Miscellanies, in Verse and Prose :: :: University of Virginia Library

As when some Merchant, on the stormy Main,
In flatt'ring Dreams enjoys his precious Gain,
But wakes, with weeping Eyes, to see it cast
To raging Waves, and fears himself to sink at last;
Such empty Hopes of golden Days to come
Britannia entertain'd from Gloster's Bloom:
With like Amazement does her Darling moan,
And, at his Fall dishearten'd, dread her own.

Scarce were her grateful Shouts and Transports o'er,
Due to the Day that her Ascanius bore,
When strait the Tidings of th' expiring Boy,
Like Lightning, blasted her imperfect Joy:
Thus Ilium, ruin'd e'er the Day return'd,
In Ashes her nocturnal Revels mourn'd:
The Deluge thus th' astonish'd Nations found,
Secure of Danger, and in Pleasures drown'd.

Ev'n in his Birth-day Ornaments he dies,
Like some choice Victim dress'd for Sacrifice.
So Hammon's Son, arrested by his Death,
Amidst the chearful Bowls resign'd his glorious Breath:
Nor more than we the Macedonians griev'd,
When dying he th' adoring World deceiv'd.
Our Hopes in Glo'ster, had the Fates been kind,
Another Alexander once design'd;
And prophesy'd, from his victorious Sword,
A Fence to Us, and to the World a Lord:
But the large Product shew'd too quick a Prime:
'Tis fatal to be ripe before the Time.

So shoots some gen'rous Plant his youthful Head,
With kindly Show'rs, and Heav'n's Indulgence fed:
He seems, by Nature's lavish Bounty, made,
With prosp'rous Growth, the Clouds above t'invade,
And screen the Flocks below with his extended Shade.

But thro' abounding, early Vigour, weak,
The Body bends, the loaded Tendrils break:
He sheds his blooming Honours all around,
And sinks with fatal Plenty to the Ground.

In vain each artful Son of Pæan tries,
With emulous Skill, the noblest Remedies:
In vain more precious Tears bedew each Parent's Eyes:
Quick as the Flow'rs are mown, he yields his Breath;
But shews, like them, ev'n beautiful in Death.
So look'd the charming Hyacinthus slain;
By heav'nly Pow'rs belov'd, and mourn'd, in vain:
No longer Life would hasty Fate allow,
Tho' then Apollo strove, as Ratcliffe now.

The youthful Squadron that ere-while he led,
In weeping Crouds surrounds the lovely Dead:
Thus throng'd the Cupids where Adonis lay,
And mourn'd, and threw their useless Darts away:
Yet a few Years, and they, in fighting Fields,
With him had reap'd the Bays which Warfare yields;
Had seen their beauteous Mars, with dextrous Force,
On adverse Javelins urge his foaming Horse;
Or thro' wide Plains, with slaughter'd Foes o'erspread,
Pursue the noble Chace by William led.

Ev'n William's Courage by this Stroke is try'd,
Dejected only more when Mary dy'd.

In his swoln Eyes his tender Grief appears,
Tho' still his Blood flows sooner than his Tears:
How high, Great Sir, was our Expectance rais'd!
In Glo'ster hoping what in You we prais'd:
Secure, like Eden, tho' defil'd with Sin,
You was the Sword, and He the Cherubin.

Who can enough the fatal Hour detest,
When that fair Body lost its fairer Guest?
The World a Wonder; and our Annals more
Than ever grac'd their shining Leaves before?
The noblest Family its sole Increase?
The Land its present Joy, and Pledge of future Peace?

The Tyrant, whom wild Rage did once provoke
To wish Rome's Fall by one compendious Stroke;
Here had he rul'd, and Glo'ster's Death beheld,
Had seen his Hate, without his Crime, fulfill'd.

Whence was this lovely Morn so soon o'ercast?
Was the choice Substance too refin'd to last?
Or have the Pow'rs some other Blow prepar'd,
And therefore first disarm'd us of our Guard?
Or grudg'd they Albion her too wealthy Store?
Or snatch'd the Son t'endear the Mother more?

How does the Mother her lost Darling mourn,
So near his Day of Birth from her Embraces torn!

Sadly she thinks on her vain Childbed Throes,
With Pangs more lasting, and more sharp, than those;
She wishes oft to fill his happier Place,
And Death shews lovely in her Glo'ster's Face:
Thro' every Scene of Grief her Fancy flies,
His living Hopes, and then his dying Cries;
Cries dismal as were those, when Judgment swept
Egypt's First-born, by ev'ry Parent wept;
As those which to the Jews, by Foes distress'd,
Their Guardian Angel's last Farewel express'd.

O more by Sorrow now than Greatness known!
O thou who wert the Mother of a Son!
Precious like him Heav'n to the Patriarch gave,
Tho' no kind Angel interpos'd to save
Your only Isaac from his sudden Grave:
For his dear Loss behold the Nation griev'd,
If Sorrow be by Partnership reliev'd;
The Nation that your Sorrow too endures,
Or might endure her own, but cannot yours.

Then spare your Tears, and spare the Kingdom's too;
In Virtue first, excel in Courage now,
In Courage that the World may worthy own
Of Glo'ster's Mother, and your future Throne.

So may our Guardian Angel, that a while
Vouchsaf'd in Glo'ster's Shape to bless our Isle,

Tho' now to angry Heav'n return'd again,
(But Heav'n will still be kind since You remain)
So may that Genius, with a better Doom,
From you the Breath of mortal Life resume,
And by resembling this first heav'nly Boy
Beguile your Melancholy into Joy;
Such be his forward Wit, his beauteous Frame,
In all but his untimely End, the same:
And when (but late will be that fatal Hour,
The Years your Glo'ster lost, Heav'n will to you restore)
When, long by public Vows detain'd below,
To wishing Angels you at length shall go,
Let him the Throne adorn'd by you ascend,
And with just Pow'r the willing Isle defend;
Compose his Realm's Divisions, heal its Wounds,
Revive its Valour, and enlarge its Bounds;
Brave as his Father, make the World obey,
And gently rule it with his Mother's Sway:
A Prince like this to Britain's Hopes is due;
For Britain hopes fresh Miracles to view,
Remembring Glo'ster, and beholding You.

VERSES occasioned by the Solemnity of Mr. Dryden's Funeral.

See with what State proceeds this fun'ral Sight!
This farewel Blaze of Albion's fairest Light!
Now they relent, and pompously deplore
Him who in Death regards these Rites no more,
Than did themselves his needy Muse before.
Hail! universal Lord of truest Wit,
For ev'ry Theme, and ev'ry Language fit;
Source of fine Sense in rich Expression dress'd,
With Height of proper Thought, and heav'nly Numbers bless'd:
Whose able Genius thro' each happy Line
Does with full Strength and nameless Beauties shine;
While still with fresh Delight we read thee o'er,
A thousand Charms describe, and taste a thousand more.
Nor could ill Times subdue thy dauntless Rage,
Thy Merit Envy, nor thy Vigour Age:
Thy matchless Youth outvy'd proud Greece and Rome;
Thy Age has brought their noblest Prizes home;
Regal'd us with a Taste of Homer's Flame,
And made great Virgil ours, as thine his Fame.
Hail! and forgive these Praises uninspir'd
By the learn'd Nine, with thee their darling Son retir'd.

An Epitaph.

Still, like his Saviour, known by breaking Bread,
The Rich he entertain'd, the Needy fed;
Of Humour easy, and of Life unblam'd,
The Friend delighted, while the Priest reclaim'd.
The Friend, the Father, and the Husband gone;
The Priest still lives in this recording Stone;
Where pious Eyes may read his Praises o'er,
And learn each Grace his Pulpit taught before.

On the Resurrection.

Proof of his Goodness by his Death he gave;
To his own Laws for others Crimes a Slave;
Nor less his Pow'r, when, of himself releas'd,
The Man he rescu'd, and the God confess'd.
Thus therefore Death by his own Dart destroy'd,
He triumph'd in the Grave, and ev'n the Cross enjoy'd:
Reveng'd, to Ground, like Samson, did he go,
And in his proper Mansion crush the Foe.
The Fabric Samson shook, and fell beneath;
Here shakes the World at its Creator's Death:
Convulsions Earth, for his Reception, rend,
And Angels at his empty Tomb attend:
Thus to each Truth is Testimony giv'n;
Earth owns his Death; his Resurrection, Heav'n.

Ramillies,

an ODE. 1706.

I.

While, swell'd with Shouts from Belgia's crouded Shore,
Our Hero's parting Sails were spread,
The Coast of Albion to explore,
Where Bays and Blessings wait his honour'd Head,
Triton, emerging from below
The Waves, was heard his Shell to blow;
On Marlbro's Name his sounding Shell he try'd;
The Nereids listen'd, and the Rocks reply'd.

II.

What Titles, equal to her Guardian's Praise,
(The God began) should Europe's Care employ,
By Monuments of grateful Joy,
The Faith of Annals, and the Pomp of Lays,
To endless Ages handing down
The rescu'd World's Applause, the matchless Chief's Renown?

III.

For as of old these Floods, my native Sea,
(Such was the World's Offence, and Jove's Decree)
With Waters from the Depths above, combin'd
To scale the Mountains, and o'erwhelm Mankind:
But when by Fate's appointment from beneath
I rear'd my Head, and gave my Trumpet breath,

From Pole to Pole the saving Signal flew;
The Waves the Signal and their Limits knew,
And listless from their Prey, with murm'ring Ebbs withdrew.
No less the Gaul (his Barriers past)
Brav'd all above, and all below defac'd:
At length, with impotent Disdain
He ebbs, he shrinks within himself again;
For Marlbro's Trumpet sounds the warning Blast.
The sprightly Summons raise the Nations round;
These shake their Fetters off; and those their Sleep:
On Danube's Banks, the pow'rful Call I own'd,
To Danube's Banks I hear'd the Dile resound,
And hail'd his purple Tribute to the Deep.

IV.

Urg'd by Disgrace on Blenheim's Plain,
To tempt her froward Fate again,
Embattled France unsheath'd the Sword
Of Vengeance vow'd, and Strength restor'd:
Her banner'd Sons in long Succession past;
The Region wide and far
Grew less and less, and disappear'd at last
Beneath the spreading War:
As when black Clouds along the Sky
In thick Array and endless Series fly,
And angry Jove prepares to thunder from on high.

V.

His slighted Foes with eager ken descry'd,
They come! the Victims come! Bavaria cry'd;

Peace to the Shades of Blenheim's Slain! to Thee
The World, great Lewis! and Revenge to Me!
Revenge! his Souldiers shout around;
Bavaria! and Revenge! the vaulted Skies rebound.

VI.

Inflam'd by social Zeal, advance
The Houshold Veterans of France:
They long to strike the threaten'd Blow:
They run, they fly, to meet the Foe:
The Foe, by unresisted Might
O'erborn, but just refrain from Flight;
When, like unclouded Jove, serene
And dreadful, Britain's Chief was seen;
And thus Batavia's Sons bespoke,
In Rank and Spirit broke:

VII.

Joy to my Friends! You now pursue
A Conquest dearly bought, and worthy You:
You shrink, but shrink to turn again,
Like your own Banks insulted by the Main.
Hence, specious Doubts, and ill tim'd Care!
'Tis Death to pause, and Victory to dare:
Let Liberty and Fame edge every Sword,
Myself your Leader, and my Queen the Word.

VIII.

He spoke, and conquer'd; all around
They caught the last inspiring Sound:
Prevailing Foes beheld him from afar

Refulgent thro' the gloomy War,
And fled like Fiends before the Morning Star;
Like Fiends who revel thro' the conscious Night
On some wide Plain, by Cynthia's paler Light;
Till, warn'd to leave their now forbidden Play,
They sicken at the Signal of the Day,
And blast the Ground, and wing their swift unwilling Flight.

IX.

But, Honour's Race, like Time's, is still to run:
Heav'n, and its kindred Souls, alike are found
To roll unweary'd in an endless Round
Of glorious Labours ever but begun.
In vain abandon'd Towns, a wealthy Prey,
Receive the Victor's Laws, and tempt his Stay:
Fresh Terrors for his Foes he still prepares,
And deems not Capua his, while Rome is theirs:
He drives his Thunder on their fasten'd Gates,
Asserting Anna's Pow'r, and Cæsar's Claim
Thro' rescu'd Cities, and thro' willing States;
And speeds his steady Course to never-dying Fame.

X.

As when, from Piles of Emperors deceas'd,
The sacred Bird of Jove releas'd,
Swift as his Charge, the Lightning, soars on high,
While Clouds of melting Spices scent the Sky;
So sudden, so sublime, from William's Tomb
Adoring Europe view'd her Marlbro' rise
To fair Renown of durable Perfume,

From guiltless Spoils and saving Victories.
O sure reserve of Europe's kinder Fate!
The Light and Prop of Albion's rising State!
Still present to his native Land,
As Camps or Councils in their turn demand
The deep-designing Head, or executing Hand;
His Pleasure, Virtue; Change of toil, his Ease;
His Glory, War; and his Ambition, Peace.

XI.

And lo! the Goddess crown'd with Olive near;
(Io Victoria! urge thy great Career)
This Hand she stretches to bestow,
Weav'd for the Hero's smoother Brow,
Her humble Wreath; in That behold
A Goblet, rough with Spanish Gold:
To Marlbro's Health and Fame the Bowl goes round,
With Gallia's tributary Vintage crown'd.

XII.

As Vapours, deep within her pent,
Assault the rending Earth for sudden Vent,
And Mountains sunk the frighted World surprise,
And antient Streams, once lost, are seen again to rise;
So start we from our peaceful trance,
With like Convulsions of aspiring France;
And Empire, rescu'd from its Bourbon Course,
Prepares in Austrian Depths to grace its genuine Source.

XIII.

Auspicious Charles, to destin'd Sway proceed:
Rough is the scanty Path; but Anne and Justice lead:
Let Barcelona, sav'd with thee, declare
The God-like Pow'r which propp'd a sinking State;
And reverence thou thy Mother's Guardian Care,
That watch'd the moment of her Son's despair;
Snatch'd her adopted Pledge, and mock'd the jaws of Fate.

XIV.

Think on the day when bleeding Orleans fled;
Which on devoted Savoy's Head,
For hardy Perseverance known,
Bestow'd a Laurel, and replac'd a Crown:
For ancient Po, advanc'd on high
To bathe the Gods, and grace the Sky,
Beheld with blood the Dile and Danube stain'd,
And, envious of their Lot, his own disdain'd;
Till (as the Hero's Patron Queen requir'd)
At length the mighty Eugene came,
By odds undaunted, and by toils untir'd,
And fix'd his wond'ring Stream, the third in martial Fame.

XV.

So may that Stream, unmix'd with Alpine snow,
Or human gore, for peaceful Ages flow,
As Italy, restor'd, with grateful Lays
Shall teach his echoing banks to dwell on Anna's praise:
Alike from Anna's Bounty claim
The Nations, Freedom, and the Warriors, Fame:

To conquering Chiefs she deals her high commands
With watchful Eyes, and giving Hands;
Her Influence each in wise proportion shares;
Her Influence They confess, as Europe theirs.

XVI.

So Planets round the World's great eye, the Sun,
With various speed at various distance run;
Their Centre he, with native lustre bright,
Adjusts the motion, and supplies the light;
They frown malignant, or in trine advance
In friendly measures of their mystic dance;
On Sceptres rais'd aloft, or hurl'd as low,
Their borrow'd rays with Sov'reign influence flow,
Adorn the Heav'ns above, and rule the World below.

A Fragment.

[I watch'd her looks, and fondly would incline]

I watch'd her looks, and fondly would incline
Each doubtful glance and smile to construe mine;
Or on her Cheeks, in vain turn'd quick aside,
The glowing marks of kind confusion spy'd:
But she, unwounded, plays with Cupid's dart,
And does, with sweetness undesign'd, impart
Unwary hopes to each deluded Heart:
While mine, her seeming kindness ruins more,
Than Charms I durst but wonder at before.

Epigram.

[Boys, and their Grandsires, are by prating known]

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

Boys, and their Grandsires, are by prating known;
They tell a Tale of Troy; and These, their own.

Ex tempore; on Sight of a Dance.

How ill the Motion with the Music suits!
So once play'd Orpheus; but so danc'd the Brutes.

This Epigram has by mistake been ascribed to Mr. Ambrose Philips.

Epigram.

[By Land and Sea, the haughty French o'erthrown]

By Land and Sea, the haughty French o'erthrown,
Accuse not Fortune's spite, but vent their own;
And still some hapless Leader bears the blame
Of sinking Empire, and of ruin'd Fame:
The Soldiers fought; but Tallard's Conduct fail'd;
And Thesse's Pride o'er Pointy's Care prevail'd.
Tax not the guiltless, Lewis; nor deplore
The Gallic Heads and Hands as now no more.
Thy Heads, thy Hands, perhaps, may equal ours;
But Anna's stronger Genius thine o'erpow'rs:
Nor Force, nor Policy, can shield thee now,
Since Justice gives the Sword, and She the Blow.

On Blenheim-House.

Here, glorious Marlbro', for thy Wars receive,
Not as they merit, but as Love can give,
Thy Country's Love, by solemn Acts declar'd,
Proud to acknowlege, hopeless to reward.
Hail! Blenheim's lofty tow'rs, and calm retreat!
Hail! like thy Owner's Soul, retir'd, and great!
Nor shall his hand, disarm'd by peace, refuse
In thy soft shades his softer hours to lose;
To prune the vine, or prop the drooping flow'r,
The hand that rais'd and humbled Kings before.
The Daughters, here, shall glad the Father's Heart,
And grace the Hero's toils with pious art;
While, in each room magnificently wrought
With curious needles, and with happy thought,
Their tender hands his victories display;
A Race as num'rous, and as fair, as they.

Song.

[In vain do friends and wine remove]

In vain do friends and wine remove
What I again must worse endure,
Relapsing still into a Love
Which reason blames, but cannot cure.

Reason might once relief have brought;
But nurs'd the pleasing Infant pain;
And now, by late experience taught,
Resists the bitter growth in vain.

What tho' I shun to see her eyes?
I feel them at my aking heart:
The wounded Deer the Huntsman flies;
But can he from himself depart?

Another.

[Bless'd be the sweetly shining Eyes]

Bless'd be the sweetly shining Eyes,
Where smiling love with beauty lies,
As innocent, as fair;
Whose matchless charms, untaught by art,
Have freed a long deluded heart
From false Corisca's Snare!

Preserv'd from Her, to fall by You,
With pleasure I my fate pursue,
With pride embrace my chain:
Should you your faithful slave deny,
He may lament, despair, and die;
But never can complain.

So fares the Wolf's intended Prey,
The trembling Lamb, when snatch'd away

From mean, ignoble death;
And, doom'd to bleed at Beauty's shrine,
An Off'ring to the Pow'r divine,
Resigns his willing breath.

On the Death of Parthenia.

[Parthenia, list'ning to her Lover's moan]

Parthenia , list'ning to her Lover's moan,
Could slight no pain, no anguish, but her own:
How early was the call! How rude the blow!
How soft the bosom! yet how calm the brow!
As in the Still dissolving Roses sweat,
Consum'd in silence by the glowing heat;
So noiseless she her gentle Soul resign'd,
And left a Name of sweeter scent behind.
No longer then that gallant Spirit mourn,
From the poor, lovely, tender Body torn:
Heav'n match'd her patience, and her face, to prove
How Martyrs suffer here, and shine above.

An ODE from Sappho, English'd.

Happy Man, the Gods excelling,
He, who close by you appears!
He who, on your Graces dwelling,
Drinks them deep at eyes and ears!

When your Words, in Music flowing,
Silent Ecstasy impart;
When your Smiles, divinely glowing,
Fire the dancing, ravish'd Heart.

In a Moment, thro' your Lover,
Warm, the soft Infection flies;
My Tongue trips, I shake all over,
Ring my Ears, and swim my Eyes.

Cold Sweat trickles; Speech forsakes me;
Blood and Sense at once retire;
Gentle Faintness overtakes me:
Now—I pant! O! now expire.

A Song.

[Loud was the wind, and rough the main]

Loud was the wind, and rough the main;
But life was past my care:
I thought of absence and disdain;
And felt no storm, but there.

The seas their wonders might reveal;
But Chloe's eyes have more:
Nor all the treasure they conceal,
Can equal mine on shore.

From native Britain's temp'rate coast
Remove me farther yet,
To shiver in eternal frost,
Or melt with India's heat;

Her image shall my days beguile,
And still my dream shall be
The tuneful voice, and tender smile,
Tho' ne'er vouchsaf'd to me.

The Beginning of Lucan, Book 8. English'd.

A narrow pass to shady Tempe leads,
And thro' it his Retreat the Chieftain speeds;
He spurs his harass'd Courser o'er the Plain,
The Windings of th' Hæmonian wood to gain,
And leave a doubtful track along the maze
Of various paths, and interfering ways.
The rustling boughs, that bend with ev'ry blast,
Awake his terror, and augment his haste:
Each following friend appears a following foe;
He starts, and shrinks, to shun the threaten'd blow:
Tho' fallen from the height where once he stood,
He knows the value still of Pompey's blood;
And deems the purchase of His head the same
As Cæsar's in exchange from him might claim.

In vain he tries that well-known Face to hide
In gloomy vales, and solitudes untry'd:
Friends, on the road to join his camp, as yet
Untold the tidings of his late defeat,
Their ruin'd Lord with dumb amazement meet.
A Turn so strange, so violent, and short,
Can scarce gain credit from his own report.
How hard a fate the Warrior's fall attends!
Avoiding Foes; but most avoiding Friends:
He would have chose the safer way, unknown,
To wander thro' the World, no more his own;
But Fortune, long propitious to his Name,
By past renown, enhances present shame,
And sinks him lower, with the weight of Fame:
Embitter'd by comparison, agree
Her diff'ring Lots to heighten Misery.
His Honours, early ripe, disgrace him now;
He hates the Laurels that adorn'd his Brow
In bloom of glorious Youth, the Pirates war,
And Pontus chain'd to his triumphal Car.
'Tis thus, when life beyond dominion stays:
The curse of mighty Minds is length of days.
Unless kind death o'ertakes his waning state,
In time preventing the reverse of fate;
Who would on Fortune's treach'rous smiles rely,
Or dare be happy, if he dare not die?

He reach'd the Shore, where Peneus, with the stain
Of Roman blood ran purple to the Main,
And shar'd the carnage of Pharsalia's plain.
Thence in a boat, for inland streams design'd,
And far unequal to the tide and wind,
The Pirate's scourge by stealth is wafted o'er;
Much of the sea afraid, of Cæsar more.
For Lesbos, with a Lover's haste, he ply'd;
For Lesbos, the retreat that hid his Bride
From War's alarms: but more afflicted there,
Than if Pharsalia's field had pierc'd the Fair,
With dying groans: in fansy'd fight engag'd,
Her heavy heart the dire event presag'd.
And as she lay, with anxious dreams oppress'd,
The trembling bed her agonies confess'd:
Thessalia haunts her each returning night;
And, still as day renews the chearless light,
She runs to reach the land's remotest bound;
And climbs the steepy cliff, to gaze around:
Her watchful eyes are still the first to hail
The distant prospect of each bending sail:
But then, what fate attends her Soul's desire,
She fears to know, and dares not once inquire.
Behold! a ship for Lesbos bound! at first
Her freight is dubious; but expect the worst:
The messenger of fate you know too well;
For Pompey comes his own sad tale to tell.

Why is the time, to sorrow due, mis-spent?
You only fear what you may now lament.
The Vessel just at hand she flew to meet,
And saw the malice of her fate complete:
Her Husband ghastly pale; the robes he wore
Were black with dust; his grisly locks hung o'er
His Face uncomb'd: by sorrow and surprize
The light was ravish'd from Cornelia's eyes.
The blood forsook her face; her limbs beneath
The weight of woe dissolv'd; she heav'd for breath,
And welcom'd, as she thought, the stroke of death;
When, issuing from his anchor'd Bark, to Land,
Came Pompey, traversing the lonely strand
Hush'd by his near approach, no longer dare
Her faithful Maids to utter their despair,
And vainly strive the fainting Dame to rear:
But Pompey strain'd her in a warm Embrace,
And soon the kindling blood renew'd its race;
She felt his hands, and now could bear his face:
When thus, in scorn of fate, the Godlike Chief
Reprov'd the licence of unbounded grief:
Let no mischance that glorious Spirit tame;
But rival all your Ancestors in fame:
Let laws or arms the Mens ambition raise;
A wretched Husband is your Sex's praise:
Have courage then! regard my low estate
With Nuptial constancy, and combat Fate:

And thus, for losing All, thy Lord shall be
Abandon'd by the World, endear'd to Thee:
Of pow'r and pomp by fickle chance bereft,
By kings deserted, and by senates left,
I make the glory yours; and yours alone,
To follow him whom all besides disown.
A loyal Wife before her Lord's decease
Should feel no grief; or none above encrease:
If wo must triumph o'er a soul so brave,
Reserve its last distress for Pompey's grave:
No damage you from my defeat derive;
Mine is the loss; yet I that loss survive.
'Tis true, my better fortune is no more;
On that you doated, if you that deplore.
The well-known voice alarms the Dame: with pain
Her feeble knees their wonted weight sustain;
And as with melting eyes her Lord she view'd,
A mixture of Laments and groans ensu'd.
Ah! wretched me! my Husband's bane, she cry'd;
And twice the public curse, as twice a Bride!
O! had I been for Cæsar's bed decreed,
Then I had prov'd the Tyrant's foe indeed.
Me dire Erynnis to thy arms convey'd,
And join'd to blast me with my Crassus' Shade,
Whose loss on Parthian plains, deriv'd from me,
Has been the prelude of a worse to thee;
For Rome, and freedom, when their cause was mine,
Could find no friends among the Powers divine.

O! my lov'd Lord! O virtue ill repay'd!
O! Pompey to Cornelia's bed betray'd!
Could glory to so high a pitch advance?
And falls it thus, the game of giddy chance?
How dearly now my impious love I rue;
Since wedding me was wedding ruin too!
Take then my life in vengeance of th' offence;
A slender, but a willing recompence.
I rather would have dy'd, to save my Lord,
A victim to his yet victorious sword:
The blow, struck then, had barr'd th' impending fate;
Nor would be yet for punishment too late.
Come, Julia! come; whatever distant place
Beholds thee triumph in thy Lord's disgrace,
Let my devoted head thy rage atone,
And spare my Pompey then; or spare thy own.
She spoke; and, sinking on his breast again,
To kind compassion mov'd the weeping Train:
The Hero's soul the tender sorrow shar'd;
And Lesbos drew the tears Thessalia spar'd.

Part of Lucan, Book IX. English'd.

To learn their destinies of Ammon, wait
His Eastern Pilgrims at the Temple gate;
But leave the passage free for Cato, press'd
By his own Train to enter with the rest;

Consult a God renown'd thro' Libya's clime,
And try Tradition vouch'd by length of time:
But Labienus urg'd th' inquiry most;
Our wand'ring way in sandy Desarts lost,
And chance, he cry'd (if only chance it be)
Have led us to a present Deity:
With glad devotion seize the proffer'd hour,
And beg the counsel of Almighty pow'r:
Behold our Guide, ev'n him who shakes the sky,
Thro' sands, and wilds, and dark Futurity:
For heav'n would chuse to make its Secrets known
To holy Cato, sure; to him, or none.
Squar'd by the strict celestial rule of Right,
Your Life has ever kept the God in sight;
But, would you hold a conference with Jove?
'Tis granted now. replenish from above
Your mind with sacred truths; and learn the doom
Of impious Cæsar, and unhappy Rome:
Inquire if Freedom shall once more engage
Heav'n's gracious aid, or fall by civil rage.
You, who have lov'd a Virtue so severe,
Ask what she is, and fix true Honour here.
Inspir'd by Jove, who fill'd his secret mind,
The Hero answer'd like the God enshrin'd.
For what, my Friend, must Ammon be explor'd?
Can Cato question, while he wields a Sword,
To perish rather free, than own a Lord?

If life be Nothing, since in death it ends?
And glory more than years the span extends?
If e'er the Just by violence are hurt?
Or Fortune's malice be but Virtue's sport?
If Merit in the brave endeavour lies,
Untaught by blind events to fall or rise?
All this we know; and truths, so rooted here,
Require no Jupiter to make them clear.
Of God's eternal mind the human soul
A portion, links us to th' Almighty whole.
What should we then inquire? or why dispute?
His will controuls us, tho' his voice be mute.
He chose the hour of birth at once to show
Whatever Mortals are indulg'd to know;
And nature, shining with congenial light,
Shall never cease to guide her followers right.
Nor are his truths to barren sands confin'd,
And whisper'd to a part of human kind.
Has he a seat? 'tis earth, and sea, and air,
And heav'n, and virtue: with prepost'rous care
We seek the God retir'd, when all may find him there.
Believe me, Friend, 'tis omnipresent Jove
Whate'er you see, and wheresoe'er you move.
Let dreaming Slaves repair to Shrines, while I
Consult that Oracle, Mortality.
Death, sure to come, can never come amiss:
This Cato says; and Jove need say but this.
He spoke; and turning short, pursued his road,
And left the senseless Croud to sound the God.

The Sixteenth of May.

Elisa , sweeter than the Rose,
On which the May its dews bestows;
Elisa, brighter than the Morn,
Whose orient beams the May adorn;
Elisa claims my song to-day,
The Daughter and the Queen of May.

The feather'd Quire from every tree
Salute the Fair, and sing with me:
Well may they sing, and well prefer
The Month that gave the World and Her:
The World and She began in May;
A tedious World, were She away.

But oh! ye wings of fleeting time,
Be tender of her glorious Prime:
Late may her eyes their fire resign!
Still give us death, so still they shine:
And let her reign, without decay,
The Queen of Beauty, and of May.

Epigram.

[Torment not him you mean to bless]

Torment not him you mean to bless,
By too severe a tryal;
In Others never mock Distress,
But gild the Pill, Denial.
If rude, be kind: if cruel, civil;
For rude and cruel are the Devil.

Horace, Book II. Ode 5. English'd.

Nondum subacta, &c.

Not yet subdu'd to draw in pairs,
But starting at the name of Bride,
Aloft her tender neck she bears,
Reluctant to the yoke untry'd;
And, wild with unexperienc'd fear,
The Heyfar shrinks beneath the Steer.

Behold the frisking Wanton spend
In verdant fields the thoughtless day;
The Younglings of her Kind attend
With harmless court, and childish play;
While purling streams, with osyers crown'd,
Quench all the heat she e'er has found.

Fond of the Grape's unmellow'd juice
Thy sickly appetite confine;
For Autumn suns shall soon produce
The purple Harvest of the Vine;
And growing years her bloom display,
The years that hasten thy decay.

The wanton frown of Lalage
Shall court thee then to riper joy;
Not Chloris so belov'd as she,
Nor Pholoe so bewitching coy:
Her swelling bosom's spacious White
Like silver seas by Cynthia's light.

So fair, so shining in disguise
Would Gyges grace the Virgin Quire;
Would charm and cheat the sharpest eyes,
A Maid in features and attire;
With that ambiguous look, and air,
With female down, and flowing hair.

Horace, Book II. Ode 9. Imitated.

Non semper imbres, &c.

Tho' tempests long may toss the sea,
And winter make Armenia mourn;
Yet all its snow will melt away,
When Zephir's genial gales return;

When birds and flow'rs the sullen year restore;
It sighs in winds, and weeps in rain, no more.

But you, eternal mourner, you,
Amintor gone where all must go,
With ever-streaming eyes pursue,
Dwell on his grave, and doat on wo;
Amintor is by day the darling theme;
And dear Amintor still the nightly dream.

Yet Mordant dries his tears at last,
Tho' robb'd of all his soul's desire,
Ere twelve revolving moons were past,
The Husband once, and twice the Sire:
His fam'd Valentia's doom in his we trace,
A stroke as signal in as short a space.

Of matchless Blandford's early fate
The Parents now no more complain;
The Sisters, sunk beneath the weight
Of pious sorrow, shine again,
Bright as the moon reflected by the tide,
Or you, Clemene, ere your Brother dy'd.

Then mourn no longer, heav'nly Maid,
Amyntor snatch'd in nature's prime;
Must Beauty too, by grief decay'd,
Be lost, like him, before the time?
Think on those eyes, and then their tears refrain;
Or must Philander always sue in vain?

On Jealousy.

Beauty was constant Love's reward;
Virtue, his Friend, was Beauty's guard;
No Friend, no Guard, so sure as she,
Till, wrong'd by Love-born Jealousy,
She fled, and to the Monster's care
Resign'd the charge he scorn'd to share:
The Monster, with a hundred eyes,
Was watchful to prevent surprize;
But Beauty bid them close again;
For, Virtue gone, they wak'd in vain;
And Love, undone by what he nurs'd,
His false, unlucky Offspring curs'd:
Virtue, my Friend! too late he cry'd:
He rav'd, he languish'd, and he dy'd.

Song.

[If there be]

If there be
Joy for me,
More than that of roving,
'Tis a Wife
During life,
Dearly lov'd, and loving.

Glorious prize,
Would she rise!
To this one endeavour,
Luck, be true;
Then adieu
Lotteries for ever.

Epigram.

[Tempt but the Fair with pieces ten]

Tempt but the Fair with pieces ten;
If naughty, she'll consent t'ye;
But is she chaste? excuse her then,
She yields not under twenty.

From Ausonius.

Hæc Rufi tabula est, nil verius; ipse ubi Rufus?
In cathedrâ; quid agit? hoc quod et in tabulâ.

[_]

Applied to Forster, and the Sign of the Prancing Horse, in Dublin.

Behold this Figure idly prancing,
Yet not an inch of ground advancing;
'Tis Forster; 'tis exactly He,
This emblem of tautology:
'Tis He, in senate, and at bar;
For how does Forster argue there?
Why, in a circle, dances round it,
And drops the question where he found it.

To Serena.

Why should these eyes, which envy's self must praise,
Where Cupids dance, and I could ever gaze,
In nightly watchings waste their heav'nly rays?
Till all their Rival lights, that gild the sky,
With paler beams confess the morning nigh;
While sleep, from your unpity'd Lover fled,
Waits on their lids his balmy dews to shed;
And pleasing dreams stand ready, to display
Their conquests gain'd on each triumphant day.

When envious Spies to needful rest retire,
In that still hour propitious to desire,
You lonely reading bear the damps of night,
Broke feebly by your watchful taper's light:
O! would your pity place the Signal there,
To light your slave to his relenting Fair;
Like Hero's torch the constant Lamp should prove
Guide of my way, and emblem of my love.
But cares less soft your soaring thoughts pursue,
And follow knowledge, as I follow you:
By ardent thirst of endless science led,
The paths of learn'd Antiquity you tread,
And slight the dying, to caress the dead.

'Tis true, a mind like yours, completely wrought,
With native sense and modest goodness fraught,

Above your Sex's narrow views may rise,
And, being humble, venture to be wise:
Alike the Critic Lady's airs you hate,
Her learned pride, and Philosophic prate,
And theirs whose modish malice sparing none,
By scandal would for ignorance atone;
Who count their unread volumes in a row,
Bought, like their Watches, less for use than show.

But why should Satire interpose, to raise
Fidelio's passion, or Serena's praise?
So fierce my flame, its object You so bright;
No fewel needs the fire, nor shade the light.

Our Province, Learning, well deserves your care,
More graceful still, like Virtue in the Fair;
When turn'd upon ourselves, our boasted arms
Assist the conquest of your softer charms.

Would wisdom with success her lights impart,
And, to convince the reason, gain the heart,
Lodg'd in your purer clay, her power she'd try,
And suit the Temple to the Deity;
In your bright form the gazing world surprize,
Flow from your lips, and sparkle in your eyes;
While you unfold the treasures of your breast,
Fruits of the silent hours you steal from rest;
Your easy sense in tuneful speech convey,
Read half the night, and charm us all the day.

So some fair River to our longing sight
By turns is lost, by turns salutes the light;
And here immers'd in earth, the God explores
Her wealthy bowels, and her secret stores;
And there arising from beneath the ground,
With fruitful moisture glads the vales around;
Serene and pure the silver waters glide,
And deal their kindly wealth on either side:
Their lulling murmurs sooth the Lover's care,
And Beauty smiles to view her image there.

But, whether, taught by History, you climb
The glorious steep ascent of antient time,
Where Rome above her conquer'd world is known,
Plac'd in a fairer light of virtues, like your own;
Or should you in Romance the suff'rings mourn
Of some feign'd Lover, while the true you scorn;
If the soft Muse your softer thoughts engage,
To view your Sex's triumphs on the stage;
Where Masinissa, the dear boon deny'd,
Disdains a crown, to perish with his Bride;
Where Cleopatra the lost world supplies;
Where Borgia raves, and poor Varanes dies;
Be kind, Serena; tell the Fav'rite name,
Elected Yours from all the Sons of Fame.
As you can kill, so could you but revive,
Whom would you chuse again for You to live?

Say where he shines on Honour's summit high?
His steps I'll follow, and his heights I'll try;
Love that inspires the thought, shall lend the wings to fly.
If Cymon to humanity could rise,
And light his soul at Iphigenia's eyes,
Why should not I, improv'd alike, proclaim
As fair a Nymph, and as divine a flame?

But, oh! in vain I beg the blissful grant,
Whom Study rivals, and whom books supplant.
Would that were all! but, to yourself unkind,
You waste your spirits to enrich your mind.
Then, dear Serena, timely warn'd, withhold
A soul too active for so fine a mold;
Pursue your game, but of your speed abate;
Lest death on knowledge, as of old, should wait:
Or should a toil, too rugged for the Fair,
Preventing age, your tender charms impair,
Think, quickly think, how dear would be the boast
Of tedious wisdom, purchas'd at the cost
Of love neglected, and of beauty lost.
So when Apollo gave his Daphne chace,
And the coy Nymph declin'd his loath'd embrace,
In rough, uneven, pathless ways she trod,
Deaf to the prayer of the pursuing God;
By flints and thorns her tender body bled;
Her strength forsook her, and her colour fled;
Chang'd in her form, the Laurel wreath she bore;
But own'd the Lily and the Rose no more.

Epigram.

[By rising winds the Gallic navy torn]

By rising winds the Gallic navy torn,
Lose their vain hopes, and threaten'd ruin mourn;
But when a fiercer storm in Lake appear'd,
They bless'd the tempest which before they fear'd.
To raging winds their canvas they display,
And court the shelter of a stormy sea;
With better fate than once Britannia try'd,
When one night's wreck strew'd all the guilty tide.
But thus the ruling Demons of the air
Combine with France, to wage infernal war:
On equal terms despairing to oppose
The glorious cause which Heav'n and Anne have chose;
With storms they combat Us, and save our flying Foes.

Song.

[She comes, the Saint to whom I bow]

She comes, the Saint to whom I bow,
And either Sex alarms;
Where are your hearts, ye Heroes, now?
Ye Beauties, where your charms?

Undone Philander to adore
This all-subduing Fair!
Well mayst thou love; but hope no more,
Where thousands must despair.

In uncorrupted Nature's prime
Thy passion had been bless'd,
Ere humble vows became a crime,
And constancy a jest.

But now, by wealth secure to move,
Gay Damon strikes her eyes;
Philander runs the race of love,
But Damon wins the prize.

Ah! charming Beauty! heavenly Bloom!
How quickly are they lost!
How cheaply sold! the common doom
Of what we value most.

Gold for his toys and homely ware
The Merchant sees return'd;
Gold is the toy that buys the Fair,
While love and truth are scorn'd.

From Catullus.

Miser Catulle, &c.

Ah! poor Catullus, Love's last game give o'er;
Trust but thy eyes, and dream of Her no more!
Once I was bless'd; the Sun serenely shin'd;
Gay were his beams, for Lesbia once was kind.

Then still I follow'd where my Lesbia mov'd;
So lov'd by me as none shall e'er be lov'd:
Each day was ours, and each improv'd our joy;
So fond was I, nor was my Lesbia coy.
Oh! truly bless'd! but now the Sun that shin'd,
Is lost in clouds; for Lesbia grows unkind:
Then cease in vain to follow those who fly;
But, wouldst thou cease to love, die, poor Catullus, die!

To Mr. Addison, on his Tragedy of Cato.

1713.

Now we may speak, since Cato speaks no more;
'Tis praise at length! 'twas rapture all before!
When crouded Theatres with Io's rung,
Sent to the Skies from whence thy Genius sprung:
Ev'n civil rage a while in thine was lost,
And Factions strove but to applaud thee most:
Nor could enjoyment pall our longing taste,
But every night was dearer than the last.

As when old Rome, in a malignant hour,
Depriv'd of some returning Conqueror,
Her debt of Triumph to the Dead discharg'd,
For Fame, for Treasure, and her Bounds enlarg'd;

And, while his Godlike Figure mov'd along,
Alternate Passions fir'd th' adoring Throng,
Tears flow'd from every eye, and shouts from every tongue.
So in Thy pompous Lines has Cato far'd,
Grac'd with an ample, though a late, Reward;
A greater Victor we in Him revere,
A nobler Triumph crowns his Image here.

With wonder, as with pleasure, we survey
A theme so scanty wrought into a Play;
So vast a Pile on such foundations plac'd,
Like Ammon's temple rear'd on Libya's Waste.
Behold its glowing paint! its easy weight!
Its nice proportions! and stupendous height!
How chaste the conduct! how divine the rage!
A Roman Worthy on a Grecian Stage!

But where shall Cato's praise begin, or end?
Inclin'd to melt, and yet untaught to bend;
The firmest Patriot, and the gentlest Friend?
How great his Genius, when the Traitor Croud,
Ready to strike the blow their fury vow'd,
Quell'd by his look, and list'ning to his lore,
Learn, like his Passions, to rebel no more!
When, lavish of his boiling blood, to prove
The cure of slavish Life, and slighted Love,
Brave Marcus new in early death appears,
While Cato counts his wounds, and not his years;

Who, checking private grief, the Public mourns,
Commands the Pity he so greatly scorns:
But when he strikes (to crown his gen'rous part)
That honest, staunch, impracticable Heart,
No tears, no sobs, pursue his parting breath;
The dying Roman shames the pomp of Death.

O sacred Freedom! which the Powers bestow.
To season Blessings, and to soften Woe,
Plant of our growth, and aim of all our cares,
The toil of ages, and the crown of wars!
If, taught by thee, thy Poet's wit has flow'd
In strains as precious as his Hero's blood;
Preserve those strains an everlasting charm,
To keep that blood, and Thy remembrance, warm;
Be this thy Guardian Image still secure;
In vain shall force invade, or fraud allure:
Our great Palladium shall perform its part,
Fix'd and inshrin'd in every British heart.

Riddle.

When Windsor, for eternity design'd,
In height and grandeur match'd her Founder's mind;
Work of some Demigod; the sacred seat
Of Edward's Order, and of Anne's retreat;

Safe in my aid, she bad her towers sublime
Divide the clouds, and stand the shock of time.
The Globe to Chaos would return again,
Without the constant Guest I entertain;
Who, forc'd from my embraces, quickly dies,
But kills with irresistible surprize
From Slingsby's, Warburton's, and Verney's eyes.
Nor let the Fair my uncouth Form deride;
Mine are the hearts, which none can move beside.
When Love and Rime distract Philander's head,
Or ghastly Phantoms haunt the Sick in bed,
My aid, to ease their labouring souls, they want,
Which slow and listless, Statesman like, I grant.
A portion I in every Region claim;
But Wales beyond the rest exalts my name.
On Mountains inaccessible I reign;
Or move to battle on the dusty Plain,
Where front to front the charging Squadrons stand,
And fate and death attend my dread command:
The loftiest heads must bow when Me they meet;
Yet scorn not I to kiss the Beggar's feet:
The Christian, by my pattern taught, bestows
For evil good, and benefits for blows.

Song.

[Ye lips, my theme of endless praise]

Ye lips, my theme of endless praise,
Soft as the velvet that arrays
Her slender waist, adieu;
Heaven's finest work, and purest mold,
Like opening Roses to behold,
And hung with sweeter dew.

Oh! could I taste the Nectar there,
And after live, 'twould heal the care
Her darting eyes have given;
As Persians on the barren Plain
Scorch'd by their Sun, ador'd in vain,
Are chear'd by showers from Heaven.

An ODE, on the Death of Charles XII. King of Sweden.

I

O! ever honour'd, and deplor'd!
Whether in Northern skies ador'd,
Thy new-born Star extends the glitt'ring Wain;
Or near the Balance points Astræa's sword,
To scatter Her's and Sweden's foes again.

II

Which of thy kindred Lights, ingrate
To Thee! their common care so late,
Was licens'd here its baleful rays to shed,
Devoting to the treachery of fate,
And random ruin, thy anointed head?

III

What, though thy naked Valour sought
Renown, with endless hazards bought;
The fabled armour forg'd by hands divine,
And to her Darling son by Venus brought,
Was but a Spirit, and a Cause, like thine.

IV

O! stain to Virtue, on the throne
So rarely found, so early gone!
O fatal end of all thy glorious toil!
And wert thou thus decreed, and thus alone
To take possession of the hostile soil?

V

Not so the trembling Dane presag'd;
And other hopes thy Youth engag'd,
By wonders sav'd, by victories adorn'd;
Thy Maiden war with hardy Saxons wag'd;
And thy true sword by vanquish'd Russia mourn'd.

VI

Did Death for This reprieve its Prey,
On black Pultowa's fatal day?
Then angry Billows cross'd thy dangerous flight;
But persevering Courage found the way
To lose with honour, and invade with right.

VII

The Vessel with its Royal freight
Of Virtues, by uncommon fate,
From Patriots, Heroes, Martyrs, Saints, deriv'd,
Had brav'd the swelling Main's tumultuous height,
And the loud war of wintry winds surviv'd:

VIII

When sudden, lo! it finds a grave,
(Near tho' the port, and smooth the wave)
Sunk in the faithless sands by Fortune's play;
Pleas'd as she was to dash the hopes she gave,
And throw repeated Miracles away.

IX

But, Sweden! Thou with pious art
Embalm the Warrior's mortal part,
The Guardian Relics of the Great and Just;
And may the Genius that inflam'd his Heart,
Attend his tomb, and signalize his Dust.

X

Then, if thy sorrows cannot yet
The Watchman of his Flock forget,
And Vengeance must prevail, tho' long withstood;
This Sun of Glory in a Sea shall set,
A Sea of Danish and of German blood.

Song.

[In the dead of silent night]

In the dead of silent night
Sad Philander weeping lay,
When a Form, divinely bright,
Entring, thus was heard to say;

Wit, and bloom, and beauty, laid
In the dust, lament no more;
Look aloft on Delia's Shade,
Wasted to the blissful shore.

Angels, her Companions there,
Watch'd the hour when hence she flew;
Angels, gazing on the Fair,
Sing like Her, and love like You.

Another.

[By nature form'd to conquer hearts]

By nature form'd to conquer hearts,
Two charming Maids are join'd
To furnish Love with flames and darts,
And captivate Mankind.

And if, by turns to either just,
From Fair to Fair we range,
Let none our constancy distrust,
And tax our Hearts with change.

The Swain whom Cœlia's Beauty moves,
Is to Lucinda true;
And he who fair Lucinda loves,
Must love her Cœlia too.

The Secret in their Union lies,
And sure, in Theirs alone;
Two they appear to vulgar eyes,
But Friendship makes them One.

ODE.

['Tis pity, Child, thy eyes are gone]

I

'Tis pity, Child, thy eyes are gone;
(To Cupid thus his Mother cry'd)
But, since they are, let Me alone,
To charm thy ears with Beauty's pride:

II

For Sylvia light the lasting flame,
And bend thy bow, and wave thy wing;
For Sylvia, all, Desire can name,
Or Vision paint, or Poets sing.

III

Wit, humour, beauty, shape, and air,
To finish Sylvia, all agree;
Without disdain the Nymph is fair,
With Youth discreet, with Virtue free.

IV

Now, Cupid, mark my strict command,
To Thee the Darling I deliver;
On ev'ry Feature take thy stand;
From ev'ry Grace supply thy Quiver.

V

Let none who look, escape a Dart;
The soft, or rugged, young, or old;
'Tis Hers to tame the savage heart,
O'er-awe the proud, and fire the cold.

VI

And when the Slaves to Tyrant Love
By thousands on thy Altar die;
Name, if thou canst, but One, to prove
Thy pow'r deserves with mine to vie.

VII

One, whose distinguish'd Love my claim
To be with Sylvia's charms compar'd,
Display its Object by its flame,
And fairly hope the bright reward.

VIII

Hope? (answer'd Cupid) Mother—No:
Each vulgar fire on that may feed:
The Victim You demand, must know
Still to despair, and still to bleed.

IX

Let Damon speak my pow'r divine,
Who keeps his passion still unseen;

Nor stay'd till Sylvia grew to shine
In all the glory of fifteen.

X

Already there your Cupid's best
Is done, the force of Love to try;
When first the Charmer fir'd his breast,
She was a Child, as well as I.

XI

Untaught to catch the soft disease
From those whom riper Age prefers,
He wonder'd Infancy should please;
But, oh! that Infancy was Hers.

XII

A Beauty of celestial kind
His fancy form'd, when first she chear'd
The Lover's view, so bright she shin'd,
So soon the Vision disappear'd.

XIII

Yet still, by fits, now here, now there,
To heighten pleasure with surprize,
She chanc'd (if only chance it were)
Again to bless his longing eyes.

XIV

Thus with her Years his Love increas'd
Till Sylvia now was Woman grown;
And soon she grew, as soon at least
In Damon's reck'ning, as her own.

XV

But, oh! the hours that wing'd their haste,
To make his Cœlia's bloom appear,
Have robb'd from Damon's prime as fast,
And brought the down-hill prospect near.

XVI

Yet no fond hope to gain the Dame
E'er flatter'd his aspiring mind;
Within his veins he feels a flame
To silence and to thought confin'd.

XVII

From expectation far remov'd,
He feels his Passion still improving;
Though in despair of being lov'd,
He would not live to cease from loving.

XVIII

Without the thought of a return,
The mercenary Soul's regard;
He swears, that still for Her to burn,
Like Virtue, is its own reward.

XIX

So Damon loves, and only He:
Or, might he dare to entertain
A farther hope, that hope would be
That She who gives, may know his pain.

XX

The Warrior, when, with ardor seiz'd,
He meets his fate amid the fight,

Though pleas'd in death, is doubly pleas'd
To die in his Commander's sight.

XXI

'Twould ease at least the Lover's mind,
The tender Secret to reveal;
And see the gentle Maid inclin'd
To pity wounds she cannot heal:

XXII

To hear her cry, “Your hapless care
“I must regret, and would redress:
“Be happier in another Fair;
“Or love me still; but love me less:

XXIII

“That You despair, and yet adore;
“My friendship and esteem assures:
“I may find Love to please me more;
“But surely none can equal yours.”

On the Death of Monimia.

To dear Monimia's tomb we run,
Amaz'd, distracted, and undone;
With scalding tears we mark the stone,
And fill the Vaults with endless moan;
The hollow Vaults the Moan restore;
But let the Nymph return no more.

Yet, oh! could we dare
To learn of the Fair,
A Saint in devotion, and Martyr in pain;
We might see her once more,
As bright as before,
An Angel in glory, and know her again.

On the Earl of Oxford's Enlargement.

Once then ev'n here has factious Fury fail'd;
Courage provok'd the test, and Truth prevail'd.
The fatal Hall, where Treason doom'd a flood
Of Royal once as well as noble Blood,
Proclaims at length a conquest more complete
Than ever hung her Walls with Trophies yet;
For there Britannia call'd her Champion forth,
Of antient Race, and of more antient Worth;
Secure of death, and dauntless to defy
Alike a Guiscard and a C---by:
Be bold (she cry'd) to vindicate the Laws,
And in thy own, maintain thy Country's cause;
The Resolution and the Cause agree;
Still present Thou to This, as That to Thee.
The People's madness, and the Senate's too,
'Tis Heav'n's to still, and Harley's to subdue.

So sham'd the Theban his Accuser's spite;
Thus Scipio, guilty of Desert too bright,

Led from the Bar to thank the gracious Pow'rs:
The third triumphant Criminal is ours:
For would we, Harley, to thy fame be just,
With eyes unblinded by our Fathers dust;
What honours crown the deathless memory
Of Patriots, wrong'd, by Greece, or Rome's decree,
Britain adorn'd and sav'd shall joy to render Thee;
And own, no warmer heart could e'er combine
With cooler head, or cleaner hands, than thine;
While Malice, underneath thy Olive laid,
Can tear the garland, but enjoy the shade.
When urg'd by flight for safety to provide,
And Nature ask'd what Honour ne'er deny'd;
You chose to stay, to suffer, and to dare:
Here stood a Host, a single Hero there.
As when some hardy Warrior of the main,
When warn'd of hostile fire, but warn'd in vain,
Serenely brave, the flaming Deck ascends,
And hails with chearful shouts his parting Friends.

The danger such, to see you safe on shore,
Much was our wonder, but our joy was more;
A joy like That the chosen Flock confess'd,
When Peter, sav'd by miracle, they bless'd:
To baffle Pow'r, and foil the Keeper's art,
The Saint an Angel had, and You a heart.

Written in a Lady's Tunbridge Miscellanies.

Say, fair Orinda, ere these leaves you clos'd,
Was you to Pity, or to Sleep, dispos'd?
If from the Waters they deriv'd the lays,
That slander Beauty thus with grov'ling praise;
Who can, alas! the stroke of Steel withstand
In the Beau's stomach, or th' Assassin's hand?
Review each guilty Page, and then lament
The monstrous havock made by harden'd D***t;
The dismal fate of Montague attend,
Damn'd in Acrostic to a shameful end;
To ev'ry mangled Nymph vouchsafe a tear,
And think the Ghosts of murder'd Belles appear.
Should they attack this injur'd Troop again,
It would be, Falstaff like, to slay the Slain.
But let Orinda to those walks repair,
And in full bloom extend her conquests there;
A Face like yours, so charming and so new,
Would turn at once their killing pens on You,
Doom'd by more hands in wicked verse to fall,
Than butcher'd Cæsar in the Capitol.
But You, by sad example warn'd in time,
Consider and beware of Tunbridge rime;
Still as each Fop presumes to write or toast,
Avoid the Lover, but the Poet most;
And when the Daubers would Your likeness hit,
Conceal your Beauty, or impart your Wit.

ODE for New-year's-day, 1720.

To the Thames.

[_]

Written at the Request of Mr. Rowe, Poet-Laureat.

King of the floods, whom friendly stars ordain
To fold alternate in thy winding train
The lofty Palace, and the fertile Vale;
King of the floods! Britannia's Darling, hail!
Hail! with the year so well begun,
And bid his each revolving Sun,
Taught by thy stream, in smooth succession run.
From thy never-failing urn
Flow'ry bloom, and fair Increase,
With the seasons take their turn;
From thy tributary seas
Tides of various wealth attend thee;
Seas and seasons all befriend thee.

Here on thy banks, to mate the skies,
Augusta's hallow'd domes arise;
And there thy ample bosom pours
Her num'rous sails, and floating tow'rs,
Whose terrors, late, to vanquish'd Spain were known,
And Ætna shook with thunder not her own.
Tallest flags dost Thou sustain,
While thy banks confine thy course;
Emblem of our Cæsar's reign,
Mingling clemency and force.

So may thy Sons, secur'd by distant wars,
Ne'er stain thy Crystal with domestic jars,
As Cæsar's reign, to Britain ever dear,
Shall join with thee to bless the coming year.

On thy shady margin,
Care, its load discharging,
Is lull'd to gentle rest;
Britain so disarming
(Wars no more alarming)
Shall sleep on Cæsar's breast.

Sweet to distress is balmy sleep;
To sleep, auspicious dreams;
Thy meadows, Thames, to feeding sheep;
To thirst, thy silver streams;

More sweet than All, the praise
Of Cæsar's golden days;
Cæsar's praise is sweeter,
Britain's pleasure greater:
Still may Cæsar's reign excell!
Sweet the praise of reigning well!

Chorus.

Gentle Janus, ever wait
On Britannia's kinder fate;
Crown all our vows, and all thy gifts bestow,
Till time no more renews his date,
And Thames forgets to flow.

On a Gentleman who ran mad with Love of a Physician's Daughter.

Employ'd to cure a love-distracted Swain,
The boasted aid of Hellebore is vain;
None but the Fair the storm she rais'd, can calm;
Her smiles the cordial, and her tears the balm:
In Cynthia's bosom dwells the Magic pow'r,
Sov'reign to heal, and vital to restore:
But, oh! what medicine e'er could reach the heart?
The Daughter's eyes have foil'd the Father's art:
For, matchless were the learn'd Physician's skill,
If he could save as fast as she can kill.

Epilogue to Money the Mistress,

A Play by Mr. Southerne.

[_]

Spoken by Mrs. Younger.

Well! you have seen my future Spouse and me,
The Mirrors of heroic constancy;
And one Pair more, in Life at least as common,
A pretty Fellow, and—a very Woman:
Great was my loss of him, I needs must grant;
But pardon Her, my slipp'ry Confidante:
A Female Confidante! 'tis all a Bite;
For how can Truth and Rivalship unite?
Few, few, sincere in spite of Int'rest prove;
And sure the dearest Interest is Love.

Come, 'tis a Fact beyond my power to smother;
Why do we dress? and tiff? and keep a pother?
No doubt, in pure affection to each other.
But then, to pawn my Jewels as her own!
The fair seducer saw how bright they shone,
And knew Mankind too well to trust her eyes alone.
Well! I forgive the Creature from my heart;
For, Ladies, dear Hypocrisy apart,
While we are flesh and blood; what-e'er it cost,
Some Jewels must be got, and others lost.
One scandal it concerns me to remove;
Young Mourvill is expos'd for faithless Love.
A Frenchman false! a sly insinuation
(As some may urge) that falshood is the fashion.
Pray let us understand the Poet better,
And judge his honest meaning by the letter:
To brand a foreign vice was his endeavour;
He leaves our English Sparks as true as ever.

Epitaph, On the Rev. Dr. Drelincourt, Dean of Armagh;

engrav'd on his Monument in the Cathedral Church of Armagh.

Such was the second Drelincourt! a Name
Victorious over Death, and dear to Fame.
The Christian's praise, by diff'rent measures won,
Successive grac'd the Father and the Son:
To Sacred service one his Wealth consign'd;
And one the living treasure of his Mind:

'Tis hard to say whose Talent did excell;
Each was so rich, and each improv'd so well.
Nor was his Charity delay'd till death;
He chose to give, what others but bequeath:
Much tho' he gave, and oft, yet more he meant,
Had life, proportion'd to his will, been lent:
But to complete a scheme so well design'd,
Belongs to her who shar'd his Bed and Mind;
Whose pious sorrows thus to future days
Transmit his Image, and extend his Praise.

Prologue, design'd for the Adelphi, in 1720.

The Clime that, as some late Subscribers hold,
Abounds with Iv'ry teeth, and dust of Gold,
Once (as unquestion'd Authors plainly show it)
In spite of all its wealth, produc'd a Poet.
Him we import to-night, like Stage Projectors,
And here sit You, our African Directors.
The character I act is that of One
By nature fond of an adopted Son;
One who could see the faults he would not chide,
And prais'd for erring on the milder side:
Mov'd by this image of Paternal care,
Adopt an Alien Play, ye pitying Fair;
With eyes of mercy view our first essays,
And chuse to pardon, where ye cannot praise.

So may your charms, the song of Poets prove,
The joy of sight, and prize of constant Love;
Nor envy, nor disease your beauties blast,
Nor falling stocks your radiant looks o'ercast;
Nor broken rest prevent your early sally,
Nor stops delay your passage to Change-Alley.
And, oh! (I'll speak, if grief will give me leave)
So may the Lords your Callicoes reprieve.
But stay, my lovely Advocates for Sattin,
I mainly fear ye do not all speak Latin:
Should unknown sounds fatigue your ears to-night,
Think on Hay-Market ere ye damn us quite.
French, and Italian, both are foreign Speeches,
Like that which now your clemency beseeches:
Ours is familiar to the Learn'd; and know,
To you, ye Fair, it had of course been so,
Had you been born two thousand years ago;
When Rome's old Heroes in this language sung,
Had taught the conquer'd world their native tongue:
But fortune now that privilege denies;
No speech, so known, the present age supplies;
None, Ladies, but the speech of your Beholders eyes:
For universal, each victorious hour,
In theirs the language is; in yours the pow'r.

Horace, Epode IV. Imitated.

Yes! I remember my appointed part;
But Verse comes lamely from a bleeding heart:
On Cupid, pow'rful God, the fault be laid;
And think it Love, not Sloth, that disobey'd.
Such hopeless love has frantic Wilks misled,
His vows unanswer'd, and his rimes unread;
Though still the Dreamer plays his desp'rate game;
And constant Brimmers to the Fair proclaim
The maudlin flights of his Romantic flame.
Nay, You, my Kinsman, are a Lover too;
But Seraphina's eyes can shine on You,
Inspire your lays, and gently warm your breast;
When present, pleas'd; when absent, not distress'd;
You from the Nymph a parting pledge can take,
And fondle Chloe for its Owner's sake.
O! lovely Maid! O! passion most benign!
Be thankful for your lot, but pity mine.
To me the pangs of slighted love are known;
In secret, pining; and in crouds, alone:
'Tis mine to utter plaints that none will hear;
Mine are the stifled sigh, and stealing tear;
While, doom'd to absence, and unpity'd pain,
I hug the bright, the dear Amynta's chain,
Fond to behold, despairing to obtain.

Her Lap Dog.

Song.

[Grief, thou hast master'd me at length]

Grief, thou hast master'd me at length,
O'erwhelm'd my heart, and stopp'd my ears;
The spirits rais'd to feed my strength,
By thee diverted, flow in tears,
To cloud the morning's chearful light,
And poison ev'ry glass at night.

Yet sure, the gentle, happy Dead
Can ne'er approve her lover's pain:
Do Souls, to their Elysium fled,
Long to be pent in clay again?
Or, will it add to joys above,
To view the Hell of hopeless love?

To Mrs. Cibber,

in the Character of Belvidera.

When Belvidera's pangs are breath'd by You,
The matchless part in character we view;
Your Beauty fires the hearts your sorrows chill;
You charm in madness, and in death you kill.
Such is the Magic-pow'r of Love and Verse,
When Otway writes distress, and you rehearse:
O Woman! lovely Woman! Jaffier cries;
O! more than Woman, sure! the Pit replies,
Taught, like Æneas on the Libyan shore,
In You another Venus to adore;

For Venus, from her Son a while conceal'd,
Was by the same inchanting marks reveal'd:
Her eyes, like yours, with heav'nly lustre shone;
Divinely sweet appear'd her melting tone,
And by her graceful walk the Queen of Love was known.

Epigram.

[As late, assembled by auspicious chance]

As late, assembled by auspicious chance,
A Quire of Beauties form'd the Evely Dance,
Love was a while in bright confusion lost,
And each by turns surpris'd and wounded most:
We found a pleasure in the change of pains,
A freedom in variety of chains;
Repeated shocks the yielding heart assur'd,
Fire conquer'd fire, and double poison cur'd.
But singly should each Nymph appear to prove
The matchless pow'r of undivided Love,
Her eyes alone his Quiver would supply;
Resist we could not, and we would not fly;
Adoring throngs would hug the fatal dart,
And ev'ry Fair have charms for ev'ry heart.

To Belinda,

upon her receiving the Cross, as Lady Patroness of the High Borlace.

We own the justice that has chosen You
To grace the Prize to conqu'ring Beauty due;

And She was honour'd, tho' oblig'd to yield,
Who with Belinda could dispute the field;
But your Borlacians might mistake the hand
That brought the mark of Sovereign command:
To fix it on your breast deserv'd the care
Of One who wants the pity planted there:
The pity Maids so cruelly reveal,
When they lament the wounds they will not heal:
For this, at least (if kinder fate's decree
To that dear office had deputed me)
Your slave had tun'd his tongue, and bent his suppliant knee:
And sure, though wealth and titles claim your heart,
To bear your cross had been your Martyr's part.

Epigram.

[No length of melancholy years]

No length of melancholy years
Revives the bury'd Man:
Let Reason dry his Widow's tears,
Since Fortune never can.

The Borlace:

A Ballad, 1731.

Companions and friends of the jolly Borlace,
With voices united our Festival grace;
For the Queen of the Year is elected to-day,
And her true loving Subjects with joy shall obey.

By faction and force let Usurpers succeed;
But Beauty its Jure Divino shall plead,
To reign in our Hearts, like a Monarch indeed;
Like a Monarch indeed.

But whom will our noble Comptroller declare?
For a Brimmer, I guess at the name of the Fair:
'Tis She! and a fairer was ne'er made before her:
Kiss the Cross on your breasts, and by Proxy adore her.

By faction, &c.

With wine let the glass of Election be crown'd;
And begin to her health its distinguishing round,
To silence for ever, at least to defer
All passions, but love; and all Love, but of Her.

By faction, &c.

What, mean the Defaulters to fail us again?
But an Act of free Grace is the first of her Reign.
She pardons all those who neglect to attend:
Might her Lips seal the pardon, who ever would mend?

By faction, &c.

Inspir'd by the Pow'r whose example we follow,
(For once in a year, they say, ridet Apollo)
Let our Numbers record that she merits the Prize,
And our Wit learn to sparkle and shine from her Eyes.

By faction, &c.

The bright God of Wine, and Love's brighter Mother,
By nature were meant to support one another;

And, meeting in homage, to her we adore,
Like Isis and Tame, may they never part more.

By faction, &c.

Old Maids and old Doctors their pleasure may say;
But hang care and scandal, let's revel to-day:
And to prove that to-morrow is still at our heart,
We'll make it to-morrow before we depart.

By faction, &c.

If death, as Philosophers tell us, is sleep,
What a pother the Sots with their temperance keep!
We but go to bed early by living too fast;
And they are the Rakes who sit up to the last.

By faction, &c.

Though troops of disasters our mirth may withstand,
We'll charge and disperse them with Bumpers in hand:
Our Comptroller shall rival his Grandsire's renown,
And pull the Grand Monarch, Anxiety, down.

By faction, &c.

Let folly mistake, or let malice abuse us;
But the best and the brightest shall never refuse us,
Since Blandford the Good has ennobled the Chair,
And the Cross has been honour'd by Brydges the Fair:

For by faction and force though Usurpers succeed,
Her Beauty its Jure Divino could plead,
To reign in our Hearts, like a Monarch indeed,
Like a Monarch indeed.

D. of Marlborough.

The Peach Stone.

Where healing Springs, by Astrop plac'd,
Their watry stores supply,
A Peach Stone yields the Wine as fast,
And fills the Glass as high.

Such Magic in that Prize is found,
By bright Maria taught
To speed the chearful Brimmer round,
And consecrate the draught.

Bless'd by those lips, whose touch divine
Might wasting life repair;
To Nectar it converts the wine,
To gladness ev'ry care.

Give me that balm to ease my pain,
My Cordial when I faint;
And let the Relique still remain
To witness for the Saint.

Epigram.

[When Venus, by Anchises woo'd]

When Venus, by Anchises woo'd,
Contriv'd to make him fully bless'd,
She seem'd a Mortal, when pursu'd,
But prov'd a Goddess, when possess'd.
Succeeding Beauties her design
Unhappily revers'd discover;
Before enjoyment all Divine;
No more than Women, when 'tis over.

Prologue, spoken by Mrs. Brett,

when Don Sebastian was acted for her Benefit.

From Drury's neighbouring stage, a soil ingrate,
Transplanted here, to meet a kinder fate,
I blossom only now; but, when I bear,
My fruit, I humbly hope, may claim your care:
At present, that my arms may spread the faster,
I have engag'd my Friend the Dancing-master.
The fickle mode thro' every turn pursuing,
If Playing tires ye, I would still be doing:
To Speak, delights me most; if that be wrong,
(What can a Woman more?) I'll hold my tongue,
And spare no pains the reigning taste to suit,
Your servant to command from head to foot.
But, hold! the God of Poetry and Day
Must hide his head, as Whiston dreams, in May:
The man mistakes the time; for well we wot all,
Th' Eclipse began long since, and now is total.
Farce was the first essay of envious Night;
It damp'd his heat, and dimm'd his golden light:
Music ensu'd; and then his sickly rays
Lost half their pow'r in songs and Operas:
The voices charm'd him; but the words (he swore)
He ne'er inspir'd, or heard the like before.
At length the bashful Masquerade begun;
That child of darkness; and quite veil'd the Sun:

A Midnight vizard screen'd his blushing face;
But Venus, then disclos'd, supply'd his place.
What dire effects from this Eclipse may flow,
I dare not guess; the cause too well I know:
But sure, the common cry may yield to reason,
And Plays be countenanc'd another season;
To-night at least I beg ye to be easy:
Why, Sirs, your very wives, for change, can please ye.
But after ye have mortify'd a while
On sense and nature, in Sebastian's style,
Some new device shall prove (whate'er it cost us)
That he's no Conjurer who flouts at Faustus.
For should Saint George by miracle appear,
How could he hope to maul the Dragon here!
Fair was the Maid whom honour's pow'rful laws
Of old deliver'd from his op'ning jaws;
But fairer far are You , who now defend his cause.

To the Ladies.

Prologue, design'd for Merope.

The low Translator of a finish'd Piece
Acts like an honest Drudge to call it his;
As oft the Bungler's anti-chymic head
Converts his Author's gold to brass or lead:
And thus our Novice should (he fears) have claim'd
A glorious Plot, by awkward handling maim'd:

But, right or wrong, the Bard declares by Me,
Your entertainment comes from Italy;
And if the Copy should appear to fall
Not wholly short of its Original,
It may, perhaps to your surprize, be found
Italians shine in sense as well as sound.
For Merope arose, and flourish'd long,
Ev'n in the hungry soil of Shew and Song:
With tears well water'd was her tender root;
She shot with vigour, and she bent with fruit:
Her's were the charms that could by turns engage
The Roman, Tuscan, and Venetian stage,
And never fail'd the warbling Race to move
Without the help of Music, or of Love:
Rejecting Both, perhaps was too severe;
And therefore Love has been adopted here:
Where two fair Females, with a diff'rent fate,
Confess a passion almost out of date;
A passion true in both, in One unfortunate.
And whether in that One ye chuse to blame
Her conduct, or her stars, 'tis much the same:
Ye pity those whom faults of Love undo;
Ye can but pity them, when faultless too.
And if th' Offender, snatch'd in Beauty's prime,
Repairs by death her half-unwilling crime;

If the last struggles of expiring Sense
Are mix'd with deeper groans of Penitence;
Safe be her ashes from unhallow'd hands;
The debt is cancell'd; and the loss demands
(What here ye will behold, and always shou'd)
Her Lover's tears, and her Betrayer's blood.

Ismene, who dies, according to the original Plan.

Alluding to Lady Abergavenny, who died about that time.

ODE from the Latin of Dr. Pitcairn.

Instruct me, Horace, whom to sing,
By nature form'd above the rest,
To try the Pulse, or tune the String,
Apollo's darling Son confess'd.

Apollo, Master of the Muse,
Alike the force of Medicine sways;
The God, whose genial heat renews
Whate'er his golden lamp surveys.

The Snakes, on Epidaurus nurs'd,
His beams with saving venom fraught;
And Chiron, thence enlighten'd first,
With grateful care his Offspring taught.

Disclos'd by Him, the healing Pow'r
Of verdant Fields is understood;
And Herbs, selected in an hour
Auspicious to the Just and Good.

By his command the Muses' hill
His Æsculapius learn'd to climb,
Though unexperienc'd in the skill
To cure disease by Magic rime.

For Orpheus was the first, who found
The source of sickness in the Soul,
And taught his Harp's mysterious sound
Its rebel passions to controul.

Such were the fruits of ancient art,
Ere Ilium blaz'd with Grecian flame,
Or great Achilles shook the Dart,
That rais'd his own, and Homer's name.

But now a more distinguish'd Pair,
Like Leda's sparkling Sons, arise;
Predestin'd, by Apollo's care,
To grace and rule the British skies.

A Wilmot's and a Frewen's name
Are by our Cam and Isis blest;
'Tis theirs, contagious fires to tame,
And death's impending stroke arrest.

Ye Twins of Art, with friendly rays
O'er sacred Physic still preside;
And us, bewilder'd in the maze
Of Nature's various windings, guide.

ODE.

[Born to retrieve the honour, due]

Born to retrieve the honour, due
To Nature's golden Prime;
The first bright Nymph was bright, like You,
And once as free from crime.

Then, heav'nly-good, as well as fair,
Have pity on your Slave;
The Wretch your Merit bids despair,
Your Mercy yet might save.

Since to adore, we need but see
What Rival Beauties praise;
Ah! censure not unhappy me,
That I have eyes to gaze.

If envious fate withholds the bliss
To those dear arms confin'd,
I can but weep, and wish you His,
Who loves beyond Mankind.

But oh! that fruitless wish shall cease,
Those flowing tears be dry'd,
When kinder death restores the peace
My wretched Life deny'd.

Subdu'd by fond desires, I speak,
Though hopeless e'er to move;
And vent a heart that soon must break
In pangs of slighted Love.

To Eliza,

inviting me to her Wedding.

Had You your charms resign'd
To Him who loves you best,
The summons had been kind,
And I completely blest.

Those tender words, “Prepare
“For bliss so long delay'd,”
An age of black despair
At once had overpay'd.

But, doom'd to Rival arms,
You mock your Lover's smart;
A Dance your blood alarms,
A Ribbon fires your heart:

Tho' clogg'd with Fool and Debt,
The dear Estate you prize;
And view without regret
The Martyr of your eyes.

But I; can I behold
The Heav'n I must forego?

And grace, like Slaves of old,
The triumph of my Foe?

You will not give delight;
And would you add to pain?
Your hate improves to spite;
To malice your disdain.

Yet, Tyrant, in your turn,
The stroke of justice, due
To cruelty and scorn,
Perhaps may humble You.

In Honour's school untaught,
Your Sot may go astray,
And You, like me, be brought
To curse your Wedding-day.

On the Essays on Man.

The fam'd Essays on Man in this agree,
That so things are, and therefore so should be:
The proof inverted would be stronger far;
So they should be, and therefore so they are.

Epigram.

[Two Peters, one a Saint, and one a Sinner]

Two Peters, one a Saint, and one a Sinner,
Ador'd his Saviour, that, and this, his Dinner:

In Life an Epicure, in Name a Priest;
His Hell, no Wine; his Heav'n, a Ven'son Feast:
But here the World a woful Proof may view,
How false Religion works beyond the true;
Ere twice the crowing Cock his notes had try'd,
The Saint no less than thrice his Lord deny'd:
The Sinner, faithful to his God of Wine,
Forsakes not so his more frequented shrine,
Tho' thrice the midnight Cock repeats his warning,
And thrice the Watchman's voice proclaims the morning.

On the Shell-work in Berkshire.

Sev'n Sisters here, for Wit and Beauty fam'd,
The matchless work of vacant hours have fram'd:
Their Eyes the height of Nature's charms impart,
And to their Hands we owe the pride of Art.

On a Lady's Hand-writing.

In characters so fair, we trace
Eliza's charming Hand:
That Heav'n alone, who form'd her Face,
Could sweeter strokes command.

The Beauties there by Nature wrought,
Excell the Writer's Art;
For here, the wond'ring Eye is caught;
But there, the wounded Heart.

On the Marriage of Sir Edward Turner and Miss Leigh.

By titles dazzled, or by wealth misled,
Minds ill-agreeing shame the Nuptial Bed:
The Fair, obnoxious to a Sire's command,
When forc'd, without her heart, to yield her hand,
Beholds the guilty Priest with weeping eyes,
Like Iphigenia, dress'd for Sacrifice.

Or, grant a Pair by mutual vows combin'd,
And Cupid's torch with that of Hymen join'd;
Desire, that blindly courts the marry'd State,
Is far unable to support the weight:
The Fabric, tott'ring on its scanty Base,
Sinks in the ruins of a blooming face:
Or Beauty, tho' it lasts, in time may cloy;
Or, that capricious Foe to mortal Joy,
The Nameless Something, may its taste destroy.

But where the Judgment is allow'd its part,
And the clear head directs the beating heart,
The God of Love attends the matchless Pair;
For choice and merit fix the Rover there.

So was he fix'd by fair Cassandra's charms,
The pride and treasure of Eugenio's arms:
Her Person much, but more her Mind approv'd;
He saw her, and admir'd; he knew, and lov'd:
Discretion charm'd him in Cassandra's youth;
Her Virtue Softness crown'd; her Beauty, Truth:

The temper even, and the soul serene,
Inform'd her easy shape, and graceful mien;
And thro' the sparkling eyes the lively wit was seen.
In Her each gift of Soul and Body met;
And in pure gold the precious gem was set.

Eugenio triumph'd in a Lot so rare;
And doubly triumph'd in his Image there:
By strong resistless sympathy he mov'd,
And in the Fair his own perfections lov'd.

By Fortune much, by Education more,
By Nature most advanc'd, he shone before;
But She was wanting still to crown th' abundant store.
To the first Man in Eden's happy Seat
Heav'n granted Eve, and made his bliss complete:
Hymen, rejoice! in nuptial bands are ty'd
A Pair in virtues, years, and love, ally'd:
Content, and constant bliss, thy rites shall grace;
A fair succession, and a Patriot race:
Nature has done her part; and Fate prepares
To make all joy, as all desert is, theirs.

On a Lady from India, who loves Bathing.

In Eastern streams the matchless Maid
Her Climate's sultry fires allay'd;
To British Baths she now retreats,
As panting here with equal heats.

And might the Flame within her Heart
Be guess'd by those her Looks impart!
She feels a Fever of her own,
To India's parching Sands unknown.

For twice the thirsty Race respires,
As twice the circling Sun retires,
And cool reviving gales asswage
By night his equinoctial rage.

But night in vain her dews applies
To Fevers shot from Flavia's eyes;
And, fir'd by distant charms, I prove
That only Death can conquer Love.

A Riddle of Dean Swift's, versified.

You ask a story, not more strange than true;
Nor must I hide it from a Friend like you:
Without disguise my wretched lot behold,
In all its train of Circumstances told:
And tho' perhaps, what I shall first advance,
May make the Whole resemble a Romance;
A solemn Truth it is—no Whim, nor Jest;
Which, if you please—the Parson shall attest.

Know then, dear Sir, my present situation
Is in a small and sorry Habitation,

Ill fitted up, and fenc'd; upon the Waste,
Like other Clay-built Cottages, 'tis plac'd.
In this poor Hut I breathe with care and pain;
And, what is harder, if I durst complain,
One Minute's warning turns me out again.

Held by a sort of Copy, it appears
An easy Bargain for the First Sev'n Years:
For, free from rent, I only then resort,
As bound in duty, to the Manor Court;
There once a Week, or more, to Custom true,
My Landlord claims the Suit and Service due.
The Twenty following Years require a Rose
In annual Payment, to my worst of Foes.
My next Acknowledgment is stranger still;
For, soon or later, at my Landlord's Will,
Each Third, or Second Year, or oftener yet,
A Tooth discharges my unwelcome Debt;
And, when to answer more Demands I fail,
A meagre Catchpole hurries me to Jail;
No Miscreant, so remorseless, ever tore
Thy Journals, Fog, or knock'd at Franklin's door.

In days of Old, on better terms than these,
I might have occupy'd the Premises,
Ere a false step, my fond Great Grandsire made,
Warp'd by a wheedling Wife, their Race betray'd.
An Orchard to the Manor-house adjoin'd,
Rich in delicious Fruits of ev'ry kind:

In robbing it, the graceless Pair were caught,
By a bad Neighbour to their Ruin taught:
For by that Slip, without retrieve, was lost
A certain Privilege they once could boast;
And from the Hour when they were turn'd adrift,
Their hapless Line have made this woful Shift.

However, rubbing onward as I may,
I spare no pains to patch my House of Clay;
And keep it in a Tenantable way.
A little Kitchen serves, to dress my Fare,
Shap'd like an Oven, rather round than square:
My Garrets, poorly furnish'd, I may load
Perhaps too much, with Lumber a-la-mode.
To this low State uncomfortably ty'd,
Well as I can, for Rent-day I provide;
That when my Term (as soon it must) shall cease,
My gracious Lord may sign a full Release.

When I am outed, a mean creeping Race,
Doom'd to succeed me, have secur'd the Place;
Where they are sure to multiply amain,
Triumphant o'er their Foe in Abchurch Lane.

Mean while this Lodge, or call it what you please,
Has one snug Hole, contriv'd for warmth and ease:
On the left side of my Abode it lies,
And for my Friends a Resting-place supplies:
This to your use with pleasure I resign;
Yours is the Lodging, while the House is mine.

From the French.

A Woman and a Crab are made
Perverse alike, and retrograde:
The Head in either you may spare;
But all the rest is dainty Fare.

From the same Language,

Under the Picture of a celebrated French Actress, deceased, in the Character of Cornelia.

The tears that waited on Cornelia's woe
O'er Pompey's ashes, more profusely flow
For Her, who play'd it with that matchless Art
She learn'd of none, and could to none impart.

On the Birth of Sir Edward Turner's Son.

A Son so much desir'd, again is giv'n,
And warm repeated vows have conquer'd Heav'n;
The Public vows, for in an Age like This
A Patriot Line prolong'd is public Bliss:
Prolong'd to latest times, the Muse replies;
And, kindling with Prophetic fury, cries,
No more the tomb such early spoils shall boast!
Enough, ye Pow'rs, that one like Him was lost.

A kinder Planet shall henceforth befriend
The matchless Pair, and lasting joy attend
Their Loves, requited with the blooming store
Of two fair Pledges, and the hopes of more;

Of future Sons, to reach the Father's height;
And other Daughters, like the Mother bright.

Let Britain's Genius on his Cradle wait,
And still, as Years his Infant Pow'rs dilate,
His Parents shall by turns their aid impart,
To form his Mind, and fortify his Heart;
The tender Plant with steady culture rear,
And steer between Neglect and Over-care.

So shall advancing years his worth proclaim,
And native Virtue wing his flight to Fame;
While on his Head distinguish'd Blessings fall,
The Pray'rs of Many, and the Praise of All:
So shall his Country claim his gen'rous Pains;
Or, should he live to see the worst of Chains
Impos'd by fluent Fools, and venal Knaves,
On willing Vassals, Senate-ridden Slaves,
A private Station be his prudent choice;
For such were Nature's then and Honour's voice;
Till licens'd Robbers rouse us once again
With Him, the foremost in the Patriot train,
By tongue or sword, from whom he rose, to prove;
And Freedom, well asserted, from above
Descends like Him to glad his native Earth,
Short in the Throes, and happy in the Birth.

To Urania,

with the foregoing Verses.

You see the joy it is to wed,
When beauteous Nymphs discreetly chuse;
Each in her turn is brought to bed;
The Lady first, and then the Muse.

Yet on the Writer, and his Theme,
A diff'rent doom, alas! is past;
The Song shall vanish like a Dream,
The Mother and her Offspring last.

But, waken'd by Urania's cries,
The fruits of Hymen to rehearse,
A far superior Muse shall rise,
And to the Goddess suit the Verse.

Then tell us whence, Divinely Fair,
You seem to shun the Marriage-chain?
Why end you not the public care?
And pity One for Thousands slain?

Old Lovers you with justice hate,
So well agree your Heart and Tongue;
Wed then in time, or you may wait
Till Prudence bids you fear the Young.

Think on the Month that bears your name,
Stripp'd of its Sweets so like your own;
The fate of yours may be the same,
If still withheld, when fully blown.

Translation of a Latin Epigram on Casimire.

Ye Muses, for your darling Son prepare
A Garland worthy of Apollo's Hair;
Or rather, crown the Bards of low degree,
And weave the Garland, if my due, for Me;
For, as the Trees by Orpheus' Lyre are led,
Bays hasten of themselves to grace his head.

From the French Opera of Orpheus.

Eurydice.

ACT I. Part of Scene VII.

With patience yield to Fate's decree:
Is this the way to follow Me?
The Wretch, who thus resigns his breath,
Is sentenc'd to a living death.
Ah! then forbear that guilty blow,
Or I shall wish in vain
To meet my Love in bliss below,
And never part again.

Eurydice.

ACT II. Part of Scene I.

But, Orpheus, how
Employ'd art thou?
Can Love like thine a doubt allow?
For Me the Nine thy Song inspire;
To Me thy fingers tune the lyre;
Thy sighs and groans are all for Me,
And echoing Hills invoke Eurydice.

The Sun, thy Sire, to seas descends,
And with the day his labour ends:
But, ah! my Orpheus rests not so:
Doleful numbers,
Broken slumbers,
Day and night but vary wo.
Oh heav'n! to yield thee some relief,
That thou wert witness of my grief!
In grief, alas! with Thee I join,
And deep the wound, tho' deeper thine,
As thou art ignorant of mine.

Orpheus.

ACT II. Part of Scene V.

Infernal King, whose awful sway
Whate'er is born, must once obey,
And the last debt to Thee and Nature pay:
No bold Adventurer am I,
The Secrets of thy Reign to spy:
To Realms, conceal'd from all beside,
Love is my Errand, Love my Guide.
Remember, mighty Sov'reign, thy alarms
From Ceres, bent on the design
To rob thee of thy Proserpine;
When first her Virgin charms
Endear'd her to thy arms,
And the new sweets of Nuptial joy were thine.

And if the Fear afflicted Thee,
How must the Feeling torture Me!
In all his Course my Parent Sun
Views not Another so undone.
By cruel death depriv'd
Of Her in whom I liv'd,
My dear Eurydice I mourn,
In blooming Youth from Orpheus torn.
Eurydice is now thy prize;
Ah! give her back to happier Life,
The fairest Mistress to my eyes,
And to my arms the kindest Wife.
A longer term indulg'd her now,
Would free her not
From Nature's final lot;
And I, like Her, to fate
Devoted soon or late,
Before thy universal throne must bow.

To a Lady.

Your hand and voice the judging ear delight,
And in the dance you doubly charm and sight:
Where shall we meet, but in the Spheres and You,
So smooth a motion, and such music too?

To the same.

My passion, tho' scorn'd, may be surely forgiven;
'Tis hard to be blam'd for but thinking of Heaven:
Too humble a Lover to rank with pretenders,
If I bridle my tongue, can my eyes be offenders?
Indulging no hope, and no pity imploring,
Why should I be hated for only adoring?

To a Lady on her Birth-day, March 31.

As this auspicious day began the race
Of ev'ry virtue join'd with ev'ry grace;
May You, who own them, welcome its return,
Till Excellence, like yours, again is born.
The years we wish, will half your charms impair;
The years we wish, the better half will spare:
The victims of your Eyes would bleed no more,
But All, the beauties of your Mind adore.

To Veneroni's Dictionary,

Thrown aside by a Lady, after she had borrowed it of me.

With pity thy reverse of fate I see,
Once happy Book, but now disgrac'd, like me:
Thy lot was lately what a King might prize,
To kiss the Charmer's hands, and fix her eyes.
From wretched me it drew an envious tear;
So distant still was I, and Thou so near.

Alas! what dire offence this change has wrought!
Or art thou punish'd for thy owner's fault?
A fault the subject of his endless moan,
By Her unpardon'd, and to Him unknown.
Adieu, vain Book; thy store of words is vain,
Tho' two fair Languages thy leaves contain;
Adieu, vain Book; for how can words declare
An Angel's merit, or a Fiend's despair?

A Riddle.

In sacred Wedlock I am yearly ty'd,
Fond of an antient Mate, and none beside:
He sometimes raves, nay, lashes me severely;
And yet I love my Tyrant most sincerely:
For in his dear embrace, secure and bless'd,
A spotless Virgin to this hour I rest;
So may I rest a Virgin, tho' a Wife:
Robb'd of that name, I soon should lose my Life.

To a Gentleman,

Comparing himself to Alexander at the head of his Phalanx, upon his Dog Cassio's obeying the word of command, and diving almost five fathom to fetch up an Oyster-shell.

In hopes of our next merry meeting,
I send you, Frank, my hearty greeting;
And, as in justice bound, commend
The seats of your four-footed Friend.

No more shall evil tongues proclaim
Your scrape in shire of Buckingham .
This wonder by your Dog atchiev'd,
Provided it can be believ'd,
Must raise his Teacher above slander:
Who dares arraign an Alexander?
A Negro scarce could dive so well
To fish for Pearl in Oyster-shell.
Almost five fathom, you declare!
Well—I have never known a Pair,
Than Cassio and his Master, quicker
To reach the bottom of their Liquor.

A piece of secret History.

To the same,

Presenting his Grace with a Tinder-box.

What whining Lovers feign or feel,
Your emblematic Box conveys;
For Damons's heart is true as steel,
And hard as flint is Phyllida's.

On a Lady's bidding a certain Person look in the Glass.

Look in the Glass, the Charmer cries;
Look in the Glass, her Slave replies:
How can you love? exclaims the Fair:
He answers, How can I forbear?

The Farewel.

As now my tedious life decays apace,
And I may never more behold the Face,
Or hear the Voice, that pain and please my Heart;
My transient pleasure, but my lasting smart;
Permit my dying breath my flame to own,
And let the punishment the crime atone:
Tho' odious ere he dy'd, the dead forgive,
And think Him dead who has no joy to live.

A Dialogue between a Marquess and a Saint.

Saint.
What course shall I steer? my Lord Marquess, advise;
I am sorely beset by a pair of blue Eyes.

Marquess.
But Eyes, blue or black, are for wearing the worse;
Perhaps they were brighter, when you was at nurse.

S.
Your Lordship must go; but alas! what shall I do?

M.
Why, leave the stale Maid, as Æneas left Dido.

S.
Her murder, like Dido's, may follow my flight;
And murder is sin, if my bible be right.

M.
Nay, a crying sin too; for you cry, my poor Brother.

S.
Just so I was melted at leaving my Mother.

M.
But the heart you have smitten, is too tough for breaking;
Or, happen what will, it is all her own seeking.

S.
My Conscience is eas'd; I resolve to retire,
And pray that despair may extinguish her fire.

M.
To have fir'd an old house, you may fairly be said;
But let not my Friend pull it over his head.

The Drum.

A Dialogue between Amoret and Eugenia.

[_]

To the Tune of Tambour de l'Amour.

Amoret.
My bus'ness is Play;
I dress, and away
To Drums ev'ry day: Nor think of to-morrow.
At six I begin,
Till midnight am in,
May trust if I win; Or lose till I borrow:
I hear the charming Drum,
And cannot stay at home;
For oh the joy of drumming, drumming, drumming for ever.
I ogle and chat,
Take snuff, and all that,
And love to make a prize, Of the heart I despise.

Eugenia.
My pastime is Play,
To drive care away:
But living to day, I think of to-morrow:
I draw, play a Tune,
Or, working till Noon,
At night twice a moon, From reading I borrow:
I hear the charming Drum,
But chuse to stay at home;
For oh the shame of drumming, drumming, drumming for ever.
I ogle not, or chat,
Take snuff, and all that,
And hate to make a prize, Of the heart I despise.

Horace, Ode VI. Book I.

Scriberis Vario, &c.

Avarius , rais'd on Homer's wing,
Your Valour and Success demand,
Our gallant Veterans to sing,
Victorious under You by Sea and Land.

Such deeds, Agrippa, to relate,
Is far above my slender vein;
To reach Achilles' stubborn hate,
Or sage Ulysses' wand'ring o'er the main.

The Muse, that strikes the bashful lyre,
Unequal to heroic lays,
Forbids me, void of wit and fire,
To sully Yours and sacred Cæsar's praise.

Merion, with Trojan Dust o'erspread,
Or Mars in coat of Adamant;
Or Diomede, by Pallas' aid
A match for Gods in Battle, who can paint?

For Me, untouch'd, or half subdu'd
By Love, of Feasts where Virgins fight
With close-par'd nails the Youths, when rude,
With my accustom'd Levity I write.

Horace, Ode XIII. Book I.

Dum tu, Lydia, Telephi
Cervicem roseam, &c.

On Telephus his blooming charms,
And Telephus his waxen arms,
While you, my Lydia, dwell,
By turns my Colour shifts its seat;
By turns my Mind; with stifled heat
My lab'ring Vitals swell.

The moisture, stealing, down my cheeks,
The slowly-wasting fever speaks,
That dries my languid veins;
Nor can my eye the wine support,
That, spilt by him in drunken sport,
Your snowy bosom stains.

If on your Mouth a biting Kiss
Has mark'd the furious Lover's bliss;
Can such a Love be true?
Whose savage transports could annoy
The Lips which Venus bath'd for joy
In her Celestial Dew.

Thrice happy they, and more than thrice,
Whom passion, free from strife or vice,
To chaste endearments guides;
Unbroken union is their lot,
And no resentments tear the knot,
Which only Death divides.

Horace, Ode IV. Book IV.

The Praises of Drusus and Tiberius.

As Jove's Imperial Bird, to whom the sway
O'er all the feather'd Race was giv'n;
(For so did he his trusty Fav'rite pay,
For wafting Ganymede to Heav'n;)

With native vigour, join'd to youthful prime,
Springs from the nest, tho' check'd by fear,
Unwonted heights with tender wing to climb,
When Summer Gales the Welkin clear:

With hostile rage the Spoiler next descends
Impetuous on the bleating Fold:
Thence, more assur'd, reluctant Dragons rends,
With love of Prey and Combat bold:

Or as a Kid, on Pastures fair to graze
Intent, the Lion's Progeny,
Wean'd from her yellow Mother's milk, surveys,
By fangs in slaughter new to die:

Such Drusus the Vindelici beheld
Beneath the Alps, unmatch'd in war!
And by a sage and youthful Leader quell'd,
The Troops, victorious long and far,

Prov'd what a Genius and a Mind could dare,
By Precept and Example taught;
And what, Augustus, thy Paternal Care
In either Nero's Bloom has wrought.

100

The Brave beget the Brave: the Bull, the Steed,
Are stamp'd upon their gen'rous Race;
Nor is the Dove's unwarlike Brood decreed
The Royal Eagle to disgrace.

But Culture calls the hidden vigour forth;
And Virtue, when on Learning built,
Confirms the heart: In Blood devoid of worth,
The conscious Shame enhances Guilt.

What Rome her Nero's owes, let Asdrubal
Be witness, that decisive day,
The first, that near Metaurus, by his Fall
From Latium chas'd the Night away:

When the dire African, to Mars, among
Italian Cities, gave the rein,
Impetuous as the flame that runs along
The pines, or Eurus o'er the main.

From that auspicious hour our Youth sustain'd
With better fate the toils of fight;
And Shrines, by Carthaginian rage profan'd,
Again beheld their Gods upright.

And thus said faithless Hannibal at length,
‘Like Stags, the prey of Wolves, are We,
‘Who follow, whom to fly, or, short of strength,
‘Elude by fraud, were victory.

‘The Warriour Race, who to th' Ausonian coast
‘From Ilium, sunk in Argive fires,

101

‘Convey'd their Gods, on Tuscan billows tost,
‘Their Offspring and their aged Sires,

‘Uninjur'd, like the widely-spreading Oak
‘On Algidus with shade embrown'd,
‘Defy the sturdy Steel's repeated stroke,
‘And draw new vigour from the wound.

‘Not baffled Hercules receiv'd a foil
‘More grievous from the sprouting store
‘Of Hydra's heads; no greater Pest the soil
‘Of Thebes or Colchis ever bore.

‘Plung'd in the Deep, more graceful thence they spring,
‘The Sons of dearly-purchas'd fame;
‘Tho' thrown, with vast applause the Victor fling,
‘And Matrons their exploits proclaim.

‘With lofty tidings I shall ne'er again
‘My long-triumphant Carthage hail:
‘Lost, lost, in Asdrubal untimely slain,
‘Our Name's best hope and fortune fail.

The Claudian hands all wonders shall perform,
By Jove's indulgent aid secur'd;
And by sagacious care, to rule the storm
Of well-conducted war, enur'd.

Epigram.

[Without Discretion never boast of Rules]

Without Discretion never boast of Rules,
Superfluous to the Wise, and snares to Fools.

102

Another.

[The help of Cuts, declining Authors seek]

The help of Cuts, declining Authors seek,
As Tradesmen paint their Signs before they break.

Another.

[Would you the snares of Fraud defy]

Would you the snares of Fraud defy;
Trust a Fool's tongue, and Lover's eye;
In Children trust them both together;
But in the squinting Varlet, neither.

A Fable.

A Surgeon, traversing the plain,
Across his road, with loosen'd rein,
A saddled Courser found;
The Rider with his hands display'd,
And neck awry, was near him laid,
Incumbent on the ground.
Our Artist, zealous to fulfil
A work of charity and skill,
To help the Wretch, alights:
This newly broken neck (he cry'd),
Tho' most confoundedly aside,
May yet be set to-rights.
Then, handling the distorted part,
The son of Pæan gave a start,
To hear his Patient snore:
But, when to stretch it he began,
It rous'd at once the sleeping Man;
For he but slept before.

103

No sooner waken'd, than aware
Of what was going forward, Spare
(He said) my shapeless neck;
Which, form'd by Nature thus awry,
(However it offends your eye)
To straiten, were to break.

Moral.

With visions of Utopia fraught,
Or in the school of Plato taught,
Let Politicians prate;
And, arguing where they should obey,
Their skill in surgery display
To set a broken State.
But ancient Forms to recommend,
Let Evils that on Change attend,
Be still before our eyes;
Experience carries it from Rules;
And faults are sooner found by Fools,
Than mended by the Wise.

Prologue to Esther, a Tragedy;

From the French of Monsieur Racine.

[_]

Piety, descending in a Machine, speaks the following Prologue.

From Heav'n descending to this chosen place,

St. Cyr.

I come to visit here its Inmate, Grace.
This is the happy seat, the sure defence
Indulg'd to my Companion, Innocence:

104

And, moulded here by my maternal hand,
A race of rising Saints shall glad the land:
I nourish in their hearts the fruitful seed
Of virtues, to reform the world decreed.
My Patron King, the first of human-kind,
Has to my care this precious pledge consign'd:
Assembled here, before without Support
Or Guide, my Doves from various parts resort:
To shelter them he bid this Palace rise,
Where Plenty, crown'd with Peace, its guests supplies.
This effort of his zeal, Almighty Lord,
To thee devoted, in thy book record,
Where the predestin'd names of Monarchs shine,
Enroll'd among the Bless'd by love divine.
My well-known voice is heard, and thou art mov'd;
For I am Piety, thy best belov'd,
Who offer to thee, on my Champion's part,
The tender breathings of his royal heart:
The zeal that fires him, in the West begun,
Salutes with rival heat the rising sun.
Behold him humbly prostrate, day by day,
His glitt'ring crown beneath thy altar lay,
And, printing kisses on the hallow'd ground,
By that august example pride confound.

A Son, thy gift, I see beside him stand,
Ordain'd to combat, please, obey, command;
And counting it all glory to fulfill,
Victorious as his Sire, his royal will.

105

He waits upon his vows with zeal and care,
And tames the pride of foes to sure despair.
As Angels haste his Rebels to chastise,
So, when his Sov'reign bids, with joy he flies
To lanch the thunder; and, its work complete,
Serenely lays it at his Father's feet.
But while a mighty King asserts my right,
You, who without allay enjoy delight,
With my unblemish'd scenes the Hero please,
If he for them can steal a moment's ease:
Let him in Esther's glorious story see
The Faith triumphant o'er Impiety.
And You, whom fictions with vain joys inspire,
Who doat on dreams, and feel no heav'nly fire,
Whom empty spectacles alone rejoice,
Profanely tir'd with my unwelcome voice,
Fly from a place so holy and austere;
For Truth, and Peace, and God, inhabit here.

106

The Story of Phaeton.

From Ovid's Metamorphoses, the beginning of Book II.

Connexion of the Story with the foregoing Book.

Epaphus, Jupiter's Son by Io, reproaches Phaeton with not being, as be pretended, Son to Phœbus: Phaeton's Mother, Clymene, assures him, that this is a slander, and, for the legitimacy of his Birth, refers him to Phœbus himself, to whom be repairs at the end of the first book.

A lost, on columns, did the Sun unfold
His palace in a blaze of shining gold,
And sparkling gems; with polish'd iv'ry white,
The roof; the double doors, with silver bright:
But more stupendous was the Workman's part;
For Vulcan there had lavish'd all his art:
He drew the spacious Deep, whose waves surround
Th' incircled Earth; th' incircled Earth is crown'd
With Heav'n's blue Concave, its ætherial Bound.
Shrill-sounding Triton, and the watry Reign,
With changeful Proteus, sport along the Main.
Ægeon, on a Whale, o'erlook'd the rest,
And with his bulk the Monster's back oppress'd.
There Doris, and her Daughters; part to ride
On fishes; part appear'd to cleave the tide;
And some on rocks their sea-green tresses dry'd.
Tho' vary'd features did the Sisters grace,
A likeness might be seen in ev'ry face.
Then Earth presents men, cities, beasts, and woods,
Nymphs, rivers, Fauns, and other rural Gods:
High over all, the shining Heav'ns were plac'd;
Each gate with six engraven signs was grac'd.

107

When, climbing by degrees, the Youth had gain'd
The Dome, that his suspected Sire contain'd;
He strove t'approach him; but the blaze of light
Arrests his progress, and forbids his sight.
Array'd in purple, on a regal throne,
With costly Em'ralds grac'd, Apollo shone.
In measur'd periods, rank'd on either hand,
Hours, days, and months, and years, and ages, stand.
Here Spring is seen, with wreaths of Roses bound;
Here Summer with her wheaten Garland crown'd;
Here Autumn, with the juice of Grapes besmear'd;
And hoary Winter, with his Icy beard.
When Phœbus, who both heav'n and earth surveys,
Beheld the daring Youth in deep amaze,
He thus began; What errand brings my Son?
For know, thy birth I never will disown.
O! chearing Spring of universal Light!
(He strait replies) vouchsafe to do me right:
Celestial Sire! if you allow the name,
Nor Clymene, to hide her secret shame,
Would screen her guilt with this exalted claim,
Assert by open proof my heav'nly Race,
And vindicate your Son from foul disgrace.

He spoke: Apollo laid his beams aside,
Bad him approach, embrac'd him, and reply'd;
Nor need I blush a Son like thee to own;
Nor is thy birth from Clymene unknown.

108

To ease thy doubt, by sacred Styx I swear,
The lake by me unseen, to grant whate'er
Thou shalt request. The Youth, without delay,
Requests his Chariot for a single day.
His radiant temples thrice Apollo shook,
And would, too late, his hasty oath revoke:
O! might I but revoke it! this alone,
(He said) this grant I would deny my Son:
But what I can't deny, I may dissuade;
A choice too dang'rous, and too rashly made.
Thy fond desire will prove thy certain fate,
And crush thy feeble youth beneath its weight.
Mortal thy lot, not so is thy design
To undertake what e'en the Gods decline;
Unknowing what befits thee. I the rein
Alone can manage, and the seat maintain:
Nor can the Thunderer, who rules above,
This chariot guide; yet who so great as Jove?
With pain my coursers climb the morning way,
And often from the height of middle day
With terror I the land and sea survey.
But headlong is my ev'ning course, and needs
A steady hand, to curb the fiery steeds.
Ev'n Tethys fears, lest a descent too steep
Precipitate me to her subject Deep.
Add, that the sky in rapid rounds is roll'd,
With stars by its diurnal whirl controul'd.

109

Against it, struggling hard, I drive the day,
And stem the tide that bears the rest away.
Could you the chariot, if I gave it, steer
With steady hands athwart the circling sphere?
Perhaps you may expect delightful woods,
Rich temples there, and palaces of Gods.
Your charge thro' snares and monsters must you force;
Or should you chance to hit the doubtful course,
The horns of Taurus shall your way oppose:
The savage Lion, and th' Hæmonian Bows;
The Scorpion's Claws, and Cancer's, that embrace
An ample those, and these a scantier space.
Nor have you strength the Coursers flaming rage,
Breath'd from the chest, mouth, nostrils, to assuage.
Ev'n I their ardour scarcely can restrain,
When with rebellious necks they stretch the rein:
But you, lest I a fatal Present give,
Ere 'tis too late, retract your wish, and live.
To vouch your parentage, you ask a sign;
I give it, in the fear that speaks you mine.
Look in my face; and, could my heart lie bare,
The Father would be seen engraven there.
For further proof look round you, and survey
The blessings, heav'n, and earth, and sea, display,
And any one is yours; the curse you chuse,
Miscall'd a blessing, I would fain refuse.
Nay, hang not on my neck, mistaken Youth,
As if you question'd my unfailing truth:

110

My oath is sacred, for Styx heard my voice:
Chuse as you please; but make a wiser choice.
Apollo spoke, and vainly ended here.
His daring Son, decreed to persevere,
Was slowly by his ling'ring Father brought,
To mount the car, which Vulcan's art had wrought:
Of gold its axle, and its beam was made,
And gold the wheels circumference display'd;
The spokes were silver, and with jewels bright
The seat of Phœbus flash'd reflected light.
The Youth's admiring eyes the work survey;
When, on the watch to usher in the day,
Aurora open'd wide her purple door,
And scatter'd roses on her orient floor.
Before her vanish night's inferior fires,
Pursu'd by Lucifer, who last retires.
When Phœbus now beheld the op'ning morn,
And fading Cynthia shone with blunted horn,
He bad the nimble Hours his steeds array;
His high command the nimble Hours obey.
The gen'rous steeds, with rich Ambrosia fed,
And snorting flame, from their high stalls they led,
And fit the sounding harness. Then the Sire,
To guard his Offspring from the rapid fire,
A sacred ointment for his visage mix'd,
And on his head the beamy circle fix'd.
With sighs repeated heav'd his anxious breast,
Which its foreboding sorrow thus express'd;

111

Let me at least this one desire obtain;
Forbear the lash, and strongly pull the rein;
The coursers, flying of themselves too fast,
Will ask your utmost strength to check their haste.
Thro' the five zones direct appears the way;
But, if you chuse it, you misguide the day.
Within the middle three obliquely winds
The Zodiac, and my yearly circuit binds:
Worn by my chariot-wheels the track behold
Aloof, at either end, from polar cold:
Be this your choice; and, careful to renew
The heat, to heav'n and earth in measure due,
A path, unhurt by each extreme, pursue.
Too high or low, or heav'n or earth you lay
In ashes; safest is the middle way.
Between the twisted Snake and Altar steer,
To neither, on the right or left, too near:
The rest I leave to Fortune; may she guide,
And better for you, than yourself, provide,
But, while I speak, behold th' Hesperian shore
Involv'd in night; I can delay no more:
Aurora, shining, sheds her fragrant dews;
Snatch up the reins, or rather yet refuse,
And not my chariot, but my counsel, use,
While yet on solid ground secure you tread,
And only wish the seat you ought to dread:
Let me alone dispense the light, which you,
With all the world besides, may safely view.

112

But, deaf to warning, he with youthful heat
Takes quick possession of the chariot-seat,
Rejoic'd to handle the permitted reins,
And with unwelcome thanks his Father pains.

Four horses, pair'd to draw the Solar car,
Breathe sultry flame, and neighing spurn the bar,
Which Tethys open'd to the boundless sky,
Unconscious of her Grandson's destiny.
Releas'd, the clouds they scatter; and the wind,
From the same quarter issuing, leave behind.
The burden lighter than it was before
They scarce can feel; and hear the reins no more.
And as a ship, for want of ballast lost,
On swelling seas unsteadily is tost,
The chariot so was rock'd and leap'd in air,
As if no driver had been seated there.
This when the horses once perceiv'd, they took
Their flight at random, and the road forsook.
The Youth is struck with dread, nor knows the way;
Nor, if he knew it, would the steeds obey.
Then first the Bear perceiv'd the burning rays,
And vainly sought to plunge into the seas;
The Serpent (that beneath the northern pole
Congeal'd in volumes, ne'er was seen to roll,
Nor shoot his venom, nor his head to rear
Thro' the wide compass of the frozen year)
Now felt the parching heats, and rouz'd his train,
And glowing poison shot thro' ev'ry vein,
And slow Boötes fled, and dragg'd his pond'rous wain.

113

The Youth turns pale, from his ætherial way
The globe immense beneath him to survey:
His trembling knees a sudden dread confess,
And darkness veils his eyes with light's excess.
He wishes void of proof his high descent,
His pray'r not granted, nor the chariot lent;
E'en Merops for his fire he now would own;
And like a vessel fares, by Boreas blown,
When by her Pilot (now of help bereft)
To Providence and Pray'r entirely left.

Aghast he views a mighty space behind;
A mightier still before; and measures both in mind.
He now (which he must never reach!) the west
Beholds; and now looks back upon the east:
Nor can he hold, nor yet will loose the rein;
Nor longer does the Coursers names retain.

He sees the various wonders of the sky,
Where forms of savage beasts and monsters lie:
Mark'd by a double bow, there is a place
Where Scorpio's crooked claws and tail embrace,
Of two celestial signs the dreadful space.
Him with his angry sting prepar'd to wound,
And sweating poison, when the Youth had found,
Amaz'd, and chill'd by fear, he dropt the reins:
Soon at they felt them loose upon their manes,
The horses, now uncheck'd, at random fly,
And range without controul the sultry sky:

114

Thro' climes unknown they pass, and wildly stray
Near the fixt stars, and thro' a pathless way;
Now mount aloft, impetuous now descend,
And nearer to the earth their fury bend;
Smoulder the clouds; amazement seiz'd the Moon,
To see her Brother's steeds beneath her own.

The Burnings spread, and catch the higher ground;
Parch'd is the soil, and cleaves in chinks around:
Now Forests blaze in the devouring flame,
And the dry Corn its easy prey became.

This is but small. Towns, cities, nations, burn;
Whole kingdoms perish, and to ashes turn.
Athos and Ida, once for Fountains fam'd,
Cilician Taurus, Tmolus, Oetè flam'd;
And Virgin Helicon, the Muse's boast,
And Hæmus, where her

Orpheus.

Son was after lost.
Flames with redoubled rage from Ætna flow;
Parnassus, Eryx, Othrys, Cynthus, glow,
And Rhodopè, no longer cloath'd in snow:
E'en frozen Scythia the wild waste bewails;
The fiery deluge o'er its ice prevails.
Pindus, and Caucasus, and Ossa, burn;
Cithæron, Dindymè, in ashes mourn;
And Mycalè, and proud Olympus, shine;
Th' aërial Alps, and cloud-capp'd Apennine.

Diffus'd thro' all the globe, at length the flame
The strength and spirits of the Boy o'ercame.

115

The breath he drew was scorching as the fire,
Or steams that boiling furnaces expire:
He felt the chariot kindle in its way,
And drifts of coals and ashes choak'd the day.
Involv'd in pitchy clouds, he hurries on,
Drawn, as the coursers fly, thro' ways unknown.

Then boil'd the blood of Moors, if fame is true;
And thence their skins deriv'd the Negro hue.
Then Libya first, her moisture drain'd away,
A barren, dry, and sultry Desart lay.
The Nymphs of their exhausted urns complain;
Bæotia for her Dircè seeks in vain:
Argos her Amymonè's loss bewails,
And Corinth her Pyrenè's fountain fails.

The Rivers, that in distant regions glide,
In fumes exhale, and sink their wasted tide:
The Tanaïs smokes amid his boiling wave,
Nor can Ismenos his swift motion save:
Wand'ring Mæander feels the spreading blaze
Pursue his stream thro' ev'ry winding maze;
Xanthus, decreed a second time to burn,
Yellow Lycormas and Orontes mourn.
Armenia does Euphrates' loss deplore;
The Ganges, Phasis, and the Danube, roar.
In flames Caïcus, Peneus, Alpheus, roll'd,
And wealthy Tagus with his molten gold.
The Swans, that in Cäyster's waters burn,
With dying notes the common ruin mourn.

116

To the world's bounds the Nile affrighted flies,
And hides his head, where still conceal'd it lies;
From his sev'n mouths th' impetuous torrent sails,
And, where they flow'd, appear sev'n dusty vales.
Th' Hesperian streams, the Rhine, the Rhone, and Po,
And Tyber, promis'd future empire, glow.

The Soil was deeply cleft; and piercing day
Struck Pluto and his Queen with dire dismay.
The Ocean sinks; and, ebbing from the land,
For rolling waves, presents a Waste of sand,
And mountains new discover'd, that increase
The number of the scatter'd Cyclades.
The Fishes dive; nor sportful Dolphins dare
To play upon the flood in open air:
With bellies upward turn'd the Phocæ lay,
Extended on the surface of the sea.
Ev'n Nereus, Doris, and her Daughters, hide
In caverns heated by the boiling tide.
Stern Neptune thrice his arms and face upheld
Above the waves, as oft by flames repell'd.

When Earth survey'd the blazing sea around,
And fountains shrunk within her entrails found,
To lift her all-sustaining face she try'd,
And to her glowing front her hand apply'd,
And with an universal trembling cry'd;
But deeper first within herself retires,
Unequal to the still increasing fires;

117

If such be my offence, and thy decree,
Supreme of Beings, let me fall by thee;
If flames must end me, be thy bolts my doom,
Ennobled by the hand which drives them home:
Scarce can my drought by jaws these accents yield;
(For now the stifling fumes her mouth had fill'd)
Behold my flaming hair, my faded eye,
And my burnt face, where heaps of ruins lie.
Is it for this the crooked plough I bear,
And am with harrows tortur'd all the year?
That grass for cattle daily I produce,
And corn for man, and gums for sacred use?
But, grant me guilty, What is Neptune's fault,
With fires to boil in scanty channels taught?
Why shrinks the Sea, by lot his kingdom, driven
To greater distance from his kindred Heaven?
If not your Brother's, nor my pray'rs are heard,
At least your own celestial orbs regard;
The Poles already smoke; and, if the flame
Should catch them once, down sinks the starry frame.
See, Atlas labours with th' unequal freight,
Scarce able to uphold the glowing weight:
If earth, and sea, and heav'n's high palace fall,
Then ancient Chaos will o'erpow'r us all.
O! quench these flames, ere they too near you come,
And of all nature now avert the doom.
She ends, nor longer can the fumes sustain,
But to th' infernal regions sinks again.

118

Jove then appeals to ev'ry Pow'r above,
And ev'n to him whose Son the chariot drove,
That should he not in time prevent it, all
The frame of nature would to ruin fall.
He mounts the summit of th' ætherial tow'r,
From whence his clouds he draws, the ground to show'r,
And darts his bolts; but show'rs to chear the ground,
And clouds to yield them, could no more be found.
The lightning, pois'd from his right ear, he aims
Full at the Youth, and flames subdues by flames.
The car was shatter'd by th' impetuous stroke;
Back from the reins the frighted horses broke.
The beam, the wheels, the spokes, and axle, lay
At random scatter'd o'er the shining way.

At once from life and from the chariot driven,
Th' ambitious Youth shot headlong down from heaven.
Like some bright star, that glides thro' cloudless air,
Or seems to glide, appears his blazing hair.
Him from his country far the Po receiv'd,
Cleans'd from the gore that to his visage cleav'd.
His Sisters bury'd his Remains, and plac'd
Beneath a stone, with this inscription grac'd,
“Here Phaeton is laid, Apollo's seat
“Who fail'd to keep; but his attempt was great!”

119

Father Francis and Sister Constance.

[_]

Turn'd into Verse, and enlarged from Mr. Addison's Spectator. Vol. II. Num. 164.

Constantia, now a Saint, was heav'nly fair,
Her Sex's Pride, and Theodosius' Care;
Whose Passion told, and by degrees approv'd,
She frown'd, she blush'd, she listen'd and she lov'd.

This Pair, renown'd for Beauty and for Truth,
The fruit of Virtue in the flow'r of Youth,
Awhile the Sweets of young Desire (enjoy'd
In unsuspected Innocence) employ'd:
Successive Years their mutual Ardour nurs'd,
New Charms discover'd, and improv'd the first.

But oh, the fate of Love with Faith profess'd!
So rarely found, and yet more rarely bless'd!
Of noble Ancestry the Lover came,
But, wanting wealth to traffick for the Dame,
Her Father's churlish heart in vain assail'd:
He laugh'd at Titles where Revenues fail'd.

Resolv'd his Daughter's secret soul to try,
Intently on her face he fix'd his eye,
And held her hand—And can it be? he said;
Dares Theodosius hope to share thy bed?
He dares: thy leaping pulse and blushing face
Speak his presumption, and thy own disgrace.
Good Heav'n! what Magic has bewitch'd my Child,
By nothing but Desert and Birth beguil'd?

120

For where's the Boy's estate to balance mine?
Land to match Land; and Coin to heap on Coin?
I pass the feuds between his Sire and Me,
But never can forgive his Poverty.
Have you his Heart? return the worthless Stake,
That only Present he had power to make.
Nay, grant you stood engag'd by solemn vow;
Ev'n there the Learn'd a wise reserve allow:
Fondly 'twas made when none but Him you knew,
And only binds you till a wealthier sue:
By far a wealthier (thank your Father's care)
Soon shall you wed in old Antonio's Heir:
Of gen'rous soul and gentle blood is He,
Predestin'd yours by Fate's unchang'd decree:
Go, learn your duty there, by first obeying Me.
He ceas'd. Constantia, pale, without reply
Receiv'd her doom; as Wretches, loth to die,
When sternly warn'd of Dissolution near,
Resign'd and mute the doleful sentence hear.

But when th' abandon'd Lover, forc'd to part
From Her who long had rul'd his faithful heart,
Heard of a Rival, and the marriage made;
The day ev'n fix'd, nor by the Fair delay'd;
What wit can paint the raving Youth's distress?
Wit cannot paint, and only Love can guess.

By doubtful moons, along the gloomy shade
Of woods, resounding his laments, he stray'd:

121

And ev'ry flood and ev'ry hill bewail
Constantia lost; Constantia ev'ry vale.
To the smooth beach or myrtle as he came,
Carv'd with the fond memorial of his flame,
He stopp'd and kneel'd, and kiss'd Constantia's name.
Stretch'd on the ground he lay in dumb despair;
Then starting furious up, invok'd the Fair,
Or rais'd his eyes to Heav'n, as begging pity there.
Or chas'd her, all in vain, o'er Lawns and Streams,
In visions of affright, and fancy-labouring dreams.

By stealth at length, of ev'ry hope berest,
In dead of night his native home he left.
The news, like Lightning, to Constantia fled,
By message from his Sire on message sped,
To seek him there. And is he gone? she cry'd,
Unknown his way, and dark despair his guide?
For-ever gone! when, to confirm her thought,
These words in writing from the Youth were brought.

Forgive a grief, too artless to endite:
I could not speak, and tremble while I write.
O! my Constantia, how am I distress'd!
Has Theodosius dream'd? and was he bless'd?
Say, can I live, and see your Angel-charms
The right, the treasure, of Another's arms?
O my Constantia! but I must resign:
Yet once I thought, and still must call you mine:
Is it a crime? be witness ev'ry Grove,
Where we no more shall meet, and talk of Love.

122

Ah! cruel memory of past delight!
But soon it will be kind, and kill me quite.
Farewel—be happy—and for me—alas!
Forget that ever Theodosius was.
She read, and fainted. To her aid they ran:
She breath'd at last, and wildly thus began.

Nay, Theodosius, turn; ah! turn thee now:
They forc'd me once: but oh, my Soul! I vow
By all thy wrongs—where art thou? ha! undone!
Self-murder'd!—Mercy! Heav'n! for I had none.
Away! and let me have a vent for grief—
For rage—for blood—nor dare to name relief.
Would ye give That? recall the flying hours,
Give life to clay, and yesterday to flow'rs.
Or, since 'tis past th' irrevocable doom,
Conduct me quickly to my Lover's tomb:
Alas! I rave; for oh! no tomb has he,
A Prey to Wolves more pityless than Me.
Base that I was, and Traitress, to resign,
Dear Theodosius, what was only thine:
For thine, before my Father's hard command,
Thine was my heart by love, by vow my hand.

Then hear, oh hear me, Earth, and Heav'n above;
And chiefly Thou, my poor departed Love:
To Thee, to Thee I call; by Thee I swear,
Low as the dust, and soon to moulder there;
By the dear love of thy unpractis'd Youth,
Its artless transports, and prevailing truth;

123

Ev'n by the love that wing'd thy desp'rate flight
To realms unknown, and everlasting night;
By its last wound, that to my Soul appears
Streaming with blood, as these poor eyes with tears
Shed now too late; by that avenging Pow'r,
At whose dread Altar, in a treach'rous hour,
I yielded to have been profanely sold
An Off'ring to my Father's Idol, Gold;
By all that's holy, dreadful, dear and good,
I'll ne'er become the Purchase of thy blood:
No time shall change me, and no hand shall join:
I was, I am, I will be only thine!

With such sincerity and warmth deny'd,
The hateful project of her Nuptials dy'd.
Mov'd by convenience rather than desire,
The Lover soon was pacify'd; the Sire
Gain'd his chief point, and kept his Hoards entire.

The Widow'd Fair a solemn Mourning kept;
Whole days she fasted, and whole nights she wept;
Till by degrees the storm that toss'd her mind,
Into a melancholy calm declin'd.
Forlorn at first, in penitence and pray'r
She sought for comfort, and she found it there;
Religion stamp'd her sorrow-melting heart;
Inspir'd new longings, and allay'd its smart;
And taught her watry eyes again to shine,
And tun'd her Soul anew to Love Divine;

124

If by resemblance of a flame so chast,
The present Passion might beguile the past.

Thus, bent to travel for eternal day,
She chose a Convent, as the nearest way;
Where contemplation, free from care and noise,
In holy solitude the Soul employs,
To learn Heav'n's laws, and antedate its joys;
To clear and fix our intellectual eye,
And wind devotion up to ecstacy.

Her Sire, who lik'd a maintenance for life,
And deem'd a Nun less costly than a Wife,
Pour'd ready tears, as she her mind reveal'd,
And words like these his inward joy conceal'd.

Now may that Grace, which whispers thee within,
And thus inspires what to withstand were sin,
Arm me with Christian constancy, to bear
The sudden parting from a Child so dear!
Yet when you go, as you, alas! have vow'd,
You'll chuse a Nunnery that's well endow'd.
Lost to the world in a propitious hour,
My Child shall save her Soul—and I her Dow'r,
He softly added. She, as custom taught,
E'er yet Recluse, a Ghostly Father sought,
Her sad, sincere confession to receive,
Her doubts resolve, her agonies relieve;
A Father with distinguish'd Graces crown'd;
And whom she sought, in Theodosius found.

125

Her Theodosius, doom'd for Years to pass
As dead with Her, (and dead to Her he was,
To Her and to the World) by Heav'n inspir'd,
To Convent shades and holy Life retir'd.

For as the Mind, on new pursuits employ'd
In room of lost delights, abhors a Void;
So this fair Soul, deny'd its first desire,
Found a fresh Object to engage its fire;
Wean'd from the world by woe, it fix'd above,
Exalted on the wings of heav'nly love.

Learn'd, holy, wise, of venerable fame,
(But Father Francis was his borrow'd name)
Long had he now the sacred Vestment wore;
And ne'er inquir'd, (for so resolv'd he swore)
Ah! could he ne'er have thought of lost Constantia more!

To Him, in his religious weeds unknown,
(His hooded head was shav'd, and beard o'ergrown)
His dear Constantia made her tender moan:
To Him, her once adoring Slave, she kneel'd,
And in these words her lab'ring soul reveal'd.

If, holy Father, to be here distress'd,
Seals the repenting Soul to heav'nly rest,
There's hope for Me in that immortal state;
For I, alas! am most unfortunate.
O! were That all, I might my tale pursue
Without a blush; but I am guilty too
Excuse these tears: the memory of One,
By too much love, and love of Me, undone,

126

One whom I lov'd;—be witness, Heav'n, how dear—
You seem disturb'd, and I shall tire your ear.
But grief is eas'd by freedom to complain;
Ah wretched freedom! ease indulg'd in vain!
What shall I say? my Father's dire decree
And tyrant duty rent my Love from Me.
Another, then, his hated vows address'd;
To him (but spare my shame, and guess the rest)
I, Coward I consenting to be bound,
Gave my despairing Youth his mortal wound:
For oh! he disappear'd at once; but see
A surer proof, his dying Legacy.
Read, and imagine what that Letter meant,
(A Letter here she gave) the last he sent;
See there how fatal my refusal prov'd!
How much he bore! how tenderly he lov'd!
And oh! if Love, if Pity e'er you felt,
(For You can weep, and You begin to melt)
Let me indulge a grief so justly due:
My Theodosius! as too fond! too true!

In his dear loss my crime at full appear'd;
And think not, can you think I persever'd?
No, Father, no; believe it by the vow
That brings me a devoted Virgin now:
By—shall I add my tears? alas! they flow'd
Ev'n when I poorly broke the Faith I ow'd.
I still unmarry'd have his fate bewail'd:
His pray'rs were fruitless, but his blood prevail'd.

127

In Cloisters now, my days that yet remain
I mean to end; and then I end my pain:
But shall I end it then?—the purging fires,
My guilty, blood-polluted Soul requires,
Flash in my face:—ah! Father, aid me here!
Is there a way on earth to wash me clear,
And make that Spectre Conscience disappear?
What shall I do to see the throne of Grace,
And Mercy shining in my Maker's face?
By daily Penance will I purge my stain,
And pray, and weep, and fast, and pray again:
Poor my attire, and coarse shall be my bread;
The brook my bev'rage, and the ground my bed.

Such is the thorny path to joys above;
But can I share 'em with my perish'd Love?
Or is he sentenc'd to atone the blow
Of black despair by never-ending woe?
Who can believe a forfeit so severe?
Sure, a forsaken Lover's hell is here.

O! for a gleam of hope! (would heav'n impart
So kind a cordial to my fainting heart)
That still, though distant far, in climes unknown,
He drew this vital air, and saw the Sun!
Some Angel then might guide the voice of Fame,
To carry to his ears Constantia's name;
To tell the pangs that for his loss I bore,
Tho' I ne'er saw—I would not see him more:

128

Love, kindling at that Face so dearly known,
Might drive Religion from his ancient throne,
And hold no vows fo binding as his own.

As thus Constantia told her moving tale,
The Father started, and turn'd deadly pale:
In deep attention fix'd, awhile he view'd
The kneeling Fair; a gale of sighs ensu'd,
And tears unbid: And still the more he heard,
By just degrees the swelling grief appear'd,
Till, gushing in a flood, it pour'd adown his beard.
He smote his breast, whence issued, in a croud,
Sobs, murmurs, groans; his head to earth he bow'd,
With trembling shook his seat, and wept aloud.

Then in the broken eloquence of grief,
By starts he gave, or strove to give relief.

Why so o'erwhelm'd with care? have better chear—
Your heart's too tender—he you hold so dear—
I pity from my soul—but Heav'n decreed—
Wrath had its hour, and Mercy must succeed;
More Mercy far than your offence can need:
Tis not so heinous—I pronounce you free—
So may eternal goodness deal by Me.

He could no more. Admonish'd to return
The following day, she left him free to mourn.
Home in the bitterness of soul he went,
When thus conflicting passions found a vent.

What have I done? Constantia faithful still!
Heav'ns, we may mourn, though not dispute your will:

129

How have ye try'd me! had I but delay'd
These weeds I now could tear, the lovely Maid
(Her I have ruin'd too) had then been mine:
O suff'ring Saints! fidelity Divine!
O Love! O Piety! my rending Heart
Obeys ye both; for each will have a part,
Yet neither be suffic'd; but 'twas my fate,
And thus, resign'd, I sink beneath its weight;
Thus, low and grov'ling on the ground, adore,
With heart as humble, Heaven's chastising pow'r.
How happy had I been, if curs'd alone!
But when I think what She has undergone,
The tender, dear, mistaken, martyr'd Fair!
Will she forgive the grief I made her bear?
She will: she, only she, had truth to grieve;
And she alone has goodness to forgive.

Thus pass'd the day, and restless thus the night,
Drawn into mournful length till dawning light;
When sleep unsought return'd with sweet surprize,
In kindlier dews to bathe his weeping eyes.

In sleep his anxious soul pursu'd the theme
That fix'd its waking thoughts, and form'd a dream,
Not idle, wild, or dark as those that, bred
From fuming vapours, croud the sickly head;
Or those the jumbled images create,
That on capricious Fancy's summons wait;
But lively and distinct, the messenger of fates.

130

For, in a grove with fragrant breezes chear'd,
Constantia by a crystal spring appear'd:
The crystal spring receiv'd the tears she shed,
And (bending o'er it as she hung her head,
Propp'd on her hand) reflected him to view,
As nearer still with fancy'd haste he drew
Upstarting pleas'd, with wide-extended arms,
In flowing lawn that thinly veil'd the charms,
Her panting bosom half display'd, she ran,
And weeping, smiling on her Love, began.

O! dearer than the Light I view'd with pain,
Depriv'd of thee, so long desir'd in vain!
O! ever presents to my Mind! from whence
Art thou restor'd to my despairing Sense?
Life of my Life, and balm of Suff'rings past,
O! welcome, welcome to my arms at last.
But, why so chang'd thy form, that scarce I trace
The meagre Relics of my Lover's face?
This Habit too? thy Head devoutly bare?
Ah! frantic sally of unjust despair!
Lay not on my imagin'd change the blame;
For, bate the breaches in this tender frame,
Impair'd by grief for Thee, and I am still the same;
True to the sacred vows, enroll'd above,
Those mutual ties of our once mutual Love.
Why then? ah! why?—but yet we might retrieve,
Would You repent what I can still forgive.

131

Away with these fantastic Weeds, design'd
For the lean body and the brain-sick mind.
Must Youth, like thine, be harrass'd by the Call
Of midnight bells; and pent within a stall?
Can heav'nly Beings sport with human woe?
And curse us with desires we must forego,
Deny'd to taste the blessings they bestow?
Just nature would another story tell;
Hear then her voice, and guard her Franchise well:
For once let Fancy in the least restrain
The lawful freedom Reason should maintain,
And never shall you bound her still increasing reign.
Trust not in pray'r, to plighted faith untrue;
But pity Me, and heav'n may pity You:
Nor urge th' engagement you so rashly past;
The first to Me absolves you from the last.
You thought me false; receive me, free from stain;
The cause is vanish'd, shall th' effect remain?
Behold! behold this unfrequented Grove,
The kind retreat of long-expecting Love:
How fresh the balmy air! how gay the view!
The zephyrs whisper, and the turtles coo:
'Tis Nature's voice; and all her works employ
Their various pow'rs, to court thy Soul to joy.
Haste then to joy, on flow'rs embracing laid;
Haste, ere the flow'rs, our transient emblems, fade:
Yet a few Years, and then thou must resign;
Yet a few hours, and fate may cut thy line:
O! snatch the Blessing now; for only Now is thine!

132

She spoke. The Father eagerly essay'd
Close to his leaping heart to clasp the Maid:
Thrice he essay'd; but thrice the fleeting Fair,
Deluding his embrace, dissolv'd in air.

He almost wak'd with anguish and surprize:
His Angel interpos'd, and seal'd his eyes:
And seeming, as he slept, to gaze around,
Fast by his side again his Love he found.
But now, a figure more divine she took,
A Nun in habit, and a Saint in look:
For through the Veil, before her radiant Face,
A stream of glory, and angelic grace,
Ineffable as Heav'n, from whence it came,
Improv'd her beauty, and refin'd his flame.
In ecstacy he wept; when, lo! a Voice
Cry'd from a bright descending cloud, Rejoice:
Rejoice, ye Lovers, in the Nuptial tie,
Advanc'd by Virtue to your kindred sky.
Here ceas'd the voice, and strait the wond'ring Pair,
Snatch'd on the golden cloud aloft in air,
Disdain'd the less'ning Glofe, and wing'd their flight
Along th' ætherial blue to heav'nly light.
The skies unfolding pour'd a glorious throng;
Angels and Saints, who, stretch'd in order long,
In ranks on either side began the bridal song;
And, as Heav'n's azure circuit echo'd round,
So full the Choir, so lively was the sound,

133

He wak'd; and list'ning lay a while, to hear
The dying notes that chim'd within his ear.

The Vision mann'd his Soul, before dismay'd,
And rally'd all her pow'rs to Virtue's aid:
Soft was his accent, and serene his look,
When the returning Dame he thus bespoke.

Why droops Constantia, when so soon to shine
In hallow'd White, the garb of Love divine!
Trust my experience; You prepare for joy,
Too plenteous not to fill, too pure to cloy.
There was a time when I lamented too,
The son of sorrow, and forlorn like You:
But when, abandon'd to extreme despair,
I fled for Refuge to the house of pray'r,
Retir'd from hopes and fears, from noise and strife,
To taste the calm delights of holy life,
My secret soul unutterably flow'd
With comfort, from the Spring above bestow'd;
And taught the world, no longer now its slave,
To grudge the solid bliss it never gave.
Debarr'd from sight (as Convent laws ordain)
We meet no more: but if, to ease your pain,
My meanness aught by writing can impart,
I promise a sincere and willing heart.
For You my vows shall day by day be made;
My care shall watch you, and my counsel aid,
To reconcile to peace your wounded Soul,
And urge your Christian speed to seize the goal:

134

To nearer view the heav'nly prize display;
Clear the perplex'd, and smooth the rugged way.
Daughter, farewel. Henceforward banish cares;
Heav'n's goodness guide, and prosper all your pray'rs.

They parted; and the next arising Sun
Saw her Profess'd: the ceremony done,
Thus wrote the Father to the new-made Nun.

An Earnest of the comforts that attend
The late performance of your Vow, I send:
Your Theodosius lives: discharge the weight
Of Grief misplac'd on his imagin'd fate.
The Father whom so feelingly you mov'd
With your sad tale of faith, too well approv'd,
That Father is the man whom once you lov'd:
But to succeed to passion pure and true,
As yours has prov'd to Me, and mine to You,
Where could it be but to our Maker, due?
Then lay no more successless Love to heart;
Heav'n pains the worse, to save the better part;
Disposing, as a Father's care requires,
Both to our good, though not to our desires.
In Theodosius let the Lover die;
And Father Francis shall the Friend supply.

Her Abbess brought the note; Constantia knew
The hand, familiar to her former view.
Alarm'd, with trembling haste she read it o'er;
Then wonder'd at her ignorance before:

135

Now she recall'd his face, his mien, his tone;
But most his sorrows might have made him known.
With lifted eyes (her eyes by stealth she dry'd)
She paus'd; then smiling,—'Tis enough! she cry'd:
He lives! he lives! and once again we meet!
Heav'n's ways are wond'rous, and its mercies great:
Happy, too happy, had we met before!
With comfort shall I live, and die with more.

Thus as, when Argive laws refus'd to grace
Those who with equal speed perform'd the race,
The consecrated Garland, hung on high,
Became an Off'ring to the Deity;
So in the course of Love, so fairly run,
Where either was the Prize which neither won,
God claim'd his great Prerogative, to gain
What both so dearly earn'd, but earn'd in vain.

Yet, bound by rules that mutual speech deny'd,
By frequent writing they that want supply'd:
And still the Letters, where they once were wrote,
Preserv'd with care, and with devotion fraught,
Read to the wond'ring Youth, their minds improve,
Wise to convince, affectionate to move;
The fairest Copies of seraphic Love.

But, thus, ere ten revolving Years were past,
A raging fever laid the region waste;
And, like the flames that not the temples spare,
Surpris'd, dissolv'd the consecrated Pair.

136

The Father led the way; but, ere he went,
His benediction to the Sister sent,
In moving language, with his parting breath,
Was brought her with the tidings of his death.

Just on the wing Constantia's Soul appear'd,
When at the news her dying head she rear'd;
A joyful lustre o'er her cheeks it spread,
And kindled into bloom the sickly red;
Then falt'ring, with a faint low voice, she said;

Our course is run; and now for our reward,
Since Grace perform'd what Nature found so hard,
This only boon my last request I make;
'Twill please his Ghost, which I shall soon o'ertake;
And sure it cannot misbecome the vow,
Which, binding but for life, determines now.
We liv'd asunder; but within his tomb
Allow the dust of poor Constantia room.
In that cold bed no new divorce shall move
Me from my Friend; oh! let me say, my Love.

She spoke; nor long her fleeting Spirit stay'd;
But the same glorious day to Heav'n convey'd
The blameless Lover, and the faithful Maid;
At once to claim the Triumph that awaits
Their holy lives, and undivided fates;
While side by side, entomb'd, their Bodies lie,
And Virtuous Fame embalms their Memory.

137

These lines inscrib'd their sacred marble keep;
“O'er this sad Stone, ye fair and pious, weep:
“Here Father Francis, Sister Constance, sleep,
“By flames of chaste desire for Heav'n refin'd;
“And, lovely in their lives, in death they join'd.”

Chess:

Translated from Vida.

A sportive image of the Martial rage,
And war, which two fictitious Monarchs wage,
Their boxen troops, inspir'd by thirst of praise,
And party-colour'd arms, invite my lays.
Th' important strife, unsung by former times,
Record, ye Serian Nymphs, in deathless rimes:
A daringwarmth transports my Soul: 'tis sweet
To tempt untrodden paths with youthful feet:
Vouchsafe, O Goddesses, my steps to guide
O'er barren hills and rocks, till now untry'd;
'Tis yours to point the secret path; from you
Italian Swains the matchless Science drew,
By Scacchis, your illustrious Sister, taught.
When Ocean, gaining Her he long had sought,
Was match'd with Earth, to grace the Nuptial Feast,
Descended Jove, his chief invited Guest,
To Memnon's fields, and Æthiopia's coast,
And in his train the whole celestial Host.

138

With universal shouts the shores around
Of all the wide-extended Sea resound.
Anon (the table of the banquet clear'd)
By order of Oceanus appear'd
A painted Board, the Gods to entertain
With mimic war; for on its chequer'd Plain
Twice thirty Seats and four a Square compose,
Eight multiply'd by eight, in even rows:
A various hue alternately they take,
White intermix'd with black; alike in make;
In compass equal: so diversify'd,
The tortoise raises in its speckled pride
His bending back. The Gods admiring fate,
When Ocean thus began; Behold the fate
Of war in little, on this field of fight,
Where two contending Kings dispute their right,
And adverse Legions with their Martial show
Delight the Nereids in their beds below,
And nations bord'ring on the spacious Main,
When, undisturb'd by winds, its crystal Plain
Betrays the Secrets of the watry Reign.
The Heroes are at hand: he spoke the word,
And heap'd with ready war the destin'd board:
Drawn from an urn, the Pigmy Warriors ape,
In Box by Artists turn'd, the human Shape;
And, match'd in number as in strength, are seen,
One white, another black, of each sixteen.

139

Distinct in form, they vary too in name;
Nor are their pow'rs or offices the same:
For here two Monarchs, pair'd on either side,
Raise their crown'd heads; with each a royal Bride.
Prompt to engage, in Quivers some delight;
Some hors'd, and some on foot, provoke the fight:
And here, for war in India's clime renown'd,
The tow'r-sustaining Elephant is found.
Two neighbour-camps divide the double band;
And front to front in marshal'd ranks they stand.
In Lines the most remote, the Kings appear,
And each, supreme in height, adorns his rear:
Against each other full their seats are fix'd,
Fourth in the lines; and with twice three betwixt
They form a Line across: a seat of white
Holds the black King; of black, his Opposite.
Close by the Kings, the Queens assume their place;
Left of her Lord the white; the black, to grace
Her Hero's better side; and, ere she moves,
A station each of her own hue approves.
In either line the next partitions claim
Two Archers, Areiphili their name,
Belov'd by Mars, to whose distinguish'd care
Belongs the guard of each Imperial Pair:
The Guards inclosing, and the Pairs inclos'd,
Are white and white, to black and black oppos'd.

140

To These, two Knights on either hand succeed,
Each mounted on a white, or sable steed,
His cassock grac'd with gold, with plumes his head.
To close each line, of Elephants a Pair
High on their backs the pond'rous Castle bear.
The foremost Lines their Infantry display;
Eight of a side the King on Queen obey,
To tempt the danger, and begin the day.
Two armies, thus distinguish'd, share the field,
And adverse wings their various colours yield;
Such as our eyes might once again behold,
If Gallia's Offspring, white with Alpine cold,
Should here embattled on the Plain descend,
And Æthiops there their Negro wings extend.

Then Father Ocean thus his theme pursu'd:
Immortal Pow'rs, ye have already view'd
The form of Battle: I must now explain
The Laws that here amid the war obtain,
And with eternal force its rage restrain.
Deny'd in bodies form'd to try their chance,
But one at once alternate they advance:
If first a Black upon the Plain appears,
Against him strait a White his weapon rears.
One common end the Combatants propose,
To hem the Monarch in who heads their foes.
And He, so pent that no Remove is found,
To save his head from some impending wound,

141

Concludes the battle. But ere yet they gain
The well-defended Prize, o'er heaps of slain
A glorious way is clear'd; by turns they yield,
By turns prevail, and thin the painted field.
The Dead are borne away; their empty place
Receives the Conquerors, who there must face
The Friends of the Deceas'd; and, if they meet
Their vow'd revenge unhurt, may thence retreat.

The Foot alone, an easy loss, by law
Of arms, when once advanc'd, can ne'er withdraw.
By proper marches to the field they bend,
And still in various forms of war contend.
The Foot, detach'd the doubtful fight to prove,
Directly forward in a line must move:
Their motions ever to one step are ty'd,
Save that the first allows a double stride:
The method varies, when at hand they strike,
And flank the Foe by stealth, with wounds oblique.
But when the castled Elephants forsake
The wings they close, the war to undertake;
At once from end to end they scour the field;
And, right or left, opposing Warriors yield,
Or forward when they rush, or back again;
But lines directly strait their course constrain:
For only they who bend the bow, by grant
From Mars, can deal the distant death aslant;

142

And always cross the Field the Marksmen claim,
To speed their arrows with unerring aim.
Their various paths of various hue are found;
One treads the white, and one the sable ground:
To these conditions fix'd, their seats they change,
And here and there the whole division range.

Impatient of the curb, the Warrior Horse
Bounds o'er the field with unresisted force:
And with a bending leap he springs amain
A seat, the second from his own, to gain:
White is the goal, if black the starting-place;
For as one colour still begins the race,
Another ends it in a stated space.
But forward, backward, to the left and right,
The Queen, superior to the rest in fight,
Directly, or athwart, the field divides;
But a strait path her manag'd fury guides:
Nor can she mount aloft, and shift her ground,
As does the Horseman with a winding bound:
No bars, no limits, her career restrain,
At will extended o'er the painted Plain,
So neither friend nor foe the pass maintain;
For 'tis to none but to the Steed allow'd,
To force entrenchments, and o'erleap the croud.

Each Monarch, faithful to a trust so great,
With caution tempers his heroic heat:
For all, while he is safe, are bent on fight;
But, broken by his fall, they take their flight:

143

His tardy steps, that rule his People's fate,
His safety favour, and become his state:
Plac'd in the midst the thronging Legions fence
Their darling Leader, at their lives expence;
Receive his wounds, by loyal ardor led,
And pleas'd in death, to guard his sacred head.
He rarely chuses to attack a Foe,
Contented to decline th' impending blow:
But, should ill Stars some Enemy engage,
In close encounter to provoke his rage,
Its dire effects the rash Advent'rer feels;
And certain fate on ev'ry side he deals
To neighb'ring foes; but seldom is he known
To reach their flight; nor are his arrows thrown
Beyond a seat contiguous to his own.
So he advances too, and so retires,
Excepting that his first remove requires
A stride more spacious, when on either hand
He takes the Wing beneath his own command,
And bids its Leader near the Centre stand.
Now view, ye heav'nly Pow'rs, a battle fought
Within these rules, by ancient wisdom taught.

But as, when war the leagues of men divides,
The Pow'rs above espouse their diff'rent sides;
With mutual hate they feed the spreading flame,
And dire contention shakes th' ætherial frame.

144

The Thund'rer, awful, from his throne on high,
(Threats in his mouth, and terror in his eye)
Enjoins the trembling Gods a strict neutrality.
Apollo, then, and Maia's Offspring, fair
And blooming both, he bids for fight prepare:
But then no wings did Mercury convey;
Nor yet had Phœbus learn'd to drive the day,
Lodg'd in his orient Car, along the heav'nly way.
Across his shoulder was his quiver plac'd,
And golden locks his shining temples grac'd.
These only Jove ordains to wage the war;
And due rewards await the Conqueror.
The greater Pow'rs assume their seats; the Band
Of minor Deities around them stand.
But to this sacred law consent the Gods,
That none by words, by gesture, or by nods,
To either Champion shall presume to show
Where he may give, receive, or ward, a blow.

And now the blind award of lots must try
Who first to battle shall his Foe defy:
A post of honour and advantage too,
Which Phœbus for his white Militia drew.
He ponders deeply how to use the grace,
And who shall first explore the middle space.
The Warrior, plac'd before the Queen, at length
Obeys the God's commands with all his strength,
And makes one step of two: with equal force
The swarthy Queen's Forlorn arrests his course.

145

Thus, each to other opposite, they form
The threat'ning front of war's impetuous storm;
In vain it threatens; for the Foot, when found
In one continu'd track, maintain their ground;
But never launch the spear, or give the mutual wound.
The rest, to aid their Friends on either side,
Alternate stretch along the Champain wide;
And short excursions are securely try'd.
Fair was the face of war, nor were they yet
With deadly hate in dreadful combat met;
When he, who from the Blacks his march began,
Through one of equal rank his faulchion ran.
Sidelong he pierc'd the foe, and seiz'd his room;
In vain he seiz'd it; for he shar'd his doom.
Surprising, and surpris'd, he yields his breath;
Nor saw th' avenger of his Brother's death.
The wary Moorish King his danger knew,
And from the middle of his camp withdrew:
Its inmost parts a safe retreat afford;
And close-embody'd Foot surround their Lord.

But sudden now the fierce insulting Knight
From either Army's left renews the fight;
By turns a passage thro' the Foe they clear,
And scatter ruin in their swift career.
The wretched Foot in ev'ry part are slain;
Retire they cannot; and resist in vain;
With noise of trampling Steeds resounds the spacious Plain.

146

But while the Knight, by fierce Apollo led,
With havock of the Foot his fury fed,
To crafty stealth insidious Hermes true,
Contriv'd to execute a higher view.
Against the hostile King he bent his wiles,
And sped the left-hand Knight through adverse files:
Uncheck'd, unpunish'd here and there he pass'd;
He wheel'd, he travers'd, and he fix'd at last.
The station long desir'd his course compleats,
And King and Elephant at once he threats;
Ev'n that huge bulk selected to sustain
The tow'r that on the right o'erlook'd the Plain.
Apollo, warn'd of danger to the State,
Sigh'd for his Elephant's unhappy fate,
Expos'd defenceless to the Sable Knight,
While he remov'd his Monarch to the right:
Cold in his heart he feels the Victor's blade,
And low in dust his glorious schemes are laid;
Nor could a heavier loss the King betide,
But in the fall of his unequal'd Bride.
Yet, Traytor! thou, Apollo cry'd aloud,
Shalt ne'er escape the stroke of vengeance vow'd:
Sternly he cry'd; the trembling Cavalier
Beheld inevitable ruin near;
For thick Battalions here the Wretch inclos'd,
And there the Warrior Dame his Flight oppos'd:
The Warrior Dame his forfeit Life requir'd;
He fell with honour, and with joy expir'd.

147

Lame of a wing, the Whites, with double rage,
Supplying loss of strength, their foes engage.
Such fury fires the Bull, whose better horn
In cruel conflict from his front is torn:
His mortal smart augments his frantic mood;
His neck and sturdy chest are bath'd in blood;
His groans re-echo thro' the bellowing wood.
Apollo thus a loose to vengeance gave;
With death insatiate, and with fury brave:
No scheme directs the fall of friends or foes;
To ruin these, alike he ruins those.

But artful Mercury prolongs the war;
In movements cautious, slow, and regular:
The distant consequence, maturely weigh'd,
His deeper reach in ev'ry stroke display'd:
And oft, as from afar he aim'd a dart,
To pierce the haughty Queen's unguarded heart,
His Foot at hand, abandon'd with design,
Their willing souls, to hide his frauds, resign.
In far-fetch'd sighs the knavish God repents
His seeming blunders, and in words laments.
And now an Archer from his Right, unseen,
His Arrow level'd at Apollo's Queen;
Whose interposing Foot, untaught to scan
The stratagem at first, to move began:
But Venus, pitying so severe a fate,
On Phœbus wink'd, as facing him she sate.

148

The trembling God obey'd the mute command,
And roll'd his eyes around, and stopp'd his hand;
The snare thus found no longer he neglects,
But, snatching back her guard, the Queen protects.
The foe demands her as his lawful prize;
And rocks, and hollow shores repeat his cries:
The jarring Gods with warmth the claim contest;
And thus Apoilo his defence address'd.
As now no law forbids us to amend
A wrong beginning; what can He intend
To mar our pastimes by disputes like these?
But fix the point hereafter as you please;
And let this rule without distinction bind
The Warriors of the black and snowy kind,
That none, advent'ring once to leave his seat,
Tho' not half way advanc'd, shall e'er retreat,
But take the purpos'd post, and wait th' event.
He spoke. Th' Immortals gave their joint consent.

Impartial Jove rebuk'd the Paphian Queen
With stern regards, by Mercury unseen;
Whose ample hand enrag'd could scarce refrain
To jumble in revenge the num'rous train
Of foes and friends at once, and sweep the plain.
But soon he chang'd to cooler thoughts, intent
On all the wicked ways to circumvent.
He bids an Archer lay his Quiver by,
And, wheeling like a Knight, the Queen defy.

149

Apollo mark'd his Adversary's guile,
Turn'd to the Standers-by, and forc'd a smile:
Fallacious God! he cry'd, we own your art;
The nimble hand obeys the naughty heart:
But go, thou vain Impostor; thou art found;
Recall thy Archer from forbidden ground.
With peals of laughter loud the Gods proclaim'd
Detected fraud, and Mercury was sham'd:
Pretending error, to excuse his fault,
The Shooter to his proper place he brought.
Apollo, thus forewarn'd of ev'ry snare,
Regards the twisted finger's play with care,
Lest Hermes, One advancing in his turn,
Another Warrior should by stealth suborn.

And now a Quiver-bearing Youth in white
Address'd his shaft to wound a hostile Knight,
Who watch'd to slay his Queen; in social arms
An Ivory Elephant the Foe alarms
By various marches; in the midst a place
Holds his confed'rate Knight, at once to face
The Monarch and his Queen, by glorious spoils
Secure in fancy to repay his toils.
Deluding fancy! for with zeal to guard
The Queen, an Archer had his Bow prepar'd:
The chosen Infantry with vain effort,
Denouncing swift revenge, the Knight support.

150

The loyal Bowyer, of his death assur'd,
Defy'd the terror, by the praise allur'd.
Pleas'd, ere he died, to kill, his dart he sped
Against the Knight, and fix'd its steely head
Deep in his entrails; tumbled from his seat,
He roll'd, and lash'd the wind with quiv'ring feet.
The Victor's fall a vulgar hand renown'd;
Another vulgar hand reveng'd the wound.
A sharp engagement follows. High in air
The justling Elephants their turrets rear;
Destruction hovers o'er the bended bow,
And groaning earth resents the courser's blow.
The mingling legions, fir'd with mutual rage,
In conflict close, their cluster'd swarms engage.
The leaders and the led, the black and white,
Are blended in the tumult of the fight;
And chance and valour join'd exert their utmost might.
The Victors, who had chas'd their Foes away,
Chas'd in their turn, the changing tide obey.
As when encount'ring winds are loos'd, to keep
Their noisy Revels, and upturn the Deep,
Scourg'd into foam th' Ionian billows roar,
And roll alternate to the crooked shore.

Oppos'd by vanquish'd multitudes in vain,
The fierce white Queen intrepid scour'd the Plain:

151

Advancing to the fight, a Bowyer's throat
She pierc'd; an Elephant, returning, smote.
From wing to wing she launch'd the thund'ring dart:
Sure was her hand; remorseless was her heart.
Thro' shafts, thro' foes she push'd her warm attack;
The shafts were useless, and the foes gave back:
To check her furious course in vain they swarm;
And manly spirits raise her conqu'ring arm,
Eager to cleave their thickest ranks alone,
To mount their inmost trench, and storm the throne.

The gloomy Monarch, and his Clan, dismay'd,
Implore, at length, their own Virago's aid:
Fir'd by the call, impatient to appear,
She springs to stop her Rival Queen's career,
And shakes, with equal force, her ebon spear.
Heroic Amazon! how dire a waste
Of slaughter'd foes thy vengeful weapon grac'd?
And who the first expir'd, and who the last?
The Horse and Infantry of either host
No longer now their speed or firmness boast;
But roll promiscuous o'er the fatal field;
Nor can the Warrior God his Archers shield.

Who can rehearse the carnage of the day?
Or how can song the prostrate Chiefs display?
A dismal havock all the Plain o'erspreads,
With dying Men confus'd, and sprawling Steeds;
For here the white, and there the swarthy Dame
Their pointed weapons at each other aim;

152

Determin'd ne'er to yield till death shall cease
The cruel strife, and give the Vanquish'd peace.

Mean while the two contending Pow'rs divine
Their captive dead on either part confine
In prisons near the camp; and watch with care,
Lest bodies, once bereft of vital air,
Reviv'd, should try again the fortune of the war.
But Mars, to Mercury in friendship ty'd,
And, leaning on Apollo's shoulder, ply'd
His working thoughts the Youth to reinforce
(Would fate allow it) by some new resource.
For this, a Centinel and Archer slain
He rais'd from death, and slurr'd upon the plain,
In jetty arms to front their foes again.
So when Medea's oft repeated spell
Has charm'd the Tyrant Pair that govern Hell,
The Goddess, summon'd by her triple name,
With a false soul erects the lifeless frame;
Breath to its lungs her Magic pow'r supplies,
Speech to its tongue, and light to glad its eyes.
So foul a fraud, by Vulcan found alone,
With loud resentment was to Phœbus shown.
Discover'd as he was, the blood retir'd
From Mars's Cheeks, and rage Apollo's fir'd.
With indignation chaf'd, the King of Gods
Commanded Hermes to withdraw his odds
Of aids, unjustly rais'd; unwove the train
Of false removes; and right prevail'd again.

153

The Leaders now with doubled fury strive,
And both their Queens through flying Squadrons drive.
The female Warriors, drench'd in slaughter, pass'd
Resistless o'er the field, but stopp'd at last;
And each, to guard her King, her Rival fac'd.
A desp'rate push Apollo's Champion made,
And stretch'd on earth her Adversary laid;
But, ah! how dear the fleeting pleasure cost,
When, with her life, the Royal spoils she lost.
Alarm'd on either part, they turn'd their eyes,
To view the falling Queens; and female cries,
And floods of tears, attend their obsequies.
With grief the people croud each royal tent;
The drooping Kings with mutual grief lament.
Alike on Blacks and Whites the tempest driv'n,
With equal loss had equal terror giv'n:
Yet neither side was quite of strength bereft,
But still unbroken a Remainder left.

Apollo's force, to three of vulgar kind,
An Archer, and an Elephant, confin'd,
Was match'd by Mercury, except the want
Of his alone surviving Elephant,
Whose blood had newly stain'd a flying dart,
That pierc'd him from afar, as then, apart
From arms, he loiter'd in the lazy court.
But still a Knight was Mercury's support:
The rest, involv'd in war's disastrous fate,
Had left his swarming Palace desolate.

154

The God with sighs bewails the Nation's fall,
And many a Hero's early funeral
Boils in his bosom; but, untaught to yield,
Though all his hopes are lost, he keeps the field.
The wretched Remnants of Apollo's rage
Require his caution, and his craft, to wage
The war with broken troops, if any chance
Might once again a ruin'd cause advance.
With frequent halts he marches close and slow,
And tries all methods to annoy the Foe.
The Foe triumphant drives his rattling car
With eager speed, and breathes offensive war.
But, oh! the Warriors in disgraceful plight;
And, oh! the Kings, a miserable sight:
The Legions thinn'd reveal the Plains around,
And Courts unpeopled of their Guests are found.

The Monarchs, pierc'd with sorrow for the dead,
With loathing each beheld his widow'd bed:
True to their former loves they both remain;
But cruel Int'rest bids them wed again:
And therefore first the Ruler of the Whites,
To share his bed, the faithful Maids invites,
And dear Companions of his Consort lost;
Who, since her death, their useless Javelins tost
Amid their adverse ranks, and danger scorn'd,
Secure to share the destiny they mourn'd.

155

But first the daring of their souls he try'd,
Resolv'd by proof to chuse a worthy Bride.
Persuasions and commands unite their force,
To speed the Virgins in their glorious course:
For so the system of the war requires,
That she, who to her Monarch's couch aspires,
Unhurt through shafts and enemies must move,
And gain the hostile Emperor's Alcove.

Together to the goal directly press'd
The Maids elate; but she outstripp'd the rest,
Who measur'd on the right the farthest line;
Her tow'ring thoughts the future prize design,
Which hopeless now her fellow Nymphs decline.
Vast is her aim; but glory wings her feet;
And love and empire her reward complete:
Nor does the Negro King her march withstand,
Himself ambitious of the nuptial band.
But on the left, the Maid he means to grace,
In the fourth line begins th' alternate race,
Short of her Rival, by a single pace.
Her dauntless Rival pass'd the way betwixt,
And on the lofty goal her standard fix'd;
And, as her aim atchiev'd bespoke her worth,
The Monarch brought the Crown and Sceptre forth.
Nor was the Chair of the Deceas'd forgot,
And willing Hymen ty'd the solemn knot.

156

With songs of triumph, that ascend the skies,
The Whites from far insult their enemies.

But Hermes wept, and from his swelling breast
With rage and sorrow tore the painted Vest.
His Monarch's Handmaid is deny'd to wed,
Though wanting but a step to mount his bed;
But, ah! in time, unhappy Virgin, stay,
Or for that fatal step thy life shall pay.
Behold an Elephant, in evil hour
Prepar'd to crush thee with his Iv'ry tow'r;
Mark how he guards the hindmost Line's extent,
And fear the death that waits the steep ascent!

Mean while, exulting in her lot, arose
The new-made Queen, and flash'd among her foes;
With Lightning's force she hurls her shafts around,
And echoing skies her loud alarms resound.
With horror the despairing Blacks survey'd
The hateful Visage of the Martial Maid;
And shelter from the gaping earth implor'd,
To shield their heads from her destructive sword.
Her silver arrows with her onset ring,
And flying foes appall'd surround their King.
As when a famish'd Wolf invades the Mead,
Where helpless Herds and scatter'd Heifers feed:
Shock'd at the sight, with murmurs hoarse and loud,
Around their Leader for defence they croud;

157

And Echo, waken'd by the suppliant Drove,
Returns their lowings from the lofty grove.

But, thund'ring on their backs, the Victor Queen
Shifts here and there the battle's vary'd scene.
Her keenest shafts, against the Monarch bent,
In hissing show'rs alarm th' Imperial tent.
And, had she not to better fate been blind,
There was a post by better fate assign'd.
The line was fourth in rank, and white the seat,
Obliquely pointing to the King's retreat.
That avenue possess'd had shut the pass,
And ended with the war the Negro race;
For thence the King, obnoxious to his foe,
Had found no friend to ward the deadly blow.
This Hermes saw; with fear he inly shook;
And, that Apollo might the blot o'erlook,
Urg'd his dispatch in words that nothing meant,
But vainly to amuse, and balk the scent.
Not yet resolv'd? the bold Impostor cry'd,
Forbear henceforward My delay to chide.
What lethargy is this? awake, for shame;
Or do you wait for night, to end the game?
Unwary Phœbus, by these taunts misled,
To spend his fury on a vulgar head,
Miss'd the decisive stroke. A joyful cry
Proclaim'd the nice escape of Mercury.

158

Deriding Phœbus, thus by fraud o'ermatch'd,
The King from danger and despair he snatch'd;
And posted then his willing Knight between
The rescu'd Monarch, and the hostile Queen.
His Rival's Elephant, that aw'd the Maid,
Who now had languish'd long with hope delay'd,
Struck by an arrow next, his Giant bulk display'd.
The huge unwieldy Monster shook the ground,
While Phœbus strove in vain the King to wound.
As much in vain he watch'd the swarthy Dame,
Who reach'd the goal, and soon a Queen became.

And now, rejoicing in his second Love,
Each Rival King with rival vigour strove:
And though alternate hopes and fears prevail,
And fortune pauses o'er the doubtful scale;
Yet with a fetch, familiar to the sly,
Already Hermes claim'd the victory.
Advanc'd in shew beyond misfortune's reach,
Secure his look, and lofty was his speech;
And often, feigning joy, he rais'd his tone,
To slight Apoilo's strength, and boast his own.
Apoll found his drift, and thus begun;
The battle, Youth,, is far from being won:
Insult me then, and wage the war of words,
When conquest triumphs on the Negro swords.
Without delay I dare thee to the Plain,
And trust my hand, to prove thy vaunting vain.

159

With that his ardent Queen, provok'd anew,
Her twanging bow with mad resentment drew.
Resolv'd to win or die on either part,
They rush undaunted on the threat'ning dart.
Dismay, confusion, terror every-where,
And death in all his ghastly forms was there.
They struggled man to man, and breast to breast,
By turns distressing, and by turns distress'd;
And flying now, within their camp they halt,
And chasing then the hostile camp assault;
Their hopes and fears are various fortune's play;
She sooths with hope, and tortures with delay.

Among her thickest foes the swarthy Queen,
With death attending on her lance, was seen;
Her Rival, careless to oppose her wrath,
Surpris'd the Palace by a secret path;
The narrow pass she seiz'd, the guards disarm'd;
The Court beleaguer'd, and the King alarm'd.
But when the Moorish Bride her Lord beheld
Endanger'd thus, by loyal love impell'd,
And hurrying home aghast, she left undone
The ravage so auspiciously begun;
And, at the hazard of Imperial blood,
Her Country's bulwark and her Sovereign's stood.

Apollo here is fated to deplore
A new disaster, worse than all before.

160

The Sable Knight along the Plain advanc'd,
And here and there his gen'rous Courser pranc'd
With bounding fury, and unweary'd haste,
Till that predestin'd seat he gain'd at last,
Where brandish'd high his dusky spear was seen,
Alike impending o'er the King and Queen
Apollo view'd his doom with mute surprize,
And sorrow swell'd his heart and tears his eyes:
Lamenting now his strength entirely lost,
And all his hopes by envious Dæmons cross'd,
He left his happier Rival to rejoice,
Resume his spirit, and exalt his voice.
The Queen, entangled in his fatal toils,
The Horseman smote, and stripp'd of regal Spoils;
But quickly by the Monarch's sword he fell,
Rejoic'd in death to serve his cause so well.

Yet Phœbus perseveres, though all in vain;
For still an Archer of the Martial strain,
And two unwounded of his Foot, remain.
Embolden'd by despair, and brave too late,
They struggle hard to prop a sinking State;
But better aids are wanting, to support
The King, and Champions of another sort.
With rapid Marches the relentless Maid
The spacious circuit of his camp survey'd,
And all its inlets here and there essay'd.
The works, demolish'd by degrees, proclaim
Her matchless force, and her unfailing aim;

161

Till now, the gleanings of her fury gone
Expos'd the King defenceless and alone.
As when Aurora, streak'd with rising light,
Has put the radiant Host of Stars to flight,
By Venus still a glimm'ring beam is cast;
She shines the fairest, and withdraws the last.
No prospect now of victory remains;
But still the Hero King the fight maintains,
Retiring where the Negro ranks disclose
The hopes of refuge in surrounding foes:
For should he reach a place of safety there,
And vainly for the next Remove prepare,
Debarr'd from marching by the hostile host,
The labour then on either side were lost.
And none the conquest, or the praise, could boast.
He therefore, wheeling here and there, retreats
Through desart regions, and through empty seats:
The Tyrant of the Blacks pursu'd the chace,
But still allow'd him room to shift his place:
Quite to his inmost line he push'd the Foe,
And plac'd his Queen to guard the next below:
With awe the wretched Foe her walk declines,
And still the hindmost path his flight confines.
The Victor Monarch then at distance due,
Exulting, nearer yet and nearer drew;
Till heartless now, the vanquish'd King was fix'd,
Oblig'd to front him with a seat betwixt.

162

In haste the wish'd occasion to improve,
The stern Virago seiz'd the line above;
And lodg'd securely, from its farther end,
Confronts the King forbidden to descend.
Then, rising to the stroke with all her might,
She lays him dead, and terminates the fight.
The Gods with loud applause the Victor crown'd;
The Victor's shouts from shore to shore resound:
Apollo with ungen'rous joy he jeers;
Insults his fortune, and derides his tears.
Triumphant thus, by Jove's supreme command
He takes his bless'd reward, the golden Wand;
Freed by whose pow'r, from gloomy Styx retires
The righteous Soul refin'd by purging fires;
It drives the guilty Damn'd to shades beneath;
Commands the dews of sleep, and softens death.
Nor was it long before the pleasing Play,
Taught by the God, to Mortals made its way,
And with Italians first beguil'd the ling'ring day.
For Scacchis, as authentic tales attest,
In days of old by Hermes was compress'd;
The brightest of the Serian Sisters, She
Nor love had known, nor danger could foresee,
As, wand'ring by the River side, she fed
Her Swans with herbage from its oozy bed:
The boxen Warriors then of diff'rent hue,
A Present to her wrongs and beauty due,

163

The God bestow'd, and glorious to behold,
A board of silver interspers'd with gold.
Instructed in its use, she gave her

Scacchia, the Latin word for Chefs.

Name,
And gives it still to crown the sacred Game;
Whose praises, by majestic Rome begun,
O'erspread the Globe, and travel with the Sun:
For so the Serian Maids inspir'd my dream,
While, then a Boy, I sung the Darling theme,
Extended on the bank of their paternal stream.

Bishops.

Rooks.

Check-mate.

Pawns.

Bishops.

Knight.

Castling.

Castled.

Checks.

Check.

A white Pawn.

The black Bishop.

A white Pawn.

A black Pawn; which, with Vida's leave, might have taken the white Knight, and so spared his own Bishop.

Pawn.

His three remaining Pawns.

Inmost Line.

A black Pawn, within a Remove of the Top.

Check'd.

The black Pawn within a Remove from the Top.

Check'd.

A Stall which, according to Vida, makes a drawn Game.

397

The Happy Pair;

Occasioned by the Wedding of the Right Hon. the Lord and Lady Carnarvan, on the 22d of March, 1753.

Thrice happy they, who, fir'd by love sincere,
In early youth begin his fair career;
Ordain'd, like Summer-suns, betimes to rise,
And late descending to the nether skies:
By them with reason, from th' auspicious dawn,
The promise of a cloudless day is drawn;
Unshaken truth the glorious plan prepares,
And Cupid's sweets without his gall are theirs.

Rejoice, ye Virgins, on the nuptial bed
The fragrant growth of Infant-spring to shed;
Nor need ye linger till the Rose is blown,
The blooming Fair has Roses of her own;
Her Lilies too in bleak December blow,
And match the whiteness of their rival Snow.
Well was the clay for such a guest refin'd;
The chrystal case was suited to the mind:
Her thoughts a glory to her looks impart;
Pure is her blood, and speaks as pure a heart.
Let Venus then exert her genial pow'r,
And warm the Bride, and speed the happy hour,
Swift as the wings that bear her Doves aloft,
And as the sighs of longing Lovers, soft;
Tho' still from view Discretion shall exclude
The tedious fondness and the trifling feud;
For, taught a lesson few will understand,
Silent to speak, and yielding to command,

398

They, by good nature with good-humour join'd,
Shall fix their Inmate, sweet Content, refin'd
To bliss without allay, the Sunshine of the mind!

The far-fetch'd golden fleece was Jason's pride,
And Paris bore to Troy the Spartan bride:
A worthier Bridegroom now, by guilt unstain'd,
At home the Beauty and the Gold has gain'd.
Or, were the Beauty and the Gold remov'd,
A Pair so justly loving, and belov'd,
Rich in themselves alone, could never miss
The trappings and excrescencies of bliss.
Let Misers glory in the grov'ling taste
Of pelf, on folly oft and vice misplac'd;
But these, by nature fram'd to judge aright,
Can Fortune's smiles at once deserve and slight:
She asks no Rank but what her Lord confers;
Nor courts he wealth, but as the wealth is hers.

By fond affection led, our hopes to raise,
Long we divin'd what now with joy we praise:
The tender plant a moral bent confess'd,
And by the flow'r the fruit was more than guess'd:
Such gentle manners, and so kind a heart,
From gall and passion free, from vice and art,
But, govern'd still by thought and native sense,
In mingling conduct with benevolence,
To grace the Brother, Son, and Friend conspire;
And promise now the Husband and the Sire:
The Sire! that thought transports us to foresee
A race deriv'd to late posterity:
Our pray'r, ye gracious Pow'rs, with full success
Indulge, and all the friends of virtue bless:
The Kingdom's Genius too asserts his claim,
And souls, elected to superior fame,

399

Demand their birth from such a Pair, to fold
Their nobler Beings in as fine a Mould,
Decreed to lengthen an illustrious Line,
Reform an Age, and make a Nation shine.

We long had triumph'd in a warlike race,
Fruit of the gen'rous love and warm embrace,
Ere Hymen's couch, to sordid views resign'd,
Unnerv'd the body, and debas'd the mind;
Hands without hearts, or hearts debauch'd by sloth,
Too oft have sunk us to a feeble growth;
And pleasure, tainted at the fountain-head,
Has with degen'rate streams the land o'erspread:
But, wise and happy, in a well-weigh'd choice
Carnarvan shall the growing age rejoice;
His nuptial torch, advanc'd by noble birth,
And bright with mutual love and mutual worth,
Like That of Egypt's Pharos, shall extend
Its lustre far, Love's voyage to befriend;
Thro' stormy seas the Nymphs and Swains shall guide,
Clear of the rocks and shelves on either side,
Instructed well the haven to explore,
And timely lighted to the blissful shore.

Epigram, To the Memory of Peter Alexiowitz,

commonly called, Peter the Great, first Emperor of Russia.

Written in March, 1724.

To deck with Arts a rough Barbarian race,
And polish them with ev'ry manly grace;
T'expell the shades of ignorance profound,
And spread the beams of knowledge all around;

400

To brighten and exalt the human soul,
And still consult the welfare of the Whole:
If these be acts more worthy of applause
Than with wild havock, in ambition's cause,
To conquer Kingdoms, to lay waste and burn,
And peaceful States with restless rage o'erturn;
Then Russia's Czar with greater glory reign'd,
Than was by Philip's Son, or Cæsar, gain'd.

436

FINIS.