their Chains, and wish another Lord.
But, if the Muse not uninspir'd presage,
Justice shall triumph o'er oppressive Rage:

His Pow'r shall be reclaim'd to rightful Laws,
And all, like Savoy, shall desert his Cause.
So when to distant Vales an Eagle steers,
His Fierceness not disarm'd by Length of Years;
From his stretch'd Wing he sees the Feathers fly,
Which bore him to his Empire of the Sky.

Unlike, great Queen, thy Steps to deathless Fame;
O best, O greatest of thy Royal Name!
Thy Britons, fam'd for Arts, in Battel brave,
Have nothing now to censure, or to crave:
Ev'n Vice, and factious Zeal are held in awe,
Thy Court a Temple, and thy Life a Law.

When edg'd with Terrors, by thy vengeful Hand
The Sword is drawn to goar a guilty Land;
Thy Mercy cures the Wound thy Justice gave,
For 'tis thy lov'd Prerogative to save:
And Victory, to grace thy Triumph, brings
Palms in her Hand, with Healing in her Wings.

But as mild Heav'n on Eden's op'ning Gems
Bestow'd the balmiest Dews, and brightest Beams:
So, whilst remotest Climes thy Influence share,
Britain's the darling Object of thy Care:
By thy wise Councils, and resistless Might,
Abroad we conquer, and at home Unite:
Before thou bid'st the distant Battels cease,
Thy Piety cements domestic Peace;
Impatient of Delay to fix the State,
Thy Dove brings Olive e'er the Waves abate.

Hail, happy Sister-Lands! for ever prove
Rivals alone in Loyalty and Love:
Kindl'd from Heav'n, be your auspicious Flame
As lasting, and as bright as Anna's Fame!
And thou, fair Northern Nymph, partake our Toil,
With us divide the Danger, and the Spoil:
When thy brave Sons, the Friends of Mars avow'd,
In Steel around our Albion Standards crowd;

What Wonders in the War shall now be shown
By her, who single shook the Gallic Throne!

The Day draws nigh, in which the Warrior-Queen
Shall wave her Union Crosses o'er the Seine:
Rouz'd with heroic Warmth unfelt before,
Her Lions with redoubl'd Fury roar;
And urging on to Fame, with Joy behold
The woody Walks in which they rang'd of old.
O Louis, long the Terror of thy Arms
Has aw'd the Continent with dire Alarms;
Exulting in thy Pride with Hope to see
Empires, and States derive their Pow'r from thee;
From Britain's equal Hand the Scale to wrest,
And reign without a Rival o'er the West:
But now the Laurels, by thy Rapine torn
From Belgian Groves, in early Triumphs born;
Wither'd and leafless in thy Winter stand,
Expos'd a Prey to ev'ry hostile Hand:

By strange Extreams of Destiny decreed
To flourish, and to fall with equal Speed.

So the young Gourd, around the Prophet's Head
With swift Encrease her fragrant Honours spread;
Beneath the growing Shade secure he sate,
To see the Tow'rs of Ninus bow to Fate:
But curs'd by Heav'n, the Greens began to fade,
And, sick'ning, sudden as they rose, decay'd.

CUPID and HYMEN.

Cupid resign'd to Sylvia's Care
His Bow, and Quiver stor'd with Darts;
Commissioning the matchless Fair,
To fill his Shrine with bleeding Hearts.

His Empire thus secur'd he flies
To sport amid th'Idalian Grove;
Whose feather'd Quires proclaim'd the Joys,
And bless'd the pleasing Pow'r of Love.

The God their grateful Songs engage,
To spread his Nets which Venus wrought;

Whilst Hymen held the golden Cage,
To keep secure the Game they caught.

The Warblers, brisk with genial Flame,
Swift from the Myrtle Shades repair;
A willing Captive each became,
And sweetlier carrol'd in the Snare.

When Hymen had receiv'd the Prey,
To Cytherea's Fane they Flew;
Regardless while they wing'd their way,
How sullen all the Songsters grew.

Alas! no sprightly Note is heard,
But each with silent Grief consumes;
Tho' to celestial Food prefer'd,
They pining drop their painted Plumes.

Cupid, afflicted at the Change,
To beg her Aid to Venus run;
She heard the Tale, nor thought it strange,
But, smiling, thus advis'd her Son:

Pleasure grows languid with restraint,
'Tis Nature's Privilege to roam:
If you'd not have your Linnets faint,
Leave Hymen with his Cage at home.

OLIVIA.

I

Olivia 's lewd, but looks devout,
And Scripture-Proofs she throws about,
When first you try to win her:
But pull your Fob of Guineas out;
Fee Jenny first, and never doubt
To find the Saint a Sinner.

II

Baxter by Day is her Delight:
No Chocolate must come in Sight
Before two Morning Chapters:

But lest the Spleen should spoil her quite,
She takes a civil Friend at Night
To raise her holy Raptures.

III

Thus oft' we see a Glow-Worm gay,
At large her fiery Tail display,
Encourag'd by the dark:
And yet the sullen Thing all Day
Snug in the lonely Thicket lay,
And hid the native Spark.

TO A LADY Sitting before her GLASS.

I

So smooth and clear the Fountain was
In which his Face Narcissus spy'd,
When gazing in that liquid Glass,
He for himself despair'd and dy'd:
Nor, Chloris, can you safer see
Your own Perfections here than he.

II

The Lark before the Mirror plays,
Which some deceitful Swain has set;
Pleas'd with her self she fondly stays
To die deluded in the Net:
Love may such Frauds for you prepare,
Your self the Captive, and the Snare.

III

But, Chloris, whilst you there review
Those Graces op'ning in their Bloom,
Think how Disease and Age pursue,
Your riper Glories to consume:
Then sighing you will wish your Glass
Cou'd shew to Chloris what she was.

IV

Let Pride no more give Nature Law,
But free the Youth your Pow'r enslaves:

Her Form, like yours, bright Cynthia saw
Reflected on the Crystal Waves,
Yet priz'd not all her Charms above
The Pleasure of Endymion's Love.

V

No longer let your Glass supply
Too just an Emblem of your Breast;
Where oft' to my deluded Eye
Love's Image has appear'd imprest;
But play'd so lightly on your Mind,
It left no lasting Print behind.

To the same, Reading the ART of LOVE.

Whilst Ovid here reveals the various Arts,
Both how to polish, and direct their Darts,
Let meaner Beauties by his Rules improve,
And read these Lines to gain Success in Love:
But Heav'n alone, that multiplies our Race,
Has Pow'r t' increase the Conquests of your Face.
The Spring, before he paints the rising Flow'rs,
Receives mild Beams, and soft descending Show'rs;

But Love blooms ever fresh beneath your Charms,
Tho' neither Pity weeps, nor Kindness warms.

The Chiefs who doubt Success, assert their Claim
By Stratagems, and poorly steal a Name:
The gen'rous Son of Jove, in open Fight,
Made bleeding Victory proclaim his Might:
Like him resistless, when you take the Field
Love sounds the Signal, and the World must yield.

Alexander.

THE FAIR NUN.

A TALE.

------ Ire per Ignes,
Et gladios ausim. Neque ad hoc tamen ignibus ullis,
Aut gladiis opus est; opus est mihi Crine. —
Ovid. Met. Lib. 8.

We sage Cartesians, who profess
Our selves sworn Foes to Emptiness,
Assert that Souls a Tip-toe stand
On what we call the Pineal Gland;

As Weather-Cocks on Spires are plac'd,
To turn the quicker with each Blast.

This granted, can you think it strange
We all shou'd be so prone to change;
Ev'n from the Go-Cart, 'till we wear
A Sattin Cap i'th' Elbow Chair?
The Follies that the Child began,
Custom makes currant in the Man;
And firm by Livery and Seisin,
Holds the Fee-simple of his Reason.

But still the Gusts of Love we find
Blow strongest on a Woman's Mind:
Nor need I learnedly pursue
The latent Cause, th'Effect is true;
For proof of which, in manner ample,
I mean to give you one Example.

Upon a time, (for so my Nurse,
Heav'n rest her Bones! began Discourse;)
A lovely Nymph, and just Nineteen,
Began to languish with the Spleen.
She who had shone at Balls and Play,
In Gold Brocade extremely gay,
All on a sudden grew precise,
Declaim'd against the Growth of Vice,
A very Prude in half a Year;
And most believ'd she was sincere.
Necklace of Pearl no more she wears,
That's sanctify'd to count her Pray'rs.
Venus, and all her naked Loves,
The Reformado Nymph removes;
And Magdalen, with Saints and Martyrs,
Was plac'd in their respective Quarters.
Nor yet content, she cou'd not bear
The Rankness of the publick Air;

'Twas so infected with the Vice
Of luscious Songs, and Lover's Sighs,
So most devoutly wou'd be gone,
And strait profess her self a Nun.

A Youth of Breeding and Address,
And call him Thyrsis if you please,
Who had some Wealth to recompense
His slender Dividend of Sense:
Yet cou'd with little Thought and Care
Write tender Things to please the Fair;
And then successively did grow
From a half-wit, a finish'd Beau;
(For Fops thus naturally rise,
As Maggots turn to Butterflies.)
This Spark, as Story tells, before
Had held with Madam an Amour;
Which he resolving to pursue,
Exactly took the proper Cue;

And on the Wings of Love he flies
To Lady Abbess in Disguise;
And tells her he had brought th'Advowson
Of Soul and Body to dispose on.
Old Sanctity, who nothing fear'd
In Petticoats without a Beard,
Fond of a Proselyte, and Fees,
Admits the Fox among the Geese.

Here Duty, Wealth, and Honour prove,
Tho' three to one, too weak for Love:
And to describe the War throughout,
Wou'd make a glorious Piece no doubt:
Where moral Virtues might be slain,
And rise, and fight, and fall again:
Love shou'd a bloody Myrtle wear,
And, like Camilla, fierce and fair,
The Nun shou'd charge.—But I forbear.

All human Joys, tho' sweet in tasting,
Are seldom (more's the Pity!) lasting:
The Nymph had Qualms, her Cheeks were pale,
Which others thought th' Effects of Zeal.
But she, poor she, began to doubt,
(Best knowing what she'd been about;)
The Marriage Earnest-penny lay
And burnt her Pocket, as we say.
She now invokes, to ease her Soul,
The Dagger and the poison'd Bowl;
And, self-condemn'd for Breach of Vow,
To lose her Life and Honour too,
Talk'd in as tragical a Strain, as
Your craz'd Monimia's and Roxana's.

But as she in her Cell lay sighing,
Distracted, weeping, drooping, dying,
The Fiend, (who never wants Address
To succour Damsels in Distress)

Appearing, told her he perceiv'd
The fatal Cause for which she griev'd;
But promis'd her en Cavalier,
She shou'd be freed from all her Fear;
And with her Thyrsis lead a Life
Devoid of all domestick Strife,
If she wou'd sign a certain Scrawl—
Ay, that she wou'd, if that was all.
She sign'd, and he engag'd to do
Whate'er she pleas'd to set him to.

The Criticks must excuse me now;
They both were freed, no matter how:
For when we Epic Writers use
Machines, to disengage the Muse,
We're clean acquit of all Demands,
The Matter's left in abler Hands;
And if they cannot loose the Knot,
Shou'd we be censur'd? I think not.

The Scene thus alter'd, both were gay,
For Pomp and Pleasures who but they,
Who might do ev'ry thing but pray?
Madam in her gilt Chariot flaunted,
And Pug brought ev'ry thing she wanted;
A Slave devoted to her Will:
But Women will be wav'ring still.
Ev'n Vice without Variety
Their squeamish Appetites will cloy.
And having stol'n from Lady Abbess
One of our merry modern Rabbies,
She found a Trick she thought wou'd pass,
And prove the Devil but an Ass.

His next Attendance happen'd right
Amidst a moonless stormy Night,
When Madam and her Spouse together,
Guess'd at his coming by the Weather.

He came: To Night, says he, I drudge
To fetch a Heriot for a Judge;
A gouty nine-i'th' hundred Knave:
But, Madam, do you want your Slave?
I need not presently be gone,
Because the Doctors have not done.
A rosy Vicar and a Quack
Repuls'd me in my last Attack;
But all in vain, for mine he is;
A Fig for both the Faculties.

The Dame produc'd a single Hair,
But whence it came I cannot swear;
Yet this I will affirm is true,
It curl'd like any Bottle-Scrue.
Sir Nic, quoth she, you know us all,
We Ladies are fantastical:
You see this Hair—Yes, Madam—Pray
In Presence of my Husband stay,

And make it strait: or else you grant
Our solemn League and Covenant
Is void in Law.—It is, I own it:
And so he sets to work upon it.

He tries, not dreaming of a Cheat,
If wetting wou'd not do the Feat:
And 'twas, in truth, a proper Notion;
But still it kept th' elastic Motion.
Well! more ways may be found than one,
To kill a Witch that will not drown.

If I, quoth he, conceive its Nature,
This Hair has flourish'd nigh the Water.
'Tis crisp'd with Cold, perhaps, aad then
The Fire will make it strait again.
In haste he to the Fire applies it,
And turns it round and round, and eyes it.
Heigh jingo, worse than 'twas before!
The more it warms it twirls the more.

He stamp'd his cloven Foot, and chaf'd;
The Husband and the Lady laugh'd.

Howe'er he fancy'd sure enough
He shou'd not find it Hammer-proof.
No Cyclops e'er at work was warmer,
At forging Thunder-bolts or Armour,
Than Satan was: but all in vain;
Again he beats.—It curls again!
At length he bellow'd in a Rage,
This Hair will take me up an Age.
This take an Age! the Husband swore,
Z---ds Betty has five hundred more.
More! Take your Bond, quoth Pug; adieu,
'Tis Loss of Time to ply for you.

AN EPISTLE TO Mr. SOUTHERNE, 1711.

Bold is the Muse to leave her humble Cell,
And sing to thee, who know'st to sing so well:
Thee! who to Britain still preserv'st the Crown,
And mak'st her rival Athens in Renown.
Cou'd Sophocles behold in mournful State,
The weeping Graces on Imoinda wait;

Or hear thy Isabella's moving Moan,
Distress'd and lost for Vices not her own;
If Envy cou'd permit, he'd sure agree
To write by Nature were to copy thee:
So full, so fair thy Images are shown,
He by thy Pencil might improve his own.

There was an Age, (its Memory will last!)
Before Italian Airs debauch'd our Taste;
In which the sable Muse with Hopes and Fears,
Fill'd every Breast, and ev'ry Eye with Tears.
But where's that Art, which all our Passions rais'd,
And mov'd the Springs of Nature as it pleas'd?
Our Poets only practise on the Pit,
With florid Lines, and trifling Turns of Wit.
Howe'er 'tis well the present Times can boast,
The Race of Charles's Reign not wholly lost.
Thy Scenes, immortal in their Worth, shall stand
Among the chosen Classics of our Land:

And whilst our Sons are by Tradition taught,
How Barry spoke what Thou and Otway wrote,
They'll think it praise to relish, and repeat,
And own thy Works inimitably great.

Shakespear, the Genius of our Isle, whose Mind
(The universal Mirror of Mankind)
Express'd all Images, enrich'd the Stage,
But sometimes stoop'd to please a barb'rous Age.
When his immortal Bays began to grow,
Rude was the Language, and the Humour low.
He, like the God of Day, was always bright,
But rolling in its Course, his Orb of Light
Was sully'd, and obscur'd, tho' soaring high,
With Spots contracted from the nether Sky.
But whither is th' adventrous Muse betray'd?
Forgive her Rashness, venerable Shade!
May Spring with Purple Flow'rs perfume thy Urn,
And Avon with his Greens thy Grave adorn:

Be all thy Faults, whatever Faults there be,
Imputed to the Times, and not to thee.

Some Scions shot from this immortal Root,
Their tops much lower, and less fair the Fruit.
Johnson, the Tribute of my Verse might claim,
Had he not strove to blemish Shakespear's Name.
But, like the radiant Twins that gild the Sphere,
Fletcher and Beaumont next in Pomp appear:
The first a fruitful Vine, in bloomy Pride,
Had been by Superfluity destroy'd;
But that his Friend, judiciously severe,
Prun'd the luxuriant Boughs with artful Care:
On various sounding Harps the Muses play'd,
And sung, and quaff'd their Nectar in the Shade.

Few Moderns in the Lists with these may stand,
For in those Days were Giants in the Land:

Suffice it now by Lineal Right to claim,
And bow with Filial Awe to Shakespear's Fame;
The second Honours are a glorious Name.
Achilles dead, they found no equal Lord,
To wear his Armour, and to wield his Sword.

An Age most odious and accurs'd ensu'd,
Discolour'd with a pious Monarch's Blood:
Whose Fall when first the Tragick Virgin saw,
She fled, and left her Province to the Law.
Her Merry Sister still persu'd the Game,
Her Garb was alter'd, but her Gifts the same.
She first reform'd the Muscles of her Face,
And learnt the solemn Scrue, for Signs of Grace;
Then circumcis'd her Locks, and form'd her Tone,
By humming to a Tabor, and a Drone:
Her Eyes she disciplin'd precisely right,
Both when to wink, and how to turn the white;
Thus banish'd from the Stage, she gravely next
Assum'd a Cloak, and quibbl'd o'er a Text.

But when by Miracles of Mercy shown,
Much-suff'ring Charles regain'd his Father's Throne;
When Peace and Plenty overflow'd the Land,
She strait pull'd off her Sattin Cap, and Band:
Bade Wycherly be bold in her Defence,
With pointed Wit, and Energy of Sense:
Etherege and Sidley join'd him in her Cause,
And all deserv'd, and all receiv'd Applause.

Restor'd with less Success, the Tragic Muse,
Had quite forgot her Style by long Disuse:
She taught her Maximins to rant in Rhime,
Mistaking ratling Nonsense for sublime;
'Till witty Buckingham reform'd her Taste,
And sneering sham'd her into Sense at last.
But now relaps'd, she dwindles to a Song,
And weakly warbles on an Eunuch's Tongue;
And with her Minstrelsie may still remain,
'Till Southerne court her to be great again.

Perhaps the Beauties of thy Spartan Dame,
Who (long defrauded of the publick Fame)
Shall, with superior Majesty avow'd,
Shine like a Goddess breaking from a Cloud,
Once more may re-instate her on the Stage,
Her Action graceful, and divine her Rage.

Arts have their Empires, and, like other States,
Their Rise and Fall are govern'd by the Fates.
They, when their Period's measur'd out by Time,
Transplant their Laurels to another Clime.
The Grecian Muse once fill'd with loud Alarms,
The Court of Heav'n, and clad the Gods in Arms:
The Trumpet silent, humbly she essay'd
The Doric Reed, and sung beneath the Shade;
Extoll'd a frugal Life, and taught the Swains
T' observe the Seasons, and manure the Plains:
Sometimes in warbled Hymns she pay'd her Vow,
Or wove Olympic Wreaths for Theron's Brow;

Sometimes on flow'ry Beds she lay supine,
And gave her Thoughts a Loose to Love and Wine;
Or in her sable Stole, and Buskins dress'd,
Shew'd Vice enthron'd, and virtuous Kings oppress'd.

The Nymph still fair, however past her Bloom,
From Greece at length was led in Chains to Rome:
Whilst Wars abroad, and civil Discord reign'd,
Silent the beauteous Captive long remain'd:
That Interval employ'd her timely Care,
To Study, and refine the Language there.
She views with Anguish on the Roman Stage
The Grecian Beauties weep, the Warriors rage:
But most those Scenes delight th' immortal Maid,
Which Scipio had revis'd, and Roscius Play'd.
Thence to the Pleadings of the Gown she goes,
(For Themis then cou'd speak in polish'd Prose.)
Charm'd at the Bar, amid th' attentive Throng
She bless'd the Syren-Pow'r of Tully's Tongue.

But when, Octavius, thy successful Sword
Was sheath'd, and universal Peace restor'd;
Fond of a Monarch, to the Court she came,
And chose a num'rous Choir to chant his Fame.
First from the green Retreats, and lowly Plains,
Her Virgil soar'd sublime in Epic Strains:
His Theme so glorious, and his Flight so true,
She with Mæonian Garlands grac'd his Brow.
Taught Horace then to touch the Lesbian Lyre,
And Sappho's Sweetness join'd with Pindar's Fire.
By Cæsar's Bounty all the tuneful Train
Enjoy'd, and sung of Saturn's golden Reign:
No Genius then was left to live on Praise,
Or curs'd the barren Ornament of Bays;
On all her Sons he cast a kind Regard,
Nor could they write so fast as he reward.
The Muse, industrious to record his Name
In the bright Annals of eternal Fame,
Profuse of Favours lavish'd all her Store,
And for one Reign made many Ages poor.

Now from the rugged North, unnumber'd Swarms
Invade the Latian Coasts with barb'rous Arms;
A Race unpolish'd, but inur'd to Toil,
Rough as their Heav'n, and barren as their Soil:
These Locusts ev'ry springing Art destroy'd,
And soft Humanity before them dy'd.
Picture no more maintain'd the doubtful Strife
With Nature's Scenes, nor gave the Canvas Life;
Nor Sculpture exercis'd her Skill, beneath
Her forming Hand to make the Marble breathe:
Struck with Despair, they stood devoid of Thought,
Less lively than the Works themselves had wrought.
On those Twin-Sisters such Disasters came,
Tho' Colours and Proportions are the same
In ev'ry Age, and Clime; their Beauties known
To ev'ry Language, and confin'd by none.
But Fate less Freedom to the Muse affords,
And checks her Genius with the Choice of Words:

To paint her Thoughts the Diction must be found
Of easy Grandeur, and harmonious Sound.
Thus when she rais'd her Voice divinely great,
To sing the Founder of the Roman State;
The Language was adapted to the Song;
Sweet and sublime, with native Beauty strong.
But when the Goths insulting Troops appear'd,
Such Dissonance the trembling Virgin hear'd!
Chang'd to a Swan, from Tyber's troubled Streams
She wing'd her Flight, and sought the silver Thames.

Long in the melancholy Grove she stay'd,
And taught the pensive Druids in the Shade;
In solemn and instructive Notes they sung,
From whence the beauteous Frame of Nature sprung;
Who polish'd all the radiant Orbs above,
And in bright Order made the Planets move;
Whence Thunders roar, and frightful Meteors fly,
And Comets roll unbounded thro' the Sky:

Who wing'd the Winds, and gave the Streams to flow,
And rais'd the Rocks, and spread the Lawns below
Whence the gay Spring exults in flow'ry Pride,
And Autumn with the bleeding Grape is dy'd;
Whence Summer Suns imbrown the lab'ring Swains
And shiv'ring Winter pines in icy Chains:
And prais'd the Pow'r supream, nor dar'd advance
So vain a Theory as that of Chance.

But in this Isle she found the Nymphs so fair,
She chang'd her Hand, and chose a softer Air,
And Love and Beauty next became her Care.
Greece, her lov'd Countrey, only cou'd afford
A Venus and a Helen to record;
A thousand radiant Nymphs she here beheld,
Who match'd the Goddess, and the Queen excell'd.
T' immortalize their Loves she long essay'd,
But still the Tongue her gen'rous Toil betray'd,
Chaucer had All that Beauty cou'd inspire,
And Surry's Numbers glow'd with warm Desire:

Both now are priz'd by few, unknown to most,
Because the Thoughts are in the Language lost;
Ev'n Spencer's Pearls in muddy Waters lie,
Yet soon their Beams attract the Diver's Eye.
Rich was their Imag'ry, 'till Time defac'd
The curious Works: but Waller came at last.
Waller, the Muse with heav'nly Verse supplies,
Smooth as the Fair, and sparkling as their Eyes;
“All but the Nymph, that shou'd redress his Wrong,
“Attend his Passion, and approve his Song.
But when this Orpheus sunk, and hoary Age
Suppress'd the Lover's and the Poet's Rage;
To Granville his melodious Lute she gave,
Granville, whose faithful Verse is Beauty's Slave:
Accept this Gift, my fav'rite Youth! she cry'd,
To sound a brighter Theme, and sing of Hyde;
Hyde's, and thy lovely Myra's Praise proclaim,
And match Carlisle's, and Sacharissa's Fame.

O! wou'd he now forsake the Myrtle Grove,
And sing of Arms, as late he sung of Love!
His Colours, and his Hand alone shou'd paint
In Britain's Queen, the Warrior and the Saint;
In whom conspire, to form her truly great,
Wisdom with Pow'r, and Piety with State.
Whilst from her Throne the Streams of Justice flow,
Strong and serene, to bless the Land below;
O'er distant Realms her dreaded Thunders roll,
And the wild Rage of Tyranny controul.
Her Pow'r to quell, and Pity to redress,
The Maese, the Danube, and the Rhine confess;
Whence bleeding Iber hopes, around his Head
To see fresh Olive spring, and Plenty spread:
And whilst they sound their great Deliv'rer's Fame,
The Sein retires, and sickens at her Name.
O Granville! all these glorious Scenes display,
Instruct succeeding Monarchs how to sway;

And make her Memory rever'd by all,
When Triumphs are forgot, and mould'ring Arches fall.

Pardon me, Friend! I own my Muse too free,
To write so long on such a Theme to thee:
To play the Critic here—with equal Right
Bid her pretend to teach Argyle to fight:
Instruct th' unerring Sun to guide the Year,
And Harley by what Schemes he ought to steer.
Give Harcourt Eloquence t' adorn the Seal,
Maxims of State to Leeds, to Beaufort Zeal.
Try to correct what Orrery shall write,
And make harmonious St. John more Polite.
Teach Law to Isla for the Crown's Support,
And Jersey how to serve, and grace a Court:
Dictate soft warbling Airs to Sheffield's Hand,
When Venus and her Loves around him stand:
In sage Debates to Rochester impart
A searching Head, and ever faithful Heart:

Make Talbot's finish'd Virtue more compleat,
High without Pride, and amiably great;
Where Nature all her Pow'rs with Fortune join'd,
At once to please, and benefit Mankind.

When Cares were to my blooming Youth unknown,
My Fancy free, and all my Hours my own;
I lov'd along the Laureat Grove to stray,
The Paths were pleasant, and the Prospect gay:
But now my Genius sinks, and hardly knows
To make a Couplet tinkle in the Close.
Yet when you next to Medway shall repair,
And quit the Town to breathe a purer Air;
Retiring from the Crowd, to steal the Sweets
Of easy Life in Twysden's calm Retreats;
(As Terence to his Lælius lov'd to come,
And in Campania scorn'd the Pomp of Rome.)
Where Lambard, form'd for Business, and to please
By sharing, will improve your Happiness;

In both their Souls imperial Reason sways,
In both the Patriot, and the Friend displays;
Be lov'd, and prais'd by all, who merit Love and Praise.
With bright Ideas there inspir'd anew,
By them excited, and inform'd by you,
I may with happier Skill essay to sing
Sublimer Notes, and strike a bolder String.

Languid and dull, when absent from her Cave,
No Oracles of old the Sybil gave;
But when beneath her sacred Shrine she stood,
Her Fury soon confess'd the coming God;
Her Breast began to heave, her Eyes to roul,
And wond'rous Visions fill'd her labouring Soul.

THE ELEVENTH BOOK OF HOMER's ODYSSEY.
[_]

Translated from the Greek.

In MILTON's Style.

------. To th' Orphean Lyre,
He sung of Chaos and Eternal Night;
Taught by the heav'nly Muse to venture down
The dark Descent, and up to re-ascend,
Though hard, and rare. ------.
Paradise Lost, B. 3.

When speeding Sea-ward, to the Fleet we came
That anchor'd nigh the Coast, we launch'd our Ship
Into the sacred Deep: the Mast up-rear'd
Bore ev'ry Sail expanded; whilst aboard

We stow'd devoted Victims, and ascend
The Vessel, inly griev'd, and silent Show'rs
Fell from our drooping Eyes. A friendly Wind
Circe the fair, of human Race divine,
Propitious sent; to ply the strugling Oar
Small need remain'd, the fresh'ning Gale suffic'd
Each bellying Canvas. On with Speed we fare
Prosp'rous; and when the Sun careering prone
Sunk to the Western Isles, and dewy Shade
Sabled the Pole, we tilting o'er the Waves
On Oceans utmost Bound, approach the Realms
Unbless'd, where the Cimmerians darkling dwell;
(A lamentable Race!) of heav'nly Light
Unvisited, and the Sun's gladsome Ray.
Mooring the Vessel on that dreary Beach
We take the destin'd Sheep; and slow sojourn
Along the Marish, 'till the fated Place
We found, which Circe will'd we shou'd explore.
Eurylochus and Perimedes guard
The holy Offerings; I mean time unsheath

My Faulchion, and prepare t'intrench the Ground
A Cubit square, and there Oblations pour
To reconcile the Shades; infusing Milk
With Honey temper'd sweet, and Bowls of Must
Pure from the mellowest Grape, with added Store
Of Water; and with Flow'r of Wheat bestrow
The mix'd Ingredients: To the feeble Ghosts
Then vow'd, if Heav'n to my dear native Land
Shou'd favour my Return, a barren Cow
Of stateliest Growth; and to th' oraculous Seer
A Ram of sable Fleece, the leading Pride
Of all my Flocks. These solemn Rites perform'd,
And Vows prefer'd, the destin'd Sheep I slew:
Forth gush'd the vital Purple, and surcharg'd
The hallow'd Trench; when lo! from the dun Verge
Of Erebus, the Ghosts promiscuous Troop
Unnumber'd, Youths and Maidens immature
Cropt in their Spring, who wand'ring pensive wail'd

The Shortness of their Date: Trembling, and hoar
With Age, some slowly Pace; others more fierce
Array'd in Arms, ensanguin'd o'er with Wounds
Receiv'd in Battel, clamorous approach
To drink the reeking Goar. Shudd'ring and pale
I stood astounded, but with quick Dispatch
Bade burn the Sacrifice, a grateful Steam
To Proserpine, who there with Dis divides
The Regency of Night: Sudden I wav'd
My glittering Faulchion, from the sanguine Pool
Driving th' unbody'd Host that round me swarm'd;
Nor deign'd to let them sip, before I saw
Th' oraculous Seer. Foremost of all the Crowd
Elpenor came, whose unregarded Corse
We left behind in Circe's sumptuous Dome,
Unwept, unbury'd, eager to pursue
Our Voyage: Strait to tender Pity mov'd,
With Words dissolv'd in Tears I cry'd, relate
Elpenor, how these rueful Shades you reach'd
Sooner than I full-fail'd. He thus reply'd

In Accents of much Dolour; Me, O King,
The Minister of adverse Fate malign'd,
Unweeting of Mishap; and wrought me Doom.
Drench'd with Excess of Wine: Prone from the Top
Of Circe's Tow'r I fell, and the Neck-Bones
Disjointing dy'd. But to your pious Care
Suppliant, I beg by those endearing Names
Of Parent, Wife, and Son, (tho' distant, dear
To your Remembrance) when you re-ascend
To Circe's blissful Isle, to my Remains
Discharge Funereal Rites, nor let me lie
Unwept, unbury'd there, lest Heav'n avenge
The dire Neglect. While the devouring Flames
Consume my Earthy, on the flagrant Pile
My Armour cast compleat; then raise a Tomb
For my Memorial on the foamy Strand:
And on it place that Oar which erst I ply'd
With my Associates. Pensive I rejoin,
Poor Shade! I'll pay the decent Rites you crave.

While with the friendly Phantom I maintain'd
Such melancholy Parle, with brandish'd Steel
Guarding the goary Pool, I thro' th' obscure
My Mother view'd: her Lineage she deriv'd
From Maia's wingy Son, and ceas'd to breath
This vital Air, since I my Legions led
To war on Ilium. From my pitying Eyes
Abundant Sorrow stream'd; but tho' regret
Wither'd my Resolution, from the Pool
I made the dear maternal Form recede,
'Till I shou'd learn from the grave Theban Seer
The Sum of Fate: The Sage at length advanc'd
Bearing a golden Sceptre, and began.

Son of Laertes, what Misfortunes dire
Compell your Progress from th' all-chearing Sun,
And heav'nly Azure, in this Seat of Woe

To roam among the Dead? But from the Pool
Withdraw, and sheath your Faulchion, while I taste
That bloody Beverage, then the Fates decree
Instant I'll utter. Sudden I withdrew,
Sheathing my Faulchion whilst he drank the Gore;
Then thus the Seer pronounc'd the Fates Decree.

What Means may best befit your wish'd Return,
Illustrious Greek! you'd know. The Sov'reign Pow'r
Whose strong Earth-shaking Mace the Floods revere,
Insidious waits a Time to wreak Revenge
For Polypheme, his Son; whose visual Orb
You late eclips'd with ever-during Shade.
Howe'er you safe may voyage, and avoid
Disasters various, if your Mates refrain
From sacrilegious Spoil, when safe they tread
Trinacria's herby Soil; for there the Flocks
And Herds of Phœbus, o'er the verd'rous Lawn
Browze fatt'ning Pasture (he the World's great Eye
Views all below his orient Beam, nor ought

Can shun his wakeful Ear) with evil Hand
If them they seize, unerring I foretell
An hideous Wreck. Unequal to the Storm
Your Ship, deep in the nether Waves ingulft,
Shall perish with her Crew: you shall regain
The Dry, without surviving Friend to cheer
Your Pilgrim-Steps; however late and hard,
You shall revisit your lov'd natal Shoar,
Transported in a Vessel not your own.
Much of domestic Damage, and Mis-rule,
Will sadden your Return; for in your Court
Suiters voluptuous swarm; with amorous Wiles
Studious to win your Consort, and seduce
Her from chaste Fealty to Joys impure,
In Bridal Pomp; vain Efforts! but they soon
By Stratagem, or your puissaunt Arm,
To Ruin are fore-doom'd. Then to a Race
Remote from Ocean, who with savoury Salt
Ne'er season their Repast, nor vessel view'd
Furrowing the foamy Flood with painted Prow,

And all her Tackle trim, with Speed repair
Carrying a taper Oar; way-faring thus,
One journeying obvious will mis-name that Oar
A Corn Van; fix it there, and Victims slay
To Neptune reverent; from the fleecy Fold
A Ram select; and from the Beeves and Swine,
The choicest Male entire, of either Herd.
Thence homeward haste, and Hecatombs prepare
For the bright Order of the Gods, who reign
Sphear'd in Empyreal Splendors. White with Years,
The Balm of Life evaporating slow,
At length, when Neptune points the Dart of Death,
Without a Pang you'll die, and leave your Land
With fair Abundance bless'd. In these fix'd Laws
Of Fate repose Affiance, and beware.

I thus reply'd, In this authentic Will
Of Fate, O Seer, I acquiesce; but lo!

Pensive, and silent, by the goary Pool
Abides my Mother's Shade; nor me vouchsafes
Language or Look benign: Oh! tell me how
She here may recognize me. He rejoin'd;
Whatever Ghost by your Permission sips
That sacred Purple, will to all your Quest
Without Deceit reply; the rest withdraw
At your stern Interdict. This said, the Seer
To the high Capital of Dis retir'd.
Meantime I firm abode, 'till the dear Shade
Had sip'd the sacred Purple; then her Son
Instant she knew, and wailing thus began.

My Son! how reach'd you these Tartarean Bounds,
Corporeal? Many a River interfus'd,
And Gulfs unvoyageable, from Access
Debar each living Wight; besides th' Expanse
Of Ocean wide to sail. Are you from Troy
With your associate Peers but now return'd,
Erroneous from your Wife and Kingdom still?

I thus; by strong Necessity constrain'd,
Down to these nether Realms I have presum'd
An earthly Guest, to hear my Doom disclos'd
By sage Tiresias; for since I led
Auxiliar Bands, with Agamemnon leagu'd
To war on Ilium, traversing the Main
Thro' various Perils, I have voyag'd far
Estrang'd from Greece. But say by what Disease,
By slow Consumption thro' the Gates of Death
Prone did you pass, or by Diana's Dart
Transfix'd, a sudden Fate? My hoary Sire!
Survives he? Is my bloomy Son possess'd
Of my Domain, or groans it now beneath
Usurping Pow'rs, who Lord it uncontroul'd,
Thoughtless of my Return? My Consort dear!
Abides she with my Son, of all his Rights
A Guardian Regent; or no longer mine,
Hath she been won to plight connubial Vows?

The venerable Shade thus answer'd mild;
Still in your regal Dome your Spouse abides
Disconsolate, with ever-flowing Eyes
Wailing your Absence: And your Son possess'd
Of Principality, with his Compeers,
Bounteous of Soul, free Intercourse maintains
Of social Love. Beneath a Sylvan Lodge,
Far from the cheerful Steps of Men, your Sire
Lives inconsolable; on gorgeous Beds,
With rich Embroid'ry spread, and purple Palls,
No more indulging sweet Repose: but clad
In coarse Attire, couch'd with his village Hinds
On the warm Hearth he sleeps, when Winter reigns
Inclement, 'till the circling Months return
New-rob'd in flowring Verdure: Then, the Vines
High interwove a green Pavilion form,
Where pillow'd on the Leaves, he mourns for you
Nocturnal; to th' unfriendly Damp of Age
Adding corrosive Anguish, and Despair.

So perish'd I with slow-consuming Pine!
Me nor the silver-shafted Goddess slew,
Nor racking Malady; but anxious Love
Of my Ulysses on my Vitals prey'd,
And sunk my Age with Sorrow to the Grave.

She ceas'd, I thrice with filial Fondness strove
T' embrace the much-lov'd Form, and thrice it fled,
Delusive as a Dream. Anew with Grief
Heart-chill'd I spake, why, Mother, will you fly
Your Son's incircling Arms? O here permit
My duteous Love, and let our Sorrows flow
Mingling in one full Stream! Or has the Queen
Whose Frown the Shades revere, to work me Woe
A guileful Image form'd? She thus replies.

Of all Mankind O most to Grief inur'd!
Deem not that ought of Guile by Phantoms vain
Is here intended; but the Essence pure
Of sep'rate Souls is of all living Touch

100

Impassive: Here no gross material Frame
We wear, with Flesh incumber'd, Nerves, and Bone;
They're calcin'd on the Pile: But when we cease
To draw the Breath of Life, the Soul on wing
Fleets like a Dream, from Elemental Dross
Disparted, and refin'd. Now to the Realms
Illumin'd with the Sun's enliv'ning Beam,
Hence journeying upward, to your Consort dear
Disclose the Secrets of our State below.

Thus we alternate, 'till a beauteous Train
Of Nobless near advance their Steps, enlarg'd
By radiant Proserpine, Daughters and Wives
To Kings and Heroes old: The goary Pool
The fair Assembly thick surround, to sip
The tasteful Liquid: I the Fates of each
Desirous to hear storied, wave my Sword
In airy Circles, while they singly sate
Their Appetites; then curious ask of each
Her Ancestry, which all in order told.

101

Tyro first Audience claim'd, the Daughter fair
Of great Salmoneus; she with Cretheus shar'd
Connubial Love, but long in Virgin-bloom
Enamour'd of Enipeus, inly pin'd;
Enipeus, swift from whose reclining Urn
Rolls a delicious Flood! His lovely Form
Neptune assum'd, and the bright Nymph beguil'd
Wand'ring Love-pensive near his Amber Stream:
Them plunging in the slopy Flood receiv'd,
Redounding; and to skreen his am'rous Theft,
On either side the parted Waves up-rear'd
A Crystal Mound. Potent of rapt'rous Joy,
And sated thus he spake, Hail, Royal Fair!
Thy Womb shall teem with Twins (a God's Embrace
Is ever fruitful) and those Pledges dear
Of our sweet casual Bliss, nurture and 'tend
With a fond Mother's Care: Hence homeward speed,
And from all human ken our am'rous Act
Conceal: so Neptune bids thee now farewell.

102

He ceas'd, and diving sudden was ingulf'd
Deep in the gurgling Eddy. Two fair Sons
Th' appointed Months discharg'd, by supreme Jove
Both scepter'd: Pelias first; his Empire wide
Stretch'd o'er Iölcos, whose irriguous Vales
His grazing Folds o'er-fleec'd: her younger Birth,
Neleus, was honour'd thro' the sandy Realm
Of Pylus. She by Cretheus then espous'd,
A fair Increase, Æson and Pheres, bore;
And great Amythaon, who with fiery Steeds
Oft' disarray'd the Foes in Battel rang'd.

The Daughter of Asopus next I view'd,
Antiope, boastful that she, by Jove
Impregnate, had the fam'd Amphion born,
And Zethus, Founders of imperial Thebes;
Stately with seven large Gates, and bulwark'd strong
Against invading Pow'rs. Alcmena fair,
Amphitryon's Consort, then advanc'd to view;
To Heav'n's Supreme who bore Alcides, bold

103

And Lion-hearted. Next that lovely Shade
Stood Megara, of Creon's Royal Race,
By great Alcides spous'd. To her succeeds
The sheeny Form of Epicaste, woo'd
By Oedipus her Son, to whom she deign'd
Spousal Embraces, thoughtless of Mis-deed.
He having too (ill-star'd!) destroy'd his Sire,
His Lineage with incestuous Mixture soil'd,
Blinded by Destiny! but the just Gods
Disclos'd th' unnatural Scene. In Thebes he sway'd,
With various Ills by Heav'n's afflictive Rod
Discomfited: But she through fell Despair
Self-strangled, from the Stings of mortal Life
Fled to the Shades; and her surviving Son
With delegated Furies fierce pursu'd.

An amiable Image next appear'd,
Bright Chloris, of Amphion's lofty Stem
The youngest Bud: In sweet attractive Pomp
On her the Graces ever-waiting smit

104

The Heart of Neleus, whom the Pylian Tribes
Homag'd with Fealty: From their wedded Love
Sprung Nestor, Chromius, and the boastful Pow'r
Of Periclymenus; besides a Nymph,
Pero, of Form divine: Her Virgin Vows
By many a Prince were sought, but Neleus deign'd
To none her Bed, but him whose prowess'd Arm
Shou'd force from Phylace a furious Herd
Of wild Thessalian Beeves, t'avenge the Dow'r
Which Iphiclus detain'd. This bold Emprise
A Seer accepted; but in Combat foil'd,
In Thrall for twelve revolving Moons he lay.
Deep in a Dungeon close immur'd, 'till found
Divine of Fate, by solving Problems quaint
Which Iphiclus propos'd, who strait dismiss'd
The Captive; so was Jove's high Will compleat.

Then Ledo, spous'd by Tyndarus, I saw,
Mother of the fam'd Twins, Castor expert
To tame the Steed, and Pollux far renown'd

105

On listed Fields for Conflict; who from Jove
Receiv'd a grateful Boon, like Gods to live,
Mounting alternate to this upper Orb.

Next Iphimedia glides in view, the Wife
Of great Alöeus, who in Love compress'd
By Neptune, bore (so she the Fact avow'd)
Otus and Ephialtes, whom the Fates
Cut short in early Prime. Their infant Years
Nurtur'd by Earth, enormous both attain'd
Gigantic Stature, and for manly Grace
Were next Orion rank'd; for in the Course
Of nine swift circling Years, nine Cubits broad
Their Shoulders measur'd, and nine Ells their Height.
Improvident of Soul, they vainly dar'd
The Gods to War, and on Olympus hoar
Rear'd Ossa, and on Ossa Pelion pil'd,
Torn from the Base with all its Woods; by Scale
T' assault Heav'n's Battlements; and had their Date
To Manhood been prolong'd, had sure atchiev'd

106

Their ruinous Aim: But by the silver Dart
Of Phœbus sheer transfix'd, e'er springing down
Shaded their rosy Youth, they both expir'd.

Ill-fated Phædra then, with Procris came;
And Ariadne; who them both surpass'd
In Goddess-like Demeanour: From her Sire
Minos, the rigid Arbiter of Right,
Theseus of old convey'd her; with intent
At Athens, link'd in Love, with her to reign:
But stern Diana, by the guileful Plea
Of Bacchus won, dissever'd soon their Joys;
And caus'd the lovely Nymph to fall forlorn
In Dia, with circumfluous Seas in-girt;
Of Nuptial Rites defrauded. Next advance
Mæra and Clymenè, a beauteous Pair;
And Eriphyle, whose once radiant Charms
A Cloud of Sorrow dimm'd; for she, devoid
Of duteous Love, for Gold betray'd her Lord.—

107

Here let me cease Narration, nor relate
What other Objects fair, Daughters and Wives
Of Heroes old I saw; for now the Night
In clouded Majesty has journey'd far,
Admonishing to Rest; which with my Mates,
Or here with you, my wearied Nature craves;
Meantime affianc'd in the Gods, and You,
To speed my Voyage to my native Realm.

He ceas'd; a while th' attentive Audience sate
In silent Rapture; his persuasive Tongue
Mellifluous, so with Eloquence had charm'd
Their still insatiate Ears: At length thus spake
The Queen Arete, graceful and humane.

Think ye, Phæacians, that the God-like Form,
The Port, the Wisdom of this Wanderer claim
Ought of Regard? Peculiar him my Guest
I style; but since the Honour he vouchsafes,

108

Delighted ye partake, give not too soon
Him Signal of Departure; but prepare
With no penurious Hand proportion'd Gifts;
Vying in bounteous Deeds, since Heav'n hath showr'd
Your Peerage with abundant Favours boon.

Up rose Echeneus then, whose wavy Locks
Silver'd with Age, adorn'd his rev'rend Brow,
Fraught with maturest Council; and began,
Addressing his Compeers. Rightful and wise
The Queen's Proposal is, let none demur
Obedience to her Will; Alcinous best
By fair Ensample may prescribe the Rule.

Alcinous from his Bed of State reply'd,
With Aspect bland; while here I live enthron'd,
Jove's Delegate of Empire, and this Hand
Sways the Phæacian Sceptre, will I cheer
Th' erroneous and afflicted, with meet Acts
Of Regal Bounty: But our Princely Guest

109

Must, tho' impatient, for a time defer
His Voyage, that with due Munificence
Our Gifts may be prepar'd: Let all accord
Benevolent, and free to furnish Stores
Worthy Acceptance; Me you shall confess
The first in Bounty, as the first in Pow'r.

He ended, and Ulysses answer'd blithe;
O thou by Kingly Virtues justly rais'd
To this imperial Eminence! By Thee
Were I detain'd, 'till the revolving Sun
Compleats his annual Circle, in thy Will
I acquiesce obedient, 'till meet Stores
For my Return be rais'd: Then at my Realm
With Royal Largesses arriving grac'd,
And gay Retinue, strait the wond'ring Greeks
Will dear Respect, and prompter Homage yield.

To whom Alcinous; Your distinguish'd Worth
Too plain is character'd in all your Port,

110

To doubt you of those vagrant Clans, who roam
Fallacious; and with copious Legend take
The credulous Ear: You, with severest Truth
Rob'd in rich Eloquence, instruct and please:
When (like some Bard, vers'd in Heroic Theme
Attemper'd to the Lyre) you sweetly tell
Whate'er in Grecian Story was of old
Recorded eminent; or when you speak
Your own disastrous Fate. But now proceed,
Say affable, if while you low sojourn'd
In gross Tartarean Gloom, the mighty Shades
Of those brave warring Greeks appear'd, who fell
By Doom of Battel; for the lingering Night
Hath yet much Space to measure, and the Hour
Of Sleep is far to come: I can attend
With Ravishment, to hear the pleasing Tale
Fruitful of Wonders, 'till the roseat Morn
Purples the East. Ulysses thus reply'd.

111

Due time, O King, for Converse and Repose
Is still remaining; nor will I refuse
With coy Denial, what the sacred Ear
Of Majesty with Audience deigns to grace.
Hear next how my associate Warriors fell,
O'erwhelm'd with huge Afflictions, and oppress'd
In their own Realms, by Feminine Deceit,
To them more fatal than the prowess'd Foe.

When by imperious Proserpine recall'd,
The Lady-Train dispers'd, the pensive Form
Of Agamemnon came; with those begirt
Whom, in one common Fate involv'd, of Life
Ægysthus had bereav'd. Sipping the Gore
He recogniz'd me instant, and outstretch'd
His unsubstantial Arms, exhausted now
Of all their vital Vigour; with shrill Plaints
Piercing the doleful Region far: Mine Eyes,

112

Sore wounded with the piteous Object dear,
Effus'd a Flood of Tears, while thus I spake.

O King of Hosts! O ever-honour'd Son
Of Atreus! Say to what severe Decree
Of Destiny you bow'd. By Neptune's Wrath
Tempesting th' Ocean, did you there expire
Whelm'd in the watry Abyss? Or fell you arm'd,
Making fierce Inroad on some hostile Coast,
To ravage Herds and Flocks; or in Assault
Of some imperial Fortress, thence to win
Rich Spoils and beauteous Captives, were you slain
Defeated of your Seisure? He reply'd.

I perish'd not, my Friend, by Neptune's Wrath,
Whelm'd in the Ocean Wave; nor dy'd in Arms,
Heroic Deeds attempting: But receiv'd
From base Ægysthus, and my baser Queen,
Irreparable Doom, whilst I partook
Refreshment, and at Supper jovial sate;

113

Slain like an Ox that's butcher'd at the Crib;
A Death most lamentable! Round me lay
An hideous Carnage of my breathless Friends;
Like Beasts, new slaughter'd for the Bridal Board
Of some luxurious Noble, or devote
To solemn Festival. On well-fought Fields
You various Scenes of Slaughter have survey'd;
And in fierce Tournament; yet had it quell'd
Your best of Man, to view us on the Floor
Rolling in Death, with Viands round us spread,
And pond'rous Vases bruis'd, while human Gore
Flooded the Pavement wide. With shrilling Cries
Cassandra pierc'd my Ear, whom at my side
False Clytemnestra slew; t' avenge her Wrong
I with a dying Grasp my Sabre seiz'd:
But the curs'd Assassine withdrew, nor clos'd
My Lips, and Eyes. O Woman! Woman! none
Of Nature's savage Train have less Remorse
In perpetrating Crimes: To kill her Mate
What Beast was e'er a Complice? I return'd

114

Hopeful in Affluence of domestic Joy
To reign, incircled with my Offspring dear,
And Court-Retinue; but my traitress Wife
On female Honour hath diffus'd a Stain
Indeleble; and her pernicious Arts
Recorded for Reproach on all the Sex,
Shall wound soft Innocence with Touch of Blame.

I answer'd, O ye Pow'rs! By Women's Wiles,
Jove works sure Bane to all th' imperial Race
Of Atreus still: For Helen's vagrant Lust
Greece mourns her States dispeopled; and you fell
By your Adultress! Plaintive he reply'd.

By my Disasters warn'd, to Woman's Faith
Unbosom nought momentous; tho' she peal
Your Ear (by Nature importune to know)
Unlock not all your Secrets. But your Wife
Of prudent meek Deport, no Train of Ills
Will meditate for you, by Force or Guile:

115

Her, when we led th' embattel'd Greeks to Troy,
We left in blooming Beauty fresh; your Son
Then hanging on her Breast; who now to Man
Full grown, with Men associates; your Approach
With Rapture he will meet, and glad his Sire
With filial Duty dear; a Bliss to me
Not deign'd! My Son I saw not e'er I fell
A Victim to my Wife: Then, timely warn'd,
Trust not to Woman's ken the Time prefix'd
For your Return to Greece. But say sincere,
Aught have you heard where my Orestes bides,
In rich Orchomenus, or sandy Pyle;
Or with my Brother lives he more secure
In spacious Sparta? For of this dark Realm
He's not inhabitant. I thus rejoin'd.

Vain is your Quest, Atrides; whether Fate
Permits your Son to draw the Breath of Heav'n,
Friendly to Life; or whether in these shades

116

He roams a Ghost, I know not; nor with Speech
False or ambiguous will beguile your Ear.

While mournful thus we talk'd, suffus'd with Tears
Of tender Sympathy, young Peleus came,
With his Associates most in Life belov'd,
Faithful Patroclus, and th' egregious Son
Of Nestor, great in Arms; with them (conjoin'd
In amicable Converse, ev'n by Death
Uncancell'd) walk'd the tall illustrious Shade
Of Ajax, with attractive Grace adorn'd,
And Prowess; paragon'd for both to none
But great Achilles: Me the Goddess-born
Ey'd curious, and at length thus sad began.

What Cause, Ulysses, moves thy Mind, expert
Of warlike Machinations; what Emprise
Hath aught of such Importance, as to tempt

117

This dire Descent, where we in dol'rous Night,
Frail incorporeal Forms, are doom'd abode?

O peerless Chief, I cry'd, of all the Greeks
The foremost Name! I hither am constrain'd,
From the wise Theban Oracle to hear
Best means reveal'd, how to revisit safe
My native Realm; by rigid Fate repell'd,
I'm exil'd yet, with Troops of various Ills
Surrounded. But the Gods to your high Worth
Ever propitious, crown their fav'rite Chief
With choicer Blessings than the Eye of Time
Yet saw confer'd, or future shall behold:
On Earth you equal Honours with the Gods
From us receiv'd; nor by the Stroke of Fate
Sink with diminish'd Lustre, but supreme
Reign o'er the Shades. He solemn sad reply'd.

Reign here Supreme! Deem not thy Eloquence
Can aught console my Doom: Rather on Earth

118

A Village Slave I'd be, than titled here
Imperial and August. But say me true,
Or did my Son illustrate his Descent
First in the Files of War; or fled he pale
A Recreant from the Fight? Do all our Tribes
In Pthia still revere my Father's Throne;
Or lives he now of Regal Pow'r despoil'd,
A weak contemn'd old Man, wanting my Arm
To hold his Sceptre firm? That Arm! which erst
Warring for Greece, bestrow'd the Phrygian Plains
With many a prowess'd Knight! Wou'd Heav'n restore
The same puissaunt Form, I'd soon avenge
His injur'd Age, and re-assert his Claim.

He ceasing, I reply'd; Of Peleus' State
Fame hath to me been silent: But attend,
While I th' Atchievements of thy glorious Son
Blazon, as Truth shall dictate. Him to Troy
From Scyros o'er th'Ægean safe I bore
To join th' embattel'd Greeks: Whene'er we sate

119

In Council, to mature some high Design,
First of the Peerage with persuasive Speech
His Sentence he disclos'd, by all confess'd
The third from Nestor. But whene'er we mov'd
In battailous Array, and the shrill Clang
Of Onset sounded; He, with haughty Strides,
Advancing in the Van the foremost Chief,
Pierc'd thro' the adverse Legions, nor was deem'd
Not equal to the best. Each hardy Deed,
Which in his Countrey's Cause the Youth atchiev'd,
Were long to tell; but by his Javelin dy'd
Eurypylus, of all th' auxiliar Bands
Fam'd after Memnon first; with many a Peer,
Of Pergameian Race, around him strown.

When in the wooden Horse by Epeus form'd
Selected Heroes lay, aghast and pale
The rest, shudd'ring with Fear, let round big Drops
Roll from their drooping Eyes: He sole abode
Undaunted, un-dismay'd: no chilling Doubt

120

Frosted his Damask Cheek, nor silent Tear
Cours'd from its Crystal Sluice; but grasping fierce
His Spear and Faulchion, for the Combat grew
Impatient; menacing decisive Rout
To Troy's opponent Pow'rs; and when the Height
Of Ilion had receiv'd the final Stroke
From Grecian Valour; with barbaric Spoil
To his high Fame proportion'd, he return'd.
Unmark'd with hostile Wound; tho' round him Mars
With tenfold Rage oft' made the Battel burn.

I ended; Joy ineffable possess'd
The great paternal Shade; his Steps he rais'd
With more majestic Portance o'er the Mead
Vernant with Asphodel; elate to hear
His Son's Exploits emblazon'd fair by Fame.

The rest, a pensive Circle, round await
Reciting various Dooms, to mortal Ear
Calamitous and sad! From these apart

121

The Telamonian Heroe, whom I foil'd
In Contest for Achilles' Arms, abode
Sullen with treasur'd Wrath. The fatal Strife
By Thetis was propos'd, and ev'ry Judge
Instinct by Pallas, to my Claim declar'd
The Prize of Right. O! why was I constrain'd
By Honour to prevail, and cause to die
Ajax, the Chief with manly Grace adorn'd,
And Prowess; paragon'd for both, to none
But the great Son of Peleus! Him with Speech
Lenient of Wrath I thus accosted mild.

Ajax, let this oblivious Gloom deface
The Memory of those Arms, which Heav'n decreed
Pernicious to the Greeks, who lost in thee
Their Tow'r of strong Defence: To mourn thy Fall
The Voice of Grief along the tented Shore
Was heard, as loud as when the Flow'r of War,
Divine Achilles dy'd: Nor deem that ought
Of humane interpos'd to urge thy Doom;

122

But ireful Jove, to punish all our Host,
Cut off its darling Hope. O Royal Shade!
Approach, and affable to me vouchsafe
Mild Audience, calming thy tempestuous Rage.

Vain was my Suit! for with th' unbody'd Troop
Of Spectres, fleeting to th' interior Shade
Of Erebus, he to my friendly Speech
Disdain'd Reply; yet to that dark Recess
Had I persu'd his Flight, he must have born
Unwilling Correspondence, forc'd by Fate,
Impassion'd as he was; but I refrain'd,
For other Visions drew my curious Eye.

Intent I saw with golden Sceptre grave
Minos, the Son of Jove, to the pale Ghosts
Dispensing Equity; with faded Looks
They thro' the wide Plutonian Hall appear'd,
Frequent and full: and argued each his Cause
At that Tribunal; trembling whilst he weigh'd

123

Their pleaded Reason. Of portentous Size
Orion next I view'd; a brazen Mace
Invincible he bore, in fierce Persuit
Of those huge mountain Savages he slew,
While habitant of Earth, whose grisly Forms
He urg'd in Chace the flow'ry Mead along.

Nor unobserv'd lay stretch'd upon the Marle
Tityus Earth-born; whose Body long and large
Cover'd nine Acres: There two Vultures sate
Of Appetite insatiate; and with Beaks
For Ravine bent, unintermitting goar'd
His Liver: pow'rless he to put to Flight
The fierce Devourers! to this Penance judg'd
For Rape intended on Latona fair,
The Paramour of Jove, as she sojourn'd
To Pytho o'er the Panopeian Lawns;
Delicious Landskip!—In a limpid Lake
Next Tantalus a doleful Lot abides;
Chin-deep he stands, yet with afflictive Drought

124

Incessant pines, while ever as he bows
To sip Refreshment, from his parching Thirst
The guileful Water glides. Around the Pool
Fruit Trees of various kinds umbrageous spread
Their pamper'd Boughs: The racy Olive green,
The ripe Pomegranate big with vinous Pulp,
The luscious Fig sky-dy'd, the tasteful Pear
Vermilion'd half, and Apples mellowing sweet
In burnish'd Gold, luxuriant o'er him wave:
Exciting Hunger, and fallacious Hope
Of food Ambrosial:—When he tries to seize
The copious Fruitage fair, a sudden Gust
Whirls it aloof amid th' incumbent Gloom.

Then Sisyphus, the nearest Mate in Woe,
Drew my Regard; he with distended Nerves
Ay rolls a pond'rous Stone up a rugg'd Rock;
Urg'd up the steep Cliff slow with Hand and Foot,
It mounts; but bordering on the cloudy Peak,
Precipitous adown the slopy side

125

The rapid Orb devolving back renews
Eternal Toil; which he, with Dust besmear'd,
And dew'd with smoaking Sweat, incessant plies.

I last the visionary Semblance view'd
Of Hercules, a shadowy Form; for He,
The real Son of Jove, in Heav'ns high Court
Abides, Associate with the Gods, and shares
Celestial Banquets; where, with soft Disport
Of Love, bright Hebe in her radiant Dome
Treats him nocturnal. With terrific Clang
Surrounding Ghosts, like Fowle, the Region wing
Vexatious; while the threatning Image stands,
Gloomy as Night, from his bent Battle-Bow
In act to let th' aerial Arrow fly.
Athwart his Breast a military Zone
Dreadful he wore, where grinn'd in fretted Gold
Grim woodland Savages, with various Scenes
Of War, fierce jousting Knights, and Havoc dire;

126

With matchless Art portraid: Me strait he knew,
And piteous of my State, address'd me thus.

O exercis'd in Grief, illustrious Son
Of good Laertes, fam'd for warlike Wiles!
Fated thou art (like Me, what time I breath'd
Etherial Draught) beneath unnumber'd Toils
To groan oppress'd: Ev'n I, the Seed of Jove,
Combated various Ills, and was adjudg'd
By an inferior Wretch (what cou'd he more?)
To drag to light the triple-crested Dog
That guards Hell's massy Portal: I atchiev'd
The Task injoin'd, through the propitious Aid
Of Mercury and Pallas, who vouchsaf'd
Their friendly Guidance: Then without Reply,
To Pluto's Court majestic he retir'd.

Mean time for others of Heroic Note
I waited, in the Lists of antient Fame
Inroll'd illustrious; and had haply seen

127

Great Theseus, and Pirithous his Compeer,
The Race of Gods: But at the hideous Scream
Of Spectres issuing from the dark Profound,
I wax'd infirm of Purpose; sore dismay'd
Lest Proserpine shou'd send Medusa, curl'd
With snaky Locks, to fix me in her Realm
Stiff with Gorgonian Horror: To the Ship
Retreating speedy thence, I bade my Mates
To shove from shore; joyous they strait began
To stem the Tide, and brush'd the whit'ning Seas,
'Till the fresh Gales reliev'd the lab'ring Oar.

Tiresias.

Anticlea.

He was kill'd with the Bone of a Sea-Turtle.

Antilochus.

128

THE WIDOW's WILE. A TALE.

Have you not seen (to state the Case)
Two Wasps lie strugling in a Glass?
By the rich Flavour of Toleay
Allur'd, about the Brim they play;
They light, they murmur, then begin
To lick; and so at length slip in:

129

Embracing close the Couple lies,
Together dip, together rise;
You'd swear they love, and yet they strive
Which shall be sunk, and which survive.

Such feign'd Amours, and real Hate
Attend the Matrimonial State;
When sacred Vows are bought and sold,
And Hearts are ty'd with Threads of Gold.

A Nymph there was, who ('tis aver'd
By Fame) was born without a Beard:
A certain Sign, the Learn'd declare,
That (guarded with uncommon Care)
Her Virtue might remain at Ten
Impregnable, to Boys or Men.
But from that Æra we'll proceed,
To find her in a Widow's Weed:
Which all Love's Chronicles agree,
She wore just turn'd of Twenty three;

130

For an old Sot she call'd her Mate,
For Jewels, Pin-Money, and Plate.
The Dame, possess'd of Wealth and Ease,
Had no more Appetites to please:
That which provokes wild Girls to wed,
Fie!—It ne'er enter'd in her Head.

Yet some prolific Planet smil'd,
And gave the Pair a chopping Child;
Intitl'd by the Law to claim
Her Husband's Chattels, and his Name:
But was so like his Mother! She
The Queen of Love, her Cupid he.

This Matron fair for Spouse deceas'd
Had sorrow'd sore, a Week at least;
And seem'd to grudge the Worms that prey,
Which had lain dead full many a Day.
From Plays and Balls she now refrain'd,
To a dark Room by Custom chain'd;

131

And not a Male for Love or Gold,
But the dear Hopes of two Years old.

The Maids so long in Prison pent,
Ask leave to air; she gives Consent:
(For Health is Riches to the Poor)
But Tom must stay to guard the Door.
In reading Sherlock she'd employ
Her Solitude, and tend the Boy.

When Madam sees the Coast is clear,
Her Spirits mantle and carier;
Diffusing Ardour thro' her mien;
Pity they shou'd condense to Spleen!
But now by Honour she's confin'd,
Who flutter'd once as free as Wind:
And on a Masquerading Morn,
By Six securely cou'd Return;
Having, to seal him safe 'till Nine,
With Opium drugg'd her Spouse's Wine.

132

This the gay World no worse wou'd hold,
Than had she only chang'd his Gold;
The Species answer'd all Demands,
And only pass'd thro' other Hands.
But Honour now prescribes the Law,
The Tyrant keeps her Will in Awe:
For Charity forbid to roam,
And not a Chitterling at home.
What! a large Stomach, and no Meat!
In pity, Love, provide a Treat.
Can Widows feed on Dreams and Wishes,
Like Hags on visionary Dishes?
Impossible! Thro' Walls of Stone
Hunger will break, to suck a Bone.
Want oft' in Times of old, we read,
Made Mothers on their Infants feed;
And now constrain'd this Matron mild,
To grow hard-hearted to her Child.
Her darling Child she pinch'd; he squawl'd;
In haste the fav'rite Footman's call'd,

133

To pacify the peevish Chit;
For who but he cou'd do the Feat?
He smarting sore, refus'd to play;
But bade Man Thomas beat Mamma.
She laughing, soon avow'd her Flame
By various Signs that want a Name.
The Lacquey saw, with trembling Joy,
Gay Humour dancing in her Eye;
And strait with equal Fury fir'd
Began th' Attack; the Dame retir'd:
And haply falling as she fled,
He beat her 'till she lay for dead:
But, (with new Vigour for the Strife)
Soon with a Sigh return'd to Life.

Think ye she'd e'er forgive her Son,
For what the naughty Man had done?
She did; yet spited with his Pain,
He sounds th' Alarm to Charge again.

134

But, 'Squire, consult your Potent Ally,
Whether he's yet prepar'd to rally—
Yes; Blood is hot on either side;
Another Combat must be try'd.
She knew the Foe cou'd do no more,
Than at the first Attack she bore;
So at his little Malice smil'd,
And cry'd, Come on!—To please the Child.

135

A LA MODE.

My better self, my Heav'n, my Joy!
While thus imparadis'd I lie,
Transported in thy circling Arms
With fresh Variety of Charms;
From Fate I scarce can think to crave
A Bliss, but what in Thee I have.
Twelve Months, my Dear, have past, since thou
Didst plight to me thy Virgin Vow;
Twelve Months in Rapture spent! For they
Seem shorter than St. Lucy's Day:
A bright Example we shall prove
Of lasting Matrimonial Love.

136

Mean while, I beg the Gods to grant
(The only Favour that I want)
That I may not survive, to see
My Happiness expire with thee.
O! shou'd I lose my dearest Dear,
By Thee, and all that's good, I swear,
I'd give my self the fatal Blow;
And wait Thee to the World below.

When Wheedle thus to Spouse in Bed,
Spoke the best things he e'er had read;
Madam surpriz'd, (you must suppose it)
Had lock'd a Templer in the Closet:
A Youth of pregnant Parts, and Worth,
To play at Picquet, and so forth—
This Wag, when he had heard the whole,
Demurely to the Curtains stole;
And peeping in, with solemn Tone
Cry'd out, O Man! Thy Days are done:

137

The Gods are fearful of the worst,
And send me, Death, to fetch thee first;
To save their Fav'rite from Self-murder,
Lo! thus I execute their Order.
Hold, Sir, for second Thoughts are best.
The Husband cry'd; 'tis my Request
With Pleasure to prolong my Life.—
Your Meaning?—Pray, Sir, take my Wife.

138

SAPPHO to PHAON.

A LOVE-EPISTLE.

[_]

Translated from Ovid.

What, after all my Art, will you demand,
Before the whole is read, the Writer's Hand?
And cou'd you guess from whom this Letter came,
Before you saw it sign'd with Sappho's Name?
Don't wonder, since I'm form'd for Lyrics, why
The Strain is turn'd to plaintive Elegy;

139

I mourn my slighted Love; alas! my Lute,
And sprightly Odes, wou'd ill with Sorrow suit.
I'm scorch'd, I burn; like Fields of Corn o'Fire,
When Winds to fan the furious Blaze conspire:
To flaming Ætna Phaon's pleas'd to roam,
But Sappho feels a fiercer Flame at home.

No more my Thoughts in even Numbers slow,
Verse best befits a Mind devoid of Woe;
No more I court the Nymphs I once carest,
But Phaon rules unrival'd in my Breast.
Fair is thy Face, thy Youth is fit for Joy;
A fatal Face to me, too cruel Boy!
Enslav'd to those enchanting Looks, that wear
The Blush of Bacchus, and Apollo's Air.
Assume the Garb of either God, in thee
We ev'ry Grace of either God may see:
Yet they confess'd the Pow'r of Female Charms,
In Daphne's Flight and Ariadne's Arms;

140

Tho' neither Nymph was fam'd for Wit, to move
With melting Airs the rigid Soul to Love.
To me the Muse vouchsafes celestial Fire,
And my soft Numbers glow with warm Desire;
Alcæus and my self alike she crown'd;
For Softness I, and he for Strength renown'd.
Beauty, 'tis true, penurious Fate denies,
But Wit my want of Beauty well supplies:
My Shape I own is short, but yet my Name
Is far diffus'd, and fills the Voice of Fame.
If I'm not fair, young Perseus did adore
The swarthy Graces of the Royal Moor:
The milk-white Doves with mottl'd Mates are join'd,
And the gay Parrot to the Turtle's kind.
But if you'll fly from Love's connubial Rites,
'Till one as charming as your self invites,
None of our Sex can ever bless your Bed;
Ne'er think of wooing, for you ne'er can wed.

141

Yet, when you read my Verse, you lik'd each Line,
And swore no Numbers were so sweet as mine;
I sang (that pleasing Image still is plain,
Such tender Things we Lovers long retain!)
And ever when the warbling Notes I rais'd,
You with fierce Kisses stifl'd what you prais'd.
Some winning Grace in ev'ry Act you found,
But in full Tides of Extasy were drown'd;
When murm'ring in the melting Joys of Love,
Round yours my curling Limbs began to move.
But now the bright Sicilian Maids adore
The Youth, who seem'd so fond of me before!
Send back, send back my Fugitive! For he
Will vow to you the Vows he made to me:
That smooth deceiving Tongue of his can charm
The coyest Ear, the roughest Pride disarm.

Oh, aid thy Poetess, great Queen of Love,
Auspicious to my growing Passion prove!

142

Fortune was cruel to my tender Age,
And still pursues with unrelenting Rage.
Of Parents, whilst a Child, I was bereft,
To the wide World an helpless Orphan left:
My Brother in a Strumpet's vile Embrace
Lavish'd a large Estate to buy Disgrace;
And doom'd to Traffick on the Main is tost,
Winning with Danger what with Shame he lost;
And vows Revenge on me, who dar'd to blame
His Conduct, and was careful of his Fame.
And then (as if the Woes I bore beside
Were yet too light) my little Daughter dy'd:
But after all these Pangs of Sorrow past,
A worse came on, for Phaon came at last!
No Gems, nor rich embroider'd Silks I wear,
No more in artful Curls I comb my Hair;
No golden Threads the wavy Locks inwreath,
Nor Syrian Oils diffusive Odours breath:
Why shou'd I put such gay Allurements on,
Now he, the Darling of my Soul, is gone?

143

Soft is my Breast, and keen the killing Dart,
And he who gave the Wound, deserves my Heart;
My Fate is fix'd, for sure the Fates decreed
That he shou'd wound, and Sappho's Bosom bleed.
By the smooth Blandishments of Verse betray'd,
In vain I call my Reason to my Aid;
The Muse is faithless to the Fair at best,
But fatal in a Love-sick Lady's Breast.

Yet is it strange so sweet a Youth shou'd dart
Flames so resistless to a Woman's Heart?
Him had Aurora seen, he soon had seiz'd
Her Soul, and Cephalus no more had pleas'd:
Chaste Cynthia, did she once behold his Charms,
For Phaon's wou'd forsake Endymion's Arms:
Venus wou'd bear him to her Bow'r above;
But there she dreads a Rival in his Love.
O fair Perfection thou, nor Youth, nor Boy;
Fix'd in the bright Meridian Point for Joy!

144

Come, on my panting Breast thy Head recline;
Thy Love I ask not, only suffer mine:
While this I ask (but ask I fear in vain)
See how my falling Tears the Letter stain.

At least, why wou'd you not vouchsafe to shew
A kind Regret, and fay, My Dear, adieu?
Nor parting Kiss I gave, nor tender Tear,
My Ruin flew on swifter Wings than Fear:
My Wrongs, too safely treasur'd in my Mind,
Are all the Pledges Phaon left behind:
Nor cou'd I make my last Desire to thee,
Sometimes to cast a pitying Thought on me.
But Gods! when first the killing News I heard,
What pale Amazement in my Looks appear'd!
A while o'erwhelm'd with unexpected Woe,
My Tongue forbore to speak, my Eyes to flow.
But when my Sense was waken'd to Despair,
I beat my tender Breast, and tore my Hair:

145

As a distracted Mother weeps forlorn,
When to the Grave her fondling Babe is born.
Mean while my cruel Brother, for Relief,
With Scorn insults me, and derides my Grief:
Poor Soul! he cries, I doubt she grows sincere;
Her Daughter is return'd to Life I fear.
Mindless of Fame, I to the World reveal
The Love so long I labour'd to conceal.
Thou, thou art Fame, and all the World to me;
All Day I doat, and dream all Night of thee:
Tho' Phaon fly to Regions far remote,
By Sleep his Image to my Bed is brought.
Around my Neck thy fond Embraces twine,
Anon I think my Arms incircle thine:
Then the warm Wishes of my Soul I speak,
Which from my Tongue in dying Murmurs break:
Heav'ns! with thy balmy Lips my Lips are prest;
And then! ah then!—I blush to write the rest.
Thus in my Dreams the bright Ideas play,
And gild the glowing Scenes of Fancy gay:

146

With Life alone my ling'ring Love must end,
On thee my Love, my Life, my All depend.

But at the dawning Day my Pleasures fleet,
And I (too soon!) perceive the dear Deceit:
In Caves and Groves I seek to calm my Grief;
The Caves and Groves afford me no Relief.
Frantick I rove, disorder'd with Despair,
And to the Winds unbind my scatter'd Hair.
I find the Shades which to our Joys were kind,
But my false Phaon there no more I find:
With him the Caves were cool, the Grove was green,
But now his Absence withers all the Scene.
There weeping, I the grassy Couch survey,
Where side by side we once together lay:
I fall where thy forsaken Print appears,
And the kind Turf imbibes my flowing Tears.
The Birds and Trees to Grief Assistance bring,
These drop their Leaves, and they forbear to sing:

147

Poor Philomel of all the Quire, alone
For mangled Itys warbles out her Moan;
Her Moan for him trills sweetly thro' the Grove,
While Sappho sings of ill-requited Love.

To this dear Solitude the Naïds bring
Their fruitful Urns, to form a silver Spring:
The Trees that on the shady Margin grow,
Are green above, the Banks are green below:
Here while by Sorrow lull'd asleep I lay,
Thus said the Guardian Nymph, or seem'd to say:
Fly, Sappho, fly; to cure this deep Despair
To the Leucadian Rock in haste repair;
High on whose hoary Top an awful Fane
To Phœbus rear'd, surveys the subject Main.
This desp'rate Cure of old Deucalion try'd,
For Love to Fury wrought by Pyrrha's Pride;
Into the Waves, as holy Rites require,
Headlong he leap'd, and quench'd his hopeless Fire:

148

Her frozen Breast a sudden Flame subdu'd,
And she who fled the Youth, the Youth pursu'd.
Like him, to give thy raging Passion ease,
Precipitate thy self into the Seas.

This said, she disappear'd. I deadly wan
Rose up, and gushing Tears unbounded ran:
I fly, ye Nymphs, I fly; tho' Fear assail,
The Woman, yet the Lover must prevail.
In Death what Terrors can deserve my Care?
The Pangs of Death are gentler than Despair.
Ye Winds, and Cupid Thou, to meet my Fall
Your downy Pinions spread! my Weight is small.
Thus rescu'd, to the God of Verse I'll bow,
Hang up my Lute, and thus inscribe my Vow.
To Phœbus grateful Sappho gave this Lute;
The Gift did both the God and Giver suit.

But, Phaon, why shou'd I this Toil endure,
When thy Return wou'd soon compleat the Cure?

149

Thy Beauty and its balmy Pow'r, wou'd be
A Phœbus, and Leucadian Rock to me.
O harder than the Rock to which I go;
And deafer than the Waves that war below!
Think yet, oh think! shall future Ages tell
That I to Phaon's Scorn a Victim fell?
Or hadst thou rather see this tender Breast
Bruis'd on the Cliff, than close to Phaon's prest?
This Breast? which fill'd with bright Poetic Fire,
You made me once believe you did admire:
O cou'd it now supply me with Address
To plead my Cause, and court thee with Success!
But mighty Woes my Genius quite controul,
And damp the rising Vigour of my Soul:
No more, ye Lesbian Nymphs, desire a Song;
Mute is my Voice, my Lute is all unstrung.
My—Phaon's fled, who made my Fancy shine,
(Ah! yet I scarce forbear to call him—Mine.)

150

Phaon is fled! but bring the Youth again,
Inspiring Ardors will revive my Vein.
But why, alas! this unavailing Pray'r?
Vain are my Vows, and fleet with common Air:
My Vows the Winds disperse, and make their sport,
But ne'er will waft him to the Lesbian Port.

Yet if you purpose to return, 'tis wrong
To let your Mistress languish here so long.
Venus for your fair Voyage will compose
The Sea, for from the Sea the Goddess rose:
Cupid, assisted with propitious Gales,
Will hand the Rudder, and direct the Sails.
But! if relentless to my Pray'r you prove;
If still, unkind without a Cause, you'll rove;
And ne'er to Sappho's longing Eyes restore
That Object, which her hourly Vows implore:
'Twill be Compassion now t' avow your Hate;
Write, and confirm the Rigor of my Fate!

151

Then, steel'd with Resolution by Despair,
For Cure I'll to the kinder Seas repair:
That last Relief for love-sick Minds I'll try;
Phœbus may grant what Phaon cou'd deny.

152

[_]

Advertisement.

The Antients have left us little farther Account of Phaon, than that he was an old Mariner, whom Venus transform'd into a very beautiful Youth, whom Sappho, and several other Lesbian Ladies, fell passionately in love with: And therefore I thought it might be pardonable to vary the Circumstances of his Story, and to add what I thought proper in the following Epistle.

Andromeda.

153

PHAON to SAPPHO.

I soon perceiv'd from whence your Letter came,
Before I saw it sign'd with Sappho's Name:
Such tender Thoughts in such a flowing Verse,
Did Phœbus to the flying Nymph rehearse;
Yet Fate was deaf to all his pow'rful Charms,
And tore the beauteous Daphne from his Arms!

With such Concern your Passion I survey,
As when I view a Vessel toss'd at Sea;
I beg each friendly Pow'r the Storm may cease,
And ev'ry warring Wave be lull'd in Peace.

154

What can I more than wish? For who can free
The wretched from the Woe the Gods decree?
With gen'rous Pity I'll repay your Flame;
Pity! 'tis what deserves a softer Name:
Which yet, I fear, of equal Use wou'd prove
To sooth a Tempest, as abate your Love.

How can my Art your fierce Disease subdue?
I want, alas, a greater Cure than you:
Benumb'd in Death the cold Physician lies,
While for his Help the Feav'rish Patient cries.
Call me not cruel, but reproach my Fate;
And list'ning while my Woes I here relate,
Let your soft Bosom heave with tender Sighs;
Let melting Sorrow languish in your Eyes:
Piteous deplore a Wretch constrain'd to rove;
Whose Crime, and Punishment, is slighted Love:
Fix'd for his Guilt, to ev'ry coming Age,
A Monument of Cytherea's Rage.

155

At Malea born, my Race unknown to Fame,
With Oars I ply'd; Colymbus was my Name:
A Name that from the diving Birds I bore,
Which seek their fishy Food along the Shore.
One Summer Eve in Port I left my Sail,
And with my Partners sought a neighb'ring Vale;
What time the rural Nymphs repair'd, to pay
Their Floral Honours to the Queen of May.
At first their various Charms my Choice confuse,
For what is Choice where each is fit to chuse?
But Love, or Fate, at length my Bosom fir'd
With a bright Maid, in Myrtle-green attir'd;
A Shepherdess she was, and on the Lawn
Sate to the Setting-Sun from dewy Dawn;
Yet fairer than the Nymphs who guard the Streams
In Pearly Caves, and shun the burning Beams.
I whisper Love; she flies; I still persue,
To press her to the Joy she never knew:

156

And while I speak, the Virgin-Blushes spread
Her Damask Beauty with a warmer Red.
I vow'd unshaken Faith, invoking loud
Venus, t' attest the solemn Faith I vow'd;
Invoking all the radiant Lights above,
(But most the Lamp that lights the Realm of Love.)
No more to guide me with their friendly Rays,
But leave my Ship to perish on the Seas;
If the dear Charmer ever chanc'd to find
My Heart disloyal, or my Look unkind.

A Maid will listen when a Lover swears,
And think his Faith more real than her Fears.
The careful Shepherdess secur'd her Flocks
From the devouring Wolf, and wily Fox;
Yet fell her self an undefended Prey,
To one more cruel, and more false than they.
The Nuptial Joys we there consummate soon,
Safe in the friendly Silence of the Moon:

157

And, 'till the Birds proclaim'd the dawning Day,
Beneath a Shade of Flow'rs in Transport lay.
I rose, and softly sighing view'd her o'er;
How chang'd, I thought, from what she was before!
Yet still repeated (eager to be gone)
My former Pledges, with a fainter Tone;
And promis'd quick Return: The pensive Fair
Went with Reluctance to her fleecy Care;
While I resolv'd to quit my native Shore,
Never to see the late-lov'd Malea more.

Fresh on the Waves the Morning Breezes play,
To bear my Vessel, and my Vows away:
With prosp'rous Speed I fly before the Wind,
And leave the Length of Lesbos all behind.
Far distant from my Malean Love at last,
Secure with twenty Leagues between us cast)
I furl my Sails; and on the Sigrian Shore,
Adopting that my Seat, the Vessel moor.

158

Sigrium, from whose aerial Height I spy
The distant Fields that bore imperial Troy;
Which still accurs'd for Helen's broken Vow,
Produce thin Crops, ungrateful to the Plow.
I gaze, revolving in my guilty Mind;
What future Vengeance will my Falshood find,
When Kings, and Empires, no Forgiveness gain'd
For violated Rites, and Faith prophan'd!

Sea-faring on that Coast I led my Life,
A Commoner of Love, without a Wife;
Content with casual Joys: and vainly thought
Venus forgave the Perjur'd, or forgot.
And now my sixtieth Year began to shed
An undistinguish'd Winter o'er my Head;
When bent for Tenedos, a Country Dame
(I thought her such) for speedy Passage came.
A Palsy shook her Limbs; a shrivel'd Skin
But ill conceal'd the Skeleton within;

159

A Monument of Time: With equal Grace
Her Garb had Poverty to suit her Face.
Extorting first my Price, I spread my Sail,
And steer my Course before a merry Gale;
Which haply turn'd her tatter'd Veil aside,
When in her Lap a golden Vase I spy'd;
Around so rich with orient Gems enchas'd,
A flamy Lustre o'er the Gold they cast.
With eager Eyes I view the tempting Bane,
And sailing now secure amid the Main,
With Felon Force I seize the seeming Crone,
To plunge her in, and make the Prize my own.
To Venus strait she chang'd, divine to view!
The laughing Loves around their Mother flew;
Who, circled with a Pomp of Graces, stood
Such as she first ascended from the Flood.
I bow'd, ador'd—With Terror in her Voice,
Thy Violence (she cry'd) shall win the Prize:
Renew thy wrinkled Form, be young and fair;
But soon thy Heart shall own the Purchase dear.

160

Nor is Revenge forgot, tho' long delay'd,
For Vows attested in the Malean Shade.—
Wrapt in a purple Cloud, she cut the Skies;
And looking down, still threat'ned with her Eyes.

My Fear at length dispell'd (the Sight of Gold
Can make an avaricious Coward bold)
I seiz'd the glitt'ring Spoil, in hope to find
A Case so rich with richer Treasures lin'd.
The Lid remov'd, the vacant Space inclos'd
An Essence, with celestial Art compos'd;
Which cures old Age, and makes the shrivel'd Cheek
Blushy as Bacchus, and as Hebe sleek:
Strength to the Nerves the Nectar'd Sweets supply,
And Eagle-Radiance to the faded Eye.
Nor sharp Disease, nor Want, nor Age have pow'r
T' invade that Vigour, and that Bloom deflow'r.

Th' Effect I found; for when return'd to Land,
Some Drops I sprinkled on my Sun-burnt Hand;

161

Where'er they fell, surprizing to the Sight,
The freckled Brown imbib'd a milky White:
So look the Panther's varied sides; and so
The Pheasant's Wing, bedropt with Flakes of Snow.
I wet the whole, the same celestial Hue
Tinctur'd the whole; Mæander'd o'er with Blue.
Struck with Amazement here, I pause a Space;
Next with the liquid Sweets anoint my Face:
My Neck, and hoary Locks I then bedew,
And in the Waves my changing Visage view.
Strait with my Charms the watry Mirror glows,
Those fatal Charms that ruin'd your Repose!
Still doubting up I start, and fear to find
Some young Adonis gazing o'er behind.
My Waste, and all my Limbs I last besmear'd,
And soon a glossy Youth o'er all appear'd.

Long wrapt in silent Wonder, on the Strand,
I like a Statue of Apollo stand:

162

Like his, with Oval Grace my Front is spread;
Like his, my Lips and Cheeks are rosy red;
Like his my Limbs are shap'd; in ev'ry part
So just, they mock the Sculptor's mimic Art:
And golden Curls adown my Shoulders flow;
Nor wants there ought, except the Lyre and Bow.

Restor'd to Youth, triumphant I repair
To Court; to captivate th' admiring Fair:
My faultless Form the Lesbian Nymphs adore;
Avow their Flames, weep, sigh, protest, implore.
There feel I first the Penance of my Sin;
All Spring without, and Winter all within!
From me the Sense of gay Desire is fled,
And all their Charms are Cordials to the Dead.
Or if within my Breast there chance to rise,
The sweet Remembrance of the genial Joys;
Sudden it leaves me, like a transient Gleam
That gilds the Surface of a freezing Stream.

163

Mean time with various Pangs my Heart is torn,
Hate strives with Pity, Shame contends with Scorn:
Confus'd with Grief I quit the Court, to range
In savage Wilds; and curse my Penal Change.
The Phœnix so, restor'd with rich Perfumes,
Displays the florid Pride of all his Plumes;
Then flies to live amid th' Arabian Grove,
In barren Solitude, a Foe to Love.
But in the calm Recess of Woods, and Plains,
The Viper Envy revel'd in my Veins;
And ever when the Male caress'd his Bride,
Sighing with Rage, I turn'd my Eyes aside.
In River, Mead, and Grove, such Objects rose,
T' avenge the Goddess, and awake my Woes:
Fish, Beast, and Bird, in River, Mead, and Grove,
Bless'd and rever'd the blissful Pow'rs of Love.

What can I do for Ease? O, whither fly?
Resume my fatal Form, ye Gods, I cry:

164

Wither this beauteous Bloom, so tempting gay;
And let me live Transform'd to weak, and gray!
By Change of Clime my Sorrows to beguile,
I leave for Sicily my native Isle:
Vain Hope! for who can leave himself behind;
And live a thoughtless Exile from the Mind?
Arriving there, amidst a flow'ry Plain
That join'd the Shore, I view'd a Virgin-Train;
Who in soft Ditties sung of Acis' Flame,
And strew'd with annual Wreaths his Amber Stream.
Me soon they saw, and fir'd with pious Joy,
He comes, the God-like Acis comes, they cry:
Fair Pride of Neptune's Court! indulge our Pray'r;
Approach, you've now no Polypheme to fear:
Accept our Rites; to bind thy Brow we bring
These earliest Honours of the rosy Spring:
So may thy Galatea still be kind,
As we thy smiling Pow'r propitious find!
But if—(they read their Error in my Blush;
For Shame, and Rage, and Scorn alternate flush)

165

But if of earthly Race, yet kinder prove;
Refuse all other Rites, but those of Love.
That hated Word new stabs my rankling Wound;
Like a struck Deer I startle at the Sound:
Thence to the Woods with furious Speed repair,
And leave them all abandon'd to Despair.

So, frighted by the Swains, to reach the Brake
Glides from a sunny Bank the glitt'ring Snake:
And whilst, reviv'd in Youth, his wavy Train
Floats in large Spires, and burns along the Plain;
He darts Malignance from his scornful Eye,
And the young Flow'rs with livid Hisses die.

Let my sad Fate your soft Compassion move,
Convinc'd that Phaon wou'd, but cannot, love:
To torture, and distract my Soul, are join'd
Unfading Youth, and Impotence of Mind.
The White and Red that flatter on my Skin,
Hide Hell; the grinning Furies howl within;

166

Pride, Envy, Rage, and Hate inhabit there,
And the black Child of Guilt, extreme Despair:
Nor of less Terror to the Perjur'd prove
The Frowns of Venus, than the Bolts of Jove.

When Orpheus in the Woods began to Play,
Sooth'd with his Airs the Leopards round him lay:
Their glaring Eyes with lessen'd Fury burn'd;
But when the Lyre was mute, their Rage return'd:
So wou'd thy Muse and Lute a while controul
My Woes, and tune the Discord of my Soul:
In sweet Suspense each savage Thought restrain'd;
And then, the Love I never felt I feign'd.
O Sappho, now that Muse and Lute employ;
Invoke the golden Goddess from the Sky:
From the Leucadian Rock ne'er hope Redress;
In Love Apollo boasts no sure Success:
Let him preside o'er Oracles and Arts;
Venus alone hath Balm for bleeding Hearts.

167

O, let the warbled Hymn delight her Ear;
Can she when Sappho sings refuse to hear?
Thrice let the warbled Hymn repeat thy Pain,
While Flow'rs, and burning Gums perfume her Fane.
And when, descending to the plaintive Sound,
She comes confess'd with all her Graces round;
O, plead my Cause! in that auspicious Hour,
Propitiate with thy Vows the vengeful Pow'r.
Nor cease thy Suit, 'till with a smiling Air
She cries, I give thy Phaon to thy Pray'r:
And from his Crime absolv'd, with all his Charms
He long shall live, and die in Sappho's Arms.—
Then swift, and gentle as her gentlest Dove,
I'll seek thy Breast, and equal all thy Love:
Hymen shall clap his Purple Wings, and spread
Incessant Raptures o'er the Nuptial Bed.
And while in Pomp at Cytherea's Shrine,
With Choral Song and Dance, our Vows we join;

168

Her flaming Altar with religious Fear
I'll touch, and prostrate on the Marble, swear
That Zeal, and Love, for ever shall divide
My Heart, between the Goddess and the Bride.

Alluding to her Ode to Venus.

169

A TALE,

Devised in the plesaunt manere of gentil Maister Jeoffrey Chaucer.

Whylom in Kent there dwelt a Clerke,
Who wyth grete Cheer, and litil Werke,
Upswalen was with Venere:
For meagre Lent ne recked he,
Ne Saincts Daies had in Remembraunce,
Mo will had he to Daliaunce.

170

To serchen out a Bellamie,
He had a sharp and licorous Eie;
But it wold bett abide a Leke,
Or Onion, than the Sight of Greke:
Wherefore, God yeve him Shame, Boccace
Serv'd him for Basil and Ignace.
His vermeil Cheke that shon wyth Mirth,
Spake him the blithest Priest on Yearth:
At Chyrch, to shew his lillied hond,
Full fetously he prank'd his Bond;
Sleke weren his flaxen Locks ykempt.
And Isaac Wever was he nempt.

Thilke Clerke echaufed in the Groyne,
For a yonge Damosell did pyne,
Born in East-Cheape; who, by my Fay,
Ypert was as a Popinjay:
Ne Wit, ne Wordes did she waunt,
Wele cond she many a Romaunt;

171

Ore Muscadine, or spiced Ale,
She carrold soote as Nightingale:
And for the nonce couth rowle her Eyne,
Withouten Speche; a speciall Signe
She lack'd somdele of what ech Dame
Holds dere as Life, yet dredes to name:
So was eftsoons by Isaac won,
To blissful Consummation.

Here mought I now tellen the Festes,
Who yave the Bryde, how bibbd the Ghestes;
But withouten such Gawdes, I trow
Myne Legend is prolix ynow.
Ryghte wele areeds Dan Prior's Song,
A Tale shold never be too long;
And sikerly in fayre Englond
None bett doeth Taling understond.

She now, algates full sad to chaunge
The Citee for her Husbond's Graunge,

172

To Kent mote; for she wele did knowe
Twas vaine ayenst the Streme to rowe.
So wend they on one Steed yfere,
Ech cleping toder Life and Dere;
Heven shilde hem fro myne Bromley Host,
Or many a Groat theyr Meel woll cost.

Deem next ye Maistress Wever sene
Yclad in sable Bombasine;
The Frankeleins Wyves accost her blythe,
Curteis to guilen hem of Tythe;
And yeve Honour Parochiall
In Pew, and eke at Festivall.
Worschip and Welth her Husbond hath;
Ne poor in aught, save Werks and Faith:
Kepes Bull, Bore, Stallion, to dispence
Large Pennorths of Benevolence.
His Berne ycrammed was, and store
Of Poultrie cackled at the Dore;

173

His Wyf grete Joie to fede hem toke,
And was astonied at the Cocke;
That, in his Portaunce debonair,
On everich Henn bestow'd a Share
Of Plesaunce, yet no Genitours
She saw, to thrill his Paramours:
Oft sithes she mokel mus'd theron,
Yet nist she howgates it was don.

One Night, ere they to sleepen went,
Her Isaac in her Arms she hent,
As was her Usage; and did saie,
Of Charite I mote thee praie,
To techen myne unconnyng Wit
One thing it comprehendeth niet:
And maie the foul Fiend harrow thee,
If in myne quest thou falfen me.

Our Chaunticlere loves everich Hen,
Ne fewer kepes our Yerd than ten;

174

Yet romps he ore beth grete and small,
Ne ken I what he swinks wythall.
But on ech Leg a Wepon is,
Ypersent, and full starke I wys;
Doth he with hem at Pertelote play?
In sooth theres Werk inough for tway.

Qd. Isaac, certes by Sainct Poule,
Myne Lief thou art a simple Soule;
Foules fro the Egle to the Wren,
Bin harness'd othergise than Men:
For the Males Engins of Delite,
Ferre in theyr Entrails are empight;
Els, par mischaunce, theyr Merriment
Emong the Breers mought sore be shent.
Thus woxen hote, they much avaunce
Love of Venereal jouisaunce:
And in one Month, the Trouth to sayne,
Swink mo than Manhode in Yeres twayne.

175

O Benedicite! qd. she,
If kepyng hote so kindlych be,
Hie in thyne Boweles truss thyne Gere,
And eke the Skrippe that daungleth here.

Ne Dame, he answerd, mote that bene;
For as I hope to be a Dene,
Thilke Falstaffe-Bellie rownd and big,
Was built for corny Ale, and Pig;
Ne in it is a Chink for these,
Ne for a Wheat-straw, and tway Pease.

Pardie, qd. she, syth theres nat room,
Swete Nykin! chafe hem in myne woom.

176

To Mr. POPE.

When Phœbus, and the Nine harmonious Maids,
Of old assembled in the Thespian Shades;
What Theme, they cry'd, what high immortal Air,
Befit these Harps to sound, and Thee to hear?
Reply'd the God, your loftiest Notes employ
To sing young Peleus, and the Fall of Troy.
The wond'rous Song with Rapture they rehearse;
Then ask, who wrought that Miracle of Verse.
He answer'd with a Frown; I now reveal
A Truth, that Envy bids me not conceal.
Retiring frequent to this Laureat Vale,
I warbled to the Lyre that fav'rite Tale;

177

Which, unobserv'd, a wand'ring Greek and blind,
Heard me repeat; and treasur'd in his Mind:
And, fir'd with Thirst of more than mortal Praise,
From me, the God of Wit, usurp'd the Bays.

But let vain Greece indulge her growing Fame;
Proud with celestial Spoils to grace her Name:
Yet when my Arts shall triumph in the West,
And the White Isle with Female Pow'r is blest;
Fame, I foresee, will make Reprisals there,
And the Translator's Palm to Me transfer:
With less Regret my Claim I now decline;
The World will think his English Iliad Mine.

The foregoing Verses allude to a Greek Epigram, in which the Poet supposeth Apollo to have given this Answer to one who enquir'd who was the Author of the Iliad,

Ηειδον μεν Εγων, εχαρασε δε θειος Ομερος.
Hæc modulabar Ego, scripsit divinus Homerus.

178

The PLATONIC SPELL.

Whene'er I wed, young Strephon cry'd,
Ye Pow'rs that o'er the Noose preside,
Wit, Beauty, Wealth, good Humour give;
Or let me still a Rover live:
But if all these no Nymph can share,
Let mine, ye Pow'rs! be doubly Fair.

Thus pray'd the Swain, in Heat of Blood;
Whilst nigh celestial Cupid stood;
And tapping him, said, Youth be wise;
And let a Child, for once, advise.
A faultless Make, a manag'd Wit,
Humour and Riches rarely meet.
But if a Beauty you'd obtain,
Court some bright Phillis of the Brain:

179

The dear Idea long enjoy,
Clean is the Bliss, and ne'er will cloy.

But trust me, Youth, for I'm sincere,
And know the Ladies to a Hair:
Howe'er small Poets whine upon it,
In Madrigal, and Song, and Sonnet;
Their Beauty's but a Spell, to bring
A Lover to th' enchanted Ring.
E'er the Sack-Posset is digested,
Or half of Hymen's Taper wasted;
The winning Air, the wanton Trip,
The radiant Eye, the velvet Lip,
From which you flagrant Kisses stole,
And seem'd to suck her springing Soul:
These, and the rest you doated on,
Are nauseous, or insipid grown;
The Spell dissolves, the Cloud is gone,
And Sacharissa turns to Joan.

181

MARULLUS IMITATED.

Rob'd like Diana, ready for the Chace,
Her Mind as spotless, and as fair her Face;
Young Sylvia stray'd beneath the dewy Dawn,
To course th' imperial Stag o'er Windsor-Lawn.
There Cupid view'd her speeding o'er the Plain,
The first and fairest of the rural Train:
And, by a small Mistake, the Pow'r of Love
Thought her the Virgin-Goddess of the Grove.
Soon aw'd with Innocence, t' evade her Sight
He fled, and drop'd his Quiver in the Flight:

183

Tho' pleas'd, she blush'd; and, with a glowing Smile,
Persu'd the God, and seiz'd the golden Spoil.

The Nymph, resistless in her native Charms,
Now reigns, possess'd of Cupid's dreaded Arms:
And, wing'd with Light'ning, from her radiant Eyes
Unerring in its speed, each Arrow flies.
No more his Deity is held divine;
No more we kneel at Cytherea's Shrine:
Their various Pow'rs complete in Sylvia, prove
Her Title to command the Realms of Love.

185

KISSES.

[_]

Translated from SECUNDUS.

When Venus, in the sweet Idalian Shade,
A Violet Couch for young Ascanius made;
Their op'ning Gems th' obedient Roses bow'd,
And veil'd his Beauties with a Damask Cloud:
While the bright Goddess, with a gentle Show'r
Of Nectar'd Dews, perfum'd the blissful Bow'r.

187

Of Sight insatiate, she devours his Charms,
'Till her soft Breast re-kindling Ardour warms;
New Joys tumultuous in her Bosom roul,
And all Adonis rusheth on her Soul.
Transported with each dear resembling Grace,
She cries, Adonis!—sure I see thy Face!
Then stoops to clasp the beauteous Form, but fears
He'd wake too soon, and with a Sigh forbears:
Yet, fix'd in silent Rapture, stands to gaze;
Kissing each flow'ring Bud that round her plays.
Swell'd with her Touch, each animated Rose
Expands; and strait with warmer Purple glows:
Where Infant Kisses bloom, a balmy Store!
Redoubling all the Bliss she felt before.

Sudden, her Swans career along the Skies,
And o'er the Globe the fair Celestial flies.
Then, as where Ceres pass'd, the teeming Plain
Yellow'd with wavy Crops of golden Grain;

189

So fruitful Kisses fell where Venus flew;
And by the Pow'r of genial Magic grew:
A plenteous Harvest! which she deign'd t'impart
To sooth an agonizing Love-sick Heart.

All hail, ye Roseat Kisses! who remove
Our Cares, and cool the Calentures of Love.
Lo! I your Poet in melodious Lays,
Bless your kind Pow'r; enamour'd of your Praise:
Lays! form'd to last, 'till barb'rous Time invades
The Muses Hill, and withers all their Shades.
Sprung from the Guardian of the Roman Name,
In Roman Numbers live, secure of Fame.

Venus.

191

BASIUM II TRANSLATED.

As the young enamour'd Vine,
Round her Elm delights to twine;
As the clasping Ivy throws,
Round her Oak her wanton Boughs,
So close, expanding all thy Charms,
Fold me, my Chloris, in thy Arms!
Closer, my Chloris, cou'd it be,
Wou'd my fond Arms incircle thee.

The jovial Friend shall tempt in vain
With Humour, Wit, and brisk Champaigne:
In vain shall Nature call for Sleep;
We'll Love's eternal Vigils keep.

193

Thus, thus for ever let us lie,
Dissolving in Excess of Joy;
'Till Fate shall with a single Dart,
Transfix the Pair it cannot part.

Thus join'd, we'll fleet like Venus' Doves;
And seek the blest Elysian Groves;
Where Spring in rosy Triumph reigns,
Perpetual o'er the joyous Plains.
There, Lovers of Heroic Name,
Revive their long extinguish'd Flame
And o'er the fragrant Vale advance
In shining Pomp, to form the Dance
Or sing of Love, and gay Desire,
Responsive to the warbling Lyre;
Reclining soft in blissful Bow'rs,
Purpled sweet with springing Flow'rs,
And cover'd with a silken Shade,
Of Laurel mix'd with Myrtle made;

195

Where, flaunting in immortal Bloom,
The Musk-Rose scents the verdant Gloom:
Thro' which the whisp'ring Zephyrs fly,
Softer than a Virgin's Sigh.

When we approach those blest Retreats,
Th' Assembly strait will leave their Seats;
Admiring much the matchless Pair;
So fond the Youth, the Nymph so fair!
Daughters and Mistresses to Jove,
By Homer fam'd of old for Love;
In Homage to the British Grace,
Will give Pre-eminence of Place.
Helen herself will soon agree
To rise, and yield her Rank to thee.

196

AN EPISTLE TO Thomas Lambard, Esq

Omnia me tua delectant; sed maximè, maxima cùm fides in amicitiâ, consilium, gravitas, constantia; tum lepos, humanitas, literæ. Cicero, Ep. 27. Lib. 11.

Slow tho' I am to wake the sleeping Lyre,
Yet shou'd the Muse some happy Song inspire;
Fit for a Friend to give, and worthy thee,
That fav'rite Verse to Lambard I decree:

197

Such may the Muse inspire, and make it prove
A Pledge and Monument of lasting Love!

Meantime intent the fairest Plan to find,
To form the Manners, and improve the Mind;
Me the fam'd Wits of Rome and Athens please,
By Orrery's Indulgence wrapt in Ease;
Whom all the Rival Muses strive to grace,
With Wreaths familiar to his Letter'd Race.
Now, Truth's bright Charms employ my serious Thought,
In flowing Eloquence by Tully taught:
Then, from the Shades of Tusculum I rove,
And studious wander in the Grecian Grove;
While Wonder, and Delight the Soul engage,
To sound the Depths of Plato's sacred Page:
Where Science in attractive Fable lies,
And veil'd, the more invites her Lover's Eyes.
Transported thence, the flow'ry Heights I gain
Of Pindus; and admire the warbling Train,

198

Whose Wings the Muse in better Ages prun'd,
And their sweet Harps to Moral Airs attun'd.
As Night is tedious while, in Love betray'd,
The wakeful Youth expects the faithless Maid;
As weary'd Hinds accuse the ling'ring Sun,
And Heirs impatient, wish for Twenty One:
So dull to Horace did the Moments glide;
'Till his free Muse her sprightly Force employ'd
To combate Vice; and Follies to expose,
In easy Numbers near ally'd to Prose:
Guilt blush'd, and trembled when she heard him sing,
He smil'd Reproof, and tickled with his Sting.
With such a graceful Negligence exprest,
Wit, thus apply'd, will ever stand the Test:
But he, who blindly led by Whimsy strays,
And from gross Images wou'd merit Praise,
When Nature sets the noblest Stores in view;
Affects to polish Copper in Peru.

199

So while the Seas on barren Sands are cast,
The Saltness of their Waves offends the Taste;
But when to Heav'n exhal'd, in fruitful Rain,
And fragrant Dews, they fall, to cheer the Swain;
Revive the fainting Flow'rs, and swell the meagre Grain.

Be this their Care, who studious of Renown,
Toil up th' Aonian Steep to reach the Crown:
Suffice it me, that (having spent my Prime
In picking Epithets, and yoking Rhime)
To steadier Rule my Thoughts I now compose,
And prize Ideas clad in honest Prose.
Old Dryden, emulous of Cæsar's Praise,
Cover'd his Baldness with immortal Bays;
And Death perhaps, to spoil Poetic Sport,
Unkindly cut an Alexandrine short.
His Ear had a more lasting Itch than mine,
For the smooth Cadence of a golden Line!
Shou'd Lust of Verse prevail, and urge the Man
To run the trifling Race the Boy began;

200

Mellow'd with sixty Winters, you might see
My Circle end in second Infancy.
I might e'er long an awkward Humour have,
To wear my Bells and Coral to the Grave;
Or round my Room alternate take a Course,
Now mount my Hobby, then the Muse's Horse:
Let others wither gay, but I'd appear
With sage Decorum in my easy Chair:
Grave as Libanius, slumb'ring o'er the Laws,
Whilst Gold, and Party Zeal decide the Cause.

A nobler Task our riper Age affords,
Than scanning Syllables, and weighing Words.
To make his Hours in even Measures flow,
Nor think some fleet too fast, and some too slow:
Still Equal in himself, and free to taste
The Now, without repining at the Past;
Nor the vain Prescience of the Spleen t' employ,
To pall the Flavour of a promis'd Joy:

201

To live tenacious of the golden Mean;
In all Events of various Fate serene;
With Virtue steel'd, and steady to survey
Age, Death, Disease, or Want without Dismay:
These Arts, My Lambard! useful in their End,
Make Man to Others, and Himself, a Friend.

Happiest of Mortals he, who timely wise,
In the calm Walks of Truth his Bloom enjoys:
With Books, and Patrimonial Plenty blest,
Health in his Veins, and Quiet in his Breast!
Him no vain Hopes attract, no Fear appalls,
Nor the gay Servitude of Courts enthralls;
Unknowing how to mask concerted Guile
With a false Cringe, or undermining Smile:
His Manners pure, from Affectation free,
And Prudence shines thro' clear Simplicity.
Tho' no rich Labours of the Persian Loom,
Nor the nice Sculptor's Art adorn his Room;

202

Sleep unprovok'd will softly seal his Eyes,
And Innocence the want of Down supplies:
Health tempers all his Cups, and at his Board
Reigns the cheap Luxury the Fields afford.
Like the great Trojan, mantled in a Cloud,
Himself unseen he sees the lab'ring Croud;
Where all industrious to their Ruin run,
Swift to persue what most they ought to shun.
Some by the sordid Thirst of Gain controll'd,
Starve in their Stores, and cheat themselves for Gold;
Preserve the precious Bane with anxious Care,
In vagrant Lusts to feed a lavish Heir.
Others devour Ambition's glitt'ring Bait,
To sweat in Purple, and repine in State:
Devote their Pow'rs to ev'ry wild Extream,
For the short Pageant of a pompous Dream.
Nor can the Mind to full Perfection bring
The Fruits, it early promis'd in the Spring;
But in a publick Sphear those Virtues fade,
Which open'd fair, and flourish'd in the Shade.

203

So while the Night her Ebon Scepter sways,
Her fragrant Blooms the Indian Plant displays;
But the full Day the short-liv'd Beauties shun,
Elude our Hopes, and sicken at the Sun.

Fantastic Joys in distant Views appear,
And tempt the Man to make the rash Carier.
Fame, Pow'r, and Wealth, which glitter at the Goal
Allure his Eye, and fire his eager Soul:
For these, are Ease and Innocence resign'd;
For these he strips; Farewel the tranquil Mind!
Headstrong he urges on, 'till Vigour fails,
And gray Experience (but too late!) prevails.
But, in his Ev'ning, view the hoary Fool
When the Nerves slacken, and the Spirits cool;
When Joy, and blushy Youth forsake his Face;
Sickly'd with Age, and sow'r with Self-disgrace.

204

No Flavour then the sparkling Cups retain,
Musick is harsh, the Syren sings in vain;
To him what healing Balm can Art apply,
Who lives diseas'd with Life, and dreads to die?
In that last Scene, by Fate in Sables drest,
Thy Pow'r, triumphant Virtue! is confest:
Thy Vestal Flames diffuse celestial Light,
Thro' Death's dark Vale, and vanquish total Night:
Lenient of Anguish, o'er the Breast prevail,
When the gay Toys of flatt'ring Fortune fail.
Such, happy Twysden! (ever be thy Name
Mourn'd by the Muse, and fair in deathless Fame!)
While the bright Effluence of her Glory shone,
Were thy last Hours, and such I wish my own:
So Casia bruis'd, exhales her rich Perfumes:
And Incense in a fragrant Cloud consumes.

Most spoil the Boon that Nature's pleas'd t'impart,
By too much Varnish, or by want of Art:

205

By solid Science all her Gifts are grac'd;
Like Gems new polish'd, and with Gold enchas'd.
Votes to th' unletter'd 'Squire the Laws allow;
As Rome receiv'd Dictators from the Plow:
But Arts, Address, and Force of Genius join,
To make a Hanmer in the Senate shine.
Yet, one presiding Pow'r in ev'ry Breast,
Receives a stronger Sanction than the rest:
And they who study, and discern it well,
Act unrestrain'd, without Design excell;
But court Contempt, and Err without Redress,
Missing the Master-Talent they possess.
W**n perhaps in Euclid may succeed;
But shall I trust him to Reform my Creed?
In sweet Assemblage, ev'ry blooming Grace
Fix Love's bright Throne in Teraminta's Face;
With which her faultless Shape and Air agree;
But, wanting Wit, she strives to Repartee:
And ever prone her matchless Form to wrong,
Lest Envy shou'd be dumb, she lends her Tongue.

206

By long Experience D**y may, no doubt,
Ensnare a Gudgeon, or sometimes a Trout;
Yet Dryden once exclaim'd (in partial Spite!)
He Fish!—Because the Man attempts to write.
Oh, if the Water-Nymphs were kind to none,
But those the Muses bath in Helicon;
In what far distant Age wou'd Belgia raise
One happy Wit, to Net the British Seas!

Nature permits her various Gifts to fall
On various Climes, nor smiles alike on all:
The Latian Vales eternal Verdure wear,
And Flow'rs spontaneous crown the smiling Year;
But who manures a wild Norwegian Hill,
To raise the Jes'min, or the coy Junquil?
Who finds the Peach among the savage Sloes?
Or in bleak Scythia seeks the blushing Rose?
Here golden Grain waves o'er the teeming Fields;
And there the Vine her racy Purple yields.

207

High on the Cliffs the British Oak ascends,
Proud to survey the Seas her Pow'r defends;
Her Sov'reign Title to the Flag she proves,
Scornful of softer India's spicy Groves.

These Instances, which true in Fact we find,
Apply we to the Culture of the Mind.
This Soil, in early Youth improv'd with Care,
The Seeds of gentle Science best will bear:
That, with more Particles of Flame inspir'd,
With glitt'ring Arms, and Thirst of Fame is fir'd:
Nothing of Greatness in a third will grow,
But, barren as it is, 'twill bear a Beau.
If these from Nature's genial Bent depart,
In Life's dull Farce to play a borrow'd Part;
Shou'd the Sage Dress, and flutter in the Mall,
Or leave his Problems for a Birth-Night Ball:
Shou'd the rough Homicide unsheath his Pen,
And in Heroics only, murther Men;

208

Shou'd the soft Fop forsake the Ladies Charms,
To face the Foe with inoffensive Arms;
Each wou'd Variety of Acts afford,
Fit for some new Cervantes to record.

Whither, you cry, tends all this dry Discourse?
To prove, like Hudibras, a Man's no Horse!
I look'd for sparkling Lines, and something gay
To frisk my Fancy with; but, sooth to say!
From her Apollo now the Muse elopes,
And trades in Syllogisms, more than Tropes.

Faith, Sir, I see you Nod, but can't forbear;
When a Friend reads, in Honour you must hear:
For all Enthusiasts, when the Fit is strong,
Indulge a Volubility of Tongue:
Their Fury triumphs o'er the Men of Phleam,
And Council-proof, will never balk a Theme.
So Burgess on his Tripod rav'd the more,
When round him half the Saints began to snore.

209

To lead us safe thro' Error's thorny Maze,
Reason exerts her pure Etherial Rays:
But that bright Daughter of eternal Day,
Holds in our mortal Frame a dubious Sway.
Tho' no Lethargic Fumes the Brain invest,
And opiate all her active Pow'rs to rest;
Tho' on that Magazine no Fevers seize,
To calcine all her beauteous Images:
Yet banish'd from the Realms by Right her own,
Passion, a blind Usurper, mounts the Throne.
Or to known Good preferring specious Ill,
Reason becomes a Cully to the Will:
Thus Man perversely fond to roam astray,
Hoodwinks the Guide assign'd to shew the way;
And in Life's Voyage like the Pilot fares,
Who breaks the Compass, and contemn's the Stars,
To steer by Meteors; which at random fly,
Preluding to a Tempest in the Sky.

210

Vain of his Skill, and led by various Views,
Each to his End a diff'rent Path persues;
And seldom is one Wretch so humble known,
To think his Friend's a better than his own:
The boldest they, who least partake the Light;
As Game-Cocks in the dark are train'd to fight.
Nor Shame, nor Ruin can our Pride abate,
But what became our Choice, we call our Fate.
Villain, said Zeno to his pilfering Slave,
What frugal Nature needs I freely gave;
With thee my Treasure I depos'd in Trust,
What cou'd provoke thee now to prove unjust?
Sir, blame the Stars, felonious Culprit cry'd.
We'll! by the Statute of the Stars be Try'd.
If their strong Influence all our Actions urge,
Some are foredoom'd to steal—and some to scourge:
The Beadle must obey the Fates Decree,
As pow'rful Destiny prevail'd with thee.

This Heathen Logic seems to bear too hard
On me, and many a harmless modern Bard;

211

The Critics hence may think themselves decreed
To jerk the Wits, and rail at all they read:
Foes to the Tribe from which they trace their Clan,
As Monkies draw their Pedigree from Man;
To which (tho' by the Breed our Kind's disgrac'd)
We grant superior Elegance of Taste.
But in their own Defence the Wits observe,
That, by Impulse from Heav'n, they write, and starve:
Their Patron-Planet, with resistless Pow'r,
Irradiates ev'ry Poet's Natal Hour;
Engend'ring in his Head a Solar Heat,
For which the College has no sure Receipt:
Else from their Garrets wou'd they soon withdraw,
And leave the Rats to revel in the Straw.

Nothing so much intoxicates the Brain,
As Flatt'ry's smooth insinuating Bane.
She on th' unguarded Ear employs her Art,
While vain Self-love unlocks the yielding Heart;

212

And Reason oft' submits when both invade,
Without assaulted, and within betray'd.
When Flatt'ry's Magic Mists suffuse the Sight,
The Don is active, and the Boor polite:
Her Mirror shews Perfection thro the whole,
And ne'er reflects a Wrinkle or a Mole;
Each Character in gay Confusion lies,
And all alike are virtuous, brave, and wise:
Nor fail her fulsome Arts to sooth our Pride,
Tho' Praise to Venom turns if wrong apply'd.
Me thus she whispers while I write to you:
Draw forth a banner'd Host in fair Review;
Then ev'ry Muse invoke thy Voice to raise,
Arms and the Man to sing in lofty Lays;
Whose active Bloom Heroic Deeds employ,
Such as the Son of Thetis sung at Troy;
When his high-sounding Lyre his Valour rais'd,
To emulate the Demi-Gods he prais'd.

213

Like him the Briton, warm at Honour's Call,
At fam'd Blaragnia quell'd the bleeding Gaul;
By France the Genius of the Fight confest,
For which our Patron-Saint adorns his Breast.—
Is this my Friend, who sits in full Content,
Jovial, and joking with his Men of Kent;
And never any Scene of Slaughter saw;
But those who fell by Physick, or the Law?
Why is he for Exploits in War renown'd,
Deck'd with a Star, with bloody Laurels crown'd?
O often prov'd, and ever found sincere!
Too honest is thy Heart, thy Sense too clear,
On these Encomiums to vouchsafe a Smile,
Which only can belong to Great Argyle.

But most among the Brethren of the Bays,
The dear Enchantress all her Charms displays,
In the sly Commerce of alternate Praise.
If, for his Father's Sins condemn'd to write,
Some young half-feather'd Poet takes a Flight;

214

And to my Touchstone brings a puny Ode,
Which Swift, and Pope, and Prior, wou'd explode;
Tho' ev'ry Stanza glitters thick with Stars,
And Goddesses descend in Ivory Cars:
Is it for me, to prove in ev'ry Part
The Piece irregular, by Laws of Art?
His Genius looks but aukward, yet his Fate
May raise him to be Premier Barde of State;
I therefore bribe his Suffrage to my Fame,
Revere his Judgment, and applaud his Flame:
Then cry, in seeming Transport while I speak,
'Tis well for Pindar that he dealt in Greek!
He, conscious of Desert, accepts the Praise,
And courteous, with Increase the Debt repays:
Boileau's a Mushroom if compar'd to me;
And, Horace, I dispute the Palm with thee!
Both ravish'd, sing Te Phœbum for Success;
Rise swift, ye Laurels! Boy! bespeak the Press.—
Thus on imaginary Praise we feed;
Each writes 'till all refuse to print, or read:

215

From the Records of Fame condemn'd to pass
To Brisquet's Calendar, a Rubrick Ass.

Few, wond'rous Few! are Eagle-ey'd to find
A plain Disease, or Blemish in the Mind:
Few can, tho' Wisdom shou'd their Health insure,
Dispassionate and cool attend a Cure.
In Youth difus'd t' obey the needful Rein,
Well pleas'd a savage Liberty to gain,
We sate the keen Desire of ev'ry Sense;
And lull our Age in thoughtless Indolence.
Yet all are Solons in their own Conceit,
Tho', to supply the Vacancy of Wit,
Folly, and Pride impatient of Controul,
The Sister-Twins of Sloath, possess the Soul.
By Kneller were the gay Pumilio drawn,
Like great Alcides, with a Back of Brawn:
I scarcely think his Picture wou'd have Pow'r,
To make him fight the Champions of the Tow'r:

216

Tho' Lions there are tolerably tame,
And civil as the Court from which they came.
But yet, without Experience, Sense, or Arts,
Pumilio boasts Sufficiency of Parts;
Imagines he alone is amply fit
To guide the State, or give the Stamp to Wit:
Pride paints the Mind with an Heroic Air,
Nor finds he a Defect of Vigour there.

When Philomel of old essay'd to sing,
And in his rosy Progress hail'd the Spring;
Th' aerial Songsters list'ning to the Lays,
By silent Extasy confest her Praise.
At length, to rival her enchanting Note,
The Peacock strains the Discord of his Throat;
In hope his hideous Shrieks wou'd grateful prove;
But the nice Audience hoot him thro' the Grove.
Conscious of wanted Worth, and just Disdain,
Low'ring his Crest, he creeps to Juno's Fane:
To his Protectress there reveals the Case;
And for a sweeter Voice devoutly prays.

217

Then thus reply'd the radiant Goddess; known
By her fair rowling Eyes, and ratt'ling Tone.

My fav'rite Bird! of all the feather'd Kind,
Each Species had peculiar Gifts assign'd.
The tow'ring Eagles, to the Realms of Light
By their strong Pounces claim a Regal Right:
The Swan, contented with an humbler Fate,
Low on the fishy River rows in State:
Gay starry Plumes thy Length of Train bedeck,
And the green Em'rald twinkles on thy Neck;
But the poor Nightingale, in mean Attire,
Is made chief Warbler of the woodland Choir.
These various Bounties were dispos'd above,
And ratify'd th' unchanging Will of Jove:
Discern thy Talent, and his Laws adore;
Be what thou wert design'd, nor aim at more.

Epist. 1. Lib. 1.

The Nure-Tree.

Iliad 9.

Brisquet, Jester to Francis I. of France, kept a Calendar of Fools.

218

AN ODE To the Right Honourable JOHN Lord GOWER.

Written in the Spring, 1716.

I

O'er Winter's long inclement Sway,
At length the lusty Spring prevails;
And swift to meet the smiling May;
Is wafted by the Western Gales.

219

Around him dance the rosy Hours,
And damasking the Ground with Flow'rs,
With ambient Sweets perfume the Morn:
With shadowy Verdure flourish'd high,
A sudden youth the Groves enjoy;
Where Philomel laments forlorn.

II

By her awak'd, the woodland Choir
To hail the coming God prepares;
And tempts me to resume the Lyre,
Soft warbling to the vernal Airs.
Yet once more, O ye Muses! deign
For me, the meanest of your Train,
Unblam'd t' approach your blest Retreat:
Where Horace wantons at your Spring,
And Pindar sweeps a bolder String;
Whose Notes th' Aonian Hills repeat.

220

III

Or if invok'd, where Thames's fruitful Tides,
Slow thro' the Vale in silver Volumes play;
Now your own Phœbus o'er the Month presides,
Gives Love the Night, and doubly gilds the Day:
Thither, indulgent to my Pray'r,
Ye bright harmonious Nymphs repair,
To swell the Notes I feebly raise:
So with inspiring Ardors warm'd,
May Gower's propitious Ear be charm'd,
To listen to my Lays.

I

Beneath the Pole on Hills of Snow,
Like Thracian Mars, th' undaunted Swede
To Dint of Sword defies the Foe;
In Fight unknowing to recede:
From Volga's Banks, th' imperious Czar
Leads forth his Furry Troops to War;

221

Fond of the softer Southern Sky:
The Soldan gauls th'Illyrian Coast;
But soon the miscreant Moony Host,
Before the Victor-Cross shall fly.

II

But here, no Clarion's shrilling Note
The Muse's green Retreat can pierce;
The Grove, from noisy Camps remote,
Is only Vocal with my Verse:
Here, wing'd with Innocence and Joy,
Let the soft Hours that o'er me fly
Drop Freedom, Health, and gay Desires:
While the bright Sein, t' exalt the Soul,
With sparkling Plenty crowns the Bowl;
And Wit, and social Mirth inspires.

III

Enamour'd of the Sein, celestial Fair,
(The blooming Pride of Thetis' azure Train)

222

Bacchus, to win the Nymph who caus'd his Care,
Lash'd his swift Tigers to the Celtic Plain:
There secret in her Saphire Cell,
He with the Nais wont to dwell;
Leaving the Nectar'd Feasts of Jove:
And where her mazy Waters flow,
He gave the mantling Vine, to grow
A Trophy to his Love.

I

Shall Man from Nature's Sanction stray,
With blind Opinion for his Guide;
And, Rebel to her rightful Sway,
Leave all her Bounties unenjoy'd?
Fool! Time no Change of Motion knows;
With equal Speed the Torrent flows,
To sweep Fame, Pow'r, and Wealth away:
The Past is all by Death possest;
And frugal Fate that guards the rest.
By giving, bids him live, To Day.

223

II

O Gower! thro' all that destin'd Space,
What Breath the Pow'rs allot to me,
Shall sing the Virtues of thy Race
United, and compleat in thee.
O Flow'r of antient English Faith!
Persue th' unbeaten Patriot-Path,
In which confirm'd thy Father shone:
The Light his fair Example gives,
Already from thy Dawn receives
A Lustre, equal to its own.

III

Honour's bright Dome, on lasting Columns rear'd,
Nor Envy rusts, nor rolling Years consume;
Loud Pœans ecchoing round the Roof are hear'd,
And Clouds of Incense all the Void perfume.
There Phocion, Lælius, Capel, Hyde,
With Falkland seated near his side,

224

Fix'd by the Muse the Temple grace:
Prophetic of thy happier Fame.
She, to receive thy radiant Name,
Selects a whiter Space.

FINIS.

University of Virginia Library