The Works of Soame Jenyns :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Works of Soame Jenyns

... In Four Volumes. Including Several Pieces Never Before Published. To Which are Prefixed, Short Sketches of the History of the Author's Family, and also of his Life; By Charles Nalson Cole

Jenyns, Soame (1704-1787)

VOL. I.

THE ART OF DANCING.

WRITTEN IN THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF OXFORD's Library at Wimple, An. 1729.

To a NOSEGAY in Pancharilla's Breast.

AN EPISTLE, Written in the Country, TO THE Right Hon. the Lord Lovelace then in Town.

AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE.

THE MODERN FINE GENTLEMAN.

THE MODERN FINE LADY.

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE, IMITATED.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,

TO A LADY IN TOWN,

To a LADY.

To a LADY,

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY,

HORACE, BOOK II. Ode XVI. IMITATED.

HORACE, BOOK IV. Ode VIII. IMITATED.

To the Hon. Miss YORKE,

CHLOE TO STREPHON,

A SONG.

THE CHOICE.

To a YOUNG LADY, GOING TO THE WEST INDIES.

CHLOE ANGLING.

CHLOE HUNTING

ON LUCINDA's RECOVERY FROM THE SMALL-POX.

WRITTEN IN MR. LOCKE's ESSAY ON HUMAN UNDERSTANDING.

WRITTEN IN A LADY's VOLUME OF TRAGEDIES.

A TRANSLATION OF SOME LATIN VERSES ON THE CAMERA OBSCURA.

THE TEMPLE OF VENUS.

On a NOSEGAY IN THE COUNTESS OF COVENTRY'S BREAST.

The 'SQUIRE and the PARSON.

GIVEN TO A LADY

BELPHEGOR, A FABLE.

A DIALOGUE Between the Right Hon. HENRY PELHAM and Madam POPULARITY.

A SIMILE.

A PASSAGE IN OSSIAN VERSIFIED.

On seeing the Earl of CHESTERFIELD at a Ball, at Bath.

THE AMERICAN COACHMAN.

AN ODE.

WROTE AT THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY's ASSEMBLY, 1787.

EPITAPH On Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

ON A LATE EXECRABLE ATTEMPT ON HIS MAJESTY's LIFE, 1786.

II.

VOL. II.

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lvii

I. VOL. I.

THE ART OF DANCING.

A POEM.

Incessu patuit Dea.
Virg.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1728.

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY FANNY FIELDING.

CANTO I.

In the smooth dance to move with graceful mien,
Easy with care, and sprightly tho' serene,
To mark th' instructions echoing strains convey,
And with just steps each tuneful note obey,
I teach; be present, all ye sacred Choir,
Blow the soft flute, and strike the sounding lyre:
When Fielding bids, your kind assistance bring,
And at her feet the lowly tribute fling;

Oh may her eyes (to her this verse is due)
What first themselves inspir'd, vouchsafe to view!

Hail loveliest art! that canst all hearts insnare,
And make the fairest still appear more fair.
Beauty can little execution do,
Unless she borrows half her arms from you;
Few, like Pygmalion, doat on lifeless charms,
Or care to clasp a statue in their arms;
But breasts of flint must melt with fierce desire,
When art and motion wake the sleeping fire:
A Venus drawn by great Apelles' hand,
May for a while our wond'ring eyes command,
But still, tho' form'd with all the pow'rs of art,
The lifeless piece can never warm the heart;
So a fair nymph, perhaps, may please the eye,
Whilst all her beauteous limbs unactive lie,
But when her charms are in the dance display'd,
Then ev'ry heart adores the lovely maid:
This sets her beauty in the fairest light,
And shews each grace in full perfection bright;
Then, as she turns around, from ev'ry part,
Like porcupines, she sends a piercing dart;

In vain, alas! the fond spectator tries
To shun the pleasing dangers of her eyes,
For, Parthian like, she wounds as sure behind,
With flowing curls, and ivory neck reclin'd:
Whether her steps the Minuet's mazes trace,
Or the slow Louvre's more majestic pace,
Whether the Rigadoon employs her care,
Or sprightly Jig displays the nimble fair,
At every step new beauties we explore,
And worship now, what we admir'd before:
So when Æneas in the Tyrian grove,
Fair Venus met, the charming queen of Love,
The beauteous Goddess, whilst unmov'd she stood,
Seem'd some fair nymph, the guardian of the wood;
But when she mov'd, at once her heav'nly mien,
And graceful step confess bright Beauty's queen,
New glories o'er her form each moment rise,
And all the Goddess opens to his eyes.

Now haste, my Muse, pursue thy destin'd way,
What dresses best become the dancer, say,
The rules of dress forget not to impart,
A lesson previous to the dancing art.

The soldier's scarlet glowing from afar,
Shews that his bloody occupation's war;
Whilst the lawn band, beneath a double chin,
As plainly speaks divinity within;
The milk-maid safe thro' driving rains and snows,
Wrapp'd in her cloak, and prop'd on pattens goes;
While the soft Belle immur'd in velvet chair,
Needs but the silken shoe, and trusts her bosom bare:
The woolly drab, and English broad-cloth warm,
Guard well the horseman from the beating storm,
But load the dancer with too great a weight,
And call from ev'ry pore the dewy sweat;
Rather let him his active limbs display
In camblet thin, or glossy paduasoy,
Let no unwieldy pride his shoulders press,
But airy, light, and easy be his dress;
Thin be his yielding sole, and low his heel,
So shall he nimbly bound, and safely wheel.

But let not precepts known my verse prolong,
Precepts which use will better teach than song;
For why should I the gallant spark command,
With clean white gloves to fit his ready hand?

Or in his fob enlivening spirits wear,
And pungent salts to raise the fainting fair?
Or hint, the sword that dangles at his side,
Should from its silken bondage be unty'd?
Why should my lays the youthful tribe advise,
Lest snowy clouds from out their wigs arise:
So shall their partners mourn their laces spoil'd,
And shining silks with greasy powder soil'd?
Nor need I, sure, bid prudent youths beware,
Lest with erected tongues their buckles stare,
The pointed steel shall oft their stockings rend,
And oft th' approaching petticoat offend.

And now, ye youthful Fair, I sing to you,
With pleasing smiles my useful labours view;
For you the silk-worms fine-wrought webs display,
And lab'ring spin their little lives away,
For you bright gems with radiant colours glow,
Fair as the dyes that paint the heav'nly bow,
For you the sea resigns its pearly store,
And earth unlocks her mines of treasur'd ore;
In vain yet nature thus her gifts bestows,
Unless yourselves with art those gifts dispose.

Yet think not, Nymphs, that in the glitt'ring ball,
One form of dress prescrib'd can suit with all;
One brightest shines when wealth and art combine
To make the finish'd piece completely fine;
When least adorn'd, another steals our hearts,
And rich in native beauties, wants not arts;
In some are such resistless graces found,
That in all dresses they are sure to wound;
Their perfect forms all foreign aids despise,
And gems but borrow lustre from their eyes.

Let the fair nymph in whose plump cheeks is seen
A constant blush, be clad in chearful green;
In such a dress the sportive sea-nymphs go;
So in their grassy bed fresh roses blow:
The lass whose skin is like the hazel brown,
With brighter yellow should o'ercome her own;
While maids grown pale with sickness or despair,
The sable's mournful dye should chuse to wear;
So the pale moon still shines with purest light,
Cloath'd in the dusky mantle of the night.

But far from you be all those treach'rous arts,
That wound with painted charms unwary hearts;

Dancing's a touchstone that true beauty tries,
Nor suffers charms that nature's hand denies:
Tho' for a while we may with wonder view
The rosy blush, and skin of lovely hue,
Yet soon the dance will cause the cheeks to glow,
And melt the waxen lips, and neck of snow:
So shine the fields in icy fetters bound,
Whilst frozen gems bespangle all the ground;
Thro' the clear crystal of the glitt'ring snow,
With scarlet dye the blushing hawthorns glow;
O'er all the plains unnumber'd glories rise,
And a new bright creation charms our eyes;
Till Zephyr breathes, then all at once decay
The splendid scenes, their glories fade away,
The fields resign the beauties not their own,
And all their snowy charms run trickling down.

Dare I in such momentous points advise,
I should condemn the hoop's enormous size:
Of ills I speak by long experience found,
Oft' have I trod th' immeasurable round,
And mourn'd my shins bruis'd black with many a wound.

Nor should the tighten'd stays, too straitly lac'd,
In whalebone bondage gall the slender waist;
Nor waving lappets should the dancing Fair,
Nor ruffles edg'd with dangling fringes wear;
Oft will the cobweb ornaments catch hold
On the approaching button rough with gold,
Nor force, nor art can then the bonds divide,
When once th' intangled Gordian knot is ty'd.
So the unhappy pair, by Hymen's power,
Together join'd in some ill-sated hour,
The more they strive their freedom to regain,
The faster binds th' indissoluble chain.

Let each fair maid, who fears to be disgrac'd,
Ever be sure to tie her garters fast,
Lest the loos'd string, amidst the public ball,
A wish'd-for prize to some proud fop should fall,
Who the rich treasure shall triumphant show;
And with warm blushes cause her cheeks to glow.

But yet, (as Fortune by the self-same ways
She humbles many, some delights to raise)
It happen'd once, a fair illustrious dame
By such neglect acquir'd immortal fame.

And hence the radiant Star and Garter blue
Britannia's nobles grace, if fame says true:
Hence still, Plantagenet, thy beauties bloom,
Tho' long since moulder'd in the dusky tomb,
Still thy lost Garter is thy sovereign's care,
And what each royal breast is proud to wear.

But let me now my lovely charge remind,
Lest they forgetful leave their fans behind;
Lay not, ye Fair, the pretty toy aside,
A toy at once display'd, for use and pride,
A wond'rous engine, that, by magic charms,
Cools your own breasts, and ev'ry other's warms.
What daring bard shall e'er attempt to tell
The pow'rs that in this little weapon dwell?
What verse can e'er explain its various parts,
Its num'rous uses, motions, charms, and arts?
Its painted folds, that oft extended wide,
Th' afflicted fair one's blubber'd beauties hide,
When secret sorrows her sad bosom fill,
If Strephon is unkind, or Shock is ill:
Its sticks, on which her eyes dejected pore,
And pointing fingers number o'er and o'er,

When the kind virgin burns with secret shame,
Dies to consent, yet fears to own her flame;
Its shake triumphant, its victorious clap,
Its angry flutter, and its wanton tap?

Forbear, my muse, th' extensive theme to sing,
Nor trust in such a flight thy tender wing;
Rather do you in humble lines proclaim,
From whence this engine took its form and name,
Say from what cause it first deriv'd its birth,
How form'd in heav'n, how thence deduc'd to earth.

Once in Arcadia, that fam'd seat of love,
There liv'd a nymph the pride of all the grove,
A lovely nymph, adorn'd with ev'ry grace,
An easy shape, and sweetly-blooming face;
Fanny the damsel's name, as chaste as fair,
Each virgin's envy, and each swain's despair;
To charm her ear the rival shepherds sing,
Blow the soft flute, and wake the trembling string,
For her they leave their wand'ring flocks to rove,
Whilst Fanny's name resounds thro' ev'ry grove,
And spreads on ev'ry tree, inclos'd in knots of love,

As Fielding's now, her eyes all hearts inflame,
Like her in beauty, as alike in name.

'Twas when the summer sun now mounted high,
With fiercer beams had scorch'd the glowing sky,
Beneath the covert of a cooling shade,
To shun the heat, this lovely nymph was laid;
The sultry weather o'er her cheeks had spread
A blush, that added to their native red,
And her fair breast as polish'd marble white,
Was half conceal'd, and half expos'd to sight:
Æolus the mighty God, whom winds obey,
Observ'd the beauteous maid, as thus she lay;
O'er all her charms he gaz'd with fond delight,
And suck'd in poison at the dangerous sight;
He sighs, he burns; at last declares his pain,
But still he sighs, and still he wooes in vain;
The cruel nymph, regardless of his moan,
Minds not his flame, uneasy with her own;
But still complains, that he who rul'd the air
Would not command one Zephyr to repair
Around her face, nor gentle breeze to play
Thro' the dark glade, to cool the sultry day;

By love incited, and the hopes of joy,
Th' ingenious God contriv'd this pretty toy,
With gales incessant to relieve her flame;
And call'd it Fan, from lovely Fanny's name.

CANTO II.

Now see prepar'd to lead the sprightly dance,
The lovely nymphs, and well-dress'd youths advance;
The spacious room receives each jovial guest,
And the floor shakes with pleasing weight opprest:
Thick rang'd on ev'ry side, with various dyes
The fair in glossy silks our sight surprize;
So, in a garden bath'd with genial show'rs,
A thousand sorts of variegated flow'rs,
Jonquils, carnations, pinks, and tulips rise,
And in a gay confusion charm our eyes.
High o'er their heads, with num'rous candles bright,
Large sconces shed their sparkling beams of light,
Their sparkling beams, that still more brightly glow
Reflected back from gems, and eyes below:
Unnumber'd fans to cool the crowded fair,
With breathing Zephyrs move the circling air;
The sprightly fiddle, and the sounding lyre,
Each youthful breast with gen'rous warmth inspire;

Fraught with all joys the blissful moments fly,
Whilst music melts the ear, and beauty charms the eye.

Now let the youth, to whose superior place
It first belongs the splendid ball to grace,
With humble bow, and ready hand prepare,
Forth from the crowd to lead his chosen Fair;
The Fair shall not his kind request deny,
But to the pleasing toil with equal ardour fly.

But stay, rash pair, nor yet untaught advance,
First hear the muse, ere you attempt to dance:
By art directed o'er the foaming tide,
Secure from rocks the painted vessels glide;
By art the chariot scours the dusty plain,
Springs at the whip, and hears the strait'ning rein;
To art our bodies must obedient prove,
If e'er we hope with graceful ease to move.

Long was the dancing art unfixt, and free,
Hence lost in error, and uncertainty;
No precepts did it mind, or rules obey,
But ev'ry master taught a different way;

Hence ere each new-born dance was fully try'd,
The lovely product ev'n in blooming dy'd;
Thro' various hands in wild confusion tost,
Its steps were alter'd, and its beauties lost;
Till Fuillet, the pride of Gallia, rose,
And did the dance in characters compose;
Each lovely grace by certain marks he taught,
And ev'ry step in lasting volumes wrote:
Hence o'er the world this pleasing art shall spread,
And ev'ry dance in ev'ry clime be read,
By distant masters shall each step be seen,
Tho' mountains rise, and oceans roar between;
Hence with her sister arts, shall dancing claim
An equal right to universal fame;
And Isaac's rigadoon shall live as long,
As Raphael's painting, or as Virgil's song.

Wise Nature ever, with a prudent hand,
Dispenses various gifts to ev'ry land;
To ev'ry nation frugally imparts
A genius fit for some peculiar arts;

To trade the Dutch incline, the Swiss to arms,
Music and verse are soft Italia's charms;
Britannia justly glories to have found
Lands unexplor'd, and sail'd the globe around;
But none will sure presume to rival France,
Whether she forms or executes the dance;
To her exalted genius 'tis we owe
The sprightly Rigadoon and Louvre slow,
The Borée, and Courant unpractis'd long,
Th' immortal Minuet, and smooth Bretagne,
With all those dances of illustrious fame,
Which from their native country take their name;
With these let ev'ry ball be first begun,
Nor country dance intrude till these are done.

Each cautious bard, ere he attempts to sing,
First gently flutt'ring tries his tender wing;
And if he finds that with uncommon fire
The Muses all his raptur'd soul inspire,
At once to heav'n he soars in lofty odes,
And sings alone of heroes and of gods;

But if he trembling fears a flight so high,
He then descends to softer elegy;
And if in elegy he can't succeed,
In past'ral he may tune the oaten reed:
So should the dancer, ere he tries to move,
With care his strength, his weight and genius prove;
Then, if he finds kind Nature's gifts impart
Endowments proper for the dancing art,
If in himself he feels together join'd,
An active body and ambitious mind,
In nimble Rigadoons he may advance,
Or in the Louvre's slow majestic dance;
If these he fears to reach, with easy pace
Let him the Minuet's circling mazes trace:
Is this too hard? this too let him forbear,
And to the country dance confine his care.

Would you in dancing ev'ry fault avoid,
To keep true time be first your thoughts employ'd;
All other errors they in vain shall mend,
Who in this one important point offend;
For this, when now united hand in hand
Eager to start the youthful couple stand,

Let them a while their nimble feet restrain,
And with soft taps beat time to ev'ry strain:
So for the race prepar'd two coursers stand,
And with impatient pawings spurn the sand.

In vain a master shall employ his care,
Where nature has once fix'd a clumsy air;
Rather let such, to country sports confin'd,
Pursue the flying hare or tim'rous hind:
Nor yet, while I the rural 'squire despise,
A mien effeminate would I advise:
With equal scorn I would the fop deride,
Nor let him dance,—but on the woman's side.

And you, fair Nymphs, avoid with equal care
A stupid dullness, and a coquet air;
Neither with eyes, that ever love the ground,
Asleep, like spinning tops, run round and round,
Nor yet with giddy looks and wanton pride,
Stare all around, and skip from side to side.

True dancing, like true wit, is best exprest
By nature only to advantage drest;
'Tis not a nimble bound, or caper high,
That can pretend to please a curious eye,

Good judges no such tumblers tricks regard
Or think them beautiful, because they're hard.

'Tis not enough that ev'ry stander-by
No glaring errors in your steps can spy,
The dance and music must so nicely meet,
Each note should seem an echo to your feet;
A nameless grace must in each movement dwell,
Which words can ne'er express, or precepts tell,
Not to he taught, but ever to be seen
In Flavia's air, and Chloe's easy mien;
'Tis such an air that makes her thousands fall,
When Fielding dances at a birthnight ball;
Smooth as Camilla she skims o'er the plain,
And flies like her thro' crowds of heroes slain.

Now when the Minuet oft repeated o'er,
(Like all terrestrial joys) can please no more,
And ev'ry nymph, refusing to expand
Her charms, declines the circulating hand;
Then let the jovial Country-dance begin,
And the loud fiddles call each straggler in:
But ere they come, permit me to disclose,
How first, as legends tell, this pastime rose.

In ancient times (such times are now no more)
When Albion's crown illustrious Arthur wore,
In some fair op'ning glade, each summer's night,
Where the pale moon diffus'd her silver light,
On the soft carpet of a grassy field,
The sporting Fairies their assemblies held:
Some lightly tripping with their pigmy queen,
In circling ringlets mark'd the level green,
Some with soft notes bade mellow pipes resound,
And music warble thro' the groves around;
Oft lonely shepherds by the forest side,
Belated peasants oft their revels spy'd,
And home returning o'er their nut-brown ale,
Their guests diverted with the wond'rous tale.
Instructed hence, throughout the British isle,
And fond to imitate the pleasing toil,
Round where the trembling may-pole fix'd on high,
Uplifts its flow'ry honours to the sky,
The ruddy maids and sun-burnt swains resort,
And practise ev'ry night the lovely sport;
On ev'ry side Æolian artists stand,
Whose active elbows swelling winds command;

The swelling winds harmonious pipes inspire,
And blow in ev'ry breast a gen'rous fire.

Thus taught, at first the Country-dance began,
And hence to cities and to courts it ran;
Succeeding ages did in time impart
Various improvements to the lovely art;
From fields and groves to palaces remov'd,
Great ones the pleasing exercise approv'd:
Hence the loud fiddle, and shrill trumpet's sounds,
Are made companions of the dancer's bounds;
Hence gems and silks, brocades and ribbons join,
To make the ball with perfect lustre shine.

So rude at first the Tragic muse appear'd,
Her voice alone by rustic rabble heard,
Where twisting trees a cooling arbour made,
The pleas'd spectators sat beneath the shade;
The homely stage with rushes green was strew'd,
And in a cart the strolling actors rode:
Till time at length improv'd the great design,
And bade the scenes with painted landskips shine;
Then art did all the bright machines dispose,
And theatres of Parian marble rose,

Then mimic thunder shook the canvas sky,
And Gods descended from their tow'rs on high.

With caution now let ev'ry youth prepare
To chuse a partner from the mingled Fair;
Vain wou'd be here th' instructing Muse's voice,
If she pretended to direct his choice:
Beauty alone by fancy is exprest,
And charms in diff'rent forms each diff'rent breast;
A snowy skin this am'rous youth admires,
Whilst nut-brown cheeks another's bosom fires,
Small waists, and slender limbs some hearts insnare,
Whilst others love the more substantial Fair.

But let not outward charms your judgment sway,
Your reason rather than your eyes obey,
And in the dance as in the marriage noose,
Rather for merit, than for beauty, choose:
Be her your choice, who knows with perfect skill
When she should move, and when she should be still,
Who uninstructed can perform her share,
And kindly half the pleasing burthen bear.
Unhappy is that hopeless wretch's fate,
Who, fetter'd in the matrimonial state

With a poor, simple, unexperienc'd wife,
Is forc'd to lead the tedious dance of life;
And such is his, with such a partner join'd,
A moving puppet, but without a mind:
Still must his hand be pointing out the way,
Yet ne'er can teach so fast as she can stray;
Beneath her follies he must ever groan,
And ever blush for errors not his own.

But now behold united hand in hand,
Rang'd on each side, the well-pair'd couples stand!
Each youthful bosom beating with delight,
Waits the brisk signal for the pleasing sight;
While lovely eyes, that flash unusual rays,
And snowy bosoms pull'd above the stays,
Quick busy hands, and bridling heads declare
The fond impatience of the starting Fair.
And see, the sprightly dance is now begun!
Now here, now there the giddy maze they run,
Now with slow steps they pace the circling ring,
Now all confus'd, too swift for sight they spring:
So, in a wheel with rapid fury tost,
The undistinguish'd spokes are in the motion lost.

The dancer here no more requires a Guide,
To no strict steps his nimble feet are ty'd,
The Muse's precepts here would useless be,
Where all is fancy'd, unconfin'd, and free;
Let him but to the music's voice attend,
By this instructed he can ne'er offend;
If to his share it falls the dance to lead,
In well-known paths he may be sure to tread;
If others lead let him their motions view,
And in their steps the winding maze pursue.

In every Country-dance a serious mind,
Turn'd for reflection, can a moral find,
In Hunt-the-Squirrel thus the nymph we view,
Seeks when we fly, but flies when we pursue:
Thus in round-dances where our partners change,
And unconfin'd from Fair to Fair we range,
As soon as one from his own consort flies,
Another seizes on the lovely prize;
A while the fav'rite youth enjoys her charms,
Till the next comer steals her from his arms,
New ones succeed, the last is still her care;
How true an emblem of th' inconstant Fair!

Where can philosophers, and sages wise,
Who read the curious volumes of the skies,
A model more exact than dancing name
Of the creation's universal frame?
Where worlds unnumber'd o'er th' ætherial way,
In a bright regular confusion stray;
Now here, now there they whirl along the sky,
Now near approach, and now far distant fly,
Now meet in the same order they begun,
And then the great celestial dance is done.

Where can the Mor'list find a juster plan
Of the vain labours, and the life of man?
A while thro' justling crowds we toil and sweat,
And eagerly pursue we know not what,
Then when our trifling short-liv'd race is run,
Quite tir'd sit down, just where we first begun.

Tho' to your arms kind fate's indulgent care
Has giv'n a partner exquisitely fair,
Let not her charms so much engage your heart,
That you neglect the skilful dancer's part;
Be not, when you the tuneful notes should hear,
Still whisp'ring idle prattle in her ear;

When you should be employ'd, be not at play,
Nor for your joys all others steps delay;
But when the finish'd dance you once have done,
And with applause thro' ev'ry couple run,
There rest a while; there snatch the fleeting bliss,
The tender whisper, and the balmy kiss;
Each secret wish, each softer hope confess,
And her moist palm with eager fingers press;
With smiles the Fair shall hear your warm desires,
When music melts her soul, and dancing fires.

Thus mix'd with love, the pleasing toil pursue,
Till the unwelcome morn appears in view;
Then, when approaching day its beams displays,
And the dull candles shine with fainter rays,
Then, when the sun just rises o'er the deep,
And each bright eye is almost set in sleep,
With ready hand obsequious youths prepare
Safe to her coach to lead each chosen Fair,
And guard her from the morn's inclement air:
Let a warm hood enwrap her lovely head,
And o'er her neck a handkerchief be spread,

Around her shoulders let this arm be cast,
Whilst that from cold defends her slender waist;
With kisses warm her balmy lips shall glow,
Unchill'd by nightly damps or wintry snow,
While gen'rous white-wine, mull'd with ginger warm,
Safely protects her inward frame from harm.

But ever let my lovely pupils fear
To chill their mantling blood with cold small-beer,
Ah, thoughtless Fair! the tempting draught refuse,
When thus forewarn'd by my experienc'd Muse:
Let the sad consequence your thoughts employ,
Nor hazard future pains, for present joy;
Destruction lurks within the pois'nous dose,
A fatal fever, or a pimpled nose.

Thus thro' each precept of the dancing art
The Muse has play'd the kind instructor's part,
Thro' ev'ry maze her pupils she has led,
And pointed out the surest paths to tread;
No more remains; no more the goddess sings,
But drops her pinions, and unfurls her wings;
On downy beds the weary'd dancers lie,
And sleep's silk cords tie down each drowsy eye,

Delightful dreams their pleasing sports restore,
And ev'n in sleep they seem to dance once more.

And now the work completely finish'd lies,
Which the devouring teeth of time defies;
Whilst birds in air, or fish in streams we find,
Or damsels fret with aged partners join'd;
As long as nymphs shall with attentive ear
A fiddle rather than a sermon hear:
So long the brightest eyes shall oft peruse
These useful lines of my instructive muse;
Each belle shall wear them wrote upon her fan,
And each bright beau shall read them—if he can.

WRITTEN IN THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF OXFORD's Library at Wimple, An. 1729.

Who, uninspir'd, can tread this sacred ground,
With all the sons of Fame encompass'd round?
Where, crown'd with wreaths of ever-verdant bays,
Each sister Art her willing charms displays:

Mellow'd by time, here beauteous paintings glow,
There marble busts illustrious faces show:
And in old coins are little heroes seen,
With venerable rust of ages green:
Around, unwounded by the teeth of age,
By Gothick fire, and Persecution's rage,
Perfect and fair unnumber'd volumes stand,
By Providence preserv'd for Oxford's hand.

Whilst thus within these magic walls I stray,
At once all climes and ages I survey:
On Fancy's wings I fly from shore to shore,
Recall past time, and live whole æras o'er:
Converse with heroes fam'd in ancient song,
And bards, by whom those heroes breathe so long:
Observe the quick migrations Learning makes,
How harrass'd nations trembling she forsakes,
And hastes away to build her downy nest
In happier climes, with peace and plenty blest.

See how, in fam'd Augustus' golden days,
Wit triumphs, crown'd with universal praise!
Approaches thrones with a majestic air,
The Prince's mistress, and the Statesman's care

Mecænas shines in ev'ry classic page,
Mecænas, once the Harley of his age.
Nor with less glory she her charms display'd,
In Albion once when Royal Anna sway'd.
See Oxford smiles! and all the tuneful train,
In his Britannia's sons revive again;
Prior, like Horace, strikes the sounding strings,
And in harmonious Pope once more great Maro sings.

Again she waves her pinions to be gone,
And only hopes protection from his son:
Chas'd from the senate and the court she flies,
There craft and party zeal her place supplies.
Yet still, since fix'd in Wimple's happy plain,
(Her last retreat) she knows not to complain.
There in great Oxford's converse does engage
Th' instructed ear, and shames a vicious age;
Or in his consort's accents stands confest,
And charms with graceful ease each list'ning guest;
Or with her lov'd companions gladly tied,
Goodness sincere, and Beauty void of pride,
Fixes her throne in Margaretta's face,
And from her lips acquires a new resistless grace.

To a NOSEGAY in Pancharilla's Breast.

WRITTEN IN 1729.

Must you alone then, happy flow'rs,
Ye short-liv'd sons of vernal show'rs,
Must you alone be still thus blest,
And dwell in Pancharilla's breast?
Oh would the Gods but hear my pray'r,
To change my form and place me there!
I should not sure so quickly die,
I shou'd not so unactive lie;
But ever wand'ring to and fro,
From this to that fair ball of snow,
Enjoy ten thousand thousand blisses
And print on each ten thousand kisses.

Nor would I thus the task give o'er;
Curious new secrets to explore,
I'd never rest till I had found
Which globe was softest, which most round—
Which was most yielding, smooth, and white,
Or the left bosom or the right;
Which was the warmest, easiest bed,
And which was tip'd with purest red.

Nor cou'd I leave the beauteous scene,
Till I had trac'd the path between,
That milky way so smooth and even,
That promises to lead to heav'n:
Lower and lower I'd descend,
To find where it at last wou'd end;
Till fully blest I'd wand'ring rove
O'er all the fragrant Cyprian grove.

But ah! those wishes all are vain,
The fair one triumphs in my pain;
To flow'rs that know not to be blest,
The nymph unveils her snowy breast;
While to her slave's desiring eyes,
The heav'nly prospect she denies:

Too cruel fate, too cruel Fair,
To place a senseless nosegay there,
And yet refuse my lips the bliss
To taste one dear transporting kiss.

AN EPISTLE, Written in the Country, TO THE Right Hon. the Lord Lovelace then in Town.

September, 1735.

In days, my Lord, when mother Time,
Tho' now grown old, was in her prime,
When Saturn first began to rule,
And Jove was hardly come from school,
How happy was a country life!
How free from wickedness and strife!

Then each man liv'd upon his farm,
And thought and did no mortal harm;
On mossy banks fair virgins slept,
As harmless as the flocks they kept;
Then love was all they had to do,
And nymphs were chaste, and swains were true.

But now, whatever poets write,
'Tis sure the case is alter'd quite,
Virtue no more in rural plains,
Or innocence, or peace remains;
But vice is in the cottage found,
And country girls are oft unsound;
Fierce party rage each village fires,
With wars of justices and 'squires;
Attorneys, for a barley-straw,
Whole ages hamper folks in law,
And ev'ry neighbour's in a flame
About their rates, or tythes, or game:
Some quarrel for their hares and pigeons,
And some for diff'rence in religions:
Some hold their parson the best preacher,
The tinker some a better teacher;

These, to the church they fight for strangers,
Have faith in nothing but her dangers;
While those, a more believing people,
Can swallow all things—but a steeple.

But I, my Lord, who, as you know,
Care little how these matters go,
And equally detest the strife
And usual joys of country life,
Have by good fortune little share
Of its diversions, or its care;
For seldom I with 'squires unite,
Who hunt all day and drink all night;
Nor reckon wonderful inviting,
A quarter-sessions, or cock-fighting.
But then no farm I occupy,
With sheep to rot, and cows to die:
Nor rage I much, or much despair,
Tho' in my hedge I find a snare;
Nor view I, with due admiration,
All the high honours here in fashion;
The great commissions of the quorum,
Terrors to all who come before 'em;

Militia scarlet edg'd with gold,
Or the white staff high sheriffs hold;
The representative's caressing,
The judge's bow, the bishop's blessing;
Nor can I for my soul delight
In the dull feast of neighb'ring knight,
Who, if you send three days before,
In white gloves meets you at the door,
With superfluity of breeding
First makes you sick, and then with feeding:
Or if, with ceremony cloy'd,
You would next time such plagues avoid,
And visit without previous notice,
John, John, a coach!—I can't think who 'tis,
My lady cries, who spies your coach,
Ere you the avenue approach;
Lord, how unlucky!—washing day!
And all the men are in the hay!
Entrance to gain is something hard,
The dogs all bark, the gates are barr'd;
The yard's with lines of linen cross'd,
The hall door's lock'd, the key is lost;

These difficulties all o'ercome,
We reach at length the drawing-room;
Then there's such trampling over-head,
Madam, you'd swear, was brought to bed;
Miss in a hurry bursts her lock,
To get clean sleeves to hide her smock;
The servants run, the pewter clatters,
My lady dresses, calls, and chatters;
The cook-maid raves for want of butter,
Pigs squeak, fowls scream, and green geese flutter.
Now after three hours tedious waiting,
On all our neighbours faults debating,
And having nine times view'd the garden,
In which there's nothing worth a farthing,
In comes my lady, and the pudden:
You will excuse, sir,—on a sudden—
Then, that we may have four and four,
The bacon, fowls, and collyflow'r
Their ancient unity divide,
The top one graces, one each side;
And by and by, the second course
Comes lagging like a distanc'd horse;

A salver then to church and king,
The butler sweats, the glasses ring;
The cloth remov'd, the toasts go round,
Bawdy and politics abound;
And as the knight more tipsy waxes,
We damn all ministers and taxes.
At last the ruddy sun quite sunk,
The coachman tolerably drunk,
Whirling o'er hillocks, ruts, and stones,
Enough to dislocate one's bones,
We home return, a wond'rous token
Of Heaven's kind care, with limbs unbroken.
Afflict us not, ye Gods, tho' sinners,
With many days like this, or dinners!

But if civilities thus teaze me,
Nor business, nor diversions please me:
You'll ask, my Lord, how time I spend?
I answer, with a book or friend:
The circulating hours dividing
'Twixt reading, walking, eating, riding
But books are still my highest joy,
These earliest please, and latest cloy.

Sometimes o'er distant climes I stray,
By guides experienc'd taught the way;
The wonders of each region view,
From frozen Lapland to Peru;
Bound o'er rough seas, and mountains bare,
Yet ne'er forsake my elbow chair.
Sometimes some fam'd historian's pen
Recalls past ages back agen,
Where all I see, thro' ev'ry page,
Is but how men, with senseless rage,
Each other rob, destroy, and burn,
To serve a priest's, or statesman's turn;
Tho' loaded with a diff'rent aim,
Yet always asses much the same.
Sometimes I view with much delight,
Divines their holy game-cocks fight;
Here faith and works, at variance set,
Strive hard who shall the vict'ry get;
Presbytery and episcopacy
They fight so long, it would amaze ye:
Here free-will holds a fierce dispute
With reprobation absolute;

There sense kicks transubstantiation,
And reason pecks at revelation.
With learned Newton now I fly
O'er all the rolling orbs on high,
Visit new worlds, and for a minute
This old one scorn, and all that's in it:
And now with lab'ring Boyle I trace
Nature through ev'ry winding maze,
The latent qualities admire
Of vapours, water, air, and fire:
With pleasing admiration see
Matter's surprising subtilty;
As how the smallest lamp displays,
For miles around, it's scatter'd rays;
Or how (the case still more t'explain)
A fart, that weighs not half a grain,
The atmosphere will oft perfume
Of a whole spacious drawing-room.

Sometimes I pass a whole long day
In happy indolence away,
In fondly meditating o'er
Past pleasures, and in hoping more:

Or wander thro' the fields and woods,
And gardens bath'd in circling floods,
There blooming flowers with rapture view,
And sparkling gems of morning dew,
Whence in my mind ideas rise
Of Cælia's cheeks, and Chloe's eyes.

'Tis thus, my Lord, I free from strife
Spend an inglorious country life;
These are the joys I still pursue,
When absent from the town and you;
Thus pass long summer suns away,
Busily idle, calmly gay:
Nor great, nor mean, nor rich, nor poor,
Not having much, nor wishing more;
Except that you, when weary grown
Of all the follies of the town,
And seeing, in all public places,
The same vain fops and painted faces,
Would sometimes kindly condescend
To visit a dull country friend:
Here you'll be ever sure to meet
A hearty welcome tho' no treat,

One who has nothing else to do,
But to divert himself and you:
A house, where quiet guards the door,
No rural wits smoke, drink, and roar,
Choice books, safe horses, wholesome liquor,
Clean girls, backgammon, and the vicar.

AN ESSAY ON VIRTUE.

Atque ipsa utilitas justi prope mater & æqui.
Hor.

To the Hon. PHILIP YORKE, Esq.

Thou, whom nor honours, wealth, nor youth can spoil
With the least vice of each luxuriant soil,
Say, Yorke, (for sure, if any, thou canst tell)
What Virtue is, who practise it so well;
Say, where inhabits this Sultana queen;
Prais'd and ador'd by all, but rarely seen:
By what sure mark her essence can we trace,
When each religion, faction, age, and place
Sets up some fancy'd idol of its own,
A vain pretender to her sacred throne?
In man too oft a well-dissembled part,
A self-denying pride in woman's heart;

In synods faith, and in the fields of fame
Valour usurps her honours, and her name;
Whoe'er their sense of virtue wou'd express,
'Tis still by something they themselves possess.
Hence youth good-humour, frugal craft old-age,
Warm politicians term it party-rage,
True churchmen zeal right orthodox; and hence
Fools think it gravity, and wits pretence;
To constancy alone fond lovers join it,
And maids unask'd to chastity confine it.

But have we then no law besides our will?
No just criterion fix'd to good and ill?
As well at noon we may obstruct our sight,
Then doubt if such a thing exists as light;
For no less plain wou'd nature's law appear
As the meridian sun unchang'd, and clear,
Wou'd we but search for what we were design'd,
And for what end th' Almighty form'd mankind;
A rule of life we then should plainly see,
For to pursue that end must virtue be.

Then what is that? not want of power, or fame,
Or worlds unnumber'd to applaud his name,

But a desire his blessings to diffuse,
And fear lest millions shou'd existence lose;
His goodness only cou'd his power employ,
And an eternal warmth to propagate his joy.

Hence soul and sense diffus'd thro' ev'ry place,
Make happiness as infinite as space;
Thousands of suns beyond each other blaze,
Orbs roll o'er orbs, and glow with mutual rays;
Each is a world, where form'd with wond'rous art,
Unnumber'd species live thro' ev'ry part:
In ev'ry tract of ocean, earth, and skies,
Myriads of creatures still successive rise:
Scarce buds a leaf, or springs the vilest weed,
But little flocks upon its verdure feed;
No fruit our palate courts, or flow'r our smell,
But on its fragrant bosom nations dwell,
All form'd with proper faculties to share
The daily bounties of their Maker's care:
The great Creator from his heav'nly throne,
Pleas'd on the wide-expanded joy looks down,
And his eternal law is only this,
That all contribute to the general bliss.

Nature so plain this primal law displays,
Each living creature sees it, and obeys;
Each, form'd for all, promotes thro' private care
The public good, and justly tastes its share.
All understand their great Creator's will,
Strive to be happy, and in that fulfil;
Mankind excepted, lord of all beside,
But only slave to folly, vice, and pride;
'Tis he that's deaf to this command alone,
Delights in others woe, and courts his own;
Racks and destroys with tort'ring steel and flame,
For lux'ry brutes, and man himself for fame;
Sets Superstition high on Virtue's throne,
Then thinks his Maker's temper like his own;
Hence are his altars stain'd with reeking gore,
As if he cou'd atone for crimes by more:
Hence whilst offended Heav'n he strives in vain
T'appease by fasts and voluntary pain,
Ev'n in repenting he provokes again.

How easy is our yoke! how light our load!
Did we not strive to mend the laws of God:

For his own sake no duty he can ask,
The common welfare is our only task:
For this sole end his precepts, kind as just,
Forbid intemperance, murder, theft, and lust,
With ev'ry act injurious to our own
Or others good, for such are crimes alone:
For this are peace, love, charity enjoin'd,
With all that can secure and bless mankind.
Thus is the public safety Virtue's cause,
And happiness the end of all her laws;
For such by nature is the human frame,
Our duty and our int'rest are the same.

But hold, cries out some Puritan divine,
Whose well-stuff'd cheeks with ease and plenty shine,
Is this to fast, to mortify, refrain,
And work salvation out with fear and pain?
We own the rigid lessons of their schools
Are widely diff'rent from these easy rules;
Virtue, with them, is only to abstain
From all that nature asks, and covet pain;
Pleasure and vice are ever near a-kin,
And, if we thirst, cold water is a sin:

Heav'n's path is rough and intricate, they say,
Yet all are damn'd that trip, or miss their way;
God is a Being cruel and severe,
And man a wretch, by his command plac'd here,
In sun-shine for a while to take a turn,
Only to dry and make him fit to burn.

Mistaken men, too piously severe!
Thro' craft misleading, or misled by fear;
How little they God's counsels comprehend,
Our universal parent, guardian, friend!
Who, forming by degrees to bliss mankind,
This globe our sportive nursery assign'd,
Where for a while his fond paternal care
Feasts us with ev'ry joy our state can bear:
Each sense, touch, taste, and smell dispense delight,
Music our hearing, beauty charms our sight;
Trees, herbs, and flow'rs to us their spoils resign,
Its pearl the rock presents, its gold the mine;
Beasts, fowl, and fish their daily tribute give
Of food and cloaths, and die that we may live:
Seasons but change, new pleasures to produce,
And elements contend to serve our use:

Love's gentle shafts, ambition's tow'ring wings,
The pomps of senates, churches, courts, and kings,
All that our rev'rence, joy, or hope create,
Are the gay play-things of this infant state.
Scarcely an ill to human life belongs,
But what our follies cause, or mutual wrongs;
Or if some stripes from Providence we feel,
He strikes with pity, and but wounds to heal;
Kindly perhaps sometimes afflicts us here,
To guide our views to a sublimer sphere,
In more exalted joys to fix our taste,
And wean us from delights that cannot last.
Our present good the easy task is made,
To earn superior bliss, when this shall fade:
For, soon as e'er these mortal pleasures cloy,
His hand shall lead us to sublimer joy;
Snatch us from all our little sorrows here,
Calm ev'ry grief, and dry each childish tear;
Waft us to regions of eternal peace,
Where bliss and virtue grow with like increase;
From strength to strength our souls for ever guide,
Thro' wondrous scenes of being yet untry'd,

Where in each stage we shall more perfect grow,
And new perfections, new delights bestow.

Oh! would mankind but make these truths their guide,
And force the helm from prejudice and pride,
Were once these maxims fix'd, that God's our friend,
Virtue our good, and happiness our end,
How soon must reason o'er the world prevail,
And error, fraud, and superstition fail!
None wou'd hereafter then with groundless fear,
Describe th' Almighty cruel and severe,
Predestinating some without pretence
To heav'n, and some to hell for no offence;
Inflicting endless pains for transient crimes,
And favouring sects or nations, men or times.
To please him none would foolishly forbear
Or food, or rest, or itch in shirts of hair,
Or deem it merit to believe or teach
What reason contradicts, within its reach;
None would fierce zeal for piety mistake,
Or malice for whatever tenets sake,
Or think salvation to one sect confin'd,
And heav'n too narrow to contain mankind.

No more then nymphs, by long neglect grown nice,
Wou'd in one female frailty sum up vice,
And censure those, who nearer to the right
Think virtue is but to dispense delight.

No servile tenets would admittance find,
Destructive of the rights of human kind;
Of power divine, hereditary right,
And non-resistance to a tyrant's might:
For sure that all shou'd thus for one be curs'd,
Is but great nature's edict just revers'd.

No moralists then righteous to excess,
Wou'd shew fair Virtue in so black a dress,
That they, like boys, who some feign'd sprite array,
First from the spectre fly themselves away:
No preachers in the terrible delight,
But chuse to win by reason, not affright;

Not, conjurors like, in fire and brimstone dwell,
And draw each moving argument from hell.

No more our sage interpreters of laws
Wou'd fatten on obscurities, and flaws,
But rather, nobly careful of their trust,
Strive to wipe off the long-contracted dust,
And be, like Hardwicke, guardians of the just.

No mòre applause would on ambition wait,
And laying waste the world be counted great,
But one good-natur'd act more praises gain,
Than armies overthrown, and thousands slain;
No more would brutal rage disturb our peace,
But envy, hatred, war, and discord cease;
Our own and others' good each hour employ,
And all things smile with universal joy;
Virtue with Happiness, her consort, join'd,
Would regulate and bless each human mind,
And man be what his Maker first design'd.

THE MODERN FINE GENTLEMAN.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1746.

Quale Portentum neque militaris
Daunia in latis alit esculetis,
Nec Jubæ tellus generat, leonum
Arida nutrix.

Just broke from school, pert, impudent, and raw,
Expert in Latin, more expert in taw,
His Honour posts o'er Italy and France,
Measures St. Peter's dome, and learns to dance.
Thence, having quick thro' various countries flown,
Glean'd all their follies and expos'd his own,
He back returns, a thing so strange all o'er,
As never ages past produc'd before:
A monster of such complicated worth,
As no one single clime could e'er bring forth;
Half atheist, papist, gamester, bubble, rook,
Half fidler, coachman, dancer, groom, and cook.

Next, because bus'ness is now all the vogue,
And who'd be quite polite must be a rogue,
In parliament he purchases a seat,
To make th' accomplish'd gentleman compleat.

There safe in self-sufficient impudence,
Without experience, honesty, or sense,
Unknowing in her int'rest, trade, or laws,
He vainly undertakes his country's cause:
Forth from his lips, prepar'd at all to rail,
Torrents of nonsense burst, like bottled ale,
Tho' shallow, muddy; brisk, tho' mighty dull;
Fierce without strength; o'erflowing, tho' not full.

Now quite a Frenchman in his garb and air,
His neck yok'd down with bag and solitaire,
The liberties of Britain he supports,
And storms at place-men, ministers, and courts;
Now in cropt greasy hair, and leather breeches,
He loudly bellows out his patriot speeches;
King, lords, and commons ventures to abuse,
Yet dares to shew those ears, he ought to lose.
From hence to White's our virtuous Cato flies,
There sits with countenance erect and wise,
And talks of games of whist, and pig-tail pies;

Plays all the night, nor doubts each law to break,
Himself unknowingly has help'd to màke;
Trembling and anxious, stakes his utmost groat,
Peeps o'er his cards, and looks as if he thought:
Next morn disowns the losses of the night,
Because the fool would fain be thought a bite.

Devoted thus to politics, and cards,
Nor mirth, nor wine, nor women he regards,
So far is ev'ry virtue from his heart,
That not a gen'rous vice can claim a part;
Nay, lest one human passion e'er should move
His soul to friendship, tenderness, or love,
To Figg and Broughton he commits his breast,
To steel it to the fashionable test.

Thus poor in wealth, he labours to no end,
Wretched alone, in crowds without a friend;
Insensible to all that's good or kind,
Deaf to all merit, to all beauty blind;
For love too busy, and for wit too grave,
A harden'd, sober, proud, luxurious knave;
By little actions striving to be great,
And proud to be, and to be thought a cheat.

And yet in this so bad is his success,
That as his fame improves, his rents grow less;
On parchment wings his acres take their flight,
And his unpeopled groves admit the light;
With his estate his int'rest too is done,
His honest borough seeks a warmer sun;
For him, now cash and liquor flows no more,
His independent voters cease to roar:
And Britain soon must want the great defence
Of all his honesty, and eloquence,
But that the gen'rous youth, more anxious grown
For public liberty than for his own,
Marries some jointur'd antiquated crone:
And boldly, when his country is at stake,
Braves the deep yawning gulph, like Curtius, for its sake.

Quickly again distress'd for want of coin,
He digs no longer in th' exhausted mine,
But seeks preferment, as the last resort,
Cringes each morn at levées, bows at court,
And, from the hand he hates, implores support:
The minister, well pleas'd at small expence
To silence so much rude impertinence,

With squeeze and whisper yields to his demands,
And on the venal list enroll'd he stands;
A ribband and a pension buy the slave,
This bribes the fool about him, that the knave.
And now arriv'd at his meridian glory,
He sinks apace, despis'd by Whig and Tory;
Of independence now he talks no more,
Nor shakes the senate with his patriot roar,
But silent votes, and, with court-trappings hung,
Eyes his own glitt'ring star, and holds his tongue.
In craft political a bankrupt made,
He sticks to gaming, as the surer trade;
Turns downright sharper, lives by sucking blood,
And grows, in short, the very thing he wou'd:
Hunts out young heirs, who have their fortunes spent,
And lends them ready cash at cent per cent,
Lays wagers on his own, and others lives,
Fights uncles, fathers, grandmothers, and wives,
Till death at length, indignant to be made
The daily subject of his sport and trade,
Veils with his sable hand the wretch's eyes,
And, groaning for the betts he loses by't, he dies.

THE MODERN FINE LADY.

------ Miseri quibus
Intentata nites.
Hor.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1750.

Skill'd in each art, that can adorn the Fair,
The sprightly dance, the soft Italian air,
The toss of quality and high-bred fleer,
Now Lady Harriot reach'd her fifteenth year:
Wing'd with diversions all her moments flew,
Each, as it pass'd, presenting something new;
Breakfasts and auctions wear the morn away,
Each ev'ning gives an opera, or a play;
Then Brag's eternal joys all night remain,
And kindly usher in the morn again.

For love no time has she, or inclination,
Yet must coquet it for the sake of fashion;
For this she listens to each fop that's near,
Th' embroider'd colonel flatters with a sneer,
And the cropt ensign nuzzles in her ear.

But with most warmth her dress and airs inspire
Th' ambitious bosom of the landed 'squire,
Who fain would quit plump Dolly's softer charms,
For wither'd, lean, Right Honourable arms;
He bows with reverence at her sacred shrine,
And treats her as if sprung from race divine;
Which she returns with insolence and scorn,
Nor deigns to smile on a Plebeian born.

Ere long, by friends, by cards, and lovers cross'd,
Her fortune, health, and reputation lost;
Her money gone, yet not a tradesman paid,
Her fame, yet she still damn'd to be a maid,
Her spirits sink, her nerves are so unstrung,
She weeps, if but a handsome thief is hung:
By mercers, lacemen, mantua-makers prest,
But most for ready cash for play distrest,
Where can she turn?—The 'squire must all repair,
She condescends to listen to his pray'r,
And marries him at length in mere despair.

But soon th' endearments of a husband cloy,
Her soul, her frame incapable of joy:
She feels no transports in the bridal-bed,
Of which so oft sh'has heard, so much has read;
Then vex'd, that she should be condemn'd alone
To seek in vain this philosophic stone,
To abler tutors she resolves t'apply,
A prostitute from curiosity:
Hence men of ev'ry sort, and ev'ry size,
Impatient for Heav'n's cordial drop, she tries;
The fribbling beau, the rough unwieldy clown,
The ruddy Templar newly on the town,
The Hibernian captain of gigantic make,
The brimful parson, and th' exhausted rake.

But still malignant fate her wish denies,
Cards yield superior joys, to cards she flies;
All night from rout to rout her chairmen run,
Again she plays, and is again undone.

Behold her now in ruin's frightful jaws!
Bonds, judgments, executions ope their paws;
Seize jewels, furniture, and plate, nor spare
The gilded chariot, or the tassel'd chair;
For lonely seat she's forc'd to quit the town,
And Tubbs conveys the wretched exile down.

Now rumbling o'er the stones of Tyburn Road,
Ne'er prest with a more griev'd or guilty load,
She bids adieu to all the well-known streets,
And envies every cinder-wench she meets:
And now the dreaded country first appears,
With sighs unfeign'd the dying noise she hears
Of distant coaches fainter by degrees,
Then starts, and trembles at the sight of trees.
Silent and sullen, like some captive queen,
She's drawn along unwilling to be seen,
Until at length appears the ruin'd Hall
Within the grass-green moat and ivy'd wall,
The doleful prison where for ever she,
But not, alas! her griefs, must bury'd be.

Her coach the curate and the tradesmen meet,
Great-coated tenants her arrival greet,
And boys with stubble bonfires light the street,
While bells her ears with tongues discordant grate,
Types of the nuptial tyes they celebrate:
But no rejoicings can unbend her brow,
Nor deigns she to return one awkward bow,
But bounces in, disdaining once to speak,
And wipes the trickling tear from off her cheek.

Now see her in the sad decline of life,
A peevish mistress, and a sulky wife;
Her nerves unbrac'd, her faded cheek grown pale
With many a real, many a fancy'd ail;
Of cards, admirers, equipage bereft,
Her insolence, and title only left;
Severely humbled to her one-horse chair,
And the low pastimes of a country fair:
Too wretched to endure one lonely day,
Too proud one friendly visit to repay,
Too indolent to read, too criminal to pray.
At length half dead, half mad, and quite confin'd,
Shunning, and shun'd by all of human kind,

Ev'n robb'd of the last comfort of her life,
Insulting the poor curate's callous wife,
Pride, disappointed pride, now stops her breath,
And with true scorpion rage she stings herself to death.

THE FIRST EPISTLE OF THE SECOND BOOK OF HORACE, IMITATED.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PHILIP, LORD HARDWICKE, Lord High Chancellor of Great Britain.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1748.

Whilst you, my lord, such various toils sustain,
Preside o'er Britain's Peers, her laws explain,
With ev'ry virtue ev'ry heart engage,
And live the bright example of the age,
With tedious verse to trespass on your time,
Is sure impertinence, if not a crime.

All the fam'd heroes, statesmen, admirals,
Who after death within the sacred walls
Of Westminster with kings have been receiv'd,
Met with but sorry treatment, while they liv'd;
And tho' they labour'd in their country's cause,
With arms defended her, and form'd with laws,

Yet ever mourn'd they till'd a barren soil,
And left the world ungrateful to their toil.
Ev'n He, who long the House of Com**ns led,
That Hydra dire, with many a gaping head,
Found by experience, to his latest breath,
Envy could only be subdu'd by death.
Great men whilst living must expect disgraces,
Dead they're ador'd—when none desire their places.

This common fate, my lord, attends not you,
Above all equal, and all envy too;
With such unrivall'd eminence you shine,
That in this truth alone all parties join,
The seat of justice in no former reign
Was e'er so greatly fill'd, nor ever can again.

But tho' the people are so just to you,
To none besides will they allow their due,
No minister approve, who is not dead,
Nor till h'has lost it, own he had a head;
Yet such respect they bear to ancient things,
They've some for former ministers and kings;

And, with a kind of superstitious awe,
Deem Magna Charta still a sacred law.

But, if because the government was best
Of old in France, when freedom she possest,
In the same scale resolv'd to weigh our own,
England's we judge was so, who then had none;
Into most strange absurdities we fall,
Unworthy to be reason'd with at all.
Brought to perfection in these days we see
All arts, and their great parent Liberty;
With skill profound we sing, eat, dress, and dance,
And in each goût polite, excel ev'n France.

If age of ministers is then the test,
And, as of wines, the oldest are the best,
Let's try and fix some æra, if we can,
When good ones were extinct, and bad began:
Are they all wicked since Eliza's days?
Did none in Charles', or James's merit praise?
Or are they knaves but since the Revolution?
If none of these are facts then all's confusion;
And by the self-same rule one cannot fail,
To pluck each hair out singly from the tail.

Wise Cecil, lov'd by people and by prince,
As often broke his word as any since:
Of Arthur's days we almost nothing know,
Yet sing their praise, because they're long ago.

Oft as 'tis doubted in their several ways
Which of past orators best merit praise,
We find it to decide extremely hard,
If Harley's head deserv'd the most regard,
Or Windham's tongue, or Jekyl's patriot heart,
Old Shippen's gravity, or Walpole's art.
These were ador'd by all with whom they voted,
And in the fullest houses still are quoted;
These have been fam'd from Anna's days till ours,
When Pelham has improv'd, with unknown pow'rs,
The art of ministerial eloquence,
By adding honest truth to nervous sense.
Oft are the vulgar wrong, yet sometimes right;
The late rebellion in the truest light
By chance they saw; but were not once so wise,
Unknown, unheard, in damning the excise:
If former reigns they fancy had no fault,
I think their judgment is not worth a groat:

But if they frankly own their politics,
Like ours, might have some blunders, and some tricks,
With such impartial sentiments I join,
And their opinions tally just with mine.

I would by no means church or king destroy,
And yet the doctrines, taught me when a boy
By Crab the curate, now seem wond'rous odd,
That either came immediately from God:
In all the writings of those high-flown ages
You meet with now and then some scatter'd pages
Wrote with some spirit and with sense enough;
These sell the book, the rest is wretched stuff:
I'm quite provok'd, when principles, tho' true,
Must stand impeach'd by fools, because they're new.
Should I but question, only for a joke,
If all was flow'rs, when pompous Hanmer spoke,
If things went right, when St. John trod the stage,
How the old Tories all would storm and rage!
They shun conviction, or because a truth
Confess'd in age implies they err'd in youth;
Or that they scorn to learn of junior wits:
What!—to be taught by Lytteltons and Pitts.

When angry patriots, or in prose or rhymes,
Extol the virtuous deeds of former times,
They only mean the present to disgrace,
And look with envious hate on all in place:
But had the patriots of those ancient days
Play'd the same game for profit, or for praise,
The trade, tho' now so flourishing and new,
Had long been ruin'd and the nation too.

England, when once of peace and wealth possest,
Began to think frugality a jest,
So grew polite; hence all her well-bred heirs
Gamesters and jockies turn'd, and cricket-play'rs;
Pictures and busts in ev'ry house were seen;
What should have paid the butcher, bought Poussin;
Now operas, now plays were all the fashion,
Then whist became the bus'ness of the nation,
That, like a froward child, in wanton play
Now cries for toys, then tosses them away;
Each hour we chang'd our pleasures, dress, and diet;
These were the blest effects of being quiet.

Not thus behav'd the true old English 'squire,
He smok'd his pipe each morn by his own fire,

There justice to dispense was ever willing,
And for his warrants pick'd up many a shilling:
To teach his younger neighbours always glad,
Where for their corn best markets might be had,
And from experienc'd age as glad to learn,
How to defraud unseen the parson's barn.

But now the world's quite alter'd, all are bent
To leave their seats, and fly to parliament:
Old men and boys in this alone agree,
And, vainly courting popularity,
Ply their obstrep'rous voters all night long
With bumpers, toasts, and now and then a song:
Ev'n I, who swear these follies I despise,
Than statesmen, or their porters, tell more lies;
And, for the fashion-sake, in spite of nature,
Commence sometimes a most important creature,
Busy as Car---w rave for ink and quills,
And stuff my head and pockets full of bills.

Few land-men go to sea unless they're prest,
And quacks in all professions are a jest;
None dare to kill, except most learn'd physicians:
Learn'd, or unlearn'd, we all are politicians.

There's not a soul but thinks, could he be sent,
H'has parts enough to shine in parliament.

Tho' many ills this modern taste produces,
Yet still, my lord, 'tis not without its uses;
These minor politicians are a kind
Not much to selfish avarice inclin'd;
Do but allow them with applause to speak,
They little care, tho' all their tenants break;
They form intrigues with no man's wife, or daughter,
And live on pudding, chicken-broth, and water;
Fierce Jacobites, as far as blust'ring words,
But loth in any cause to draw their swords.

Were smaller matters worthy of attention,
A thousand other uses I could mention;
For instance, in each monthly magazine
Their essays and orations still are seen,
And magazines teach boys and girls to read,
And are the canons of each tradesman's creed;
Apprentices they serve to entertain,
Instead of smutty tales, and plays profane;
Instruct them how their passions to command,
And to hate none—but those who rule the land:

Facts they record, births, marriages, and deaths,
Sometimes receipts for claps, and stinking breaths.

When with her brothers miss comes up to town,
How for each play can she afford a crown?
Where find diversions gratis, and yet pretty,
Unless she goes to church, or a committee?
And sure committees better entertain,
Than hearing a dull parson pray for rain,
Or whining beg deliverance from battle,
Dangers, and sins, and sickness amongst cattle;
At church she hears with unattentive ear
The pray'rs for peace, and for a plenteous year,
But here quite charm'd with so much wit and sense,
She falls a victim soon to eloquence;
Well may she fall, since eloquence has power
To govern both the upper house and lower.

Our ancient gentry, frugal, bold, and rough,
Were farmers, yet liv'd happily enough;
They, when in barns their corn was safely laid,
For harvest-homes great entertainments made,
The well-rubb'd tables crack'd with beef and pork,
And all the supper shar'd who shar'd the work;

101

This gave freeholders first a taste for eating,
And was the source of all election-treating;
A while their jests, tho' merry, yet were wise,
And they took none but decent liberties.
Brandy and punch at length such riots bred,
No sober family could sleep in bed:
All were alarm'd, ev'n those who had no hurt
Call'd in the law, to stop such dang'rous sport.
Rich citizens at length new arts brought down
With ready cash, to win each country town;
This less disorders caus'd than downright drink,
Freemen grew civil, and began to think;
But still all canvassing produc'd confusion,
The relics of its rustic institution.

'Tis but of late, since thirty years of peace
To useful sciences have giv'n increase,
That we've inquir'd how Rome's lost sons of old
Barter'd their liberties for feasts and gold;
What treats proud Sylla, Cæsar, Crassus gave,
And try'd, like them, to buy each hungry knave;
Nor try'd in vain; too fortunately bold
Many have purchas'd votes, and many sold;

103

No laws can now amend this venal land,
That dreads the touch of a reforming hand.

Some think an int'rest may be form'd with ease,
Because the vulgar we must chiefly please;
But for that reason 'tis the harder task,
For such will neither pardon grant, nor ask.
See how Sir W---, master of this art,
By different methods wins each C---n heart.
He tells raw youths, that whoring is no harm,
And teaches their attentive sires to farm;
To his own table lovingly invites
Insidious pimps, and hungry parasites:
Sometimes in slippers, and a morning gown,
He pays his early visits round a town,
At ev'ry house relates his stories over,
Of place-bills, taxes, turnips, and Hanover;
If tales will money save, and business do,
It matters little, are they false or true.

Whoe'er prefers a clam'rous mob's applause
To his own conscience, or his country's cause,
Is soon elated, and as soon cast down
By ev'ry drunken cobler's smile, or frown;

105

So small a matter can depress or raise
A mind that's meanly covetous of praise:
But if my quiet must dependent be
On the vain breath of popularity,
A wind each hour to diff'rent quarters veering,
Adieu, say I, to all electioneering.

The boldest orator it disconcerts,
To find the many, tho' of meanest parts,
Illit'rate, squabbling, discontented prigs,
Fitter t'attend a boxing-match at Figg's,
To all good sense and reason shut their ears,
Yet take delight in S*d*m's bulls and bears.

Young knights now sent from many a distant shire
Are better pleas'd with what they see than hear;
Their joy's to view his majesty approach,
Drawn by eight milk-white steeds in gilded coach,
The pageant show and bustle to behold,
The guards both horse and foot lac'd o'er with gold,
The rich insignia from the Tower brought down,
The iv'ry scepter and the radiant crown.
The mob huzza, the thund'ring cannons roar,
And business is delay'd at least an hour;

107

The Speaker calls indeed to mind what passes,
But might as well read orders to deaf asses.

But now see honest V--- rise to joke!
The house all laugh; What says he? has he spoke?
No not a word. Then whence this sudden mirth?
His phyz foretels some jest's approaching birth.

But lest I seem these orators to wrong,
Envious because I share no gift of tongue,
Is there a Man whose eloquence has pow'r
To clear the fullest house in half an hour,
Who now appears to rave and now to weep,
Who sometimes makes us swear, and sometimes sleep,
Now fills our heads with false alarms from France,
Then conjurer like to India bids us dance?
All eulogies on him we own are true,
For surely he does all that man can do.

But whilst, my lord, these makers of our laws,
Thus speak themselves into the world's applause,
Let bards, for such attempts too modest, share
What more they prize, your patronage and care,
If you would spur them up the muse's hill,
Or ask their aid your library to fill.

109

We poets are, in ev'ry age and nation,
A most absurd, wrong-headed generation;
This in a thousand instances is shown,
(Myself as guilty as the rest I own)
As when on you our nonsense we impose,
Tir'd with the nonsense you have heard in prose;
When we're offended, if some honest friend
Presumes one unharmonious verse to mend;
When undesir'd our labours we repeat,
Grieve they're no more regarded by the Great,
And fancy, should You once but see our faces,
You'd bid us write, and pay us all with places.

'Tis your's, my lord, to form the soul to verse,
Who have such num'rous virtues to rehearse;
Great Alexander once, in ancient days,
Paid Choerilus for daubing him with praise;
And yet the same fam'd hero made a law,
None but Apelles should his picture draw;

111

None but Lysippus cast his royal head
In brass: it had been treason if in lead;
A prince he was in valour ne'er surpass'd,
And had in painting too perhaps some taste;
But as to verse, undoubted is the matter,
He must be dull, as a Dutch commentator.

But you, my lord, a fav'rite of the muse,
Would chuse good poets, were there good to chuse;
You know they paint the great man's soul as like,
As can his features Kneller, or Vandyke.
Had I such pow'r, I never would compose
Such creeping lines as these, nor verse, nor prose;
But rather try to celebrate your praise,
And with your just encomiums swell my lays:
Had I a genius equal to my will,
Gladly would I exert my utmost skill
To consecrate to fame Britannia's land
Receiving law from your impartial hand;
By your wise counsels once more pow'rful made,
Her fleets rever'd, and flourishing her trade;

113

Exhausted nations trembling at her sword,
And Peace long wish'd-for to the world restor'd.

But your true greatness suffers no such praise,
My verse would sink the theme it meant to raise;
Unequal to the task would surely meet
Deserv'd contempt, and each presumptuous sheet
Could serve for nothing, scrawl'd with lines so simple,
Unless to wrap up sugar-loaves for Wimple.

114

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF CHESTERFIELD,

ON HIS BEING INSTALLED KNIGHT OF THE GARTER.

These trophies, Stanhope, of a lovely dame,
Once the bright object of a monarch's flame,
Who with such just propriety can wear,
As thou the darling of the gay and fair?
See ev'ry friend to wit, politeness, love,
With one consent thy Sovereign's choice approve!
And liv'd Plantagenet her voice to join,
Herself, and Garter, both were surely thine.

115

TO A LADY IN TOWN,

SOON AFTER HER LEAVING THE COUNTRY.

Whilst you, dear maid, o'er thousands born to reign,
For the gay town exchange the rural plain,
The cooling breeze, and ev'ning walk forsake
For stifling crowds, which your own beauties make;
Thro' circling joys while you incessant stray,
Charm in the Mall, and sparkle at the play;
Think (if successive vanities can spare
One thought to love) what cruel pangs I bear,
Left in these plains all wretched, and alone,
To weep with fountains, and with echos groan,
And mourn incessantly that fatal day,
That all my bliss with Chloe snatch'd away.

Say by what arts I can relieve my pain,
Music, verse, all I try, but try in vain;

116

In vain the breathing flute my hand employs,
Late the companion of my Chloe's voice,
Nor Handel's nor Corelli's tuneful airs
Can harmonize my soul, or sooth my cares;
Those once-lov'd med'cines unsuccessful prove,
Music, alas, is but the voice of love!
In vain I oft harmonious lines peruse,
And seek for aid from Pope's, and Prior's muse;
Their treach'rous numbers but assist the foe,
And call forth scenes of sympathising woe:
Here Heloise mourns her absent lover's charms,
There parting Emma signs in Henry's arms;
Their loves like mine ill-fated I bemoan,
And in their tender sorrows read my own.

Restless sometimes, as oft the mournful dove
Forsakes her nest forsaken by her love,
I fly from home, and seek the sacred fields
Where Cam's old urn its silver current yields,
Where solemn tow'rs o'erlook each mossy grove,
As if to guard it from th' assaults of love;
Yet guard in vain, for there my Chloe's eyes
But lately made whole colleges her prize;

117

Her sons, tho' few, not Pallas cou'd defend,
Nor Dulness succour to her thousands lend;
Love like a fever with infectious rage
Scorch'd up the young, and thaw'd the frost of age,
To gaze at her, ev'n Donns were seen to run,
And leave unfinish'd pipes, and authors—scarce begun.

So Helen look'd, and mov'd with such a grace,
When the grave seniors of the Trojan race
Were forc'd those fatal beauties to admire,
That all their youth consum'd, and set their town on fire.

At fam'd Newmarket oft I spend the day
An unconcern'd spectator of the play;
There pitiless observe the ruin'd heir
With anger fir'd, or melting with despair;
For how shou'd I his trivial loss bemoan,
Who feel one, so much greater, of my own?
There while the golden heaps, a glorious prize,
Wait the decision of two rival dice,
Whilst long disputes 'twixt seven and five remain,
And each, like parties, have their friends for gain,

118

Without one wish I see the guineas shine,
Fate, keep your gold, I cry, make Chloe mine.
Now see, prepar'd their utmost speed to try,
O'er the smooth turf the bounding racers fly!
Now more and more their slender limbs they strain,
And foaming stretch along the velvet plain!
Ah stay! swift steeds, your rapid flight delay,
No more the jockey's smarting lash obey:
But rather let my hand direct the rein,
And guide your steps a nobler prize to gain;
Then swift as eagles cut the yielding air,
Bear me, oh bear me to the absent fair.

Now when the winds are hush'd, the air serene,
And chearful sunbeams gild the beauteous scene,
Pensive o'er all the neighb'ring fields I stray,
Where'er or choice, or chance directs the way:
Or view the op'ning lawns, or private woods,
Or distant bluish hills, or silver floods:
Now harmless birds in silken nets insnare,
Now with swift dogs pursue the flying hare:
Dull sports! for oh my Chloe is not there!

119

Fatigu'd, at length I willingly retire
To a small study, and a cheerful fire;
There o'er some folio pore, I pore 'tis true,
But oh my thoughts are fled, and fled to you!
I hear you, see you, feast upon your eyes,
And clasp with eager arms the lovely prize;
Here for a while I cou'd forget my pain,
Whilst I by dear reflection live again:
But ev'n these joys are too sublime to last,
And quickly fade, like all the real ones past;
For just when now beneath some silent grove
I hear you talk—and talk perhaps of love—
Or charm with thrilling notes the list'ning ear,
Sweeter than angels sing, or angels hear,
My treach'rous hand its weighty charge lets go,
The book falls thund'ring on the floor below,
The pleasing vision in a moment's gone,
And I once more am wretched, and alone.

So when glad Orpheus from th' infernal shade
Had just recall'd his long-lamented maid,
Soon as her charms had reach'd his eager eyes,
Lost in eternal night—again she dies.

120

To a LADY.

SENT WITH A PRESENT OF SHELLS AND STONES DESIGNED FOR A GROTTO.

With gifts like these, the spoils of neighb'ring shores,
The Indian swain his sable love adores;
Off'rings well suited to the dusky shrine
Of his rude goddess, but unworthy mine:
And yet they seem not such a worthless prize,
If nicely view'd by philosophic eyes;
And such are yours, that nature's works admire
With warmth like that, which they themselves inspire.

To such how fair appears each grain of sand,
Or humblest weed, as wrought by nature's hand!
How far superior to all human pow'r
Springs the green blade, or buds the painted flow'r!
In all her births, tho' of the meanest kinds,
A just observer entertainment finds,
With fond delight her low productions sees,
And how she gently rises by degrees;

121

A shell, or stone, he can with pleasure view,
Hence trace her noblest works, the heav'ns—and you.

Behold, how bright these gaudy trifles shine,
The lovely sportings of a hand divine!
See with what art each curious shell is made,
Here carv'd in fretwork, there with pearl inlaid!
What vivid streaks th' enamell'd stones adorn,
Fair as the paintings of the purple morn!
Yet still not half their charms can reach our eyes,
While thus confus'd the sparkling chaos lies;
Doubly they'll please, when in your grotto plac'd,
They plainly speak their fair disposer's taste;
Then glories yet unseen shall o'er them rise,
New order from your hand, new lustre from your eyes.

How sweet, how charming will appear this Grot,
When by your art to full protection brought!
Here verdant plants, and blooming flow'rs will grow,
There bubbling currents thro' the shell-work flow;
Here coral mixt with shells of various dyes,
There polish'd stones will charm our wand'ring eyes:
Delightful bow'r of bliss! secure retreat!
Fit for the Muses, and Statira's seat.

122

But still how good must be that fair one's mind,
Who thus in solitude can pleasure find!
The muse her company, good-sense her guide,
Resistless charms her pow'r, but not her pride:
Who thus forsakes the town, the park, and play,
In silent shades to pass her hours away;
Who better likes to breathe fresh country air,
Than ride imprison'd in a velvet chair;
And makes the warbling nightingale her choice,
Before the thrills of Farinelli's voice;
Prefers her books, and conscience void of ill,
To consorts, balls, assemblies, and quadrille:
Sweet bow'rs more pleas'd than gilded chariots sees,
For groves the playhouse quits, and beaus for trees.

Blest is the man, whom heav'n shall grant one hour
With such a lovely nymph, in such a lovely bow'r!

123

To a LADY,

IN ANSWER TO A LETTER WROTE IN A VERY FINE HAND.

Whilst well-wrote lines our wond'ring eyes command,
The beauteous work of Chloe's artful hand,
Throughout the finish'd piece we see display'd
Th' exactest image of the lovely maid;
Such is her wit, and such her form divine,
This pure, as flows the style thro' ev'ry line,
That like each letter, exquisitely fine.

See with what art the sable currents stain
In wand'ring mazes all the milk-white plain!
Thus o'er the meadows wrap'd in silver snow
Unfrozen brooks in dark meanders flow;
Thus jetty curls in shining ringlets deck
The ivory plain of lovely Chloe's neck:
See, like some virgin, whose unmeaning charms
Receive new lustre from a lover's arms,
The yielding paper's pure, but vacant breast,
By her fair hand and flowing pen imprest,

124

At ev'ry touch more animated grows,
And with new life and new ideas glows,
Fresh beauties from the kind defiler gains,
And shines each moment brighter from its stains.

Let mighty Love no longer boast his darts,
That strike unerring, aim'd at mortal hearts;
Chloe, your quill can equal wonders do,
Wound full as sure, and at a distance too:
Arm'd with your feather'd weapons in your hands,
From pole to pole you send your great commands,
To distant climes in vain the lover flies,
Your pen o'ertakes him, if he 'scapes your eyes;
So those, who from the sword in battle run
But perish victims to the distant gun.

Beauty's a short-liv'd blaze, a fading flow'r,
But these are charms no ages can devour;
These far superior to the brightest face,
Triumph alike o'er time as well as space.
When that fair form, which thousands now adore,
By years decay'd, shall tyrannize no more,
These lovely lines shall future ages view,
And eyes unborn, like ours, be charm'd by you.

125

How oft do I admire with fond delight
The curious piece, and wish like you to write!
Alas, vain hope! that might as well aspire
To copy Paulo's stroke, or Titian's fire:
Ev'n now your splendid lines before me lie,
And I in vain to imitate them try;
Believe me, fair, I'm practising this art,
To steal your hand, in hopes to steal your heart.

126

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LADY MARGARET CAVENDISH HARLEY,

PRESENTED WITH A COLLECTION OF POEMS.

The tuneful throng was ever beauty's care,
And verse a tribute sacred to the fair;
Hence in each age the loveliest nymph has been,
By undisputed right, the muses queen;
Her smiles have all poetic bosoms fir'd,
And patronis'd the verse themselves inspir'd:

127

Lesbia presided thus in Roman times,
Thus Sacharissa reign'd o'er British rhymes,
And present bards to Margaretta bow,
For what they were of old, is Harley now.

From Oxford's house, in these dull busy days,
Alone we hope for patronage, or praise;
He to our slighted labours still is kind,
Beneath his roof w'are ever sure to find
(Reward sufficient for the world's neglect)
Charms to inspire, and goodness to protect;
Your eyes with rapture animate our lays,
Your sire's kind hand uprears our drooping bays;

128

Form'd for our glory and support, ye seem,
Our constant patron he, and you our theme.
Where shou'd poetic homage then be pay'd?
Where ev'ry verse, but at your feet, be lay'd?
A double right you to this empire bear,
As first in beauty, and as Oxford's heir.

Illustrious maid! in whose sole person join'd
Ev'ry perfection of the fair we find,
Charms that might warrant all her sex's pride,
Without one foible of her sex to hide;
Good-nature artless as the bloom that dyes
Her cheeks, and wit as piercing as her eyes.
Oh Harley! cou'd but you these lines approve,
These children sprung from idleness and love,
Cou'd they, (but ah how vain is the design!)
Hope to amuse your hours, as once they've mine,
Th' ill-judging world's applause, and critics blame,
Alike I'd scorn: your approbation's fame.

129

HORACE, BOOK II. Ode XVI. IMITATED.

131

To the Hon. PHILIP YORKE, Esq. SOON AFTER THE GENERAL ELECTION IN 1747.

For quiet, Yorke, the sailor cries,
When gathering storms obscure the skies,
The stars no more appearing;
The candidate for quiet prays,
Sick of the bumpers and huzzas
Of blest electioneering.

Who thinks, that from the Speaker's chair
The Serjeant's mace can keep off care,
Is wond'rously mistaken:
Alas! he is not half so blest
As those, who've liberty, and rest,
And dine on beans and bacon.

133

Why should we then to London run,
And quit our chearful country sun
For business, dirt, and smoke?
Can we, by changing place and air,
Ourselves get rid of, or our care?
In troth 'tis all a joke.

Care climbs proud ships of mightiest force,
And mounts behind the General's horse,
Outstrips hussars and pandours;
Far swifter than the bounding hind,
Swifter than clouds before the wind,
Or Cope before th' Highlanders.

A man, when once he's safely chose,
Should laugh at all his threatening foes,
Nor think of future evil:
Each good has its attendant ill;
A seat is no bad thing, but still
Elections are the devil.

135

Its gifts, with hand impartial, Heav'n
Divides: to Orford it was giv'n
To die in full-blown glory;
To Bath indeed a longer date,
But then with unrelenting hate
Pursu'd by Whig and Tory.

The gods to you with bounteous hand
Have granted seats, and parks, and land;
Brocades and silks you wear;
With claret and ragouts you treat,
Six neighing steeds with nimble feet
Whirl on your gilded car.

To me they've giv'n a small retreat,
Good port and mutton, best of meat,
With broad-cloth on my shoulders,
A soul that scorns a dirty job,
Loves a good rhyme, and hates a mob,
I mean who a'n't freeholders.

137

HORACE, BOOK IV. Ode VIII. IMITATED.

TO THE SAME.

Did but kind fate to me impart
Wealth equal to my gen'rous heart,
Some curious gift to ev'ry friend,
A token of my love, I'd send;
But still the choicest and the best
Should be consign'd to friends at Wrest.

An organ, which, if right I guess,
Would best please lady Marchioness,
Should first be sent by my command,
Worthy of her inspiring hand:
To lady Bell of nicest mould
A coral set in burnish'd gold:
To you, well knowing what you like,
Portraits by Lely or Vandyke,
A curious bronze, or bust antique.

139

But since these gifts exceed my power,
And you, who need not wish for more,
Already blest with all that's fine,
Are pleas'd with verse, tho' such as mine;
As poets us'd in ancient times,
I'll make my presents all in rhymes;
And, lest you should forget their worth,
Like them I'll set their value forth.

Not monumental brass or stones,
The guardians of heroic bones,
Not victories won by Marlbro's sword,
Nor titles which these feats record,
Such glories o'er the dead diffuse,
As can the labours of the muse.
But if she should her aid deny,
With you your virtues all must die,
Nor tongues unborn shall ever say
How wise, how good, was Lady Grey.

What now had been th' ignoble doom
Of him who built imperial Rome?

141

Or him deserving ten times more,
Who fed the hungry, cloth'd the poor,
Clear'd streams, and bridges laid across,
And built the little church of Ross?
Did not th' eternal powers of verse
From age to age their deeds rehearse.

The muse forbids the brave to die,
Bestowing immortality:
Still by her aid in blest abodes
Alcides feasts among the Gods;
And royal Arthur still is able
To fill his hospitable table
With English beef, and English knights,
And looks with pity down on White's.

142

To the Hon. Miss YORKE,

ON HER MARRIAGE TO LORD ANSON.

Victorious Anson see returns
From the subjected main!
With joy each British bosom burns,
Fearless of France and Spain.

Honours his grateful Sovereign's hand,
Conquest his own bestows,
Applause unfeign'd his native land,
Unenvy'd wealth her foes.

But still, my son, Britannia cries,
Still more thy merits claim;
Thy deeds deserve a richer prize
Than titles, wealth, or fame.

Twice wafted safe from pole to pole
Th' hast sail'd the globe around;
Contains it ought can charm thy soul,
Thy fondest wishes bound?

143

Is there a treasure worth thy care
Within th' incircling line?
Say, and I'll weary Heav'n with pray'r
To make that treasure thine.

Heav'n listen'd to Britannia's voice,
Agreed that more was due:
He chose—the gods approv'd his choice,
And paid him all in You.

CHLOE TO STREPHON,

A SONG.

Too plain, dear youth, these tell-tale eyes
My heart your own declare;
But for Heav'n's sake let it suffice
You reign triumphant there.

Forbear your utmost pow'r to try,
Nor farther urge your sway;
Press not for what I must deny,
For fear I should obey.

144

Could all your arts successful prove,
Would you a maid undo?
Whose greatest failing is her love,
And that her love for you.

Say, would you use that very pow'r
You from her fondness claim,
To ruin, in one fatal hour,
A life of spotless fame?

Ah! cease, my dear, to do an ill,
Because perhaps you may;
But rather try your utmost skill
To save me, than betray.

Be you yourself my virtue's guard,
Defend, and not pursue;
Since 'tis a task for me too hard
To fight with love and you.

145

A SONG.

Cease, Sally, thy charms to expand,
All thy arts and thy witchcraft forbear,
Hide those eyes, hide that neck and that hand,
And those sweet flowing tresses of hair.

Oh! torture me not, for Love's sake,
With the smirk of those delicate lips,
With that head's dear significant shake,
And the toss of the hoop and the hips.

Oh! sight still more fatal! look there
O'er her tucker what murderers peep!
So—now there's an end of my care,
I shall never more eat, drink, or sleep.

D'you sing too? ah mischievous thought!
Touch me, touch me not there any more;
Who the devil can 'scape being caught
In a trap that's thus baited all o'er?

146

But why to advise shou'd I try?
What nature ordains we must prove;
You no more can help charming, than I
Can help being charm'd, and in love.

A SONG.

When first I sought fair Cælia's love,
And ev'ry charm was new,
I swore by all the gods above
To be for ever true.

But long in vain did I adore,
Long wept and sigh'd in vain,
She still protested, vow'd, and swore,
She ne'er would ease my pain.

At last o'ercome she made me blest,
And yielded all her charms;
And I forsook her, when possest,
And fled to others' arms.

147

But let not this, dear Cælia, now
To rage thy breast incline;
For why, since you forgot your vow,
Should I remember mine?

THE CHOICE.

Had I, Pygmalion like, the pow'r
To make the nymph I wou'd adore;
The model shou'd be thus design'd,
Like this her form, like this her mind.

Her skin shou'd be as lilies fair,
With rosy cheeks and jetty hair;
Her lips with pure vermilion spread,
And soft and moist, as well as red;
Her eyes shou'd shine with vivid light,
At once both languishing and bright;
Her shape shou'd be exact and small,
Her stature rather low than tall;

148

Her limbs well turn'd, her air and mien
At once both sprightly and serene;
Besides all this, a nameless grace
Shou'd be diffus'd all o'er her face;
To make the lovely piece complete,
Not only beautiful, but sweet.

This for her form: now for her mind;
I'd have it open, gen'rous, kind,
Void of all coquettish arts,
And vain designs of conquering hearts,
Not sway'd by any views of gain,
Nor fond of giving others pain;
But soft, tho' bright, like her own eyes,
Discreetly witty, gayly wise.

I'd have her skill'd in ev'ry art
That can engage a wand'ring heart;
Know all the sciences of love,
Yet ever willing to improve;
To press the hand, and roll the eye,
And drop sometimes an amorous sigh;

149

To lengthen out the balmy kiss,
And heighten ev'ry tender bliss;
And yet I'd have the charmer be
By nature only taught,—or me.

I'd have her to strict honour ty'd,
And yet without one spark of pride;
In company well drest and fine,
Yet not ambitious to outshine;
In private always neat and clean,
And quite a stranger to the spleen;
Well-pleas'd to grace the park, and play,
And dance sometimes the night away,
But oft'ner fond to spend her hours
In solitude, and shady bow'rs,
And there, beneath some silent grove,
Delight in poetry, and love.

Some sparks of the poetic fire
I fain would have her soul inspire,
Enough, at least, to let her know
What joys from love and virtue flow;

150

Enough, at least, to make her wise,
And fops and fopperies despise;
Prefer her books, and her own muse,
To visits, scandal, chat, and news;
Above her sex exalt her mind,
And make her more than woman-kind.

To a YOUNG LADY, GOING TO THE WEST INDIES.

For universal sway design'd,
To distant realms Clorinda flies,
And scorns, in one small isle confin'd,
To bound the conquests of her eyes.

From our cold climes to India's shore
With cruel haste she wings her way,
To scorch their sultry plains still more,
And rob us of our only day.

151

Whilst ev'ry streaming eye o'erflows
With tender floods of parting tears,
Thy breast, dear cause of all our woes,
Alone unmov'd, and gay appears.

But still, if right the muses tell,
The fated point of time is nigh,
When grief shall that fair bosom swell,
And trickle from thy lovely eye.

Tho' now, like Philip's son, whose arms
Did once the vassal world command,
You rove with unresisted charms,
And conquer both by sea and land;

Yet when (as soon they must) mankind
Shall all be doom'd to wear your chain,
You too, like him, will weep to find
No more unconquer'd worlds remain.

152

CHLOE ANGLING.

On yon fair brook's enamell'd side
Behold my Chloe stands!
Her angle trembles o'er the tide,
As conscious of her hands.

Calm as the gentle waves appear,
Her thoughts serenely flow,
Calm as the softly breathing air,
That curls the brook below.

Such charms her sparkling eyes disclose,
With such soft pow'r endu'd,
She seems a new-born Venus, rose
From the transparent flood.

From each green bank, and mossy cave,
The scaly race repair,
They sport beneath the crystal wave,
And kiss her image there.

153

Here the bright silver eel enroll'd
In shining volumes lies,
There basks the carp bedropt with gold
In the sunshine of her eyes.

With hungry pikes in wanton play
The tim'rous trouts appear;
The hungry pikes forget to prey,
The tim'rous trouts to fear.

With equal haste the thoughtless crew
To the fair tempter fly;
Nor grieve they, whilst her eyes they view,
That by her hand they die.

Thus I too view'd the nymph of late;
Ah simple fish, beware!
Soon will you find my wretched fate,
And struggle in the snare.

But, Fair-one, tho' these toils succeed,
Of conquest be not vain;
Nor think o'er all the scaly breed
Unpunish'd thus to reign.

154

Remember, in a wat'ry glass
His charms Narcissus spy'd,
When for his own bewitching face
The youth despair'd and dy'd.

No more then harmless fish insnare,
No more such wiles pursue;
Lest, whilst you baits for them prepare,
Love finds out one for you.

CHLOE HUNTING

Whilst thousands court fair Chloe's love,
She fears the dang'rous joy,
But, Cynthia like, frequents the grove,
As lovely, and as coy.

With the same speed she seeks the hind,
Or hunts the flying hare,
She leaves pursuing swains behind,
To languish and despair.

155

Oh strange caprice in thy dear breast,
Whence first this whim began;
To follow thus each worthless beast,
And shun their sovereign man!

Consider, Fair, what 'tis you do,
How thus they both must die,
Not surer they, when you pursue,
Than we whene'er you fly.

ON LUCINDA's RECOVERY FROM THE SMALL-POX.

Bright Venus long with envious eyes
The fair Lucinda's charms had seen,
And shall she still, the goddess cries,
Thus dare to rival Beauty's queen?

156

She spoke, and to th' infernal plains
With cruel haste indignant goes,
Where Death, the prince of terrors, reigns,
Amidst diseases, pains, and woes.

To him her pray'rs she thus applies:
O sole, in whom my hopes confide
To blast my rival's potent eyes,
And in her fate all mortal pride!

Let her but feel thy chilling dart,
I will forgive, tremendous god!
Ev'n that which pierc'd Adonis' heart:
He hears, and gives th' assenting nod.

Then calling forth a fierce Disease,
Impatient for the beauteous prey,
Bids him the loveliest fabric seize,
The gods e'er form'd of human clay.

Assur'd he meant Lucinda's charms,
To her th' infectious dæmon flies;
Her neck, her cheeks, her lips disarms,
And of their lightning robs her eyes.

157

The Cyprian queen with cruel joy
Beholds her rival's charms o'erthrown,
Nor doubts, like mortal Fair, t'employ
Their ruins to augment her own.

From out the spoils of ev'ry grace
The goddess picks some glorious prize,
Transplants the roses from her face,
And arms young Cupids from her eyes.

Now Death (ah veil the mournful scene!)
Had in one moment pierc'd her heart,
Had kinder Fate not stept between,
And turn'd aside th' uplifted dart.

What frenzy bids thy hand essay,
He cries, to wound thy surest friend,
Whose beauties to thy realms each day
Such num'rous crowds of victims send?

Are not her eyes, where-e'er they aim,
As thine own silent arrows sure?
Or who, that once has felt their flame,
Dar'd e'er indulge one hope of cure?

158

Death, thus reprov'd, his hand restrains,
And bids the dire distemper fly;
The cruel beauty lives, and reigns,
That thousands may adore, and die.

WRITTEN IN MR. LOCKE's ESSAY ON HUMAN UNDERSTANDING.

Long had the mind of man with curious art
Search'd nature's wond'rous plan thro' ev'ry part,
Measur'd each tract of ocean, earth, and sky,
And number'd all the rolling orbs on high;
Yet still, so learn'd, herself she little knew,
Till Locke's unerring pen the portrait drew.

So beauteous Eve a while in Eden stray'd,
And all her great Creator's works survey'd;
By sun, and moon, she knew to mark the hour,
She knew the genus of each plant and flow'r;

159

She knew, when sporting on the verdant lawn,
The tender lambkin and the nimble fawn:
But still a stranger to her own bright face,
She guess'd not at its form, nor what she was;
Till led at length to some clear fountain's side,
She view'd her beauties in the crystal tide;
The shining mirror all her charms displays,
And her eyes catch their own rebounded rays.

WRITTEN IN A LADY's VOLUME OF TRAGEDIES.

Since thou, renlentless maid, canst daily hear
Thy slave's complaints without one sigh or tear,
Why beats thy breast, or thy bright eyes o'erflow
At these imaginary scenes of woe?
Rather teach these to weep and that to heave,
At real pains themselves to thousands give;
And if such pity to feign'd love is due,
Consider how much more you owe to true.

160

CUPID RELIEVED.

As once young Cupid went astray
The little god I found;
I took his bow and shafts away,
And fast his pinions bound.

At Chloe's feet my spoils I cast,
My conquest proud to show;
She saw his godship fetter'd fast,
And smil'd to see him so.

But ah! that smile such fresh supplies
Of arms resistless gave!
I'm forc'd again to yield my prize,
And fall again his slave.

161

THE WAY TO BE WISE.

IMITATED FROM LA FONTAINE.

Poor Jenny, am'rous, young, and gay,
Having by man been led astray,
To nunn'ry dark retir'd;
There liv'd, and look'd so like a maid,
So seldom eat, so often pray'd,
She was by all admir'd.

The lady Abbess oft would cry,
If any sister trod awry,
Or prov'd an idle slattern;
See wise and pious Mrs. Jane,
A life so strict, so grave a mien
Is sure a worthy pattern.

A pert young slut at length replies,
Experience, madam, makes folks wise,
'Tis that has made her such;
And we, poor souls, no doubt shou'd be
As pious, and as wise, as she,
If we had seen as much.

163

THE SNOW-BALL.

FROM PETRONIUS AFRANIUS.

White as her hand fair Julia threw
A ball of silver snow;
The frozen globe fir'd as it flew,
My bosom felt it glow.

Strange pow'r of love! whose great command
Can thus a snow-ball arm;
When sent, fair Julia, from thine hand,
Ev'n ice itself can warm.

How should we then secure our hearts?
Love's pow'r we all must feel,
Who thus can, by strange magic arts,
In ice his flames conceal.

'Tis thou alone, fair Julia, know,
Canst quench my fierce desire,
But not with water, ice, or snow,
But with an equal fire.

165

ANACREON, Ode XX.

A rock on Phrygian plains we see
That once was beauteous Niobe:
And Progne, too revengeful Fair!
Now flits a wand'ring bird in air:
Thus I a looking-glass wou'd be,
That you, dear maid, might gaze on me;
Be chang'd to stays, that straitly lac'd,
I might embrace thy slender waist;
A silver stream I'd bathe thee, Fair,
Or shine pomatum on thy hair;
In a soft sable's tippet's form
I'd kiss thy snowy bosom warm;
In shape of pearl that bosom deck,
And hang for ever round thy neck:
Pleas'd, to be ought, that touches you,
Your glove, your garter, or your shoe.

166

A TRANSLATION OF SOME LATIN VERSES ON THE CAMERA OBSCURA.

The various pow'rs of blended shade, and light,
The skilful Zeuxis of the dusky night;
The lovely forms, that paint the snowy plain
Free from the pencil's violating stain,
In tuneful lines, harmonious Phoebus, sing,
At once of light and verse celestial king.

Divine Apollo! let thy sacred fire
Thy youthful bard's unskilful breast inspire,
Like the fair empty sheet he hangs to view,
Void, and unfurnish'd, till inspir'd by you;
O let one beam, one kind enlightning ray
At once upon his mind and paper play!
Hence shall his breast with bright ideas glow,
Hence num'rous forms the silver field shall strew.

But now the muse's useful precepts view,
And with just care the pleasing work pursue.

167

First chuse a window that convenient lies,
And to the north directs the wand'ring eyes,
Dark be the room, let not a straggling ray
Intrude, to chase the shadowy forms away,
Except one bright, refulgent blaze, convey'd
Thro' a strait passage in the shutter made,
In which th' ingenious artist first must place
A little, convex, round, transparent glass,
And just behind th' extended paper lay,
On which his art shall all its pow'r display:
There rays reflected from all parts shall meet,
And paint their objects on the silver sheet;
A thousand forms shall in a moment rise,
And magic landscapes charm our wand'ring eyes;
'Tis thus from ev'ry object that we view,
If Epicurus' doctrine teaches true,
The subtile parts upon our organs play,
And to our minds th' external forms convey.

But from what causes all these wonders flow,
'Tis not permitted idle bards to know,
How thro' the centre of the convex glass,
The piercing rays together twisted pass,

168

Or why revers'd the lovely scenes appear,
Or why the sun's approaching light they fear;
Let grave philosophers the cause enquire,
Enough for us to see, and to admire.

See then what forms with various colours stain
The painted surface of the paper plain!
Now bright and gay, as shines the heav'nly bow,
So late, a wide unpeopled waste of snow:
Here verdant groves, there golden crops of corn
The new uncultivated fields adorn;
Here gardens deckt with flow'rs of various dyes,
There slender tow'rs, and little cities rise:
But all with tops inverted downward bend,
Earth mounts aloft, and skies and clouds descend:
Thus the wise vulgar on a pendent land
Imagine our antipodes to stand,
And wonder much, how they securely go,
And not fall headlong on the heav'ns below.

The charms of motion here exalt each part
Above the reach of great Apelles' art;

169

Zephyrs the waving harvest gently blow,
The waters curl, and brooks incessant flow;
Men, beasts, and birds in fair confusion stray,
Some rise to sight, whilst others pass away.

On all we seize that comes within our reach,
The rolling coach we stop, the horseman catch;
Compel the posting traveller to stay;
But the short visit causes no delay.

Again, behold what lovely prospects rise!
Now with the loveliest feast your longing eyes,
Nor let strict modesty be here afraid,
To view upon her head a beauteous maid:
See in small folds her waving garments flow,
And all her slender limbs still slend'rer grow;
Contracted in one little orb is found
The spacious hoop, once five vast ells around;
But think not to embrace the flying Fair,
Soon will she quit your arms unseen as air,
In this resembling too a tender maid,
Coy to the lover's touch, and of his hand afraid.

170

Enough w'have seen, now let th' intruding day
Chase all the lovely magic scenes away;
Again th' unpeopled snowy waste returns,
And the lone plain its faded glories mourns,
The bright creation in a moment flies,
And all the pigmy generation dies.

Thus, when still night her gloomy mantle spreads,
The fairies dance around the flow'ry meads!
But when the day returns, they wing their flight
To distant lands, and shun th' unwelcome light.

THE TEMPLE OF VENUS.

In her own isle's remotest grove
Stands Venus' lovely shrine,
Sacred to beauty, joy, and love,
And built by hands divine.

The polish'd structure, fair and bright
As her own ivory skin,
Without is alabaster white,
And ruby all within.

171

Above, a cupola charms the view,
White as unsully'd snow;
Two columns of the same fair hue
Support the dome below.

Its walls a trickling fountain laves,
In which such virtue reigns,
That, bath'd in its balsamic waves,
No lover feels his pains.

Before th' unfolding gates there spreads
A fragrant spicy grove,
That with its curling branches shades
The labyrinths of Love.

Bright Beauty here her captives holds,
Who kiss their easy chains,
And in softest closest folds
Her willing slaves detains.

Wouldst thou, who ne'er these seas hast try'd,
Find where this island lies,
Let pilot Love the rudder guide,
And steer by Chloe's eyes.

172

On a NOSEGAY IN THE COUNTESS OF COVENTRY'S BREAST.

IN IMITATION OF WALLER.

Delightful scene! in which appear
At once all beauties of the year!
See how the Zephyrs of her breath
Fan gently all the flow'rs beneath!
See the gay flow'rs, how bright they glow,
Tho' planted in a bed of snow!
Yet see how soon they fade and die,
Scorch'd by the sunshine of her eye!
Nor wonder if, o'ercome with bliss,
They droop their heads to steal a kiss;
Who would not die on that dear breast?
Who would not die to be so blest?

173

The 'SQUIRE and the PARSON.

AN ECLOGUE.

WRITTEN ON THE CONCLUSION OF THE PEACE, 1748.

By his hall chimney, where in rusty grate
Green faggots wept their own untimely fate,
In elbow-chair, the pensive 'Squire reclin'd,
Revolving debts and taxes in his mind:
A pipe just fill'd upon a table near
Lay by the London-Evening stain'd with beer,
With half a bible, on whose remnants torn
Each parish round was annually forsworn.
The gate now claps, as ev'ning just grew dark,
Tray starts, and with a growl prepares to bark;
But soon discerning, with sagacious nose,
The well-known savour of the parson's toes,
Lays down his head, and sinks in soft repose:
The doctor ent'ring, to the tankard ran,
Takes a good hearty pull, and thus began:

174

Parson.
Why sit'st thou thus, forlorn and dull, my friend,
Now war's rapacious reign is at an end?
Hark, how the distant bells inspire delight!
See bonfires spangle o'er the veil of night!

'Squire.
What's peace, alas! in foreign parts to me?
At home, nor peace nor plenty can I see;
Joyless I hear drums, bells, and fiddles sound,
'Tis all the same—Four shillings in the pound.
My wheels, tho' old, are clog'd with a new tax;
My oaks, tho' young, must groan beneath the axe:
My barns are half unthatch'd, until'd my house,
Lost by this fatal sickness all my cows:
See there's the bill my late damn'd law-suit cost!
Long as the land contended for,—and lost:
Ev'n Ormond's head I can frequent no more,
So short my pocket is, so long the score;
At shops all round I owe for fifty things.—
This comes of fetching Hanoverian kings.

175

Parson.
I must confess the times are bad indeed,
No wonder; when we scarce believe our creed;
When purblind Reason's deem'd the surest guide,
And heav'n-born Faith at her tribunal try'd;
When all church-pow'r is thought to make men slaves,
Saints, martyrs, fathers, all call'd fools and knaves.

'Squire.
Come, preach no more, but drink, and hold your tongue:
I'm for the church:—but think the parsons wrong.

Parson.
See there! free-thinking now so rank is grown,
It spreads infection thro' each country town;
Deistic scoffs fly round at rural boards,
'Squires, and their tenants too, profane as lords,
Vent impious jokes on every sacred thing.

'Squire.
Come, drink;—

176

Parson.
—Here's to you then, to church and king:

'Squire.
Here's church and king; I hate the glass shou'd stand,
Tho' one takes tythes, and t'other taxes land.

Parson.
Heav'n with new plagues will scourge this sinful nation,
Unless we soon repeal the toleration,
And to the church restore the convocation.

'Squire.
Plagues we shou'd feel sufficient, on my word,
Starv'd by two houses, priest-rid by a third.
For better days we lately had a chance,
Had not the honest Plaids been trick'd by France.

Parson.
Is not most gracious George our faith's defender?
You love the church, yet wish for the Pretender!

177

'Squire.
Preferment, I suppose, is what you mean;
Turn Whig, and you, perhaps, may be a dean:
But you must first learn how to treat your betters.
What's here? sure some strange news, a boy with letters;
Oh, ho! here's one, I see, from parson Sly:
“My rev'rend neighbour Squab being like to die;
“I hope, if Heav'n should please to take him hence,
“To ask the living would be no offence.”

Parson.
Have you not swore, that I shou'd Squab succeed?
Think how for this I taught your sons to read;
How oft discover'd puss on new-plow'd land,
How oft supported you with friendly hand;
When I cou'd scarcely go, nor cou'd your worship stand.

'Squire.
'Twas yours, had you been honest, wise, or civil;
Now ev'n go court the bishops, or the devil.

178

Parson.
If I meant any thing, now let me die;
I'm blunt, and cannot fawn and cant, not I,
Like that old Presbyterian rascal Sly.
I am, you know, a right true-hearted Tory,
Love a good glass, a merry song, or story.

'Squire.
Thou art an honest dog, that's truth, indeed—
Talk no more nonsense then about the creed.
I can't, I think, deny thy first request;
'Tis thine; but first a bumper to the best.

Parson.
Most noble 'Squire, more gen'rous than your wine,
How pleasing's the condition you assign?
Give me the sparkling glass, and here, d'ye see,
With joy I drink it on my bended knee:—
Great queen! who governest this earthly ball,
And mak'st both kings and kingdoms rise and fall;
Whose wond'rous pow'r in secret all things rules,
Makes fools of mighty peers, and peers of fools;

179

Dispenses mitres, coronets, and stars;
Involves far distant realms in bloody wars,
Then bids wars snaky tresses cease to hiss,
And gives them peace again—nay gave us this:
Whose health does health to all mankind impart,
Here's to thy much-lov'd health:

'Squire,
rubbing his hands.
—With all my heart,

180

GIVEN TO A LADY

WITH A WATCH WHICH SHE BORROWED TO HANG AT HER BED'S HEAD.

Whilst half asleep my Chloe lies,
And all her softest thoughts arise;
Whilst, tyrant Honour lay'd at rest,
Love steals to her unguarded breast;
Then whisper to the yielding Fair,
Thou witness to the pains I bear,
How oft her slave with open eyes,
All the long night despairing lies;
Impatient till the rosy day
Shall once again its beams display,
And with it he again may rise,
To greet with joy her dawning eyes.

Tell her as all thy motions stand,
Unless recruited by her hand,
So shall my life forget to move;
Unless, each day, the Fair I love

181

Shall new repeated vigour give
With smiles, and make me fit to live.
Tell her, when far from her I stray,
How oft I chide thy slow delay;
But when beneath her smiles I live,
Blest with all joys the Gods can give,
How often I reprove thy haste,
And think each precious moment flies too fast.

182

BELPHEGOR, A FABLE.

FROM MACHIAVEL.

------ Fugit indignata sub umbras.
Virg.

Th' infernal monarch once, as stories tell,
Review'd his subjects from all parts of hell;
Around his throne unnumber'd millions wait,
He scarce believ'd his empire was so great;
Still as each pass'd, he ask'd with friendly care
What crime had caus'd their fall, and brought them there:
Scarce one he question'd, but reply'd the same,
And on the marriage noose lay'd all the blame;
Thence ev'ry fatal error of their lives
They all deduce, and all accuse their wives.

Then to his peers, and potentates around,
Thus Satan spoke; hell trembled with the sound.

183

My friends, what vast advantages wou'd flow
To these our realms? cou'd we but fully know
The form and nature of these marriage chains,
That send such crouds to our infernal plains;
Let some bold patriot then, who dares to show
His gen'rous love to this our state below,
For his dear country's good the task essay,
And animate awhile some human clay;
Ten years in marriage bonds he shall remain,
Enjoy its pleasures, and endure its pain,
Then to his friends return'd, with truth relate
The nature of the matrimonial state.

He spoke; the list'ning crowds his scheme approv'd:
But who so much his prince, or country lov'd,
As thus, with fearless heart, to undertake
This hymeneal trial, for their sake?

At length with one consent they all propose,
That fortune shall by lot the task impose;
The dreaded chance on bold Belphegor fell,
Sighing h'obey'd, and took his leave of hell.

First in fair Florence he was pleas'd to fix,
Bought a large house, fine plate, a coach and six;

184

Dress'd rich and gay, play'd high, drank hard, and whor'd,
And liv'd in short in all things like a lord:
His feasts were plenteous, and his wines were strong,
So poets, priests, and pimps his table throng,
Bring dedications, sermons, whores, and plays,
The dev'l was ne'er so flatter'd in his days:
The ladies too were kind, each tender dame
Sigh'd, when she mention'd Roderigo's name;
For so he's call'd: rich, young, and debonnair,
He reigns sole monarch of the longing fair;
No daughter, sure, of Eve cou'd e'er escape
The dev'l, when cloath'd in such a tempting shape.

One nymph at length, superior to the rest,
Gay, beautiful, and young, inspir'd his breast;
Soft looks and sighs his passion soon betray'd,
Awhile he woos, then weds the lovely maid.
I shall not now, to grace my tale, relate
What feasts, what balls, what dresses, pomp and state,
Adorn'd their nuptial day, lest it shou'd seem
As tedious to the reader, as to him,

185

Who big with expectation of delight,
Impatient waited for the happy night;
The happy night is come, his longing arms
Press close the yielding maid in all her charms,
The yielding maid, who now no longer coy
With equal ardour loves, and gives a loose to joy:
Dissolv'd in bliss more exquisite than all
He e'er had felt in Heav'n, before his fall,
With rapture clinging to his lovely bride,
In murmurs to himself Belphegor cry'd,
Are these the marriage chains? are these my fears?
Oh had my ten, but been ten thousand years!

But ah these happy moments last not long!
For in one month his wife has found her tongue,
All thoughts of love and tenderness are lost,
Their only aim is, who shall squander most;
She dreams of nothing now but being sine,
Whilst he is ever guzzling nasty wine;
She longs for jewels, equipage, and plate,
And he, sad man! stays out so very late!
Hence ev'ry day domestic wars are bred,
A truce is hardly kept, while they're abed;

186

They wrangle all day long, and then at night,
Like wooing cats, at once they love and fight.

His riches too are with his quiet flown,
And they once spent, all friends on course are gone;
The sum design'd his whole ten years to last,
Is all consum'd before the first is past:
Where shall be hide? ah whither must he fly?
Legions of duns abroad in ambush lie,
For fear of them, no more he dares to roam,
And the worst dun of all, his wife's at home.

Quite tir'd at length, with such a wretched life,
He flies one night at once from debts, and wife;
But ere the morning dawn his flight is known;
And crowds pursue him close from town to town:
He quits the public road, and wand'ring strays
Thro' unfrequented woods, and pathless ways;
At last with joy a little farm he sees,
Where liv'd a good old man, in health and ease;
Matthew his name: to him Belphegor goes,
And begs protection from pursuing foes,
With tears relates his melancholy case,
Tells him from whence he came, and who he was,

187

And vows to pay for his reception well,
When next he shou'd receive his rents from hell:
The farmer hears his tale with pitying ear,
And bids him live in peace, and safety there;
Awhile he did; no duns, no noise, or strife,
Disturb'd him there;—for Matt had ne'er a wife.
But ere few weeks in this retreat are past
Matt too himself becomes a dun at last;
Demands his promis'd pay with heat and rage,
Till thus Belphegor's words his wrath asswage.

My friend, we dev'ls, like English peers, he cry'd,
Tho' free from law, are yet by honour ty'd;
Tho' tradesmen's cheating bills I scorn to view,
I pay all debts that are by honour due;
And therefore have contriv'd long since a way,
Beyond all hopes thy kindness to repay;
We subtile spirits can, you know, with ease
Possess whatever human breasts we please,
With sudden frenzy can o'ercast the mind,
Let passions loose, and captive reason bind:
Thus I three mortal bosoms will infest,
And force them to apply to you for rest;

188

Vast sums for cure they willingly shall pay,
Thrice, and but thrice, your pow'r I will obey.

He spoke, then fled unseen, like rushing wind,
And breathless left his mortal frame behind:
The corps is quickly known, and news is spread
That Roderigo's in the desert dead;
His wife in fashionable grief appears,
Sighs for one day, then mourns two tedious years.

A beauteous maid, who then in Florence dwelt,
In a short time unusual symptoms felt;
Physicians came, prescrib'd, then took their fees,
But none could find the cause of her disease;
Her parents thought 'twas love disturb'd her rest,
But all the learn'd agreed she was possest;
In vain the doctors all their art apply'd,
In vain the priests their holy trump'ry try'd;
No pray'rs nor med'cines cou'd the dæmon tame,
Till Matthew heard the news, and hast'ning came:
He asks five hundred pounds; the money's pay'd;
He forms the magic spell, then cures the maid:
Hence chas'd, the dev'l to two rich houses flies,
And makes their heirs successively his prize,

189

Who both by Matthew's skill reliev'd from pains,
Reward his wond'rous art with wond'rous gains.

And now Belphegor, having thrice obey'd,
With reason thinks his host is fully pay'd;
Next free to range, to Gallia's king he flies,
As dev'ls ambitious ever love to rise;
Black hideous scenes distract his royal mind,
From all he seeks relief, but none can find,
And vows vast treasures shall his art repay,
Whoe'er can chase the strange disease away:
At length, instructed by the voice of fame,
To Matthew sends; poor Matt reluctant came;
He knew his pow'r expir'd, refus'd to try,
But all excuses fail'd, he must, or die;
At last despairing he the task essay'd,
Approach'd the monarch's ear, and whisp'ring said.

Since force, not choice, has brought thy servant here,
Once more, Belphegor, my petition hear,
This once at my request, thy post resign,
And save my life, as once I rescu'd thine.

190

Cruel Belphegor, deaf to his request,
Disdain'd his pray'rs, and made his woes a jest;
With tears and sighs he beg'd, and beg'd again,
Still the ungrateful fiend but mock'd his pain;
Then turning round he told th' expecting court,
This dev'l was of a most malignant sort;
And that he could but make one tryal more,
And if that fail'd, he then must give him o'er:
Then placing num'rous drums, and trumpets round,
Instructed when he mov'd his hand to sound,
He whisper'd in his patient's ear again,
Belphegor answer'd, all his arts were vain:
He gives the sign, they sound; th' outrageous din
Startles the king, and frights the dev'l within;
He asks what 'tis, and vows that in his life
He ne'er had heard the like—except his wife;
By Heav'n's, 'tis she, Matt cries, you'd best be gone,
She comes once more to seize you for her own;
Belphegor frighted, not one word replies,
But to th' infernal shades for refuge flies;

191

There paints a dreadful sketch of marry'd lives,
And feelingly confirms the charge on wives:
Matthew o'erpay'd with honours, fame, and fees,
Returns to blest obscurity, and ease,
With joy triumphant Io Pæan sings,
And vows to deal no more with dev'ls or kings.

193

A DIALOGUE Between the Right Hon. HENRY PELHAM and Madam POPULARITY.

IN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK III. ODE IX.

H. Pelham.

1.

Whilst I was pleasing in your eyes,
And you was constant, chaste, and wise;
Ere yet you had your favours granted
To ev'ry knave or fool who canted,
In peaceful joy I pass'd each hour,
Nor envy'd Walpole's wealth and pow'r.

195

Madam Popularity.

2.

While I possess'd your love alone,
My heart and voice were all your own;
But on my soul 'twou'd vex a saint,
When I've most reason for complaint,
To hear you thus begin to scold:
Think on Britannia! proud and old!
Are not her interests all your theme,
Your daily labour, nightly dream?

H. Pelham.

3.

My just regard I can't deny
For her and her prosperity;
Nor am asham'd it is so great,
That, to deliver her from debt,
From foreign wars and civil strife,
I'd freely sacrifice my life.

Madam Popularity.

4.

To her your warmest vows are plighted,
For her I ev'ry day am slighted;

197

Her welfare always is preferr'd,
And my neglected voice unheard:
Examples numerous I cou'd mention,
A peace! bad as the old convention;
Money reduc'd to three per cent,
No pity on the poor who lent;
Armies that must for ever stand,
And still three shillings laid on land.

H. Pelham.

5.

Suppose now, Madam, I was willing
For once to bate this grievous shilling,
To humour you—I know 'tis wrong,
But you have such a cursed tongue.

Madam Popularity.

6.

Why then, tho' rough as winds or seas,
You scorn all little arts to please,
Yet thou art honest, faith, and I
With thee alone will live and die.

198

A SIMILE.

Corinna, in the country bred,
Harbour'd strange notions in her head,
Notions in town quite out of fashion;
Such as that love's a dangerous passion,
That virtue is the maiden's jewel,
And to be safe, she must be cruel.

Thus arm'd she'ad long secur'd her honour
From all assaults yet made upon her,
Had scratch'd th' impetuous Captain's hand,
Had torn the Lawyer's gown and band,
And gold refus'd from Knights and Squires
To bribe her to her own desires:
For, to say truth, she thought it hard,
To be of pleasures thus debarr'd,
She saw by others freely tasted,
So pouted, pin'd, grew pale, and wasted:
Yet, notwithstanding her condition,
Continu'd firm in opposition.

199

At length a troop of horse came down,
And quarter'd in a neighb'ring town;
The Cornet he was tall and young,
And had a most bewitching tongue.
They saw and lik'd: the siege begun:
Each hour he some advantage won.
He ogled first;—she turn'd away;—
But met his eyes the following day:
Then her reluctant hand he seizes,
That soon she gives him, when he pleases:
Her ruby lips he next attacks:—
She struggles;—in a while she smacks:
Her snowy breast he then invades;—
That yields too after some parades;
And of that fortress once possest,
He quickly masters all the rest.
No longer now, a dupe to fame,
She smothers or resists her flame,
But loves without or fear or shame.

So have I seen the Tory race
Long in the pouts for want of place,

200

Never in humour, never well,
Wishing for what they dar'd not tell,
Their heads with country-notions fraught,
Notions in town not worth a groat,
These tenets all reluctant quit,
And step by step at last submit
To reason, eloquence, and Pitt.

At first to Hanover a Plum
Was sent;—They said—A trivial sum,
But if he went one tittle further,
They vow'd and swore they'd cry out murder;
Ere long a larger sum is wanted;
They pish'd and frown'd—but still they granted:
He push'd for more, and more agen—
Well—Money's better sent, than Men:
Here virtue made another stand.—
No—not a man shall leave the land.
What?—not one regiment to Embden?
They start—but now they're fairly hem'd in:
These soon, and many more are sent;—
They're silent—Silence gives consent.

201

Our troops, they now can plainly see,
May Britain guard in Germany:
Hanoverians, Hessians, Prussians
Are paid, t'oppose the French and Russians:
Nor scruple they with truth to say,
They're fighting for America:
No more they make a fiddle-faddle
About an Hessian horse or saddle;
No more of continental measures,
No more of wasting British treasures;
Ten millions, and a vote of credit.—
'Tis right—He can't be wrong, who did it:
They're fairly sous'd o'er head and ears,
And cur'd of all their rustic fears.

A PASSAGE IN OSSIAN VERSIFIED.

The deeds of ancient days shall be my theme;
O Lora, the soft murmurs of thy stream,
Thy trees, Garmallar, rustling in the wind,
Recall those days with pleasure to my mind.

202

See'st thou that rock, from whose heath-cover'd crown,
Melvina, three old bended firs look down?
Green is the plain which at its feet is spread,
The mountain flower there shakes its milk-white head;
Two stones, memorials of departed worth,
Uplift their moss-cap'd heads, half sunk in earth;
The mountain deer, that crop the grass around,
See the pale ghosts who guard the sacred ground,
Then starting, fly the place, and at a distance bound.

On seeing the Earl of CHESTERFIELD at a Ball, at Bath.

WRITTEN IN 1770.

In times by selfishness and faction sour'd,
When dull Importance has all Wit devour'd;
When Rank, as if t'insult alone design'd,
Affects a proud seclusion from mankind;
And Greatness, to all social converse dead,
Esteems it dignity to be ill-bred:—

203

See! Chesterfield alone resists the tide,
Above all party, and above all pride,
Vouchsafes each night these brilliant scenes to grace,
Augments and shares th' amusements of the place;
Admires the Fair, enjoys the sprightly ball,
Deigns to be pleas'd, and therefore pleases all.
Hence, tho' unable now this stile to hit,
Learn what was once politeness, ease, and wit.

THE AMERICAN COACHMAN.

Crown'd be the man with lasting praise,
Who first contriv'd the pin
From vicious steeds to loose a chaise,
And save the necks within.

See how they prance, and bound, and skip,
And all controul disdain;
Defy the terrors of the whip,
And rend the silken rein!

204

Awhile we try if art or strength
Are able to prevail;
But hopeless, when we find at length
That all our efforts fail,

With ready foot the spring we press,
Out flies the magic plug,
Then, disengag'd from all distress,
We sit quite safe and snug.

The pamper'd steeds, their freedom gain'd,
Run off full speed together;
But having no plan ascertain'd,
They run they know not whither.

Boys, who love mischief and a course,
Enjoying this disaster,
Bawl, Stop them! Stop them! till they're hoarse,
But mean to drive them faster.

Each claiming now his native right,
Scorns to obey his brother;
So they proceed to kick and bite,
And worry one another.

205

Hungry at last, and blind, and lame,
Bleeding at nose and eyes;
By sufferings growing mighty tame,
And by experience wise;

With bellies full of liberty,
But void of oats and hay;
They both sneak back, their folly see,
And run no more away.

Let all who view th' instructive scene,
And patronize the plan,
Give thanks to Gloucester's honest Dean,
For, Tucker,—thou'rt the man.

207

AN ODE.

Pindarum quisquis studet æmulari.

215

I'll combat Nature, interrupt her course,
And baffle all her stated laws by force;
Tear from its bed the deeply-rooted pine,
And hurl it up the craggy mountain's side;
Divert the tempest from its destin'd line,
And stem the torrent of th' impetuous tide;
Teach the dull ox to dance, the ass to play,
And even obstinate Americans t' obey.

Like some dread Herald, tygers I'll compel
In the same field with stags in peace to dwell:
The rampant lion now erect shall stand,
Now couchant at my feet shall lie deprest;
And if he dares but question my command,
With one strong blow I'll halve him to a crest.
Thus spoke the giant Gogmagog: the sound
Reverberates from all the echoing rocks around.

Now Morning, rob'd in saffron-colour'd gown,
Her head with pink and pea-green ribbands drest,

216

Climbs the celestial staircase, and looks down
From out the gilt balcony of the East;
From whence around she sees
The crystal lakes and tufted trees,
The lawns all powder'd o'er with straggling flocks,
The scarce-enlighten'd vales, and high o'er-shadowing rocks.

Enamour'd with her newly-dawning charms,
Old Ocean views her with desiring eyes,
And longs once more to clasp her in his arms,
Repenting he had suffer'd her to rise;
Forth from his tumbled bed,
From whence she just had fled,
To the slow, loitering hours he roars amain,
To hasten back the lovely fugitive again.

Parent of life! refulgent lamp of day!
Without whose genial animating ray
Men, beasts, the teeming earth, and rolling seas,
Courts, camps, and mighty cities, in a trice
Must share one common fate, intensely freeze,
And all become one solid mass of ice;

217

Ambition wou'd be froze, and Faction numb,
Speeches congeal'd, and orators be dumb.

Say, what new worlds and systems you survey!
In circling round your planetary way;
What Beings Saturn's orb inhabit, tell,
Where cold in everlasting triumph reigns;
Or what their frames, who unconsum'd can dwell
In Mercury's red-hot and molten plains;
Say! for most ardently I wish to know,
What bodies can endure eternal fire, or snow!

And thou, sweet Moon! canst tell a softer tale;
To thee the maid, thy likeness, fair and pale,
In pensive contemplation oft applies,
When parted from her lov'd and loving swain,
And looks on you with tear-besprinkled eyes,
And sighs and looks, and looks and sighs again;
Say, for thou know'st what constant hearts endure;
And by thy frequent changes teach the cure.

Thy gentle beams the lonely hermit sees,
Gleam thro' the waving branches of the trees,

218

Which, high-embow'ring, shade his gloomy cell,
Where undisturb'd perpetual silence reigns,
Unless the owl is heard, or distant bell,
Or the wind whistling o'er the furzy plains.
How blest to dwell in this sequester'd spot:
Forgetting parliaments; by them forgot!

Now lovely Spring her velvet mantle spreads,
And paints with green and gold the flow'ry meads;
Fruit-trees in vast white perriwigs are seen,
Resembling much some antiquated beau,
Which north-east winds, that blow so long and keen,
Powder full oft with gentle flakes of snow;
Soft nightingales their tuneful vigils hold,
And sweetly sing and shake—and shake with cold.

Summer succeeds; in ev'nings soft and warm,
Thrice-happy lovers saunter arm in arm;
The gay and fair now quit the dusty town,
O'er turnpike-roads incessant chaises sweep,
And whirling, bear their lovely ladings down,
To brace their nerves beneath the briny deep;

219

There with success each swain his nymph assails,
As birds, they say, are caught—can we but salt their tails.

Then Autumn, more serene, if not so bright,
Regales at once our palate, and our sight;
With joy the ruddy orchards we behold,
And of its purple clusters rob the vine;
The spacious fields are cover'd o'er with gold,
Which the glad farmer counts as ready coin:
But disappointment oft his hopes attends—
In tythes and mildews the rich prospect ends.

Last, Winter comes; decrepit, old, and dull;
Yet has his comforts too—his barns are full;
The social converse, circulating glass,
And chearful fire, are his: to him belong
Th' enlivening dance that warms the chilly lass,
The serious game at whist, and merry song;
Nor wants he beauties—see the sun-beams glow
O'er lakes of crystal ice, and plains of silver snow!

220

Thus roll the seasons o'er Britannia's land,
But none her freeborn-weather can command;
Seasons unlike to those in servile climes,
Which o'er Hispania's or Italia's plains
Dispense, at regular and stated times,
Successive heat and cold, and drought and rains;
Her's scorning, like her sons, to be controul'd,
Breathe heat in winter oft, and oft in summer cold.

Hail, Liberty, fair Goddess of this isle!
Deign on my verses, and on me, to smile;
Like them unfetter'd by the bonds of sense,
Permit us to enjoy life's transient dream,
To live, and write, without the least pretence
To method, order, meaning, plan, or scheme:
And shield us safe beneath thy guardian wings,
From Law, Religion, Ministers, and Kings.

221

WROTE AT THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY's ASSEMBLY, 1787.

From Salisbury's Garter dropp'd, th' historian knows,
Th' illustrious Order so intitled rose!
Another Salisbury now our bosoms warms,
With equal elegance and equal charms.
Let then her form, her trophies, and her name,
With justice be consign'd to equal fame;
Let Kings with no less pride her Garter wear,
Then every noble Knight may have a pair.

222

EPITAPH On Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON.

Here lies Sam Johnson:—Reader, have a care,
Tread lightly, lest you wake a sleeping Bear:
Religious, moral, generous, and humane
He was; but self-sufficient, proud, and vain,
Fond of, and overbearing in dispute,
A Christian, and a Scholar—but a Brute.

ON A LATE EXECRABLE ATTEMPT ON HIS MAJESTY's LIFE, 1786.

Long had our gracious George, with gentle hand,
And love paternal, Britain's scepter sway'd;
To render this a free and happy land,
Was all for which he wish'd to be obey'd.

223

With radiance bright, tho' mild, his virtues shone,
For he of every virtue was possest,
Which can add lustre to a Monarch's throne,
Or warm an undissembling patriot's breast.

Pattern of female excellence! his toils
His Royal Consort ever soothes and shares;
Imparting sweet domestic bliss, with smiles
That can disperse the heaviest cloud of cares.

Tho' Faction, Disappointment's restless child,
Has sometimes dar'd to interrupt his peace;
Yet aw'd at once, and charm'd, whene'er he smil'd,
She bade disorder and confusion cease.

Lov'd and ador'd by all, to all a friend,
Caution seem'd needless to protect his life;
Till Hell and Madness sent abroad a fiend,
And arm'd that fiend with a destructive knife.

But Britain's Guardian Angel, who still watch'd,
To shield her favourite son from every harm,
Just in th' important moment trembling catch'd,
And turn'd aside th' assassinating arm.

224

Let then earth, air, and the high-vaulted sky,
With praises, pray'rs, and loud thanksgivings ring,
Joy fire each breast, and sparkle in each eye,
That Heav'n has thus preserv'd our Country and our King.

END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.